The truth, p.20
The Truth, page 20
Down on the yacht, things looked exactly the same – no sign of the others but there were no covers in place. There had to be someone else on board the thing. The chances of confronting Tim as in his original plan looked non-existent now but the camera had proved its worth; if his hunch was correct and he could get even a long-range shot of the Englishman in this sort of company, Christine Archer could begin to ask the senior investigating officer who ordered Anthony Hills’ arrest some rather awkward questions.
Twenty minutes later, Pierre returned, crossing in front of the car from which Smith had continued his watch. This time they were close, a few yards apart, but there was no suggestion the Frenchman had taken any notice of the tourist enjoying a view of the river and the boats. Smith wondered what had been in the briefcase – Pierre was carrying nothing. And he wondered what had occurred here in his absence. With a team, one would have gathered much more intelligence from this operation; working alone meant a succession of guesses, any of which might be slightly wrong but the effects of which over time could be magnified into significant errors.
He worked backwards from 14.30, the time he had arranged to be collected by the taxi. He had to allow a few minutes to return this car and pick up the few items left on the boat – he could have avoided that by putting everything into the car this morning but there would still have been the matter of the keys, so… Anyway, he could give this stake-out another four hours. If the Klymene set sail in that time, the cargo had probably been brought onboard overnight, the obvious time to do so. In that case, they would arrive back at the Farmbridge Haven sometime on Thursday or Friday. In theory he could be there but watching unobtrusively would be more difficult and more dangerous. All his instincts were telling him to do it anyway but to what end? This was not a police investigation.
Through the binoculars, he checked over the yacht every two or three minutes. Pierre had been back onboard for perhaps a quarter of an hour. There was momentary excitement when a young couple appeared in view, apparently standing on the deck, but they were actually on the boat beyond the Klymene. Smith watched intently because it was possible they were a part of this smuggling set-up but he saw nothing, no communication between the parties. The young man and the girl left their yacht after a few minutes, going hand-in-hand along the walkway, heading for the city. That’s the beauty of this location – the number of craft, the constant coming and going of people, the hiding in plain sight. If Pierre and his crew had landed on some remote headland they would be the only boat in view, watchable from half a mile away; here, as long as they were confident in their procedures and remained alert, they were invisible to all but the most patient and persistent of observers.
Smith was getting hungry and was low on caffeine. He could take a break and be back within ten minutes but he was reluctant to do so, ever aware of the inevitability of sod’s law in these situations. Logically, his absence here could have no bearing on matters over there but experience is a remorseless teacher with a twisted sense of humour. He sighed and raised the binoculars once more.
Tim was stepping onto the pontoon beside the Klymene. Bearded, bushy hair, average height, thin build, as described by Anthony Hills and Robbie – there could be no doubt of it. Smith had one foot out of the car and reached for the camera he’d placed in the passenger’s footwell. The strap was caught around the handle that adjusts the position of the seat and those valuable seconds lost meant that by the time he was ready, his subject was well clear of the yacht, moving along the walkway Pierre had used an hour ago. Smith didn’t waste time cursing his own carelessness. Plan A was back on – no one else was leaving the yacht or watching, as far as he could tell. Tim was on foot, alone and would very soon be out of sight of the yacht anyway. Smith put the binoculars under the seat, slipped the camera strap round his neck, locked the car and crossed the Ruijterkade once more.
He had to hang back a little until Tim appeared at the top of the steps up from the marina. Unlike Pierre, the Englishman crossed the road immediately and turned to his right – he was now on the same pavement as Smith, who increased his own pace until he was about thirty yards and three or four people behind. Twice Smith turned and checked as he walked but there was no sign that anyone was watching to see if Tim had been followed – people who do this sort of thing for a living, legally or illegally, tend to carry out those checks from time to time.
Thoughts of caffeine and calories had been forgotten in all the excitement but Smith said to himself it would be handy if they were heading for the Starbucks he could see up ahead, and sure enough – it was just one of those days – without a backwards glance, Tim turned left and went inside. Better and better.
There were two women at the front of the queue – middle-aged, smartly dressed Dutch ladies out for a serious day’s shopping together – and then Tim. Smith stood behind him and considered the situation. His best guess was that he, Tim, had come across to fetch coffee for the three of them on the yacht, in which case he would leave as soon as he had his order filled – the approach had to be now or in the few, perhaps very few minutes while they waited at the other end of the counter. The size of the window might depend entirely on the skills of the barista and his commitment to customer throughput. Or her commitment – she was young, black and beautiful, and running this place like she meant business. The two women had already drifted away and Tim was next – Smith stepped closer because he wanted to hear the order.
Two large Americanos and a latte, to take away. English, no particular accent. You had to wonder which one was having the latte… The girl had already passed the order to a minion, taken Tim’s money and was waiting for Smith. He asked for a flat white with a double shot, to drink inside; this was a matter of principle. Even if he didn’t have time to drink it because Tim fled or tried to land a left jab, Smith disapproved strongly of the habit of wandering the streets with a carton of coffee. The young lady flashed him a smile – it was the double shot, obviously – and he told her to keep the change from the ten euro note. She said thank you and smiled again but more so. I’m having a pretty good day he told himself, all things considered, but the next bit should be interesting…
There was plenty of space in the area free of tables where customers waited. Tim had positioned himself behind the Dutch women, demonstrating the commitment to queueing properly for which the English are famous. Smith followed suit, standing slightly behind and a little to the right. He had the chance to study his man for a few seconds. From a distance and in Smith’s imagination, Tim had been in his twenties – closer up, he was a few years older than that, perhaps in his mid-thirties, which made more sense. On the skinny side of thin, with smallish hands – Smith judged that Tim was unlikely, after all, to get physical in a coffee shop. The face looked steadily ahead, even when Smith was staring quite openly at him, the expression neutral and fixed; looking back at that moment afterwards, Smith would admit to an inkling even then that something was wrong.
But he said anyway, ‘Good morning.’
It’s simply human nature to turn and look when someone addresses you, especially someone new; instead, Tim continued to look directly forward but the eyes closed momentarily, and that is not normal in this situation. Smith’s intention had been to open a conversation in the awkward English way – perhaps mention the weather – and then drop in a grenade; that degree of subtlety might not be needed now. The eyes had opened but there was a steadfast refusal to acknowledge that anyone had spoken a word.
All right – let’s try some heavier artillery. ‘I believe you sailed out of Farmbridge Yacht Haven three days ago…’ Not a movement. A guided missile then: ‘On the Klymene.’
The two Dutch women were collecting their cappuccinos – Tim would be served in maybe another minute. He stepped towards the counter and Smith moved with him, encroaching a little further into the personal space of the man who was ignoring him. The reaction, or rather the lack of one, had been unexpected but that’s something you have to be prepared for, Captain, because the dangerous man, sir, is the bloke who don’t fight like we do in these training sessions – expect the unexpected, sir.
Smith said, ‘It’s Tim, isn’t it?’
Still nothing. Smith was conscious of having played almost his entire hand already but there had been little alternative. He envisaged this continuing into the street, following Tim back to the yacht like a yapping dog at his heels until the point at which it would be dangerous to go any closer to Pierre and the unknown man; he had gambled everything on getting some sort of reaction. If the Englishman folded before the first bid, Smith might as well stay and enjoy the coffee, call the taxi man and see if there was an earlier flight from Schiphol.
The barista put the three cartons of coffee into a paper carrier and placed this onto the counter. Tim nodded to her and picked it up. At his side, Smith watched every move. Now he began to walk away – a performance which had demanded not a little willpower when you thought about it – and there was no point in going after him.
The door was wedged open thanks to the fine weather but Tim didn’t go out into the street. He stopped there for three maybe four seconds before turning back and walking towards Smith. Loosen the shoulders and hips, wait and watch, be ready to counter, let your opponent make the first move.
Tim kept going, walking on into the seating area beyond the counter but there was the briefest of eye-contacts as he passed by. Smith was still at the counter, realising that the barista was taking an interest, and why – the price of coffee was a little higher if consumed on the premises. She was definitely the sort to go and have a word, and that was the last thing he needed. He said, apologetically, ‘We’re together. I’ll sort it out.’
She didn’t say anything but stared at Smith with a quizzical look – he thought to himself, don’t worry, my dear, you can’t be any more surprised than I am at this turn of events, and added for good measure, ‘We’ve had a few cross words.’
Worryingly, she seemed to accept this, gave him a sympathetic little frown and went back to her customers.
He was waiting in an alcove as far back in the shop as it was possible to go, standing beside the table where he’d placed the takeaway bag. There was a handful of people scattered around but Tim had chosen a position where a quiet conversation should not be overheard. The face behind the beard was pale, either from anger or fear, or quite possibly both. When Smith arrived, there were no preliminaries.
‘Who the effing hell are you?’
It was a better and more existential question than the younger man could have realised – Smith acknowledged the fact with a short, respectful silence, before, ‘More to the point is, who am I here representing?’
The nervous brown eyes had already looked over Smith’s shoulder more than once.
Tim said, ‘If you don’t piss off in a hurry, you won’t be representing anyone or anything. You’ll be history, mate.’
Threats were fine, threats he could deal with all day long.
‘I represent Anthony Hills.’
Tim didn’t seem to recognise the name, and Smith’s operational mind instantly began to lay out new pathways – had he misunderstood, miscalculated somewhere? He said at the same even pace, ‘You sailed the Galene from Lowestoft to Kings Lake recently. Anthony Hills was with you on that trip.’
The eyes half-closed again, and the head gave half a nod – he hissed mostly to himself, ‘Christ…’
Smith said, ‘As far as I know, it was just the two of you on board. If you’re suggesting there was a third member of the party… I suppose he would’ve come in handy if you’d sailed into a force eight.’
Tim was looking directly at him now. He said, ‘You’re in way over your depth. Eff off. Do it now before you get hurt.’
The threats, you see, mean you’re treading on someone’s toes, and you have to be close to do tha.
Smith continued, ‘The problem at our end is this. Anthony Hills was arrested the morning after that trip, and you were not. Anthony Hills has now been charged – you know perfectly well with what – and you’re still swanning about on the North Sea. If I could find you, so could the people who arrested and charged Anthony Hills. I’ve come across mainly to ask you why they haven’t done so.’
The anger had gone. It was all fear now, and Tim whoever-he-was looked sick with it. In fact, the expression on that face wasn’t too far away from horror. That the two of them were having this conversation at all was, of course, already answering the question – no regular member of a professionally criminal organisation would do such a thing. Smith could have left it then, at that point, but he had come a long way, and beyond that lingered the thought of the man he had recognised, who was somewhere here in Amsterdam. Could he find out something more? What Tim said next, however, put an end to that idea.
‘You are the guy in the yellow car, aren’t you?’
Now it was Smith’s turn to glance involuntarily towards the entrance. Fifteen yards or so to the street, maybe a little more. This was a dangerous spot to be trapped and he had seen no obvious way out from the rear. And it was his turn, too, not to answer the question.
Tim said in a lowered and more urgent voice, ‘Someone on the yacht saw you when you followed him. As soon as he got back, they told him.’
Belfast. That moment when he’d realised his cover was blown and they meant to kill him. On that occasion, there had been a plan in place, a plan that had worked because Smith was standing here almost four decades on, though it had cost a young Irishman his life. Today there was no such plan, no Army Land Rover on standby.
And this might be a ruse, to frighten him off. Smith said, ‘He wouldn’t have returned to the boat if he knew.’
Tim said, ‘Listen, for God’s sake! He didn’t know until he got back. That’s why I-’
‘Someone would have called him and warned him.’
Tim smiled, a bitter little smile. ‘They don’t carry phones on meets. They’re way too savvy. I told you, mate – you’re out of your depth.’
“They” and “they’re”? He’d been right about Tim all along, but that wouldn’t count for much if this ended with the body of an Englishman being dragged out of the river Ij sometime later in the week. With his eyes on the doorway most of the time now, Smith said, ‘So what exactly are you doing here if he knows?’ but he had already guessed the answer.
‘I was told to fetch some coffee, to see if you followed me as well. And if I’m not back soon, they’ll come looking for me. You need to be in that car and away before I talk to them. They might already be waiting. I can’t say I didn’t notice anyone – he won’t believe that. He’ll come after you.’
Smith was silent, struck by the irony of it all – the man he had been searching for, for almost a fortnight, had been used to flush him out. Tim picked up the bag and said, ‘Got to go. That’s all I can do. Get out, now.’
He had taken three or four steps when Smith spoke again – the girl was watching from the counter, probably hoping for a happy ending. He said, ‘Anthony Hills. Was he…’ But the undercover man was walking quickly away.
Chapter Twenty-two
The temptation was to sprint back to the car and disappear in a cloud of burning rubber – if one can do such a thing in a toaster on wheels – but Smith was thinking about Tim as well as himself. If he did that, there would be some suspicion, some awkward questions on the Klymene. And so he walked at an even pace, never looking over at the City marina, checking every passer-by, every riverside bench and, as he got closer, every vehicle parked in the vicinity. Before getting into the car, he stood by it for a minute or so, looking downriver with the binoculars as if this might throw them off the scent, but he knew it was futile. Pierre had seen him follow Tim, and Tim would have to say he’d been followed. The Frenchman would be angry at his own carelessness – he would want revenge. Rather than alert the man he had unwittingly revealed to Smith and wait for orders, Pierre was likely to decide that immediate and direct action was the better course. Tim had said it – he’ll come after you.
Smith parked the car back in its space by the Tulp Roze. If he was already being tailed, he saw no sign of it, and he had no intention of remaining there on the boat anyway. In less than five minutes he had gathered the rest of his possessions, locked the door and put the keys under a flowerpot; Jo could send messages and apologies on his behalf later. When he checked his mobile there was a short message from her, asking how the stakeout was going. He sent back All OK. Just wrapping it up. There would be trouble when he was back and explaining all this, but sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof – the priority was to get out of here in one piece.
About a hundred yards from the houseboat, in the opposite direction to the Ann Frank house, there was a café. Smith walked along as if to pass it by and then ducked inside at the last moment. Most of the clientele were seated outside under the parasols and he found a window seat at a table for two, choosing the chair that faced back towards the Tulp Roze. He took the binoculars out of the rucksack and placed them on top of it by his feet.
It was lunchtime and the place would probably fill up soon but he could make this last an hour. Before things changed, he’d had it in mind to revisit the Café 69 but this would do. He glanced at the menu and saw that they seemed to specialise in pancakes. He wasn’t hungry but would eat; adrenaline is all very well but it forces you into an energy debt at some point. Not hungry, Captain? I don’t give a monkey’s toss, sir. You’ll thank me later, sir…
Avoiding the eyes of the one young man serving tables gave him a good ten minutes extra, and a little time to reflect. The pony-tailed man… Smith had never been told his name, and Regional were so surprised when Smith had picked him out of their Powerpoint they didn’t want to believe him at first. Their DI had asked Alison Reeve whether there was any chance this detective sergeant could be mistaken, and Reeve had shaken her head, that was all. The DI concerned, of course, was Cara Freeman. She was no longer part of the Regional Serious Crimes squad, but how strange that she was the officer who had been asked to charge Anthony Hills only last Wednesday. Coincidence, obviously.
