Jigsaw Read online

  ‘What did Gunderson call it? Nose-thumbing? Maybe he’s right. Perhaps she wants to goad you. She wants to say Come on, Frank, catch me. Let’s see how bloody good you are. Find me.’

  Pagan was drawn into the circle of light on the white screen. If you looked long enough you might imagine yourself hypnotized. Sleep, Frank. Relax. Everything’s going to be warm and comfortable. The central-heating pipes knocked and moaned and vibrated for a few seconds. ‘Let’s get out of here.’

  They went down from the attic and entered Pagan’s office. He sat behind his desk, banged his hands together. ‘OK. First we need to find out how she entered the country. And then how she left, assuming she didn’t want to hang around. Put Billy Ewing on that. Airline companies. Trains. The usual. Tell him the kind of aliases she likes to use.’

  ‘Will do,’ Foxie said.

  Pagan drifted a second, trying to imagine Carlotta descending into the Underground station, moving through rush-hour crowds to the platform – but he couldn’t force the vision along. It lay in his mind ill-formed, a Polaroid picture eaten round the edges by acid. He got up, walked the room.

  ‘If she did the train, who instructed her?’ he asked. ‘Who’s the paymaster, Foxie? I don’t see her randomly blowing up a train. I don’t imagine she woke up one morning and said, Hey, what a bloody good idea to put a bomb in the Tube. No, somebody contracted her services. And the reason she didn’t call and leave a fake message blaming the business on the IRA or some other terrorist outfit is because she wants me to know that she’s the one responsible. She knew I’d see her message. She knew I’d make the connection.’ He thought: A game, another of her games. This one especially deadly. This one beyond a simple, if persuasive, attempt at seduction. This one in an altogether different category.

  Billy Ewing suddenly appeared in the doorway. ‘We’ve got full identification of the victims now. I’ve run all the names. They’re clean. Nothing strange. Except for one small thing, which probably doesn’t have any connection with our business.’

  ‘And what’s that, Billy?’

  ‘There was an American in the carriage. Name of Harcourt. Bryce Harcourt.’

  Pagan experienced a certain quickening, an alertness. ‘What about him?’

  ‘Nothing really. It just so happened he made out a complaint to the Hampstead police about his car the day before the explosion. Seems somebody slashed all four tyres. The usual mindless vandalism. Expensive tyres, I’d say. The car’s a Mercedes, top-of-the-line job.’

  Pagan glanced at Foxie, who said, ‘Isn’t he the chap from the US Embassy?’

  Pagan nodded. ‘Is there an address for Harcourt?’

  ‘There is.’

  ‘Let me have it, Billy.’

  Ewing wrote it down, handed Pagan a sheet of paper torn from his notebook. The address was in Hampstead, a street close to the Heath.

  They drove through St John’s Wood and Swiss Cottage. On Finchley Road Pagan watched hapless shoppers scurry around beneath umbrellas. He told Foxie about his meeting with Victoria Canningsby and her description of Harcourt as a frightened man.

  ‘Harcourt’s name comes up once. Fine,’ he said. ‘I don’t pay it much attention. It comes up a second time, I get interested. Three times now. Three times intrigues me, Foxie.’

  ‘This Quarterman fellow led you to understand Harcourt was a researcher of sorts—’

  ‘Which caused Mrs Canningsby a moment of amazement.’

  ‘Why would Quarterman mislead you?’

  ‘I can only think of one reason. Harcourt was working in a sensitive area. Grosvenor Square has its share of spooks. We all know that. If Harcourt was one of them, Quarterman wasn’t going to announce it. So he wants to defuse any intrigue instantly by calling on me and telling me poor Bryce was low on the totem at the Embassy.’

  Pagan turned his face from the sight of the rainy street. ‘It’s going to be damn hard to get to the bottom of it anyway. Grosvenor Square’s like the Kremlin. You can’t just start poking round the place. The marines would have you in front of a firing-squad in no time.’

  Foxie turned the Rover in the direction of Hampstead Heath. ‘Consider this,’ he said. ‘What if Harcourt, because of his job, was the target? What if he was the only target?’

  ‘You keep coming back to this notion of a single victim, Foxie, which throws my head into turmoil. Somebody – we’ll assume Carlotta – goes to the trouble of wiping out more than a hundred lives to get one man. Why, for Christ’s sake? There are more economical ways to dispose of an individual. A single bullet in the skull on a dark night would be infinitely easier.’ He had the urge to light a cigarette but then remembered he’d left them in his flat. He tapped the pockets of his coat in the hope of finding a stray that might have fallen from the packet. Nothing.

  He turned to look at Foxie. ‘OK. Let’s say for the sake of argument your hypothesis has some plausibility. Then it’s a short simple step to the idea that somebody deliberately hobbled Harcourt’s car—’

  ‘So that he was obliged to travel by Tube.’

  ‘Exactly. He’s obliged to take the Tube because that’s where he’s going to be killed. Where does that leave us?’

  ‘One thought does occur, Frank. And it isn’t altogether pleasant. The whole thing’s a diversion. A show. A bit of the old legerdemain.’

  ‘It’s a bloody awful diversion. We’re supposed to think it’s an act of terrorism – carried out by Carlotta – when what we’re really dealing with is the murder of a single man. Harcourt’s just another name on the list. Another number. We don’t pay him too much attention because we don’t have the time, the manpower, et cetera. Everybody’s in a state of shock. The nation is outraged. So the death of one American isn’t going to attract attention – that’s what you’re saying.’

  ‘It’s only a suggestion,’ Foxie said.

  A diversion, Pagan thought. A smokescreen. A massacre in the tunnel because one man had to be eliminated. He had to stretch for this concept.

  Foxie parked the Rover outside a Victorian house, a well-maintained structure of solid yellowy brick that extolled the imperial virtues of another time, when the world wasn’t jerrybuilt and bricklayers knew their game and waistcoated businessmen listened to their daughters play the pianoforte on Sunday afternoons.

  Pagan got out of the car. He stared in the direction of the Heath, where wind and rain rubbed raggedly against trees. He stepped towards the house, followed by Foxie, whose coat was caught by the wind and whipped back. In the driveway was a silver Mercedes 450SL with flat tyres. Pagan bent down, examined the slashes in the rubber. A pretty thorough job, done with enthusiastic malice.

  He moved up the driveway. The house had been split into two separate flats. Harcourt’s name was on the upper bell. The lower nameplate said: Gilman. Pagan pressed Gilman’s buzzer and within moments the front door was opened by a thin barefoot man who wore a white silk robe and black glasses. Pagan showed his ID. The man, who said his name was Victor Gilman, swayed slightly in the doorway; there was a whiff of booze on his breath. He was about five cocktails down, Pagan thought.

  ‘And what can I do for dear old Scotland Yard?’ Gilman asked. ‘What can I do for London’s finest, eh?’

  ‘We want to talk about Bryce Harcourt. Your upstairs neighbour.’

  ‘A gentleman from head to toe,’ said Gilman. ‘Altogether delightful.’

  ‘We need access to his apartment,’ Pagan said.

  Gilman lost his balance a second, slipped against the door frame, laughed. ‘Pardon my equilibrium. I had a bad night. And I was obliged to take the cure today. Naughty of me.’

  ‘Very naughty,’ Pagan said, and stepped past Gilman into the hallway, followed by Foxie.

  ‘Have you got a warrant?’ Gilman asked.

  ‘I don’t have time for niceties, friend,’ Pagan said. ‘Harcourt has been killed.’

  ‘Killed?’

  ‘Believed murdered.’

  ‘Murdered? Dear God. Murdered
?’ Gilman’s silk robe parted, revealing a pair of red briefs and thin white hairless legs. ‘Murdered?’

  ‘Do you have a key to Harcourt’s flat?’

  Gilman took off his dark glasses. His eyes were bloodshot. ‘Who would murder a sweet fellow like Bryce, for heaven’s sake?’

  Pagan moved along the hallway to the foot of the stairs. Gilman, robe flapping, followed.

  ‘I don’t have a key,’ Gilman said.

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’ Pagan was already halfway up the stairs and Gilman, with the lurching movements of the drunk, was following.

  Pagan reached the landing. The door to Harcourt’s flat was sturdy. The lock was a simple business, though, a Yale. He looked at Foxie, ‘Do your thing,’ he said.

  Foxworth said, ‘It’s been a while, Frank. I may be rusty.’ He studied the lock a second, then took from his pocket a Swiss Army knife. He inserted a thin blade into the Yale and twisted it a couple of times. Gilman was still bemoaning Harcourt’s murder.

  Foxworth withdrew the knife. ‘I must have lost my touch, Frank. I can’t shift it.’

  Pagan stepped back. ‘We’ll do it my way.’ He lunged, kicked the door hard, heard the wood around the lock splinter as the door shuddered and sprung open.

  Gilman was making retching sounds. ‘Murdered. I can’t believe it.’ He was sick all at once; a sticky substance bubbled from his lips.

  ‘Why don’t you go back to your flat and lie down,’ Pagan said.

  ‘Great idea.’ Gilman stumbled across the landing. ‘Lie down. Yes. Indeed. Will do.’ He made more retching sounds, and clutched his stomach as he descended in his clumsy manner.

  Pagan and Foxworth went inside Harcourt’s flat. It was furnished sparsely but with a certain taste, if you enjoyed the minimalist look. Chrome and black leather, a coffee table that was some kind of transparent perspex cube. Harcourt clearly hadn’t liked clutter. The dining-room contained only a glass-topped table and four simple chairs. No pictures on the walls. The bedroom was simple enough – large unmade double-bed, burgundy silk sheets, bedside lamp.

  Pagan glanced round the bedroom, looked inside the bathroom, tiles and mirrors and recessed lights, everything tidy, toothbrush in place, razor placed neatly on a tub of shaving-soap, clean towels hung in precise arrangements. He wandered inside the living-room, which contained a leather sofa and a single armchair; shelves of books, mainly old Penguin paperbacks. Harcourt’s desk was situated beneath the shelves. A telephone, an answering-machine, a small stack of bills. Pagan had that curious sense of trespass he always felt in the apartments of the dead. Harcourt’s life had been cut off abruptly and his possessions had the aura of objects displayed in a museum, of things no longer useful.

  He sifted the bills. Harcourt used an American Express Platinum card extensively; his bill consisted mainly of restaurant charges, expensive ones, but there were also three charges from florists. Flowers for his girlfriends, Pagan thought. Also an electricity bill, and a letter written by a young woman called Louise who lived in Chicago. It’s bitterly cold here right now. I wish the summer would come. I wish we could be together.

  He opened the desk drawers. There was more correspondence from women, affectionate letters written by lovers or former lovers. Harcourt had obviously been the kind of man who knew how to break off an affair without acrimony. Quite a gift, Pagan thought.

  In another drawer he found some unused stationery from the American Embassy. There was also the predictable collection of rubber bands, paper-clips, matchbooks, and a stapler. Nothing unusual. There was no sign of a diary, an appointment book.

  Foxie came in from the bedroom. ‘He bought expensive shirts and suits,’ he said. ‘He also had a goodly supply of condoms in the drawer of the bedside table.’

  ‘Busy man,’ Pagan said. He closed the desk drawers. ‘Funny. I don’t get much of an impression of this person. I know he was fond of women, but what else? There’s something absent from this place. It’s as if he didn’t really live here. Or if he did he didn’t leave any marks behind.’ He thought of his own flat in Holland Park, a place of clutter, a lived-in place, scarred and scuffed and crumpled. There was no crumple in Bryce Harcourt’s flat.

  ‘Maybe he was just tidy,’ Foxie said.

  Pagan sat on the sofa. ‘He doesn’t have a music collection. There’s a radio but no turntable, no CD player, nothing like that. A seducer of women who doesn’t play music. I find that odd.’

  ‘There isn’t a TV either,’ said Foxie.

  ‘That’s to his credit,’ Pagan said.

  Foxie looked at the bookshelves, removed a copy of Lady Chatterley’s Lover, skimmed the pages, then returned the book. ‘He obviously preferred books to telly.’

  Pagan strolled inside the kitchen. Pots and pans hung on the walls. The tiled work surfaces were spotless. The cabinets contained an array of Baxter’s soups. Scotch broth. Cream of pheasant. The refrigerator was practically empty; a carton of milk, an apple shrivelled to the size of a walnut, two jars of spaghetti sauce, a single brown egg to which a fleck of feather adhered. There were no notes pinned to walls or magnetized to the refrigerator. No reminders, no shopping lists, no telephone numbers. Inside a closet Pagan found a half-drunk bottle of Rémy Martin and a couple of prescription bottles. One contained sleeping pills, the other antibiotics. The antibiotics hadn’t been used, but the sleeping pills had. So Bryce needed a little help dozing off at night.

  Pagan went back into the living-room. Foxie was standing at the desk, gazing at the answering-machine, whose red light was blinking.

  ‘Let’s hear the messages,’ Pagan said.

  Foxie pushed the playback button, the tape whirred a second. A woman’s voice said Bryce, sweetheart, why don’t you give me a call? You know my number. Have you made any decision about Robin’s party? The message ended. The voice hadn’t been Mrs Canningsby’s. The next message was from another woman. Bryce? This is DeeDee Gauge. Are you interested in making up the numbers at a dinner party next Friday night? It’s at Daxen’s place and I suppose it will be a bit of a bloody bore because they always are but a promise is a promise is a promise. Anyway. Do let me know, will you? Love and kisses. There was a sucking sound and then the message ended.

  ‘He had women coming out the woodwork,’ Foxie said. ‘Maybe he suffered from satyriasis.’

  The machine was silent a second before the third and final message played. This time it was a man’s voice. Bryce. This is Jake Streik. Listen. Listen. If you’re there, pick up. OK. I need to talk with you. How are things holding up at your end? I got problems. Listen. I’ll get back to you later tonight if I can. You want my advice, get the fuck outta London. Get away from The Undertakers, unnerstand? Walk away from all that shit. If you don’t you’re a dead man … Bryce? You there? Bryce?

  Pagan listened attentively. ‘Play that one again, Foxie.’

  Foxie rewound the tape, turned up the volume because the sound was faint, distant, as if the call had originated in another country. Pagan listened to the message a second time. When it was over, he walked to the window and looked out at the rainswept heath. He remembered Victoria Canningsby’s words. I believe I’m correct in saying Bryce feared for his life. And now this Streik: if you don’t you’re a dead man.

  ‘He sounds desperate,’ Foxie said.

  ‘Panic-stricken. I wonder what his problems are and how they’re connected to Bryce Harcourt. Why was he urging Harcourt to get out of London?’

  ‘And who are The Undertakers?’ Foxie asked. ‘Is Streik using a euphemism along the lines of Grim Reaper?’

  Pagan turned from the window. Something was shifting in his head, a gear changing, as if all at once this investigation was drawing him in directions he didn’t want to go. Foxie’s suggestion that Harcourt’s presence on the train was the only reason for the bomb – this suddenly shed its outer skin of implausibility. He wasn’t prepared to accept it completely just yet, but it had taken shape at the back of his mind as a possibility, a small fungu
s in a cellar. What the hell was there in Harcourt’s life that had made him a victim, that had Jake Streik so worried about him? Why had he lived in fear? Get away from The Undertakers.

  Pagan didn’t like how his thoughts were becoming fractured, webby little strands that billowed this way and that.

  ‘OK. Let’s say Carlotta planted the device. Let’s imagine Bryce was the only target. What the hell did he do to deserve to be killed? Why would somebody hire Carlotta to kill him?’ He sat on the sofa and looked round the room in a stricken manner. ‘What I want to know is the connection between Streik and Harcourt. I want to know what kind of trouble Harcourt and Streik were in.’

  ‘Exactly how do you propose to achieve that?’

  Pagan rose, picked up the telephone directory, looked up the number for the American Embassy. ‘The logical place to start would be with a certain Al Quarterman. Maybe he can throw some light on the matter.’

  He dialled the number. The phone rang for a long time before it was picked up by a woman who said, ‘United States Embassy.’

  Pagan asked to speak with Quarterman.

  ‘Can I say who’s calling?’

  ‘Frank Pagan.’

  Pagan waited. There was a certain amount of clicking on the line. Then he heard Al Quarterman’s voice.

  ‘Frank. What can I do for you?’

  ‘I’d like a meeting.’

  ‘Has something come up?’

  ‘You might say that.’

  ‘I don’t have anything on this afternoon so far as I can see.’

  ‘You know Brown’s Hotel?’

  ‘I can find it.’

  ‘Meet me there in an hour.’

  ‘Fine.’ Quarterman hung up.