57

“Have you made the calls?”

Bill Selsey looked at his colleague with sympathy in his eyes—sympathy and an intense gratitude that he’d not been the one who’d had to do every senior officer’s least favorite job.

“Yeah.” Jack Grantham looked drained of his usual air of purpose. “She was an only child, you know. Her parents’ pride and joy. A First at Cambridge, a glittering career. All that was missing was the husband and children. The worst thing is, the parents have no idea what their kid’s really been up to. At least if your boy’s in the army you know there’s always the chance of bad news. But these people were sitting there thinking their little girl had a safe diplomatic job in Switzerland. And who the hell ever gets killed in Switzerland?”

“How did you explain it? Car crash?”

“Yeah, the usual: a hit-and-run, tragic accident, death was instantaneous, she didn’t suffer. All that bollocks.”

“I got you a coffee.”

Selsey handed over a white plastic cup filled with an indeterminate brown liquid. Grantham took a drink and grimaced.

“Bloody hell, that’s awful.”

“Some things don’t change,” said Selsey. “New HQ, same old rubbish coffee.”

Grantham managed a bitter laugh. He drank some more, then shook his head.

“It wasn’t meant to be like this. I told them, just watch, don’t get involved.”

“I know,” agreed Selsey. “I said the same thing. Told her to be careful. Are we sure yet, how it all happened?”

“Pretty much. Murcheson, the other lad from Bern, spent all night with the Geneva police. He’s seen all their forensic evidence, read the witness statements. Johnsen was taking photographs right up to the moment he decided to get involved. It seems pretty clear that our Russian friend from the black BMW, the one we think killed Papin, had managed to swap vehicles. He’d got hold of a telephone company van and was using it to watch one of the properties on the street. Presumably it was the place Papin had led him to, where the Paris crew were hiding out. So he’s watching that and we’re watching him and everything’s just peachy, until for no good reason anyone can work out, the Russian decides on a change of plan and goes into this café.”

“Maybe he just fancied a decent cup of coffee?”

“Well, I can sympathize with him there. But there must have been more to it than that because Johnsen took it upon himself to go up to the café himself, and by the time he got there the Russian had grabbed a young woman—identity unknown, by the way—and was dragging her out the door. Then Johnsen decides to do his knight-in-shining-armor act and gets shot for his trouble. So then the Russian starts shooting witnesses, two in the café and Stock, who’d come rushing up the road when she saw her partner go down.”

“What a bloodbath. Still, one can’t help wondering about this mystery woman, the one who got abducted. The Russian must have wanted her very badly if he was prepared to kill four people without blinking. And he didn’t kill her, you’ll note.”

“Not yet, no.”

“So she’s the key to it.”

“Well, she’s part of the key, certainly. Because there’s something else.”

Grantham was picking up speed now, finding new reserves of energy. “At almost exactly the same time as the Russian was shooting people left, right, and center at the café, there was another fight going on up the road at an Irish pub.”

“Good grief. Sounds more like Dodge City than Geneva.”

“I know, but here’s the interesting thing. There were three victims of this pub brawl and they were all Russian, all carrying diplomatic passports. They wouldn’t say a word about what happened. But they were all armed with submachine guns and they were all taken out by one man, before they could fire a shot.”

Selsey gave a whistle of admiration. “Sounds like an impressive chap.”

“Yes, and this same mystery man was next seen running down the street shooting a pistol of his own. And guess what his target was?”

“Don’t tell me, the Russian?”

“You got it. The Russian, driving away in his van, presumably with the woman stuck in the back. So what does that tell you?”

“That the mystery man and the mystery woman were both being chased by the same bunch of Russians.”

“And the Russians got their information from Pierre Papin, who was trying to flog us a lead to the people who killed the princess. Which means . . .”

Selsey had no trouble finishing the sentence: “That if we find the mystery duo, we’ve got our killers.”

“Exactly.”

“Maybe those poor bloody kids didn’t die entirely in vain.”

“Somehow, Bill, I don’t think that will bring much comfort to their parents.”

Neither man knew what to say next. Before either could think of anything, the phone rang. Grantham picked it up. He listened to the voice on the other end of the line for a few seconds, frowning at what he heard. Then he said, “Hang on a second,” and gestured at Bill Selsey, pointing at something on his desk. “Pass me that pad, quick, and a pen.”

Selsey handed them over and Grantham started writing, his phone pressed between his shoulder and his ear. Finally he put the ballpoint down and transferred the phone to his hand. “Thanks, Percy, I really appreciate this. As you may know, this all got personal for us last night. Anyway, well done. You’ve come up trumps once again.”

Grantham put the phone down and suddenly his face, so miserable a few minutes earlier, was wreathed in a beaming grin. “We’ve got them! Percy Wake seems to have persuaded his contacts that they need to be a bit more helpful. They’ve handed over two names. Surprise, surprise, it’s a man and a woman. And I’m going to have them if it’s the last thing I do.”