Tracers

see if a clean-up job had been carried out, like in Blakeney. If he freaked out now, he’d never forgive himself. And nor would Harry. He might say it was OK, but that would be it for them.

He stepped on to the metal stairway. Walked up two at a time, trying not to rattle the structure and signal his approach. A bit like hacking into someone’s computer system, he thought vaguely. He still couldn’t tell if the door was fixed. He reached out and put his fingers against it.

It swung open.

‘Hello?’

If only he’d got a weapon. He was pretty sure Harry had got one tucked away somewhere. He’d meant to ask him about it, but Harry had always vetoed the idea of them outside of the range or a known ‘hot’ zone. If he’d got one, why hadn’t he said something?

His call echoed back. The place was empty. He glanced over his shoulder to check the street. A few empty cars at the kerb, two elderly ladies struggling to get a shopping trolley up on to the path. No single pedestrians lurking with little apparent purpose, no unusual flashes of light to indicate binoculars, no sudden movement of bodies getting ready to rush up the stairs and pound him into a pulp.

He took a deep breath and stepped inside.

THIRTY-SEVEN

‘I’m sorry — I don’t see how I can help you.’ Sheila Humphries was every inch the teacher, her hands clasped across her front as if waiting for some unruly child to pay attention. ‘I think you may have confused me with somebody else.’

They had arrived barely ten minutes ago after an agonizingly slow drive in stop-start traffic, to discover that the village lay at the end of a narrow road a few miles from the coast near Mersea Island, south of Colchester. It boasted a single primary school — St Matilda’s — located on the eastern fringes close to a new housing development. A modern red brick and glass structure, it had a large, open playground between the building and the road, and nowhere for Harry and Joanne to park and survey the place without attracting the immediate attention of vigilant staff or parents. In addition, a caretaker tidying up some play equipment to one side was watching them.

Harry had opted for the direct approach. They didn’t have time to waste hoping Joanne might spot a middle- aged woman resembling Gordon Humphries. And there was no way of telling for certain whether they had been followed or not.

‘Come on,’ he’d said, climbing out of the car. ‘When in doubt, ask a janitor.’

‘Don’t you mean a policeman?’

Harry smiled. ‘You’ve been overseas too long. Policemen are almost extinct in this country. . except when you don’t want them.’ He looked pointedly at her rucksack. ‘If he tells us to bugger off, try not to shoot him.’

‘Sheila?’ The man eyed them both with caution and squinted against the sun when they approached him. ‘She’s inside. You’re not inspectors giving her a hard time, are you? Only she’s not been so good since her brother died.’ He shook his head and nudged a marker cone into place alongside some coloured plastic equipment boxes. ‘Bloody shame.’

‘It’s her brother we’re here about,’ said Joanne. ‘Gordon was a nice man.’

‘You knew him, did you?’

‘I worked closely with him.’

‘Oh.’ He looked her up and down. ‘You don’t look like you work in oil exploration. Sorry, I’m not supposed to say that, am I? It’s all equality now. I suppose there’ll be paperwork and stuff to sort out, won’t there? Ruled by the bloody stuff, we are. I’ll tell her you’re here.’ He marched away and disappeared through a side door, returning moments later. ‘In through the door,’ he told them, ‘and she’ll see you in the common room third on the left. She’s got a free period.’

They entered the building to find a middle-aged woman with greying hair and a melancholy look waiting for them in a plain, tiled corridor lined with pupils’ work. Seabirds seemed to be the main subject.

Harry glanced at Joanne, who nodded to confirm that the woman looked like Gordon Humphries, and advanced to shake her hand. The woman gestured to an open door and followed them through. They found themselves in a staff room decorated with pinboards covered in graphs, schedules and notices, and furnished with soft chairs and coffee tables. The overall effect was of clutter and cheerful disarray.

‘I know this is painful,’ Joanne started, ‘but we’re here to talk about your brother, Gordon. We need your help.’

Sheila Humphries lifted her chin, the pain evident in her face. ‘What about him? Are you from the company?’

‘The government, you mean?’ Joanne said gently. ‘Not exactly.’

‘Government? I don’t follow.’

‘Gordon worked for the government.’

‘I’m sorry, but that’s not right. My brother worked for an oil company.’ She looked carefully at them both, the teacher demanding an explanation. Yet in spite of the guarded response, there was a hesitancy about her and her hands never ceased twisting and moving. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t see how I can help you. I should call someone.’ She looked as if she was about to turn towards a phone on the wall.

Harry took out his wallet and showed her his MI5 card. If she still chose to call for help, it was likely to be an official number and would be another count against him. There was nothing else for it but to bluff their way through.

She looked at the card and appeared to relax. ‘Oh. I see.’

Joanne opened her rucksack and took out the photo of Humphries and his companion at the street cafe. She held it out and said, ‘This is Gordon, isn’t it?’

Sheila Humphries reacted as if she’d been stung. She took the photo and stared at it, then gave a deep sigh and sat down on a chair as if her legs had given way. She ran her fingertips gently across the glossy surface, then murmured softly, ‘Oh, dear God. You poor boy.’

They took a chair each and waited, giving her time to adjust to the shock of seeing her brother’s face again. A buzz of high-pitched laughter echoed down the corridor outside and a clock ticked in the room, drawing away the seconds until she looked up.

‘How can I help you?’ she said.

‘You know where that photo was taken, don’t you?’ said Joanne. She glanced at Harry for guidance, but he said nothing, not daring to intrude on the moment.

Sheila took a deep breath and nodded. ‘Somewhere in Baghdad. I said he should never have gone there. But it was his work. It was what he did.’ Her voice was breathless, almost muffled, as if forcing each word through a heavy gauze. ‘How did you come by it?’

‘I was the one who took it.’

‘You?’ Sheila looked stunned. ‘But that means. .’

‘Gordon was my boss.’ She paused, then continued in a matter-of-fact manner, ‘We used to meet for briefings. I was due to meet him the morning he died. He didn’t come.’

‘Briefings?’ Sheila Humphries suddenly leaned forward, a look of understanding dawning on her face. She stared at Joanne with intense concentration. ‘He said they’d put someone out there. . a young girl. He was appalled at the idea. Said it was horribly dangerous and he couldn’t protect her. It was you?’

Joanne said nothing.

‘He told you about it?’ Harry was surprised.

‘Only the once,’ she replied, eyes still on Joanne. ‘He was nearing voluntary retirement age. We were going to take a long holiday together. Then they asked him to stay on for a really important job. Vital, they said. It was going to be his last assignment.’

‘I didn’t know that,’ said Joanne.

‘Gordon loved his work. He really did. But not this time. It was as if the spark had gone out of it for him. They’d assigned him to another section or something, and there was a lot of training involved. He mentioned Iraq