Peter O'Donnell - Cobra Trap

She gave him a small affectionate smile. "I'll bear it in mind. Did you get anything at all from Johnny Nash before they killed him?"

Fraser grimaced. "Almost nothing."

"Almost?"

"The managing director of the mob running the scam will be attending a gathering at a house in Belgravia this evening. But since we have no name and no description, and there are going to be a hundred and fifty others there, it's not much help."

"Can you get us in?"

"No problem."

"There's nothing else? No clues on Johnny or the sack he was in?"

"Forensic checked but got nothing useful. Oh Jesus, no, wait a minute, there was something in the sack but it still wasn't useful. I don't know why I bothered to bring it." Fraser opened his briefcase and took out a small transparent plastic bag containing a white cotton glove, holding it up for Modesty to inspect. "It wouldn't have fitted Nash even before they worked on him, so presumably it was worn by somebody who helped put him in the sack. Somebody who just might be at the gathering."

Modesty said, "Has it been handled much?"

"Only by forensic in rubber gloves. Why?"

"Can you leave it with me?"

Fraser gave a snort of humourless laughter. "Why not? I've shown you the pix, so how the hell can I get into worse trouble?" He handed the bag to her, then blinked and gave a baffled stare. "God Almighty, you can't take a bloodhound to this gathering. It's the Prison Abolition Society and they're actually campaigning for the abolition of prisons if you can believe it, but even a bunch of nutters might think it a bit odd to have a bloodhound sniffing around."

Modesty said, "They might not notice a heavily disguised bloodhound." She looked at Willie and said doubtfully, "Too much for Dinah?"

Dinah Collier and her husband Steve were their closest friends. Blind from childhood, Dinah had a remarkable sense of smell, and could recognise people by their scent if she knew them well enough to have registered the characteristics. Often she described the scent by reference to other senses, so that to her Modesty's was like the taste of brandy, Willie's like the sound of a muted trumpet, her husband's like the feel of suede.

Willie shook his head. "Dinah couldn't match a person to what she could get from that glove, Princess. No chance. You'd need an Abo for that-" He broke off and sat up straight.

Modesty said, "Yes, you told me you had a call from Bluey Peters. He's in London?"

Willie nodded and got to his feet. "Staying at the Waldorf and he's got Jacko with him, as usual."

Her eyes sparkled as she turned to Fraser. "Then we have our bloodhound."

Fraser stared. "You're saying an Aborigine can do it?"

She moved to sit beside him, and he sensed the relaxation in her. "An Aborigine can do it, Jack, and we have one who's an old friend. Outside his tribe he's called 'Grace, and I've been walkabout in the bush with 'Grace and his people more than once. They can follow a threedayold scent across miles of rock and desert and scrub." She paused for a moment, thinking. "Look, there are no guarantees, but whereas I thought it might take us weeks to get near the people who killed Johnny Nash, I now hope we may be able to get that far tonight. In which case there's a slim chance that we could get Hallenberg out before they kill him."

Fraser touched her hand. "Oh God, that's great. Make sure it's before they kill you, lady."

She said with a touch of impatience, "I don't think like that, Jack. Just tell Tarrant about the Hallenberg possibility when you make your confession, and say I might ask for backup if need be."

Willie said, "I'm in, Princess."

She smiled. "Thanks, Willie." Then to Fraser, " We might ask for backup. But we'll let you know." She stood up. "Now let's forget it and have lunch. I'm starving."

What Willie Garvin liked most about cocktail parties of this kind was that they were so horrible. The worse they were, the more he enjoyed them because they presented such a variety of unbelievable characters for his amusement. This one was quite satisfactorily horrible in these terms, but he could not enjoy it fully because he had other matters to hold his attention.

The room had once been the ballroom of the large house in the corner of the square. A wide archway on one side opened into an annexe where tables were set with canapés and various confections on cocktail sticks. There were fewer than a hundred and fifty people present, Willie calculated, but still well over a hundred, a mixed bunch of freeloaders, cranks, policehaters, and slightly dazedlooking people who had perhaps been raked in without quite knowing what it was all about.

Modesty was with an earnest bearded man. He had a drink in one hand and was leaning against the wall with his other arm over her shoulder, more or less pinning her there as he talked energetically between quick attacks on his drink. She was in a good position for surveying the room, and had given no sign of wanting to be rescued.

Willie stood on the other side of the room, protected on one side by a pillar, an untouched drink in hand, keeping a casual eye on two men who had arrived together twenty minutes ago. Bluey Peters was a big, rugged Australian with shortcropped ashblond hair. His companion, 'Grace, was tall and slender with shiny black skin and a shock of black curly hair. They were moving slowly, casually, from group to group, Bluey playing the extrovert with selfintroductions, 'Grace showing white teeth in a big smile, his broad nose flaring as he exchanged greetings. On his own, Bluey might have found himself coolly received, but with 'Grace in tow there was no danger of that. Any such gathering would above all be Politically Correct.

Both men had worked for Modesty in the days of The Network, running one of her motor fishing vessels in the Mediterranean for smuggling or any other purpose she might require. 'Grace was a pure Aborigine and had spent the first sixteen years of his life in the bush. His people were the best trackers in the world, and not only on their own territory. Willie had known 'Grace to track Bluey three miles through a city to find him in a bar.

An hour ago 'Grace had sniffed the cotton glove for a full thirty seconds before announcing that it held four different human scents. One was a dead man's scent. Of the others, the strongest by far was inside the glove. Now Willie estimated that 'Grace had checked threequarters of the people in the room. He watched as the contrasting pair moved away from a group. Bluey cocked an inquiring eye at his friend, who gave a quick shake of his head. Willie sighed inwardly. The chances of the gloveman being present were growing slimmer.

At his elbow a voice said, "Look, I hope you don't mind my sort of accosting you, but I'm feeling a tiny bit lost, really. I don't actually know anybody here."

She was in her middle twenties, with short dark hair and an earnest manner. Her eyes were large and brown, her face round and pleasant, her figure truly excellent. Again Willie sighed inwardly, knowing that he could give her only part of his attention. Sometimes life was very perverse. Putting aside his regrets he gave her a welcoming smile and said, " 'Allo, I'm Willie Garvin. Why d'you come if you don't know anybody?"

"Well," she paused to sip her drink, "well, Daddy wrote and said would I, so I did, because he's been rather sweet about buying me a new balloon. Oh, I'm Lucy, by the way. Lucy Fuller-Jones."

Willie thought, I've got a weirdo here. Aloud he said, "What colour balloon?"

"Well, actually it's black."

As she sipped her drink again, Willie shot a glance round the room. Modesty was still with the bearded man. Bluey and 'Grace had moved across one end of the room and were starting slowly down the far side.