Twelve Red Herrings Read online

  Jenny cursed. “I thought that if he used his car, the odds would be on him heading into Cambridge.” She deftly performed a three-point turn and accelerated quickly after the wing commander. Within a few minutes she was only a couple of cars behind him.

  Danvers-Smith was not proving to be the sort of fellow who habitually broke the speed limit. “His days as a test pilot are obviously long behind him,” Donald said, as we trailed the Allegro at a safe distance into the next village. About half a mile later he pulled into a gas station.

  “Stay with him,” said Donald. Jenny followed the Allegro into the station and came to a halt at the pump directly behind Danvers-Smith.

  “Keep your head down, Mr. Cooper,” said the Don, opening his door. “We don’t want him seeing you.”

  “What are you going to do?” I asked, peeping between the front seats.

  “Risk an old con’s trick,” Donald replied.

  He stepped out of the front seat, walked round to the back of the car, and unscrewed the gas tank cap just as the wing commander slipped the nozzle of a gas pump into the tank of his Allegro. Donald began slowly topping up our already full tank, then suddenly turned to face the old man.

  “Wing Commander Danvers-Smith?” he asked in an upper-crust voice.

  The wing commander looked up immediately, and a puzzled expression came over his weather-beaten face.

  “Baker, sir,” said Donald. “Flight Lieutenant Baker. You lectured me at RAF Locking. Vulcans, if I remember.”

  “Bloody good memory, Baker. Good show,” said Danvers-Smith. “Delighted to see you, old chap,” he said, taking the nozzle out of his car and replacing it in the pump. “What are you up to nowadays?”

  Jenny stifled a laugh.

  “Work for BA, sir. Grounded after I failed my eye test. Bloody desk job, I’m afraid, but it was the only offer I got.”

  “Bad luck, old chap,” said the wing commander, as they headed off toward the pay booth, and out of earshot.

  When they came back a few minutes later, they were chattering away like old chums, and the wing commander actually had his arm around Donald’s shoulder.

  When they reached his car they shook hands, and I heard Donald say “Goodbye, sir,” before Danvers-Smith climbed into his Allegro. The old airman pulled out of the station and headed back toward his home. Donald got in next to Jenny and pulled the passenger door closed.

  “I’m afraid he won’t lead us to Alexander,” the Don said with a sigh. “Danvers-Smith is the genuine article—misses his wife, doesn’t see his children enough, and feels a bit lonely. Even asked if I’d like to drop in for a bite of lunch.”

  “Why didn’t you accept?” I asked.

  Donald paused. “I would have, but when I mentioned that I was from Leeds, he told me he’d only been there once in his life, to watch a test match. No, that man has never heard of Rosemary Cooper or Jeremy Alexander—I’d bet my pension on it. So, now it’s the professor’s turn. Let’s head back toward Cambridge, Jenny. And drive slowly. I don’t want to catch up with the wing commander or we’ll all end up having to join him for lunch.”

  Jenny swung the car across the road and into the far lane, then headed back toward the city. After a couple of miles, Donald told her to pull into the side of the road just past a sign announcing the Shelford Rugby Club.

  “The professor and his wife live behind that hedge,” Donald said, pointing across the road. “Settle back, Mr. Cooper. This might take some time.”

  At 12:30 Jenny went off to get some fish and chips from the village. I devoured them hungrily. By three I was bored stiff again and was beginning to wonder just how long Donald would hang around before we were allowed to return to the hotel. I remembered “Happy Days” would be on at 6:30.

  “We’ll sit here all night, if necessary,” Donald said, as if he were reading my thoughts. “Forty-nine hours is my record without sleep. What’s yours, Jenny?” he asked, never taking his eyes off the house.

  “Thirty-one, sir,” she replied.

  “Then this may be your chance to break that record,” he said. A moment later, a woman in a white BMW nosed out of the driveway leading to the house and stopped at the edge of the pavement. She paused, looked both ways, then turned across the road and swung right, in the direction of Cambridge. As she passed us, I caught a glimpse of a blond with a pretty face.

  “I’ve seen her before,” I blurted out.

  “Follow her, Jenny,” Donald said sharply. “But keep your distance.” He turned round to face me.

  “Where have you seen her?” he asked, passing over the binoculars.

  “I can’t remember,” I said, trying to focus on the back of a mop of fair, curly hair.

  “Think, man. Think. It’s our best chance yet,” said Donald, trying not to sound as if he was cross-examining an old con.

  I knew I had come across that face somewhere, though I felt certain we had never met. I had to rack my brains, because it was at least five years since I had seen any woman I recognized, let alone one that striking. But my mind remained blank.

  “Keep on thinking,” said the Don, “while I try to find out something a little more simple. And Jenny—don’t get too close to her. Never forget she’s got a rearview mirror. Mr. Cooper may not remember her, but she may remember him.”

  Donald picked up the carphone and jabbed in ten numbers. “Let’s pray he doesn’t realize I’ve retired,” he mumbled.

  “DVLA Swansea. How can I help you?”

  “Sergeant Crann, please,” said Donald.

  “I’ll put you through.”

  “Dave Crann.”

  “Donald Hackett.”

  “Good afternoon, Chief Superintendent. How can I help you?”

  “White BMW—K273 SCE,” said Donald, staring at the car in front of him.

  “Hold on please, sir, I won’t be a moment.”

  Donald kept his eye fixed on the BMW while he waited. It was about thirty yards ahead of us and heading toward a green light. Jenny accelerated to make sure she wouldn’t get trapped if the light changed, and as she shot through an amber light, Sergeant Crann came back on the line.

  “We’ve identified the car, sir,” he said. “Registered owner Mrs. Susan Balcescu, The Kendalls, High Street, Great Shelford, Cambridge. One ticket for speeding in a built-up area, 1991, a thirty-pound fine. Otherwise nothing known.”

  “Thank you, Sergeant. That’s most helpful.”

  “My pleasure, sir.”

  “Why should Rosemary want to contact the Balces-cus?” Donald said as he clipped the phone back into place. “And is she contacting just one of them, or both?” Neither of us attempted to answer.

  “I think it’s time to let her go,” he said a moment later. “I need to check out several more leads before we risk coming face to face with either of them. Let’s head back to the hotel and consider our next move.”

  “I know it’s only a coincidence,” I ventured, “but when I knew him, Jeremy had a white BMW.”

  “F173 BZK,” said Jenny. “I remember it from the file.”

  Donald swung round. “Some people can’t give up smoking, you know, others drinking. But with some, it’s a particular make of car,” he said. “Although a lot of people must drive white BMWs,” he muttered almost to himself.

  Once we were back in Donald’s room, he began checking through the file he had put together on Professor Balcescu. The Times report of his escape from Romania, he told us, was the most detailed.

  Professor Balcescu first came to prominence while still a student at the University of Bucharest, where he called for the overthrow of the elected government. The authorities seemed relieved when he was offered a place at Oxford, and must have hoped that they had seen the last of him. But he returned to Bucharest University three years later, taking up the position of tutor in politics. The following year he led a student revolt in support of Nicolae Ceausescu, and after he became president, Balcescu was rewarded with a Cabinet post, as Minister of Educat