‘Not too bad. We found some photocopies of DTI documents in Barker’s office at Continental IT: they definitely should not have been there. We also found details at his home of a bank account in the name of Jack Frost. The balance is very healthy . . . it’s several grand in credit ... and there’s a record of cash withdrawals. Some of the dates match up roughly with the DTI papers that we found. There was three grand withdrawn on Thursday; we found that in an envelope in Barker’s desk. We’re sure that it was destined for Dailey, only he didn’t deliver the goods.
‘The account was set up by Barker, not long after he left ITN to work for Davor Boras. The initial deposit was made by a cheque for twenty thousand pounds drawn on Barker’s personal account. That received a cash injection for the same amount the day before. Since then it’s been topped up a couple of times, in the same way.’
‘Have you put this to Barker yet?’ asked Steele. ‘Have you pressed him about the money?’
‘No, but when we do, you know what he’ll say.’
‘Sure. He’ll tell us that he’s a gambler and that sometimes he wins big. At least, that’s what they all tell us at first.’
‘You think you can crack him?’
‘I’ve met the man; I think I can. I’ve been taught by experts . . . my wife among them.’
Out of the blue, Wilding chuckled. ‘That’s pretty good.’
Stallings stared at him. ‘What is?’
‘The bank account. Somebody’s got a sense of humour. Jack Frost . . . It’s a slush fund, isn’t it?’
For the second time she smiled at him. ‘Ray, you might not be as dumb as you look. Maybe we will go for lunch after all.’ Before the sergeant could reply, her phone rang. She picked it up. ‘Thanks,’ she said, nodding across her desk. ‘We’re on.’
She led the way along the corridor and round a corner to a room that Steele judged, even before he was ushered inside, had to be at the back of the building, but there was nothing to confirm this, since its two windows were shuttered.
Barker was waiting for them, immaculate in a pale blue open-necked shirt and tan slacks. As before, his hair was perfectly groomed. He looked like a man who had spent the night in a five-star hotel room, rather than in a police holding cell. He was flanked by a fat man in a business suit.
There were four seats on the other side of the long table at which they sat. One of them was occupied by a woman who rose as they entered. She was small and very slim, bespectacled, and with hair so red that at once Steele pictured Maggie standing in her place. ‘This is Rhonda Weiss,’ Stallings announced, ‘from the Home Office. Mr Barker, you know; the other gentleman is Lancelot Hamilton, his legal adviser.’ She introduced the two officers.
‘I’ll be sitting in,’ said Weiss. ‘I reserve the right to ask questions as I see fit.’
The Scottish inspector looked at her; she returned his gaze, unsmiling. ‘Can I see your warrant card?’ he asked politely.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘You heard me.’
‘You mean do I have identification?’ she spluttered. ‘This is ridiculous.’
‘No. I asked if I might see your warrant card. In other words, I’m asking if you’re a police officer.’
‘Of course not. I’m a civil servant.’
‘Then you have no locus,’ Steele told her. ‘This is a serious interview, part of a murder investigation. You can stay, but you will not utter a word unless invited by me, and you’ll sit at the end of the table, so that you cannot make eye contact with the prisoner. Are you carrying any form of recording device?’
‘Yes, but . . .’
Steele held out his hand. ‘Give it to me, please. I’ll return it when we’re finished here.’
‘I will not!’
‘Then leave.’
‘I’m here with the approval of the Metropolitan Police.’
‘Which can be withdrawn.’
‘Not by you.’
‘Trust me, it can.’ He turned to Stallings. ‘Becky, I don’t want to put you on the spot, but . . .’
‘No problem,’ she told him. ‘If you’ll come with me, Ms Weiss.’
‘Okay!’ The woman took a small personal-memo device from her bag and handed it to Steele.
‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘Now, if you’ll take your place along there, we can begin.’ He took a seat, with Stallings on his left and Wilding on his right, and smiled across the table. ‘Good morning, Mr Barker,’ he began, once Stallings had activated a twin-tape recorder. ‘We’ll just go through the introductions again for the record.’ He recited the time, location, and list of those present, then continued: ‘I’m sorry about that piece of housekeeping, and that we’re meeting again in these surroundings. It might be palatial as police stations go, but it’s a hell of a change from the Caley, you’ll agree.’
‘Yes indeed,’ Barker murmured coldly. ‘It’s outrageous that I’ve been held here overnight, Inspector. Did you have something to do with that?’
‘I think that bribing a civil servant to provide sensitive information had a lot to do with that, Keith.’
Lancelot Hamilton leaned forward. ‘At the moment, Inspector,’ he pointed out, ‘no charges of that nature have been brought against my client.’
‘No, but if you weren’t damn sure that the Met have grounds to lay them whenever they think fit, you’d have screamed bloody murder to have your client released last night. However, Mr Hamilton, that’s not why DS Wilding and I are here. We want to talk to your client about four murders that have been committed in Scotland over the last two months.’
‘My client had nothing to do with any of those terrible crimes. He knows nothing about them.’
‘That’s what we’re here to find out.’ Steele leaned forward slightly and gazed at the lawyer. ‘Look, sir, I don’t want to be rude, but we’ll be done a lot quicker here if you let me get on with my job with as few interruptions as possible. In the process you might save your client a few quid in solicitor’s fees.’ He suppressed a smile, as Hamilton reddened.
‘That is a very well-made point,’ said Barker, grimly.
‘Of course, you won’t be picking up your legal tab, will you?’ said Steele, lightly. ‘Davor Boras will do that, won’t he?’
‘What makes you think that?’
‘Come on, when you leaned on Dailey, you weren’t acting on your own behalf.’
‘Who is Dailey?’
‘He’s a guy with your cellphone number on the SIM card memory of his, but let’s not get tangled up in that stuff. I’m interested in why, not who. Why should you try to track down Dominic Padstow through the passport agency?’
‘Good question, why should I?’
‘You’re using the royal “I” there, Keith. You really mean “we” and when you do you’re talking about you and your puppet-master, Boras. We’re after Padstow. Your boss offered a million quid to anyone who finds the man and puts him away. So why should he use a bent contact in the Home Office to try to track him down? Does he think that if he does the job himself, he’ll save a million?’
‘Hardly. A million is nothing to that man.’
‘Hey, that’s a sea change,’ Steele exclaimed. ‘A couple of days ago you were kissing his arse. Today, he’s “that man”. He’s denied you, hasn’t he?’ He glanced at Stallings. ‘That’s right, Becky, isn’t it? You interviewed Boras and he told you that if Barker had bribed anyone he had done it on his own initiative, and expressly against his orders.’
‘No,’ she replied. ‘We haven’t. I was going to, but I had orders to leave him alone.’
‘Orders? From whom?’
‘Upstairs; to be exact, from Deputy Assistant Commissioner Davies, the director of operations in the Specialist Crime directorate. He’s overseeing this operation and he set the parameters. He told me that Boras was off limits.’
‘Jesus!’ Steele was incredulous. ‘You’re saying that he’s behind the bribing of a public official and you can’t touch him? I know he’s a business leader and all that but . . .’ His eyes flashed along the table and locked on to
