few others with interesting backgrounds. She’s got three passports that I know of. She won’t be as easy to find as I was. And you can forget about the Mini; she dumped that days ago.’
‘We’ll have to call in for instructions,’ Harry told him, then added by way of explanation, ‘We’re not the police; we work freelance. Our brief was to find you and confirm your location. What happens next is up to the client.’
Param nodded. ‘I figured the company would send somebody after me. I suppose I’m lucky it isn’t a bunch of heavies with baseball bats.’ He took a deep breath and gave them each an earnest look. ‘I’ve no right to ask this, but is there any chance you guys could give me some leeway — say half an hour?’ He held up a hand. ‘Don’t worry — I’m not planning on making a run for it or doing anything stupid. I haven’t got the money or stamina to run, and I’m too much of a coward to kill myself.’
‘So what do you want it for?’ Harry asked.
‘I’ve got a letter to write. My parents. . they deserve an explanation.’ He gave a tired smile. ‘It’s not the sort of thing they should first read about in the morning papers, is it? Their favourite son ruining the family name.’
Harry considered it for a moment, then nodded in agreement. It wasn’t as if they could arrest Param; if he wanted to walk out of here right now, he could do so and there was nothing they could do to stop him. He stood up and signalled Rik to follow.
‘Thirty minutes,’ he reminded Param. ‘Then we have to call it in.’
They found a teashop just round the corner, with tired lace curtains at the window and a smell of cinnamon in the air. It would do while they gave Param his requested leeway. The owner was an elderly, demure lady with powder-blue hair and thick spectacles, who fussed around them as if they were visiting royalty rather than two late customers wasting time. Harry opted for coffee and a slice of walnut cake over a newspaper crossword, while Rik took tea and a toasted bun.
‘I like to stay open late because it’s better than watching the rubbish they call television,’ the owner explained, rearranging the tablecloth and plates until they were just right. ‘It’s all bad news, crude men and tarts with tits for brains these days, isn’t it?’ She bustled away to get their order, leaving the two men staring at each other in amusement.
Harry tried the taxi firm again. The driver had called in sick but hoped to be in the following day. The dispatcher refused to give the man’s address and primly quoted the Data Protection Act. Harry left his number and disconnected. Tomorrow would have to do.
Next he called Jennings. In the absence of Silverman, the lawyer might react well to some good news on another front.
‘It’s Tate,’ said Harry. ‘We’ve located Param.’
‘
‘Param. Raymond Param — the investor who did a bunk?’
‘Christ, how?’ Jennings sounded puzzled. ‘I mean, how did you have time to-?’
‘Skill, mostly.’ Harry wondered what was eating the man. Maybe he’d lost his Lottery ticket. ‘And a bit of luck. What do you want us to do about him?’
‘Do? I don’t want you do anything!’ Jennings snapped. ‘I want you to find
‘Yes, you said.’ Harry resisted the urge to snap back at Jennings. He was counting on future work, and in spite of his dislike of the lawyer, he didn’t want to be responsible for jeopardizing it. He explained patiently, ‘While we were waiting for confirmation of a lead on Silverman, we got lucky with Param. It was too good a lead to miss. We’ll leave him if you want, but I wouldn’t bet on him hanging around. There’s also a problem with the money.’
But Jennings ignored this. ‘Wait one.’ The phone went silent. Moments later he was back. He sounded furious, his words coming down the line with more than his customary snap. ‘Do nothing, you hear?
From somewhere in the distance, the wail of an emergency vehicle cut through the quiet. The old lady stuck her head out from the doorway to the kitchen to listen, before disappearing again.
Harry put his phone away and relayed the gist of the conversation to Rik, who had snagged the newspaper. It was open at a half-page photo showing a scene of destruction, with armed men in uniform and an armoured personnel carrier set against a background of smoking rubble and torn buildings. It was a rehash of a bombing in Baghdad ten days or so before, with renewed speculation about those responsible. A VIP had been killed, and he caught the word ‘cleric’ in the headline but little else before Rik folded the paper and tossed it to one side.
‘So we get to go home early. Did he say anything about payment?’
‘No.’ Harry stood up and left some money on the table. The call to Jennings had left him with an odd feeling of unease. There was something shadowy lurking at the edge of his brain, but he couldn’t put a finger on it. An inner warning, maybe — a feeling caused by the change in Jennings’ voice and the abrupt ending to the call. ‘Let’s go check on Param.’
They left the car where it was and walked back the way they had come. When they turned the corner of the street where Param was staying, they stopped dead.
The scene was a hive of activity. A number of police vehicles and an ambulance were gathered halfway down, their roof lights creating a ghostly display across the face of the surrounding buildings. A crowd of onlookers had formed along the pavements, and two constables were reeling out crime scene tape and forcing people back. Another officer was ordering motorists to turn around and find other routes to their destinations. It was clear that the house at the focus of all the activity was the one without a car in front.
After the tranquil scene earlier, it was a dramatic contrast. Harry swore softly. They had lost the initiative. Param had fooled them and taken the only way out.
‘What’s happening?’ Rik stopped a man walking down the street away from the police cordon. He was in slippers, a local resident who’d come out to investigate the commotion.
‘A mugging, they reckon,’ the man replied succinctly. ‘Bloke answered a knock and got knifed. Dropped him right on the doorstep. He hadn’t been living there long.’
‘How bad?’
The man shook his head and moved away. ‘Depends how bad you think dead is.’
SEVENTEEN
Jennings was in a foul mood the following afternoon. He had instructed Harry to stand by until called, while he looked into the situation surrounding Param’s death. Harry took this to mean he would be quizzing his contacts in the Met for details not yet made public. Whatever he’d discovered didn’t seem to have pleased him; the skin around his eyes was puffy and dark, as if he hadn’t slept well, and he seemed to be reining himself in with difficulty as he glared across the bare expanse of his desk.
From the moment they had walked in, it was clear something had angered him, and the little Harry had said about Param or his violent death seemed to improve matters. Beyond a brief acknowledgment of Rik’s presence, Jennings had ignored the younger man, addressing all his comments directly at Harry.
‘What the hell were you doing there?’ Jennings demanded, as if they had been laying waste to the Home Counties with a flame thrower. ‘You were supposed to be finding Silverman!’
‘I told you,’ Harry reminded him heavily, ‘we found a lead to Param’s whereabouts and it paid off. At least we now know it’s not Param your clients should be looking for, but Yvonne Michaels.’
Jennings’ jaw flexed briefly before he seemed to backtrack slightly. He tapped his fingers on the edge of his desk. ‘Very well. It appears to have been a mugging, according to the police. What were the local residents saying?’
Harry wondered why that should matter. Local reaction around a crime scene usually follows a pattern: it spreads furiously, feeding on itself like a bush fire, is invariably wrong and heaped with lurid speculation and ill- informed gossip. He explained what the neighbour had said, which seemed to make Jennings relax a little.
‘I see. Did you notice anything?’
‘We didn’t stay long enough. It’s possible we were seen going in earlier, so we’ll have to wait and see. Either way, Param claimed the girlfriend has the money and he’d been screwed. Do you want us to find her?’
