pregnancy, beyond which airlines won’t accept you for travel, you know?’
‘I know,’ encouraged Charlie. ‘So what happened?’
‘She was practically up to my desk, just one person away, when she fainted,’ picked up Oliver. ‘Went down like a log.’
‘So?’ pressed Charlie, doubtfully.
‘He walked away,’ said Cockson. ‘This man. I was looking at her, like I said. But I was aware of someone directly behind. And when she started to sway, obviously going down, he switched lanes to another desk. If he’d caught her as he easily could have done she wouldn’t have gone down so heavily. She started to haemorrhage, you know? Had to be taken to Middlesex Hospital and there’s still a chance she might lose the baby.’
‘I saw it, too,’ endorsed Oliver. ‘I thought rude bugger and as I thought it Bill said it, right in my ear.’
It was the avoidance of someone trained against getting caught up in the slightest sort of attention- attracting event, Charlie recognized. But also something that a lot of untrained people might have done, not wanting to get involved, either. Wrong to over-interpret. He said: ‘You were really looking at the girl, though?’
‘Yes,’ said Cockson, cautiously.
‘And went to help her?’
‘Of course,’ said Oliver.
‘So you only had the briefest look at the man?’
‘No,’ refused Cockson, positively. ‘She was obviously in a bad way, needing to lie there and not get up. When I was kneeling beside her I looked up at the bastard, intending to say something. That’s when I saw the other funny thing.’
‘What other funny thing?’ said Charlie, patiently.
‘He wasn’t looking,’ said the policeman. ‘A pregnant woman falls down right in front of him, he walks away and then when she’s lying there he doesn’t even look. That wasn’t right; not natural. Everyone else was looking: a lot seeing what they could do. Too many, actually. But he was staring straight ahead’ – he gestured down to the photograph again – ‘rather like he is there, really. That side of his face, certainly.’
‘Did you say anything?’
‘No,’ admitted Cockson. ‘The girl was the important person to worry about: needing comforting. There wasn’t any point in starting an unnecessary argument and distressing her further.’
‘So how long were you looking directly at him?’
‘Maybe a minute,’ said Cockson.
To the immigration man, Charlie said: ‘What about you?’
‘I was looking directly at him, too,’ said Oliver. ‘I couldn’t get over what he’d done. Or rather not done.’
‘But you didn’t check him through? See the passport?’ said Charlie, resigned.
‘It was British,’ announced Oliver.
‘British!’ exclaimed Charlie. ‘How do you know?’
‘That’s my job, looking at passports,’ reminded the younger man. ‘He was holding it in his hand, ready to present it, so I could not avoid seeing it. And it was definitely British. I remember thinking about it: there are some people I could imagine walking away from the girl like he did but not an Englishman.’
Harkness and Witherspoon would have appreciated a remark like that, thought Charlie. He hoped to Christ the neighbouring immigration official who had actually checked the man through was on duty. To Cockson he said: ‘You’re a trained observer. Describe him to me.’
The policeman hesitated and then said: ‘Average height, five feet ten or five feet eleven … Well built although not heavy: fit looking. Very dark hair and quite dark skinned, too.’
‘I remember that, as well,’ came in Oliver. ‘The skin colouring, I mean, against the British passport. Not that it means anything these days. But there was also something about the way he held himself.’
‘Held himself?’
‘I work out a bit,’ said the immigration man. ‘Try to stay in shape. That was my immediate impression of this man: that he held himself and walked like someone who likes to keep in shape. And he does, from the photograph, doesn’t he?’
‘Impression formulated at the moment?’ pressed Charlie, cautiously. ‘Or impression after you’d been shown the photograph?’
‘Then,’ said Oliver, at once. ‘The bastard could have held her up with one hand if he’d wanted to.’
‘What time did it all happen?’ asked Charlie.
‘Seven,’ said Cockson.
‘Definitely,’ confirmed the younger man.
‘Why so certain?’ demanded Charlie.
‘We both came on duty at six,’ said the policeman. ‘And because I knew there would later have to be a report by the airport police I made a point of checking the time. It was definitely seven.’
‘How was he dressed?’ asked Charlie, wanting to build up the description.
‘Grey suit,’ said Cockson. ‘Black shoes. A coloured shirt, blue, I think. I know it wasn’t white. Can’t remember what sort of tie.’
‘Was the suit patterned grey, check maybe, or plain grey?’
‘I can’t say,’ admitted the policeman and Oliver shook his head, unable to go further either.
‘Topcoat or mackintosh?’
‘Not that I can remember,’ said Oliver.
‘Or me,’ said Cockson.
‘Hat?’
‘No,’ said Cockson. The immigration official shook his head again.
‘Was he carrying anything, a briefcase or a travel bag perhaps?’
‘Again, not that I can recall,’ said Cockson.
‘Or me,’ said the younger man.
‘Newspapers or a magazine?’
Both men shook their heads this time.
‘Umbrella?’
‘You’re trying damned hard, aren’t you?’ said Cockson.
‘I get awarded points,’ said Charlie. ‘So was there an umbrella?’
‘No,’ said the policeman.
‘No,’ said the immigration man.
‘Is there anything, anything at all, that you can remember about him that we haven’t talked about?’ persisted Charlie.
Neither man replied at once, considering the question. Then Oliver said: ‘I’m afraid not.’
Cockson said: ‘I don’t think we’ve contributed a lot.’
‘You’ve been very helpful, both of you,’ assured Charlie. ‘I’m grateful.’
‘What’s he done?’ asked Cockson.
‘Nothing yet, I don’t think,’ said Charlie. ‘It’s what he might do.’
Charlie imagined, wrongly, that he was fortunate in the other immigration man being on duty. His name was Jones. He was a balding, fat-stomached man and within minutes of their meeting beginning Charlie guessed, correctly, that Jones was counting off the days to his retirement. Jones vaguely remembered the girl collapsing although he didn’t recall the date being the 13th or what time it was in the evening. Enough people seemed to be helping, so he’d left it to them. He shook his head at the offered picture and when Charlie asked about the passport demanded in return if Charlie had any idea how many British passports he examined every day. Charlie patiently recounted the physical description, adding the street clothes this time, and Jones said: ‘That could be anyone of a thousand men,’ and Charlie agreed that it could.
The contact with the Director was on an open, insecure line so the conversation had to be circumspect.
‘Positive?’ demanded Wilson.
‘Not positive but enough to pursue.’
‘Know where to go?’
‘No.’
‘Can you find out?’
