‘Do you know your office number, Dr Wilson?’ Teasing now. Ben didn’t reply.
‘Lenny Salt doesn’t work here any more,’ she said. ‘And he never had an office here. He was just the lab assistant. But you’d know that, wouldn’t you, Dr Wilson?’
‘Student gags are usually reserved for Rag Week,’ she said. ‘You got me. But this isn’t a student gag.’
‘So you’re not Tom Wilson, and you’re not a student either.’
‘Innocent on both counts.’
‘I knew you weren’t Wilson. Your voice is too nice. And the students are all callow youths.’
‘I’ll take that as a compliment,’ Ben said. ‘So who are you, caller?’
He shrugged. ‘I’m Ben.’ Sometimes frankness was the best way.
‘That’s a nice name. You’re not trying to get me into trouble, are you, Ben?’
‘I didn’t get your name.’
‘I didn’t give it. It’s Vicki. That’s with an i.’
‘I wouldn’t dream of getting you into trouble, Vicki with an i.’
She gave a low laugh. ‘Listen, Mr Nice-Voice-Ben. Even if I had a number to give you, I wouldn’t be allowed. But I don’t have a number, because Lenny Salt wouldn’t ever give one out. He’d be too worried the CIA or someone would use it to track him down.’
‘Got to watch those things,’ Ben said. ‘You never know with those guys.’
‘And that’s why if I were looking for that old fart, not that I would in a million billion years, I wouldn’t even bother with the phone. I’d be looking up some weird shit online.’
‘Some weird shit?’
‘That’s his website, someweirdshit-dot-com. But you didn’t hear that from me.’
‘I get the feeling Lenny wasn’t your favourite person in the department.’
She snorted. ‘He’s a nut. And a creep. Thinks he’s this big scientist. Not that I have any favourites in this place.’
‘Any idea where he went after he left there?’
‘I know he lives in a caravan or a camper, something like that. But he could be anywhere.’
‘I really appreciate your help, Vicki. You’re definitely the nicest and strangest Physics Department receptionist who’s ever flirted with me on the phone.’
That low laugh again. ‘I’ll take
‘The very next time I’m in Manchester.’
‘Look forward to it, Ben. You know where to find me.’
Then she hung up. Ben stared at the phone for a moment, smiling and shaking his head.
Leaning back in the car seat, he revisited the search engine and punched in the web address Vicki had given him. What he found there was no great surprise. The website was a paradise for conspiracy theorists. All the usual suspects were on display. The Diana murder. The real reason for the Iraq invasion. Bin Laden a US Intelligence agent. Area 51 and UFO cover-ups. The CIA observation posts on the far side of the moon.
Ben sifted through it all quickly, scrolling down the long list until he came to a header that read ‘The Kammler Shadow Project: Fact or Fiction?’
Ben stared at it.
He clicked on it.
He sat thinking for a moment, then scrolled over to a tab that said ‘Contact’. The page flashed up, and offered no number to call, no obvious email address like ‘[email protected]’. There was just an electronic form to fill in and submit.
Ben pondered the best way to draw the guy out. No point in coming straight out with ‘I want to ask you questions’ and then expect a call. He had to make Salt think he was offering something juicy. If Salt had been keen enough to travel to one of Don Jarrett’s lectures, he might be interested enough to call back.
He wrote:
‘Message for Lenny Salt. I have important information about Hans Kammler. If you want to know more, let’s talk.’
He didn’t sign with a name or offer a return email address, just typed in his mobile number and then sent the message.
He sat in the car a long time. He didn’t know what he was waiting for, or whether Salt would be any use to him, or even where to go from here if it turned out to be a blind alley. Maybe back to Luc Simon for more names. Perhaps it was time to start kicking down doors after all.
Or maybe Brooke was right. Maybe he just should go home and try to focus his mind on the many troubles awaiting him there.
But he knew he’d come too far for that now. He couldn’t walk away. He closed his eyes and tried to still his mind. So much to think about, and so little that made any sense.
It was about half an hour later, when the clock on the Mini dashboard was approaching quarter to four, that the phone buzzed in his lap and he realised he’d drifted off into an uncomfortable doze. His head jerked up at the sound and he was instantly alert.
‘Who’s this?’ said a man’s voice on the other end. The voice was filled with suspicion, deep and gravelly. Ben pictured a man in his sixties. The accent was east London.
‘Is that Lenny Salt?’
‘Who’s this?’ the voice said again.
‘Just a friend, Lenny. Just want to talk.’
‘You’ll never track this number.’
‘Like I said, I’m a friend.’
There was a long pause. Then: ‘Info on Kammler, you say?’
‘That’s right.’
‘I already have all the info I need on Kammler.’
‘You just think you do,’ Ben said. ‘Wait until you hear what I have to tell you. Can we meet?’
Pushing for a meeting with a paranoid like Salt was a dangerous move, because it was all too easy to frighten him away – and once he was gone, he’d be gone for good. But Ben knew the only way to winkle him out of his shell and keep him there was to pin him down face to face. And if his instinct was right about Salt, all it would take was to arouse his curiosity enough.
It seemed to be working. The long silence on the phone tasted of wary interest, like a hungry cat struggling between suspicion and temptation over a morsel in a stranger’s hand.
‘We can meet,’ Salt said. ‘But strictly on my terms. You come to me.’
‘No problem at all. Name the place.’
‘Laugharne.’
Ben had to think where it was. ‘Laugharne in Wales or Larne in Northern Ireland?’
‘Wales.’
‘That’s where you live, on the Welsh coast?’
‘I didn’t say I lived there,’ Salt said cagily. ‘I said I’ll
A red scarf in the middle of summer, Ben thought. Great.
‘OK, where exactly?’
‘There’s a castle on the bay. Take the path that runs along the side, towards the Dylan Thomas boathouse. Walk to the first bench and wait.’
‘I’ll be there.’
