Brian Freemantle - The Predators

‘They didn’t have the telephone,’ he said. ‘Only the number, knowing it was stolen. So they had to get an instrument to programme it into.’

‘Jesus!’ said Harding.

‘The simplest answer is always the best,’ said Rampling, in immediate agreement. ‘It was too obvious for us to see!’

‘So who’d have access to stolen numbers?’ asked Harrison, anxious to contribute.

‘Too many people,’ said Blake. ‘Belgacom, the Brussels manual exchange, the mobile phone company…’

‘That’s not the way to find them,’ said Claudine. ‘We can make whoever it is come to us through Smet. All he’s got to believe is that we’ve got a lead to him. His own fear will do the rest.’

‘How?’ demanded Harrison.

‘We give Smet the same reason we gave Poncellet for not meeting again today, but add that there’s an even more important development with the phone, as well. He’ll immediately warn whoever it is.’

‘He’s waiting in his office,’ said Rampling. ‘He’ll do it from there and we don’t have it tapped.’

‘We force him home,’ said Blake at once. ‘When we speak to him in his office we say that there’s something important about the phone but that we’re not sure what it is: forensic haven’t yet spelled it out. And promise to call him at home tonight, if it’s really important. Which we’ll do-’

‘Smet’s telephones,’ interrupted Volker. ‘Do they have dials? Or are they push button?’

‘Push button,’ said McCulloch.

Volker gave a satisfied nod. ‘It’s not possible to trace the number of an incoming call on a bugged telephone. But it is when a number is rung out. Each number on a push button phone has a different electronic signal: that’s how the system works, tonally. And Smet will dial out to speak to whoever it is, won’t he?’

‘As soon as he does we’ll have him!’ Rampling said.

‘And it’ll be someone in Belgacom, not the mobile company,’ added the German. ‘A technical expert, with access and ability far beyond phones. That’s who set up the e-mail exchange in the beginning.’

‘This is coming together!’ enthused Rampling.

‘Who’s going to make the bastard dance?’ asked Harding.

Rampling looked at Sanglier. ‘You’re the task force head, the senior investigatory officer.’

‘He couldn’t argue against my decision to cancel,’ agreed Sanglier, alert to a safe advantage. He was already committed, as far as the illegality was concerned, so he’d hardly be enmeshing himself further. And later, when that illegality became acceptable, he would have done something positive, definitely involved himself, in the investigation. A lot of worthwhile publicity could be worked up for his political emergence. He’d be the only Justice Minister in the world personally to have headed the investigation into a famous crime. And the fame would be his, not inherited from his father.

Jean Smet responded at the first ring, the respectful tone discernible as soon as Sanglier identified himself. Sanglier spoke autocratically, a police commander complying with a liaison agreement but not inviting a protracted discussion. It had been his decision not to have another meeting. Dr Carter thought there was a lot to be gained from that afternoon’s exchange. And they’d just been warned by forensic officers of something potentially vital – he actually used the word breakthrough – about the telephone that had been abandoned the previous day.

‘Something that could lead to an arrest?’ asked Smet.

‘They haven’t been specific. We won’t know until later tonight: maybe not even then. We hope to have something definite by tomorrow.’ Sanglier was enjoying himself, knowing from the expression on the faces around him that he was doing well.

‘If it’s really important the minister would want to know immediately. Tonight.’

Sanglier’s pause, for apparent consideration, was perfect. ‘If it’s as vital as they think it is, I could have someone call you at home.’ He allowed another hesitation. ‘Do we have your home number?’

Harding and Rampling smiled, nodding in open approval as the lawyer hurriedly dictated it, repeated it, and then asked Sanglier if he was sure he’d noted it correctly.

‘The minister really will be most anxious to hear at once,’ emphasized Smet.

‘I’ll see you’re called, if there’s anything,’ said Sanglier dismissively, replacing the telephone ahead of the other man’s gabbled thanks.

‘Now what?’ said Harrison.

‘We wait,’ said Blake.

They didn’t have to for very long.

‘Anything?’ A man’s voice, strained, without any identifying greeting.

‘Nothing.’

Harding made a thumbs-up gesture to the other smiling American. It was only fifteen minutes after the first sounds of the homecoming Jean Smet. The front door had slammed, two more opened without being closed. There’d been the scuff of his moving from room to room, the tinkle of a decanter against a glass. A lot of coughing and throat clearing.

‘Maybe they called while you were on your way from the office. Call them back!’

‘I don’t even know where they’ll be.’

‘The hotel! Try the hotel!’

‘I can’t! I’ve got to wait for them!’

‘What in the name of God can it be!’ It was practically a whimper.

There was no movement in the communications room, almost everyone physically leaning towards the speaker. Claudine sat directly in front, cramped against the operator, making notes.

‘I don’t know.’

‘What can I do?’

‘There’s nothing: nothing either of us can do.’

‘It’s her fault. Everything’s her fault. We should have disposed of the kid the day she picked her up.’

‘You’re blocking the line if they’re trying to get through,’ Smet said.

‘Don’t call me.’

‘Why not?’

‘Antoinette’s here. It’s difficult.’

‘Then how can I…?’

‘I’ll keep calling you, when it’s convenient here.’

‘Damn!’ said Blake quietly. Rampling shook his head in frustration.

‘You heard from the others?’ asked Smet.

‘No. You?’

‘She called as usual after this morning’s conference. Said they hadn’t got a clue what they were doing. She wasn’t at home when I telephoned her later, about this.’

There was a snort of derision. Then: ‘I’ve got to go. Antoinette’s coming!’

No one spoke for several moments after the line went dead. Through the speaker came the noise of decanter against glass again. Claudine revolved her swivel chair, to face the half-circle of men.

Rampling said: ‘It’s so close I feel I could reach out and touch it!’

More practically, Blake said: ‘It could be the driver.’

‘Whoever the man is he’s not the one who’s holding Mary,’ said Claudine. ‘He’s got a wife or a partner – Antoinette – who doesn’t know what’s going on. And they have fallen out: it’s something to concentrate on.’

‘We’ve got to get a wire in that bloody office,’ said Harding.

‘How long would it take?’ asked Claudine. ‘Minimum, maximum?’

McCulloch shrugged. ‘Seconds to stick a microphone with an adhesive base where he hopefully wouldn’t find it. Five minutes, tops, to put something inside the phone like we’ve done at his house.’

‘We’d put pressure on her if we broke the routine of his always being available in his office when she calls,’ said Claudine reflectively. From behind her there were short bursts of noise as Smet clicked his way through television channels, and then the crackle of static as he roamed radio frequencies in an equally unsuccessful search for a news programme.

‘That’s tomorrow. What about tonight?’ demanded Sanglier.