Verbal E-Book

Peter Murphy

• Herausgeber: No Exit Press
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Serie: A Ben Schroeder legal thriller
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 506

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2020

Beschreibung

'A good police force is one that catches more crooks than it employs' - Sir Robert Mark 'A good police force is one that catches more crooks than it employs' - Sir Robert Mark A clever, accomplished Cambridge graduate with a good job and an attentive lover, Imogen Lester seems to have the world at her feet. But when her parents are murdered abroad while working for the Diplomatic Service, she is suddenly thrown headlong into a murky world of espionage and organised crime. When she is charged with drug trafficking, even Ben Schroeder's skills may not be enough to save her - unless a shadowy figure from Ben's past can survive long enough to unmask a web of graft and corruption...

Leseprobe

CRITICAL ACCLAIM FOR PETER MURPHY

‘Racy legal thrillers lift the lid on sex and racial prejudice at the bar’ – Guardian

‘Murphy paints a trenchant picture of establishment cover-up, and cannily subverts the clichés of the legal genre in his all-too-topical narrative’ – Financial Times

‘Peter Murphy’s novel is an excellent read from start to finish and highly recommended’ – Historical Novel Review

‘An intelligent amalgam of spy story and legal drama’ –Times

‘A gripping, enjoyable and informative read’

– Promoting Crime Fiction

‘The ability of an author to create living characters is always dependent on his knowledge of what they would do and say in any given circumstances – a talent that Peter Murphy possesses in abundance’ – Crime Review UK

‘Murphy’s clever legal thriller revels in the chicanery of the English law courts of the period’ – Independent

‘The forensic process is examined in a light touch, good-humoured style, which will evoke a constant stream of smiles, and chuckles from nonlawyers and lawyers alike’

– Lord Judge, former Lord Chief Justice of England and Wales

‘A gripping page-turner. A compelling and disturbing tale of English law courts, lawyers, and their clients, told with the authenticity that only an insider like Murphy can deliver. The best read I’ve come across in a long time’ – David Ambrose

‘If anyone’s looking for the next big courtroom drama… look no further. Murphy is your man’ – ICLR

For my son Christopher, one of the overwhelming majority of British police officers who do, and have historically done, the job as it should be done: with competence, courage, dedication, honesty and integrity.

A good police force is one that catches more crooks than it employs.

– Sir Robert Mark GBE QPM

(Commissioner of Metropolitan Police, 1972-1977)

‘A “verbal” is an oral admission made by a defendant when interviewed by the police, which on the advice of his solicitor he later denies.’

– Answer frequently given by Metropolitan Police officers in evidence, in the days before the Police and Criminal Evidence Act 1984, when asked by defence counsel whether they understood the term ‘verbal’.

PART ONE

1

Monday 31 October 1983

When the phone rang, she was instantly awake and fully alert.

Earlier in her career, as a young solicitor fighting for a place in the dog-eat-dog world of London law firms, Julia Cathermole had made two promises to herself: she would never force her body into the stereotypical female lawyer’s black suits and shoes; and she would never keep a phone by her bedside to threaten her few precious hours of sanctuary. These were prices she deemed too high to pay for success. Her resolve had not done her any harm. At the age of fifty-five, the senior partner of Cathermole & Bridger was the moving force of a firm with an enviable client list, on whose behalf its lawyers habitually punched well above their weight. Julia Cathermole had arrived, and she was here to stay. But she was still quite capable of sleeping contentedly through the ringing of the phone in her study, a safe distance away down the hallway from her bedroom.

There was no logical reason why this morning should have been any different. But reflecting on it later, she recalled a sense of foreboding as she had drifted off to sleep, a sense that something nameless was on its way, something that would jolt her prematurely back into the harsh reality of the waking world. Opening her eyes, she glanced at her alarm clock, which told her that it was just after three o’clock. Three o’clock on the morning of 31 October: All Hallows Eve, Samhain Eve, the day when the portals separating the world of the living from the world of the dead stand ajar, enabling the two worlds to collide. Why in God’s name had that piece of arcane knowledge drifted into her mind? She got out of bed quietly and threw her heavy dressing gown over her naked body, tying the soft belt firmly around her waist in an effort to keep out the autumnal chill in the air. She glanced back over her shoulder. On the other side of the bed, Imogen was sleeping soundly, breathing softly and rhythmically, her back to Julia. The duvet under which they had slept had shifted towards Julia’s side of the bed, leaving her back exposed. Julia gently pulled it back up to cover her, and felt a pleasant sensation of lust run through her body as she remembered their bodies entwined together during the small hours, before they had finally surrendered to sleep, before it fully became Samhain Eve.

Closing the bedroom door behind her, she made her way to the study, switched on her desk lamp, seated herself behind her desk, and gave the phone one last chance to stop ringing, to admit that it was all a mistake. When it failed to oblige, she picked up the receiver.

‘Julia Cathermole…’

‘This better be important,’ she added under her breath.

‘Good morning, Julia,’ a familiar voice said. ‘I’m sorry to wake you up.’

She yawned reflexively, drawing the dressing gown even more tightly around her. She had turned the heating down in the study and it was even chillier than her bedroom.

‘Baxter? What are you doing up at this hour? You’re supposed to be retired, for God’s sake.’

‘I’m doing my best,’ he replied, ‘but they know where I live.’

She laughed sleepily. ‘You could always move.’

‘Too much trouble; besides, Dianne loves Richmond.’

‘How are you both?’

‘As well as can be expected in the case of two such aging dinosaurs. She sends her love.’

‘And mine to her… So, to what do I owe the pleasure? Falling prey to insomnia in our old age, are we? Craving the comfort of another human voice in the dead of night?’

He laughed. ‘Would that be so unreasonable?’

‘It’s a poor excuse for dragging me out of bed at three in the morning.’

‘Insomnia’s an occupational hazard in our line of work, Julia, a way of life – you know that – nothing to do with age. And if another human voice was all I needed I’d wake Dianne up – it wouldn’t be the first time.’ He paused. ‘No, it’s business, I’m afraid. I need to talk to you; and I’m calling now because I don’t have the luxury of waiting until a more civilised hour.’

She nodded to herself. ‘I was afraid you’d say that.’

He did not continue immediately.

‘Don’t tell me: let me guess,’ she said. ‘I know. Ronald Reagan is about to bomb Russia and start World War Three?’

‘Not as far as I know – although if I’m honest about it, I can’t say it would surprise me. How’s that for a comment on the state of the world? No, slightly closer to home: we’re getting worrying signals from our man in Belgrade.’

‘Yugoslavia? I thought they were on our side these days.’

‘They were moving in our direction while Tito was alive. But since he died – well, let’s just say that the direction of travel isn’t quite as clear as it used to be. They’re wobbling just enough to give the Service a case of the jitters.’

She ran a hand through her hair. ‘What’s worrying you? Is Moscow throwing its weight around again?’

‘No,’ he replied, ‘and even if they tried, they’d get nowhere. The Yugoslavs are too well armed and too well drilled. The Russians couldn’t send the tanks into Belgrade the way they did in Budapest or Prague; they’d be sent packing in short order. No. What’s worrying C is that we’ve had a few doubtful characters crawling out of the woodwork of late. Do you remember all those nationalists Tito put in prison, to shut them up in the great cause of Yugoslav unity?’

‘Let me guess: now he’s gone, and they’re back out on the street?’

‘Exactly, and they’re finding their voices again: Serbs mainly, but the odd Croat here and there too. They’ve been on our radar for some time now. Eventually, C felt we had to brief the Minister and – well, you know what happens once you cross that line.’

She smiled. ‘The Minister wants C to hold his hand, and C passes the buck to you because you actually know what’s going on.’

‘Something like that. Well, it’s true: the Balkans used to be one of my bailiwicks. So a month or so ago, I get the usual plaintive phone call from one of the minions, don’t I? “C sends his very best regards, Baxter, insisted I pass them on personally. He’s always thought the world of you, as you know. The thing is, old boy, we’ve got a bit of a problem – right up your street actually, just the kind of thing you used to deal with back in the good old days. So C was wondering whether you could possibly spare a few days? Shouldn’t take too long, and it would really mean a lot, old boy; C would really appreciate it.” So here I am, back on the beat for a while. It won’t last, obviously. There will be some other hot spot that takes their fancy tomorrow, and I’ll be back on the scrap heap. But, for the moment…’

She laughed. ‘They’ll never let you retire, Baxter, will they? You’ve been around too long and you know too much, that’s your problem. You’re too valuable to let go.’ She paused. ‘But you still haven’t explained why you’re disrupting my beauty sleep at this hour.’

She heard him exhale heavily.

‘No… Julia, you know Imogen Lester, Michael’s daughter, don’t you?’

Smiling, Julia turned in the direction of the bedroom and the young woman asleep in her bed.

2

‘Yes, of course. She’s been working for my firm since she came down from Cambridge, while she decides what to do with her life. I know Michael and Margaret through my father – well, he was Michael’s mentor in the Service when Michael was a young officer. But you know all that…’ She stopped abruptly as the sense of foreboding returned to her, her stomach suddenly seeming to tie itself in knots. ‘Baxter, what’s happened?’

‘I don’t know the full story yet. We got a message from the embassy in Belgrade an hour or so ago. It seems that Michael had been working on something in Sarajevo. The embassy’s not saying exactly what he was doing there, but he had Margaret with him.’

‘Diplomatic cover, presumably?’

‘Yes: he was officially a cultural attaché or whatever, the usual nonsense. Anyway, it seems that the two of them were set upon by a gang of men armed with blunt objects, in some seedy district away from the city centre, where there was no obvious diplomatic reason for them to be.’

‘Set upon…?’

‘I’m sorry, Julia. I hate to have to tell you like this, but there’s no way to make it any easier. They were both bludgeoned to death. The local police found them at about midnight our time, and their pathologist thinks they’d been dead less than an hour at that point. A witness, who wouldn’t give his name and ran off before they could question him properly, told the police there were four men involved, all carrying big sticks of some kind, details unclear, but suggesting that Michael wouldn’t have stood much of a chance. This is all second hand from the embassy, you understand, but it’s all we have. It’s early days.’

Julia put a hand over her mouth. ‘Oh, God,’ she whispered. She fought desperately against a rising feeling of nausea. Baxter allowed her some time. She took a deep breath and forced herself to think clearly. ‘Margaret, too? For God’s sake, Baxter…’

‘Yes.’

‘And we have no idea why…?’

‘The police are saying it was a street robbery gone wrong. Complete bollocks, probably, but I’m not sure how we could call them on it without giving the game away – whatever the game is. He would have been carrying diplomatic credentials, of course – they both would – but the police say there’s no identification on the bodies or at the scene. His wallet is gone, as is her handbag – and as is his revolver, if he was carrying it. Where they’ve gone is another matter, but the embassy isn’t saying any more.’

‘I see.’

‘What we got from the embassy is the standard official notification, so it’s not going to tell us anything that’s not for public consumption. In fact, they’re probably sending it to The Times for publication as we speak – which is actually the main reason I’m calling you so early.’

She took another deep breath and exhaled slowly. ‘You want me to break it to Imogen.’

‘I’m really sorry, Julia. But I don’t want her reading about it in The Times, or even hearing about it from the embassy if I can help it: just out of regard for Michael and Margaret, you understand.’

‘Leave it to me,’ Julia replied softly.

‘Thank you. There’s a son too, isn’t there?’

‘Damian. Yes. I’ll find him.’

‘I’m really sorry, Julia.’

‘So am I.’

She paused. The worst of the nausea was subsiding, but the first pangs of grief and horror were replacing it: these people had been her father’s friends, and hers. She fought for control. She knew she had to put her grief aside for now; there were immediate problems to solve; she had to make herself think; she needed her rational solicitor’s mind to assert itself.

‘The police may just be right,’ she suggested tentatively, testing her voice. ‘There are probably all kinds of doubtful people in Sarajevo now, with the Winter Olympics coming up in a month or two. And you know Michael. He could be a bit hot headed, and if he refused to give them his wallet, or didn’t understand what they wanted, I can see the situation getting out of hand. Are you sure it’s related to whatever he was doing?’

‘Michael’s Serbo-Croat was pretty good,’ Baxter replied, ‘so I’d take a bit of persuading that it was just a misunderstanding. But what really worries me is what the hell they were doing in Bistrik, south of the river, at that time of night. It’s not a tourist haunt. It’s not even where you go in Sarajevo for a good night out – no decent restaurants or bars, or anything like that – and it’s definitely not on the diplomatic circuit. It’s not the safest part of town either, and Michael would have been well aware of that. He had a junior officer working with him, Scottish chap, name of Faraday. He’s probably still with the police, but I’ll call him later and if he has anything the embassy wouldn’t have put in the official communiqué, I’ll pass it on to you.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Please tell Imogen and Damian that everyone in the Service here will be thinking about them. It’s as hard as hell when we lose one of our own, as you know. And for them to kill Margaret as well is unspeakable.’

‘Yes.’

Julia replaced the receiver and sat in her chair for some minutes. She suddenly realised that she was shaking. She had forgotten about the cold and, remembering it again, felt chilled to the bone. Clutching the collar of her dressing gown, she stood and made her way slowly back to the bedroom. Imogen was still asleep under the duvet. She would let her sleep for another hour, perhaps two. Then, she would have no choice but to wake her.

3

Wednesday 2 November 1983

When Baxter called again two days later, Julia was wandering randomly around her house, unable to settle in any particular room, reading a book here, looking at some papers there, doing her best to talk herself into going back to the office the following day. She had taken two days off, citing shock and distress following the death of two close friends. Her team had been understanding, but they would expect her to be back in harness soon. There was a lot going on, and in a small firm that meant all hands on deck. She knew she had to pull herself together, but she still felt numb from the sheer unyielding awfulness of the previous two days.

Not long after Baxter’s call, before waking Imogen, she had prevailed on the duty sergeant at Hampstead Police Station to send a uniformed officer to the Lester family home near Hampstead Heath, to break the news to Imogen’s brother, Damian. She had thought long and hard before calling the police, but in the end she could see no other way. She couldn’t bring herself to tell him by phone, and with Imogen to care for she couldn’t go herself in time to guarantee that he would not hear about it from a newspaper or the radio. But the visit from the police would be problematic. Damian was not unknown to Hampstead Police Station. At the age of nineteen, five years younger than his sister, only good fortune and one or two timely interventions by his father stood between Damian and a criminal record. In contrast to his sister, who had inherited her parents’ drive, had excelled at school and had graduated from Girton College, Cambridge, with a first in classics, Damian had always seemed listless and bored by his teachers’ efforts to educate him. He seemed content to drift though life without any obvious goal. When Michael was posted to Belgrade, Damian had resisted his parents’ attempts to take him with them to Yugoslavia, promising to pull himself together and get himself a job. But jobs rarely materialised and never lasted long, and when Imogen was away from the house, his life became a never-ending round of sleeping for much of the day, and late nights spent drinking and consuming other substances with his friends.

Julia was keenly aware of this history from Imogen, who in her parents’ absence felt responsible for her brother and was racked with guilt that she was powerless to change, or even control, him. It had taken all Julia’s diplomatic skills to explain to the duty sergeant that there had been a family tragedy, and that it would mean a lot to the family if the officer could deliver the news without paying too much attention to what he was likely to find when he entered the house. Mercifully, the sergeant was sympathetic. The officer broke the news and offered his help without commenting on the unmistakable aroma of cannabis that greeted him when, after a prolonged assault on the doorbell, a sleepy Damian eventually invited him in.

Julia had woken Imogen at six o’clock. Taking off her dressing gown, she had settled herself next to Imogen in bed, gently drawn her into her arms and, with Imogen’s head resting on her breasts, had lovingly stroked her hair while telling her, with a minimum of detail, the embassy’s official story of how her parents had met their deaths. Imogen had cried, hardly moving, for more than an hour. When she became quiet and got out of bed they had walked together downstairs to the kitchen on the ground floor, where Julia made coffee. By the early evening, Imogen had recovered sufficiently to be concerned for her brother, and insisted on leaving for Hampstead to see him. Before putting her in a taxi, Julia had made her promise to call regularly. She had so far called three times in two days, and sounded quietly distraught. Damian, she said, was reluctant to talk and had responded to his parents’ death with a fresh round of whisky and cannabis. By the time of the third call she was thinking of abandoning ship. But she had not returned.

Baxter’s call came as a relief. He was reticent and unwilling to talk over the phone, and instead asked to see her under London Rules, code Echo, at three o’clock that afternoon. As he disconnected abruptly, Julia felt herself smile for the first time since his call two days before. Baxter’s caution in such matters was the stuff of legend within the Service, and the explicit reference to the tradecraft he had used with her before came as no surprise. It was, as ever, slightly over the top by more contemporary standards. But Julia found it charming and comforting. Baxter had learned his tradecraft in Vienna from Nigel, his mentor and her father, and he remained loyal to Nigel’s classical approach, outmoded as it now seemed to his younger colleagues. A meeting with Baxter under London Rules brought back happy memories of her father. At three o’clock she was waiting for him on Victoria Embankment exactly opposite Temple tube station, as code Echo stipulated, knowing that he would emerge from the station and join her in precisely six minutes, having kept her under observation during that time, just in case she had been followed.

‘I’ve talked to Faraday,’ Baxter said, as they began the slow walk towards Charing Cross. ‘As I suspected, there’s more to it than the embassy’s official story. How did the children take the news?’

‘Imogen took it hard,’ she replied, ‘but she’s a strong girl; she will be fine. I haven’t seen Damian. I asked the police to notify him. I don’t know how much Michael told you about him, but he’s gone off the rails a bit. He’s a young, immature nineteen. He was on a steady diet of booze and drugs before this happened, and obviously, it hasn’t helped.’

He nodded. ‘We’ll have to keep this from Damian then,’ he said matter-of-factly, ‘but if you think Imogen is trustworthy, I need you to talk to her – and enlist her.’

‘Enlist her?’

‘Yes. The benefit to her is that, if all goes well, she might just learn the truth about how her parents died: no guarantees, but she might. I appreciate that it may be scant compensation. But the fact is, Julia, I need her help – and yours.’

She stopped and leaned against the Embankment wall, looking out across the river.

‘Help with what, exactly?’ she asked.

He came to stand beside her.

‘You understand…’

‘Yes, I understand. Come on, Baxter, I know classified information when I’m about to hear it.’

He nodded. ‘Faraday told me that Michael had an agent in Sarajevo, code name Oscar, who has connections to certain criminal elements, specifically, drug dealers plying their trade to facilitate the movement of hard drugs in both directions, East to West and West to East, using the Balkans as their main hub.’

She frowned. ‘So? Since when is drug dealing of interest to the Service? Why not pass the intelligence on to Interpol and let them deal with it?’

‘The proceeds of the drug trafficking are being used to fund the purchase of arms and ammunition for some fledgling nationalist groups – which is of considerable interest to the Service. The ringleader is a man known as Dragan, real identity unknown, who has the reputation locally of being a bit of a hard man.’

‘Hard enough to set four thugs armed with big sticks on someone who might pose a threat to him?’ she asked.

‘That’s Faraday’s theory. Unfortunately, Michael didn’t tell him exactly why he was making this particular trip to Sarajevo, or why he was taking Margaret with him. He doesn’t know of any reason for him to go, other than to see his agent.’

‘And there was no diplomatic cover story for the trip?’

‘None whatsoever. Also, bear in mind that Michael wouldn’t make a trip to Sarajevo unless it was strictly necessary. Yugoslavia may be more relaxed than most places behind the Iron Curtain – especially Sarajevo, since they’re trying so hard to establish it as an international destination with the Winter Olympics – but you still wouldn’t want to push your luck.’

‘Perhaps he thought that the Games would provide some cover?’

‘That would be a risky assumption. Yes, they’re trying to create the illusion that Sarajevo is some kind of Cold War-free zone, but the reality is that there are just as many watchers as ever, quite possibly even more, with so many foreigners from the West coming to town. All it would take is for Michael’s tradecraft to let him down once, and he would be putting Oscar directly in harm’s way, as well as himself. And we still have no explanation of why Margaret was with him.’

She turned to look at him directly. ‘All right, but where do Imogen and I come into it? If you want to tell Imogen her father was looking into some criminal activity when he died, as opposed to being the victim of a random robbery, I suppose she might take some comfort from that. But…’

‘Faraday thinks we need to extract Oscar,’ Baxter replied.

She stared at him. ‘What? As in, relocate him here?’

‘Yes.’

Julia’s jaw dropped. ‘Well, I repeat my question: Imogen and I fit into this picture how, exactly? Or, let me put it another way: why would you involve two civilians in such a risky procedure behind the Iron Curtain? I thought C was trying to discourage that kind of stuff?’

He smiled. ‘Oh, come on, Julia. I’m not suggesting that you would be part of the extraction itself. That’s a matter for the Service – assuming we end up agreeing with Faraday that it is, in fact, necessary.’

‘Well, what are you suggesting, then?’

He exhaled heavily. ‘I can’t go into detail at this stage, but what it comes to is this: from what Faraday tells me, there are some tricky legal issues involved in relocating Oscar to England.’

As if by an unspoken agreement, they resumed their slow walk.

‘Issues with Oscar himself, or issues with the authorities here?’ she asked.

‘Both: and it would be really useful to have a solicitor at work on both ends. But I need a solicitor I can trust with very sensitive information, Julia, and that’s not a large group.’

They walked on for some time in silence.

‘Assuming for a moment that I would be willing to do this,’ she said, ‘there must be no question of exposing Imogen to danger. Unless things have really changed since my father’s day, it’s not Service policy to put civilians in harm’s way in peacetime. And why would she be of interest to you, anyway? She’s not a lawyer.’

‘Cover,’ he replied. ‘Imogen wants to find out what really happened to her parents, doesn’t she? She’s not happy with the embassy’s account of it: too many unanswered questions by far. What was going on? What was her mother doing there? So she decides to visit Sarajevo to find out for herself. She asks the embassy to arrange a visit to the local gendarmes, so that she can question them in person. The authorities aren’t going to stand in the way of that, are they? It’s exactly the kind of publicity they want, what with the Games coming up.’

‘Is it?’

‘Of course. They’ve had a double murder and the victims were two prominent westerners. If they can’t protect visitors like Michael and Margaret, how can they expect anyone to feel safe during the Games? The least they can do is let the world see how seriously they’re taking the investigation. Trust me, Julia, they will be falling over themselves trying to help her. And while all eyes are on Imogen, nobody is focusing on you. She’s the perfect cover.’

‘That’s your idea of cover? Really? How does that work? Why am I even there with her?’

‘You’re her solicitor, Julia. At the end of the day, whatever she finds out, she’s going to need legal advice about what she should do, isn’t she? Who else would she turn to? Besides, nobody would do this alone, trying to ask questions of police behind the Iron Curtain: it’s far too daunting. No. You have every reason to be there with her, and with any luck it should be enough to lull the watchers into a false sense of security – enough for them to let their guard down, even if only for a few hours.’

She nodded. ‘During which time…?’

‘During which time Faraday quietly takes you to see Oscar, perhaps after a lunch or dinner long enough to allay any suspicion, and you – what is it you solicitors call it? – take instructions, and advise Oscar and ourselves accordingly. Then you come back home and help to facilitate things for Oscar here.’ He laughed. ‘Besides, you’ve done this kind of thing before.’

She stopped and turned to face him.

‘Excuse me?’

‘Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten.’

‘You’re going to have to remind me,’ she said.

‘Vienna,’ he replied. ‘Your father and I extracted an agent called Vladimir Pushkov. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten that.’

‘I was nineteen,’ she protested indignantly. ‘My mother wasn’t feeling well, so I made the coffee and sandwiches at the safe house.’

‘Well, there you are,’ Baxter replied.

She laughed briefly, and then they were silent for some time.

‘We’re sleeping together,’ she said eventually, ‘Imogen and I. If we’re going to do this, you need to know.’

Baxter nodded. ‘Well, Sarajevo’s beautiful in the winter,’ he replied, ‘very romantic. Bloody cold, of course. You’ll have to take some thick sweaters and all the rest of it. But very romantic: just the place for lovers.’

4

Tuesday 29 November 1983

Julia cursed to herself as yet again the car bounced violently on the uneven tarmac and administered a sudden sharp jolt to her back.

‘For Heaven’s sake, Faraday,’ she complained, ‘I feel like every bone in my body is coming loose. Doesn’t the embassy have any British cars? I thought we were supposed to be flying the flag, for God’s sake, promoting British exports, and all that kind of thing.’

She saw Imogen and Faraday smile at each other in the front seats. Imogen actually giggled. That was good, she thought. Imogen had been uncharacteristically quiet and withdrawn since she learned of her parents’ death; but when Julia had put Baxter’s proposal to her she had agreed without hesitation, and her energy and determination had returned, increasing noticeably as the date of their departure drew near. Today she seemed calm and composed, and the giggle was a welcome sign that her sense of humour had survived the trauma intact.

‘Sorry, Miss Cathermole,’ Faraday replied. He was in his early thirties, tall and thin with pale skin, and soft-spoken with no trace of an accent, the only clue to his Scottish antecedents being his addiction to a red and green tartan tie. ‘Ambassador’s idea. Someone told him it would make us popular if we adopted the local brand instead of endlessly pushing our own. The drive should get smoother once we get out of the airport and on to the main road.’

‘I remain to be convinced,’ Julia insisted. ‘What exactly is this local brand?’

‘This is the Zastava Koral, commonly known as the Yugo,’ he replied. ‘It’s not exactly a Rolls Royce, obviously, but they only started production about three years ago, so hopefully it will improve with time.’

‘It would improve if they added some suspension,’ Julia observed sourly.

‘Is it far into town from the airport?’ Imogen asked.

‘No, not too far, Miss Lester. In normal traffic we would do it in twenty, twenty-five minutes. It might take a bit longer today. They’re desperately trying to get all the venues finished for the Winter Olympics and they’re a bit behind schedule, so everyone’s rushing everywhere and all the roads are clogged up. We’ll be going into town with the traffic for the Skenderija Center, which will be the venue for the skating and ice hockey, so it might be a bit slow.’

‘That should give this contraption ample time to dislodge my last bone,’ Julia said. ‘I must remember to thank the Ambassador for sending you to pick us up.’

Imogen laughed. ‘Try curling up in the foetal position,’ she suggested.

‘Point taken, Miss Cathermole,’ Faraday said, pulling smoothly out of the airport access area on to the main road, ‘but don’t be too hard on the Ambassador: remember, you do have him to thank for your room at the New Holiday Inn.’

‘I’ve been reading about this hotel,’ Imogen said. ‘It’s supposed to be quite something, quite a departure for Yugoslavia.’

‘It is,’ Faraday agreed. ‘Well, it’s all because of the Games, obviously. We wouldn’t have it, otherwise. But people aren’t waiting for the Games. Even now, with a couple of months to go, you can’t get a room for love nor money.’

‘I’m not surprised,’ Imogen said. ‘I’m sure people are fighting each other to get in. But in that case, how did we end up with a room?’

‘The Ambassador pulled some strings.’

‘That was nice of him.’

‘It wasn’t entirely out of the goodness of his heart, I imagine,’ Julia said.

‘No,’ Faraday agreed. ‘Actually, it was our idea. The Holiday Inn works on the western model so, unlike other hotels here, it’s accessible at all hours of the day and night: much easier for us to keep an eye on you while you’re here. Baxter asked someone high up to approach the Ambassador to see what he could do. Apparently, he came up trumps.’

‘Good for him,’ Julia said.

‘I may as well go through all this with you now,’ Faraday said, ‘while we’re still in a secure space. Once we get out of the car at the other end, there are no guarantees. You’re used to all this, Miss Cathermole, I know; but, Miss Lester, it may be very new to you. So bear with me while I go through the protocols.’

‘I’m all ears,’ Imogen said.

‘Good. First, although Yugoslavia has a certain reputation for being liberal by Eastern European standards, it is only liberal by those standards. You are behind the Iron Curtain. Surveillance, spying, eavesdropping – call it what you will – is a way of life. They do it to their own people just as much as to us westerners, so don’t take it personally. Rule number one is: never talk about anything to do with why you’re here unless you’re outside walking around. Never talk in the hotel, even in your room – in fact, especially in your room – never in the bar, and never when you’re away from the hotel in a restaurant or shop. I don’t mean small talk, obviously, but nothing to do with what you’re doing here, or about the Service. If you need to have a conversation about anything serious, bundle up and go out into the cold and walk around.’

Imogen turned to Julia. ‘Punch me in the arm or something if I start on something I shouldn’t.’

‘You’ll worry and feel self-conscious about it at first,’ Faraday replied, ‘but you’ll get used to it. Rule two: obviously, don’t write anything down and leave it lying around.’

‘What’s the emergency protocol?’ Julia asked.

‘I’ll give you a number you can call any time, day or night. Your code name is Morecambe, and yours is Wise, Miss Lester.’

They both laughed. ‘Highly original,’ Julia commented.

He smiled. ‘We like to give you something you won’t forget.’ He looked at Julia using his rear view mirror. ‘Is it true what they say about your memory, Miss Cathermole?’

‘Yes.’

He removed a small slip of paper from the top pocket of his grey jacket and held it out to her, his left hand over his shoulder. She read it quickly and returned it to him.

‘Got it?’

‘Got it.’

He replaced the paper in his top pocket.

Imogen turned to look at her. ‘You memorised the number? Just like that.’

‘I was born with a photographic memory,’ Julia replied quietly, ‘and believe me, it’s a curse as much as a blessing.’

‘If anything happens in the hotel to make you feel uncomfortable,’ Faraday added, ‘go down to the bar wearing a white shawl. You’ll find one in your room. We’ll have someone in the bar around the clock. But don’t try to work out who it is. You won’t be able to, and it will only make them nervous. Just be aware they’re there, but don’t use them unless you really have to. It’s not easy placing watchers here.’

5

They pulled up at a red traffic light. As Faraday had predicted, there was a steady flow of heavy traffic ahead and behind them, most of it apparently destined for the skating and ice hockey venue at the Skenderija Center.

‘We have an appointment with Colonel Miroslav Stojanović at Militsija headquarters tomorrow morning at ten,’ Faraday said. ‘I will pick you up at nine thirty. Stojanović will be anxious to impress on you that they’re pulling out all the stops to solve the murders. It’s not good for business to have foreigners being attacked on the streets with the Games coming up, so Stojanović is going to bend over backwards to persuade you that everything is under control. But don’t forget, his agenda is that this was a random street robbery. It has to be, because that’s less of a threat to tourism than organised crime. And you can bet your bottom dinar that the Militsija will round up four of the usual suspects within a few days of your returning home, just to reinforce the illusion.’

‘Will he let us see my parents’ things?’ Imogen asked.

‘Yes. The embassy will see to it that they’re returned to you once they’re no longer needed as evidence. Forgive me, Miss Lester, I don’t mean to be crass, but our main interest in them tomorrow is to see what’s there and what’s not there. The initial report was that all their personal identification items were missing. We need to check that. Hopefully, Stojanović’s people will have made a thorough search of the area by now.’

Faraday briefly touched the back of Imogen’s hand with his.

‘The other thing Stojanović wants to do, Miss Lester, is to take us all to see the crime scene. I think he feels obliged. It’s up to you. There’s really nothing to see. It’s just a back street in a bad area of town. If you don’t want to go, I’ll tell him to forget about it.’

‘No,’ Imogen replied softly. ‘I’ve come all this way. I want to see it.’

Julia reached over and touched her shoulder. ‘So do I. I want to see what kind of area Michael took himself and Margaret into. Maybe it will give us a clue about what he was doing. I couldn’t get much out of Baxter about it.’

‘We’re speculating,’ Faraday admitted. ‘I would be very surprised if he hadn’t been to see Oscar. But it’s all a bit odd. The crime scene is less than a mile from where Oscar lives, but it would be a pretty elaborate piece of tradecraft to end up where they were attacked; so we’re not ruling out the possibility that he was meeting, or planning to meet, someone else. I’m hoping Oscar can give us something. If not, I’m not sure where we go. Stojanović’s robbery theory may prevail by default.’

‘Do you want to tell us about Oscar,’ Julia asked, ‘given that we have to advise him about the legal issues involved with his extraction – whatever they may be?’

Faraday smiled. ‘I’ll let Oscar explain the legal issues to you himself. You’ll meet him tomorrow evening. All I will say for now is that he’s Austrian and his name is Ernst Meier.’

‘That doesn’t tell us much,’ Imogen protested.

‘It tells us that his name isn’t Ernst Meier,’ Julia muttered from the back seat, ‘and I’ll be very surprised if he’s Austrian.’

‘Baxter told me you were something of a cynic, Miss Cathermole,’ Faraday said, with a grin into his rear view mirror.

‘The fruit of long experience,’ she replied. ‘What’s the tradecraft for getting to his place? Given what happened to the Lesters, I assume you have something in mind?’

‘After we’re finished with the Militsija for the day, you will return to the Holiday Inn, rest for a while, change if you want, and I will pick you up for dinner at seven. We’re going to Star Srbije, Star of Serbia. It’s run by a crusty old Serb called Vlado. During the War he ran with Tito’s Partisans, fighting with British forces against the Germans and their Croatian fascist allies, the Ustaše. Ever since he’s stayed totally loyal to Tito and to us, in that order. Michael put me on to him. He’s helped us out in all kinds of ways over the years. One of those ways is tradecraft. The Star Srbije is a natural looking glass.’

‘Looking glass?’ Imogen asked.

‘As in Alice,’ Julia smiled. ‘If you step through it, it’s a portal into another world.’

Faraday nodded. ‘The front of the restaurant is on the south bank of the Miljacka, not far from the Princip Bridge, where the First World War started – very respectable looking. But it has a vast cellar, with a back door that dumps you out on to a very unprepossessing side street. You’ll be tempted to go straight back inside, but the good news is, you’re just a brisk ten-minute stroll from Chez Oscar. Vlado will even lend us replacement coats and hats for the rest of the evening, so we leave wearing something different from what we arrived in – an old Partisan trick for outfoxing watchers. Don’t worry – his son Andrej will get yours safely back to the hotel for you, and he will watch our backs as far as he can. Andrej’s totally reliable, a chip off the old block. He’ll probably take the restaurant over from his father before too long, so it’s good to give him a few things to do, just to keep him onside.’

They were drawing up in front of the Holiday Inn.

‘My God,’ Julia said, surveying the hotel’s glaring exterior, ‘they went a bit overboard with the yellow and brown, didn’t they?’

Faraday laughed. ‘It’s been a bit controversial,’ he replied. ‘Not what you’d expect in Yugoslavia – but then, we are in Sarajevo, and Sarajevo does tend to go its own way. To be honest, I rather like it. I won’t come in with you, if you don’t mind. Did you remember to bring some Deutsche Marks with you?’

‘Lots of them,’ Julia confirmed.

‘Good: they’re very popular here. You should buy a few dinars to carry around for small change, for coffee and newspapers and such like, but for anything serious – including paying for things in the hotel – use the D-Marks. The locals are always grateful for hard currency. They’re not supposed to have it, but everybody does.’

‘I assume you get a better deal with D-Marks?’ Julia asked.

‘Absolutely. The authorities frown on it officially, but unofficially they turn a blind eye unless someone is dealing in large numbers. That’s what happens when you have a currency like the dinar with fifteen to twenty-five per cent annual inflation. As long as you’re not flashy about it, no one will bother you.’

He opened the hatchback door, and lifted their suitcases down to the ground as smartly attired hotel employees began to descend on them with offers of help.

‘Nine thirty tomorrow, then,’ he said. ‘Have a good evening. If you don’t fancy venturing out on your first night, the restaurant here isn’t too bad.’

‘High praise indeed,’ Julia replied, smiling.

6

Wednesday 30 November 1983

Lying on her back on the bed, Julia surveyed the room. It was late in the afternoon, but the previous twenty-four hours had been long and draining. Beside her, Imogen was asleep, her breathing calmer and more rhythmic now, suggesting that the emotional toll was beginning, at last, to recede. But Julia was wide awake, her mind racing. What had happened today? Had they learned anything new about the fate of Michael and Margaret Lester? Colonel Stojanović, and the officers who accompanied them to the crime scene, had been models of formal concern and compassion; but they were less than forthcoming about forensic details, and when pressed, their answers were stilted and inconclusive. Imogen had paid a high emotional price for the chance to inspect her parents’ last view of this world, but it had brought them no closer to the truth. Whether Faraday had seen anything, she had no way of knowing. Even if he had, in accordance with his own admonitions, he would not reveal it unless and until he was sure that it would be safe. She liked Faraday so far, she reflected. He was competent, thorough and precise, and understated – all qualities her father had taught her to value. And he was right about their room: she was sure of it.

Brought up in the Service residence in Vienna, Julia had learned the mechanics of sweeping rooms for bugs at a young age. As a child, she had innocently followed the Service’s technicians around the house as they worked for her father, and they never thought to discourage her, never dreamed how much the child was quietly assimilating as her extraordinary memory instantly recorded their techniques. The sophistication of the devices had evolved dramatically over the years, but the essentials of bugging and sweeping a room remained comfortably familiar. Julia had never formally worked for the Service, and her childhood was now forty years and more distant. But her consciousness of security remained an integral part of her life. As soon as they had arrived in the room the previous evening she had looked slowly around her, carefully taking in the details of the ceiling and walls, the fire alarm, the small black and white television, the telephone, the bedside lamps – looking for any possible hiding place for a camera or a recording device. Now she looked again, just to check her findings. She was sure she was right. She was confident that she could have discovered and removed the bugs, swept the room clean, in a matter of minutes. But she was not about to take such risky liberties on Faraday’s patch. With Baxter, perhaps, whom she knew well, but not with Faraday – certainly not yet.

Baxter had been her father’s friend and colleague for many years, and because her father had trusted him, so did she. She had been eighteen when they first met in the Vienna residence in 1946. But their paths had crossed again unexpectedly in 1965, in the early days of Cathermole & Bridger, during the notorious case that led to the unmasking of Sir James Digby QC as a Soviet spy. He had been exposed by her American client, Professor Francis Hollander - with significant support from the Service. Since then, and in the aftermath of her father’s death, Baxter had been her mentor, friend, and confidante. But Baxter was an officer of the Service, and she was not; and there were two secrets, though only two, that she kept from him. She had never told him the full extent of her knowledge of bugs, and she had never told him of the one room in her house, a comfortable attic sitting room, that she kept regularly swept.

This was partly an old habit dying hard, but she also had a more practical reason for maintaining her sanctuary. She needed a secure place to have certain conversations with clients and sometimes others, conversations that no one else, including Baxter, could be permitted to hear. It was nothing personal. Baxter would never spy on her unless he was convinced that the interests of the Service required it; but she could never exclude the possibility that one day the interests of the Service might, in Baxter’s mind, require it. And now she was about to represent a man whose name wasn’t Ernst Meier and who probably wasn’t Austrian, whose interests were not identical to those of the Service. This man was going to be her client. Sometimes, there had to be secrets.

Imogen awoke abruptly and turned over to face her. Julia bent down and kissed her on the forehead.

‘Have I been asleep all this time?’

‘Ever since we got back. You lay down and went out like a light.’

She yawned and stretched.

‘I don’t even remember going to sleep. I must have been ready for a nap.’

‘After the day you’ve had? I would say so.’

She nodded, sitting fully up in bed and stretching again.

‘Well, thanks for not waking me. What time is it? Are we late for dinner?’

Julia looked at her watch. ‘Six-fifteen. We’ve got plenty of time. But I’m ready to get out of this room. What do you say we hit the bar and knock back a couple of shots of slivovice before Faraday gets here?’

‘I’m up for that,’ Imogen replied.

7

Advertising was not a big part of Vlado’s business plan. Unusually for a man in his profession, it was not his way to draw undue attention to his restaurant. Star Srbije was a pleasant enough establishment, situated on a respectable thoroughfare overlooking the Miljacka River, no great distance from the city centre. But the only indication of its presence was an inconspicuous sign bearing its name, written in the Cyrillic alphabet, and no other information whatsoever. It was the kind of place you probably wouldn’t find unless you were looking for it. Vlado’s regulars, almost all of Serbian extraction, knew exactly how to find it, and the occasional new customer learned about it by word of mouth from one of the regulars. It was an arrangement with which Vlado was perfectly happy.

The reason for Vlado’s modesty was that, in addition to its very acceptable, if plain, cuisine, Star Srbije was also a venue for certain dealings for which publicity was neither necessary nor desirable. Some of those dealings had been instigated by Faraday, and by Michael Lester before him, and had to do with the Anglo-Serbian bond that meant so much to Vlado. It was a timeless bond forged by comradeship during the Partisan struggle against the Ustaše, a bond that would never die while Vlado and his colleagues from those days were around to keep it alive. Other such dealings, however, were in an exclusively Serbian cause. Faraday was careful never to inquire into this cause too closely, and although he did report on it to London from time to time, he did so in very guarded language and took infinite pains not to compromise Vlado in the eyes of the Service.

Vlado welcomed Julia and Imogen as if they were long-lost members of his family, which was how he felt about all the British people he met, but particularly those with ties to the Service. Andrej discreetly disappeared into the cellar with their coats and hats, while Vlado seated them at a table by the wall and close to the door of the cellar, which also offered a good view of the restaurant’s main entrance. In the centre of the table, next to a lighted candle in a pewter holder, was a miniature vase that might have held a single bloom but, in fact, held two miniature flags: the Union Flag, and the red, blue and white Tricolour of Serbia. Next to the candle and the vase stood a bottle of slivovice and a jug of ice. He returned a matter of seconds later in the company of a young waiter bearing plates of delicious pastry appetisers filled with meat and vegetables, bottles of water, and two carafes of a vigorous red wine. He poured shots of the slivovice over ice for the table and for himself, and pointed to the flags.

‘It is discouraged to do such things,’ he said, ‘to display Serbian flag. It is discouraged to be Serbian since the War, although we Serbs fought under Marshal Tito against the fascists, with you, our British friends. This is our reward. Even the name of my restaurant, Star Srbije, they would like me to change it to the Star of Yugoslavia. But of course, I will not, and perhaps not in my time, but in Andrej’s time, we will once again be allowed to be Serbian. But always we will be your friends. Drink, please. Živeli!’

They raised their glasses in response. ‘Živeli!’

Vlado replaced his glass on the table and handed round menus.

‘If you need menu, it is here,’ he said, ‘but menu is only in Serbian language, and so if it would be easier, please allow me to bring you meat and vegetables to your heart’s content, and you will tell me when to stop.’

He disappeared in the direction of the kitchen.

Imogen smiled. ‘So, the menu is mainly for show?’ she asked.

‘I’m not sure I’ve ever looked at it,’ Faraday replied, returning the smile. ‘If you’re wondering what’s good here, the answer is: anything that has the word “Serbian” in the title. Personally, I’m going to let him bring me as much meat and veg as he wants.’

Imogen laughed. ‘Sounds good to me,’ she said.

‘That’s quite a chip Vlado has on his shoulder about being Serbian,’ Julia observed, as they settled down to tackle the excellent grilled beef and pork chops the waiter had brought for them. ‘Obviously, he means, as opposed to being Yugoslavian.’

Faraday nodded, refilling their wine glasses. ‘In reality, “Yugoslavia” is nothing more than a geographical expression. The Balkan territories have been realigned and redistributed so often, had their borders redrawn so often under some peace treaty or other, that most people don’t much care what name the country happens to go by today. That’s not where people’s loyalties lie. They were loyal to Tito, not “Yugoslavia”. You’re either a Serb or a Croat, Orthodox or Catholic – or in this neck of the woods, a Bosnian and maybe a Muslim – and now that Tito’s gone, there’s no one left to hold this country together.’

‘So Vlado is the rule, rather than the exception?’ Imogen asked.

‘Yes,’ Faraday replied. ‘But there’s something you have to understand about Vlado. His loyalties are absolute. That’s why he’s been so useful to us. But it’s also why he remained totally loyal to Tito, even when Tito started locking up Serbs who were too outspoken, in the name of a multi-ethnic Yugoslavia. That must have been a terrible betrayal for him. But Tito had been his commander, his comrade in arms, and for men like Vlado, that’s a loyalty you don’t question. Also, he understood that Tito was under pressure from Moscow to crack down on nationalism… ’ He took a long draught of wine. ‘But Tito was a Croat; and for Vlado to see his Serb friends – men who probably sat down to dinner where we’re sitting this evening – thrown into prison must have been hard.’

‘But won’t the Games help with that?’ Imogen asked. ‘I mean, so much exposure to the outside world can’t be bad, can it?’

‘I’m afraid that one effect of the Games may be to make our government, and the West generally, too complacent,’ Faraday replied. ‘We’ve underestimated nationalist and religious feelings in this part of the world for centuries.’ He paused for some time. ‘Your father was pessimistic about it. He gave Yugoslavia twenty-five years at most before the wheels start to fall off. I’m beginning to think he was right.’

It was after ten when their leisurely dinner ended, despite Vlado’s best efforts to ply them with further food and drink. They paid the very modest bill using Deutsche Marks and prepared to leave as unobtrusively as possible. The restaurant was quiet now, and Andrej was able to spirit them into the cellar, to begin their journey through the looking glass, without attracting attention. Vlado was keeping a discreet watch inside, and would raise the alarm if any other customers left at the same time. No one did. As Faraday had promised, Andrej had dark coats and hats in the heavy local style ready to replace their own. The cellar door dropped them on the street, and then closed quickly behind them. They stood still and silent for two minutes as Faraday allowed his eyes to adjust to the darkness, before screening the street and finding it apparently deserted.

‘Keep close,’ he said, as they set off, ‘and don’t panic if I suddenly turn back or change direction. Andrej will watch our backs for as long as he can. I don’t think we have company, but these people are experts, and if there’s any real sign of trouble, we’re going to abort.’

‘I’ve done this before, with my father,’ Julia whispered quietly.

‘Not here, you haven’t,’ Faraday replied.

8

It was forty minutes later when Faraday finally stopped outside a detached two-storey house on a narrow side street off Bakarevićeva, a wide, leafy thoroughfare. The house appeared dark, except for a solitary flickering light in one downstairs room. Even in the darkness they could see that the exterior looked dilapidated; the tiny front garden had been abandoned, left to run wild and untended. Julia was aware that they had taken forty minutes to complete a ten-minute walk. She had tried to plot their route in her mind as they went along, but she had soon become disorientated by Faraday’s relentlessly fast pace and constant changes in direction. He had led them from Vlado’s cellar door by a circuitous route away from the river and deep into Bistrik. Once she had caught a fleeting glimpse of Andrej: that, she was clear about. But then, they had criss-crossed the main road, walked in circles and doubled back on themselves so often and so abruptly that she lost her bearings. She was impressed. Even by Baxter’s standards, this was meticulous tradecraft and another reason for warming to Faraday. He had paused in front of the door for a last check and, once satisfied, he knocked on the door three times in quick succession. Beside her, Imogen seemed tense. She had not spoken since they left the cellar.

The door was opened by an elderly man dressed in an open-necked shirt and faded blue jeans. His hair was long and unkempt, he was sporting a long grey beard and moustache, and he wore a silver bracelet on his right arm. At first he opened the door only far enough to allow him to inspect his visitors. Once satisfied, he closed the door and released the chain, after which he opened it fully and stood back to allow them to enter.

‘Willkommen in meinem bescheidenen Zuhause. Bitte, kommen ‘rein.’ The man ushered them into what appeared to be the house’s living room, and flicked a switch on the wall to allow two large lamps to add to the dim ceiling light they had observed from outside. Surprisingly, the room was clean and tidy. Newspapers and books covered the dining table, but with them was a bottle of slivovice, a carafe of water, and four glasses. ‘Oscar’ or ‘Ernst Meier’ had been expecting them. Julia stared at the man intently.

‘Ernst, may I introduce Julia Cathermole,’ she heard Faraday say, ‘the solicitor I told you about; and this is her associate, Imogen Lester.’ Imogen shook his hand gingerly.

‘Miss Cathermole, this is…’

‘This is Sir Conrad Rainer,’ Julia said, offering her hand, but still staring. ‘Thank you for the warm welcome, Sir Conrad, but there’s no need for German, is there? We all understand English perfectly well.’