appearance on Delahaye’s radar at all, and yet here he was twice in one day, linked to a man about whom they thought they knew everything. For the man on the screen in front of him, standing in the arrivals hall at Heathrow, was unquestionably the same man as the South African-born historian in the passport photograph in a tabbed browser window on the screen to his left.
The identity of the woman, however, was for the moment a mystery. She was wearing a headscarf, not wrapped tight in the traditional Muslim way but sufficiently to obscure her face from the cameras mounted above, save for one brief, tantalising moment when she stood on her toes and looked up at the professor to give him a remarkably chaste peck on the cheek. Indeed the whole meeting was indescribably gauche. Delahaye had suspected – as he usually did in male-female encounters – that the pair were lovers. Watching their greeting to each other he decided that was a mistake.
He watched Al Barani’s head swivel as she came through the sliding door. The swivel any man’s head might make when a beautiful woman came into sight. But not quite. His interest was definitely more than sexual. Delahaye frowned.
Delahaye turned back to the screen on his right, clicked the tab button on the corner of his customised Argus browser to call up another image from the queued files that had been hurriedly patched together. This from the camera installed just below the roof-line of the newly restored Hawksmoor church in the East End, close to the scene of the shooting. Installed to deter graffiti artists from defacing the pristine white walls, it usefully also contained within its scan and pan field the main entrance of the one time church, now mosque, opposite.
The image on Delahaye’s screen was timed at 21.58 the previous evening. It showed a remarkably clear view of the wall of the Hawksmoor church on one side and a row of terraced houses on the other ending in the staid bulk of the mosque. Pressed into itsdoorway, were two figures. Seconds later, in the zoomed, cropped and enhanced image, Delahaye could see the expressions on their faces: a panicky desperation on the clearly identifiable Frey and a pretty, dark-haired young woman with a look that was not so much of fear as of hard anger on her face. The headscarf was pushed back, her hair awry. Now that he could for the first time see her face clearly Delahaye felt there was something about her that was familiar, although for the life of him he could not say what or why.
The counter at the bottom of the image clicked over to 22.00 and the bright image disappeared into darkness. Delahaye cursed. That was bloody environmentalists for you: saving the planet by turning off a few floodlights. The camera quickly began to readjust to the diminished lighting, then became a blur as its sensors reacted to the rotating flasher on a police car roof. The couple in the doorway were gone.
He switched tabs again to the last image, which Argus’s facial recognition software gave an eighty-five per cent probability (it worked better with two faces together) as being the same couple, in the entrance hall of Liverpool Street Underground station, some forty-five minutes after the incident in the restaurant.
He clicked back to the airport arrivals image from the morning and scrolled the camera timeline forward to the moment when Frey’s passenger emerged to greet him. Rear view. Difficult at first. He switched to the view from the camera opposite, mounted on the currency exchange booth, but the pan was wrong, the angle too oblique. Back again, a few seconds further down the timeline, the image was better, a profile shot. He nodded his head appreciatively. Definitely the same girl in all three captures. Good-looking. Probably early thirties. Dark, shoulder-length hair, with a headscarf worn more like a Western-style fashion accessory than a token of Islamic orthodoxy.
A quick check of the Heathrow Terminal 3 online arrivals list for
The identity of the woman, however, was for the moment a mystery. She was wearing a headscarf, not wrapped tight in the traditional Muslim way but sufficiently to obscure her face from the cameras mounted above, save for one brief, tantalising moment when she stood on her toes and looked up at the professor to give him a remarkably chaste peck on the cheek. Indeed the whole meeting was indescribably gauche. Delahaye had suspected – as he usually did in male-female encounters – that the pair were lovers. Watching their greeting to each other he decided that was a mistake.
He watched Al Barani’s head swivel as she came through the sliding door. The swivel any man’s head might make when a beautiful woman came into sight. But not quite. His interest was definitely more than sexual. Delahaye frowned.
Delahaye turned back to the screen on his right, clicked the tab button on the corner of his customised Argus browser to call up another image from the queued files that had been hurriedly patched together. This from the camera installed just below the roof-line of the newly restored Hawksmoor church in the East End, close to the scene of the shooting. Installed to deter graffiti artists from defacing the pristine white walls, it usefully also contained within its scan and pan field the main entrance of the one time church, now mosque, opposite.
The image on Delahaye’s screen was timed at 21.58 the previous evening. It showed a remarkably clear view of the wall of the Hawksmoor church on one side and a row of terraced houses on the other ending in the staid bulk of the mosque. Pressed into itsdoorway, were two figures. Seconds later, in the zoomed, cropped and enhanced image, Delahaye could see the expressions on their faces: a panicky desperation on the clearly identifiable Frey and a pretty, dark-haired young woman with a look that was not so much of fear as of hard anger on her face. The headscarf was pushed back, her hair awry. Now that he could for the first time see her face clearly Delahaye felt there was something about her that was familiar, although for the life of him he could not say what or why.
The counter at the bottom of the image clicked over to 22.00 and the bright image disappeared into darkness. Delahaye cursed. That was bloody environmentalists for you: saving the planet by turning off a few floodlights. The camera quickly began to readjust to the diminished lighting, then became a blur as its sensors reacted to the rotating flasher on a police car roof. The couple in the doorway were gone.
He switched tabs again to the last image, which Argus’s facial recognition software gave an eighty-five per cent probability (it worked better with two faces together) as being the same couple, in the entrance hall of Liverpool Street Underground station, some forty-five minutes after the incident in the restaurant.
He clicked back to the airport arrivals image from the morning and scrolled the camera timeline forward to the moment when Frey’s passenger emerged to greet him. Rear view. Difficult at first. He switched to the view from the camera opposite, mounted on the currency exchange booth, but the pan was wrong, the angle too oblique. Back again, a few seconds further down the timeline, the image was better, a profile shot. He nodded his head appreciatively. Definitely the same girl in all three captures. Good-looking. Probably early thirties. Dark, shoulder-length hair, with a headscarf worn more like a Western-style fashion accessory than a token of Islamic orthodoxy.
A quick check of the Heathrow Terminal 3 online arrivals list for
Similar Books
