‘With Wachter as the source? But he was killed before the Wall came down.’
‘There’s where I got lucky. One thing about the East Germans: their museum inventories may have been full of holes, but they kept detailed records on people — especially the likes of Claus Wachter. Some interior police transcripts named Wachter among several officials who were under suspicion for theft of government property. I think he knew his time was up. Maybe he got greedy and was moving too much stuff, and came to their attention. They were all being watched at that time, with Stasi spies everywhere.’
‘So if he was working for Radnor,’ said Riley, ‘he’d have instinctively turned to him for help. It would explain why Radnor and his men were there that night.’
‘It might,’ Palmer agreed. ‘But it doesn’t explain why one of Radnor’s men was ready to shoot him.’ He related Hemmricht’s story, with Riley listening in astonishment.
‘Couldn’t Hemmricht have been mistaken?’ she said. ‘He was just a boy at the time. It would have all been… I don’t know — soldiers and guns and stuff.’
Palmer shrugged. ‘What other reason was there? They wouldn’t have been ready to take on the border guards; that would have been tantamount to starting World War Three. For some reason, Radnor didn’t want Wachter to make the crossing. Makes me wonder what he wanted to hide.’
Riley chewed it over. Something had suddenly begun tugging at her memory. Connected with Radnor. Was it something she’d heard or just an assumption? She poured more wine. ‘Re-wind a moment,’ she said, closing her eyes. ‘Something you mentioned just now hit a nerve.’
‘East Germans,’ Palmer recited, going along with her. ‘Border guards, Wachter, Hemmricht. Shooting, farm animals, ditch.’
Riley shook her head. ‘No. Further back than that. It might have been something else… keep going.’
‘Farm, winter, military exercise, compensation.’
‘No. Keep going.’
‘Stasi, museums, artwork, Reg Paris-’
‘Artwork.’ Riley opened her eyes. ‘There was something about artwork… something recently.’ She snapped her fingers, searching her memory. ‘Jimmy Gough — the retired security guard. He said he walked past Radnor’s office one day and saw some icons on a table. He knew what they were, having served in Berlin. They’d just brought them up in the lift and unpacked them. He probably wasn’t meant to see them.’
‘Now that makes sense,’ Palmer sat forward and looked at Riley. ‘It would tie in with Wachter’s job. Radnor indulging in a spot of free enterprise while working for the government, making a bit of extra money on the side for his pension. Or is that too easy?’
‘It might explain why he didn’t want Wachter to come over,’ said Riley, feeling a ripple of excitement in her stomach. ‘Having an East German official blab to the authorities about what one of their spies had been up to on the side would have been difficult to explain. I don’t suppose the chief spooks encourage that sort of sideline.’
Palmer nodded. ‘If Wachter had half a brain, he’d have known deep down what Radnor’s real job was. There was certainly no way any ordinary Brit could make trips to East Germany at that time. Wachter might have even let slip that he knew, just to ratchet up the pressure to get him out. Radnor would have had no other choice, because if Wachter got caught by the East Germans, he would have blown Radnor’s cover, anyway.’ He rubbed his eyes with his knuckles and sighed. ‘Or are we moving too fast, here? This could be so wide of the mark.’
‘Go with your instincts,’ suggested Riley. She hadn’t known Palmer seriously express doubts before. He tended to cast them aside and go for direct action.
Before he could answer, his phone rang. It was Donald Brask. Palmer listened carefully for a minute or two, scribbling in his notepad, then thanked Donald and hung up.
‘Your visitor was using a hire car,’ he said shortly. ‘Registered to an executive rental company near Heathrow. Donald did some extra digging. The vehicle was hired for a minimum of three days by a woman named Fraser. She lives overseas but is registered at a hotel near Windsor. The driver was a local hire. His licence checked out clean.’ He looked up. ‘Described as tall and black, with dreadlocks.’
‘It’s him. But what does that tell us?’ asked Riley.
‘Only that there’s no obvious connection between them and Radnor.’ Palmer looked mystified and added darkly: ‘apart from us, that is. I need to take a closer look at the office.’
‘I doubt that will help. I didn’t see anything that would be a clue… unless you can figure out why a woman named Fraser from overseas would water your pot plant for you.’
Palmer shook his head. ‘Not my office. I meant the one in Harrow.’
In a warehouse on a small commercial estate to the west of London’s main sprawl, the man called Michael stood by a newly-arrived consignment of wooden crates and sipped from a bottle of mineral water. He had just arrived to help Radnor go through the shipment, and report on something he had discovered.
‘Palmer and the Gavin woman are being watched,’ he told him. ‘An old woman and a black. The black has long hair, braided like a girl.’
Radnor sniffed with distaste. ‘They’re called dreadlocks. So?’
‘He was chased from Gavin’s house by Palmer, but he got away.’
‘Interesting.’ Arthur Radnor stared at his mobile phone, which he’d been using before Michael arrived. ‘Maybe an old pigeon come home to roost.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Old enemies, perhaps. I had a contact in the police look at Palmer. A while ago, he was suspected of being involved in the death of a London gangster in Malaga. More recently, he was close by when two men, one an American, died in a vehicle fire. The American was a bogus priest heading a ring of blackmailers. He targeted runaway kids, dug up some dirt, and blackmailed the parents. If they didn’t pay, he killed the kids. The report suggested he was probably alive when he burned.’
Michael shrugged and stubbed his toe against one of the crates, which had been coated in heavy green paint. ‘Sounds as if he had it coming.’
‘Possibly. But on both occasions Palmer was working with the Gavin woman. It means Palmer’s no pushover, and the woman is clearly no shrinking violet.’ He gave a grunt of irritation. ‘I don’t like it. They’re professionals and plainly not frightened off easily. If they come after us, it could ruin everything.’
‘You worry too much. I have it under control.’
Radnor wondered if he did, and felt a twinge of unease. After a lifetime in the deception game, he had developed a mental antennae tuned to signs of danger. Occasionally, the threats had been unfounded. But there had been too many times when he had listened to good effect, and he wasn’t about to dismiss the warning signs now. He was still trying to come to terms with the potential implications of having the police swarming all over the building in Harrow, investigating Gillivray’s death. It wouldn’t take much for them to wonder about the other occupants, and to scratch beneath the surface, which was something he wished to avoid. The Azimtec paperwork and cover were perfectly good, and would withstand most cursory inspections. But experience told him that even with the best operations, there was always a chink somewhere. Michael, true to form, appeared oblivious to the results of his actions, and seemed merely intrigued by unfolding events, as a meteorologist might be curious about the movement of air.