His temper had flared then subsided. He was still in shock and the questions – the situation – seemed unreal. The small house appeared to be filled with moving figures, hostile, disbelieving faces. Their attitude towards him seemed to change imperceptibly as the hours wore on and answers he gave them matched answers he’d given earlier. They allowed him to shower and dress, then two detectives accompanied him to the agency in Gray’s Inn Square where all three searched through recent files, looking for any clue in recent cases that might shed some light on the gruesome murder. One of the questions uppermost in their minds was why Maggie Wyeth’s murderer should crucify her to her partner’s front door. Could their agency have helped convict someone in the past, and now this lunatic was taking his revenge? Other policemen were going over Maggie’s Highgate home with a fine-tooth comb at the same time, looking for such evidence, but they, like the two detectives with Steadman, found no leads.
Business hours were approaching when they finally left Steadman alone in Maggie’s office, his mind weary with fatigue and his senses still dulled by shock. They asked him to come to New Scotland Yard to make a statement later on in the day, and warned him not to say too much to the Press at this stage of the investigation, who they felt sure would soon be on to him. And they warned him not to leave the city without telling them of his destination first.
Sue found him there when she arrived for work. The door to Maggie’s office was open and, still in her coat and shaking the rain from her umbrella, Sue put her head around the door, expecting to see Maggie. She looked at Steadman’s dishevelled figure in bewilderment.
‘Oh, I thought it was Mrs Wyeth. Would you . . .’
‘Come in, Sue.’ Steadman cut off her words, barely glancing at the girl.
Sue was puzzled, then concerned, as she entered the room and drew nearer to the investigator. His eyes had an unfocused look to them.
‘Are you all right, Mr Steadman? You look . . .’
‘What case did Maggie have on last week, Sue?’ His eyes now became clearer and fastened on the secretary’s.
The question – and its intensity – surprised her. ‘Er, it should be in her book. She was in court twice – er, Tuesday and Thursday, I think – and she investigated some suspected pilfering in the Myer’s chain store. That was about it, I think. It’s in the book.’ She pointed towards the red diary lying on the desk in front of Steadman.
‘Yes, I’ve been through it,’ he said, picking up the diary and flicking through the pages again. ‘Was there anything nasty going on with this pilfering business?’
‘No. No, I don’t think so. Mrs Wyeth had only just started on the investigation. But she should be in soon, she’ll be able to tell . . .’
‘Sue.’ She stopped at his quiet tone. ‘Mrs Wyeth won’t be coming in.’
Sue stood in the centre of the room, the dripping umbrella still in her hand creating a pool of rainwater on the wood floor, her face suddenly pale. The look on Steadman’s face told her she was about to hear something terrible, but she couldn’t find the words to prompt him.
Steadman decided not to tell her until he’d learned as much as possible about Maggie’s activities during the last week or so, for he knew the shock to his secretary would prevent further questioning. ‘Try and think, Sue. Was Maggie involved in anything else while I was away?’
She shook her head, then froze. ‘Well, there was another case, but . . .’
Steadman waited, but the girl seemed reluctant to go on. ‘You’ve got to tell me, Sue. It could be important.’
‘She wanted to tell you herself when you got back. She asked me not to say anything.’
‘Please tell me, Sue.’ There was frustration in Steadman’s voice.
‘The man . . . the man who came to see you last week. Mr Goldblatt? I think Mrs Wyeth was working on something for him.’
‘Christ!’ The girl jumped as Steadman’s fist hit the desk. ‘I told her I didn’t want to handle that!’ he shouted.
‘She . . . she said we weren’t busy, that we could easily fit it in. It was only tracing a missing person.’ Sue felt uncomfortable for she felt a strong loyalty towards both her employers.
‘I’m sure Mrs Wyeth will explain . . .’
‘She won’t though. She’s dead!’ The investigator regretted his anger immediately as Sue’s face broke into lines of distress. He stood up and walked around the desk to her. ‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have told you like that.’ He put two hands on her shoulders and guided her towards a chair.
‘How did it happen?’ she asked as she searched for a handkerchief in her pocket. ‘She was fine on Thursday morning after court. There didn’t seem to be anything wrong at all.’
‘Was that the last time you saw her?’ His voice was gentle now.
‘Yes, Thursday morning.’ She dabbed at her eyes with the handkerchief. ‘She told me she would be out that afternoon and probably most of Friday. What happened, Mr Steadman? How did she die?’
Steadman hesitated, but realized the newspapers would carry the story even if the more grisly details were left out. ‘She was murdered. Last night. That’s why I have to know her movements last week.’
‘Murdered? But who . . . ?’
‘We don’t know, Sue. The police will probably want to question you later today.’
Steadman tried to comfort the girl as her shoulders shook with sudden grief.
‘When did Mrs Wyeth see Goldblatt?’ he asked her after her sobs had become more controlled.
‘On the same day you did. She arranged to see him at his hotel that afternoon.’
‘Which hotel, Sue? Have you got the name?’
She nodded. ‘It’s in my pad. I’ll get it for you.’ Sue rose from the chair, still holding the crumpled handkerchief to her nose.
‘Who would do it, Mr Steadman? Who would murder her?’
Steadman could give her no answer. He doubted if he even wanted to find out. Somehow he knew it would lead to even more death.
The hotel was in North-West London, close to Belsize Park, a modern, motor motel, the kind favoured by businessmen who spent only a week or so in town, then moved on to other parts of the country. It was central to London and anonymous – ideal for members of organizations such as Mossad.
Steadman paid the cabbie and strode purposefully through the swing-doors into the hotel’s reception area. He had left Sue in the capable hands of Sexton. The older detective had arrived with Steve just as Sue had been finding Goldblatt’s address for him, and Steadman had explained to all three exactly what had happened to Maggie. There had been more hysterics from Sue and Steve had gone deathly white, but Sexton had taken it all in his stride. He had been stunned, of that there was no doubt, but experience and acceptance of the ills of the world had enabled him to cast emotion to one side for the moment, for he was needed to calm the others. The retired policeman had wanted to accompany Steadman to the Mossad agent’s hotel, but his employer had insisted he stay behind and do his best, under the circumstances, to carry on the business as normal. His firmness would also be needed to keep the Press at bay. Sexton had accepted his role without argument.
The hotel receptionist eyed Steadman coolly. The investigator realized his appearance was unkempt, the stubble of an unshaven chin, the open-necked shirt, and the signs of a sleepless night apparent in his face, making him an unwelcome guest; but he was in no mood for offended hotel receptionists.
‘You have a Mr Goldblatt staying here. What room is he in?’
The authority in Steadman’s voice allowed no dissent from the man behind the desk. The receptionist quickly ran a finger down the guest list.
‘Room 314, sir. Third floor. I’ll give Mr Goldblatt a call and let him know you’re here. What name shall I say?’
‘Don’t bother,’ Steadman told him as he turned away and walked towards the lifts.
‘Just a minute, sir,’ the receptionist called out, but the lift doors were already opening, disgorging a group of businessmen, and
Steadman had stepped in behind them. The receptionist hastily picked up the phone and dialled a number.
The lift reached the third floor and the doors opened smoothly. Steadman stepped into the carpeted corridor and looked for room numbers. A door further down opened and the Mossad agent’s figure appeared. He raised an arm in surprise towards Steadman.
The detective walked towards him, his eyes fixed firmly on the Israeli’s. The Mossad agent was still in shirt-sleeves and clearly had not expected a visitor so early in the morning.
‘I’m pleased you have come, Mr . . .’ His voice wavered as he recognized the look in Steadman’s eyes. It reminded him of his old instructor’s look when one of Goldblatt’s companions had shot a fellow trainee in the throat with a machine-gun through carelessness; the veteran instructor had beaten his pupil to a pulp for wasting a badly needed Israeli life. That same cold look was now in Steadman’s eyes.
He felt strangely powerless to prevent Steadman striking him, for the look held him rigid. The blow sent him reeling back into the room. He rolled over on his back and came to his knees, but Steadman’s foot sent him over again. Goldblatt sprawled on his back then felt himself lifted by his shirt-front. ‘Steadman, don’t . . .’ he cried out, but his words were cut off by a vicious slap in the face. His head shot to one side, then to the other, as Steadman brought his hand sharply back.
‘You used her, you bastard!’ Steadman shouted down into the agent’s face. ‘You used Lilla and you used me. Now you’ve killed Maggie, too!’
‘Steadman, what are you saying?’
‘Maggie!’ Steadman screamed. ‘You killed her!’
The Israeli agent was thrown to the floor again and Steadman raised his fist to bring it down into the upturned face.
‘Enough, Steadman. Please do not move!’ The command came from the bedroom doorway.
Steadman swung his head round and saw the woman standing there, a small but long-barrelled Beretta in her hand and aimed at his chest. He recognized her as the woman he had seen with Goldblatt in the car the week before.
‘Please don’t make me shoot you,’ she pleaded, her eyes nervously glancing at Goldblatt. Steadman knew she meant it, for the gunfire would make little noise: it was Mossad’s custom to use bullets carrying light powder loadings to reduce their blast. The only problem for them would be the disposal of his corpse, but with the help of others, that could be arranged without too much difficulty. He stepped away from the recumbent Mossad agent and towards the woman, ready to pounce at her slightest distraction.
Her long, black hair falling to her shoulders and dark skin gave her a seductive attractiveness. The man’s bathrobe she wore – obviously Goldblatt’s – somehow heightened that attractiveness.
‘It’s all right, Hannah,’ Goldblatt said hastily, wiping blood from the corner of his mouth. ‘Don’t shoot him. Yet.’
The Israeli staggered to his feet and went to the door, looking into the hallway before he closed it. No one had been disturbed. He walked back to Steadman, keeping behind him. He ran skilful, searching hands down the investigator’s body, then straightened when satisfied there were no concealed weapons. He walked around to the woman called Hannah and took the gun from her hand, keeping it pointed at Steadman.
‘Now, explain. Why did you do this?’ he said.
‘Don’t you know what you’ve done?’ Steadman asked angrily.
Goldblatt shook his head. ‘Please explain.’
‘You used my partner to find your missing agent, didn’t you?’
‘She came to us.’
‘But I refused to work for you!’
‘That was your choice, not hers. She wanted to take the job on. She said you could be persuaded once you saw it was just another routine commission.’
‘Routine? With Mossad?’ Steadman shook his head in disgust.
‘What has happened to your partner, Mr Steadman?’ It was the woman who spoke.
Steadman’s eyes shifted to her. ‘She was murdered last night. I found her nailed to my door. Her tongue had been torn out.’ He said the words coldly, stifling the emotion he felt.
The woman closed her eyes and seemed to sway. Goldblatt reached out a hand to steady her, but he was too experienced to let the gun drift away from the investigator’s direction.
‘Why was this done to her?’ he said to Steadman.
‘You tell me,’ came the bitter reply.
‘But did they leave no message? Have they not contacted you?’
‘They? Who would they be, Goldblatt?’
‘It must have been Gant.’
‘Why should he have done this to Maggie?’
‘Perhaps she got too close, found out too much.’
‘But why do that to her?’
‘As a warning, Mr Steadman.’
‘To me? But I wanted nothing to do with it!’
‘Gant must know of your past association with Mossad.’ The Israeli lowered his eyes briefly. ‘Your partner must have told him.’
The realization hit Steadman hard. Maggie must have been frightened or tortured into disclosing that information. He clenched his fist and would have leaped at Goldblatt at that moment, gun or no gun, had not the woman suddenly burst into tears.
‘That poor woman. Oh God, forgive us!’ She slumped down on to one of the room’s armchairs. Goldblatt lowered the gun.
‘You see the evil of these people, Mr Steadman? You see what they will do to achieve their ends?’
‘And what about you bastards? What do you do to achieve yours?’
‘Not this. We do not make war on innocents.’
‘But they get killed anyway.’
Goldblatt walked over to the room’s other armchair and sat, no longer caring if the investigator attacked him again.
‘Forgive us, Mr Steadman. We did not think they would harm a British citizen,’ he said.
The anger had drained from Steadman. He had known people like these Mossad agents. They were mostly decent, dedicated people; their one common fault – to him – was their fanaticism towards Israel’s cause.
He walked to the window and looked down on the busy street below. The drizzle had stopped and already fumes from the traffic were filling the air. ‘Tell me exactly what happened when she contacted you,’ he said quietly.
Goldblatt glanced at Hannah and an agreement seemed to pass between them. ‘She came here to the hotel and we told her of Baruch’s disappearance,’ Goldblatt said. ‘We were doubtful of using your agency after our meeting, Mr Steadman, but Mrs Wyeth convinced us you would see reason once the case was underway. And she thought perhaps you would not even have to know of it if Baruch could be found quickly. She said you were busy in the North.’
‘But I’d have seen the books eventually,’ said Steadman.
‘By then – hopefully – it wouldn’t have mattered.’
Goldblatt paused, but Steadman’s expression urged him on. ‘We told her of Baruch’s contact with Edward Gant and how he had disappeared shortly after. She said she could start by making enquiries at Gant’s London office to see if Baruch had visited him that day. A commissionaire, a receptionist – anyone in the building might recognize him if we could provide her with a photograph. It would be somewhere to start, anyway. She said she would check out the staff at the hotel where he had been staying. They might have seen something on that day and a few pound notes here and there would probably help them remember. She left after we had given her a thorough description of Baruch and an agenda of his activities since he’d been in this country. We told her as much as we could but, of course, not everything. Within twenty-four hours we had a photograph of Baruch – it was flown over from Israel – and this we gave to her on Wednesday. Since then, we have heard nothing.’
‘Just how much did you tell her, Goldblatt?’ ‘We told her Baruch’s mission was to make an arms deal with Gant.’
‘And not that Gant is on your assassination list!’ ‘But he is not! We are merely investigating his dealings with terror
ists.’
‘My God,’ Steadman scoffed, ‘I could almost believe you.’ ‘Mr Steadman.’ It was Hannah who spoke now. ‘We did not realize the danger to your friend. We were desperate. It is not easy for our agents to operate in this country and we had used up all our resources to find Baruch. We thought her neutrality would protect her.’
‘You were wrong!’
‘Yes, we know that now. But doesn’t this murder make you want to help us?’
‘Help you?’ Steadman shook his head in wonder. ‘If – and I mean if – Maggie was killed by Gant, then the whole point of nailing her to my door was to serve as a warning for me to keep my nose out. And it worked!’
‘But surely you will avenge her death?’ Goldblatt was on his feet. ‘Surely you will help us now?’
‘Oh no. I’ve had my share of bloodletting in the name of revenge. Those days are over for me.’
The two Israeli agents stared at him in disbelief. ‘You will let him get away with this murder?’ Goldblatt said. ‘What has happened to you, Steadman? How can a man be this way?’
‘In this country we have a police force to find murderers,’ Steadman told him evenly.
‘You will tell the police of us?’ The gun in Goldblatt’s hand was raised towards the investigator again.
‘I’ll tell them everything I know.’ Steadman saw the knuckles on the hand whiten.
‘David. It would be wrong.’ Hannah reached up and placed a gentle hand on Goldblatt’s arm. After a few seconds’ hesitation, the gun was lowered again.
‘You are right,’ Goldblatt said. ‘Go then, Steadman. You are wrong about us, but we will never convince you of that now. I have pity for you.’
Steadman stood in silence, a tight smile on his face. It was ironic, he thought. A battle was going on inside him. These people didn’t understand that he wanted to help them. Old fires had been rekindled, Maggie’s death had stirred up feelings he had thought of as long buried; and now the struggle was to quench those fires, to remember the tragedies these feelings had led to in the past.