‘He hadn’t been drinking,’ Blackwell said. ‘No sign of recent alcohol in his body. Perhaps you just made him nervous.’
‘Perhaps he was just clumsy,’ she said. ‘But there was nothing else. He told me about his opportunity. We discussed it a bit, and I decided it was a non-starter for us.’
‘Who was the opportunity with?’
‘He didn’t tell me the name. That was typical of Jones. Liked to be a bit cloak-and-dagger. He was probably worried that, if he spilled the beans too early, I might be tempted to cut out the middleman.’
‘And would you?’
‘No. You’ve got to have some integrity. If you go around shafting people, word gets about.’
‘Did Jones do or say anything to suggest that he might be worried?’
‘Worried?’
‘For example, about the prospect that somebody might be about to put a bullet in his brain.’
‘No more than usual. He was always the anxious type. But he didn’t act like someone who thought he was in danger, if that’s what you mean.’
‘Did he say anything unexpected? Anything to suggest that things weren’t business as usual?’
‘I don’t know what business as usual meant to Jones,’ she said. ‘He was one of life’s wide boys. He did anything he could to make a bob or two. But there was nothing that seemed out of the ordinary.’
‘But you wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d got himself mixed up in something risky?’
‘Probably not,’ she said. ‘But there was nothing that suggested it.’ She had a sense that Blackwell was trying to steer her towards some conclusion. He was hard to read. Maybe not as clever as he thought, or perhaps just a little cleverer than she wanted to believe. ‘I’m not sure there’s much else I can tell you.’
Blackwell sat more comfortably back in his chair, his eyes fixed on her. ‘Now I wonder whether that’s true, Miss Donovan. I’ve an inkling there are some things you’re not sharing with me.’
‘Is that so?’ she said. ‘Funnily enough, that feeling’s mutual. Perhaps we’re both wrong.’
He drummed his fingers gently on the arm of the chair, as if his mind was elsewhere. ‘Or both right. I did a little searching on “Holmes”. I was surprised to find a cryptic reference to you.’
Her face was expressionless. ‘You’ve lost me.’
‘The police database. Quite a sophisticated beast, these days. You’d be surprised. Or perhaps not.’
‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about. You’re saying you found a reference to me on the police database?’
‘Sort of.’ He was looking almost cheerful now. ‘Just your name. With a warning flag.’
‘I’m sorry. I assume that means something to you because it means nothing to me. What sort of a warning flag?’
‘I don’t really know, to be honest,’ he said. ‘I’d never come across one before. Whatever it is, it’s clearly not intended for the likes of me. Basically just told me to alert a higher authority.’
She shook her head. ‘I don’t know how sophisticated this beast of yours is, but it sounds to me like you’ve got the wrong person. I can’t imagine that the MD of a back-street printing outfit will be of much interest to any higher authorities. I’m even up to date with my VAT returns.’
He frowned. She had the sense that he was disappointed that his great revelation hadn’t produced some more dramatic response. Whatever Blackwell might know or suspect, it wasn’t her job to confirm any of it. She could safely leave that to the judgement of those same higher authorities.
‘Unless you’re involved in something other than printing, Miss Donovan?’
He was off beam, she thought. He’d concluded that she was under some more serious investigation. Just as well for his career that she wasn’t. The Agency wouldn’t have taken kindly to his blowing the gaff on one of their targets.
‘I really don’t know what you’re implying. That I’m some sort of super villain? By day, business cards. By night, bank heists. That sort of thing?’
For the first time, Blackwell looked mildly irritated. Possibly because he was in danger of appearing foolish in front of his subordinates. The smile was still hovering around his face, but it seemed increasingly ambiguous.
‘Thing is, Miss Donovan, I’m not keen on being jerked around. And at the moment that’s how this feels. I’ve got somebody murdered with what, as far as we can judge at the moment, was probably an illegal handgun. There’s no evidence of any straightforward motive such as robbery. That suggests something a little out of the ordinary, though Jones doesn’t seem to have had a criminal record. Then I discover that you’ve made a visit to Jones’ hotel room for what sounds like the world’s least convincing business meeting. And on top of all that I find a reference to you, on our records, telling me to alert the relevant authorities. Which I duly did. And got bugger all back. Now what would you suggest I should be thinking?’
It was the longest speech he’d made, and for a moment it looked as if the effort had taken something out of him.
‘I haven’t a clue,’ she said. ‘With respect, it sounds as if you might be letting your imagination run away with you.’ As Blackwell had been speaking, she’d felt a growing unease. Something she’d overlooked. ‘What time do you think Jones was shot?’
Blackwell stared at her, as if affronted by her impertinence. Finally, he said, ‘We don’t have an exact time yet. Yesterday evening sometime. No one heard anything. The hotel owner was out for the evening, and Jones was the only guest last night. Not exactly peak period.’
‘How was the body found?’ she said. ‘If he was killed yesterday evening, it must have been discovered overnight. Who found it?’
As she had been speaking, a related thought had occurred to her. God, she was slow this morning. It always took a coffee or two to get her brain working.
‘And how come you’re here? I mean, where did you get my name? The hotelier would have told you that a woman visited, but he didn’t know who I was. Even Jones didn’t know my home address. How did you track me down so quickly?’
Blackwell remained silent for another few seconds, then pushed himself slowly to his feet. His body had the same rounded quality as his face. Not exactly fat, but tending to the plump. More comfortable sitting in a chair than climbing out of it. He made his way slowly across to the window and stared out at the jumble of buildings.
‘You didn’t expect us to track you down so quickly?’ he said.
She opened her mouth to speak, but realized he was just playing the same games. ‘I didn’t expect anything,’ she said. ‘Except that I’d be in the office by now. I’m also not expecting that you’re going to tell me anything. But I don’t understand how or why you’ve turned up on my doorstep so quickly.’
There was something he was keeping back. If they’d found Jones’ body overnight, if they’d tracked her down so quickly, that had to mean they’d been tipped off.
She suddenly knew why she felt so uneasy, what else had been nagging at her mind. The gun. Jones’ fucking gun. She’d taken it off him when he’d tried his half-arsed hardman act. She’d held it in her hand. Her fingerprints would be all over the gun that killed Morgan fucking Jones.
‘It’s a very interesting point you make, Miss Donovan,’ she heard Blackwell say. ‘I think it might be helpful if we were to carry on this discussion at the station. I think now’s the time for us to put this on a more formal footing.’
Her mind was still working through the implications. She didn’t even know if they’d actually found the gun. Blackwell had said that it wasn’t in the room. He hadn’t said it hadn’t been found.
‘Are you arresting me?’
‘I think it’s the phrase you used earlier: “Helping us with our enquiries”,’ Blackwell said. The smile had returned. ‘Though that’s often a euphemism, I think. But, no, at this stage I’d just like a witness statement.’
‘And if I refuse to come?’
‘I don’t think you’ll do that, Miss Donovan. You strike me as the co-operative type.’
She wondered whether to call his bluff. But it was too late to play games. She had only two choices. She could go along with Blackwell, get him to put a call in to Salter or Welsby, try to get all this sorted. But she was growing increasingly convinced that this wasn’t just some tangle of coincidence. That she’d been set up. Someone had tipped off the police about Jones’ death. Someone had given them her name. And that could be someone in the Agency. Anyone in the Agency.
As for her fingerprints on Jones’ gun, well, it was difficult to believe that Jones had tried to make her a
