‘I don’t know the man, I’m telling you.’ In spite of himself, his voice was rising in panic.
Piggott nodded, but it was not reassuring. ‘It’s only fair to say he didn’t seem to react to your name – or anyone else’s for that matter.’
Thank God, thought Dermot. Piggott added, ‘Then we tried showing him some photographs. And I have to say, yours was the only one he reacted to. What do you make of that?’
Jolted, Dermot exclaimed, ‘For the love of God, Mr Piggott, I don’t know the man you’re talking about, and I don’t know anyone from MI5. You say someone’s been trying to stitch up Milraud here. Well, it looks as though someone has stitched me up, good and proper.’
There was silence in the room. Dermot sensed Piggott was considering his appeal. After all, what evidence did he really have to go on? A drugged member of British intelligence nodding at a photograph? You couldn’t kill a man for that. Could you?
Piggott suddenly said, ‘How did you know Antoine was in Belfast?’
‘The boys were talking about it.’
‘I see,’ said Piggott neutrally, and he sat down in another of the chintz chairs, directly across from Dermot. ‘Loose talk risks lives, they used to say. I would have thought you knew the truth of that expression.’
‘I do, boss. It wasn’t me who was doing the talking.’ He felt his mouth drying, and he wanted to wet his lips with his tongue, only that would betray his nerves. It seemed important to look calm.
‘I suppose it was “the boys” then. Which one in particular?’ asked Piggott. He dipped his chin a notch, and Malone moved into the room.
‘I think it was Sean McCarthy,’ said Dermot carefully, picking the first name he could think of.
‘You sure?’
He paused. He had nothing against young Sean: he was feckless, but then so were all these young kids Piggott had brought in. It didn’t seem right to land McCarthy in it, but what else could he do? With luck, Sean would get away with a good kicking, he told himself.
He nodded emphatically. ‘That’s right, Mr Piggott. I remember it clear as a bell. It was the day before yesterday – I saw him at Paddy O’Brien’s saloon. Why, he even bought me a drink – that’s rare enough not to forget.’ He tried to smile at his weak joke.
Piggott seemed to understand; you could tell the man’s mind was churning over the news of who had been talking. He said, ‘I tell you what, Dermot. Why don’t you go with these two—’ and he jabbed a long finger at Malone and Gonzales ‘—and walk down to the cove. There are some cases on the speedboat that need unloading. Put them on the pier, and Antoine and I will bring the cars down in a little while so you can load them up. I’ve got some calls to make first.’ And with a wave of his hand, he dismissed them.
Outside it was dark. In the cold, fresh air, Dermot breathed an enormous sigh of relief. He felt a little bad about Sean McCarthy, but his regret was dwarfed by his exhilaration at getting away with it himself.
‘This way,’ said Malone, and they crossed the small square of lawn that slanted downwards towards the beach. A line of low lights marked the narrow path to the cove. It led through a small copse of trees – alder, a few birches, some scrubby young oak that had managed to survive exposure to so much harsh salt air. Dermot found himself sandwiched between his companions. They were halfway through the copse when he saw the low mound at the edge of a tiny clearing on one side of the path. The earth had been freshly turned, piled not much more than twelve inches high, yellow from the sand in the soil. Malone just ahead of him stopped, and Dermot almost bumped into him.
‘What’s that?’ Dermot asked, pointing to the low mound.
Malone turned around to face him, and his head was so close that Dermot could feel his breath when he spoke. ‘You said back there that you’d been speaking to Sean McCarthy the day before yesterday. But you couldn’t have been.’
‘Perhaps I got that wrong,’ he said, as weakness began to flow through his limbs. He sensed that behind him Gonzales had taken a step back.
‘You did, Dermot. And it wasn’t a wise mistake to make.’
Behind him Gonzales gave a harsh laugh. ‘Cheer up, señor. Soon you can talk to Sean McCarthy for as long as you like.’ Dermot looked again at the mound, and realised it was a grave.
His eyes turned to Malone beseechingly, but Malone wouldn’t catch his eye.
There was a metallic noise behind him; Dermot knew it was Gonzales clearing the chamber of an automatic.
Malone said, ‘Sorry, Dermot.’
32
By nine-thirty the next morning Binding had changed his tune. His dismissive cool of the night before had gone and he seemed to be operating in a kind of frenzied overdrive, constantly on the phone, making increasingly tense calls.
By eleven, when there was still no sign of Dave, he strode into Liz’s office, his face a map of panic, his suit of thick grey pinstripes making him look heavy and sombre.
‘I’ve spoken to DG. He’s very concerned. As am I,’ he added, conveniently wiping the slate clean of the previous evening’s conversation. ‘I’m going to ask DG to send an investigative team over asap,’ he announced.
Liz nodded. She was glad to see that Binding was taking the situation seriously but was alarmed by how far he’d now swung the other way. What she would give for the calm command of Charles Wetherby…
‘I wonder if it might be better to wait a little for that?’ Liz kept her own voice mild, knowing how much Binding disliked dissent – he could go ballistic at the slightest demurral.
‘Don’t you realise time is of the essence? We need all the help we can get. DG will be informing the home secretary shortly.’
That was more than Liz could take. ‘If you remember,’ she replied icily, ‘I wanted to inform the police last night. It was you who told me I was overreacting and should wait. In my opinion an investigative team getting involved now would just complicate things. There’s nothing they can do at the moment that we can’t – except get in our way. Even twenty-four hours should make things a bit clearer.’
Binding had gone red in the face, but Liz could see he was considering what she’d said. Whatever his faults – and to Liz they were legion – he was good at seeing where his best interests lay. He knew he needed to get this right. He said slowly, ‘We can’t be sure Dave’s absence has anything to do with this Frenchman Milraud, can we?’
‘Are you saying you think Dave’s gone AWOL?’ she asked, worried that he was going to flip-flop all over again.
‘I don’t know what to think. A4 went to his flat – no sign that he’s been there since yesterday morning.’
‘We should check at Milraud’s shop,’ said Liz, looking at her watch impatiently. ‘Our source at the airport is looking to see if he caught his flight to France yesterday, but we need to confirm that Dave did actually meet the man.’
‘The CCTV in the area will show if he went to the shop.’
‘There’s no camera on the street where Milraud has his place. We’ve got someone going through all the CCTV in the area, but that’s going to take some time.’ She stood up to go, already thinking of what she’d say at the Milraud shop.
But Binding had other ideas. ‘Send someone else,’ he said sharply. ‘I need you close by. Things are getting tense.’ You mean you are, thought Liz.
33
It was the smell that made him stop. Every three days or so, Constable Frederick Hughes drove along this lane as part of his shift. He was used to a variety of pungent odours as he passed the farms, from pigs’ slurry to freshly cut hay and the woody smoke of smouldering piles of leaves. But not in midwinter. And anyway, this smoke was acrid. Whatever was being burned, it certainly wasn’t leaves.