After Slippery Sid had been revived, firstly by having smelling salts waved under his nose, followed by the promise of a tot of brandy (for medicinal purposes only!), and a visit from the police doctor when he was returned to his cell, Chief Inspector Scott led the way back to his office.
‘Get straight on to the Essex Police, Andy,’ he said. ‘Find out if Slippery’s mother has had any recent medical treatment. I need to know how this Recruiter creep managed to get his hooks into a small-time villain like Sid. I’m sure the Essex lads will know where his mother lives, because Sid stays with her sometimes, and they like to keep tabs on him. I think it’s somewhere near Clacton-on-Sea.’
As he finished speaking, his phone rang. It was Megan Lisle.
‘Now what do you want, Mrs Lisle? The moon and a few medium sized stars or perhaps… ’
‘No, Chief Inspector Scott,’ she laughed, ‘just a tiny little star, the same size as the one you promised me before.’
‘What?’
‘I’d like you to arrange for Genevieve Evremond to be taken into care; if that’s possible.’
‘Well, it’s ruddy-well not,’ he exploded. ‘And even if I could, I wouldn’t! Why would anyone in their right mind want to move a terminally ill girl from the comfort of her own home and into care?’
‘Well, what about arresting James Evremond then. Is that a possibility?’
‘What charge would you recommend?’
‘Er… well, perhaps conspiracy to commit an act of terrorism,’ she replied, thinking fast because she knew his question was sarcastic.
‘And, of course, you have the evidence for such a charge, I presume?’
‘Well, no. But… ’
‘Guv, there’s still the matter of him passing the two dud £20 notes,’ Andy said, placing his neck firmly on the chopping-block.
‘And how long do you think we’d be able to hold him on that charge? He’d be out on bail within an hour or two at the most.’
‘That might be long enough, Chief Inspector,’ Megan Lisle said.
‘Long enough for what, exactly?’ He was suspicious now.
‘For me to visit Genevieve, to see if there’s any way I can help her. How do you know the stuff The Recruiter is forcing down her throat isn’t poison? Or a class A drug for that matter?’
‘I share your concern, Mrs Lisle, I really do, but I have some plans of my own in the pipeline. Will you allow me twenty-four hours to put them in place before you go charging in where angels fear to tread? Just twenty-four hours, that’s all I’m asking.’
‘And if I do, can I trust that you’ll have helped Genevieve properly by then?’
‘You can. I promise, on my word as a Met officer – if not a gentleman!’
‘Okay, then.’
‘Now what about Jacques Laurent and his return to Paris this afternoon? Are you in your own apartment now?’
‘I am. Jacques can get a taxi here any time he’s ready.’
‘Good. And you’re taking him to St Pancras?’
‘Of course, I am. How could you think otherwise?’
‘Good, then that’s settled. He’ll be with you immediately after lunch.’ And you, my dear, are in for quite a surprise, he thought, chuckling under his breath.
At that moment Andy’s phone rang. It was the Essex constabulary, with the answer to his question about Slippery’s mother’s health.
‘I see, I see,’ he said, ‘thanks for getting back to me so quickly. I’m sure my chief inspector will find all that very interesting. Is she still in hospital? Oh, home now but chemo continuing – gotcha. Thanks a bunch. We owe you one, lads.’
‘What news, Andy?’
‘Breast cancer diagnosed three or four months ago. Partial mastectomy, touch and go for a while, but she seems to be doing okay now.’
‘So now we know how The Recruiter did it.’
‘Yep. And there’s another thing guv. It seems that Slippery’s mum ran up quite a large gambling debt and… ’
‘How?’
‘Various ways: you name it, she did it.’
‘How much did she owe?’
‘Essex lads are not sure. But somewhere in the region of £40,000, they think. Apparently someone waved a large magic wand a few times and the whole debt was wiped off.’
‘And no prizes for guessing who that might have been, Andy.’
‘Someone with the devil’s own luck, perhaps?’
‘You said, matey,’ his boss replied. ‘You blasted-well said it!’
At 12.30 pm they took Jacques Laurent for a farewell lunch at a small French restaurant close to Scotland Yard, then despatched him by taxi to Regent’s Park. They watched until the taxi had disappeared, then Chief Inspector glanced at his watch. ‘Right, Andy – nearly show-time,’ he said.
‘Show-time, guv?’
‘Time to go up on the roof now.’
‘What, sir?’
‘This morning I scheduled a helicopter for 3.30pm so we’ll make it with time to spare,’ he replied, looking very pleased with both himself, and the way the case was progressing.
‘And where are you… ?’
‘You, too, Andy, you’re coming for the ride. We’re off to Cambridge to see Patrick Evremond.’
‘Talk about the French keeping their cards close to their chests, looks like you’ve got some Gallic blood too.’
‘Don’t you believe it, old chum. Pure, unadulterated 100% prime English beef – that’s me.’
‘Well, there was, of course, the small matter of the Norman Conquest which might just have contaminated… ’
‘We won’t go into that right now, though – will we?’
‘Is Patrick Evremond expecting us, boss?’
‘Yes, and he seemed happy to be interviewed, although naturally I was very sketchy about the subject matter. He’s even invited us to something called ‘High Tea’ at his college.’
‘Nice.’
‘Yes, so mind your manners, and let me take the lead; we don’t want to spook him or he’ll clam up.’
‘What’s his college?’
‘King’s, of course: where else for the son of an officer and a gentleman?’
The Bell 206 JetRanger helicopter (cruise speed 100 knots, or 115 miles per hour), arrived as scheduled, and took 53 minutes to cover the 102 miles to Cambridge.
Their arrival caused barely a ripple at the University. Sons of European royalty – even minor royalty – arrived and left that way all the time. So did Middle Eastern monarchs, keen to donate large wads of cash in hope of securing a place for their sons (and sometimes even their daughters!) to study within those hallowed halls. Prime Ministers came and went that way too, but not so often.
When they eventually met Patrick Evremond, they were surprised. Yes, he was handsome, but not in the classic “tall, dark” way: he had been cast in the Prince Harry mould. His hair was a sandy red colour, he had a few freckles across his cheekbones, and his figure was enviably athletic. But there were no airs and graces about him: his was an easy, natural charm, although his accent bordered on posh. This is a young man who will go places, Chief Inspector Scott thought, as he ran his professional eye over him. And thank God we’re still turning out people like him. ‘So,’ Patrick Evremond said affably, while they waited for the tea, ‘are you Special Branch, or MI5? Or is it MI6? I never can remember which is which.’
‘What would make you think that?’ Chief Inspector Scott said, playing the old lawyers’ trick of answering a question with a question, which gave time to collect one’s thoughts. ‘We’re exactly what it says on the tin; or, in our case, on our warrant cards. We’re Scotland Yard, plain and simple.’
‘Hmm, plain and simple Scotland Yard seems like an oxymoron to me, Chief Inspector. In my experience Scotland Yard detectives don’t swan around in helicopters.’
Has he just thrown down the gauntlet, or is he genuinely suspicious, Clive Scott wondered. Or too damned clever by half? He decided to answer the question by playing a straight bat.
‘We don’t make a habit of travelling this way, but we sometimes do when time is short and… ’
‘And it is now?’
‘Yes, very short.’
‘Then fire away with your questions, Chief Inspector,’ Patrick said cheerfully, ‘while I play mother with the tea.’
Andy Gillespie, who was watching the young man carefully, saw the fleeting shadow pass over his face when he said the word mother. Poor lad, he thought, the pain’s still very raw, and now his little sister has the same thing.
‘Would you mind telling us the reason for your father’s visit a day or so ago?’
‘No, I wouldn’t mind. But why do you want to know? Are you sure you’re not MI5 disguised as plain and simple Scotland Yard?’
Both police officers laughed. ‘Thanks for the compliment, sir,’ Andy Gillespie said still chuckling, ‘and don’t we wish we were, but unfortunately we’re not.’
‘Why would you even consider such an option?’ Clive Scott asked, shooting a “shut-up” look at Andy.
‘Because when the old boy was still in the army he often spent a lot of time in Essex. And the grapevine has it that the SAS headquarters are in that neck of the woods.’
‘So is Colchester army barracks,’ countered Clive Scott.
‘Yes, that’s true. But Dad’s activities seemed more… er… cloak and dagger than that.’ He shrugged his shoulders. ‘But that was then, and this is now. And now you want to know why he came to see me the other day.’
‘Yes. Was his visit unusual? Or did he often come to Cambridge?’
‘No, he hardly came at all. And certainly not after Ginny’s illness had been diagnosed. I suppose you know all about that?’
‘Yes, and Genevieve is why we’re here now. Was your conversation with him also unusual in any way?’
‘It certainly was, and on a number of levels. But now I need you to put a few more of your cards on the table, Chief Inspector, before I tell you anything more.’
‘Fair enough,’ Chief Inspector Scott said. ‘And what I’m about to tell you is confidential. Molto-confidential, to the 9th degree. Is that understood?’
‘Completely. You have my word that nothing you tell me will go any further than this room.’
‘Good.’ Clive Scott took a large sip of his tea before he continued. ‘We have reason to believe – strong reason to believe – that your father has recently introduced a most er… unsavoury character into your home. He’s not only unpleasant, but he’s also extremely dangerous. And now your father seems to be under his control to the extent that he is allowing this… this… charlatan to treat your sister with some very unorthodox practices.’
‘My good God,’ Patrick exclaimed as he tried to digest this information.
‘Funny you should say that,’ said Andy Scott, unable to keep quiet any longer, ‘because we also believe that this… person actually plays for what we might call the other side. The dark side, we might say.’
‘Do you mean the Inland Revenue?’ he asked, attempting a joke to cover the shiver that had just run through his nervous system.
‘No, Patrick. We mean the devil.’