‘So all I have to do is name the insurance policies, admit to a small sum they will expect me to have had lodged there and that’ll be the end of it …’
The dullness had gone from her face, he saw.
‘You’re forgetting something, Charlie,’ she accused him. ‘Or perhaps trying to make me forget something.’
‘What?’
‘That would be all right if we thought the robbery were a coincidence …’
‘We can’t be sure …’
‘If we thought it were a coincidence,’ she repeated, refusing the interruption. ‘And we both know it isn’t. We both know that you’ve been found, Charlie. Not just found, either. They’ve discovered everything about you, Charlie – everything – we’re not discussing the end of anything. We’re talking about the beginning.’
‘There’s no proof of that. Not yet.’
‘Do you need proof, for heaven’s sake?’
‘I certainly need more than we’ve got so far before I abandon something it’s taken us so long to establish.’
She shook her head.
‘You’re walking right back to them, Charlie … right back to where they can do whatever they like.’
She was right, Charlie accepted. And too intelligent to be persuaded otherwise. And there was not a thing he could do about it. Not a bloody thing. Bastards.
‘The problem is, darling,’ he said, feeling the first surges of real fear, ‘that I’ve got no choice. At least this way I gain time to fight back.’
‘Fight back!’
She spat the words out, face twisted in disgust. She was very frightened, Charlie accepted.
‘Stop it, Charlie,’ she demanded. ‘Stop all this rubbish about fighting back and survival. Do you realise what you’re facing this time?’
‘Edith,’ he said, avoiding the question, ‘we both knew, no matter how much we tried to avoid admitting it, that it could happen, one day.’
Her anger died as quickly as it had erupted.
‘Oh, Charlie,’ she said, ‘I’m so frightened.’
‘I’ll find a way out,’ he promised.
It had been a fatuous thing to say, he realised, seeing the look on her face.
Charlie caught the evening flight to London. He travelled with only hand baggage and was one of the first Swissair passengers through passport control. It was 7.15 p.m.
At 7.35, George Wilberforce received a telephone call at his London flat, confirming the arrival for which he had been alerted by the earlier message from Zürich. He began to hum in time with the stereo and then smiled, in recognition. Delius. He’d played that the night he’d first located Charlie Muffin. And now he’d trapped him. He’d enjoy the satisfaction of the following day’s meeting with the Americans, he decided.
Onslow Smith was waiting at the Albemarle Street hotel in which they were both staying when Ruttgers returned from Zürich.
‘Everything according to plan?’ he greeted the ex-Director.
Ruttgers frowned at the assessment.
‘No,’ he disagreed. ‘He’s still alive.’
THIRTEEN
Charlie had identified the unmarked police car about twenty yards from the house, so he was waiting for the doorbell when it sounded. He paused, briefly, preparing himself and when he opened the door the expectant smile was carefully in place.
‘Yes?’
‘Police,’ identified the taller of the two men. He produced a warrant card, holding it steadily for Charlie to examine it. ‘We …’
‘Of course,’ broke off Charlie. ‘Come in.’
He stood back for them to enter. They were both smart but unobtrusive men, grey-suited, muted ties, polished black shoes. Hendon, guessed Charlie.
‘Why of course?’ demanded the first man, unmoving.
Aggressive, too, decided Charlie. But properly so.
‘The robbery,’ he said. ‘What else?’
‘Ah,’ said the man. Then waited. It was a practised reaction, realised Charlie, leading them into the lounge. So the older man prided himself on his interrogation technique. He had once, remembered Charlie. He’d been damned good. He hoped it hadn’t been too long ago; he felt the tingle of apprehension.
The policeman looked at Charlie and Charlie smiled back.
‘So you know about the robbery?’ queried the man.
‘I didn’t get your name?’ replied Charlie.
The detective frowned, off-balanced by the response. Then he smiled.
‘Law,’ he said. ‘Superintendent Harry Law.’
He stared at Charlie, expectantly. Charlie gazed back.
‘Law,’ said the man, again.
Still Charlie said nothing.
‘Unusual name for a policeman,’ offered the detective, at last. ‘Law … police …’
It was a prepared charade, the clumsy joke at his own expense to put an interviewee falsely at ease, decided Charlie.
‘Very unusual,’ he allowed, hardly intruding the condescension. On the flight to London, he’d rehearsed the inevitable meeting, deciding on the vague impatience of a rich man.
The superintendent detected the attitude. The smile slipped away, irritably.
Law was an almost peculiar figure, thought Charlie. Smooth, shining-pink cheeks, glistening oiled hair, perfectly combed and in place, eyes wetly bright and attentive. A disconcerting man, Charlie labelled him. Because he chose to be. He would have to be careful. It was not going to be as easy as he had imagined. Perhaps nothing was.
‘You knew about the robbery?’ Law repeated. There was a hardness to his voice now. The man had almost lost his temper, guessed Charlie. Maybe he wasn’t as good an interrogator as he thought he was.
‘It’s the main item in every newspaper,’ pointed out Charlie. ‘It would be difficult not to know about it.’
‘But you didn’t bother to contact the bank?’ criticised Law.
The reason for the waiting police car and the visit from such a senior officer within thirty minutes, realised Charlie. It would have been sensible to have telephoned from Switzerland. And even more sensible to have picked upon an alternative reaction to the police approach. He’d never be able to play the rich man as long as he had a hole in his ass. It was too late now to change it; it would increase rather than allay suspicion.
‘No,’ he admitted. It would be as wrong now to hurry an explanation.
‘Why?’
The question thrust from the man, the voice even harder.
‘Please sit down,’ deflected Charlie. He gestured Law and the other man to a couch in the middle of the room.
‘I didn’t catch your name, either,’ he said, to the younger man, aware as he spoke of the anger stiffening the superintendent’s body.
‘Hardiman, sir,’ responded the young policeman. ‘Sergeant John Hardiman.’
‘Why?’ repeated Law.
Charlie turned back to the man. Very soon, Charlie guessed, the superintendent would become openly rude.
‘Didn’t I contact the bank?’
Law nodded, breathing deeply. The temper was the man’s failing, thought Charlie.
‘I didn’t want to be a nuisance,’ explained Charlie simply.
Law frowned.
‘Forgive me, sir,’ he said. ‘I don’t follow.’
A clever recovery, assessed Charlie. Seize the apparent conceit of the person you’re interviewing and convey the impression they’re far more intelligent than you, so they’ll over-reach themselves.
‘The newspapers talked of the value being in the region of a million pounds,’ said Charlie.
‘Could be,’ agreed Law. ‘Once we establish the contents of the deposit boxes.’
‘Quite,’ said Charlie, as if that were sufficient explanation. ‘So I didn’t want to be a bother.’
There was another sigh from the older detective.