Tracers by Adrian Magson Page B

a hand. ‘Don’t worry – I’m not planning on making a run for it or doing anything stupid. I haven’t got the money or stamina to run, and I’m too much of a coward to kill myself.’
    ‘So what do you want it for?’ Harry asked.
    ‘I’ve got a letter to write. My parents . . . they deserve an explanation.’ He gave a tired smile. ‘It’s not the sort of thing they should first read about in the morning papers, is it? Their favourite son ruining the family name.’
    Harry considered it for a moment, then nodded in agreement. It wasn’t as if they could arrest Param; if he wanted to walk out of here right now, he could do so and there was nothing they could do to stop him. He stood up and signalled Rik to follow.
    ‘Thirty minutes,’ he reminded Param. ‘Then we have to call it in.’
    They found a teashop just round the corner, with tired lace curtains at the window and a smell of cinnamon in the air. It would do while they gave Param his requested leeway. The owner was an elderly, demure lady with powder-blue hair and thick spectacles, who fussed around them as if they were visiting royalty rather than two late customers wasting time. Harry opted for coffee and a slice of walnut cake over a newspaper crossword, while Rik took tea and a toasted bun.
    ‘I like to stay open late because it’s better than watching the rubbish they call television,’ the owner explained, rearranging the tablecloth and plates until they were just right. ‘It’s all bad news, crude men and tarts with tits for brains these days, isn’t it?’ She bustled away to get their order, leaving the two men staring at each other in amusement.
    Harry tried the taxi firm again. The driver had called in sick but hoped to be in the following day. The dispatcher refused to give the man’s address and primly quoted the Data Protection Act. Harry left his number and disconnected. Tomorrow would have to do.
    Next he called Jennings. In the absence of Silverman, the lawyer might react well to some good news on another front.
    ‘It’s Tate,’ said Harry. ‘We’ve located Param.’
    ‘ Who? ’
    ‘Param. Raymond Param – the investor who did a bunk?’
    ‘Christ, how?’ Jennings sounded puzzled. ‘I mean, how did you have time to—?’
    ‘Skill, mostly.’ Harry wondered what was eating the man. Maybe he’d lost his Lottery ticket. ‘And a bit of luck. What do you want us to do about him?’
    ‘Do? I don’t want you do anything!’ Jennings snapped. ‘I want you to find Silverman . He’s the priority, remember? Everything else can wait.’
    ‘Yes, you said.’ Harry resisted the urge to snap back at Jennings. He was counting on future work, and in spite of his dislike of the lawyer, he didn’t want to be responsible for jeopardizing it. He explained patiently, ‘While we were waiting for confirmation of a lead on Silverman, we got lucky with Param. It was too good a lead to miss. We’ll leave him if you want, but I wouldn’t bet on him hanging around. There’s also a problem with the money.’
    But Jennings ignored this. ‘Wait one.’ The phone went silent. Moments later he was back. He sounded furious, his words coming down the line with more than his customary snap. ‘Do nothing, you hear? Nothing . Stay away from Param. I’ll be in touch.’ The phone went dead.
    From somewhere in the distance, the wail of an emergency vehicle cut through the quiet. The old lady stuck her head out from the doorway to the kitchen to listen, before disappearing again.
    Harry put his phone away and relayed the gist of the conversation to Rik, who had snagged the newspaper. It was open at a half-page photo showing a scene of destruction, with armed men in uniform and an armoured personnel carrier set against a background of smoking rubble and torn buildings. It was a rehash of a bombing in Baghdad ten days or so before, with renewed speculation about those responsible. A VIP had been killed, and he caught the word ‘cleric’ in