Silent Truths (36 page)

‘Then you must send it,’ Georgie told her.

Beth nodded. ‘I just hate the idea of strangers reading it first,’ she said. ‘That’s partly what’s held me back all this time. It’s so intrusive. As if being apart like this isn’t bad enough, having other people pick through all your private thoughts and feelings … I don’t know if it’ll change anything if I send it, whether he’ll want to see me after, or even if he’ll write back, but I really want him to have it. Do you think, if I asked, Bruce would give it to him for me?’

‘Oh, I’m sure he will,’ Georgie responded. ‘He’ll be home tonight for the weekend. He can take it back with him on Monday.’

Happy with that, Beth put out a finger for a ladybird to climb on to it. ‘Three dots,’ she said,
looking at its back as it scuttled over her hand. ‘One for each month Colin will be in prison? If it were, he’d be coming home any day. Maybe it’s one for each year.’ The ladybird’s wings started to spread, then a moment later it flew away. Beth smiled at the symbolism. ‘Three years,’ she said softly.

Georgie didn’t comment. Now wasn’t the time to remind her that first-degree murder carried a sentence ten times the one she had mentioned, though, who could say, maybe Colin was going to end up on remand for three years before finally being acquitted? So she merely wiped her hands in her apron and reached for the cordless phone as it rang.

Elliot had just finished a call to his office when Rhona came into the kitchen. ‘How is she?’ he asked, putting his mobile down on the counter-top bar that separated the kitchen and dining room, and going to help himself to coffee.

‘Still asleep. She’s going to have one giant headache when she wakes up, that’s for sure. Are you going to report it to the police?’

‘I don’t think so,’ he answered. ‘It’s probably not worth it when we’ve got a pretty good idea who was behind it. The only strange part was that they didn’t go to the trouble of making it look like a chance break and entry.’

‘You mean you’re sorry more wasn’t taken,’ Rhona commented wryly.

His expression mirrored her irony.

‘What time did she call you?’ she asked, wandering over to pour herself a coffee.

‘Around six, which means she was out for a
couple of hours if it happened at dawn. They obviously came in through the skylight upstairs. Andrew’s office is in a bit of a mess.’

‘We can sort it out,’ she said. Then, tilting her head to one side, she said, ‘I’m glad she called you. Surprised, but glad.’

He didn’t answer, merely clicked on his mobile as it rang.

‘Elliot? It’s Wilbur,’ said the voice at the other end. ‘Are you still at the hospital?’

‘No. We got back about an hour ago.’

‘So how is she?’

‘She’ll live. Don’t expect to see her for a couple of days, though. Make that a week.’

‘OK. I’m in a phone booth, down in the lobby.’

‘Is that promotion?’ Elliot enquired.

Wilbur didn’t laugh. ‘So who did it?’ he pressed. ‘Any idea?’

‘Try asking Goldman.’

‘Yeah, funny. I’m worried about her, Elliot. She doesn’t get how serious this is. You’ve got to talk some sense into her.’

‘If you couldn’t do it, Wilbur, what hope is there for the rest of us?’

‘You could close her out of this, and you know it.’

Aware of Rhona listening Elliot said, ‘She’ll need a new laptop. You must have a spare hanging around over there.’

‘I’ll have one sent over. What did she have on hers that they were after?’

‘Your sources are better than mine,’ Elliot countered.

Wilbur was silent.

So was Elliot.

‘We don’t all have your freedom, Elliot,’ Wilbur said shortly.

‘You could make your information flow a two-way street,’ Elliot suggested.

‘I don’t have any information. I just get told to back her off.’

‘What about the manuscript? Or was it just coincidence that a copy was stolen the day after your paper revealed its existence? The more people that know, the more culprits there might be. Is that how you got clearance to run it?’

Again Wilbur was silent.

‘Call again when you’re ready to make it two-way,’ Elliot said, and rang off.

‘Wilbur the concerned boss,’ Rhona commented, biting into a chocolate biscuit.

‘He’s genuine,’ Elliot responded, getting to his feet. ‘Can you stay here? There’s a meeting I have to get to.’ He looked at his watch. ‘I should be back by seven.’

Rhona’s eyebrows were up. ‘Will you be staying the night?’ she enquired.

‘No. But you will. You can get me on my mobile if you need me.’

He descended the stairs quickly, then quietly pushed open the door to the master bedroom. The curtains were blocking most of the light, but he could see Laurie’s sleeping face on the pillow, still deathly pale, with patches of dried blood in her hair. She was going to have a hard time washing it for the next few days, but Rhona could always lend a hand.

Turning on his heel he let himself out of the house and got into the Porsche. He had to give this
some serious consideration now, because Wilbur was right, she didn’t understand what she was up against, and if the brief discussion they’d had earlier was anything to go by, not even this little episode had dented her resolve. In fact, it seemed to have fired her up more than ever, though he’d be interested to see how she felt once the shock wore off and reality kicked in. That could take a while, however, since the experience of having someone break into the house while she was sleeping, then slam her over the head with something as potentially lethal as a seven-pound computer was far more traumatic to the senses, never mind the skull, than she was currently allowing for. And the situation wasn’t helped by her stubborn refusal to give her emotions free rein. In fact, her struggle to hold back while they were returning from the hospital had been so absurd he’d almost shouted at her to just damned well let go. However, they’d already spent the best part of the day arguing by then, and he was getting tired of it, so he’d just let her carry on the struggle as though he didn’t know it was happening.

But the good thing in all this was the fact that she’d called him first when she’d finally come round. As there was next to no traffic at that hour, he’d got to the house in ten minutes flat, to find her sitting at the bottom of the stairs with the phone, shaking and fighting even then to hold back the tears. Of course the intruder was long gone, and the private detective he’d threatened to hire, was still just that, a threat, though by the end of today he’d be a reality unless Elliot somehow managed to turn things round by talking her out of carrying on. He
grimaced as he considered the battle he’d had just getting her to casualty. It was only when he’d pointed out that she had blood in her hair, which meant she could be haemorrhaging so could therefore die in the next five minutes and he didn’t want to be the one to tell her father, that the fight had finally gone out of her and she’d meekly gone to get dressed.

The wait at the hospital had proved no easy time either, for she’d kept insisting he should go, that she’d be all right on her own. Like a fool he’d protested, until eventually he’d gone outside to use the phone, then came back to tell her he was leaving, but there was a taxi rank down the road so she could easily get home. That had gone down about as well as he’d expected, so she’d promptly buttoned up on that subject, turning instead to the sheer misery of losing her computer when it contained only a part of Ashby’s life, but the entire twenty-eight years of hers.

‘And what’s more,’ she’d said, ‘it’s probably not going to do them any good, because even if they can break my password to get into it, they’ll have a hell of a time finding the right files under the system I use, and even if they do, they’re all in code.’

At first, Elliot was impressed by that. ‘What kind of code?’

‘It’s one that Lysette and I used to use,’ she said, making sure not to connect with his eyes as she mentioned Lysette’s name. ‘It was a game, really, when we were kids, to see how good we were at reading each other’s minds. She was always better at it than I was, but it became almost like a second
language, so I tend to use it when I’m writing articles that are sensitive, or still being researched, and I don’t want anyone to steal them. OK. I know it sounds paranoid, but you never know who can break into your computer these days, and they don’t have to steal it to do it.’

‘I don’t think it’s paranoid,’ he told her. ‘I think it’s wise.’

It had taken him all of a minute to do a complete one-eighty on that, as he’d realized that if Gatling and his friends had a problem finding the information they wanted, there was a good chance they’d be back to access the source. So once this afternoon’s meeting was over that little problem was going straight to the top of his priority list.

An hour and a half later, having woven dangerously through the interminable traffic that clogged up the City, West End and then the M4 to Heathrow, he finally snatched a ticket to enter the short-term parking, drove under the barrier and found a space on the uppermost level. It was four twenty-five now, he should have been there ten minutes ago.

Cooling his speed so as not to attract attention, he headed into Terminal 2, making straight for the gents on the arrivals level, while willing Edwards still to be there. The man generally never waited. As one of Europe’s most prominent businessmen, his time was necessarily limited, so Elliot was fully aware of how great this favour was, even though it had been Edwards who’d contacted him.

Of the eight stalls inside the gents three doors were closed. Elliot relieved himself, then stood over a basin and washed his hands. In the mirror he
watched the traffic behind him. By the time all three stalls had either emptied or switched occupants he knew Edwards wasn’t there. Swearing under his breath he stabbed the automatic dryer and shoved his hands into the warm air. He was only guessing at what Edwards wanted to see him about, but if he was right he was never going to forgive himself for missing this rendezvous, when it was likely to provide the most promising leads yet.

Wanting to be sure he had the details right, he slipped out his palm-pilot and checked. The message read: ‘Simpson’s in Paris, call him 331 12 16 15’. If he ignored the third digit, as arranged, what it actually meant was that Edwards would be in London on the third day of the third week of the month, and would meet him at the city’s number one airport, Heathrow, Terminal 2 at four fifteen. That Edwards had used the elaborate code they’d devised between them, was indication enough of how important, and indeed sensitive, this meeting was. And now, thanks to the traffic, and Laurie’s resistance to going to hospital, there was a chance he was too damned late.

‘Elliot? Is that you, my friend?’

It was Edwards striding in through the door with a heavy briefcase and folding suitcase.

‘Alan!’ Elliot responded, mimicking the surprise. ‘I heard you were in New York.’

‘That was last week.’ With a widening of his eyes and inclination of his head Edwards asked about the stalls, while saying, ‘I’ve just come from Brussels.’

Nodding the all clear, Elliot said, ‘Good tip you
gave in the
FT
a couple of weeks ago. I’m getting rich.’

Chuckling, Edwards set down his luggage and began to soap his hands. His face was shaped like a rodent’s – large eyes, elongated nose, thin lips and backward-sloping chin. He was still smiling as quietly he said, ‘I’m told you’re going into the Ashby story.’

Exactly what Elliot had hoped to hear. ‘That’s right,’ he confirmed.

‘So what do you know?’

‘Only that there’s more to it. Gatling’s name is coming up.’

Edwards nodded. ‘Don’t only look here. Look in Washington. Tokyo. Singapore. Brussels.’

‘Do you know what it is?’

‘Let’s just say something’s going down, and it’s not just the euro.’

Elliot knew better than to accept that as a lame joke. He glanced in the mirror as two Pakistanis came noisily in the door. They didn’t even look in his and Edwards’s direction as they moved over to the latrine. ‘Give me somewhere to go,’ he said.

‘Watch the foreign exchange markets. There’s a trend. Dollar and sterling against the euro.’

‘What’s all this got to do with Ashby, and the murder?’

‘It’s linked somehow, but you’re not looking at someone who knows.’

‘Who does?’

Edwards shook his head.

‘What do you know about a syndicate?’

If Edwards was surprised Elliot knew about it, he
didn’t show it. ‘You’re on the right track,’ he confirmed.

‘Gatling’s part of it?’

‘Yes.’

‘Tell me some more about it. How long are we going back?’

‘Years. They’ve got some of the world’s key policy-makers in their pockets. They can, and do, make things happen, my friend. So watch your back.’

‘Give me some more names.’

‘Brunner, Hong Kong banking. Kleinstein, international media. Wingate, Texas oil. Yoroshito, Japanese telecoms. There’re a dozen or more of them, scattered all over the globe. Each of them heads up a powerful group within his own territory, the kind of groups that put their own boys in the driver’s seat then steer from behind. You know how it goes. You’ve only got to look at the last US election.’

Yes, he knew how it went, since it was no secret that behind just about every political leader there was at least a handful of self-interested industrialists, financiers, or billionaire businessmen who pulled the strings in order to activate policies that most benefited them. So the only surprising part about the syndicate was that it had managed to insert itself been the power groups and the parliaments without anyone detecting its existence. The question now was, how legal were their activities, and how far would they go to cover them? ‘Was Ashby part of this syndicate?’ Elliot asked.

‘Possibly.’

‘Did he kill the girl?’

‘Probably.’ Edwards tugged a fistful of paper towels from the loader, dried his hands, then treating Elliot to a friendly slap on the back, he said, ‘It was good running into you, my friend. If you’ve got anything in Heiler-Janks, take my advice, get it out now,’ and picking up his bags he stalked back out into the mayhem.