Part 19 (1/2)

'For G.o.d's sake, Bryant, be realistic for once in your life!' Land shouted, startling them both. 'We have no funding, no offices, nowhere to work, no supporta”nothing, you understand? It's all gone. Everything you worked for all these years, it's finished, over.' He dropped his head into his hands, surrept.i.tiously eyeing the aspirin bottle on his desk. 'Go home, I can't talk to you anymore.'

'Well, I'm very disappointed that you won't go to bat for us,' said Bryant. 'It can't end here, you know. So long as we can pre-vent a single death, there's cause to go on.'

'Really? Are you sure you're not doing this for yourself, because you know that without the unit you have absolutely nothing left?'

'That was cruel, Raymond.' Bryant did his best to look hurt. 'You've been hanging around with people from the Home Office for too long. There was a time when you cared about doing the right thing.'

'I have to be practical about this. I looked inside the envelope you put in my jacket at Oswald's wake, Arthur. I know I wasn't supposed to, but curiosity got the better of me. You'd reached the decision to resign, and I know how you feel. Out of step with the present day. Heaven knows I've felt that often enough. I have no idea what people are thinking anymore; all I know is that I don't like anyone very much. Some evenings I walk to the station and it seems as though every Londoner un-der forty is completely drunk. I'm getting to the point where I hate everyone. No wonder people shut themselves away. So you see, I understand your position. That's why I have to accept your resignation.'

'But I don't want to resign now. I have a reason for not doing so.'

'The case is closed.'

'No, it's not.'

'You identified the murderer.' 'Yes, I did.'

'You caught him red-handed.' 'Yes, that's true.'

'And now you're saying he didn't do it after all.' 'No, I'm saying he did.'

'Then how in G.o.d's name can someone else have done it?'

'I! Don't! Know!' Bryant realised they were shouting at each other, and turned his hearing aid down a fraction. 'But. I. Am. Going. To. Find. Out.'

He saw Land turning red and shouting something back, but had no idea what he was saying. 'Good,' he said. 'I'm glad that's settled. I'll get back to work.'

Land's next sentence was more creatively constructed than anything he had said in the last five years, mainly because it was spectacularly obscene, but Bryant heard nothing at all as he left the room.

'I've got something for you,' April told her grandfather, commandeering his laptop and flipping open a file before him. 'You'll love this; it's technology gone mad. In November 2005 Jocelyn Roquesby caught a flight to Ancona in Italy. She returned from Rome five days later. Giles found a torn piece of the ticket stub in the bottom of her handbag. He gave it to Dan Banbury, who used the information to locate her British Airways frequent-flyer number. By buying an on-line ticket in her name, he was able to access the rest of her personal data.'

'You can do that?' asked John May in surprise.

'We're simply stealing the tricks of the ident.i.ty thieves,' said April. 'From that tiny row of digits Dan was able to get her pa.s.sport number, her nationality and her date of birth, but better still, they led us to Roquesby's home address, academic qualifications, profession and current account details. We can tell you what car she drove, how much she bought her house fora”and where she was working. Dan reckons most machine-readable ID doc.u.ments carry flaws that make them pretty easy to crack. Although the new RFID-chipped pa.s.sports demanded by the U.S. have military-standard data encryption technology, they're unlocked by supposedly ”secret” keys that use readily available information. There are ident.i.ty thieves who just work the airports, reading doc.u.ments over travellers' shoulders and entering data into cell phones.'

'So who was Jocelyn Roquesby working for?'

A company called Theseus Research, based in King's Cross but registered out of Brussels. Dan cross-checked their employment records and came up with a total of seven names in the same London department, employed over roughly the same dates. Guess who they were?'

'Roquesby, Joanne Kellerman, Naomi Curtis, Carol Wynley and Jazmina Sherwin.'

'Close. You're right about the first four. But it looks like Uncle Arthur was correct about Sherwin not being part of the canonical selection of victims, though, because we have new names in fifth, sixth and seventh places.'

'The ones we haven't found.' May leaned forward and read down the screen.'My G.o.d, I recognise one of them.'

'You do?'

May found himself looking at three further female ident.i.tiesa”Mary Sinclair, Jennifer Winslow and Jackie Quinten.

'Mrs Quinten has helped the unit out in the past. She's the lady who keeps trying to get Arthur to come over for dinner. Have you tried calling them all?'

'I've spoken to Jennifer Winslow; she's currently working at Ohio State University, and we can therefore a.s.sume her to be out of danger, at least until she returns next week. Mary Sinclair is at home in London, and we're providing her with immediate police protection, although from what or whom I have absolutely no idea. Right now, Jackie Quinten is our problem. There's no answer from her landline or her cell phone. Meera is on her way to Mrs Quinten's house in Kentish Town to see what's happened.'

'Poor Arthur,' said May. 'I think he has a bit of a soft spot for her. He knocked a drink over her at the Yorks.h.i.+re Grey and had a moan about her hara.s.sing him for a dinner date, but I know he secretly loves being pampered. He'll never forgive himself if something has happened to her.'

38.

DISAPPEARANCE.

M.

eera Mangeshkar peered in through the kitchen window and saw rows of polished copper pots, steel utensils, framed maps, memorabilia collected from ca.n.a.l barges, Victorian vases and jugs filled with dried flowers. But of Mrs Quinten, there was no sign.

'You're wasting your time,' said a gap-toothed pensioner who was unnecessarily clipping the front hedge next door. 'She's gone out.'

'Do you know where?' asked Mangeshkar. 'She's got a sister in Hemel Hempsted, but I don't know if that's where she is. The lights have been off since this morning.'

'She could still be inside. She might have had an accident. Is there a side door?'

'You're a copper, aren't you?' Meera bristled. 'Is it that obvious?'

'We don't get many coppers round here anymore. You can come over my garden wall, it's an easy climb. Jackie always leaves the back window ajar. She knows it's safe because I never go out, so I don't miss anything. But you're wasting your time, because I saw her go out over an hour ago.' 'Did she seem all right to you?'

'Fine, dressed for the shops, coat and handbag, not like she was having a funny turn, if that's what you're implying.'

Anything unusual about her?'

'I remember thinking she looked a bit worried.'

'You didn't ask her what about?'

'Oh no, I keep to my own business.'

'And you're sure she didn't come back?'

'Positive, because I was watching at the front window.'

'In that case,' said Meera, 'I think I will hop over your fence and take a look around.'

Her arms were slender enough to fit through the gap in the window and unclip the latch. Climbing through, her boots touched down into the darkened lounge. Once inside, she opened the curtains. Hundreds of neatly rolled maps were stacked against the walls almost to the ceiling, but apart from that, everything appeared as it should be, magazines folded, cups washed, an ashtray emptied. A single wooden hanger lay on the bed, left where Mrs Quinten had donned her overcoat.