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Date Posted: 19:54:48 09/21/02 Sat
Dusk was gathering and the air was thick with the ripe scent of the river, overhung with the odor of rotted fish. The Salvation Army Men’s Shelter was on the seedier side of town, only one block removed from the Mole. Martin locked his car and left the blue police light on the front seat as added insurance. It would take a braver man than most of these homeless wretches to tinker with an official police vehicle.
He entered the rundown building, nodded to the Major stationed by the door.
“Good evening, Ma’am.” Discreetly he showed her his badge. “I’m looking for one of your gentleman. I believe his name is René. He’s about two metres [spelling?] tall, rather slender, long dark hair.”
“We don’t ask our guests’ names, Constable… Martin, was it? … but I think I know who you’re looking for. Is he in some trouble?”
“No, ma’am, not at all. Just following up on some personal business I have with him.”
If the Major wondered what kind of business a Swiss homeless man and a Horley PC might have, she politely kept them to herself. She tipped her head toward the back of the room. “All the way in the back, closest to the kitchen. You’d think he’d be stuffing himself at that position, but he barely eats enough to keep a bird alive.”
Martin nodded his thanks and moved quickly and quietly through the gathering crowd of men. Dinner wasn’t being served yet, but given the clatter and the bustle coming from the kitchen, it was well on its way.
René – or whatever the hell his name was – saw him coming across the room. Martin suspected there wasn’t much the man didn’t see. He settled back in his chair and folded his hands in his lap, waiting as Martin approached.
Martin stuck his hand out. “Hullo, René.”
Grey-green eyes flickered over Graeme’s face even as the hand was accepted. “Martin,” he said neutrally.
“Thought I’d take you out for some fish and chips, unless you’re really set on having dinner here tonight.”
The other man’s mouth lifted in a tiny smile. “Fish and chips sounds good.” It took only a moment to shrug into his threadbare coat and scoop up the battered backpack that lay on the ground at his feet. “But I’ll want a beer to go with the food, yes?”
Martin took a strong grip on what’s-his-name’s arm as soon as they were clear of the shelter. “I need to speak to you,” he said, low and urgent. Beneath his fingers he felt the wiry strength of muscles tensing. “Don’t run, don’t do anything stupid. What’s in your pack there? Tell me you don’t have a gun.”
“I don’t have a weapon. Most shelters disapprove of them.”
“And it might attract attention to you.”
“It might.”
Graeme’s mouth twisted wryly. “And it’s not as though you can’t defend yourself.” His companion only shrugged. ”Just stay close. Let me buy you a decent dinner and we’ll talk.”
Those haunting pale eyes scanned him up and down. “Are you armed?”
“Of course.” Beneath his overcoat, the comforting weight of his service revolver nestled against the small of his back.
“I may be fast, but I can hardly outrun a bullet.”
“Point well taken, but don’t think that means I trust you not to try.”
A silent tilt of the head was his only reply. Martin dropped his hand, but remained tight by “Rene”, leading him a few blocks away to the nearest pub.
The Recumbent Lion read the peeling gold paint on the hanging sign. Martin politely held the door open for his companion; the glaring lights and hubbub of the restaurant flooded over them as they entered. By unspoken agreement, they headed for the very back of the pub, choosing a table where they could both sit and watch the door.
Resting his elbows on the scarred wooden table, Martin ordered two plates of fish and chips and two pints of bitter from the harried-looking waitress and waited for her to step into the kitchen before speaking.
“So who the hell are you?”
That intriguing face gave nothing away. “You don’t know?”
“You’re not René Dian. That much I know.”
Their beers thumped on the table before them. Martin’s companion settled back in his chair, knuckles rubbing his lower lip thoughtfully. A long pause fell between them, broken only by the arrival of their dinners.
“Don’t look for me,” he said finally, his voice barely audible over the clamour pulsating around them.
“Then tell me who you are,” Martin demanded.
Another slow perusal from those pale eyes; Martin felt himself being assessed, risks weighed. “My name is Michael.” He leaned forward again, his voice intense. “Take this very seriously: do not look for me. It is dangerous.”
“Witness protection?” It was the only logical solution Graeme could think of.
“Something like that.”
“Would that explain why MI6 is crawling all over the hospital this evening? Mrs. Stapleton died, by the way.”
Michael’s eyes locked on Martin’s. “MI6 is investigating? Why?”
Martin shrugged. “You think they bother to tell me? But something stinks to high heaven here. Why in the hell is MI6 interested in the unfortunate death of a mugging victim?” He took a bite of the fried cod, his eyes never leaving his companion’s. “Are they looking for you? But why would the Friends be interested in a homeless Swiss man? Even one with… shall we say, unusual abilities?”
Michael’s gaze drifted off over Martin’s shoulder. “They aren’t looking for me.” His voice was unequivocal. “You know I can’t testify, can’t appear in court at all.”
“I suspected as much, when I started researching L’Heure Sanguine. You turned state’s evidence, disappeared, something, and you can’t be found now. Is that about it?”
“More or less.” Several minutes passed in silence.
Martin finished off his pint, wiped the back of his hand over his mouth. “So now what? I still have two muggers that murdered an innocent woman. Without your testimony, what do I have?”
“You still have the witnesses; they will probably do better for you in court than a homeless man.” Michael’s eyes narrowed contemplatively. “But why is the government looking into your case? Who was this Stapleton woman?”
Graeme shrugged. “I haven’t had a chance to research her yet. And if I start looking now, won’t that tip my hand to MI6?”
“It might.” Michael’s hand crept to his chin, rubbed it absently. Graeme finished his chips thoughtfully.
“Why Dian?”
Michael’s eyes focused sharply on his again. “What?”
“Why Dian? Why did you give that name?”
“It was stupid.” Michael stared down at the ale in his glass for a long moment. “Too many ghosts.”
He hadn’t meant to let that out, Graeme realized immediately. Rather than reading Michael’s reaction, Graeme found he had to read the lack of one as Michael’s face went completely still and his eyes became opaque. A man accustomed to hiding emotions, a secretive man who didn’t trust easily, if at all.
Time to push a little harder. Graeme leaned forward. “You were in L’Heure Sanguine with Dian.” The resultant silence was answer in itself. Michael’s piercing stare nailed him as securely as a butterfly in an entomological display, giving nothing away. “I need more. You tell me what you know, I’ll stay out of L’Heure Sanguine.”
“I can’t tell you anything.”
“Because why?” Michael’s face remained blank and unreadable. “ ‘If I tell you, I’ll have to kill you?’ That’s a little trite, don’t you think?”
“There are things you don’t know. Things I can’t say.”
Graeme pursed his lips as a new thought hit him. “People in witness protection programmes don’t hide in homeless shelters.” Across the table, Michael blinked and his gaze drifted over Graeme’s shoulder to the door. “Where are your handlers, Michael? Gave them the slip, did you?”
“You could say that.”
“And if I dig into L’Heure Sanguine… well, someone might put two and two together and start wondering why I’m so interested in a long forgotten French terrorist, hm?”
“He wouldn’t like to think he’d been so easily forgotten.”
“What?”
“René. He would have liked to think he made a difference, was remembered.”
“You’re speaking in the past tense. It’s not certain he’s dead.”
“He’s dead.” Definitive.
“And you? Did you make the difference you wanted to?”
An indefinable sadness crept into Michael’s face. “I don’t know.”
“Who remembers you, Michael?”
“No one.”
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