Confessor Read Free Page B

that Herbie Kruger was showering in England, Khami called the Italian’s room and gave the code word, Dividersi . Then, in faultless Italian, she told him the Ambassador required him at the Embassy as quickly as possible.
    As soon as Khami put down the telephone, Walid took the elevator to the sixth floor. The Italian was only two doors from the bank of elevators serving the street end of the guest rooms.
    When the Italian emerged quietly, Walid shot him three times in the face with a Walther P4, which has a long noise suppressor permanently attached to the muzzle. Walid wore gloves and the weapon was untraceable, so he simply dropped it next to the body, stepped back into the elevator and, within three minutes, was back in the room with Khami.
    Like the other three women, she knew that part of their work would be both seduction and sexually servicing the men of the network. She probably enjoyed this side of her duties more than any other, and this was obvious to the police who interrogated everyone in the hotel following the discovery of the Italian’s body. They crossed the pair off as even possible killers, for their eyes and demeanor shone with physical lust. Another couple in from New York to see the sights and make the most of the nights, they thought.
    Showered, shaved, for the first time in four days, and smelling slightly of a cologne he had not used in weeks, Herbie Kruger came downstairs to the aroma of bacon and eggs. He had changed into a pair of slacks that, while still a shade loose around the waist, looked as though they almost fitted him. The shirt and jacket he had also put on did seem a trifle large. He had a lot of weight to reclaim, or a new wardrobe to buy.
    Worboys had driven into Lyndhurst and bought bacon, eggs, sausages and a decent coffee. He stood at the stove, spatula in one hand, frying pan in the other. “Welcome to the best breakfast you’ve had in weeks,” he cheerily greeted Herbie, as though the kitchen belonged to him alone.
    Kruger swallowed hard, bile in his mouth, for he had eaten little of late. The alcohol, in its strange way, had sustained him while it drained away energy.
    The first few mouthfuls were difficult, but at last his stomach settled, and by the time he had done away with three eggs, two sausages and four rashers of bacon, he even began to feel a little like his old self. So much so that he started to grieve for Gus Keene.
    “So, give me my marching orders.” A touch of the old confidence.
    Now Worboys spelled it out for him, just in case he had missed it the first time. Gus’s car had gone off the road and exploded. Herb had to see the Plod, take a look at the site, hear the story, then come to London and sit with the captains and the kings. Tell them the tale in his own words. Speak to them in tongues and let them hear how he saw it.
    “Okay, I got to talk with the local Plod. Which local Plod?”
    “Salisbury. A Detective Inspector, name of Roach …”
    “Bet they call him ‘Cock.’ Provincial Plod is usually predictable, ja?”
    “Probably, Herb, but listen. You’ll have to drive to Salisbury. See the Plod, see where Gus died and then come back to the office, okay?”
    “I should go and see Carole?” Herb asked. Gus’s widow haunted his mind. He thought he knew what a widow must feel when this thing called death struck so unexpectedly.
    “The Chief went down an hour ago, Herb. Went down with one of the girls. Stay away for a while. Let’s see what we’ve got here: accident or malice aforethought.”
    “Murder most foul.” Kruger had already made up his mind.

2
    “ NOT MUCH CALL FOR you fellows these days, I suppose?” Detective Inspector Roach, a tall, thin man, all angles and sharp features, was trying to make polite conversation as they drove to the accident site between Salisbury and the old garrison town of Warminster.
    “So they say.” Herbie felt sick, troubled and noncommittal. His head still ached; what he had already seen made him