Until suddenly, at five o’clock, there were no people left to ask. They had exhausted the possibilities. Or rather, they had exhausted one seam; but there was another seam left to mine, so long as her spirits were up to it.
Over a glass of wine in a bar, he gave something equating to a pep talk. It half-worked. She agreed to give it another hour or so. Then he would take her to dinner — on his firm this time.
They made for the police station, and there asked at the desk about abandoned vehicles. Inspector Bugeaud, who had already spent more time than he cared to remember helping the DST, Special Branch, and Barclay, groaned when he saw them. But he was persuaded to look in the files. He came up with only two possibilities. A motorbike stolen in Marquise and pushed off a cliff several kilometers out of town, and a car stolen in Paris and found by a farmer in some woods, again several kilometers out of town.
“Stolen in Paris?” Dominique said, her eyes glinting. The Inspector nodded.
“This car,” said Barclay, “where is it now, Inspector?”
Bugeaud checked the paperwork. “Back with its owner,” he said.
“Was it checked for fingerprints?” Dominique asked. She had risen onto her tiptoes. Barclay got the feeling that in another location, she might actually have been jumping up and down with excitement. But here she managed to retain a measure of composure.
The Inspector shrugged. “Why bother? It wasn’t damaged, except for some paint scraped off by the trees. The owner was happy enough to know its whereabouts. End of story.”
“I don’t think so,” said Dominique with a slow shake of her head. “I don’t think it’s the end of the story at all, Inspector.” She turned towards Barclay. “I think it’s just the beginning.” She slapped the file. “Can I please have a photocopy of the relevant details, Inspector? Two photocopies.” (Another glance in Barclay’s direction.) “No, best make it three. My superiors will want to take a look. I’ll see that your help is reported back to them, too.”
“Don’t bother,” said Bugeaud, retreating back upstairs to turn on the photocopier. “I prefer the quiet life.”
That night, after another large meal, Barclay telephoned London from his room. His call was transferred to a private house — there were sounds of a loud dinner party in the background — where he was able to speak to Joyce Parry. He gave her what news he had, playing down Dominique’s role, feeling only a little like a snake as he did so. She sounded thoughtful rather than enthusiastic.
“It’s an interesting idea,” she said, “a car stolen in Paris...”
“Yes, ma’am.”
There was silence. “What do the DST think?” Joyce Parry asked at last.
“They’re heading back to Paris to do some checking.”
“Fair enough. So you’ll be back here tomorrow?”
He swallowed, ready with his story but still nervous. “I’d rather stick close to this, ma’am,” he said. “It seems to me that we and DST are coming at this from different angles. They’re worried that Witch may have had help in France. They want to cut any future aid route. They’re not bothered by the fact that she’s now in England. Left to themselves, they may not ask the right questions.”
An excruciating pause, background laughter, then: “I see. Well, all right, then, off you go to Paris. Call me from there.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Just keeping the excitement out of his voice.
“And don’t play silly buggers with your expenses. I don’t want to see receipts from the Moulin Rouge. Okay?”
She was making a joke of it. She’d believed him. Well, and why not? Dominic Elder had said it might work. Elder had called only twenty minutes ago, while Barclay and Dominique had been drinking and scheming in the hotel bar.
“Understood,” said Barclay, ringing off before she could change her mind. Dominique was waiting for him downstairs.
“Well?” she said.
He was very casual, shrugging his shoulders as he slid into the booth. “It’s settled.” He picked up his beer. “I’m coming to Paris.”
She nodded, managing to seem neither pleased nor displeased.
“Now,” he said, “what about a nightcap?”
She looked at him strangely. “Nightcap?” she repeated.
“A final drink before retiring,” he explained.
“Oh.” She nodded thoughtfully. “Yes, why not? But remember, Michael, we are not celebrating... not yet. These are still —”
“Probabilities, I know. But whatever they are, they’re better than nothing. They’re certainly better than being stuck in an office in London.” He found himself believing this, too. The office was no longer a safe haven. It seemed boring, a place without possibilities. Besides, he had to go to Paris, didn’t he? He’d found a lead, something Doyle had missed. Who knew what else he might find if he stuck close to Dominique? It was difficult work, but someone had to do it.
“Have you ever been to Paris before?” she asked.
“Once or twice.”
“With lovers?”
“That’s classified information.”
She laughed. “I will show you Paris. You will love it.”
Barclay was signaling to the barman. “Is that your deductive reasoning again?”
“No,” she said, finishing her drink, “just instinct.”
Thursday 11 June
The first meeting between the two Special Branch detectives and Dominic Elder could not be considered a success. It wasn’t helped by the attendance, for part of the time, of Joyce Parry and Commander Trilling, who looked to be conducting their own personal Cold War.
But it was Doyle who really set the tone. Introduced to and shaking hands with Elder, his first question was: “So, Mr. Elder, and how long have you been on the pension?”
Elder ignored this, but Doyle just couldn’t let it go. His contributions to the discussion were peppered with references to “the retired gentleman,” “the ex-agent,” “the man from the country,” and so on. The more he went on, the more fixed became Elder’s smile. Greenleaf tried jolting Doyle’s mind onto another track, getting him to talk about Calais, about the Folkestone operation, but nothing could deter Doyle. Nothing could rob him of his simple pleasures. He even, as Elder had judged he would, came up with a crack about Elder’s name: “Perhaps,” Doyle began one loud sentence, “I shouldn’t say this in front of my elders, but —”
Dominic Elder had been waiting. “Elders and betters, Mr. Doyle. I believe that’s the phrase.”
He wasn’t smiling anymore.
Greenleaf twisted in his seat as though trying to avoid a shrewdly placed thumbtack. He had spent most of the previous evening boning up for this meeting, ensuring he was word perfect. He had learned the case notes off by heart, wanting to look good in front of Parry and Elder. But now he seemed the unwilling referee in a tag team wrestling match, trapped between Parry and Commander Trilling grappling in one corner of the ring, and Doyle and Elder in the other. He knew he wouldn’t make any friends if he attempted to make the peace, so he sat quiet in his chair, reciting inwardly his litany of dates, times, officers’ names, interviewees... Until finally it was too much for him. He thought he was going to burst. He did burst.
“As you know,” he began, “we’ve got officers on the ground around Folkestone, stopping drivers and asking questions. Nothing as yet, but it’s early days. While we’re waiting, the least we could do is study the security procedures for, say, the top three targets on the list, by which I mean next week’s nine-nation summit, the Houses of Parliament, and Her Majesty the Queen.”
“God bless her,” said Doyle.