Deadly Intent (22 page)

In spite of leaving Beara well before sunrise, it was lunchtime by the time she arrived in central London. First, there had been a two-hour drive to Cork airport and the usual wait before boarding; then there were endless corridors to navigate in Heathrow and an irritating delay while she acquired some sterling cash; and finally, there was an interminable journey on the underground to King's Cross station. It was an illusion, she thought to herself, that getting from one country to another could be done in a quick hop.

The café Zoe had nominated was an old-fashioned place on a back street near the station, with formica tables and a heavy smell of fried breakfasts. The menu did not feature such exotica as lattés and cappuccinos, and as Nessa settled on a stodgy-looking muffin with her cup of tea, she wondered whether Zoe's new information would be worth the journey.

‘I've been reading the latest garbage on the news websites,' said Zoe, bouncing in the door to greet her. ‘That interview Jack Talbot did with Maureen is a disgrace. She's in no state to be exposed to vipers like him.'

Nessa had read through the article several times in a Sunday paper. ‘I'd say Jack was happy with what he got,' she said cautiously. She did not mention her own visit to Maureen – the more she thought about it, the more it disturbed her.

‘I'm sure he put words in her mouth. Saying she hadn't meant to make Dominic jealous, or to have two men fighting over her. It's so tacky, isn't it?'

‘That's one word for it alright.'

‘And what was the bit about being proud of Dominic in spite of everything? She pretty well pointed the finger at him there, surely?'

‘Yes, but Jack covered himself by doing a separate piece with Dominic, which emphasised the alibi he claims to have.'

‘It's all just a way of selling papers, isn't it, Nessa? Talbot doesn't really give a toss who murdered Oscar, as long as his own name is up there in big block capitals. He did his best to pin it on Patrick, and when that didn't quite work out, he turned his sights on Dominic and Maureen.'

Nessa nodded, pleased to see Stella arrive at the door. Zoe got up to fetch coffee for her sister, explaining at the same time that Stella had some useful names for Nessa, to help her find out more about Oscar's business abroad. ‘That stuff in the paper is a sideshow,' she added as she stood up. ‘I think Oscar's death has very little to do with Beara.'

Nessa scanned a sheet of paper given to her by Stella, once they had exchanged greetings. It listed a number of academic specialists on Middle Eastern countries, including Saudi Arabia, Bahrain and Egypt – countries whose political history Stella lectured on.

‘It's best if you phone these people directly to ask if they've picked up any controversies about Oscar's dealings,' she said to Nessa. ‘You can mention that you've spoken to me.' Her manner was quiet and apologetic as usual, and even her soft grey suit was understated in style. Nessa reflected that the two sisters were as different to each other as Oscar and Fergus Malden. Then again, that was common enough in families.

‘I've something even better to show you,' Zoe declared. She placed two off-white mugs on the formica table and Nessa got a whiff of instant coffee. ‘Or rather, my friend Ben will be here in a minute, and he'll show you what we found. He works for the campaign I told you about, trying to expose the whole horrible arms industry for what it is.'

‘You seem to have got a very quick result,' said Nessa, smiling. ‘Was that just a stroke of luck?'

‘Well, I showed Ben a selection of the coverage since the murder, and believe it or not, it was Jack Talbot who sent us in the right direction. Not one of his articles, but that photo we talked about before, showing Oscar having a love-in with Saudi government officials.'

‘The one he linked to Patrick's activist friends, you mean, who were taking part in a protest against executions in Saudi Arabia?'

‘Exactly. Our new find has nothing to do with Patrick, of course, but nasty Jack could turn out to have his uses after all. And here comes Ben now.' Zoe looked towards the door as a dark-haired young man came in. Nessa noticed her blush, and it occurred to her that incriminating files might not be the only attraction in his office.

Ben sat down quickly, apologising for being short of time, and after exchanging glances with Zoe, he produced a glossy booklet from a folder and handed it to Nessa.

‘This is just the warm-up,' said Zoe. ‘It could explain where Oscar's riches really came from.'

The booklet was an advertising brochure for a major weapons fair held in London three years earlier. It was one of the largest trade fairs in the world, according to the blurb, drawing together almost a thousand companies to display everything from tanks to assault rifles to surveillance equipment, and providing a prime opportunity for suppliers and customers to get to know one another and assess trends in ‘this vibrant market', as it was described.

‘How did you get hold of the brochure?' asked Nessa. ‘I'd imagine the local tourist office didn't hand them out?'

‘No, indeed. Attendance at the event is by invitation only, and military staff, businesses and civil servants in over fifty countries get the call. The British government spends millions promoting this kind of thing.'

‘In other words, it's the hard-pressed taxpayers who fork out the millions,' said Zoe, ‘but they're told nothing about it. So we never hear reports on the main evening news highlighting the latest advances in how to kill people more efficiently while making an obscene profit into the bargain.'

‘That's true enough,' said Ben, ‘but there are a few people in the media trying to publicise the issue. I got into this event three years ago with the help of a small television company who made a documentary on it. They put me down on their paperwork as a researcher so that I could get past the layers of security.'

He spoke in a businesslike manner, and Nessa noticed that he was dressed in a well-cut jacket and sober shirt. He certainly did not conform to the long-haired slogan-bearing stereotype of anti-war activists.

‘Ben and the TV people did some secret filming at the so-called fair,' said Zoe admiringly. ‘You saw army generals from a number of impoverished countries, didn't you, strutting around in their shiny uniforms and plotting how to spend billions on weapons instead of hospitals or schools? Of course, there are no photos in the brochure of dismembered bodies or children carrying machine guns.'

‘It's worth pointing out that Ireland is represented at some of these arms fairs,' said Stella. ‘It is a legitimate industry, whether we like it or not, seeing as it supplies the defence forces of peaceful and prosperous countries too. And it also happens to be one of the biggest manufacturing employers in the world, employing people in maybe a hundred countries.'

‘That's a total scandal in itself, as you know well.'

‘But the documentary did get shown on television.' Stella managed to counter her sister's rhetorical declarations without raising her voice. ‘I know it was on late at night, but you can't claim that it was banned.'

‘So what about Oscar, where does he come into this?' Nessa had drained her cup but felt she could do with a bigger dose of caffeine to keep her going.

Ben glanced at Zoe again, and Nessa thought he looked rather wary. But after a few seconds, he delved into his folder again and withdrew a photocopied image. It showed Oscar with two other men, standing beside a round black table on which guns were displayed in a glass case.

‘This was published in a trade magazine,' said Ben, ‘in a feature about the London event. I knew nothing about Oscar Malden at the time, but I'd filed it away because of the other two men in the picture. And when Zoe showed me the press coverage on Oscar, and especially the Saudi link, it rang a bell.' He glanced around the café as if to be sure nobody was paying attention to their table, and then turned the photograph to the light before handing it to Nessa. ‘His name is quite distinctive so it must have stuck in my mind.'

‘Are you sure your photo was actually taken at the weapons fair?'

‘Ninety-nine per cent sure, yes. I might even be able to get an attendance list from my contacts, if you want proof that Oscar was present at it.'

‘And who are the others in the photo?'

‘The thin Englishman on Oscar's left is someone I've been interested in for years, because he's an arms dealer known to have sold guns to a number of west African countries while they were in the throes of very bloody wars.' Ben's tone was still factual and dispassionate, but he dropped his voice as he continued. ‘It has also been alleged that he sells equipment designed to torture prisoners.'

Nessa looked again at the photocopy, but the image that sprang into her mind was of Oscar at Cnoc Meala's dining table, so engagingly attentive that fellow guests felt privileged to be in his company. She forced herself to push away the image, and her growing discomfort at any deference she may have shown him herself.

‘What about the other man?' she asked as evenly as she could. ‘He looks Middle Eastern to me.'

‘Our info is that he's fairly senior in Saudi Arabia's military, but he's in civvies in this photo. The mind boggles at the budget he has at his disposal.'

‘Do you know whether Oscar actually did business with these people? Maybe he was selling them perfectly innocent electronic gates, or having a casual chat?'

‘He'd hardly have his photo taken with them if he disapproved of them,' said Zoe impatiently. ‘But the question is which warmongers did he upset so much that they decided to assassinate him?'

Nessa looked expectantly at her, wondering if she could produce a piece of evidence to link Oscar directly with a likely murderer. But after a pause, she realised that Zoe was awaiting her verdict.

‘This material you've found is really interesting,' she said. ‘It gives us a completely new perspective on Oscar, and it should definitely be publicised sooner or later—'

‘You're not throwing cold water on it, are you? We'll keep digging for more, I promise you.'

‘I'd like you to keep working at it, Zoe, of course I would. But we have to remember that however good the material, it may turn out to be unrelated to Oscar's death.'

Stella looked sympathetically at her sister. ‘That's the downside of investigative journalism,' she said, ‘or indeed any kind of research. You could dig away for months and not find enough credible facts to prove your story, no matter how true it may be.'

Ben got up from the table, looking at his phone. ‘I'm sorry, but I've got to head off to a meeting.' He gave them a wry smile. ‘That's the reason for the formal wear today. There's stuff going on about a United Nations arms treaty, and who knows, we may make real progress one of these years.'

Zoe walked over to the door with him and Nessa was left at the table with Stella. She heard familiar Irish accents as she took in her surroundings once again. A group of customers at a nearby table seemed to be wearing the same clothes and hairstyles as they had when they arrived on the emigrant train from Holyhead many decades earlier.

Stella looked indulgently in the direction of her sister. ‘She likes these retro places, as she calls them,' she said to Nessa. ‘She wouldn't touch a fry-up herself, of course, but she sees cafés like this as part of our cultural heritage.'

‘You seem to be really fond of each other. It's such a pity that your holiday in Beara ended with this awful business.'

‘Zoe has really changed things for me.' Stella took on a serious expression again. ‘She has such determination, as you know. I'd never even imagined having a sister, and now I feel my life has begun all over again.'

Nessa could see Zoe on the phone outside on the street, evidently arguing with someone with her usual passionate indignation. ‘It must have been nerve-wracking when you were about to meet each other for the first time? Wondering what she'd be like?'

Stella smiled softly. ‘It wasn't just Zoe I got to meet, but my birth mother too, on her first trip to London since she'd come here to have me all those years ago. To be honest, I wanted to run back to my own family and leave things be. The truth isn't always nice, and maybe it was that fear that had stopped me looking for them in the first place.'

‘But Zoe wouldn't have settled for that!'

‘Not a chance. I suspect she's not capable of running away from the truth, whatever it takes to confront it.' Stella stood up and brushed a few invisible crumbs from her skirt. She had a natural elegance that Nessa reckoned she would never achieve for herself. ‘But I agree with what you said earlier,' she added, ‘that this new information about Oscar may be completely irrelevant.'

Nessa sighed as she pulled on her jacket, remembering the long trek she had to make back to Heathrow. ‘We're wandering around in the dark, that's the problem. We could trip up at any time, or find out that the perpetrator is shining a torch into our eyes to blind us to the truth.'

The arrivals hall at the airport was overflowing, as a ceaseless flow of humanity converged and dispersed in every direction. Nessa studied the information board and saw that Patrick's plane had been delayed by half an hour.

She felt the same ache of impatience she used to experience in the first year of their relationship, when Patrick used to travel to Ireland from Mallorca where he was working as a mountaineering guide and, in turn, she had to juggle her working hours to fly over to him every month or two. Longing for that urgent embrace in the midst of the crowd, oblivious to everything but the caress of his voice and the warmth of his body. She wanted the same anonymous privacy for their embrace this time, which was another reason she had decided to meet him in London. Apart from a possible media audience in Cork, there was always the risk of a passing acquaintance striking up a cheery conversation at the wrong moment.