they'd had their chance with him, and no way were they going back there now that the dealer was in the hands of a Legal Aid solicitor.
So Parrish had said to the ACIO that this Matthew Furniss was the key, and the ACIO had not been able to contradict him.
Three of them went to the Home Office. The ACIO had roped in the head of the National Drugs Intelligence Unit, they'd gone round to New Scotland Yard and picked him up.
They'd leaned on him, so that he couldn't excuse himself.
Into the Home Secretary's office.
The ACIO did the talking. Bill Parrish did the prompting.
The head of the NDIU was the weight behind them.
'What it comes down to, Home Secretary, is that we are being denied access to this Matthew Furniss. Now, we've played this very straight. We have not, I repeat not, chased this man and sought him out. We accept that he may be a sensitively placed government servant, and we have gone through the correct channels, and we've been blown off…
Let's not beat about the bush. We were instructed to carry out an investigation into the supply of the heroin that ultimately killed Lucy Barnes. Quite disproportionate resources have been deployed… and we're being blocked. It's right that we should be frank with each other, Home Secretary.
You wanted a priority made of this case.'
'You've lost this man Eshraq, and you've lost his heroin?'
'Correct, Home Secretary. We lost him in freak circumstances, you will agree. If we are to get him back, and get his stuff back, without wasting an immense amount of time then we have to have Matthew Furniss.'
'I'll look into it.'
'Either that or the investigation has to go into the trash-can, sir.'
'I said that I would look into it, Mr Parrish. Thank you, gentlemen. Good day to you.'
Parrish, not a vindictive man, thought that the Home Secretary looked like a cornered rabbit. Not his to reason why, but he didn't mind taking a small jolt of consolation from the man's discomfiture.
It was a well arranged meeting. No chances taken. Charlie liked that. He had been under surveillance, and he was pretty sure that he had busted the surveillance, but he liked the style of the Greek and the meeting. He had been picked up in Chiswick in West London by an anonymous little bastard with a sallow face and bad eyes. That had been arranged on the telephone. He was pretty sure that the rendezvous was checked out, that they were watched by the Greek's payroll. He was told to take the Underground to the end of the District line in Wimbledon. His description must have been telephoned on, because after he had kicked his heels and had a couple of coffees at the station cafeteria, he was met again. They put him in the back of a van and they drove him round for an hour and a half, and when the van stopped, and he hadn't an idea where he was, then the back doors had opened, and the Greek had climbed in beside him.
The Greek was thorough. He had Charlie stripped down in the van to his underpants. No way he was going to be stung, that Charlie was going to get away with a microphone in his clothes. That was the preamble, then there was the business.
A quarter of a kilo of pure heroin on display. The Greek was no baby in the game, and the Greek knew the stamp on the wrapping. Enough of the stuff to have covered a teaspoon was taken out of the packet, and was passed in a small see-through sachet through the slightly opened back of the van. Going for analysis, running a fast check. Good style, Charlie liked it, more thorough than Manvers had ever been. The check came back. The sachet was passed again into the interior of the van, there was an anonymous raised thumb. They'd talked business while the analysis was being done.
'Cash is hard.'
'Cash, or no deal.'
'You brought it in yourself?'
'From the Qazvin district. I collected it myself.'
'And there's going to be more?'
Charlie lied. 'Yes, it'll be regular, and top grade.'
'And you're looking for…?'
'A quarter of a million, for seven kilos.'
'Two hundred.'
'Two fifty.'
'If it's tomorrow, in cash, two hundred thousand is top whack for seven kilos.'
'I'll call tomorrow for a meeting.'
They shook hands. There was a clinging oiled sweat on the Greek's hands. Charlie thought it was a good deal. The Greek would get double what he was paying Charlie, but Charlie didn't cough at that.
'What's it for?'
'What the hell does that mean?'
The Greek smiled. A twisted smile. He had a deep scar at the side of his chin from far back, from a school playground fight with Stanley knives. 'Just that this isn't your scene – so, what's it for?'
'Something you won't ever hear about.'
'What on earth does he want?'
Benjamin Houghton could see the nervousness in Miss Duggan's face. The likes of Flossie Duggan were never called to the nineteenth floor. She was a few years short of retirement, less than Mr Furniss had left to him, but she had had his promise that he would get an extension for her, she would go when he went. It was her whole life, being the Personal Assistant to Mr Furniss. More than anything else she dreaded the day when she must hand in her polaroid cards and try and pick up old age away from Century. She had joined the Service in 1950 after she had read an advertisement in a smart magazine in an optician's waiting room that called for applications from 'Girls of good education for position in London with good prospects and possibility of service abroad
– aged 18 to 30'. She would be going, when she handed in her polaroid card, to Weston-super-Mare where her sister kept a guest house, open only in the summer season. She would have her debrief, a day or two of counselling, and she would be out on her neck with her memories. To Flossie Duggan, genteel and poor and loyal, Mr Furniss was the finest gentleman that it had been her privilege to work for.
'He just wants a little talk with you.'
'He's already stolen Mr Furniss' floppies.'
'That's not fair, Flossie… '
'Miss Duggan.' The boy would never have been so imperti-nent if Mr Furniss had been there.
'The Director General is entitled to see the computer records of a Desk Head even when those records are stored in the Desk Head's personal safe and not where they belong, in Library. So can we go, please.'
He saw the neatness of Mattie's desk, his ashtray had been cleaned ready for his return. His pencils were in a holder, sharpened. His In tray and Out tray were empty. He thought that the photograph on the shelf behind the desk, Mrs Furniss, had been polished. There were some late daffodils in a vase beside the photograph. She was registering her defiance, taking her time to cover up her keyboard with its plastic shroud, and then she was riffling in her handbag for her lipstick. Again, he could see her nervousness, because the effect of the vivid lipstick against her pale and puffed skin was appalling.
'I hold him responsible.'
'Tell the Director General that, Miss Duggan, and he might just chuck you down the lift shaft.' He held the door open for her.
She gripped the hand rail in the lift.
He led her down the corridor, and made way for her so that she could go first into the outer office. He knocked.
'Miss Duggan, sir.'
She walked in. She hesitated. She heard the door shut behind her.
She hated the tall and thin-boned man who rose from his chair, a leather backed chair, and beamed at her, and waved her to a sofa. He was certainly responsible.
'Good of you to call by, Miss Duggan… distressing times for all of us. Would you like sherry?'
She shook her head.
