‘Let’s find out.’ The two Scots watched as she picked up her phone and dialled, then they listened. ‘Aeron Security? ... Ah, good, you do have somebody on duty. This is Detective Inspector Stallings, Metropolitan Police; something’s come up relating to a security issue we believe you were involved in. We’ve come into possession of some information, and want to cross-check it with you . . . No, I’m afraid I can’t do that: this is too sensitive to discuss over the phone. Who’s your managing director? . . . Pardon, I didn’t catch that . . . Mr Spicer, you say. I really think I have to speak to him . . . Yes, I’ll hold on.’
Stallings put her hand over the mouthpiece. ‘We may be in luck.’ She removed it again; her face fell slightly. ‘He isn’t? Who’s in charge? . . . You’re the general manager, did you say, Mr Lemmon? In that case, we’ll speak to you, in Mr Spicer’s absence. We’ll be there inside twenty minutes, if the traffic permits . . . Okay, that’s excellent. I appreciate that.’
She grinned at her visitor colleagues. ‘How about that, then? Come on, let’s commander a patrol car and turn up there like the Sweeney, with lights and sirens blazing. My job’s usually boring, dealing with white-collar crime; I miss the excitement.’
The sergeant looked at her, pure admiration in his eyes. ‘You really are nuts, Becky, aren’t you?’
She smiled back at him, and nodded. ‘Just a little.’
Aeron Passage was hard to find, a side-street off a side-street, behind Euston railway station. The sirens were entirely unnecessary there, but Becky Stallings had them sound until the car drew up outside number seventeen, an ugly modern four-storey building. The company’s offices were on the first floor and so the three detectives used the stairs, rather than the lift.
A middle-aged man was waiting in the reception area as they stepped inside. He was small and lean, with bags under his eyes. ‘What the hell was the noise about?’ he asked abruptly. His accent was strange, a little guttural.
‘It helps to clear traffic,’ Stallings replied cheerfully. ‘Are you Mr Walker Lemmon?’
‘Yes.’
She introduced the two Scots. ‘It’s really them who need to talk to you,’ she added. ‘I’m just the facilitator here.’
Lemmon frowned. ‘Okay, but I don’t have a lot of time: Saturday’s a busy day for us. Come through to my office.’ He led the way into a small room at the back of the building. The window was open, but it still reeked of cigar smoke. Wilding sniffed theatrically; the man ignored him. ‘What is it you want?’ he asked.
‘We’re involved in a multiple murder investigation in Scotland,’ said Steele. ‘You’ve probably heard about it. One of the victims was the daughter of a client of yours.’
‘We don’t discuss our clients . . . Inspector, was it?’
‘Detective Inspector, yes, and I’m not here to discuss anything. I’m here to ask you some specific questions and to obtain any information you might have that will assist my sergeant and me with our enquiries. We’ve been told that about three years ago you investigated a man who had become a nuisance to your client Mr Davor Boras, of Continental IT. You identified him as Daniel Ballester, a journalist, and delivered a dossier on him to Mr Boras.’
‘I don’t know anything about that.’
‘Wait till I’m finished, please,’ Steele told him curtly. ‘We’re not clear on the instructions which Mr Boras gave your firm after that. However, it’s been suggested that you were told to persuade him to desist from making a nuisance of himself, but that when you went to do that, he’d disappeared.
‘Yesterday, Ballester was identified as the prime suspect in our enquiries, a man we were seeking under the assumed name of Dominic Padstow. We believe that before that you received further instructions from Mr Boras to trace Ballester. We need your co-operation, Mr Lemmon. We need all the information you have on this man.’
‘This is all conjecture,’ the general manager protested. ‘Why are you so sure this dossier exists?’
‘Our informant saw it.’
‘And you believe him?’
‘He has every reason to tell us the truth.’
‘Then get the dossier from Boras.’
Steele shook his head. ‘That would be very difficult. He shredded his copy yesterday afternoon.’
‘Why would he do that?’ Lemmon asked.
‘This really is conjecture on our part,’ Wilding told him, with a casual smile, ‘but we reckon he was taking no chances of being accused of withholding information from the police investigating his daughter’s murder. Now we could, if we were so inclined, put a hundred officers on to searching through the Continental IT rubbish bins, and piecing together all the shredded paper, but actually, pal, we don’t need to, because we know that folder existed, we know what was in it, and we know your company provided it. What we want from you is quite simple: any new information you or your people might have dug up on where Ballester might be hiding.’
Lemmon’s mouth twisted. ‘You have to understand this, Sergeant. This business delivers confidential services to its clients; that’s our stock-in-trade. Any information we possess belongs to the client, because he’s paid for it. A court can require us to disclose, so maybe you should go and get an order.’
‘Naw, that’s not how it works,’ Wilding retorted. ‘You have to understand this, pal. While you’re standing there spouting shite about clients and ethics in an industry that basically involves renting out muscle, a man we want for four murders is at liberty. If you make us go to court then we’ll do it.’ Lemmon’s eyes went to the impassive Steele.
‘Look at me when I’m talking to you!’ the sergeant barked, startling him and securing his renewed attention. ‘We’ll do it,’ he repeated, ‘but while we’re hauling a bad-tempered judge off the golf course, we’ll hold you in custody and we’ll fill this place with uniforms to make fucking sure . . . pardon my Scottish, Becky . . . that no information is destroyed or leaves this building. We might not be able to touch Boras, but we can fucking well touch you. If that’s what you want, that’s what you’ll get.’
‘Give me time to think about it,’ the man muttered.
‘You’ve got three seconds,’ Steele told him. ‘One, two, three. Right, Becky, who’s the nastiest judge you know?’
‘Okay!’ Lemmon shouted angrily. ‘I’ll co-operate.’
‘Then talk.’
‘I don’t know anything about this.’
Steele glared down at the man; he stiffened, and seemed to become an inch or so taller, and, suddenly, menacing. ‘Now listen, chum . . .’
‘I don’t, honestly, not the detail. Mr Spicer always deals with Mr Boras personally. All I know is that he was contacted by him yesterday and after that he was very busy. Then, in the evening, he called him back. Today, just before midday, he had another call from Boras. When it was finished, he and Ivor, his personal assistant, left in a hurry.’
‘Did he say where he was going?’
‘No. All he said was that they’d be gone for the rest of the day.’
‘Is he contactable?’
‘Yes, if his phone’s switched on.’
‘Then call him,’ Steele ordered.
The three officers watched as he took out a mobile and selected a number. ‘Mike,’ they heard him say, ‘it’s Walker. Something alarming has happened. The police are here, asking questions about Mr Boras.’
‘Let me speak to him,’ the Scot demanded. Tamely, Lemmon handed him the phone.
‘Mr Spicer,’ he began, ‘my name’s Steele; I’m a detective inspector from Edinburgh. I’ve just interviewed a well-placed informant, who has given me chapter and verse on your dealings with Davor Boras in respect of a man named Daniel Ballester, a suspect in an investigation on which I’m engaged. I require you to tell me where you are, where you’re headed, and what your instructions are.’
‘I’m not obliged to do any of that,’ said a terse voice, slightly distorted by the connection. Steele listened for background noise, but heard nothing he could identify.
‘I think you’ll find that you are. This is a homicide investigation, and I believe you have information I need. You either answer me or your colleague will give me the number of your vehicle, and within five minutes every police force in Britain will be on the lookout for you. Please don’t make the mistake of thinking, for a single moment, that I’m not serious about this.’
