happened?’
‘Harry tells her fuck-all. Gets pissed. Goes home. End of story.’
George took a long pull at the beer, and McVeigh watched him, trying to picture the scene, thinking about Harry Quinton, the appetite on the man, how greedy he was. ‘Tell me something,’ he said slowly. ‘Did Harry try it on at all?’
‘Of course.’
‘And?’
‘Nothing. Dead loss. Shame, really. Apparently she was something else …’ George grinned for the first time, his mouth slack, his eyes bright. He was obsessed with women and had three failed marriages to prove it.
‘So tell me …’ McVeigh said. ‘Tell me what she looked like.’
‘The Israeli’s wife? Harry’s little widow?’
‘Yes.’
George grinned again, remembering Harry’s description, reminting the phrases, good as new. ‘She was blonde. Tall. Not fat. Wonderful arse on her. Great face. Great lips, you know, just built for it. Big figure. Really big. Had Harry creaming his knickers … poor bastard …’
McVeigh looked at him for a while, letting the words sink in. Then he got up and thanked George for his time, and turned on his heel, heading for the door and the street outside, remembering Yakov’s sheaf of photos, his wife, the small, attractive figure. The cap of jet-black hair, the big smile. Cela.
At the door he hesitated for a moment. Then he was away, out into the street and the bright August sunshine, smiling.
*
Telemann arrived at La Guardia late, the Eastern shuttle to New York delayed an hour on the tarmac back in Washington. ‘ATC grid-lock,’ the captain had told the passengers with a resigned apology. ‘Second time this week.’
At La Guardia, Telemann was met by the guy he’d already conferenced on the secure line. In the flesh, he was quite unlike the impression he’d made on the phone. The voice had been deep, thoughtful, sure of itself, and Telemann had imagined someone older, bulkier, a little slow on his feet maybe, a little overweight. The figure by the baggage carousel was none of those things. He was small, thin, sallow, with a watchful expression and a hint of Latin blood behind the over-trimmed moustache and the soft brown eyes. He looked young, too, no more than thirty-five, a tribute to a man already perched in the upper reaches of the New York Police Department.
Telemann extended a hand, still not quite sure. ‘Mr Benitez?’ he said.
The other man smiled. ‘Alfredo,’ he said.
The two men shook hands, then walked quickly through the crowded concourse and out on to the pick-up area. At the kerbside was an unmarked Chevvy with a dent in the rear wing. Behind the wheel sat another man, black. Like Benitez, he wasn’t wearing uniform.
They drove into Manhattan across the Triborough Bridge, then headed downtown on the East River Memorial Drive. At First and 30th, they pulled left into the Bellevue Hospital. They took the elevator to the basement and walked along the corridor to the morgue.
By now, Telemann had confirmed the worst of it. The incident at the Manhattan Plaza had been investigated by a small core-team of four. By the time the bodies had arrived at Bellevue and the autopsy procedures had been completed, the clinical trial had gone cold. The investigating pathologist could find nothing helpful in the way of residues or specific organ damage. The couple in the hotel bathroom had evidently died of respiratory failure, but no obvious causal mechanism had shown up.
So far so good, but there were two other pieces of evidence. One of them was the maid from Housekeeping who’d first discovered the bodies. She’d collapsed outside the bathroom, but survived. As best she could, she’d described her symptoms, and these had gone into the file. The other piece of evidencewas an aerosol recovered from the bathroom floor. According to the label, it contained shaving-foam. It had been sealed inside a polythene bag and hand-carried to the NYPD forensic laboratories. Already suspicious, the investigating
‘Harry tells her fuck-all. Gets pissed. Goes home. End of story.’
George took a long pull at the beer, and McVeigh watched him, trying to picture the scene, thinking about Harry Quinton, the appetite on the man, how greedy he was. ‘Tell me something,’ he said slowly. ‘Did Harry try it on at all?’
‘Of course.’
‘And?’
‘Nothing. Dead loss. Shame, really. Apparently she was something else …’ George grinned for the first time, his mouth slack, his eyes bright. He was obsessed with women and had three failed marriages to prove it.
‘So tell me …’ McVeigh said. ‘Tell me what she looked like.’
‘The Israeli’s wife? Harry’s little widow?’
‘Yes.’
George grinned again, remembering Harry’s description, reminting the phrases, good as new. ‘She was blonde. Tall. Not fat. Wonderful arse on her. Great face. Great lips, you know, just built for it. Big figure. Really big. Had Harry creaming his knickers … poor bastard …’
McVeigh looked at him for a while, letting the words sink in. Then he got up and thanked George for his time, and turned on his heel, heading for the door and the street outside, remembering Yakov’s sheaf of photos, his wife, the small, attractive figure. The cap of jet-black hair, the big smile. Cela.
At the door he hesitated for a moment. Then he was away, out into the street and the bright August sunshine, smiling.
*
Telemann arrived at La Guardia late, the Eastern shuttle to New York delayed an hour on the tarmac back in Washington. ‘ATC grid-lock,’ the captain had told the passengers with a resigned apology. ‘Second time this week.’
At La Guardia, Telemann was met by the guy he’d already conferenced on the secure line. In the flesh, he was quite unlike the impression he’d made on the phone. The voice had been deep, thoughtful, sure of itself, and Telemann had imagined someone older, bulkier, a little slow on his feet maybe, a little overweight. The figure by the baggage carousel was none of those things. He was small, thin, sallow, with a watchful expression and a hint of Latin blood behind the over-trimmed moustache and the soft brown eyes. He looked young, too, no more than thirty-five, a tribute to a man already perched in the upper reaches of the New York Police Department.
Telemann extended a hand, still not quite sure. ‘Mr Benitez?’ he said.
The other man smiled. ‘Alfredo,’ he said.
The two men shook hands, then walked quickly through the crowded concourse and out on to the pick-up area. At the kerbside was an unmarked Chevvy with a dent in the rear wing. Behind the wheel sat another man, black. Like Benitez, he wasn’t wearing uniform.
They drove into Manhattan across the Triborough Bridge, then headed downtown on the East River Memorial Drive. At First and 30th, they pulled left into the Bellevue Hospital. They took the elevator to the basement and walked along the corridor to the morgue.
By now, Telemann had confirmed the worst of it. The incident at the Manhattan Plaza had been investigated by a small core-team of four. By the time the bodies had arrived at Bellevue and the autopsy procedures had been completed, the clinical trial had gone cold. The investigating pathologist could find nothing helpful in the way of residues or specific organ damage. The couple in the hotel bathroom had evidently died of respiratory failure, but no obvious causal mechanism had shown up.
So far so good, but there were two other pieces of evidence. One of them was the maid from Housekeeping who’d first discovered the bodies. She’d collapsed outside the bathroom, but survived. As best she could, she’d described her symptoms, and these had gone into the file. The other piece of evidencewas an aerosol recovered from the bathroom floor. According to the label, it contained shaving-foam. It had been sealed inside a polythene bag and hand-carried to the NYPD forensic laboratories. Already suspicious, the investigating
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