‘The train came in and everyone started cheering pretty loud, and shoving about and trying to get a glimpse of Karfeld. There was even a bit of fighting at the edges, I think, but that was mainly the journalists. Sods,’ he added with a spark of real hatred. ‘That shit Sam Allerton was there, by the way. I should think he started it.’
‘For Christ’s sake!’ Turner shouted, and Crabbe regarded him quite straightly, with an expression which spoke of bad form.
‘First of all Meyer-Lothringen came out – the police had made a gangway for him out of cattle pens – then Tilsit, then Halbach, and everyone shouting like gyppos. Beatles,’ he said uncomprehendingly. ‘Kids mainly, they were, long-haired student types, leaning over the railings trying to touch the chaps’ shoulders. Karfeld didn’t make it. Some fellow near me said he must have gone out the other side, gone down the passage to avoid the crowd. He doesn’t like people coming too close, that’s what they say; that’s why he builds these damn great stands everywhere. So half the crowd charges off to see if they can find him. The rest hang around in case, and then there’s this announcement over the blower: we can all go home because Karfeld’s still in Hanover. Lucky for Bonn, that’s what I thought.’ He grinned. ‘What?’
Neither spoke.
‘The journalists were furious and I thought I’d just give Rawley a ring to let him know Karfeld hadn’t turned up. London likes to keep track, you see. Of Karfeld.’ This for Turner. ‘They like to keep tabs on him, not have him talking to strange men.’ He resumed: ‘There’s an all-night Post Office by the hall there, and I was just coming out when it occurred to me’ – he made a feeble attempt to drag them into the conspiracy- ‘that maybe I ought to have a quick cup of coffee to collect my thoughts, and I happened to look through the glass door of the waiting-room. Doors are side by side, you see. Restaurant one side, waiting-room the other. It’s a sort of buffet in there with a few places to sit as well. I mean sit and not drink,’ he explained, as if that were a particular type of eccentricity he had occasionally met with. ‘There’s the first class on the left and the second class on the right, both glass doors.’
‘For pity’s sake!’ Turner breathed.
‘And there was Leo. In the second class. At a table. Wearing a trench coat, a sort of army-looking thing. Seemed in rather bad shape.’
‘Drunk?’
‘I don’t know. Christ, that would be going it, wouldn’t it: eight in the morning.’ He looked very innocent. ‘But tired out and, well, not dapper, you know, not like he usually is. Gloss, bounce: all gone. Still,’ he added stupidly, ‘comes to all of us I suppose.’
‘You didn’t speak to him?’
‘No thanks. I know him in that mood. I gave him a wide berth and came back and told Rawley.’
‘Was he carrying anything?’ Bradfield said quickly. ‘Did he have a briefcase with him? Anything that could hold papers?’
‘Nothing about,’ Crabbe muttered, ‘Rawley old boy. Sorry.’
They stood in silence, all three, while Crabbe blinked from one face to the other.
‘You did well,’ Bradfield muttered at last. ‘All right, Crabbe.’
‘Well?’ Turner shouted. ‘He did bloody badly! Leo’s not in quarantine. Why didn’t he talk to him, drag him here by the neck, reason with him? God Almighty, you’re not bloody well alive, either of you! Well? He may be gone by now; that was our last chance! He was probably waiting for his final contact; they’ve dirtied him up for the journey out! Did he have anyone with him?’ He pulled open the door. ‘I said did he have anyone with him? Come on!’
‘A kid,’ said Crabbe. ‘Little girl.’
‘A what?’
‘Six or seven years old. Someone’s kid. He was talking to it.’
‘Did he recognise you?’
‘Doubt it. Seemed to look through me.’
Turner seized his raincoat from the stand.
‘I’d rather not,’ said Crabbe, answering the gesture rather than the exhortation. ‘Sorry.’
‘And you! What are you standing there for? Come on!’