Деон Мейер - Cobra

Nyathi walked in and the room fell silent. ‘Benny, the British Consul General’s office just called. She has news about the passport, we can go and see her now.’

Eyebrows were raised. Cupido looked at his watch. ‘Twenty past seven at night? Maybe this Morris is royalty or something.’

In the car Nyathi said, ‘I spoke to your sponsor. Thanks, Benny. I hope you understand.’

‘Of course, sir,’ he said, because he did understand. The Hawks were a team environment. The weakest link determined their success. And at the moment that was what he was. The weakest link.

‘Everything else OK? Your health? The family?’

‘Yes, thank you, sir.’

The Colonel nodded his bald head slowly and thoughtfully, like a man who has come one step closer to insight and truth.

They drove in silence until they reached the N1. ‘Cloete has his hands full with the media,’ said Nyathi. ‘We need a break. Quickly.’ And then, ‘Do you think it’s about ransom, Benny?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Have you investigated a kidnapping involving a ransom before?’

‘Three or four times, sir. But not where there’s a foreigner involved.’

‘I’ve never had one,’ said Nyathi.

‘They’re all bad news, sir.’

They parked in Riebeeck Street and first had to search for the entrance to Norton Rose House, a tower block that was deserted at this time of the night.

The British Consulate, with bullet-proof glass doors and a comprehensive security system, was on the fifteenth floor – Griessel and Nyathi had to identify themselves before a woman came to fetch them and escort them to the Consul General’s office.

The dignified middle-aged woman introduced herself as Doreen Brennan. She was not alone. With her was a younger woman with dark hair cut short, black-rimmed glasses, and a pretty mouth. ‘This is one of our vice consuls, Emma Graber. Please, gentlemen, sit down.’

When the courtesies were dispensed with, Brennan pushed the police photographer’s photo of the passport across the desk. ‘I’m afraid this is a forgery,’ she said apologetically.

Griessel’s heart sank into his shoes. That meant they still did not know who Morris or his next of kin were.

‘Are you sure?’ asked Nyathi.

‘Yes. The passport number belongs to a seventy-six-year-old woman from Bexhill-on-Sea who passed away thirteen days ago. It might be her passport that was modified, but we’ll need to analyse the original to be sure.’

‘No, the passport is very new,’ said Griessel as he wrestled with disappointment.

‘Would it be possible for us to take a look at the document itself?’ asked Graber. ‘We have a comprehensive database of forgeries, which might help us trace its origin.’

‘Of course,’ said Nyathi. ‘I’m sure that can be arranged eventually . . .’

‘I see,’ said Graber thoughtfully. Then, ‘Of course, we only want to aid your investigation. As I understand it, the first seventy-two hours are usually crucial.’

‘Indeed. And your offer is much appreciated,’ said Nyathi.

‘We actually know very little about the crime that this person was involved in,’ said Graber. ‘Unfortunately, the detective who brought the photographs spoke to one of the clerks. Could you tell us more?’

Nyathi hesitated, then smiled politely. ‘I’m really sorry, but the investigation is at a very sensitive stage. And now it seems as if Morris may not be a British citizen . . . I do hope you understand. . . .’

‘Of course,’ said Graber, and she smiled sympathetically. ‘We’re just trying to help. And I’m curious. Was it a robbery or something?’

‘I’m not at liberty to say.’

Griessel wasn’t concentrating, and only became aware of the uncomfortable silence when Nyathi gave him a swift but meaningful glance. He finally grasped that there was something on the go here, a verbal chess game – Graber wanted very much to get her hands on the passport and to know more about the crime. Nyathi was most unwilling to share it with her. And he remembered Cupido’s reaction: Twenty past seven at night? Maybe this Morris is royalty or something.

All at once he was alert, as if the fatigue had just rolled off him.

There was a snake in the grass here. And the Colonel wanted him to help catch it.

12

He knew he must now ask his questions right. ‘Do you monitor missing persons?’

He noticed that the Consul General waited for Graber to answer.

‘Well, only if they’re reported missing, and are presumed to be travelling, of course. There is a process . . .’

‘Was a Paul Anthony Morris reported missing?’

‘Not that we know of,’ said Graber.

‘Someone of his age and description?’

‘It’s hard to say. The info you have provided is rather sketchy. If we could analyse the original document?’

‘Do you have any idea who this Paul Anthony Morris might be?’

‘Well, it’s quite a common name. As you can imagine, it is going to take some time to scour the Home Office database, which might turn up nothing.’

It was almost as though she was encouraging him to ask the right question, but he didn’t know what that was. ‘But do you . . . have you got any idea?’

‘What we do know, is that no person by that name has been reported missing in the United Kingdom in the past fortnight.’

Griessel tried to understand the game. She wasn’t giving him a direct ‘no’. Why not?

‘Are there any other persons who were reported missing that you think he might be?’ Not entirely correctly phrased, she was clever, he would have to think carefully.

Without hesitation Graber said, ‘The Metropolitan Police in the UK run a database called Merlin, which, in addition to other information, also logs missing persons reports. We have to assume that the age indicated on the passport is more or less correct, because it has to correspond to the photograph. And of course the photograph must bear a close enough resemblance to the man who entered this country last week in order to fool customs. Now, I can tell you that Merlin provided absolutely no data on persons generally resembling this photograph, and in this broad age bracket, that have been reported to UK authorities over the past fortnight as missing.’

Why was she going on about ‘fortnight’?

‘And in the past six to twelve months?’

‘In the previous fiscal year, Merlin logged more than forty thousand records of missing persons. That type of enquiry might take several days before I could answer with confidence.’

‘Ladies, with all due respect,’ said the ever-dignified Zola Nyathi quietly and courteously, ‘there is a man’s life at stake here.’

‘I can assure you, Colonel, we’re doing everything in our power to help,’ said the Consul General.

‘Is Morris’s life at stake?’ asked Graber. ‘Or is he a suspect in a criminal case?’

‘You know who he is,’ said Griessel, because now he was sure.

They looked him in the eye, calm and direct.

‘Captain,’ said Doreen Brennan, measured and diplomatic, ‘I receive Foreign Office bulletins about persons of interest on an almost daily basis. To be absolutely honest, this Paul Anthony Morris could be one of at least twenty British subjects of concern to our government. But at this stage – with no certainty as to his real identity, and with you not being very forthcoming about the details of the criminal incident – speculation will do more harm than good.’

From a thousand interrogations of suspects Griessel knew that when people began to use phrases such as ‘to be absolutely honest’, they were lying through their teeth. He suspected the two Brits had conferred at length before he and Nyathi arrived, and they knew exactly what they would say.