Long Time Coming (28 page)

I’d long since ceased to pay much attention when a telephone call interrupted him. Lasiyah answered and looked as if she was baffled by what the caller said. She relayed it to van Briel in Dutch. He started with surprise. ‘A man, asking for you,’ he explained.

‘But no one knows I’m here except the police.’

‘You want me to speak to him?’

‘No. It’s all right.’ I wondered, in the teeth of logic, if it could be Eldritch. I took the phone from Lasiyah. ‘Hello?’

‘Stephen Swan?’ The voice was low and confident, the accent English.

‘Yes. Who—’

‘I’ll meet you at Tramplein in ten minutes. Van Briel will tell you how to get there.’

‘Who is this?’

‘If you want to help Rachel Banner, be there. Alone.’

‘Hold on. I—’ Too late. The line was dead.

Van Briel advised me not to go. We didn’t know who was behind Ardal’s murder, but they were clearly ruthless. It was crazy to put myself at their mercy. If I insisted on going, he should accompany me. I sensed he relished the drama of the late-night summons, although Lasiyah looked far closer to terrified. None of it made any difference to me. ‘I’ve got to go, Bart. And on my own, as instructed. This could be Rachel’s best chance, maybe her only chance. I can’t let her down.’

Tramplein was the square at the northern end of Cogels-Osylei, where it converged with two other streets and met one of the railway lines that bounded the district. The tramlines serving the route between Berchem and Centraal stations passed beneath the railway tracks through one of the wide arches of a low viaduct. At ten o’clock on a cold, damp Monday night, the tram stop was deserted, the square empty. One of the strange rules of urban life – that you can be alone, though surrounded by thousands of people – was eerily applicable.

But I wasn’t quite alone. A figure detached itself from the deep shadow of one of the arches as I approached. His build and clothing told me he was the man I’d seen that morning in Ostend well before he’d moved far enough towards me for any lamplight to fall on his hard, lean features. He was smoking a cigarette, though both his hands were in his pockets. He removed one to take the cigarette from his mouth, then the other, which he held up, palm
facing me, as if to reassure me he wasn’t armed, though I was painfully aware it didn’t actually prove that.

He nodded. ‘Mr Swan.’

‘Who are you?’ I asked, coming to a halt about six feet from him.

‘The name’s Tate. Let’s step back where we’re less conspicuous, shall we?’

‘Maybe I’m happier being conspicuous.’

‘If I wanted to kill you, Mr Swan, I wouldn’t phone beforehand. I’m here to talk and so, I assume, are you. Let’s step back.’

He retreated into the shadow of the archway. I hesitated for a moment, then followed.

‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘You want a cigarette?’ He held out the pack.

I did want one. But I was determined not to take it from him. I shook my head. ‘No. I’d rather have an explanation.’

‘Can’t help you there. Not a
complete
explanation, anyway.’

‘Who do you work for?’

‘Her Majesty the Queen, God bless her.’

‘The Secret Service.’

‘In simple terms, yes, though at the grey, deniable, off-balance-sheet end of the spectrum. The dirty end, if you know what I mean.’

‘You kill people to order.’

‘Only bad people, Mr Swan. Or good people doing bad things. The distinction’s a little blurry.’

‘Why Ardal Quilligan?’

‘We’ve been remiss. We took our eye off the ball. And the Irish let us down. Not for the first time. Or the last, no doubt. Don’t you sometimes wish Cromwell had finished the job? We’d have been spared three centuries of death and destruction if he had.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘No. Probably not. Just as well, really. Otherwise, you’d be more of a threat than an asset. I suppose your uncle kept you in the dark because he knew it was safer for you that way. Good old Eldritch. What a trooper, eh?’ He took a drag on his cigarette and tossed the butt away into the shadows.

He seemed intent on talking in riddles. But riddles were no use to me. ‘Why did you kill Quilligan?’

‘Because he foolishly phoned his sister yesterday and warned her he was about to hand over to you and Miss Banner proof that their brother forged the Picassos. And once that was proved, a lot of grubby secrets would have come into the open. How could Ardal have afforded to wind up his practice and retire to Majorca? How could Isolde and her husband have funded their Hampshire squiredom? Valid questions, with venal answers. They took their cut from what Geoffrey Cardale made out of the swindle is the sum of it. Which means Sir Miles and Lady Linley could be dragged into a reopened Banner/Brownlow lawsuit. We can’t let that happen.’

‘What does it matter to you?’

‘Sir Miles gets triple-A protection. Not my decision. But it is my responsibility. Which, I admit, I should have paid more attention to. The break-ins were small beer. Precautionary, in essence. Trawling operations that yielded empty nets. Except the kitchen knife, of course. We like to have compromising material we can use if we need to. I just didn’t expect the need to arise so soon in this case. That it did is down to the fact that we were unaware Ardal Quilligan possessed the proof he promised you, or a guilty conscience to go with it, until his phone call to Isolde.’

‘Why does Linley merit such a high level of protection?’

‘Because there’s a danger that if he’s backed into a corner over his involvement in the Cardale fraud, he might blab to the press about exactly what he was up to in Dublin thirty-six years ago. Public knowledge of certain … details … of his work there would do considerable, possibly irreparable, harm to Anglo-Irish relations. Our war with the IRA won’t be won by allowing that to happen.’

‘What are the details?’ I knew he wouldn’t tell me, of course, but I couldn’t let the question go unasked. And his answer surprised me even so.

‘I don’t know. I’m neither trusted nor required to know. But your uncle knows. That’s our problem. And yours. You see, we believe Eldritch planned to use the proof you were going to get from Quilligan to blackmail Linley into putting on the record what really led to his arrest and imprisonment in Ireland. The truth, the whole
truth and nothing but the disastrous, havoc-wreaking truth. That’s what we have to prevent at all costs.’

‘No problem, then. You’ve killed Quilligan and by now you’ve presumably destroyed what he had with him.’

‘No. Actually, we haven’t.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because he didn’t have the proof. It wasn’t there, Mr Swan. We searched him and every inch of his car. Nothing. And I’ve just had a report from Palma de Mallorca. There was nothing in his apartment either. Not that we expected there to be. He left Majorca with it. That’s clear. What’s not clear is what happened to it next.’ Tate sighed in evident exasperation at the turn of events. ‘Our best guess is in point of fact your best chance.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘The proof is missing. So is your uncle.’

‘You think Eldritch has it?’

‘Who else? He left England a day before you. What did he do with that twenty-four-hour start? Meet Quilligan before he got to Ostend, maybe. It’s what we suspect. It’s what we greatly fear. We know he hasn’t gone back to England. There’s an all ports alert out on him. But where
has
he gone? That’s the question. He gave the police the slip in Ostend and he may be able to stay out of our reach. The oldest foxes are often the hardest to catch. We need help.
Your
help.’

‘To do what?’

‘Find him. And find the proof. Deliver that to us and we’ll persuade the Belgian authorities to drop any charges they bring against Miss Banner – or you.’

Was Tate right? Did Eldritch have the proof? I’d sensed he was playing a deeper game all along and maybe forcing Linley to exonerate him was it, although somehow I doubted it. Not that it made much difference. If he had the proof, we could at least bargain ourselves out of trouble with it, even if we couldn’t achieve what we’d been aiming for. Tate was certainly right on one point. This was our best chance.

‘He’s your uncle, Mr Swan. He trusts you. He’s served time in
prison and he wouldn’t wish that experience on you, I’m sure. Nor would he refuse to do whatever he could to save you from it.’

‘Probably not.’

‘He’ll contact you sooner or later. He’s bound to. Or you’ll contact him. Don’t bother to deny you’re in a position to do so. It may well be true, but I’ve no way of verifying it, so your denial would be irrelevant. Just get the proof. And then we’ll call off the dogs.’

‘As simple as that?’

‘Sometimes things are simple.’

‘And what’s Eldritch supposed to do?’

‘Whatever he wants.’

‘Except clear his name.’

‘He’ll never get back those thirty-six years he spent in prison, Mr Swan. He should be grateful the Irish let him go. We made the mistake of supposing they never would. Don’t let him make the mistake of throwing his freedom away for the sake of his good name.’

‘What did the Irish think he’d done?’

‘I told you: I don’t know. And Eldritch obviously reckons you’re better off not knowing either. My advice is to leave it like that. Persuade him to hand over the proof. Then you and Miss Banner can get out from under. I can’t say fairer than that, now can I?’

A rumble had grown above us as he spoke, echoing around in the archway like rolls of thunder. A train was approaching. Tate didn’t try to shout above the noise. He lit another cigarette as the train passed overhead. It was slow and heavy, a growling, squealing succession of trucks. He’d had time to smoke most of the cigarette before it was gone.

Then he said quietly, ‘I take it you’ll give it a go.’

Van Briel had waited up for me. I told him frankly what had happened and noticed in his response a marginal loss of confidence. Tangling with MI5, or MI6, or whatever outfit Tate represented, wasn’t part of the assignment he’d taken on.

‘My legal tricks aren’t going to be much use to you in that world, Stephen.’

‘Leave me to worry about Tate, Bart,’ I said, surprising myself by how I was now the one sounding a reassuring note. ‘You concentrate on helping Rachel.’

‘OK. But what will you do? How will you find your uncle?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe
he’ll
find
me
.’

‘And if he doesn’t?’

It was a question I didn’t have an answer to. Tate had given me a card with a number on it that he said I should ring with news of Eldritch. His bet was that I stood a better chance of finding my uncle than he did. But I wasn’t sure about that. It all depended on what Eldritch was really aiming to accomplish:
what
and
why
.

After van Briel had stumbled off to bed, I made a few hopeful phone calls. There was a possibility, I supposed, that Eldritch had made it back to England. But, if so, he hadn’t returned to the Ritz. ‘
No, sir. We haven’t seen your uncle since he checked out on Saturday
.’ I considered asking my mother if she’d heard from him, but I didn’t want her to start worrying about me. It seemed best to leave her unaware of the fix I was in. I tried Cardale’s home
number, conscious that I ought to apologize in some way for throwing his life into turmoil and helping to set in motion the events that had led to his uncle’s death. But all I got was the engaged tone, so consistently I began to suspect he’d taken the phone off the hook. Exasperation as much as desperation drove me to try another number, one I’d found scrawled on a piece of paper in my wallet.

‘
You’ve reached the answerphone of Moira Henchy. Leave your name and number after the tone and I’ll be sure to call you back
.’

‘Miss Henchy, this is Stephen Swan. We spoke a couple of weeks ago. You wanted information about my uncle, Eldritch Swan. If you’re still interested, there’s a great deal I can tell you. I’m in Antwerp. Please call me as soon as you can on …’

I put the phone down after recording van Briel’s number, switched off the light and lay back on the sofa-bed. I was drained and exhausted, but sleep felt a long way off. My thoughts raced on unavailingly in the silence and the darkness. I whispered words of comfort to someone who couldn’t hear them and stared into the void.

Morning came with the surprising realization that I had slept after all, for several hours at least. Van Briel was in the kitchen, clad in a black dressing-gown, quaffing orange juice by the half-gallon while his coffee brewed to kick-start strength. He couldn’t manage much more than grunts until the coffee was ready. Then he poured us a cup each and we sat down at the table.

‘I’ll go into the office, then to Brugge,’ he announced. ‘Any message for Rachel?’

‘Tell her I’m doing everything I can.’

‘Will do. This is the office address.’ He handed me an Oudermans card. ‘Call round there this afternoon. Let’s say four o’clock. I’ll leave a message for you about Rachel’s … situation. Also my boss might want to talk to you about our anonymous client. No promises, but I’ll ask. Now, there’s a spare set of keys.’ He pointed to where they hung on a hook by the door. ‘You won’t see much of Lasiyah. She’s shy and … she doesn’t know what to make of you.’

‘Sorry.’

‘Not your fault.’ He slurped some coffee. ‘While I’m gone …’

‘Yes?’

‘Watch your back, hey? You seem to be playing with some bad boys. I wouldn’t—’

The ringing of the telephone interrupted him. He raised his eyebrows quizzically at me, then stood up and padded across to answer it. I looked at the clock. It was 7.45. Therefore 6.45 in Ireland. It was surely too early for Moira Henchy to return my call.

‘
Hallo?
…
Wat zegt u?
… Hold on, please.’ Van Briel held the phone towards me. ‘For you, Stephen. Moira Henchy.’

He must have been able to read the surprise in my expression as I jumped up and took the phone from him. ‘Hello?’

‘Good morning, Stephen. I just got your message. So, you’re in Antwerp, are you?’

‘That’s right. I—’

‘I just dropped by my office to pick up a few things. I’m on my way to the airport.’