for a better identification.’
‘Carver’s not a Volkswagen man,’ declared McKinnon, positively.
‘No vehicle documentation anywhere in the apartment?’ asked Barbara Donnelly.
The forensic expert shook his head and Ginette said: ‘Responsible drivers carry their documents with them.’
Hanlan said: ‘We’re on to vehicle registration when the clock strikes.’ Which wouldn’t be for some hours yet, he realized.
‘Here’s how it looks to me,’ said Barbara Donnelly, eager to prove herself. ‘Crazy though it’s sounded, it looks to me that Alice has been telling a reasonable story from the beginning. Carver’s death might have been a definite accident but the other two’ve got questions. She talked about organized crime and we know now other people are looking. We’ve got to get to her – and Jane Carver before they do.’
Hanlan decided to let the woman have her moment and hoped she hadn’t seen McKinnon’s patronizing smile. Hanlan said: ‘And here’s what we’re going to do. We’ve got an identifiable picture of Alice, lifted from the loop. And we can get one of Jane. Paterson’s our marker, with the Bearfort above it. This is the number Alice has, so I stay here. I want everyone else up there by the time people get out of bed, showing them the photograph. Obvious spots, stores, gas stations
… Ginette, you stay here with me. Work the credit-card companies… gas cards… We find somewhere she’s used more than once we’ve tightened our focus…’ He jabbed at the map of Paterson and the mountains beyond. ‘A lot of tracks but not a lot of roads. I’m going to put a Bureau prop up, something slow enough to be able to carry out aerial observation. Maybe there won’t be a lot of old-style Volkswagens and we’ll get lucky. When we get the registration we’ll alert Highway Patrol, all the local forces, without telling them why. We draw blanks at Paterson, we move out, further up the mountains…’ He isolated McKinnon. ‘You co-ordinate it, Pat. You need more people, which you probably will, you call me…’ He hesitated. ‘And I’ll call you if Alice comes on. You’ll be right there, to pick her up.’ Just like in the movies, Hanlan thought. Except they weren’t in the movies, working to a script. Hanlan accepted that after the bawling-out in Washington he was going to need all the luck he could get. He had a defence and an appeal against anything the assholes there tried to stick on him but disciplinary procedures always left a stain, even if they were dismissed. And according to the book, which those at the J. Edgar Hoover buildings always went by, he had broken regulations. Hanlan looked around the assembled law-enforcement officers. ‘Anything else?’
‘Carver’s safe deposit,’ remembered Barbara Donnelly. ‘That’s where the Crown Jewels are supposed to be, according to Alice. Who can surely now be taken seriously? Why don’t we go back to counsel about a court order, for access?’
‘Good idea,’ accepted Hanlan. With his bare ass on the line, why hadn’t he thought of it first?
It was the first time they’d had a breakfast meeting, and an early one at that, close to seven, and Charlie Petrie at once apologized if it was inconvenient. He said: ‘Got some business in Jersey. Want to get ahead of the traffic.’
‘You got a lead?’ asked Burcher, at once. Both men had chosen continental, bread and pastries and coffee.
Petrie shook his head. ‘Covering bases. We’ve agreed your idea of making a formal approach to the Northcote firm.’
It would put him in an identifiable position, Burcher thought. He wished now he hadn’t suggested it. ‘It won’t be easy.’
‘You got a better idea?’
‘Even if their lawyers go for it, they’ll look to see what it is. They’ve got to.’
‘And when they see what it is they’ll realize how compromised they are. And have been for years. It can all be resolved sensibly, between reasonable men.’
‘I’ll work it out,’ promised Burcher.
Petrie poured more coffee for both of them. Vito Craxi was right. Petrie decided. After this Burcher was superfluous. And he knew far too much. He said: ‘We know you will, Stan. It’s been a good and successful relationship.’
Stanley Burcher thought there was a finality in the way the other man spoke.
Twenty-Four
‘Yes?’
The voice was relaxed to Alice’s knock. Alice could imagine Jane lying back in the bath, soaking. ‘I’m leaving some pants outside the door. A sweater. And some underwear.’
‘That’s kind.’
‘We’re about the same size.’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m going to get cleaned up myself now. Get ready to go.’
‘All right.’ Still relaxed.
Alice had run her own bath before collecting up the change of clothes for Jane. She lowered herself carefully, ribs aching, into the water, hotter than she normally had it, hoping the heat would ease away the discomfort of her retching. Where would she be sleeping, bathing, tomorrow morning? Not this early, she hoped. But safe. Both of them hidden away where no one could find them. She’d handled it very badly, Alice conceded. It was hardly a situation that could have been handled well but she should have done better than she had. Nothing she could do about it now. A pity that John had always insisted on showering and shaving in the second bathroom – You need your space in the morning, because you’re a grouch! She didn’t think she had been: hoped she hadn’t. There was so much she wished for, so much it was impossible to turn back the clock to correct. Put right. Alice’s mind butterflied, from thought to thought. When was she due? She couldn’t remember. Hadn’t bothered with notes in diaries because she was always so regular since undergoing treatment by Rosemary Pritchard, every twenty-eight days, almost always conveniently in the morning, maybe a passing twinge but never any serious stomach cramps. One of my luckiest patients, Rosemary Pritchard had called her. Warned her, too, sometimes, when she’d admitted being careless about her contraception, but she hadn’t been careless, certainly not before John died as far as she could recall. Hadn’t bothered, afterwards. No need to bother, ever again. She’d never go with another man. The idea revolted her, like so much else so easily, sickeningly, revolted her. Easy enough to understand why she was being sick. The fear from what she’d gone through. Was still going through – and she still knew what could happen to her, although at that moment she didn’t feel frightened. She was, of course. Subconsciously. That’s what it was, subconscious, justified fear. But all about to disappear today.
Alice felt fine, not sick at all, when she got out of the bath and put her jeans and sweater back on. A quarter before eight, she saw, when she restrapped her watch. She’d wait until eight, to ensure Gene Hanlan would be at the field office, although there’d probably be a contact arrangement to reach him at any time. Should she pack anything? It made obvious sense because although she was going to be protected there wouldn’t be an opportunity to buy new things so quickly and she’d need fresh clothes, fresh underwear. Jane would be able to get what she needed packed for her, by one of the staff at East 62nd Street, and collected by someone from the Bureau. No cause to concern herself any more about Jane.
Jane was sitting in one of the fireplace chairs, barefoot like Alice, when Alice re-emerged into the main room, and Alice’s first thought was that she was relaxed. If she had known, it would have all been different. Jane was looking around, her head moving with the intensity with which she was examining everything. Jane said: ‘Pity it didn’t work out.’
‘What?’
‘You and your partner. This is the sort of place a couple could be very happy in, hidden away from everyone, everything.’
‘We were.’ Alice’s throat was dry.
‘What did he do?’
‘Architect,’ said Alice, the first thing that came into her head.
