Mind/Reader Read online

  Pointless speculation, Claudine determined. Any more and she’d be committing the cardinal psychological sin herself, introducing too many alternatives into too small a set of circumstances. And there were other considerations, maybe of equal import. Greater, even.

  The job had to come first, as it had come first the previous weekend despite her genuine concern for and necessary duty to her mother. Which she’d had to readjust again. It was only a readjustment, arriving at Lyon in the evening instead of the intended morning. But it was still a change to a promised arrangement - a promise to the only person she loved in the world - and she didn’t admire herself for having made it, quite regardless of the older woman’s uncomplaining acceptance and even insistence that there was no real need for her to come at all. Claudine didn’t believe her. Despite the qualified confidence of the surgeon, Claudine was alarmed at the echoing lassitude it her mother’s voice and by Gerard Lanvin’s stilted reservation when she’d specifically telephoned him to get honest answers about her mother’s recovery.

  And then there was the job. Although she hadn’t anticipated it when she’d refused Toomey’s initial demand that she go to London on the Friday, a practical reason for her remaining at Europol had emerged.

  It had been Volker’s idea to draw digital maps on the computer screen and superimpose lines connecting each body-part city, visually making obvious - particularly in France - something she should have realized but hadn’t until it was literally displayed before her in the sort of picture it was her job to create.

  So important did she believe the implication to be that Claudine actually considered alerting Sanglier in advance of any secondary profile. In the end she didn’t, expecting to hear from Rosetti immediately after the weekend.

  By coincidence, he was also spending it in London, dogged by the two detectives, who intended to return to The Hague after the second English autopsy. For re-evaluation, Poulard had said.

  Claudine had ordered things so successfully in her mind by the Saturday morning that she even briefly speculated, on her early morning flight, what the two detectives would do in the totally unlikely event of a chance encounter between them all in London. And failed to guess, apart from estimating the speed with which they would hurry to alert Henri Sanglier. Which returned her mind from idle conjecture to serious reflection again.

  Quite obviously it was not a question she could answer until after today’s meeting, but how endangered would her position really be at Europol if they learned of Toomey’s inquiry? She genuinely didn’t know anything, legal or otherwise, about Gerald Lorimer or Paul Bickerstone, or of any involvement, legal or otherwise, that Warwick might have had with them. So where was the embarrassment if it did become public knowledge? She’d done nothing illegal, so it couldn’t affect her position at Europol. It couldn’t impugn her professional judgement or ability or integrity, either.

  She actually looked around for familiar faces as she made her way across the Heathrow concourse before realizing the Europol plane would have used the private section of the airport. She gazed intently from the taxi on her way into London, waiting for the tug of nostalgia. The route took her nowhere near the Kensington house but there was a plunge of sadness when she recognized the slip road that would have taken her to it. Otherwise she felt nothing, not even when they stopped at the Home Office which had been almost more of a home to her than Kensington. There was only a weekend skeleton staff - none of whom she recognized - but even fewer visitors, so she was escorted immediately to Toomey’s office. It was on the executive floor with a window view of the lake in St James’s Park and Claudine realized she might have underestimated the man’s Civil Service grade and importance. She wondered if that had been a factor in his asking her to come to London, bringing her this time on to his impressive territory. If it had been, he’d. failed: she was neither impressed nor frightened. But the echelon certainly confirmed political as well as criminal implications: the Home Secretary’s suite occupied the same level.

  Toomey wore a three-piece weekday suit and another vaguely possible club tie under a hard collar. The precise moustache appeared to bristle. A fresh evidence notebook was already open on the desk, separated from his recorder by his thin silver pencil. His polite standing at her entry was a stretch-and-sit exercise. Her straight-backed chair was already positioned directly opposite him.

  ‘I’m afraid there’s no secretarial staff on Saturdays. I could probably get coffee from the canteen.’

  ‘I’ve had Home Office coffee before.’

  ‘Good coffee is one of the many advantages of living in Europe.’ A smile flickered but didn’t settle. ‘Thank you for coming at a weekend.’

  Claudine didn’t consider she had anything to thank him for. ‘We’re both making allowances to get this business resolved: whatever this business is.’ Coming to London was the only allowance she’d make. Everything had to come from him.

  ‘Are we to wait for your legal representative?’

  ‘I haven’t engaged one.’

  Toomey frowned. ‘Was that wise?’

  ‘How do I know? You refused to tell me what this meeting was about.’

  ‘I would have thought that was obvious.’

  It was easy to imagine a replay of their first interview. ‘As I think I told you before, nothing is obvious to me.’

  ‘You’ve a very retentive memory. That’s fortunate.’

  Claudine ignored the second half of the remark. ‘And I remember that first interview ending without your producing any proof whatsoever to support your innuendoes against my husband.’ There wasn’t the slightest tightness in her chest.

  ‘The Serious Fraud Office have officially begun an inquiry into Paul Bickerstone.’

  Claudine decided against telling the man of her inference from the unnamed Daily Telegraph reference. Instead she said: ‘You’ve forgotten to put your tape recorder on.’

  Toomey had and momentarily she thought she had disconcerted him as he jabbed it into life. ‘Are you, Dr Claudine Carter, prepared for this meeting conducted at the Home Office in London on June twenty-eighth to be recorded?’

  He hadn’t been disconcerted at all, Claudine accepted: rather the attempt was to disconcert her. ‘Yes, I am.’

  ‘You were invited to be accompanied by a lawyer?’

  ‘Yes I was.’

  ‘Which you have declined to do?’

  ‘Yes I have.’ So she was definitely suspected of involvement in a huge financial fraud. Toomey had clearly rehearsed everything, but in his position she wouldn’t have declared herself so forcefully so soon.

  ‘I said an investigation had officially begun into the trading activities of Paul Bickerstone.’

  ‘I heard you.’

  ‘He admits to knowing Gerald Lorimer. And your husband.’

  ‘Where’s the admission in that? He did know them.’

  ‘In a friendship that continued long after university.’

  ‘You showed me the arts ball photograph, indicating that.’

  ‘Which you couldn’t remember attending, despite your retentive memory.’

  ‘That’s not correct,’ said Claudine. ‘I remembered the ball very well. It was Bickerstone himself I couldn’t recall.’

  ‘According to Bickerstone, the three of them met regularly. He’s named clubs. Social occasions.’

  ‘The Pink Serpent one of them?’

  ‘No,’ conceded Toomey. ‘As a matter of fact it wasn’t one he mentioned.’

  ‘Which then?’

  ‘The Garrick. The Travellers.’

  ‘Warwick wasn’t a member of either.’

  ‘We know. We checked.’

  ‘Did you check the visitors’ book for Warwick’s name?’

  Toomey smiled triumphantly. ‘Your husband was there three times, in the four months immediately prior to his death.’

  Why hadn’t Warwick mentioned it to her? She didn’t know he’d ever been to either. ‘Signed in by Bickerstone?’

  ‘B
y Gerald Lorimer. Whom Bickerstone proposed for membership of both.’

  ‘Was Bickerstone with them when Warwick was there?’

  ‘Members don’t have to sign in and out. You didn’t know your husband went to such clubs?’

  Instead of answering directly Claudine said: ‘When I worked from here I travelled a great deal - was away from London a lot.’

  ‘I know. There’s a record of your schedule in the archives. You were extremely busy.’

  Toomey wasn’t succeeding in prodding the nerves he wanted - he was very far from doing that - but he was getting to her in another way. Could it be true? Could Warwick have lived his life with her on too levels, one entirely removed and secret from the other? And could she have never once, for the briefest moment, suspected? ‘It’s a demanding profession.’

  Her dismissal appeared to irritate the man. ‘Are you asking me to believe that your husband never mentioned he regularly spent time with Lorimer and Bickerstone? Didn’t you ever talk about what you’d done while you were away and what he’d done while you were away?’

  ‘What you believe, Mr Toomey, is entirely a matter for yourself. The truth is that no, Warwick never talked about being with either of them. If, indeed, he ever was. If I understand you correctly you’ve only got Bickerstone’s word for the friendship.’

  ‘There are other things.’

  ‘People categorically identifying Warwick with Lorimer and Bickerstone in all these clubs and at all these social occasions? Photographs of them together, like the one from the arts ball?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘What then?’

  ‘Certain facts from what Bickerstone has told us that corroborate those we’ve independently uncovered.’

  ‘Proving what?’

  ‘Financial dealings.’

  ‘Financial dealings involving Warwick?’

  ‘That remains to be seen.’

  It was do-it-yourself psychology time again. ‘It always did remain to be seen. It really might help if I could be told what you’re talking about.’ Again so similar to the first confrontation: Toomey’s repertoire was extremely limited for someone who’d got to the top floor with a view of the park and its lake. But Civil Service promotion - even through whatever arcane division Toomey was attached to - never depended upon ability.

  ‘Bickerstone has given us his account of helping Gerald Lorimer financially.’

  ‘Admitted bribing him, you mean?’

  ‘Given his explanation for the movement of large sums of money.’

  ‘Between Bickerstone and Lorimer?’ pressed Claudine. Her mind was ahead of the exchange, anticipating in which direction Toomey was trying to lead her. Lorimer and Warwick were dead, unable to confirm or deny anything: prove or disprove anything. Most important of all, unable to give evidence against Bickerstone, if there was evidence to give. So there was no one, provided Bickerstone kept his nerve. Which was the prerequisite of every commodity dealer in the City of London, for every waking moment of their lives. Unless, of course, she had been involved and could be broken. Toomey clearly believed she had: and could be broken, by him. So there was nothing for her to fear. Nor, for that matter, had Bickerstone anything to fear. As he’d know. Explanation, Toomey had said. Not admission or confession. That was what he expected her to make, crushed by his interrogation. Her breathing became slightly more difficult, although too marginally for Toomey to realize.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, appearing unconcerned at the admission.

  She had to peel away the supposition, layer by layer. ‘Nothing about the movement of large sums of money between himself and Warwick?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Not yet?’

  ‘I wanted to have this conversation with you first. That’s why I suggested you be accompanied by a legal representative.’

  Again Claudine was ahead of the man. ‘You believe I can provide information to extract a confession from Paul Bickerstone?’

  ‘Can you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Are you sure about that?’

  ‘Positive.’

  ‘I ask you again: are you sure about that?’

  ‘You’re accusing me of lying to you!’ Claudine was still entirely confident but conceded that it might have been better if she’d brought a lawyer with her. Except that a lawyer could - and probably would - have concluded the exchange a long time ago and Claudine didn’t want it concluded. She wanted to discover the purpose of this second meeting, reduce it to the meaningless and unsubstantiated imputation that it was on a tape recording being made for some evidential use. And by doing that end the whole stupid, fucking thing so she could get back to the far more essential factors in her life, a sick mother and a criminal investigation to confirm her employment within Europol.

  ‘I’m asking you to be honest with me,’ said Toomey.

  Claudine had sat through dozens - hundreds - of court hearings where clever barristers and clever criminals tossed verbal sallies at each other until one of them - usually the criminal - fumbled the exchange, an exchange like this, because the barrister had the final destructive shot his opponent didn’t suspect. Toomey believed he had something to destroy her. ‘Let me see or hear, in its entirety, exactly what Paul Bickerstone has told you about himself and my late husband. And then ask me the questions you want answered. Which I will do, in total and complete honesty …’ she introduced the lull ‘ … either here, in this room and on this tape, or in a court of law.’

  She’d expected the challenge to knock the man off his carefully prepared course but it didn’t. Instead Toomey opened a drawer to his right and pushed a sheaf of papers towards her. For the benefit of the tape, he said: ‘This is Paul Bickerstone’s account.’

  Wrong, Claudine recognized at once: several times wrong. It was unthinkable, until the required exchanges between lawyers, for a possible co-conspirator in a crime, which the man unquestionably believed her to be, to know of any statement made by the main suspect in that crime. So this wasn’t the statement upon which Toomey hoped to rely in court. On the man’s own admission, this was Bickerstone’s explanation. So it wouldn’t contain - hint at even - what Toomey imagined he had to ensnare her. She quickly looked up from the closely typed pages. ‘This is a narrative, created from a question-and-answer interview similar to this meeting?’

  ‘Conducted in the presence of Bickerstone’s legal representative - two, in fact - and after its transcription signed by him. And endorsed by both those lawyers, as a full and true record.’

  An even more positive indication that it contained nothing incriminating. ‘I’d prefer to hear the tape than read its transcript.’

  ‘It’s legally attested to be accurate. It will take a long time to hear the tape.’

  ‘Are you in a hurry?’

  For several moments Toomey sat staring directly at her, saying nothing. Then, still unspeaking, he took a tape from the same drawer as its transcript and exchanged it for that which had been recording their encounter. Wrong yet again, decided Claudine. The immediate acquiescence betrayed the man’s desperation.

  She was startled by the similarity between Bickerstone’s carefully modulated voice and the way she remembered Warwick speaking, disliking the unwelcomed reminder. It was Toomey conducting the interrogation, seemingly as rehearsed for it as he’d tried to be with her. On Bickerstone’s tape it was possible to hear the background movement and occasional cough from the man’s lawyers. Twice there was a muttered exchange, too muffled to be picked up.

  Claudine’s concentration was absolute, not just upon every syllable but upon the intonations of every word, the imperceptible pauses and mid-sentence deviations. On five occasions the lawyers interceded - always with demands for greater clarity to a question, never with a challenge of legality or refusal to respond - but throughout Bickerstone remained utterly confident, polite, helpful, even contributing more than was necessary. All of which, judged Claudine, he had every reason to be, confident most of all. She didn’t speak
when the tape ended but switched her concentration to the man on the other side of the desk.

  ‘Well?’ she forced Toomey finally to ask.

  ‘You haven’t changed the tapes.’ This time she thought the reminder - or rather her unfazed reaction - did disconcert the man, although only slightly. After Toomey made the transfer, she said: ‘Or identified on the tape the resumption of our meeting, after my hearing the original question-and-answer interview with Paul Bickerstone.’

  Toomey delivered the recitation even more formally, with dates and times, making her formality unnecessary. Then he said again: ‘Well?’

  ‘That’s not it, is it?’ she demanded.

  For the first time Toomey was obviously flustered. ‘Not what?’

  ‘I asked you to let me see or hear, in its entirety, exactly what Paul Bickerstone told you about himself and my late husband.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘But he told you nothing, did he? You told him …’ She gestured, disparagingly, to the Bickerstone tape that still lay on the desk. ‘That recording doesn’t contain one single piece of volunteered information! He’s always responding to your questions. And your questions are always phrased - badly - showing him the safest way to respond.’

  Toomey visibly flushed. ‘That’s an absurd assertion, which I resent.’ He looked uncomfortably at the tape.

  ‘It’s not and you know it!’ Claudine stopped abruptly. The man did know it, she guessed. Too late, perhaps, but he knew it. Which was why he’d reversed his approach to her today - even, in his desperation, allowed her to hear the tape which had told her far more than she could ever have learned from the transcript - because her hoped-for admission was his last chance. Quickly, determined to crush the man, Claudine picked up with devastating and complete recall: ‘Your question: You retained a friendship with Gerald Lorimer and Warwick Jameson after leaving Cambridge, didn’t you? His reply: Yes. Your question: Did you frequently go out with both of them socially? His reply: Yes. Your question: To clubs and restaurants? Social functions? Things like that? His reply: Yes, to things like that. Your question: How often did you see Gerald Lorimer and Warwick Jameson socially: once a week, once a fortnight, every month? His reply: There was no fixed arrangement. Once, twice a month maybe. Your question: It would certainly have been at least once a month, though? His reply: Something like that, I suppose.’