Java Spider by Geoffrey Archer Read Free Book Online Page A

‘chuff board’, so called because when a policeman got a day off he was ‘chuffed’. This being a Sunday, the list of those off duty should have been long, but following the City bomb, the surveillance net had been widened. Manpower was stretched.
    Four men were in the Ops Room when Randall walked in. Two looked up and nodded. Chris, the duty sergeant, studied his watch pointedly. Just thirty-five minutes since he’d rung.
    ‘What kept you?’ he needled.
    ‘Fuck off.’ Randall wasn’t in the mood.
    ‘Look, sorry to drag you in, mate,’ Chris said, softening. ‘I did try to tell him. He’s waiting for you.’ He pointed to the SIO’s office at the far end, separated by a glass partition.
    The senior investigating officer, Detective Chief Inspector Terry Mostyn, was an old hand from the Irish Squad with a face like a large, lumpy potato and the look of a man who’d just emerged from under a car. He saw Nick coming and opened the door.
    ‘Sorry, ’bout this, old son,’ he mumbled. Mostyn was from Birmingham and sounded it. ‘I know today was sacred. Your kid, isn’t it?’
    ‘Yes sir. My daughter Sandra. Only see her once a month.’
    ‘Sorry. Couldn’t be helped. We’re down to the sodding bone.’
    ‘So, what’s up, sir?’
    ‘I’m taking you off the Revenue Men. For the time being, anyway.’
    Nick gulped. Didn’t make sense. He knew as much about the case as anybody.
    ‘I’ve no alternative, son. I need someone experienced. There’s a government minister gone missing.’ Mostyn handed him a single sheet of typed paper.
    Randall read the name Stephen Bowen.
    ‘Number two at the Foreign Office,’ Mostyn droned on. ‘Should’ve been in Warwickshire at the weekend but never turned up. Spent last week in Indonesia – that arms deal?’
    Randall nodded, scanning the biog while listening. ‘I know the one you mean.’ The protesters he’d photographed at Downing Street.
    ‘At the end of his official visit, he took a few days leave, saying he’d travel back Friday. No one’s sure if he did. Could be woman trouble. Could be money. The Right Honourable Gentleman’s second home is a casino apparently.’
    ‘Sounds a natural for high office …’ Randall quipped.
    ‘The Foreign Office lost track of him, so Downing Street’s got the jitters. We’re being asked to start the ball rolling in case he’s still missing tomorrow morning, but to keep it discreet. The media’s been sniffing around apparently; the PM’s spin doctor has told them it’s just domestic.’
    ‘Want me to go to his flat?’
    ‘Yes. In case it’s something simple like he got back from the far east and collapsed with food poisoning. I’ve spoken to his wife. She’s agreed we can break in if we have to but she thinks there’s a neighbour with a key. Just a quick look, right? No turning the place over. Not yet.’
    Wesley Street, Westminster was less than five minutes away. A light drizzle fell as Randall crossed the road from where he’d parked.
    Mansion flats. Nineteenth-century. Four storeys, with iron grilles on the windows. Most of the apartments would be homes for MPs, their occupants increasingly concerned the Revenue Men might turn their attention to
them
.
    He studied the bell-pushes. Eight flats with a common entrance. He pressed the one marked Bowen in case the man was up there watching ‘Rugby Special’.
    No response. He glanced along the street. Two men in a car watching him, newspaper snappers on a stake-out. The tabloids had another victim in their sights.
    He was about to check if there was a bell for a caretaker when he heard the lock click. As the door swung open, a small terrier sprang at him, yapping.
    Its owner was female, late seventies and expensively preserved. She tugged on the leash. ‘I’m
so
sorry.’
    ‘Quite all right,’ Nick smiled reassuringly.
    ‘Were you coming in?’ She stood to one side, then looked at him with suspicion. ‘Who did you want?’
    ‘Mr Bowen.’
    ‘Oh