and handed something over to the uniformed bloke inside. It was an immigration checkpoint somewhere in the EU, judging by the blue sticker on the glass of the cubicle showing a circle of yellow stars. The border guard made some gesture, and the woman pulled off her hat and shades. She was Nicky Hale, with a fat, split lip and a swollen black eye. I could barely recognize her, but the blouse and suit she was wearing I’d seen a few times. The guard handed Nicky her passport back and waved her through. She slipped the sunglasses back on her face, turned away, dropped out of the bottom of the frame and vanished.
“She’d been hurt?” I asked, aware too late of the concern in my voice. But if DS McCoy noticed it she didn’t let on.
“Looks that way. But more to the point, these photos confirm Ms. Hale left the country, using her British passport, early on Mondaythe fourteenth—the same day you came to us.”
“So where did she go?”
“We’ve traced her as far as Charles de Gaulle airport, but after that …” She shrugged, as if there was nothing more she could do. “Before these pictures were taken the money—your money—was transferred to an offshore account in the Cayman Islands, and almost immediately transferred out again, and we can’t track that down either.”
I shuffled through the photographs again, as if something in them might have changed since the first time I’d looked at them. Then I realized something had.
“You said ‘her British passport.’ Does that mean she had another one?”
“Ms. Hale had dual nationality,” said McCoy. “English-Brazilian. Chances are she travelled on from Paris using her Brazilian passport. The UK has an extradition agreement with Brazil, but first they’d have to find her, and we don’t even know if that’s where she went.” She leaned back in her chair in a way that suggested sympathy and regret and the closure of the case. “She hasn’t beenabducted, Mr. Maguire,” she said. “She stole your money, and she fled the country. There’s nothing more we can do, and there’s no point in you running around interrogating her acquaintances. That’s it. I’m sorry.”
I noticed the way she said sorry. She’d guessed it wasn’t just the money I’d lost. Sitting there it felt like I’d been clubbed with a crowbar again. I hadn’t wanted to accept Nicky could have fleeced me—I’d refused to believe it. I’d wanted to find her, to ride to her rescue, avenge her, even … All just futile, idiotic teenage fantasies. I’d been shuttling back and forward like a bluebottle butting its head against a window because it’s too stupid to see the glass.
“Anyway, we felt you were entitled to know,” said McCoy. “And if that phone does turn up, you can return it to her husband. Sooner rather than later, I’d suggest.”
I was so dazed I barely noticed her get up to leave. It was like she and her sidekick were tiptoeing out to avoid upsetting me any further.
“Yeah, no, thanks,” I said. My scalp was throbbing and wouldn’t let up, right now I was glad of the pain.
five
A uniformed PC took my statement about the car-park brawl, very slowly and methodically. He was a southpaw and wrote with his hand hooked over the top of the pad. I could imagine him spending hours after this interview reading my words aloud while a bored typist who couldn’t make out his handwriting transcribed it onto the police computer. I envied him all the same, because bad as his scrawl was, mine was so terrible even
I
couldn’t make it out. The PC seemed a bit irritated when I insisted there had been three attackers, because the cops had only arrested two—presumably Sean and the apprentice legbreaker or whatever he was. I got the impression recording the fact that Dean had been present but had got away would mean loose ends and more workfor the cops, so the PC tried his best to write Dean out of the story by muddling him up with Sean. Who, apparently, was in another
“She’d been hurt?” I asked, aware too late of the concern in my voice. But if DS McCoy noticed it she didn’t let on.
“Looks that way. But more to the point, these photos confirm Ms. Hale left the country, using her British passport, early on Mondaythe fourteenth—the same day you came to us.”
“So where did she go?”
“We’ve traced her as far as Charles de Gaulle airport, but after that …” She shrugged, as if there was nothing more she could do. “Before these pictures were taken the money—your money—was transferred to an offshore account in the Cayman Islands, and almost immediately transferred out again, and we can’t track that down either.”
I shuffled through the photographs again, as if something in them might have changed since the first time I’d looked at them. Then I realized something had.
“You said ‘her British passport.’ Does that mean she had another one?”
“Ms. Hale had dual nationality,” said McCoy. “English-Brazilian. Chances are she travelled on from Paris using her Brazilian passport. The UK has an extradition agreement with Brazil, but first they’d have to find her, and we don’t even know if that’s where she went.” She leaned back in her chair in a way that suggested sympathy and regret and the closure of the case. “She hasn’t beenabducted, Mr. Maguire,” she said. “She stole your money, and she fled the country. There’s nothing more we can do, and there’s no point in you running around interrogating her acquaintances. That’s it. I’m sorry.”
I noticed the way she said sorry. She’d guessed it wasn’t just the money I’d lost. Sitting there it felt like I’d been clubbed with a crowbar again. I hadn’t wanted to accept Nicky could have fleeced me—I’d refused to believe it. I’d wanted to find her, to ride to her rescue, avenge her, even … All just futile, idiotic teenage fantasies. I’d been shuttling back and forward like a bluebottle butting its head against a window because it’s too stupid to see the glass.
“Anyway, we felt you were entitled to know,” said McCoy. “And if that phone does turn up, you can return it to her husband. Sooner rather than later, I’d suggest.”
I was so dazed I barely noticed her get up to leave. It was like she and her sidekick were tiptoeing out to avoid upsetting me any further.
“Yeah, no, thanks,” I said. My scalp was throbbing and wouldn’t let up, right now I was glad of the pain.
five
A uniformed PC took my statement about the car-park brawl, very slowly and methodically. He was a southpaw and wrote with his hand hooked over the top of the pad. I could imagine him spending hours after this interview reading my words aloud while a bored typist who couldn’t make out his handwriting transcribed it onto the police computer. I envied him all the same, because bad as his scrawl was, mine was so terrible even
I
couldn’t make it out. The PC seemed a bit irritated when I insisted there had been three attackers, because the cops had only arrested two—presumably Sean and the apprentice legbreaker or whatever he was. I got the impression recording the fact that Dean had been present but had got away would mean loose ends and more workfor the cops, so the PC tried his best to write Dean out of the story by muddling him up with Sean. Who, apparently, was in another
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