unlikely. The software that
we use for telephone scrambling is the most sophisticated
on the market and with a chap like Vince sitting there
well, need I say more?”
The phone rang; it was Vince, asking me for the
pass word. “Tomcat, what have you got for me?” I asked.
“OK, you really do have a couple of tails, don’t
you? The black one I’ve traced back to a security company
in Hertfordshire. It’s a regular, used on the whole by the
Government, my guess is that I’ll find that this one has
cropped up a few times before. I’ll have to ferret around
a little deeper tomorrow morning though.”
I said quickly. “Try this Minister in particular,
along with any dubious acquaintances he may have.” I
gave Vince the name and left it at that.
“What about the Porsche, why has that one
appeared?”
“Well, I’ve drawn a blank at present with that one,
but I reckon it’s connected to the assignment that you’re
about to start. I’ll have to come back to you when I know
more, but why do you think the Mondeo is connected to
this job?”
“Call it a gut feeling. Anyway, thanks for checking
these out for me, especially on a Sunday; I really appreciate
it Vince.” I hung up.
“What did he say?” Tats asked.
“He confirmed what I thought. That maybe, just
maybe, the reason those cars are following me is because
of the Gin Fizz. Any movement outside while I’ve been
on the phone?”
“No, nothing, but hang on, the guy in the black
Mondeo is walking up to the two in the Porsche and is
now talking to them.”
I walked over to the window. Peering through my
binoculars, I could see that the two men in the Porsche
were both speaking on their phones. The chap from
the black Ford was standing with his hands deep in the
pockets of his shabby check jacket. The men got out of
the car and all three were talking on the pavement. Soon
the two got back into the Porsche and drove away, but
the black Ford remained outside.
Tats and I spent the rest of Sunday afternoon
waiting for Vince to call back.
In between, she washed her hair and I read the
Sunday Times from front to back. The TV was on, but I
wasn’t watching; some sort of fly on the wall programme
was coming to an end when my mobile phone rang.
“The Porsche belongs to an acquaintance of our
Minister, Oliver Hawkworth.” I said into the phone
before he could speak.
“Uncanny,” said Vince. “How did you know?”
“Well I’ve been sitting here pondering;” I said.
“I should have thought of it before. Friend Hawkworth
has obviously got into bed with whoever really owns the
contents of his safe on board the ‘Gin Fizz’. Whoever that
is, owns the blue Porsche, I’d guess.”
Vince said. “Good thinking chap. My source has
come back with a confirmed owner for that blue Porsche.
It belongs to a Robert Flackyard from Dorset.”
“What else have you managed to find out about
him, anything or nothing?”
“What, at such short notice, give me a chance.”
Vince said congenially.
“But according to the tabloid info that I’ve been
able to locate on the Internet, Flackyard likes to live life
right on the edge, shall we say. At fifty-eight years of
age, he owns a string of night clubs on the South Coast,
as well as being a successful property developer. The
only other thing that I can tell you from these articles
is that there has been some speculation about how he
conducts his business dealings. But, one thing’s for sure,
he most definitely enjoys a playboy lifestyle around the
globe. There is also a definite link between him and our
ministerial friend. They have been photographed together
at various functions on more than one occasion, but I’ll
have to speak to someone tomorrow morning and request
a detailed file on him. I’ll mark it urgent shall I?”
“Urgent is definitely good, Vince. We have to know
who we are really dealing with and why the interest in
me. See what official information you can