Ethan shook hands.
‘I’ve not seen you in court before,’ he said.
Clavering smiled. It was a rich smile, warm rather than polite. For some reason, Ethan took to him at once. Or was it because he desperately needed to put his faith in someone, anyone? He could not be sure.
‘Actually, I’m not local. My patch is London.’
‘And you’ve handled homicide cases before?’
‘Fifteen, to be precise. Some manslaughter too.’
‘And the outcomes?’
‘Fifteen acquittals for the homicides.’
Ethan paused and thought hard.
‘That’s a good record,’ he said. ‘Bloody good, in fact. You’ll be representing me at the Crown Court as well, I take it?’
Clavering nodded.
‘That’s the plan. I should mention that your father picked me out. His people employed me on a number of occasions in the past. He’ll be in the public gallery.’
‘Do you think I can get bail?’
Clavering did not answer right away. Ethan had the impression he had not thought about it before.
‘Tricky, to be honest. The charges are serious, there are three counts of murder. But you’re a policeman with a perfect record. I’ll point out that you, of all people, would know exactly how to cover up your tracks. Leaving your fingerprints or your DNA behind would be such an elementary slip-up, you’d have to be suicidal.’
Ethan told him about the underwear, and he nodded and seemed thoughtful. Then an usher came and escorted the barrister to the courtroom, while Ethan was taken to a different door, through which he could access the dock.
The hearing took ten minutes. In court, Clavering could have won Oscars. He dominated the room. He did not stumble in his address, he did not fumble with papers, nor even look down at them. His mastery of the slim evidence available was complete and devastating. This was not a trial, but had it been, Ethan might well have been acquitted by all but the most obtuse jurymen and women. By contrast, Bob Forbes came across as uncertain and hampered by the knowledge that a colleague and superior stood in the dock.
But what swung the hearing in Ethan’s favour were two fortuitous matters. The chairman of the bench had just completed his chairmanship training, and had arrived that morning expecting to sharpen his teeth on motoring offences. To compound this, the senior clerk who should have been sitting in front of the bench had been snowed in at home, leaving her place to be taken by a junior who seemed dwarfed by the rows of legal books on her desk. Clavering knew act and statute by heart, and while she fumbled, he took the magistrates through the complexities of bail legislation.
Ethan walked from the courthouse with an agreement to appear at the Crown Court in one month’s time, and bail set at a figure of fifty thousand pounds. His father met him outside, and shook his hand.
‘I know you didn’t do this, Ethan. Clavering will get you off, don’t worry.’
‘It’s not that simple, Dad. If the CPS field somebody first class, even Clavering could be out of his league. But the first thing is to find Sarah.’
‘Sarah? I thought she was back in Oxford.’
Ethan explained.
‘What are you planning to do?’ his father asked.
‘I’m not sure yet. But if she’s alive, somebody has to do something. Even if I can just persuade someone to get a search under way it would be something.’
They had a late breakfast at a little cafe near the courthouse. The heavy snow was keeping people out of the city centre, and the place was almost empty. They sat in overcoats, their hands hugging mugs of hot coffee, snacking on crumpets smeared with butter and Marmite.
‘Dad, they’re going to appeal the bail. Once this gets into the press, which it will by this evening, everybody and his dog will start bawling about why a mass murderer was released. The Home Office will panic, MPs will get up in Parliament, the tabloids will scream for my blood, and I’ll be back in clink before you can ring Clavering’s mobile.’
‘What was the point of getting out, then?’
‘I’ve been thinking this over all night, Dad. Here’s what I’d like you to do.’
A forensic team had already gone into his flat in the town centre and spirited away everything of interest, including his computer. They made him sign all sorts of papers and warned him of the consequences of leaving Gloucester. He took it all in his stride. The entire thing felt more like an exercise at work, and once or twice he’d had to explain the procedure to the young officers who’d gone back to his flat with him. He’d felt more worried about them than about himself, and he spoke to them reassuringly, promising he would report at the station every day. They asked for his passport, and he handed it over without a word of protest. It would not, he knew, be long before someone more senior was in touch, Willis perhaps, or someone from the CPS, to say the bail decision had been overruled. He had to move quickly.
Leaving the forensic team to continue their work, he drove straight to the bank. His father had already paid a large sum into his account, and he drew out most of it in cash. After that, he bought himself a travel bag, fresh clothing, a pay-as-you-go mobile phone, and an Apple laptop. His final stop was the cathedral, where the coffee shop offered a quiet environment away from prying eyes.
With a coffee on one side and a plate with chocolate cake on the other, he opened the laptop and got to work. He prayed that no one had yet thought of shutting down his access to the police computer, and his heart was beating fast when he keyed in his username and password. Moments later, the remote access system let him in.
His first stop was in the files where his own arrests were listed. Slowly, he scrolled down until he came to the name he wanted. He went in, retrieved a telephone number, and came out again. After this, he opened thirty more files, selecting the names at random; if his visit was being tracked and recorded, this would help throw them off the scent.
He took the phone from the bag, dialled the number he had just noted, and spoke briefly to someone at the other end. Ending the call, he went back to the computer.
He had logged on to the main Interpol system numerous times in the past; he clicked his way through to the European section of the Wanted database, and put in the keywords ‘German/Austrian, Antiquities Theft/Fraud’. His screen filled rapidly with records. He sighed and started on what he knew would be the most tedious part of the task he’d set himself.
Moving to Advanced Search, he added fresh keywords: blond, blue eyes, 1.8 to 1.9 metres, nasal/frontal scar.
Three names and three photographs came up on the screen. He clicked on the second thumbnail, and it expanded in size to reveal the man who had attacked him and killed or kidnapped Sarah. His name was Egon Aehrenthal, and he was forty-four years old (born February 1964 in the Austrian town of Bernstein in Burgenland). His profession was given as antiquarian, with a special interest in biblical, Byzantine, and Umayyad antiquities from the Middle East. He had convictions for smuggling in Israel and Egypt, and for forgery in Lebanon, and had spent time in jail in each country.
Ethan smiled. Like a Mountie, he had found his man. But finding him in police files was not the same as finding him in the real world. He went on reading. Long accustomed to filling in the gaps of bland police records, he began to construct a picture that might provide the leads he hoped would take him to his target and, if his hunch was right, to Sarah.
Aehrenthal had been born Egon Armin Dietmar Hilarius Oktav Werner von Aehrenthal on the day the Austrian ski champion Egon Zimmerman had carried off a gold for the men’s downhill at the 1964 Winter Olympics in Innsbruck. His jubilant father, who had watched the skier race to glory, flew that same night from one end of Austria to the other in order to be with his wife in Bernstein, bestowed Zimmerman’s Christian name on his newborn son, and prophesied a golden future for him.