it.” This wasn’t the triumph Hayes had foreseen.
“Anything else? Anything about Russell’s demeanour?”
“He was chirpy and relaxed. He paid in cash.”
“How was he dressed?”
Hayes gave Keane and the others a sheepish look.
“Ian, I’d like you to bring your contact in right away, and get all the details. Hassan, you can take Hayes’ Russell look-alike as well. Who was that? . . . Swindlehurst?”
“Yes”
“Good.” Keane drew a deep breath. “Final item of news: the taxi driver that picked up Russell from Heathrow dropped him off at . . .” Keane gave them a moment to finish his sentence.
“Lexington Gardens?” offered Hayes, redeeming himself partially in Keane’s harsh world of perfectionism.
“Spot on. That means that the scene of the crime is crucial. And it means we have missed something. Hayes and Jenkins, I want you to find your witness statements from Tuesday. The three of us will meet out there, at. . . .” Keane fished his pocket watch out of his waistcoat pocket, “. . . 1 o’clock precisely. All 6 look-alikes have to be informed in person by 1 o’clock, whether that means renting a helicopter, a hovercraft or the space shuttle, I don’t care. Is that all clear?”
“Yes sir” was the instant and unanimous point of view.
“Alright, off you . . . wait a minute, wait a minute.” It annoyed Keane that he had let the irritation over the journalist’s sudden intrusion diminish his overview and mental dexterity. “A female companion! That means we have to reconsider the passengers on Russell’s flight. Were any of those passengers who sat close to Russell female?”
“Yes, sir” answered Hayes.
“Shit!” It slipped out before Keane could stop himself. The others looked at each other, not because they were offended by his choice language, but because this was indeed a rare lack of self-control. “Hayes, very first job: get in touch with the local station/stations that have interviewed the female passengers. Get them to detain them immediately and send us a photo of them right away. Then get your witness in to check if any of the women in these photos could be the woman who accompanied Russell.”
“Got it.”
“Now is there anything else that we may have overlooked?” The phone rang again. “Tell them, I’m coming to pick him up right now” rasped Keane as he left the room.
Keane knew Syd ‘Slam’ Lambeth well enough to know that there was not much point in trying to deceive him. It was a matter of revealing as little as possible, and finding out what he knew, and how he intended to use his knowledge.
“Good morning, Syd” said Keane as he approached, “Good of you to drop by.” Sarcasm was water off a duck’s back to Lambeth.
‘Slam’ was just slightly older than Keane. He was dressed as usual in a dark-red windbreaker and a pale blue tee-shirt with beige corduroy drilled trousers and a pair of old, brown, laced shoes. He had a slight stoop, and to add insult to injury a small beer belly protruded below his weak chest. His flat, unwashed and lifeless greying hair fell either side of his round, unshaven face, and his receding chin melted imperceptibly into a thick neck.
“Superintendent. I think you have forgotten your obligation to inform the public of matters that affect their safety” rasped Lambeth in his thin, dry voice.
“Let’s discuss this in my office.” Keane led the way, Lambeth following him with his characteristic shuffle. More or less everything about ‘Slam’ made Keane suspicious of him, but one trait in particular raised Keane’s hackles: unless he was taking notes, Lambeth always had one hand in his trouser pocket, and it was constantly moving, as if there was a hamster in there that couldn’t find its way out.
Once in the office, he offered Lambeth a seat. Without responding, Lambeth sat down and brought out his pad, his
“Anything else? Anything about Russell’s demeanour?”
“He was chirpy and relaxed. He paid in cash.”
“How was he dressed?”
Hayes gave Keane and the others a sheepish look.
“Ian, I’d like you to bring your contact in right away, and get all the details. Hassan, you can take Hayes’ Russell look-alike as well. Who was that? . . . Swindlehurst?”
“Yes”
“Good.” Keane drew a deep breath. “Final item of news: the taxi driver that picked up Russell from Heathrow dropped him off at . . .” Keane gave them a moment to finish his sentence.
“Lexington Gardens?” offered Hayes, redeeming himself partially in Keane’s harsh world of perfectionism.
“Spot on. That means that the scene of the crime is crucial. And it means we have missed something. Hayes and Jenkins, I want you to find your witness statements from Tuesday. The three of us will meet out there, at. . . .” Keane fished his pocket watch out of his waistcoat pocket, “. . . 1 o’clock precisely. All 6 look-alikes have to be informed in person by 1 o’clock, whether that means renting a helicopter, a hovercraft or the space shuttle, I don’t care. Is that all clear?”
“Yes sir” was the instant and unanimous point of view.
“Alright, off you . . . wait a minute, wait a minute.” It annoyed Keane that he had let the irritation over the journalist’s sudden intrusion diminish his overview and mental dexterity. “A female companion! That means we have to reconsider the passengers on Russell’s flight. Were any of those passengers who sat close to Russell female?”
“Yes, sir” answered Hayes.
“Shit!” It slipped out before Keane could stop himself. The others looked at each other, not because they were offended by his choice language, but because this was indeed a rare lack of self-control. “Hayes, very first job: get in touch with the local station/stations that have interviewed the female passengers. Get them to detain them immediately and send us a photo of them right away. Then get your witness in to check if any of the women in these photos could be the woman who accompanied Russell.”
“Got it.”
“Now is there anything else that we may have overlooked?” The phone rang again. “Tell them, I’m coming to pick him up right now” rasped Keane as he left the room.
Keane knew Syd ‘Slam’ Lambeth well enough to know that there was not much point in trying to deceive him. It was a matter of revealing as little as possible, and finding out what he knew, and how he intended to use his knowledge.
“Good morning, Syd” said Keane as he approached, “Good of you to drop by.” Sarcasm was water off a duck’s back to Lambeth.
‘Slam’ was just slightly older than Keane. He was dressed as usual in a dark-red windbreaker and a pale blue tee-shirt with beige corduroy drilled trousers and a pair of old, brown, laced shoes. He had a slight stoop, and to add insult to injury a small beer belly protruded below his weak chest. His flat, unwashed and lifeless greying hair fell either side of his round, unshaven face, and his receding chin melted imperceptibly into a thick neck.
“Superintendent. I think you have forgotten your obligation to inform the public of matters that affect their safety” rasped Lambeth in his thin, dry voice.
“Let’s discuss this in my office.” Keane led the way, Lambeth following him with his characteristic shuffle. More or less everything about ‘Slam’ made Keane suspicious of him, but one trait in particular raised Keane’s hackles: unless he was taking notes, Lambeth always had one hand in his trouser pocket, and it was constantly moving, as if there was a hamster in there that couldn’t find its way out.
Once in the office, he offered Lambeth a seat. Without responding, Lambeth sat down and brought out his pad, his
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