Peggy went on, ‘I had an interesting time in Germany, though our German counterpart was a true dyed-in-the-wool chauvinist – thought Sally Mortimer and I were a couple of English airheads. But Sally sorted him out – she threatened him with Fane. You should have seen him wilt! Anyway, he’s going to do what we asked. So you may get something from Six if anything happens.’
Liz was laughing. ‘Well done. I can just imagine the two of you tackling a chauvinist.’
‘It was Sally really. She’d dealt with him before so she knew how to pull his strings. She’s a good egg. Even if her choice in men is a little suspect.’
‘What do you mean?’
Peggy tried but failed to suppress a giggle. ‘She’s been having a fling with our favourite member of Vauxhall Cross.’
‘Not Geoffrey Fane? I can’t believe it! She must be nearly thirty years younger than him.’
‘No, not Fane. Bruno Mackay.’
‘Oh God. Poor girl. She’s doomed to heartbreak. In any case he’s disappeared off the map under deep cover.’
‘I know. She’s not happy about it. Well, I’d better go. We’re nearly at my station. I hope to be back tomorrow but I’ll keep in touch.’
‘OK. Good luck and best regards to your mother.’
Liz put the phone down. She hoped Peggy’s mother would be all right. She lived in Doncaster. It would be difficult for Peggy to look after her adequately while working in London.
The following afternoon Peggy was back, much reassured by her mother’s recovery, to find a message from Sally Mortimer via Vauxhall Cross. There had been a Russian visitor to the Hamburg house. He was a known FSB officer.
Hearing this, Liz said slowly, ‘It makes sense, I suppose. Especially as it seems to have been the Russians behind this boy at Vermont University.’
‘But…?’ When Liz looked at her, Peggy said, ‘I sense you have your doubts. About the Russians, I mean.’
‘Well, we need better evidence than a single visit to a German headmistress. But that’s not the only reason I’m sceptical. Let me tell you about my visit to Bartholomew Manor.’
She told Peggy about her trip to Suffolk and the strangeness of the school – Miss Girling, the bizarrely named Cicero, then the enigmatic figure of the Head himself, Mr Sarnat. She described Sarnat’s study and the books she’d seen, as well as the trap she’d fallen into, being caught by a hidden camera. She didn’t mention her dinner with the Chief Constable, but told Peggy how she thought she’d detected Cicero in his Mini behind her on her way home. At this, Peggy’s eyes widened and she said, ‘I don’t like the sound of that at all.’
Liz shrugged. ‘It could have been a coincidence. Or I could have been mistaken and it wasn’t Cicero’s car. Anyway, the point is, there was a very odd atmosphere about that place – what my mother’s friend Edward would call “distinctly rum”. The books in particular struck me – why this odd Confucian stuff, and why Taiwan?’
‘Did you find out who the owners are?’
‘No; just that the owners have changed.’
Peggy nodded. ‘Let me do some digging then.’
She was back to Liz by the next morning, sooner than expected. From the contented look on her face, Liz knew she had discovered something. ‘OK,’ she said, ‘let’s have it.’
‘I’ve had a team working on this as it’s pretty complicated. The school, which like most schools used to be a non-profit charitable trust, is now a private company. It changed status three years ago. Now it belongs to something called Elkhorn plc.’
‘Should I have heard of them?’
‘I don’t think so. Very mysterious this Elkhorn. A Jersey company that turns out to be a shell – for another company in the Virgin Islands called Daubisson Assets.’
‘Who are?’
‘A holding company – this time for a Swiss company, registered in Geneva. With a board composed – as far as we could tell – of unremarkable local businessmen.’
‘That’s a bit odd. Why would a bunch of Swiss burghers want to buy an obscure school in a remote part of Suffolk?’
‘I’m not sure they do. It smacks of token directors – not the power behind the throne.’
‘Who is the power then?’
Peggy looked down at her notes. ‘My candidate is one Simon Lee, an owner of half a dozen language schools in the Far East. British passport holder, Hong Kong born but now a resident of Taiwan. Interestingly, we noticed that in some document he claims a degree from a university in Leipzig. That was at a date before the Wall came down – when Leipzig was in East Germany.’
‘Hang on a minute. You’re saying the real owner is a Taiwanese businessman?’
‘Well, he’s not Taiwanese. He seems to be British but he lives in Taiwan now. He’s the only candidate we’ve got and he seems to have a very unusual background.’ She looked again at her notes. ‘Jacques Millier, François Didier, Henri Palotin – none of these gentlemen seem to have either the assets or international experience to drive the acquisition of the school. It just doesn’t make sense. Simon Lee, on the other hand…’
Liz sat and thought for a moment. Peggy said, ‘Shall I pursue our Mr Lee some more? He seems the one lead we have.’
Liz shook her head. ‘I’m not sure I agree. By all means look him up; see if Six have anything on him; do a police check. But I think we should be concentrating on the school itself and what exactly is going on there.’
‘How do we do that? Won’t they find it peculiar if you ask for another visit? And you said yourself, I can’t really pass as a prospective parent.’
‘No, you can’t. But there may be other ways we can learn about the place.’ She smiled at Peggy. ‘I have an idea.’
27
Bruno thought that if he arrived at the restaurant about ten minutes late it would convey the right air of nonchalance. So he deliberately dawdled through Red Square, pausing to admire a bride being photographed in her wedding finery, and took his time ambling down the side street leading to the restaurant he had suggested for their lunch.
Nikita’s was not quite the hole in the wall that Bruno had described to Bebchuk, but it was very small, with no more than a dozen rough pine tables. It had the air of what in London or San Francisco would have been a pop-up restaurant, though Bruno knew from a previous conversation with the owner that it had been open more than a year.
Bruno found Bebchuk at the back at a table for two, stabbing at his phone and looking irritated. He stood to shake hands and Bruno said extravagantly, ‘A million apologies. My choice of restaurant but I’m the one who got lost.’
‘I was about to give up and order some food,’ said Bebchuk with a forced smile. The tone of his voice suggested he wasn’t given to listening to excuses.
They both sat down and Bruno added, ‘Actually, I would have been on time but I came via Red Square. Just my luck – there was about a battalion of soldiers trooping through and the police wouldn’t let us cross the square until they’d passed.’
‘In Russia, the military gets priority,’ said Bebchuk, smiling thinly.
‘Were you a military man?’
Bebchuk shook his head. ‘My father was an officer in the Red Army.’ His English was accented but very good.
‘Didn’t he want you to follow in his footsteps?’
‘Of course,’ said Bebchuk simply, ‘but it was OK – I persuaded my little brother to enlist instead.’ He gave a wolfish grin and Bruno laughed.