Jeffrey Archer - False Impression

“Why, what have I done?” asked Jack, putting down his knife and fork. “Parked on a double yellow line?”

“I’m afraid it’s a little more serious than that, sir,” said the detective sergeant, “and I must therefore ask you to accompany me to the station.”

“On what charge?” demanded Jack.

“I think it might be wiser, sir, if we were not to continue this conversation in a crowded restaurant.”

“And on whose authority—,” began Tom.

“I don’t think you need to involve yourself, sir.”

“I’ll decide about that,” said Tom, as he removed his FBI badge from an inside pocket. He was about to flick the leather wallet open, when Jack touched him on the elbow and said, “Let’s not create a scene. No need to get the Bureau involved.”

“To hell with that, who do these people think—”

“Tom, calm down. This is not our country. I’ll go along to the police station and sort this all out.”

Tom reluctantly placed his FBI badge back in his pocket, and although he said nothing, the look on his face wouldn’t have left either policeman in any doubt how he felt. As Jack stood up, the sergeant grabbed his arm and quickly handcuffed him.

“Hey, is that really necessary?” demanded Tom.

“Tom, don’t get involved,” said Jack in a measured tone.

Tom reluctantly followed Jack out of the dining room, through a room full of guests, who studiously carried on chatting and eating their meals as if nothing unusual was going on around them.

When they reached the front door, Tom said, “Do you want me to come with you to the station?”

“No,” said Jack, “Why don’t you stick around. Don’t worry, I’m sure I’ll be back in time for coffee.”

Two women stared intently at Jack from the other side of the corridor.

“Is that him, madam?”

“Yes it is,” one of them confirmed.

When Tina heard her door open, she quickly flicked off the screen. She didn’t look up, as only one person never bothered to knock before entering her office.

“I presume you know that Petrescu is back in New York?”

“I’d heard,” said Tina, as she continued typing.

“But had you also heard,” said Leapman, placing both hands on her desk, “that she tried to steal the Van Gogh?”

“The one in the chairman’s office?” said Tina innocently.

“Don’t play games with me,” said Leapman. “You think I don’t know that you listen in on every phone conversation the chairman has?” Tina stopped typing and looked up at him. “Perhaps the time has come,” Leapman continued, “to let Mr. Fenston know about the switch under your desk that allows you to spy on him whenever he’s having a private meeting.”

“Are you threatening me, Mr. Leapman?” asked Tina. “Because if you are, I might find it necessary to have a word with the chairman myself.”

“And what could you possibly tell him that I would care about?” demanded Leapman.

“About the weekly calls you receive from a Mr. Pickford, and then perhaps we’ll discover who’s playing games.”

Leapman took his hands off the table and stood up straight.

“I feel sure your probation officer will be interested to learn that you’ve been harassing staff at a bank you don’t work for, don’t have an office in, and don’t receive a salary from.”

Leapman took a pace backward.

“When you come to see me next time, Mr. Leapman, make sure you knock, like any other visitor to the bank.”

Leapman took another pace backward, hesitated, then left without another word.

When the door closed, Tina was shaking so much she had to grip the armrests of her chair.

When the police car arrived at the station, Jack was bundled out. Once he’d been checked in by the desk sergeant, the two detectives accompanied him downstairs to an interview room. Detective Sergeant Frankham asked him to take a seat on the other side of the table. Something else Jack hadn’t experienced before. Detective Constable Ross stood quietly in one corner.

Jack could only wonder which one of them was going to play the good cop.

Detective Sergeant Frankham sat down, placed a file on the table, and extracted a long form.

“Name?” began Frankham.

“Jack Fitzgerald Delaney,” Jack replied.

“Date of birth?”

“Twenty-second November, “sixty-three.”

“Occupation?”

“Senior investigating officer with the FBI, attached to the New York field office.”

The detective sergeant dropped his pen, looked up, and said, “Do you have some ID?”

Jack produced his FBI badge and identity card.

“Thank you, sir,” said Frankham after he’d checked them. “Can you wait here for a moment?” He stood and turned to his colleague. “Would you see that Agent Delaney is offered a coffee? This may take some time.” When he reached the door he added, “And make sure he gets his tie, belt, and laces back.”

DS Frankham turned out to be right, because it was another hour before the heavy door was opened again and an older man with a weathered, lined face entered the room. He was dressed in a well-tailored uniform, with silver braid on his sleeve, epaulette, and the peak of his cap, which he removed to reveal a head of gray hair. He took the seat opposite Jack.

“Good evening, Mr. Delaney. My name is Renton, Chief Superintendent Renton, and now that we have been able to confirm your identity, perhaps you’d be kind enough to answer a few questions.”

“If I can,” said Jack.

“I feel sure you can,” said Renton. “What interests me is whether you will.”

Jack didn’t respond.

“We received a complaint from a usually reliable source that you have, for the past week, been following a lady without her prior knowledge. This is an offence in England under the 1997 Protection from Harassment Act, as you are no doubt aware. However, I feel sure you have a simple explanation.”

“Dr. Petrescu is part of an ongoing investigation, which my department has been involved in for some time.”

“Would that investigation have anything to do with the death of Lady Victoria Wentworth?”

“Yes,” replied Jack.

“And is Dr. Petrescu a suspect in that murder?”

“No,” replied Jack firmly. “Quite the opposite. In fact, we had thought she might be the next victim.”

“Had thought?” repeated the chief superintendent.

“Yes,” replied Jack. “Fortunately the murderer has been apprehended in Bucharest.”

“And you didn’t feel able to share this information with us?” said Renton. “Despite the fact that you must have been aware that we were conducting a murder inquiry.”

“I apologize, sir,” said Jack. “I only found out myself a few hours ago. But I’m sure our London office planned to keep you informed.”

“Mr. Tom Crasanti has briefed me, but I suspect only because his colleague was under lock and key.” Jack didn’t comment. “But he did go on to assure me,” continued Renton, “that you will keep us fully informed of any developments that might arise in the future.” Once again, Jack didn’t respond. The chief superintendent rose from his place. “Good night, Mr. Delaney. I have authorized your immediate release and can only hope you have a pleasant flight home.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Jack, as Renton replaced his cap and left the room.

Jack had some sympathy with the chief superintendent. After all, the NYPD, not to mention the CIA, rarely bothered to let the FBI know what they were up to. A few moments later, DS Frankham returned.

“If you’ll accompany me, sir,” he said, “we have a car waiting to take you back to your hotel.”

“Thank you,” said Jack, as he followed the detective sergeant out of the room and up the stairs into reception.