Déjà Vu: A Technothriller (16 page)

The detective nodded. “It happens.”

“Tell me about Proctor.”

He opened his notebook. “Professor David Proctor, aged fifty-two. Wanted for the murders of Sergeant Caroline Saunders and Dr Bruce Shimoda, both in Whitburn. Details are sketchy. Official Secrets Act covers a lot of it.”

“Official Secrets Act? Is that a law?”

“Yes. Once you’ve signed a secrecy contract, the government can stop you from snitching. Talking about certain things, that is. The act means that we can’t know certain things about the murder.”

Saskia was puzzled. “That makes it rather difficult to investigate.”

Hannah sighed. “Yes. But our job is to find him, not solve the murder. My Super and a judge – a sheriff, actually – looked at the evidence. They’re satisfied he’s guilty and have authorised all reasonable force in getting him before he skips the country.”

“What kind of trial will he have?”

“A closed hearing.”

Saskia was intrigued. “And if he is sent to prison, what if he tells fellow prisoners?”

“If he knows something really important...well, how can I put this delicately?” He leaned closer. “He’ll be silenced. One way or another.”

“You’re joking.”

“No, I’m not.”

She considered the situation. In truth, she had no clue where to start. She had had no training that she could remember. Jobanique had given her the job because of her gut instinct. It told her that she should retrace his steps from their beginning, not their point of disappearance.

“Detective Inspector Hannah, could you please tell me our destination?”

“Belford, Northumbria. That’s where the glider came down.”

“How long a journey is that?”

Hannah spoke quickly to the driver. The driver sucked air through his teeth and shrugged, then shouted something back. Saskia watched Hannah expectantly. She had not understood a word.

“It’s about seventy miles. In kilometres,” he continued, prompted by her expression, “about a hundred and ten. Should take around an hour and a half. We’d be there by 4:15.”

“No. I would like to go to the West Lothian Centre.”

He frowned. “Where? The community centre?”

“No. The scene of the murder, please.”

“Oh, right. You mean the Park Hotel. I’ve just come from there.”

“How long is the journey?”

“Half an hour.” He tapped the driver. “Park Hotel. Just out of Whitburn, on the way to Harthill.” The driver nodded.

Saskia finished her cigarette and threw it out of the window. She could tell Hannah was amused by her blatant littering. She leaned closer. “What are your orders regarding me?”

Hannah’s eyes were hard rocks. They had met the stare of murderers, rapists, paedophiles and con-men, and seen through ghosts and bluff. Saskia was easy. “I’ve been asked to give you every cooperation.”

“Asked?”

He smiled. “Told.”

“And what do you think of me?”

He regarded her. “Detective Saskia Brandt. You are a foreign consultant with experience of fugitive murderers. You’ve been working for the Brussels office of Föderatives Investigationsbüro for five years, following a degree in modern languages and psychology at Bochum University. Section chief is codenamed Jobanique. Not married. No pets.”

Saskia leaned in. “And do you believe all that?”

“Shouldn’t I believe it?”

“I’m not saying that.”

“What are you saying?”

“What do you think I’m saying?”

Hannah took a long drag on his cigarette. He waited until the claustrophobia of the moment passed. “You think I disapprove because you’re private. That is, that you’re not directly employed by the state. You think I’m against having a private detective on the case. And, maybe, that I’ll feel territorial.”

She could feel his anticipation. He wanted her to say And do you?

Saskia relaxed and stretched her legs as far as they could go. She put her fingers through the gap in the window pane. The wind’s howl change pitch. She sighed.

Hannah muttered something.

“What?” she asked.

“Nicest interrogation I ever had.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

She closed her eyes. “Please tell me what you know about our destination.”

The Park Hotel, Hannah began, was an old, renovated manor house that stood watch over the largest national park in West Lothian, Craillie Park. The Craillies, who had lived there since 1620, had played a major role in the local community. They were philanthropists and businessmen. In the early part of the twentieth century they had allowed local sportsmen and women to use their bowling green, golf course and tennis courts. By 1957, with mounting debts and dwindling income, the remaining Craillies left their one-hundred-and-sixty-nine-acre home for various careers in various countries. They were variously successful. The park became derelict, overgrown and forgotten by everyone but a few locals. Then, in 1978, the District Council decided to buy the property. They reinstated the facilities. It cost millions. The old mansion house became the Park Hotel.

The hotel was unveiled in 1981. At the same time, the nearby outdoor sports facilities, but not the hotel, were opened by an MP and placed at the disposal of the local community. The hotel remained an exclusive retreat for tourists – mostly rich Englishmen – who played a little sport, tried their luck against the salmon in the River Almond and enjoyed cigar-smoke conferences in closed backrooms. In 1995 an adjunct to the hotel was constructed to provide public indoor sporting activities. The council also built a patio area for barbeques.

“How long did that building take?”

“I’ve got no idea. Why?”

“I suspect it was a cover. They were also building an underground research centre.”

“Should you be telling me this?”

“The centre is now...defunct.”

In 2003 the hotel was damaged by fire. Accidental, in the opinion of the local papers. It was renovated with an estimated eight million from the insurers and re-opened one year later by an MSP. From that time to the present day, it has served in the exact capacity envisaged by the District Council in 1978: the exclusive hotel, which rakes in the money, and the indoor-outdoor sports facilities, which the Whitburnians enjoy.

“Have you ever met someone who has stayed at the hotel?”

“No.”

They pulled up outside the hotel. Gravel crunched under the tyres. Saskia got out and breathed. The air was cold. It had an overtone of pine. She could also smell running water and damp vegetation. The surrounding trees were high firs and Saskia was gripped, albeit briefly, by the child-like urge to run into that woodland and just be in there, where it was silent and safe.

“Like an enchanted forest, isn’t it?” said Hannah.

“Genau,” she muttered. “Exactly.”

To her left, past the bushes and down the valley toward the River Almond, she could see the corner of a tennis court. It was quite separate from the hotel itself. In that direction, presumably, lay the other courts, the golf course, the bowling green, the barbeque area and more. But the hotel stood alone.

“Is the centre closed?”

“Aye, it’s a crime scene.”

“But there are no markings.”

“No need. They can stop people at the gate.”

The hotel had six floors. Its two wings reached out to incorporate a little of the car park. There was a dry fountain in the centre. It showed a bearded man passing a lighted torch to a smaller man. It took only a moment to see the reference: the Greek god Prometheus passing Man the secret of fire.

Prometheus, who had been chained to a rock by Zeus for his treachery. Prometheus, who had suffered a hawk eat his liver. The liver that grew back; the hawk that returned.

The chains...

...the hawk that returned.

The Zippo lighter. The gesture.

The hawk that returned.

All these images. They seemed to fit like jigsaw pieces, then fly apart, then fly together again. What did they mean? Were they memories? Were they memories of the old Saskia?

Not now. This is a different chase. Who are you hunting? Proctor or Brandt?

The hawk that returned.

Spin, measure, snip. The witches, the Fates: Clotho, she spins the thread of life. Lachesis, she determines its length. Atropos, she cuts it.

She began to walk towards the entrance. She was suspicious of the high bushes either side of the car park. A whole army could lie in wait.

Hannah fell into step beside her.

“The driver. Can we trust him?”

Hannah shrugged. “I don’t see why not.”

“This murder scene is the key. We can’t find Proctor if we don’t know why and how.”

“You remember what I said about the Official Secrets Act? They could refuse to tell us.”

“Refuse? Are you certain?”

“Actually, no.”

“Then we must act as though we are certain. Agreed?”

“Agreed.”

They stepped into the foyer.

Neither of them saw the glaring lens of the sniper that lay in the bushes nearby. He had received no orders to shoot. He had used his telescopic lens to get close up digital pictures of both newcomers. They were sent instantly to his commanding officer, Garrel. The long walk to the door meant that there was time to send the pictures, receive them, send orders back, and shoot the pair of them. No orders were received. No action was taken.

The foyer was long and undernourished. A chandelier did hang, but it was gnarled. Some of its bulbs were broken. Paintings covered the walls. Each, when viewed as an individual, was the odd one out. Dark, varnished wood and green felt were endemic. The smell of damp wood and dust was overpowering. Two people were talking quietly. Saskia’s heels made loud, sharp clicks that rang like a knife tapped against a wine glass. The two people turned to face their visitors.

“Good afternoon,” Saskia said loudly. She favoured each with an intimidating look. First was a tall lady wearing a sensible, simple dress. She stood behind the reception desk and said nothing. Second, slouched like a cowboy at the bar, was a shorter man wearing jeans and a navy blue jumper with elbow patches. He was in his late forties, thickening around the middle, with strong shoulders.

“DI George Hannah,” said the man. He ignored Saskia. “Nice to see you again.”

“And you,” replied Hannah. He was impassive. Nobody shook hands.

“I must say that you are persistent, DI Hannah,” the man said.

Saskia smiled thinly. “You have not met me yet.”

“I do apologise. I am Andrew Garrel. I am in charge here.”

Saskia reached inside her jacket and withdrew a small, black device. She noted that Garrel’s thumbs, hooked through his belt-hoops, were pressed white. He was nervous. “Do you mind if I use my voice recorder?”

“You can’t, I’m afraid. Security.”

“Hmm.” She returned the device and, from another pocket, took out a notebook. “Is this safe?”

Hannah made a noise. It didn’t sound like a guffaw, but Garrel’s expression became frosty. “Yes. It’s safe. It’s a bloody notebook. It was nice to meet you. This is as far as you may go. I will have someone escort you out.”

Saskia nodded perfunctorily. She scribbled a note. “Of course. But before we leave, please. I have a question. What do you do, Andrew?”

Garrel folded his arms. “I am in charge of security, miss.”

“Detective,” she corrected. Garrel raised his eyebrows and glanced briefly skywards. “Your rank?” She added quietly, “I assume you are military.”

“I cannot tell you that,” he said.

Saskia exchanged a glance with Hannah and made strokes with her pen. “Why cannot you tell me?”

“I have my orders.”

“Why is that?”

“I also cannot tell you that.”

Saskia peered at him over the notebook. She worked to generate the impression of a school teacher. “Andrew, do you know why I am here?”

Garrel smiled indulgently. “Yes.”

“Why am I here?”

“To do some private police work.”

“What police work?”

“Find a murderer.”

Saskia hit the notepad with the nib of her ballpoint. “Punkt. A murderer. Is this the scene of the murders?”

Garrel shrugged. “I cannot tell you that.”

“Do you want me to find this man?”

Garrel’s grin faltered. “If that’s your job, then, of course.”

“And would you expect me to succeed without your cooperation?”

“Look, love –”

Saskia flashed a dazzling smile. “Detective,” she said.

“Detective. Why do you need to know about here when he’s out there?”

She laughed coldly. “A crime has been committed. I shall solve it. But I work from the start of the trail, not the middle.” She stepped forward until her face was close to Garrel’s. She saw the blackheads on his nose, the bloodshot sleepiness of his eyes. “Now, you have ten minutes. Call your superior and get confirmation that Detective Saskia Brandt from the FIB is to receive your full cooperation. Understand? Then return and explain to me, and my good friend Detective Inspector Hannah, why you have obstructed our investigation.”

Garrel opened his mouth. Then he closed it.

Saskia shooed him away. “Go.”

Garrel frowned. He did not appear to be angry, merely confused. Saskia imagined him as an actor who was dumbstruck by the improvisation of a colleague. After a moment’s pause, he turned on his heel and crossed the foyer. He stepped through a side-door and was gone.

The receptionist said, “You should sit down and wait,” and disappeared through a green curtain behind the front desk. From behind it came the sound of a low conversation. Saskia turned to Hannah but he pointed to a corner with a sofa. As they sat down, Saskia said, “Not bad for a foreigner.”

“Not bad,” he agreed. “We’ll either get the facts or a bullet in the head. Anyway, it’s further than I got.”

Hannah undid a button on his jacket to let his belly out. Saskia stared at the fat mass in wonder. This was the least vain man she had ever met. He reached for a cigarette, offered one to Saskia, and they smoked thoughtfully.

“Have faith,” Saskia said.

Hannah became serious. “Faith is believing in something without evidence. The hallmark of a fine detective.”

“Do you mean that?”

“Absolutely.”