Jeffrey Archer - Twelve Red Herrings

“Thirty-one, sir,” she replied.

“Then this may be your chance to break that record,” he said.

A moment later, a woman in a white BMW nosed out of the driveway leading to the house and stopped at the edge of the pavement. She paused, looked both ways, then turned across the road and swung right, in the direction of Cambridge. As she passed us, I caught a glimpse of a blonde with a pretty face.

“I’ve seen her before,” I blurted out.

“Follow her, Jenny,” Donald said sharply. “But keep your distance.” He turned round to face me.

“Where have you seen her?” he asked, passing over the binoculars.

“I can’t remember,” I said, trying to focus on the back of a mop of fair, curly hair.

“Think, man. Think. It’s our best chance yet,” said Donald, trying not to sound as if he was cross-examining an old lag.

I knew I had come across that face somewhere, though I felt certain we had never met. I had to rack my brains, because it was at least five years since I had seen any woman I recognised, let alone one that striking. But my mind remained blank.

“Keep on thinking,” said the Don, “while I try to find out something a little more simple. And Jenny — don’t get too close to her. Never forget she’s got a rear-view mirror. Mr Cooper may not remember her, but she may remember him.”

Donald picked up the carphone and jabbed in ten numbers.

“Let’s pray he doesn’t realise I’ve retired,” he mumbled.

“DVLA Swansea. How can I help you?”

“Sergeant Crann, please,” said Donald.

“I’ll put you through.”

“Dave Crann.”

“Donald Hackett.”

“Good afternoon, Chief Superintendent. How can I help you?”

“White BMW K273 SCE,” said Donald, staring at the car in front of him.

“Hold on please, sir, I won’t be a moment.”

Donald kept his eye fixed on the BMW while he waited. It was about thirty yards ahead of us, and heading towards a green light. Jenny accelerated to make sure she wouldn’t get trapped if the lights changed, and as she shot through an amber light, Sergeant Crann came back on the line.

“We’ve identified the car, sir,” he said. “Registered owner Mrs Susan Balcescu, The Kendalls, High Street, Great Shelford Cambridge. One endorsement for speeding in a built-up area, 1991, a thirty-pound fine. Otherwise nothing known.”

“Thank you, sergeant. That’s most helpful.”

“My pleasure, sir.”

“Why should Rosemary want to contact the Balcescus?” Donald said as he clipped the phone back into place. “And is she contacting just one of them, or both?” Neither of us attempted to answer.

“I think it’s time to let her go,” he said a moment later. “I need to check out several more leads before we risk coming face to face with either of them. Let’s head back to the hotel and consider our next move.”

“I know it’s only a coincidence,” I ventured, “but when I knew him, Jeremy had a white BMW.”

“F173 BZK,” said Jenny. “I remember it from the file.”

Donald swung round. “Some people can’t give up smoking, you know, others drinking. But with some, it’s a particular make of car,” he said. “Although a lot of people must drive white BMWs,” he muttered almost to himself.

Once we were back in Donald’s room, he began checking through the file he had put together on Professor Balcescu. The Times report of his escape from Romania, he told us, was the most detailed.

PROFESSOR BALCESCU first came to prominence while still a student at the University of Bucharest, where he called for the overthrow of the elected government.

The authorities seemed relieved when he was offered a place at Oxford, and must have hoped that they had seen the last of him. But he returned to Bucharest University three years later, taking up the position of tutor in Politics.

The following year he led a student revolt in support of Nicolae Ceausescu, and after he became president, Balcescu was rewarded with a Cabinet post, as Minister of Education. But he soon became disillusioned with the Ceausescu regime, and within eighteen months he had resigned and returned to the university as a humble tutor.

Three years later he was offered the Chair of Politics and Economics.

Professor Balcescu’s growing disillusionment with the government finally turned to anger, and in 1986 he began writing a series of pamphlets denouncing Ceausescu and his puppet regime. A few weeks after a particularly vitriolic attack on the establishment, he was dismissed from his post at the university, and later placed under house arrest. A group of Oxford historians wrote a letter of protest to The Times , but nothing more was heard of the great scholar for several years. Then, late in 1989, he was smuggled out of Romania by a group of students, finally reaching Britain via Bulgaria and Greece.

Cambridge won the battle of the universities to tempt him with a teaching post, and he became a fellow of Gonville and Caius in September 1990. In November 1991, after the retirement of Sir Halford McKay, Balcescu took over the Chair of Eastern European Studies.

Donald looked up. “There’s a picture of him taken when he was in Greece, but it’s too blurred to be of much use.”

I studied the black-and-white photograph of a bearded middle-aged man surrounded by students. He wasn’t anything like Jeremy. I frowned. “Another blind alley,” I said.

“It’s beginning to look like it,” said Donald. “Especially after what I found out yesterday. According to his secretary, Balcescu delivers his weekly lecture every Friday morning, from ten o’clock to eleven.”

“But that wouldn’t stop him from taking a call from Rosemary at midday,” interrupted Jenny.

“If you’ll allow me to finish,” said Hackett sharply. Jenny bowed her head, and he continued. “At twelve o’clock he chairs a full departmental meeting in his office, attended by all members of staff. I’m sure you’ll agree, Jenny, that it would be quite difficult for him to take a personal call at that time every Friday, given the circumstances.”

Donald turned to me. “I’m sorry to say we’re back where we started, unless you can remember where you’ve seen Mrs Balcescu.”

I shook my head. “Perhaps I was mistaken,” I admitted.

Donald and Jenny spent the next few hours going over the files, even checking every one of the ten phone numbers a second time.

“Do you remember Rosemary’s second call, sir,” said Jenny, in desperation. “‘The Director’s not in at the moment.’ Might that be the clue we’re looking for?”

“Possibly,” said Donald. “If we could find out who the Director is, we might be a step nearer to Jeremy Alexander.”

I remember Jenny’s last words before I left for my room. “I wonder how many directors there are in Britain, chief.”

Over breakfast in Donald’s room the following morning, he reviewed all the intelligence that had been gathered to date, but none of us felt we were any nearer to a solution.

“What about Mrs Balcescu?” I said. “ She may be the person taking the call every Friday at midday, because that’s the one time she knows exactly where her husband is.”

“I agree. But is she simply Rosemary’s messenger, or is she a friend of Jeremy’s?” asked Donald.

“Perhaps we’ll have to tap her phone to find out,” said Jenny.

Donald ignored her comment, and checked his watch. “It’s time to go to Balcescu’s lecture.”

“Why are we bothering?” I asked. “Surely we ought to be concentrating on Mrs Balcescu.”

“You’re probably right,” said Donald. “But we can’t afford to leave any stone unturned, and as his next lecture won’t be for another week, we may as well get it over with. In any case, we’ll be out by eleven, and if we find Mrs Balcescu’s phone is engaged between twelve and twelve thirty …”