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“And that was the last she heard from Michael Foreman?”
“Yes.”
“Has she heard anything from Zoe Harrison?” asked Paul Benson.
“No, nothing,” said Thornton. “But she had a call from Anthony Palmer yesterday.”
“Palmer?” said Gardener. “Yesterday?”
“Yes. She went on the attack again,” said Anderson. “He claimed he knew about the meeting in Brussels, the one that Michael Foreman apparently didn’t know about.”
“She had a go at Palmer,” said Thornton, “called him all the names under the sun, tried to extract information from him and ended up by telling him the line was tapped and the call was traceable.”
“Did we trace it?” asked Gardener.
“Yes. Through the cell masts we managed to put it somewhere in the location of Beckett’s Park.”
“That’s in Headingley,” said Dave Rawson.
“Did you check the place out?” Gardener asked.
Thornton nodded.
“I suppose it’s too much to expect we found the phone,” said Gardener.
“No, but it’s a big area,” Thornton replied. “Do you want us to get some extra help on it?”
“I doubt we’ll find anything but it’s worth a try,” said Gardener. “Has the phone been used since?”
“No.”
“He’s obviously ditched it,” said Sarah Gates.
“Okay,” said Gardener, “someone keep on that one.”
Thornton and Anderson were two of his most experienced, which is why he asked, “Do either of you suspect Rosie Henshaw is in on this?”
The room grew silent. “I know we shouldn’t rule out anything or anyone,” replied Anderson, “but I really don’t think she’s that good an actress.”
Thornton agreed.
“Apart from that, we have her landline and mobile tapped. If we’ve found no suspicious calls it seems unlikely,” said Gardener. “As I’ve said, let’s have a copy of those transcripts and I’d like someone to go over them with a fine toothcomb. Pressing on, do we have anything on the green Evoque?”
“I have, sir,” said Patrick Edwards. He tapped a few keys on the computer, which was linked to a projector, with a screen on the wall at the opposite end of the room. Everyone turned to see what Patrick had unearthed.
Butts Court in Leeds appeared in extreme clarity. The green Evoque pulled up. They noted the time. A man dressed in a white protection suit stepped out of the car and round to the back.
“What the hell is that?” asked Dave Rawson.
“It doesn’t look good,” replied Anderson. “That’s the kind of thing Hazchem would use.”
At the mention of that word, Gardener’s stomach swelled. If it was a Hazchem suit, it would suggest he needed protecting from something nasty, which would not go down well with Briggs. It could also suggest that it was someone with a background in the police or the military. The other option was that he simply didn’t want to be seen.
The man in the suit opened the vehicle tailgate and dragged Michael Foreman out of it, onto the concrete, past the ramp leading to the underground car park and then into the corner near the chain-link fence behind the shops.
Then the hoodie appeared.
“There’s Jonathan Drake,” said Rawson.
