He’d get today over, removing each and every threat. Ensure that Jane fully recovered, even if she needed a psychiatrist, which, despite Dr Newton’s assurances, Carver still suspected she might. And then destroy this personal hoard in front of him, as Northcote should have destroyed it when it was no longer relevant.
He replaced the uncopied material and photographs in the security box first, before moving the briefcase alongside it. He loaded them one by one, original in the briefcase, copy back into the box. Again, the last item in each was the tape.
Carver went perfunctorily through the duplicate key re-locking and signing out procedure, thinking now about Alice. He wouldn’t call her until everything was over. She’d compounded their problems by her computer trawling – and ignored him when he’d told her to stop – and he was suspicious of her demands the previous night to know precisely when and where he was meeting Burcher. More than suspicious. So, if she didn’t know, she couldn’t interfere, maybe to put everything at risk.
He strode purposefully out on to Wall Street, with more than sufficient time before noon to walk the two blocks to his office, his mind switching back to Jane. Your choice, Newton had said. So he’d make it. He’d call the doctor and tell him he wanted a second, psychiatric opinion: the best available. He wanted Jane well – properly, completely well – as soon as possible.
‘Good to know that everything’s going as it should, sensibly,’ said a voice Carver recognized at once, on his left. He was conscious of a close presence at his right, too. And behind.
‘Here’s the car,’ said Burcher and before there was a moment for Carver to resist – cry out even – the inexorable pressure of the three surrounding men turned him towards – and then into – the open door of the vehicle that pulled up.
‘There!’ patronized Burcher. ‘Now’s the time to talk properly.’
Sixteen
‘Heads up,’ demanded Gene Hanlan. ‘What have we got?’ ‘A crazy,’ dismissed Ginette Smallwood, disillusioned from wasting the past four months investigating tip-offs from Federal Plaza walk-ins who’d turned out to be exactly that, initially convincing crazies who’d evolved good-sounding stories to get their fifteen minutes of fame. And to get her the reputation of someone who couldn’t differentiate fact from phoney if she’d had Pinocchio on her shoulder.
‘Doesn’t sit right,’ dismissed Hanlan. He twisted to the permanently displayed street map of Manhattan on the board behind his desk, upon which red marker flags were already displayed. ‘We start at the Port Authority terminal… maybe she’s an out-of-towner…’
‘Or maybe she’s an in-town, uptown girl who chose the terminal for good reason,’ interrupted Patrick McKinnon, the rotund, retirement-planning third field agent.
‘Maybe an in-town girl indeed,’ accepted Hanlan, still at the wall map. He tracked his finger along the electronically traced route that Alice Belling had taken. ‘Sure as hell knew the city’s transport system, according to the timings…’ He turned away from the wall chart, gesturing to the separately marked tapes: the only incomplete one was Alice’s first, before they’d been ready. ‘We need to get the official opinion from the mumbo-jumbo thumb- suckers at Quantico but I don’t hear any of that as a crazy. Stressed, sure. If I didn’t think that, I would mark her as a crazy and we wouldn’t be sitting around here now, talking about it.’
‘Let’s hold for a moment on Quantico,’ suggested Ginette. Among its several disciplines, Quantico was the FBI’s Maryland installation for offender profiling, where most of the psychological ancillaries were concentrated, including voice-print analysts.
‘We’re holding on everything for the moment,’ assured Hanlan. ‘But I’ve got a gut feeling. The Litchfield shit- kicking sheriff admits George Northcote’s death is odd, despite what the coroner says. The house gets invaded like Baghdad on open day. And anyone here remember a hanging suicide breaking so many arms and legs from a two- foot fall?’
Neither of the other two answered the question. The querulous woman said: ‘If mysterious Martha knows so much, how come she doesn’t have a Family name?’
‘Because she doesn’t have a Family name!’ threw back McKinnon, irritably. ‘You heard what she said. I read it that she knows some but not all. Which I also read as meaning we need to get involved here…’ He paused, for the effect. ‘Organized crime… murder… money laundering… You really need me to spell out the career advantages of having our names at the top of the list of this sort of investigation?’ His pension increased by $150 a month if he got promoted one more grade.
‘Not for a moment,’ grinned Hanlan, whose mind had begun to calculate that as early as Alice’s second telephone contact.
‘What’s the essential for the perfect con?’ challenged Ginette.
‘For fuck’s sake!’ exploded McKinnon, who’d spent an unconsummated month hitting on the girl – and his ex-wife’s entire month’s alimony on dinners and Broadway theatres – before she’d told him she was gay. ‘You’ve struck out three times in a row. Shit happens. This could be how you get off the bench and up to bat.’
‘So what do we do?’ accepted Ginette, reluctantly. She needed an impressive recovery.
‘Put everything else on hold, for today at lease,’ ordered Hanlan. ‘Go through the case notes of Litchfield and Brooklyn if they’re wired soon enough, which was the promise from both…’
‘When’s the last time a local force – certainly a local force who’ve already made up their minds and closed the case – cooperated with the Bureau?’ demanded Ginette, who was thirty, model-thin, blonde and not gay, just resentful of the automatic chauvinistic expectation of office affairs.
‘Northcote was high profile,’ picked up Hanlan, ignoring the interruption. ‘Let’s see what’s in the public domain.’
‘That route,’ said McKinnon, nodding to the map behind the agent-in-charge, ‘goes in a square circle.’
‘You want to help me with that?’ invited Hanlan.
‘Starts on the west side, crosses east, goes downtown, back west, always using phone boxes. And obviously public transport. She’s definitely a local, seen too many James Bond movies. But that’s where she lives, somewhere downtown. She was hurrying home.’
‘Should be easy to find someone calling herself Martha who admits it’s not her real name,’ said Ginette.
‘Downtown’s financial,’ said McKinnon. ‘Northcote’s office is on Wall Street. Martha could be a Northcote employee, stumbles upon where the secrets are hidden.’
‘And the dead bodies,’ agreed Ginette, less resistant. ‘Janice Snow was an employee: maybe she shared what she knew with Martha.’
‘Martha doesn’t come back to us today, as promised, we call on George W. Northcote International tomorrow,’ decided Hanlan.
‘And ask what?’ questioned McKinnon.
‘To look at their client base?’ suggested Hanlan.
‘Northcote’s top of the big-time pyramid,’ warned Ginette. ‘They got something to hide, they’re not going to take kindly to us asking rude questions unless we’ve got due cause. Which so far we ain’t.’
Hanlan reached over his desk for the third recording, fast-forwarding to where he wanted. The excerpt began with his own voice. Handed over by whom?
Then Alice’s. Someone who’s totally innocent. Who thinks he can handle it all by himself.
Hanlan said: ‘It’s someone in the firm: maybe two. Martha, our whistle-blower, and Mr Hard Guy, thinks he can face down the bad guys all by himself. Why’s he doing that? The best guess, in my book, is to keep the firm squeaky clean. So he’s high, a major player, maybe even a partner. Has to be, to have discovered whatever he has. We go in and we say we’re not sure about Mr Northcote’s death or that of his personal assistant, Ms Snow. Ask the partners, one by one, how they feel about it: if they’ve got anything they’d like to tell us. And watch the body language.’
‘It’s a way to start,’ allowed Ginette, doubtfully.
‘It’s our best shot, we don’t hear back from Martha,’ insisted McKinnon.
Hanlan looked at his watch. ‘Twelve. Whatever Martha’s expecting to happen has got to be lunch time.’
‘We hope,’ agreed McKinnon.
