A Spy's Life (23 page)

Harland said he would be down in a few minutes. When Robin had gone, Harriet helped him to put his shirt on.

‘You’re not going to tell them any of this,’ she said.

‘Of course not, Hal.’

‘And you aren’t going to let them know that Tomas is your son.’

‘No, but they may work that out for themselves. And if the police don’t, I’m sure Vigo will. He won’t have forgotten seeing a young man disappearing out of the door. And since he’s already claiming I spied for the Czechs and that I had an affair with Eva Houresh, it may not take him long to work out who Tomas is.’

‘Which will make the allegations about your past much more difficult to deny.’

Harland nodded silently.

‘What a terrible mess this is, Bobby.’

He went downstairs and found the two officers waiting in the sitting room. A short man with alert eyes and a brisk manner swivelled on his heels and gave his name as Commander Maurice Lighthorn. The other, a rather jaundiced fellow with watery eyes and a moustache, introduced himself as Chief Inspector Roger Navratt. Harland sat down but the officers remained standing.

‘How are you feeling, sir?’ asked Lighthorn.

‘Better, now I’ve had some sleep.’

‘And the injury. How’s that doing? Much pain?

‘No, but they expect it to heal quickly – it’s a surface wound.’

‘In that case, we were wondering if you felt up to accompanying us to the station.’

‘Are you arresting me?’

‘No, sir, but we do need your help and there’s a lot to go through in a case like this. It will be easier at the station.’

Harland agreed to go, although both Robin and Harriet tried to persuade Lighthorn to wait until the next day.

Lighthorn listened, unmoved. ‘I don’t mean to be rude, madam, but this is a very serious incident and we have reason to believe that there is a link to another murder. Two people are dead, two very seriously injured. In my book, these circumstances require an urgent response.’

They drove to West End Central station where business was slow. A few uniformed officers sat dejectedly waiting for the end of their shifts. Lighthorn explained that the investigation was being carried out at New Scotland Yard, but that they hadn’t acquired all the space they needed yet. Lighthorn’s appearance galvanised things and they were quickly shown into one of the station’s interview rooms.

Coffee was produced. Navratt switched the interview tape recorder on and formally identified all those in the room.

‘Mr Harland,’ Lighthorn began after Navratt nodded, ‘we have your account of the shooting which will form part of your statement in due course. What I want to do now is to ask you about your relationship with the man known as Lars Edberg. Can I start by asking how long you’ve known him?’

‘I met him for the first time in New York last week.’

‘In what circumstances?’

‘Well, we had a few drinks in the bar around the corner from where I live in Brooklyn.’

‘Did you meet there?’

‘No, we got talking in the street outside my apartment and I offered him a drink.’

‘Just like that?’

‘More or less. He seemed a friendly young man – very bright and good company.’

‘And you had no knowledge of him before that moment.’

‘No, I had not set eyes on him or heard his name before that evening.’

‘But you seem to have forged a strong relationship in that short time. Would you mind if I asked you the nature of that relationship? You will agree that it’s unusual of a man of your age to strike up a conversation with somebody of Mr Edberg’s age.’

‘As I say, he was interesting.’

‘And there was – how shall I put it – no sexual motive?’

Harland shook his head. ‘No, nothing like that.’

‘However, you were in contact this week after your return to this country.’

‘Yes.’

‘Were you aware at any stage that Lars Edberg was travelling on a false passport? No Swedish passport has been issued to a man named Lars Edberg.’

‘Only when I read it in the papers yesterday.’

‘Did Mr Edberg tell you about the murder of the woman he had been living with – Felicity MacKinlay?’

‘Yes, in a phone call two nights ago.’

‘Can you describe his state of mind at that time, Mr Harland?’

‘It was a very short call and I didn’t have a chance to ask much about it. But I would say that he was extremely upset. I gave him my sister’s address and told him to go there.’

‘And did he?’

‘Not that evening.’

‘When did you next hear from him?’

‘Last night when he turned up at my sister’s. It was difficult, though. There was a party on so we agreed to meet later.’

‘Last night – Christmas Eve,’ said Lighthorn significantly. ‘That means that when you saw him you were fully aware that the police were looking for him. Because you yourself have just said that you read in the morning papers that Edberg was travelling under a false name. So the question is this: why didn’t you phone the police then, Mr Harland? He was, after all, a major suspect.’

‘I wanted to find out what was going on. In fact, I told him when I saw him by the river that sooner or later he would have to explain himself.’

‘Still, it was a pity – some would put it a lot stronger – that you didn’t phone the police at that stage. It would almost certainly have saved three people from being shot – four if we include your own injury, sir.’

‘Look, I knew that he couldn’t have had anything to do with the murder. I also knew he was frightened.’

Lighthorn’s eyes darted to Harland’s.

‘Are you telling me that from one casual encounter you gained the certainty that this man could not have committed murder? You
do
know this woman was very brutally tortured before she was killed – tortured, sexually assaulted and executed.’

‘I didn’t know the exact details,’ he said.

‘But you read enough in the newspapers to know that her death was extremely ugly. Yet you still went to the Embankment to meet this Edberg – a man who you knew to be travelling on a fake passport, who was wanted by the police. That would suggest a very cavalier attitude to your own safety, unless you knew what Edberg was running from. Is that the truth of it? Did Mr Edberg tell you something in New York?’

‘No, all I knew was that he believed someone was trying to kill him.’

‘Why?’ Again the eyes scanned Harland’s face.

‘He made veiled references to the danger he was in, but he did not specify what that danger was.’

Lighthorn seemed to digest this. In another context Harland would probably have admired his technique. He was clear-headed and possessed an unswerving instinct for the truth. But there was also something of the martinet in him.

‘The reason I’m asking you these questions is not because we suspect Mr Edberg. We have ruled him out in the murder inquiry for the very good reason that we know he returned to this country about twenty-four hours after Miss MacKinlay was murdered. A baggage tag on the case that he left in her flat gave us the information on the flights he took. And we have since found the day and time of his departure to New York from another airline. What is significant is that the people who work at Felicity MacKinlay’s flower shop told us that Edberg had said he would help with a large delivery of Christmas trees that day. Then without notice he left. What this suggests is that he left in a hurry and went to the States for a particular purpose. Do you know what that was?’

Harland shrugged.

‘Come along, Mr Harland. You’re an intelligent man – you must have asked him what all this was about?’

‘I did, and he was about to tell me when he was shot.’

‘Yes, by what appears to be a professional hit man. This was no casual drive-by shooting. This was the work of a top-notch pro who’d been hired to track down this young man. In the process he tortured and executed a young woman, murdered a police constable and crippled another.’ There was genuine anger, genuine indignation in Lighthorn’s manner.

The door opened and a young plainclothes policeman came in and whispered something to Lighthorn. Navratt looked at Harland, as if to deter him from listening in. Lighthorn left for five minutes then returned with an envelope which he placed on the table.

‘In these circumstances,’ said Lighthorn slowly, ‘where a man has been shot at a secret meeting, it is often the case that one of the parties in that meeting has arranged the shooting.’

‘What?’ said Harland contemptuously. ‘Are you suggesting that I arranged for the gunman to be there?’

‘It’s possible.’

‘Then why on earth would they shoot me? And, second, why would I return to To—’ He said the first syllable of Tomas’s name, stumbled and said the name Lars. ‘Why would I go back and wait for the police to come?’

Harland was sure Lighthorn had noticed the stumble, although he didn’t pursue it.

‘That’s precisely the point I wanted you to make for me. Why in heaven’s name did you go back to the scene of the shooting? I mean, you told the officers in the hospital how you fell down the steps at Cleopatra’s Needle, and how you came across this character St George and then made good your escape. Remember, at this stage you were certain the young man was dead. You also told my officer that you felt for vital signs and there were none. So, I ask again, why would you return to the scene when it presented such obvious dangers? You were certain that Edberg was dead. Surely the most sensible course would have been to run in the opposite direction and find a phone box. Instead you returned to the monument.’

‘Well, I wasn’t sure he was dead. So I went back to check. By that time I’d heard the siren and —’

‘And a lot more gunfire,’ interrupted Lighthorn. ‘That’s what you told my officers.’

‘Yes, and a lot more gunfire. So what are you suggesting?’

‘I’m suggesting that your relationship with this young man was very important to you, important enough for you to race back along the embankment to be with him. Important enough for you to remain outside the operating theatre for an entire night, while you yourself must have been in some pain and suffering from your ordeal in the river.’ He paused to pick up the envelope. ‘I wonder if you would take a look at this, Mr Harland. It’s a copy of the
Daily Telegraph
from last week.’ He unfolded the paper and laid it on the table. ‘It was found in Miss MacKinlay’s flat in her recycling bin. As you can see, there’s a large part of the front page missing. One of our officers decided to find out what had been cut out of this newspaper. He contacted the
Daily Telegraph
library a little while ago – fortunately they are publishing tomorrow – and found that it was the picture of your rescue in the La Guardia air crash last week.’ He let this sink in. ‘I remember the picture myself. You certainly have been through a lot this last week, Mr Harland. If you think about it, Mr Edberg must have cut this picture out of the paper before you say you met him. How do you explain this action?’

‘I can’t.’

‘Is that all you’ve got to say? I mean, it’s clear that this newspaper photograph acted as the prompt for Mr Edberg. Within hours of seeing it he was on a flight to New York, in all probability clutching this cutting – there is no sign of it in the flat.’

‘Well, we did talk about the crash. He showed tremendous interest in it. Maybe that’s why he stopped me in the street. He did mention that he had seen the picture.’

‘Ah, but you’re missing the point. This newspaper picture was the inspiration for Edberg’s dash to New York. He plainly went to speak to you, showing, incidentally, the same devotion that you were later to show on the riverbank to him. This means he must have known where to find you.’ He glanced at Navratt with just a hint of triumph for he knew that this must all be news to Harland. ‘I’ve already had one of our officers check with International Inquiries and it appears that you are not listed in Brooklyn. Answer me this: how would he find you unless he knew where you lived? If he knew where you lived, it’s a reasonable assumption that you had met before last week.’

‘All I can say,’ said Harland, ‘is that I never saw him before that night, or spoke to him, or had any type of contact with him. I don’t have the first idea how he traced me, although a determined person would not find it difficult to extract the number out of the United Nations.’

Lighthorn looked at him steadily.

‘You’re asking me to believe that this chap with a foreign accent appears out of the blue at your home and starts talking to you about a crash that you were in and you invite him for a drink, without having any idea who he is or where he comes from? It doesn’t make sense. It’s clear to me that Edberg went to New York for the purpose of seeing you. During that visit I believe he gave you information crucial to the understanding of Miss MacKinlay’s murder and to the shooting at the Embankment. I want to know what that was. I’m not pissing about here. We’re looking for a man – or men – who callously gunned down two police officers and murdered a young woman. Those men may still be in the country. I believe that you may even be aware of their identity.’

‘That’s ridiculous. How could I possibly know them?’ He leaned forward in his seat and couldn’t help grimacing as the bandage on his shoulder shifted. ‘I’ve told you what I know.’

‘Then you give me no option but to hold you here. You may consider yourself under arrest, Mr Harland.’

‘On what grounds?’

‘On the grounds that we suspect you of an arrestable offence, namely involvement in the murder of PC Jeffrey Gibbon and shooting of PC Clive Low and the man known to us as Lars Edberg. I believe that you’re withholding information which would help us make arrests, Mr Harland. I hope that over the course of the next few hours you will realise that your only option is to be completely frank with me.’

‘But you don’t believe any of this! You’re making it up to keep me here and force me into giving you information I don’t possess – that I couldn’t possess. I have a statutory right to see a solicitor. I take it that you aren’t going to ignore that too.’ He noticed his hand was shaking and he knew his voice was somehow thinning.

‘By all means make a telephone call,’ said Lighthorn evenly. ‘I will see you later.’ With that he swept up the newspaper cutting and walked out of the room, leaving Navratt fumbling with the tape recorder.