Read Online A Conflict of Interests by Clive Egleton - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Clive Egleton
Ads: Link
casual but expensive-looking gray suit. None of these witnesses, however, could agree on his physical characteristics, which had made life difficult for the officer who'd attempted to make up a composite Identikit likeness. Smiling wryly, Coghill put the phone down and returned to the kitchenette.
"Well?" Rowntree stopped chewing and gazed at him expectantly. "Am I right?"
"Only partially," Coghill told him. "We've got one round-faced man, but his hair is mousy, graying or fairly blond. He could also be either five-seven or five-eleven and his weight seems to fluctuate between ten and twelve stone."
"Shit." Rowntree scowled. "Wouldn't you just know it."
"One of the witnesses thought he had a Canadian accent."
"Big deal."
"It's a start."
"Well, don't get too excited; the odds are it won't do you any good." Rowntree removed the chewing gum from his mouth and dropped it into the wastebasket. "Who's your guvnor?" he asked abruptly.
"Bert Kingman." Coghill thought he knew what the superintendent was getting at and added, "He's holidaying in Majorca, but he'll be back soon enough."
"Bert will be wasting his time if he hops a plane. Take a tip from me and warn him off."
"Why?"
"Because your area commander is going to talk to my area commander and when they've finished jawing, they'll decide to hand both murders over to the Regional Crime Squad. Naturally, those sods will pick our brains and we'll end up doing most of the legwork, but there'll be no glory in it for you and me."
It was a long speech for the Yorkshireman. Coghill suspected it was also a highly accurate prognosis.
The loose minute Caroline Brooke had written first thing that morning had acquired a pristine folder, a file number and one typewritten sheet of foolscap by the time it was returned to her desk toward midafternoon. Patterson's name, initials and known aliases appeared on the front cover in block capitals, and her superior had evidently thought the contents sufficiently hypersensitive for the file to be classified top secret.
The former CIA man, she learned, was forty-six years old. Born in Moorefield, West Virginia, on March 21, 1936, and the youngest of seven children, Patterson had left high school without any educational qualifications at the age of sixteen to work in a coal mine. One year later, he'd enlisted in the United States Army, who'd sent him first to Fort Benning, Georgia, then to Stuttgart in West Germany. Other tours overseas had followed on his way up the promotion ladder from private first class to master sergeant — Japan, Okinawa and an eighteen-month spell in Korea with the 24th Infantry Division.
Until 1964, Patterson had never heard a shot fired in anger, but from then on, it had been a vastly different story. To join the Green Berets, he'd reverted to sergeant, but had got his former rank back six months after becoming an adviser to the 16th ARVN Regiment operating in the Thua Thien province of South Vietnam. The Mekong Delta, the Ho Chi Minh trail, Laos, Cambodia, wherever the action was, Patterson had been there, winning himself a chestful of medals and a battlefield commission in the process. Along the way, a talent spotter for the CIA had decided he was the sort of operative their counterinsurgency department needed. A lack of formal education had been more than offset by experience gained in the field and the fact that he had a natural ear for languages and was fluent in German and French, the latter tongue acquired from a part-Vietnamese mistress he kept in Saigon. Mustered out of the army with an honorable discharge in June 1969, Patterson had exchanged his jungle fatigues for a gray flannel suit and a desk at Langley.
The brief was noticeably reticent about his career with the CIA, but it appeared that Patterson had had some sort of roving commission in the Middle East. Eighteen months after he'd left the agency, the FBI had issued a warrant for his arrest in connection with drug trafficking and the suspected
"Well?" Rowntree stopped chewing and gazed at him expectantly. "Am I right?"
"Only partially," Coghill told him. "We've got one round-faced man, but his hair is mousy, graying or fairly blond. He could also be either five-seven or five-eleven and his weight seems to fluctuate between ten and twelve stone."
"Shit." Rowntree scowled. "Wouldn't you just know it."
"One of the witnesses thought he had a Canadian accent."
"Big deal."
"It's a start."
"Well, don't get too excited; the odds are it won't do you any good." Rowntree removed the chewing gum from his mouth and dropped it into the wastebasket. "Who's your guvnor?" he asked abruptly.
"Bert Kingman." Coghill thought he knew what the superintendent was getting at and added, "He's holidaying in Majorca, but he'll be back soon enough."
"Bert will be wasting his time if he hops a plane. Take a tip from me and warn him off."
"Why?"
"Because your area commander is going to talk to my area commander and when they've finished jawing, they'll decide to hand both murders over to the Regional Crime Squad. Naturally, those sods will pick our brains and we'll end up doing most of the legwork, but there'll be no glory in it for you and me."
It was a long speech for the Yorkshireman. Coghill suspected it was also a highly accurate prognosis.
The loose minute Caroline Brooke had written first thing that morning had acquired a pristine folder, a file number and one typewritten sheet of foolscap by the time it was returned to her desk toward midafternoon. Patterson's name, initials and known aliases appeared on the front cover in block capitals, and her superior had evidently thought the contents sufficiently hypersensitive for the file to be classified top secret.
The former CIA man, she learned, was forty-six years old. Born in Moorefield, West Virginia, on March 21, 1936, and the youngest of seven children, Patterson had left high school without any educational qualifications at the age of sixteen to work in a coal mine. One year later, he'd enlisted in the United States Army, who'd sent him first to Fort Benning, Georgia, then to Stuttgart in West Germany. Other tours overseas had followed on his way up the promotion ladder from private first class to master sergeant — Japan, Okinawa and an eighteen-month spell in Korea with the 24th Infantry Division.
Until 1964, Patterson had never heard a shot fired in anger, but from then on, it had been a vastly different story. To join the Green Berets, he'd reverted to sergeant, but had got his former rank back six months after becoming an adviser to the 16th ARVN Regiment operating in the Thua Thien province of South Vietnam. The Mekong Delta, the Ho Chi Minh trail, Laos, Cambodia, wherever the action was, Patterson had been there, winning himself a chestful of medals and a battlefield commission in the process. Along the way, a talent spotter for the CIA had decided he was the sort of operative their counterinsurgency department needed. A lack of formal education had been more than offset by experience gained in the field and the fact that he had a natural ear for languages and was fluent in German and French, the latter tongue acquired from a part-Vietnamese mistress he kept in Saigon. Mustered out of the army with an honorable discharge in June 1969, Patterson had exchanged his jungle fatigues for a gray flannel suit and a desk at Langley.
The brief was noticeably reticent about his career with the CIA, but it appeared that Patterson had had some sort of roving commission in the Middle East. Eighteen months after he'd left the agency, the FBI had issued a warrant for his arrest in connection with drug trafficking and the suspected
Similar Books
