“What’s in it?” he asked.
“Dunno. That’s why we want in.”
“Sorry.”
“I could order you.”
He knew that would be tough. They had known each other for over ten years.
“And I could refuse. Then we would both go before Tansey-Williams. Look Martin, that network is too well placed to risk it for something that might turn out to be a clever Kilo move to get us to blow a network looking for the answers... Besides, we’re getting good material out now. I would not like to redirect that effort. Sorry chum.”
Burmeister entered through the side door, interrupting his thoughts.
He needn’t have bothered; Callows knew by his expression that there had been no word from his team.
A new case officer was assigned to attempt to fill in the rather slender file on Holly Clement nee Morton, and on his five person team was a razor sharp investigator who masqueraded as a gregarious young black girl with the unlikely name of Chloe Bowie.
She took one look at the file and headed straight for Guys Hospital. Two hours later, she had the name of Holly Clements friends and workmates and began working down the list. Sarah Moody was number three on the list and swung the door back with force, her red hair mussed and tangled.
“I’m on nights,” she snapped angrily.
“I’m sorry, but it’s important. My name is Chloe Bowie. May I come in?”
Why? I want to go back to bed!”
Chloe turned on the smile. “Please?” she asked, holding up her ID. “I won’t take to much of your time.”
“Oh, for God’s sake! Yes, alright! If it’s not you, it’s the bloody gas board, or some dickbrain with a questionnaire. I suppose you want coffee?”
Holding her dressing gown closed with one hand and pushing her hair up out of her eyes with the other, she lead the way into the apartment. There wasn’t much room in the tiny kitchen so Chloe stood solidly in the doorway while Sarah bashed cups about and noisily filled the kettle.
“I need to know about your friend Holly. Where she might be, where she might go if she were in trouble…”
Sarah turned and glared. “Is she?”
“We think she might be, yes.”
“And who is ‘we’ precisely?” she asked arms, folded defensively across her substantial breasts. Behind her, the kettle began to make grumbling noises.
“Foreign Office.” Chloe held up her ID again. “Look, all we have is a box number in Greece. We need to know where she is.”
Sarah lifted the kettle and began to pour water into the cups. The silence was too long for the investigator.
“Are you mates?” Chloe asked.
“Why?
“Look, let’s cut the Omerta bit. You aren’t the bloody Mafia. We need her back here. We need to talk to her. But she might also be in some danger, real danger. Now, are you going to waste any more of my time or what?” Chloe stood to her full height of five feet five and glared.
“She phoned before she left. From here. Some Taverna on an island. Left a message for the people she was going to stay with. It’s here somewhere.”
“What is?”
“The name.”
She began fishing round on top of the fridge, amongst old notes and messages and things in a basket.
“A boyfriend?”
“No, nothing like that. Family friend more like it. Remembered it because it was the same name as some American politician or something. In the news at the time.”
“What? Bush?”
“No.”
“George?”
“No,” Sarah muttered
“Not Reagan?”
“No,” she said, sifting through the bits of brown paper and jotted scraps, waving a hand. “The guy who didn’t go to Vietnam. Holls said he wasn’t like that.”
“Like what?” Chloe asked
“Gutless. Here it is!” She held aloft a small square of pink paper, then dropped her eyes to read it. “Dan Quayle! See, this guy’s name is Ti Quayle, care of the Taverna something, looks like Aegean.”
Chloe took the note. “Aegean. Taverna Aegean. Quayle.” The name rang a bell.
“I want you to promise me something,” Sarah said
“What?”
“Holly’s had a tough time of it recently. Her dad died couple of years ago. She doted on him, then her husband was killed in an accident. She’s a real sweetie. I’m only helping you because you say she might be in danger. She doesn’t need any more shit in her life right now…”
“I will bear that in mind,” Cloe said honestly, thinking ‘she’s in it up to her eyeballs.’
*
It was midmorning in Athens, the streets crowded and noisy and the taxi drivers as dishonest as ever. Quayle paid up like a tourist, a little over the odds, not wanting to be remembered for either speaking a little Greek or knowing the correct price. He had taken Holly and Pope to a small hotel where they weren’t to choosy about passports. The problem remained, however, that they looked memorable. Pope, despite dusting off his suit, looked grimy and tired, his eyes grainy with fatigue, with no luggage at all. They took two rooms, small and hot with peeling paint, but at least the windows opened and there were two beds in each.
“I’ll be about three hours. Get some breakfast and some sleep if you can,” Quayle said to Pope. He turned to Holly and was about to speak when, suddenly, she broke in.
“I know. Do what he says,” she said.
“Mr Quayle,” Pope began. “I need ammunition.”
Quayle raised an eyebrow.
“I used six. I have fourteen left. Six of those are Teflon. No good for practice. I will need to do that soon.”
“Teflon?”
“For body armour,” he replied.
Quayle shook his head sadly before replying, “What do you want?”
“Nine mil’ wad cutters if you can. Otherwise standard hard nose and a hacksaw blade. American are best, or Belgian. Nice shiny new ones please, and not Spanish. I’ll reload them myself.”
“I’ll do my best,” Quayle replied.
“Take care,” Holly
