“Several … beginning with our examination on Saturday of the hotel’s CCTV footage over the period that Mr Flushing was shot.”
“What have you seen?”
She paused while she rotated her gold bracelet. “It is rather what we have not seen. As you know, it is an old auberge and does not have the most comprehensive camera coverage. We cannot be certain, but it looks as if Mr Dowell was the only person, beside the staff and other guests, in the auberge at the time Mr Flushing was shot.” She paused again to let this sink in. “He was visiting Monsieur Musselwhite’s room to collect his remaining possessions. It is the room next door to Mr Flushing’s.”
Patrick began to get an uneasy feeling as several thoughts began to develop in his head.
Madame Bettancourt raised her eyes to look directly at him. “Mr Redwood, while you were looking at the Bugatti collection yesterday, I was in here.” She indicated her temporary office. There was no one-upmanship in her voice, just a recognition of the reality of the circumstances.
Patrick stayed quiet, but his face betrayed a sympathy borne out of nights, weekends and even Christmas Days when he had been hauled away to deal with emerging crises.
“I can see that you have realised the implications. Mr Dowell is now the prime suspect.”
Patrick shook his head gently as the enormity dawned.
“For the record, we know that he has diplomatic immunity, unlike Mr Flushing and Mr Musselwhite. We have spent the last twenty-four hours trying to find him,” she said.
So, they haven’t found him yet, Patrick thought.
“As we are speaking,” Madame Bettancourt continued, “my colleagues in Paris are contacting their London counterparts.”
“I’ll also be on the phone after this meeting. I think this will have to go right to the top.”
“Just before you arrived, I was given an update from the Immigration Office. The good news is that no one called Brendan Dowell has left by plane, sea or road.” She paused. “The bad news is that someone called Habib Bennani flew from Basel to London Heathrow on Thursday, 1st September. He was identified by facial recognition.”
“Has this name or passport been used in France before?”
“That is being checked, but you grasp the situation. It looks as if your Mr Dowell from your Foreign Office is either a British spy or a Moroccan spy.”
“Moroccan? Do you really think that?” There was genuine surprise in Patrick’s voice.
“He was travelling on a Moroccan passport.” She took a deep breath. “If we assume that your Foreign Office has not decided to kill a British minister and his assistant on French soil, we are left with a very worrying situation, are we not?” She placed her hands together on top of her notepad.
Patrick’s mind was full of possible scenarios, but he was trying to keep focused on the murder and attempted murder that he was investigating; others would pursue the political and other consequences. “Brendan, either using his own name or his alias, wasn’t here when Mr Musselwhite was poisoned, was he?” he asked.
“I have asked for this to be checked, but my guess is that it was the two large men in the lost or imagined CCTV footage who poisoned Mr Musselwhite. Mr Dowell came back because something was not … resolved.” She hesitated over finding the right word in English.
“I think I agree.”
“I wonder what poor Mr Flushing either saw or, perhaps, had found out?”
Patrick’s mind went back to the missing memory card. “That’s what I’m asking myself.”
Twenty minutes later, standing on the corner of a quiet street, Patrick was on the phone to Ben Cox.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Victor was chairing a Monday morning meeting that was meant to sign off the final details for the G20 meeting in Marrakech later in the week. To use one of his favourite expressions, he was feeling quite bright-eyed and bushy tailed. This was about to change.
Dennis walked in and waited for the PM to signal to him. When beckoned, he bent over and whispered in the PM’s ear.
“Really?” Victor looked at him in disbelief as Dennis, with his large forehead covered in sweat, continued his update and suggestions.
“Now?” Victor asked, to which Dennis nodded. “So who needs to leave this meeting?”
There followed a temporary exit by some people not cleared to a sufficiently high security level, who were then replaced by two other people, including Ben Cox.
“What’s happening?” Victor stared at the head of MI6, who had joined the meeting with Ben Cox.
“We have a major problem. We’ve just been updated by our French colleagues and our own people out there that one of our Paris embassy’s FCO men, whom we know as Brendan Dowell, may have shot Mr Flushing and be involved in the poisoning of the minister.”
“Shit!” The PM had reverted to another of his favourite expressions.
“I’m afraid it may be much worse,” the MI6 head continued.
“What can be worse than that?” The PM’s face had begun to sag at the cheeks.
“He may be a foreign agent” – there was silence – “working for the Moroccans.”
“You are …” But Victor never finished articulating his disbelief and exasperation.
“He didn’t return from Colmar to the Paris embassy, as expected; instead, he flew back from Basel to Heathrow on a Moroccan passport. This is all very new. We’re checking his whereabouts, obviously.”
“But why kill Johnny? Is this Brendan really working for the Moroccans? How long has he been at the FCO?” the PM asked.
“All questions I’ll have answers to as soon as possible.”
“I need to know if this will have any impact on the G20 … We need to keep the Moroccan passport bit quiet until we know more. Give me another update when this meeting is over in an hour. May we call the others back in?”
