Red Crystal (39 page)

Whatever happened she must stay calm. She went straight to the kitchen and, sorting through the shopping, put the milk and yogurt in the fridge. He came in as she was emptying the fruit into a bowl.

‘Where were you?’ she asked.

‘I had to see a friend. It was easier to stay the night.’

She examined his face. He’d been drinking, she could tell; his eyes were red and his skin was pale and slightly mottled around the cheeks. He looked defenceless and lost, like a child who’d been sick from eating too many sweets. She suppressed the old urge to protect him, to make everything better for him.

‘I was not clever,’ he said. ‘I drank too much and …’ He looked at her ruefully and touched her arm. ‘I would have been clever to come home. Yes?’

Her heart went out to him. When he was like this she could forgive him anything.
Almost
.

She pulled herself together. ‘I have to talk to you.’

He dropped his eyes. ‘Yes?’

‘I went down to park the van last night and – I tidied it up.’

His eyes met hers, bright and wary.

‘I found some –
things
– in the spare wheel.’

A flash of what could have been fear leapt across his face. There was a long pause. Then he nodded slowly. ‘Ah. Yes, we must talk. Come …’

She followed him into the living-room and they sat down on the sofa. He took her hand and stroked it gently. ‘You must believe me when I say I did not know these things were there –
before
.’

‘Before?’

‘When we were in France. The leaflets I put in the van myself. But that stuff – someone
else
put it in. I did not know. Not until yesterday. Believe me, Vittoria, it was terrible,
terrible
, to discover these things. Who could have done this to me? I am so upset. That is why I am out late last night. To try to discover who has done this terrible thing to me. Also, I must decide what to do.’

‘What to do?’

‘How to get rid of these things. Where to
leave
them. It is not easy.’

Victoria rubbed her forehead. It was so hard to make sense of it. She exclaimed, ‘But Giorgio, those sacks are explosives. Whoever put them there must have – had a very good
reason
. They—’

‘Yes. They were
using
us, Vittoria. They used us to carry this terrible stuff.’

‘But who’s
they?
’

‘Extremists, Vittoria.’ There was a pained expression on his face. ‘We are both innocent
vittime
. You understand – victims. I have been used. You too. But I must tell you that they will try to collect the stuff, and this we must not let them do. We must stay hidden. They do not know you. They do not know where you live. As long as we stay here together, they will not find us.’

‘But we must hand the stuff to the authorities. It’s
far
too dangerous to have around.’

‘Vittoria’ – he gripped her hand – ‘they will arrest us. They will never believe we did not
know
about it. They will think that
we
are terrorists. You understand?’

‘Can’t we just leave it somewhere? At a police station or something.’

‘It’s too dangerous,’ he said quickly.

‘Then what are we going to do with it?’

He made a wide gesture of despair. ‘I am not sure. I am thinking all the time. Perhaps we take it somewhere and bury it. But we must be careful. We must think
very
hard before we do anything.’ He looked at her fondly and took her face in his hands. ‘I must tell you, I am glad that you know. It makes me feel better to share this knowledge. You make me feel strong. You make me feel we can escape from this thing. Will you be strong? For
me?
’

Her stomach twisted with pleasure. She thought: How I misjudged him. No wonder he’d been tense and difficult. No
wonder
he’d looked so worried. She breathed a long thankful sigh of relief. ‘Oh, my love,’ she whispered. ‘You poor thing. Don’t worry. Of course I’ll help. We’ll work it out together.’

She hugged him, and felt his arms close around her, warm and strong. And she was glad that this dreadful thing had happened, because it had brought them together. From now on she would be able to share in the other, secret, part of his life, and everything would be all right.

The phone rang. For a second Victoria ignored it. Then, kissing Giorgio hard on the lips, she got up to answer it.

A woman’s voice said, ‘I want to speak to Giorgio.’

Victoria felt a moment’s surprise, then without a word she handed Giorgio the receiver. She stayed to listen. Somehow she felt she had the right.

Giorgio grunted ‘Yes’ several times. Then his expression suddenly hardened. He closed his eyes and clenched his jaw, as if containing some deep fury. Victoria held her breath. It was obviously very bad news. Finally he said, ‘I come … Yes. Right now.’ And rang off.

For a moment he stared at the phone, deep in thought. Then he came and took her by the shoulders. She had never seen him look so grim.

He said, ‘A friend, she’ – he paused as if searching for the right words – ‘she needs help. The extremists are coming for her. They have a crazy idea that
she
knows where to find the explosives. It is terrible. She must leave her house—’

‘Who is this person?’

‘Someone who is innocent, like us,’ he said smoothly. ‘I must help her. You understand?’

‘I’ll come too.’

‘No! You stay here. It is better. We will talk later. About what we must do.’

Doubts fluttered about in Victoria’s mind, doubts she couldn’t put her finger on. All she knew was that she hated the thought of him going without her. But then she looked up into his eyes, and saw tenderness and concern. And she realized that he must have more than a little kindness to help his friends in this way.

It was some time after he’d gone that she began to wonder about the woman on the phone, and how she’d known where Giorgio would be.

Kershaw came out of the interview room at Cannon Row Police Station, looking grim. ‘His mouth’s shut tighter than a clam.’

Nick wasn’t in the least surprised. Wheatfield was never going to be a great talker.

Kershaw said heavily, ‘The only time he showed any interest was when I told him we’d defused the bomb. Then he raised his eyebrows.’

‘If he’d spoken he’d only have said he was disappointed.’

‘Quite.’ Kershaw started off along the corridor. ‘I’m just going to have another look at his belongings.’

Nick followed to the charge room. Spread out on the table were some keys, a battered old wallet, a ragged student union card, various scraps of paper, a wad of money and some coins. The scraps of paper looked interesting, but proved on closer examination to be nothing but bus tickets, receipts and other printed matter. There was only one piece of handwriting: an address in North London.

‘We’ve checked that,’ said Kershaw. ‘It’s Reardon’s place. We went over it a week ago. We’re taking it apart again now. Also the place in St Mark’s Villas.’

Nick picked up the wad of notes and flicked through it. There was over three hundred pounds. ‘A lot of money for a poor student.’

‘And some of it brand new,’ Kashaw pointed out. ‘Just drawn. We’re checking the banks and building societies to see if he had an account.’

‘I doubt it. Wheatfield’s not the sort. Banks are capitalist institutions.’

Kershaw rubbed his chin. ‘Where did he get it from then?’

‘It was given to him, I would think.’

‘By the others in the group.’

‘I would imagine so.’

‘Then
they
must get their money fresh from the bank.’

Both men thought for a moment, then Kershaw said, ‘We might be able to trace the bank, but never the account against which the money was issued.’ He sighed and shot Nick a glance. ‘Any ideas, Ryder?’

‘Only that this proves what we’d thought – that there’s a high degree of organization. That the Crystal Faction has backing.’

Kershaw said sharply, ‘Yes. But where does that actually
get
us?’

It was a good question. Nick made a face to show he didn’t have an answer. ‘I’ll see what I can dig up.’

He accepted a lift in Kershaw’s car and the two men returned to the Yard in silence. Avoiding the incident room Nick went straight up to his office. He needed time to think. Kershaw’s team would follow up the direct leads. What Nick must do was find the link between the crystal philosophy and Wheatfield. Somewhere in the middle might be a clue to the identity of Wheatfield’s friends.

Conway was on the phone. He beckoned Nick over and, covering the mouthpiece, said, ‘I’ve got the info on Petrini.’

Nick picked up Conway’s notes and read: Antonio Petrini. Born 5th Aug 1929, Milan. Wealthy landowning family. Private schools, Milan and Switzerland. Graduated Rome University, philosophy 1952. Postgrad course Milan. Lecturer in philosophy and politics, Turin 1956–63. Publications inc.
The Revolutionary Society
, 1963;
The Tyranny of Modern Capitalism
, 1966; both pub. Gritti. Joined Italian Communist Party, 1956. Resigned 1963. Close links Far Left. Known associate of extremists.

Beneath, Conway had scribbled various notes about the Red Brigades, the Italian Communist Party, as well as some dates and places. At the bottom in a corner were the words: Gritti –
La Bandiera Rossa, La Posta
.

Nick stared.
La Posta
.

Gabriella’s magazine.

Conway had rung off. Nick asked, ‘What’s this? The Gritti bit here?’

Conway peered at his notes. ‘Ah, he’s Petrini’s publisher. Those are two of the magazines he owns. Leftist, of course.’

It figured. Gabriella would hardly work for a right-wing publication. It also explained why she knew so much about Petrini and his philosophy. Both she and Petrini had doubtless been part of the fashionable left in Milan – the radical chic who attended smart publishing parties and talked about revolution.

He remembered that he’d never got round to checking up on Gabriella. There just hadn’t been time. As soon as he had a second he’d do it. But for the moment it would have to wait.

He brought his mind back to the immediate problem. Petrini’s followers. ‘Is there any more to come on Petrini?’ he asked Conway.

‘The SID in Rome are coming back to us. I also contacted the DST in Paris. Petrini was certainly there at the time of the troubles. Claude is digging out what he has. Oh, and Box 500 and the SIS are suddenly taking quite an interest.’

‘Why?’

‘Covering themselves, I expect. In case there’s a KGB connection. Anyway, they’re looking into Petrini too.’

Nick shook his head. It was all going to take too long, far too long. And they didn’t have the time.

There was a call from the incident room: Nick was wanted downstairs. The lift was floors away so Nick ran down the four flights of stairs. One of Kershaw’s team briefed him. The Bow Street bomb had been completely dismantled at Woolwich. The explosive was French. Manufactured by Explosif Rocher, Cugny, on 20th March 1968. Type: Nitramite 19C, a mixture of TNT and ammonium nitrate. Inquiries were being made through Interpol.

The stuff was bound to be stolen, of course. That would be no surprise. But it would be interesting to know if the French had unearthed any other explosives from the same batch and if so, where. It would be even more interesting if it had turned up in terrorist hands. It would be useful to talk to Desport. Nick picked up a phone and dialled the DST in Paris.

As the number began to ring Nick became aware of a hush in the incident room. Something was up. The senior detectives were getting to their feet and moving towards the door. Kershaw was standing there. Catching Nick’s eye, he beckoned him over.

Abandoning the call, Nick hurried into Kershaw’s office.

Kershaw waited until everyone had settled.

‘The money found on Wheatfield is hot,’ he said. ‘It was stolen from a bank on the outskirts of Chester a month ago.’

Kershaw continued, ‘This is not the first of the money to have shown up. They laundered several thousand by buying and selling an expensive car. Bought it in Manchester, sold it in London three days later. Small amounts have been surfacing regularly since then, and always in the London area. We have a list of shopkeepers and publicans who’ve inadvertently handled it. They’ve not been able to provide descriptions though. Not
yet
. But four of you will attempt to jog their memories.’

A thankless task if there ever was one, Nick thought. The witnesses would already have been interviewed and their statements taken; they wouldn’t take kindly to a whole new round of questioning.

‘There were two people involved in the robbery itself,’ Kershaw went on. ‘Both were masked. Both carried Skorpion machine pistols. A third drove the getaway car. Beyond that – not a lot. Cheshire CID have made no significant progress with the investigation, and have no suspects to date. Two of you will go up there and get a full briefing.’ He named two officers.

‘A couple more things,’ Kershaw said. ‘There’s no firm evidence, just a suspicion, that it was an inside job.’ He looked doubtful. ‘But we’ll see about that. And the other thing’ – he paused for effect – ‘it seems that one of the robbers might have been a woman.’

There was silence in the room. Nick shivered slightly. A
woman
. Like the one who had left the parcel bomb at Cardinal Couriers. He had several women agitators on file – it seemed that women were making up for their centuries of political inactivity with a bang. But bank robbery? That was a very different story.

Suddenly he made up his mind. Conway could stay on the end of the phone in the office and follow up all the leads from abroad. He wanted to take a few hours off and go to Chester.

Gabriele sat in the Fiat for a long time and watched the entrance to the block of flats in Chelsea Manor Street. Finally she was satisfied. She said to Giorgio, ‘I’ll be fifteen minutes.’

She took a bag from the luggage on the back seat and got out. She carried the bag up to the flat and let herself in. The place seemed to be just as she had left it. She went from room to room until she was satisfied that nothing had been disturbed. In the kitchen she moved the cooker slightly and examined the plinth. The wood showed no signs of having been forced.