The Negotiator

It was the sergeant who asked to stake out the bar a little longer, and Dykstra had agreed. It had paid dividends; the American arrived twenty-four hours later.

Dykstra sent a message to the Gerechtelijk Laboratorium in Voorburg, the country’s central pathology laboratory. Hearing it was a bullet wound, and a foreigner, they sent Dr. Veerman himself, and he was Holland’s leading forensic pathologist.

In the afternoon Chief Inspector Dykstra listened patiently to Qui

The rented car was brought around from the Central Hotel and thoroughly searched. No gun. Their luggage was retrieved and searched. No gun. The sergeant admitted neither Qui

Professor Veerman arrived at six and was finished by midnight. He crossed the road and took a coffee with a very tired Chief Inspector Dykstra.

“Well, Professor?”

“You’ll have my full report in due course,” said the doctor.

“Just the outline, please.”

“All right. Death from massive laceration of the brain caused by a bullet, probably nine millimeter, fired at close range through the left temple, exiting through the right. I should look for a hole in the woodwork somewhere in that bar.”

Dykstra nodded. “Time of death?” he asked. “I am holding two Americans who discovered the body, supposedly on a friendly visit. Though they broke into the bar to find it.”

“Midday yesterday,” said the professor. “Give or take a couple of hours. I’ll know more later, when the tests have been analyzed.”

“But the Americans were in Arnhem police station at midday yesterday,” said Dykstra. “That’s unarguable. They crashed their car at ten and were released to spend the night at the Rijn Hotel at four. They could have left the hotel in the night, driven here, done it, and got back by dawn.”

“No chance,” said the professor, rising. “That man was dead no later than two P.M.yesterday. If they were in Arnhem, they’re i

Dykstra swore. His sergeant must have mounted his stakeout within thirty minutes of the killer’s leaving the bar.

“My Arnhem colleagues tell me you were heading for the ferry at Vlissingen when you left yesterday,” he told Sam and Qui

“That’s right,” said Qui

“I would be grateful if you would continue there,” said the Chief Inspector. “Mr. Qui

“I’m truly sorry,” said Qui

“Very well,” said Dykstra. “I’ll have a couple of my men escort you out of town.”

“I’m begi

The drive to Flushing was uneventful. Qui

A Flushing police car was parked near the ramp of the ferry for England. The two officers in it noted the Opel Ascona driving slowly into the hull of the roll-on roll-off car-carrier, but waited till the doors closed shut and the ferry headed out into the estuary of the Westerschelde before informing their headquarters.

The trip passed quietly. Sam wrote up her notes, now becoming a travelogue of European police stations; Qui

Qui

It was half past ten; the inhabitants of this elegant Chelsea square were returning from their di

He parked his car in a residents’ bay across the road, mounted the three steps to his front door, and inserted his key in the lock. Qui

“Julian.”

Julian Hayman spun in alarm.

“Good God, Qui

Hayman was still, years after leaving the regiment, a very fit man. But years of city living had blurred the old cutting edge, just a fraction. Qui

“I need to go back into your files, Julian.”

Hayman had quite recovered. He shook his head firmly.

“Sorry, old boy. Not again. No chance. Word is, you’re taboo. People have been muttering-on the circuit, you know-about the Cormack affair. Can’t risk it. That’s final.”

Qui

“By the way,” Hayman called from the top of the steps. “I had lunch yesterday with Barney Simkins. Remember old Barney?”

Qui

“He says someone’s been ringing in, asking for you.”

“Who?”

“Du

“Didn’t he give any name at all?” asked Qui

“Only one, old boy. Odd name. Zack.”