‘Now what?’ Raul said.
‘Now we sit, and hope that our guy’s in there, and wait for him to show his face,’ Ben replied. The image on McCauley’s website showed a lean-faced man somewhere in his mid-fifties, with round wire-framed glasses, thinning hair and a scraggy beard turning grey about the chin. As Ben imagined him, he could have been a lecturer at a former polytechnic, the kind of guy who would wear open-toed sandals and sew leather patches onto the elbows of his corduroy jackets. The whole vegetarian look. Unless he’d shaved off the beard, he shouldn’t be too hard to spot.
Ben checked his watch. It was 3.17 p.m. ‘If McCauley keeps regular nine-to-five office hours, it shouldn’t be that long a wait.’
‘Someone like that, he could be at his desk until midnight,’ Raul said. ‘If he’s even at work. We could have come all this way for nothing. We should have phoned in advance to find out if he would be here.’
‘I didn’t want him to know we were coming,’ Ben said. ‘If he has any inkling of what’s going on, he might have got the strangest idea that bad guys were gunning for him, too.’
‘Fine. Then we sit and breathe stale piss for the next however many hours. Could you not have stolen a better-smelling car?’
Ben looked at him. ‘If it’s fresh air you want, you can take a stroll to that newsagent’s we passed back there, and grab us a couple of sandwiches. Get me some cigarettes, too.’
Grumbling, Raul hurried off through the rain in search of the newsagent’s while Ben sat alone in the dank car and watched the building. Trickles of rain snaked through the dirt on the windscreen. Now that they were here in London, his worries about not finding McCauley so easily had returned in full force to haunt him.
Raul returned a few minutes later with two floppy sandwiches, a couple of Mars Bars and a pack of Mayfair Superkings. Ben stared at the cigarettes. ‘What’s this you’ve bought? I can’t smoke this crap.’
‘I’m pleased to hear it,’ Raul said. ‘Then I won’t have to choke on your fumes on top of the stench in this car. Why can’t you vape e-cigarettes like all the other addicts these days?’
‘Maybe because sucking pure liquid nicotine is like shooting poison directly into your system,’ Ben said. ‘That stuff’ll kill you.’
‘Not me. I respect my body.’
‘Oh, I noticed that, first time I laid eyes on you.’
Ben left the Mayfairs unopened. He wasn’t that desperate. He’d just have to smoke twice as much to catch up, when he eventually got hold of some real cigarettes again. For now, he contented himself with the sugar rush from the chocolate.
Time passed. They didn’t speak, partly because of the nervous tension Ben could sense coming from Raul, and partly just because there was nothing new to say. Four o’clock came and went. Now and then, a vehicle pulled up in the little car park to the side of the offices, and someone would go in. Three people emerged from the building, but none of them looked like Mike McCauley, with or without a beard. Ben lapsed into the still, watchful, disembodied state that had seen him through a hundred stakeouts and military missions. He could sit for hours, days, silent and immobile. That was a talent Raul lacked, and after the first hour he was becoming more and more restless.
Four thirty passed. Quarter to five. Traffic was building in the street, as well as through the entrance of Trinity House as office staff started leaving. Still no McCauley. Five fifteen. Half past the hour ticked on by, and they watched in silence as the building slowly emptied. Some people departed on foot, some in groups, some alone, some on bicycles, wearing pointy helmets that made them look like extraterrestrials. Green London. A less ecologically concerned minority got into their cars and drove off, until only a beige Smart car, a Ford Transit and a motor scooter remained in the little car park. Raul could hardly sit still any longer as the stress of waiting got to him. Ben was aware of his own neck and shoulders gradually stiffening as his apprehension grew.
‘So what’s the story with this guy Austin Keller?’ Ben asked.
Raul grimaced. ‘You already know the story. He broke her heart. Before that, nobody on the outside even knew about the relationship, because they wanted to keep it secret to protect their privacy. What do you want to know about him for?’
‘I was thinking that if this McCauley lead falls through, we might need to go and talk to him next.’
Raul looked at him. ‘Why, you think it will?’
Ben shrugged. ‘Anything’s possible.’
‘Forget it,’ Raul said. ‘Not even you could find that one. He’s … how would you say it in English? A bicho raro.’
‘An oddball,’ Ben said. ‘A weirdo.’
Raul nodded. ‘That’s it. A very rich weirdo. If he’s not sailing around the middle of some ocean in his yacht, he’s hiding like a hermit in one of his many secluded properties all over the world. He’s paranoid. Hates being seen in public, can’t stand to be photographed or anything like that. It was what finished things between him and Catalina. She was getting more noticed and beginning to go places, and he wouldn’t give up his reclusive lifestyle. He tried to put pressure on her to quit and come and live with him. Everything had to be his way, the selfish prick. She loved him, but she wouldn’t let him ruin her career. So she refused, and in the end they split up.’
‘How did they meet?’
‘Baxter Burnett introduced them. The movie star? You must have heard of him.’
Ben shook his head.
‘You live in a monastery or something?’
‘I did,’ Ben said. ‘For a while.’
Raul raised a dubious eyebrow. ‘Hmm. Anyway, a bunch of film and TV people got together one summer for a weekend party at Burnett’s place on the Italian Riviera. Keller made a brief appearance. Apparently he dabbles in movie producing from time to time, not that he needs to work. For some reason I never understood, my sister apparently took a … what’s the expression?’
‘A shine,’ Ben said.
‘A shine to him. Like I said, he has his head so far up his own ass that he wouldn’t be worth talking to even if we could find him.’
‘It was just a thought,’ Ben said.
They fell back into silence. More time dragged by.
Then, as the hands on Ben’s watch were closing in on ten to six, the door of Trinity House swung open and a casually dressed man with round wire-framed spectacles, thinning hair and a scraggy beard walked out of the building, carrying a battered leather satchel on a strap. He wasn’t wearing open-toed sandals, but there was little doubt as to his identity. He paused to pull a key ring from the pocket of his jeans, then headed for the beige Smart car.
‘McCauley,’ Raul said, straightening up in his seat and going as stiff as a gundog tracing a scent.
Ben was already reaching for the ignition.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Ben waited for McCauley to turn out of the car park and drive fifty metres up the street before he fired up the Renault, hit the lights and windscreen wipers and pulled out in pursuit. He hung back, allowing two other cars to slot in between.
‘Don’t lose him,’ Raul said, eyes glued to the rear of the Smart car as it weaved through the traffic.
‘As if,’ Ben replied calmly.
Not much bigger than a shoebox, the Smart car was quick and nimble through the London traffic. Ben had to spur the wallowing Laguna hard to keep up as they cut westwards over Hammersmith Bridge and into Barnes. Twice, Ben had to jump a red light. Raul was leaning intently forwards in his seat and gripping the door handle as if urging the car to go faster. The wipers slapped their relentless back-and-forth rhythm. Taillights and brake lights flared like angry red stars in the dirty windscreen.
McCauley led them onwards through Barnes, until they reached a quiet residential street and the Smart car’s left indicator came on before it pulled into a driveway. Following fifty metres behind, Ben slowed as they passed the house. It was a small and unexceptional semi-detached 1960s property that, in this part of London, had to b
e worth a couple of million. Given what McCauley probably earned in his crusade against the world, the house was probably a family hand-me-down. Ben cruised a little way further down the street, and pulled up at the kerb.
‘Let’s go,’ Raul said, reaching for the door latch.
‘Not yet,’ Ben told him. He angled the rearview mirror so he could see the house. Sat still behind the wheel and watched as McCauley got out of the Smart car carrying his satchel, bleeped the locks and walked up a little path to the front door. No Mrs McCauley came to greet him. McCauley opened the door and disappeared inside.
Ben counted to a hundred.
‘Okay,’ he said to Raul. ‘Now let’s go.’
Ben grabbed his bag from the back seat, and they left the car and walked quickly through McCauley’s front gate. The garden was overgrown and unkempt, and the woodwork on the house needed painting. Too busy battling injustice and corruption to have time for basic maintenance, obviously. The brass surround of the Yale lock was tarnished and weather-stained.
‘Do we knock, or do we smash the door in?’ Raul asked.
‘Neither,’ Ben said, taking out his wallet. He unzipped a little compartment that he seldom needed to open. It was where he kept a set of bump keys that could open any standard Yale lock, especially an old one like this, made before manufacturers had got wise to the ease with which burglars could bypass their security. Ben quickly found the right key, inserted it into the lock, and three seconds later they were in. Ben put his finger to his lips to shush an astonished Raul as they slipped through the small entrance hall into an open-plan living room.
The room was empty, and smelled vaguely of incense and spices. McCauley’s decor was heavy on the ethnic style, with a mix of African, Indian and South American furnishings and sculptures and wall hangings. There was a giant framed picture of Nelson Mandela over the fireplace. Next to an open-tread staircase hung a poster showing a caricature of an obese banker with multiple chins, a sleazy grin and a giant Havana, bearing the caption ‘YOU SAY “GREEDY CAPITALIST PIG” LIKE IT’S A BAD THING’. On the wall opposite was a large glass-framed print of the classic Pulitzer prize-winning photo of the 1968 execution of a Viet Cong guerrilla. Ben had seen that harrowing image a hundred times before, and seeing it again now was all the proof he needed that there was unlikely to be a Mrs McCauley living in the house. Ben hadn’t met a woman yet, not even the redoubtable Commander Darcey Kane of the National Crime Agency, who would tolerate a glossy 16×20 of a terrified man about to get his brains blown out with a .38 Smith & Wesson snubnose hanging pride of place in her living room.
The leather satchel was lying on an armchair where McCauley must have carelessly tossed it as he came in. Ben stepped over to it and undid the clasp to check the contents. A notebook and pen, a mobile, an iPad, a spare pair of glasses. Ben closed the bag, then moved to the stairs and heard the muted patter of the shower coming from above. He nodded to Raul, and they climbed the open treads. Thick polished wood, no doubt from a sustainably managed forestry source. The staircase walls were lined with framed photos of McCauley in his journalistic exploits all over the world, posing surrounded by smiling African children in one, standing on an oil-slicked beach in another, all spruced up and receiving his Press Gazette award in another.
Upstairs, the bathroom door was ajar and the sound of splashing water was louder. Ben peeked through another door, saw it was a bedroom, and led Raul through it. The bedroom was small and orderly, with a wardrobe and a bed and little else. Ben and Raul positioned themselves by the window and waited. Soon afterwards, the water stopped. They could hear McCauley mooching about in the bathroom. Then he stepped out, skin rosy from the hot water and wearing nothing but a short towel around his waist, and strolled nonchalantly into the bedroom. He was in surprisingly good shape, with the lean muscularity of a man who needed to keep himself fit and strong for challenging assignments in sometimes dangerous places. So much for the whole vegetarian open-toed sandal thing, Ben thought. Maybe McCauley was more than he seemed at first glance.
The journalist’s hair and beard were still wet from the shower, and his glasses were steamed up with condensation. He removed them, wiped the lenses on a corner of his towel, put them back on, and his eyes opened wide in alarm as he saw his unexpected visitors standing there. He froze, and said, ‘Whoa.’
‘Keep the towel on,’ Ben said. ‘We’ve seen enough unpleasant sights lately.’
McCauley took a step back. His fists were clenched. He was more outraged than frightened. ‘Who the fuck are you?’
‘Relax, Mike,’ Ben said. ‘We’re here to talk to you, that’s all.’ He motioned to the bed. ‘Take a seat.’
McCauley hesitated. Flicking his gaze warily from Ben to Raul, he stepped to the bed and sat. The muscles in his shoulders were bunched tight, and his face had flushed scarlet. ‘I said, who the fuck are you? What are you doing in my home?’
‘This is Raul Fuentes,’ Ben said. ‘We have reason to believe you’re acquainted with his sister.’
McCauley stared up at Raul, his anger subsiding, confusion taking its place. ‘Catalina? You’re Catalina’s brother?’
Raul tore his passport out of his pocket and tossed it into McCauley’s lap. ‘There’s the proof. Look at my name. Look at the birth date. We’re twins.’
‘No,’ McCauley said, still peering closely at Raul as if studying his face. ‘No. I don’t need to. The family resemblance is obvious, now that I think of it. But what—?’
‘What am I doing here?’ Raul said. ‘What do you think? I’m looking for her.’
‘I … I have no idea what you’re talking about,’ McCauley said. ‘That’s insane.’
‘I apologise for the rude entry,’ Ben said. ‘You’ll appreciate that it needed to be a surprise, under the circumstances. There are some bad people looking for her, too. But you already know that as well, don’t you? Come on, Mike. We came a long way to talk to you. Don’t be a disappointment.’
‘But I don’t understand,’ McCauley said. ‘You’re mistaken. Catalina Fuentes died. Her car went over a cliff. It was all over the news … I mean, surely you must know that? Her brother, of all people?’
He stared at them both with such an earnest look of absolute blank stupefaction that Ben was rattled by it. In that moment, the awful thought struck him that McCauley genuinely knew nothing. Or, even worse, that it was true, and that Kazem had been wrong, or lying.
‘She’s alive!’ Raul snarled, and stepped towards McCauley as if he was going to hit him.
Ben put a hand on Raul’s shoulder. McCauley might actually hit back, and that wasn’t going to help their situation much. ‘You were in contact with her,’ he said to McCauley.
The journalist frowned, playing it cagey. ‘What makes you think I was in contact with her?’
‘There isn’t time to play games,’ Ben said. ‘Your email address was on her private computer. The messages themselves were deleted. We need to know what that correspondence was about.’
‘And that’s why you broke into my house, to find out about a bunch of emails?’
‘We didn’t break in,’ Ben said.
‘The door was locked.’
‘It still is,’ Ben said. ‘Nothing got broken. Therefore, technically, not a break-in.’
‘You’ve got the look,’ McCauley said. ‘Ex-military. It’s virtually written on your forehead. Think I haven’t met people like you before?’
Ben said nothing.
McCauley pointed at Raul. ‘Okay, so he’s Catalina Fuentes’ brother. Do you have a name?’
‘You can call me Ben.’
‘He’s just a friend,’ Raul said.
McCauley gave a grunt. ‘Peculiar kind of friend to have. One who can get through locked doors and slip into people’s houses like some kind of fucking ninja assassin. Did you follow me here from the office? Have you been watching me?’
‘You can trust us,’ Raul said.
McCauley paused, narrowing his eyes and scru
tinising Ben and Raul with the thoughtful, cautious look of a seasoned investigator. ‘Then you need to let me get some clothes on,’ he said. ‘We’ll go downstairs and discuss this like civilised human beings, and I’ll tell you what I know.’
Chapter Thirty-Six
‘All right,’ McCauley said a few minutes later when the three of them were sitting around the table in his tiny kitchen, by a sliding glass door that looked out onto his even smaller million-pound back garden. McCauley’s hair was combed and he’d put on a denim shirt and a pair of baggy green chinos. The kitchen table had the look of being handcarved by indigenous people of somewhere or other. The coffee was Fairtrade stuff from Guatemala, served in stoneware mugs. McCauley had fouled his with soya milk. Raul hadn’t wanted any. He was already wound up enough. Ben took it black. It tasted pretty good.
McCauley took a deep breath and looked at Raul. ‘On July sixth, a woman calling herself Carmen Hernandez called the Probe offices and said she wanted to speak to me. When she was put through to my personal line, she apologised for the deception and said that her real name was Catalina Fuentes. Naturally, due to her celebrity, I already knew who she was. It’s not unheard of for famous people to go by false names now and then, but I was surprised that she had contacted me. I was even more surprised when she said she wanted to meet, somewhere we could talk confidentially. She said she was aware of the kind of journalism I did, had been following my work and so on and so forth, and that she had something to tell me that would be of great interest to me. I could tell right away that something odd was going on, and that she was deeply afraid.’
‘So you met with her?’ Raul asked.
McCauley nodded. ‘In Munich, three days later, on July ninth. She set the whole thing up, paid my travel expenses by wire transfer. A car turned up to collect me from the airport, drove me to a dingy hotel in a less salubrious part of town, and dropped me off with instructions to go to room 22. A little weird. Not exactly what I’d expected.’ McCauley gave a tight smile. ‘As you might imagine, unorthodox and clandestine meetings are hardly unusual in my line of work. But those are normally with crooks, whistleblowers or informants, not with glamorous television stars. After I’d been waiting alone in the room for ten minutes, wondering what the hell this was about, she arrived. I wouldn’t have recognised her. She was wearing a blond wig and dark glasses. That’s when I knew she really was serious. And scared out of her wits.’