Holy Of Holies Part 7

Then he remembered the telegram. There would be a record of it: though not enough to implicate him in an international conspiracy, perhaps - if he decided to pull out now. Which was exactly what Mason had done.

Oh Christ. Judith had been right. She was usually right. She was right about his drinking, about his morbid self-indulgence, about accounts and tax and all the other fiddling obstacles to a smooth and happy life. He didn't need her to be right about this too.

He realized that the telephone was ringing. He s.n.a.t.c.hed it up and controlledhis breathing. The last thing he wanted them to think was that he was nervous.

Is that 218 1293? Mr Rawcliff?' Charles Rawcliff?' A familiar voice, self-a.s.sured, c.o.c.ky. 'I've got a message for you. You're to stand by.

Everything's been taken care of. Just make sure you've got your pa.s.sport. Four o'clock this morning - marching orders. Pack only essentials. I'll pick you up at the corner of your street.'

'Is that Leslie?'

'Never mind, Mr Rawcliff. No rough stuff, I promise. Just your pa.s.sport and light luggage. And a bit of pocket-money, if you want. You won't need much - it's all found, where you're going. Four am. Okay?'

'How do you know this phone isn't being tapped?'

'I don't. But in this lovely country of ours, it takes time to tap a phone.

One of the beauties of democracy and red tape. See you.'

Rawcliff replaced the receiver, then walked slowly upstairs and kissed Torn goodnight. Then he went in and told his wife about Mason and about the call.

Eight.

John Newby stepped out into the damp winter night and stood sniffing the air like a well-groomed spaniel. He had his hands in his overcoat pockets, flapping the sides open and shut, while he waited for the doorman to bring his car round. The Lancia drew up and he pressed a twenty-pound note into the man's gloved palm.

Newby was a fast, selfish driver who took a sensual pleasure in mastering a lethal machine. But at this hour there was little traffic, no pedestrians. He ignored the glare of headlamps in the driving mirror: then saw the flashing blue light as the police car came level with him. He drew up confidently, pushed" the switch and his window slid down; then he sat waiting while .they strolled deliberately towards him. It was a nuisance, but he knew how to deal with these people.

'Evening, sir. You're in a bit of a hurry, aren't you?'

'I apologize, officer. I may have been going rather fast.'

'For your information, you were touching sixty. You also committed two other moving offences. You shot a pair of lights back there, I'm afraid.'

Newby already had his wallet out and half-open, the inner pockets packed with credit cards and cash. He held it out with a practised gesture, executed with all the guile of one who knows the price of everything. 'Have you been drinking, sir?'

'I beg your pardon, officer?'

A second uniformed man came over with the sealed paper bag. 'I have reason to believe that you may have been drinking,' said the first man. 'Will you just blow into this - a few normal deep breaths.' 'This is outrageous, it is positively indecent!'

'I must caution you, sir. If you refuse, I shall be obliged to arrest you and ask you to accompany me to a police station.'

'I refuse, absolutely. I demand to speak to your superior and to call my lawyer.'

'Very well, sir. I must ask you to leave your car here.'

'Mr John Newby, I am arresting you under Section 8, Paragraph 3 of the Road Traffic Act 1972, for refusing to take the breathalyser test at a police station. Empty your pockets, please.'

'I shall not.'

'Then I shall be obliged to have you searched. Sergeant Hood,' he called, without seeming to raise his voice.

A young man in plain clothes came in and took a long look at Newby. 'Trouble, Sergeant Prentice?'

'Mr Newby here - I've charged him, but he refuses to empty his pockets.'

'Very good. I'll have him stripped.'

'I demand to call my lawyer.' Newby groped, with uncharacteristic clumsiness, inside his coat and brought out a gilt-edged address-book. His soft little hands quivered as he opened it. 'Give me a telephone.'

'I'll have that, for a start.' Hood took the book and stood tapping it against his thigh. He had a hard, sallow face, empty of all innocence and compa.s.sion.

'Empty your pockets, Newby.'

'You are no better than the Gestapo!'

'We could be worse,' Hood said, with a joyless grin.

Newby relented. He -watched, with stiff dignity, as his possessions slowly began to cover the desk, with Hood intoning each item and the Duty Sergeant methodically writing them down in the charge-book. Newby's wallet had been emptied and the money - mostly in twenties and tens -counted into neat piles.

Credit cards, business cards, a number of receipts, club memberships, address-book, three cheque-books; British, Belgian, and international driving-licences, gold watch, diamond ring, and string of worry-beads.

'String of beads/ Hood said. 'Right. Let's sort out this little lot. Total of nine thousand, two hundred and eighty-four pounds. I suppose you can explain how you come to be carrying all this money, Newby?'

'I won it tonight - at a private club. It is most respectable.'

'I'm sure it is. They all are.' He gave a surrept.i.tious nod to the Duty Officer, who removed Newby's address-book, and left the room.

It was very quiet; then an Irish voice shouted from somewhere in the building: 'Brits out! f.u.c.kin' Tans!'

'Shut up, Breakfast,' a voice replied amiably. 'Do they always pay you in cash?' Hood added.

'Invariably.'

'And when you lose? You pay in cash too?'

'Yes, I pay in cash.'

'Don't always trust banks, maybe? You've got at least three different accounts. In different banks. And in different names.'

'My banking arrangements are none of your business. Now, I demand to speak to my lawyer, at once!' Newby's breathing had become tight and heavy. 'And I must be allowed to see a doctor. I suffer from asthma.'

'You can see a doctor and a lawyer, just as soon as we've decided exactly who you are.' Hood looked at him and smiled like a razor. 'Where shall we start?

Two of these driving-licences have you down as Newby, the other as Monsieur Rebot' - he p.r.o.nounced the name pa.s.sably well -'and we've also got three names. Quite a choice! Tallant for the American Express and Chase Manhattan.

Burg for the Credit Suisse and Diners' Club, as well as an account at Harrods and Fortnum's. Lucky Burg! And a dozen cards for Mr Kyriades of Larnaca and Athens.' He leant forward with both hands on the table. 'Which one are you?'

'I can explain.'

'I think you'd better. You're not leaving here until you do.'

Hood said, 'This is Detective Superintendent Muncaster. We're treating you seriously, Newby - or whatever your name is.' He turned to Muncaster, 'He's not being very cooperative, sir. Four aliases, and this bunch of cards in a Greek name..Says he's an international business man and finds it convenient to have a number of ident.i.ties.'

Muncaster sat down at the corner, of the table. 'Any chance of a cup of coffee, Sergeant?'

'Right away, sir.'

'And you, Newby? Perhaps you'd prefer tea?'

'I demand to call my lawyer. You have absolutely no right to hold me here. I have only committed a minor traffic offence. I know the law of this country!

You officials! My G.o.d, you will be sorry you ever saw me.'

'You have a British pa.s.sport, Mr Newby. You also have Belgian nationality, in the name of Jean Rebot. Tallant and Burg are a subsidiary of the French electronics company, Entreprise Lipp.' He spoke gently, watching Newby with a fixed eye.

Newby reached for his handkerchief - the only possession they had returned to him - and dabbed at his upper lip. He had begun to breathe heavily again, in a panting wheeze. 'I have a suite at the Churchill Hotel. I am registered under the name of Tallant for personal reasons. I request to be allowed to return there. I suffer from asthma, and I do not have my tablets with me.'

Hood had returned, with two paper cups, of coffee and tea, in time to hear this last plea of Newby's. He seemed amused; his smile became almost amiable.

'I had an aunt once who had asthma. Psychosomatic, they said it was. Came onwhen she got nervous. Are you nervous, chum?'

'I refuse to answer any more questions until I have been allowed to make a phone call.'

'Mr Newby,' Muncaster said, 'I don't think you quite appreciate the gravity of your situation.'

'My situation is simply that I am being held here against my will! I was arrested on a charge of having refused to submit to the breathalyser, when I was not even drunk, and now you are treating me like a major criminal!'

'You are being held here, among other things, on suspicion of possessing stolen credit cards and cheque-books. I should add that refusing to cooperate with the police can itself be a serious offence.'

Newby glanced helplessly round at Hood, but found no - hard pa.s.sionless face.

Muncaster had leant I and sat rubbing the end of his long nose.

"AD right. Let him make his call, Sergeant. Just the one.'

Newby started to reach inside his jacket, then seemed to hesitate; perhaps he had remembered that they'd taken his address-book. In any case, he didn't ask for it; instead, as though reluctant to call his solicitor direct at this hour, he began to dial a number from memory. The two policemen watched him, closely yet detached - they would rarely watch anyone doing anything in any other way. The line answered almost at once, and Newby said, in a careful voice, 'Peters -it's John. I'm having a little trouble.'

Pause. From somewhere outside, a m.u.f.fled voice, 'I was only practisin', officer! Honest to G.o.d I was!'

Newby said, 'Awkward business, with the police. Yes. Yes. Call him at once and say I need him.' He looked up at Muncaster. 'Which station is this?'

Muncaster told him, and Newby repeated the name into the phone. 'Tell him to get out here quickly. It is most urgent.'

Hood was grinning as he took the receiver from Newby's hands and replaced it in the cradle. 'He's going to love you for getting him out at this hour. What does he know you as, by the way? Newby or Burg "or Rebot or Tallant? Or maybe Mr Kyriades, from Larnaca, Cyprus? Whatever it is, he's going to be earning his fee!'

Later that morning Muncaster was back at his desk at the Yard, dog-tired, sipping stale coffee, while his head sang with the ring of telephones, clatter of typewriters and teleprinters, doors banging, boots stamping. Why were today's policemen such a d.a.m.ned noisy lot? He has always believed in doing the job quietly. It was the television that did it, he was certain of it.

They had at least another forty-eight hours in which to hold Newby, who was still at Lucan Place, and still not talking.

Otherwise, all quiet. Thurgood still hadn't stirred. They had traced Peters, through the phone-number which Newby had dialled at the station, to a flat in Bayswater. But either Peters was a late-riser, or he'd taken the hint of Newby's arrest and was lying low. The same went for Ritchie.

Pa.s.sport Office, Petty France, had come through with some interesting, but somewhat otiose details about Newby. Born Ali Nubi, in Iraq, 1932. NaturalizedBritish, taking name of John Newby, in 1947, father deceased 1949; no details of mother. Pa.s.sport renewed in Cyprus, 1957, 1962. Present pa.s.sport valid and correct. No knowledge of dual nationality.

A check with the Cyprus High Commission could tie up nothing definitely with Kyriades of Larnaca, who was apparently a modestly successful figure in the shipping business; otherwise the Cypriots weren't putting themselves out.

The Belgians had also called back, to inform Muncaster that Jean-Baptiste Rebot had been born in Stanleyville, in the former Belgian Congo, in 1932, and that he held a Belgian pa.s.sport. They weren't prepared to add anything, and Muncaster thought it inappropriate at this stage to start muddying the waters with an EEC ally. But it was all extra ammunition, in case Colgrave started playing for broke.

He was on his tenth cup of coffee and looking forward to a ploughman's lunch and a pint, when Patrol from outside Nelson's Wharf, Albert Dock, called in: girl middle-twenties, small features, brown-to-reddish hair, wearing beige safari trouser-suit, carrying two cases, had arrived at Subject's flat at 10.32 am, left at 11.14, driven in Subject's Jaguar to London Airport. Checked in at 12.45 for Olympic Airways, Flight 296 to Athens, first-cla.s.s. Name Ms rpt Ms Joanna Sheila Shelby.

Fifteen minutes later the call came from Heathrow. 'Morning, Cyril. Haven't talked to you since we found that plastic eye-ball. How are we?'

'Come on, what have you got?'

'She's twenty-eight and what we vulgarly call out here, "a knockout". Not down on any of our records, but you might know more about that than we do?'

'Well, let's have it.'

'Right, it's all here. She boarded the Athens flight, as you said. Pa.s.sport has her down as "social worker". Both Customs and Immigration gave her a light quiz, and she said she was working for the VSO in Cyprus, and was going out to Greece for a holiday to stay with some friends near Athens. Only carrying 28 in cash, no travellers' cheques. Nothing fishy about her luggage.

Pricey, but not out-of-line.'

Not out-of-line? Nothing fishy! thought Muncaster. A social worker flying to Athens, first-cla.s.s? There were plenty of pretty girls around, but somebody was obviously picking up a handsome price-tag on this one. Ritchie, perhaps?

And Cyprus. Cyprus was cropping up rather too often to be a coincidence.

He registered a quick mental note, as he reached for the scrambler and made his routine call to Suchard. The languid gentleman's voice had taken on a mild sharpness, a reminder to the Superintendent that he was not merely operating in the line of duty - if he stumbled and fell down on this job, there wouldn't be just an inquest. That seaside bungalow was getting no nearer. On the other hand, if he pulled it off -well, he'd get smiles all round, and maybe a commendation. While Suchard, of course, would take all the glory.

'So he still hasn't sung? What are they doing to him down there, for G.o.d's sake? Trying to poison him with their tea?'

'His stomach's upset,' Muncaster said, without humour. 'It does tend to interrupt the interrogation.'

'I may have something for you,' Suchard went on. 'Nothing you boys will beable to hang a label on - just what we might call a canard. By the way, have you talked to the Board of Trade recently?' he added, with meticulous timing.

Muncaster saw the warning light. He replied carefully, 'All Newby's credentials in that area appear to be in order, sir. We're still waiting for the Revenue boys -'

'I am not interested in the Revenue boys, Muncaster.' Suchard spoke with intense precision. 'You have the record there. Two shops in Kensington and Chelsea, specializing in kinky underwear. Fairly high-cla.s.s, and imported from France. The main supplier is a women's clothing supermarket in Paris, behind the Gare St Lazare. A reputable establishment, according to my sources. Sole proprietor, a Monsieur Charles Auguste Pol.' He paused. 'Are the bells tinkling, Cyril?'

Muncaster said nothing.

'The fat French gangster. The one we don't like. Put it to Newby - gently, just to show we've broken his sh.e.l.l. It might just do the trick.'

'Will do, sir.' Muncaster hung up and sat staring at nothing. I must be getting old, he thought. Suchard had already warned him about Pol: that the man was big time, a real rogue and a menace. The question was, how big was Newby? Big enough to be employed by Pol; but that didn't necessarily mean much. Pol made a habit of employing dispensable people, and if Newby was nothing else, he was eminently dispensable. Any man who walked round London with a flashy diamond ring and his pockets stuffed with cash and incriminating cards of ident.i.ty must be on a strictly short-term contract, Muncaster decided. It was just his luck that it had taken him this long to realize the connection, while Suchard had pipped him to the post.