LJ took out a monogrammed handkerchief and lowered his nose into it, like he was going from the eighth storey window into something held by six firemen. He blew his nose loudly. “Go on,” he said.
“Well, she arrives unannounced telling us that she comes with your blessing on behalf of HMG. Her instructions are to retrieve the logbook from the Gin Fizz and not to go back to London without it. But when it can’t be found, she creates a song and dance about the trouble that she will be in for not locating it, but quite frankly her performance was very weak and I for one found her unconvincing. Unfortunately for her and luckily for us, I got to it before she did.”
I handed LJ the logbook. “You might find this interesting bedtime reading. Another thing that was odd, when we discovered the opium,” I put one of the waxy brown parcels down onto LJ’s desk, “her reaction was a little too relaxed. Especially as we all thought it was explosives we were dealing with. Finally, both Charlie and I agree that she had the opportunity on a number of occasions to take the photographs of the Gin Fizz. But why? We haven’t figured that one out, yet.”
“Are you sure you’re not blowing this all out of proportion, Jake?” LJ’s tone was patronising.
“No I am not, “I said loudly. “From the very start of this assignment the elusive Oliver Hawkworth has, I feel, been manipulating all of us. Flackyard is far more devious and powerful than we’ve given him credit for, and I for one will be watching my back from now on.”
“Ah…” LJ hesitated “… you think it’s a frame up, don’t you,” he said thoughtfully.
“What’s that suppose to mean?” I asked.
“It’s an American expression that…” then he saw me grinning and he frowned.
I went on, “Then there’s is this American, Harry Caplin, I can’t be sure but my guts tell me that he’s involved up to his fat little neck with those opium packages. But, I don’t think it’s with Flackyard…” My thoughts went back to the photograph of the hunting party at his house in Sandbanks. “He’s got more of an international flavour this one, of that I am sure.”
“So what do you conclude?” asked LJ.
“I don’t conclude anything,” I said, “but if I see a man waving the Stars and Stripes above his head I wonder if he’s trying to tell me something about his national characteristics, and I wonder why.”
“What about these photos of the boat that have gone missing?” LJ asked.
“Stolen. Whoever took them, wasted their time. They’re of little consequence now, especially as the Gin Fizz no longer exists, and the photos are only general shots anyway.”
“I hope for your sake that you’re certain of that old son,” said LJ sardonically, as he tried to touch his nose with his tongue.
“Yes, absolutely certain,” I said.
“Well, that’s OK then, but you must understand the Partners’ point of view; they don’t want to upset the status quo. There’s far to much at stake. You must look at the bigger picture as they do Jake. Take off the blinkers sometimes.”
“Oh, I do,” I said seriously. “Well now, that’s the Partners’ position as a rule, isn’t it? Not to upset anyone, don’t upset all the good work we’re doing — all that crap. Now doesn’t it strike you as odd that the Partners encourage us into this set-up and tell us, mark you, not to let anyone know what we’re doing off the coast of Dorset? But they are all bright smiles and winking eyes about it? They send down, this very attractive young woman, simply to help us?”
“Well, what do you want me to do about Miss Price?” LJ Said tapping his pen on the rim of his coffee cup.
“Give her back to whoever she belongs to.” I replied.
“Now then, Jake,” said LJ, “please be reasonable. I know that should be what we do, but it’s not that simple. The Partners and even the police want her left in place for the time being, just watch what you do and say around her. What else do you want me to do?”
“Just one thing,” I asked, “keep the wraps on that logbook from the Gin Fizz. Just don’t say a word about it to anyone. Let’s keep it between Charlie, you and me for the time being. You’ll see why when you’ve had a chance to read it through.”
“And Robert Flackyard,” LJ said, just so that I knew he was agreeing to do so. (He would never promise to go against company policy in so many words.) He continued as though I hadn’t mentioned the book. “The Price woman,” he said, “you might as well use her talents, and we’ll let whichever department she works for worry about what to do with her when this affair is over and done with. As you say, she’s capable and quick thinking. You never know. You may even grow to like her.”
I suppose I must have snorted as I closed the office door behind me.
Chapter 10
My converted loft apartment overlooks the river Thames in a fashionable part of town; I got back there at 7.30am after the all-night discussions with LJ. I paid the cab driver and climbed the spiral staircase to the top of the building.
I flicked on the heating control to constant, went into the kitchen and boiled a kettle. While I was waiting for the coffee to filter through I phoned Charlie, his mobile was switched off and his voice mail on. The message was simply for him to collect me at about four o’clock this afternoon. LJ had asked me to collect his car from the airport as we were going past it on the way to see a man who dealt in snippets of information that could be relevant to the Dorset assignment. LJ had left it there on his return from New York the previous day; as usual he’d had too much Champagne in business class.
I poured a generous measure of whisky into the black coffee and sipped it slowly. A night without sleep was beginning to pound my temples gently and tighten the muscles in the back of my neck. It was 8.15am I went to bed, then somewhere in the building a vacuum cleaner began its fiendish flagellation. I closed my eyes.
I looked at my watch in the darkness. The doorbell was ringing. I had slept nine hours, and now Charlie McIntyre was at the door, eager to get to grips with his evening of freedom in the big city. He had a brand new Audi TT from the firm’s car pool. Only senior executives who had to go out of the city to visit clients used these. But on this occasion, as we were doing LJ an immense favour, he had authorised the vehicle for our use.
I had a shower, shaved and threw on the nearest smart casual clothes that came to hand. Charlie was eager to get back in the Audi and give it a blast down the motorway to the airport. It was a pleasure to see him handle the powerful car; his nimble hands stroked the controls as we slipped through the traffic with effortless ease and a skill he never otherwise showed. “Nowhere,” said Charlie quietly as we approached another intersection, “do the English show a greater enthusiasm to queue than on motorways.” He used the horn with Italian enthusiasm, indicated and moved the Audi over and out into the fast lane, accelerating with such speed that my whole body was pushed back into the leather seat and held there momentarily. Charlie moved past the queuing traffic with ice cool skill until we had left them in the rear view mirror.
When we arrived at Heathrow Airport he parked on double yellow lines just behind the taxi rank, and left the engine running. We drew matchsticks to see who would drive the Range Rover back to the office. Charlie won, so I would follow in the Audi.
It was 6.30pm, the sky had grown dark and menacing again and I felt fingers of rain tapping me on the shoulder. I gave Charlie the keys to LJ’s car pointing to where he always parked; we could see the dark green Range Rover Vogue from where we were standing. I went over to the newspaper vendor at the entrance to the terminal. The headline on the board read; BUSH TO CONTINUE WAR ON TERRORISM. I bought the Times and walked back out into the drizzle.