Cara had made Zoltan a cup of tea and discovered that an unidentified Iranian man had paid him three grand in cash to shut the car park for twenty minutes and to turn a blind eye to whatever went on. She suspected that Zoltan had made similar arrangements with the same man in the past, but did not press for details. Instead she asked for a description of the Iranian’s appearance and manner, neither of which matched her memory of the man with whom Kite had been talking outside the Oratory. Released from the torture of telling lies, and perhaps hopeful that his full cooperation might mitigate against the need for arrest, Zoltan described the Iranian’s behaviour and movements immediately prior to Kite’s arrival in the Jaguar. Three men had been left in the car park at half-past twelve – all Middle Eastern, all without names – while Zoltan had gone for a cigarette and a cup of coffee at a branch of Caffè Nero near Green Park station. By the time he got back, the Jaguar was parked underneath the poster and only two of the men remained.
‘What were they wearing?’ she asked.
‘Smart,’ said Zoltan. ‘White shirts. Suit jackets.’
‘Officer Hawtrey.’ It was Vosse, using one of Cara’s cover surnames as he came down the ramp. ‘So this is him, is it?’
Zoltan stood up, unsteady on his feet. Vosse wasn’t dressed in police uniform, but that didn’t seem to concern the Serb, who nodded his head obsequiously as Vosse approached.
‘Yes, sir,’ said Cara. ‘Zoltan Pavkov.’
Vosse addressed the suspect.
‘My name is Galloway, Mr Pavkov. Chief Inspector Galloway of the Metropolitan Police.’ Cara caught his eye and grinned while Zoltan was looking the other way. ‘I’m here to ask you some subsidiary questions. I understand from Officer Hawtrey that you have a sum of money on the premises that you’d like to show us.’
‘Yes, sir. Of course, sir.’ Zoltan hurried into the security hut, emerging moments later with a Harrods carrier bag stuffed with twenty- and fifty-pound notes.
‘And this was given to you by the Middle Eastern gentleman this afternoon?’ said Vosse, taking the bag and inspecting its contents.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Can I speak to you for a moment in private, Chief Inspector?’ Cara asked.
‘By all means.’
Leaving Zoltan alone at the base of the ramp, Cara and Vosse walked towards the Jaguar.
‘Any sign of the van?’ she asked.
‘Kidson Electrical? Not yet.’
Vosse touched the roof of the Jaguar and peered inside. ‘Looks spotless. They probably wiped it for DNA and fingerprints. Have you checked the boot?’
‘Locked,’ she replied. ‘What about BIRD’s phone?’
‘Still down.’ Vosse turned through three hundred and sixty degrees. ‘Which means we could well be standing right on top of it.’
They looked around. Cara’s eyes immediately settled on the black skip with ‘Commercial Waste’ written on it. Vosse followed the direction of her gaze and arrived at the same conclusion. The lid on the skip was closed and appeared to be locked.
‘Mr Pavkov,’ he called out. ‘Do you have a way of opening that?’
Zoltan looked beyond the section of torn plastic pipe and said: ‘Yes.’
‘Could you do that, please?’
It was just as they had both feared. Inside the skip, thrown on top of a heap of old rags and plastic bottles which reeked of vomit and mould, was a dark suit jacket and a pair of black leather shoes. Vosse gasped at the stench as he leaned in to retrieve Kite’s belongings, finding his wristwatch, house keys, wallet and mobile phone in the pockets of the jacket.
‘Fuck,’ said Cara.
‘Fuck indeed,’ Vosse concurred.
Cara didn’t need telling that Kite’s shoes, watch and wallet had been abandoned for the same reason that the kidnappers hadn’t wanted his phone: any or all of them could contain a tracking device which would lead BOX 88 to their door. Wherever Kite had been driven, he had been taken there in a new set of clothes or his naked body dumped in a landfill, never to be seen again.
Vosse’s phone sounded in his back pocket. He took it out and looked at the screen.
‘Tell me something I didn’t know,’ he sighed.
‘What’s happened?’ Cara asked.
‘Pegah Azizi doesn’t exist. Or should I say: Pegah Azizi n’existe pas.’
‘Fake driving licence?’
‘And credit card.’
A car came down the ramp. Zoltan waved it away shouting: ‘We are full!’ as Vosse put the phone back in his pocket and picked up Kite’s wallet.
‘Brian’s trying to get the CCTV from Europcar, but I wouldn’t hold your breath,’ he said. ‘Ten to one “Pegah” was wearing sunglasses and a hijab. We’d have an easier job finding Amelia Earhart.’
‘So what do we do?’ Cara asked. For the first time in her relatively short career, she had felt the blood rush of operational excitement, but was suddenly at a loss for ideas. She knew that formally arresting Zoltan risked exposing the secret investigation into BOX 88, but couldn’t think how else to proceed. ‘Do we call it in? Tell the police? Contact Six?’
Vosse took his time responding. He was flicking through Kite’s wallet litter, pulling out Visa and Oyster cards, dry-cleaning receipts, a driving licence. A burglar alarm was going off somewhere in the neighbourhood and he looked up, grimacing at the noise.
‘We do nothing,’ he said.
‘Excuse me?’
Cara was trying to remember her training. It frustrated her that she wasn’t able to work out why Vosse was suggesting such a course of action. Was she going to be asked to cover up Kite’s disappearance? Was Vosse going to stand down the investigation into BOX 88? He saw the confused look on her face and put her out of her misery.
‘We let him go,’ he said, nodding in the direction of Zoltan Pavkov, who was pacing at the bottom of the ramp, rubbing his hand over his head
