Tim Stevens - Ratcatcher

Klavan bent forward, hands resting on her knees, and peered into the woman’s face. ‘No? All right.’ She straightened, walked away; then half-turned.

‘Sorry. I didn’t make myself clear. I meant physical duress inflicted on your son.’

Lyuba Ilkun jerked erect, arms unfolding and hands moving to grip the seat as if to push herself up. Beside her Rossiter shook his head gently and put a hand on her shoulder to stop her.

‘Ivan Andreyevich Ilkun. Seven, no, six years old. Lives with his grandmother because you can’t handle the responsibilities of motherhood — ’

‘ That’s a lie. ’ The woman was up now and screaming. Rossiter too stood and laid a hand on her shoulder, all that was needed for the moment. Klavan faced her, hands in the pockets of her jacket.

‘Where is he, Lyuba? Julian. The man we call Fallon.’

Purkiss leaned close to the monitor. The camera angle meant the woman’s eyes were slightly averted as she stared at Klavan, her voice a whisper.

‘For the love of God, I don’t know. He disappeared a week ago without saying. I haven’t heard from him since.’

Klavan watched her for a moment, then turned her back and faced the door. ‘What did the two of you talk about?’

‘Julian and me?’ She seemed thrown by the sudden change in tack. ‘How shit life was working in that club. How, once we’d saved enough, we were going on holiday together.’ Her eyes drifted off into the corner.

Still presenting her back to the woman, Klavan said: ‘Did he ask you about your background in the military?’

Purkiss glanced at Teague who nodded. ‘Elle had an idea to check up on her, found she had a record. Same unit as the man who tried to garrotte you, at roughly the same time.’

The woman was looking at Klavan’s back again. ‘No. I mentioned it to him, of course, and he asked a few polite questions, but no more than that.’

‘Lying,’ said Teague. Purkiss had come to the same conclusion. And he’d thought — couldn’t be sure, but had more than a notion — that she’d been lying when she’d sworn she didn’t know where Fallon was.

It went on for half an hour, back and forth, leading and loaded questions dropped in among open ones: how long have you known Fisher — three months — did he start asking you about your military career before or after you made plans to go on holiday — I told you, he didn’t ask — what do you do when you’re not working in the bar — I’m looking for work — did Fisher ask you about the work you do away from the bar — as I’ve said, I’m not doing any other work . Throughout, Klavan’s tone was patient. Lyuba struggled to keep hers the same, exasperation creeping in when old ground was gone over. Once, Klavan alluded to her son, and again there was genuine fear in the response. Purkiss noted with interest the woman’s posture. It wasn’t hunched, defensive, the way most people’s were under interrogation, particularly if they anticipated physical violence.

At last Klavan lifted her gaze to meet Rossiter’s and he nodded, not having said a word. He tapped Lyuba on the shoulder and motioned for her to stand. Klavan fitted the canvas hood back over her head and said, ‘Ms Ilkun, you won’t realise it but you’ve been very helpful. We’ll escort you to a place not far from your home.’

Klavan and Rossiter led the woman out of the room. Purkiss stepped forward and adjusted the hood where it was folded at the back of her head.

She said nothing, didn’t ask who they were or why they’d questioned her. Teague placed her phone in her hand and, with a hand on each of the woman’s forearms, he and Klavan walked her towards the fire exit.

Rossiter watched her go, and said into the silence: ‘Not much.’

‘Nothing, is how I’d put it.’

Rossiter glanced at him sharply. ‘But we didn’t expect much. The tracer’s now in her phone, though.’

Purkiss was half listening, distracted by what his inner voice was telling him. Ilkun had sat there, almost relaxed, as though she’d been prepared for the questioning. Klavan’s mention of her son had rattled her, admittedly. But even then, she had been able to lie. Almost as if she was confident that no threat against her or her son would be carried out.

It was as if she’d been primed. Someone had tipped her off that she was going to be interrogated, and about the line the questioning was going to take.

Rossiter stood, his back to Purkiss, working the computer that was going to be used to track Ilkun. Purkiss watched him.

It could only have been one of them, one of the three agents, who had primed her.

Once outside the Old Town he pulled over in an empty parking slot on a busy commercial street and sat in the car and waited for Abby’s call. It came after a couple of minutes, on the phone she’d given him.

‘Got it. Want to listen?’

‘Yes please.’

Her voice was replaced with a burst of static which he realised was probably clothing brushing against the device. He’d slipped it under the collar of the woman’s shirt when he’d fitted the hood over her head, its location making it less likely to be discovered but meaning that audibility might be reduced. The tiny, Velcro-like hooks were designed to attach to the fibres of clothes. It was an audio-monitoring device which was simultaneously trackable in real time using GPS. Abby was relaying the audio feed from her laptop to his phone while at the same time a pulsing beacon against a street map on her laptop indicated the location of the device.

After the static came a voice, distant but distinct: Elle Klavan’s. ‘Here’s where you get out.’ Another harsher burst of interference and now Klavan’s voice was clearer. The hood must have been taken off. ‘Know where you are?’

‘Yes.’ The woman Lyuba Ilkun’s voice, louder, closer by.

The slam of a door, then footsteps and a confusion of ambient street sounds.

Into the handset Purkiss said, ‘Abby?’

‘Hearing you.’ Her voice cut across the feed from the listening device.

‘That’s great, works a charm. Can you identify my position in relation to hers?’

‘Sure. Got a GPS track on your phone as well. You’re half a kilometre away. I can guide you towards her if you want.’

‘Not just yet. I need to make a call on the other phone. Could you mute the feed but keep my line to you open?’

‘Done.’

With the other handset, the one he’d been using since buying it the previous evening, he called Klavan. She answered before the first ring had finished. ‘John?’

‘Just left the office. I’m going to stake out Ilkun’s flat, see if she comes back and then tail her.’ The lies flowed smoothly. ‘There’s no point relying on the substituted SIM card in her phone. She’ll be wise to that and she’ll ditch it.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Because you treated her with kid gloves in there. I’m not saying rough stuff would have got any more out of her, but it’s what she would have been expecting. Her suspicions will be up.’

‘I see. How did Rossiter react to your plan?’

‘Hopping mad, as you might imagine.’

‘So why are you phoning me?’

‘To check if Rossiter’s got a bead on the SIM card. I don’t want to stake out her place if she’s heading in the opposite direction.’

‘Hang on.’ Elle’s voice faded to a murmur, then came back. ‘Rossiter on the line to Teague. The signal from her phone has gone.’

‘As I predicted. She’s got rid of it.’ He started the engine. ‘I’ll be in touch.’

He rang off, fitted the earpiece for the other phone and said, ‘Abby, still there?’

‘Right here.’

‘I’m on the move.’