you can tell me that will make you look less like the sacrificial lamb you are most definitely going to be at the inquiry, Thomas.’
‘I found Carney’s card in Nick Roberts’s house, the night after he disappeared.’
Fisher bit his lower lip and refolded his arms. ‘You think this Carney might be one of the terrorists? Think he might have tailed your man Roberts to the club so they could ambush him there?’
Tom didn’t know. He felt as though he was running around in circles at the moment. ‘From what I’ve heard about Precious Tambo, she didn’t sound like the kind to keep company with Islamic jihadists.’
‘She was a stripper. Not many girls are in that line of work because of the job satisfaction. She needed money — and maybe the terrorists had plenty to spare. Also, she had dirt on Greeves, which could have brought his bodyguard into the trap. It wouldn’t have been kosher, but maybe she or the real Carney got in touch with Greeves’s people and the minister sent his henchman to suss her out.’
Tom was thinking along the same lines, but something didn’t add up. ‘Did you ever contact Greeves or his press secretary to put Precious’s allegations to him?’
Fisher shook his head. ‘No way. I was keeping this one close to my chest. Once I had the stripper signed up I was going to go to him at the last minute for comment — late in the afternoon of the day before we went to press.’
Tom shook his head at the tactic. It was gutter journalism — have a two-page spread of lurid allegations ready to go, and give the target no time to formulate a response. The last thing a tabloid such as the World wanted was a rational explanation for Greeves’s relationship with another woman or, worse, concrete evidence that the stripper was lying.
Fisher elaborated. ‘If I’d gone to him with what I had he could have come out with all guns firing, given something to everyone. You know, “Forgive me, people of Britain, I sinned once, but now my wife and family have forgiven me and are behind me.” That sort of crap.’
‘It’s a tough game,’ Tom said.
‘Yeah. You’re about to find that out the hard way. Give me something from the inside on this thing and I’ll go easy on you at the inquiry. I can make you look like a hero if I try hard enough.’
Tom pushed his seat back and stood up. He didn’t want to be in the same room as Fisher for a second longer, and he didn’t believe a word of what the man had just said.
‘I’ll call your superiors, tell them you were here under false pretences.’
Tom looked over his shoulder as he opened the door of the interview room. ‘Go ahead. I don’t think it’s going to make any difference to my future.’
Tom found a cafe near the newpaper’s offices and ordered a tea. He took out his notebook and pen and cell phone. He dialled Dan Morris’s number and the detective groaned when Tom told him who it was.
‘I need a favour,’ Tom said.
‘Well, you’re in no position to ask for one. I’m not going to let you drag me down with you. I’m hanging up now, Tom.’
‘Daniel Carney?’
‘What about him?’
Tom moved his tea away from his notebook and waited in silence.
‘I’m hanging up.’
Tom blew on the hot liquid and sipped it.
‘How do you know about him?’ Morris relented.
Tom smiled to himself. Fisher’s threat to tell his superiors about his unauthorised — illegal — investigation hadn’t fazed him at all. He’d meant what he’d said: nothing he did from here on in would make things worse. He had resigned himself to the fact that he would not survive the inquiry with his career intact. It was liberating, in a way, to be free of the rules and regulations that had for twenty-one years governed his life as a policeman. All that mattered now, all that might, possibly, keep him in the job was if he could find something the others had missed.
‘Tom? Answer me?’
‘Carney’s card was under Nick’s fridge — probably slipped off the door.’
‘Oh, right,’ Morris said.
Tom could almost hear the squeaky wheels turning in his colleague’s mind.
‘Well, you’re wasting your time there. I don’t think he exists,’ Morris said.
‘Really?’ Tom had already come to the same conclusion. It was hard to believe a freelancer who could command a budget of twenty-five thousand pounds from a newspaper would be unknown to other reporters in the industry. Also, the instant cards giving nothing but a cell number were a flimsy prop. Tom suspected the number was probably from a pre-paid SIM card.
‘The phone number was a pre-paid,’ Morris said. The confirmation brought no solace to Tom.
‘There are a load of Daniel Carneys in the phone book and we’ve just about got to the end of them, but nothing so far.’
‘Precious Tambo was raped, wasn’t she?’
‘Who told you that? I’m really going to hang up now, Tom. All the details of her death are being kept quiet.’
‘A reporter.’
Morris groaned again. ‘Bleeding hell. Goodbye, Tom.’
The phone went dead in his ear and Tom sipped some more of his tea.
Names. That was all he had. One didn’t exist, and the others, Nick Roberts, Precious Tambo and Robert Greeves — the ones who could give him the answers he needed — were all dead.
On the table was a copy of the Sun, which the last customer had spilled a latte on. Tom flipped through it as he thought about his next move. On page five he saw a headline that galvanised him into action.
SLAIN MINISTER’S FRIENDS TELL OF JANET’S GRIEF. GREEVES’S WIDOW PLANS TO SET UP CHARITY IN ROBERT’S HONOUR.
In his wallet was a laminated card with the phone numbers for Robert Greeves, his key staff members, and Greeves’s wife, Janet. There were numbers for the family homes in London, and in Bledlow Ridge, a village near West Wycombe in Buckinghamshire. The newspaper story said Janet Greeves was at the family’s ‘secluded, upmarket rural retreat’. Tom thought she would have the answering machine on for the land-line but would have her cell phone turned on.
‘Hello?’ said the female voice.
‘Mrs Greeves?’
‘Who’s calling, please.’
Tom thought she was right to be cautious. She would have been hounded by hundreds of reporters so far.
‘Detective Sergeant Tom Furey, ma’am. I was with Mr Greeves, when
…’
‘Oh.’
‘I’m very sorry for your loss, ma’am.’
‘I’ve read about you in the papers, Sergeant, though not by name. Is this an official call?’
She was frosty, dismissive. It was to be expected.
‘If you’ve seen the press reports, then you’ll know I’ve been suspended.’
‘Well, if you’re calling to apologise, it’s really not necessary. I’m sure you did everything you could have done.’
He’d expected more emotion. Perhaps anger, or if she was forgiving, empathy or pity for him at failing in the line of duty.
‘I’m sorry about the way things turned out, but I also have some questions for you which might help the investigation into your husband’s abduction and death.’
‘Yes, but you’re suspended, as you’ve just pointed out. I’ve told the investigating officers about Robert’s movements on the last few days before he left for Africa. There was nothing unusual. I understand if you’re trying
