The Invisible Assassin(49)

It seemed like an eternity before Johnson pulled the bike to a halt and switched off the engine.

‘Here,’ she said. ‘Bring the helmet.’

Jake undid his helmet and followed Johnson as she headed towards a cybercafé. She was obviously well-known there, because the guy at the desk just waved at her in a friendly manner and she went to an empty screen and sat down. Jake pulled up a spare chair and sat down beside her.

‘Why here?’ he demanded. ‘We could have used any computer. They’ve got one at the apartment.’

‘This one isn’t bugged,’ she told him.

Jake shivered. He still felt frozen from the bike ride.

‘What’s going on?’ he asked.

‘I’m going to show you a little about Pierce Randall,’ she said. ‘Your lawyers.’

Her fingers had stopped dancing over the keyboard, and now a web page appeared with the logo that Jake had seen when he’d stepped out of the lift and met Alex Munro. Pierce Randall’s website.

‘I could have seen all this at the firm itself,’ Jake complained.

‘True,’ said Johnson. ‘But I want you to see both sides.’

She moved her chair so Jake could get nearer and have a clearer view of the screen.

‘Wow!’ he said as he scrolled down their client list. He could see why the police had been keen to cooperate with Sue Clark and let him go. Well, all right, not exactly ‘keen’, but Inspector Edgar hadn’t been prepared to stand up to her. It was as Clark had said to him: he may not have heard of Pierce Randall, but plenty of others had. And very influential people at that.

‘No wonder the police backed off,’ he murmured. ‘That’s a pretty impressive list of clients. Multinational companies and banks, some very, very important people, and some pretty powerful governments. This is a company with major clout.’

‘In more ways than one,’ said Johnson. She ran her fingers over the keyboard again, and the website vanished, to be replaced by a message board headed ‘PR Watch’. This contained different postings, but all mentioning Pierce Randall as being in some way connected to very different people and organisations than those Pierce Randall proudly trumpeted on their website. Jake recognised some of the names: vicious tyrannical dictators who ruled countries in Africa and the Far East. Reputed gangsters and arms dealers. Other familiar names popped up: corrupt politicians, suspected terrorists, billionaires with dubious reputations; the Mafia, both Sicilian and Russian.

‘An interesting client list, don’t you think?’ asked Johnson.

Jake shook his head as he gestured at the screen.

‘It’s all rumour and innuendo,’ he said. ‘As a journalist you must know none of this carries any real weight. These postings are just by people with axes to grind against the firm, making accusations. Some of them pretty wild, as well.’

‘Some of them are true,’ said Johnson seriously.

‘OK.’ Jake shrugged. ‘So maybe they do also represent some dodgy people. That’s what being a lawyer is all about. Not every client is innocent.’

Johnson pointed at the screen.

‘Some of those are more than just “not innocent”,’ she pointed out. ‘They’re killers and terrorists and gangsters . . .’

‘Alleged,’ countered Jake. ‘If they really were as guilty as everyone here says, why aren’t they in jail?’

Johnson gave a wry smile.

‘Because the gangsters and dictators make up the laws in their own countries,’ she said. ‘And the others, well, they have a firm of very good lawyers representing them.’

Jake hesitated, then nodded. He remembered how Clark had got him out of that terrifying interview room.

‘OK,’ he admitted. ‘Maybe they do represent some dodgy people. But so what? And how does this fit in with what happened at Hadley Park, and Lauren? And where do you fit in? And don’t tell me it’s because you’re a journalist on a story.’

‘I’ll tell you,’ she said. ‘Come on.’

She got up and headed for the door, and Jake felt a chill of fear going through him.

‘We’re going on the bike again?’ he asked apprehensively.

‘No,’ said Johnson. ‘There’s a place next door we can talk without being overheard, even if we’re bugged.’



The place next door was a bar, but not just an ordinary bar. It was a bikers’ bar. Everybody in it, with the exception of Jake, seemed to be dressed in motorbike leathers; mostly black, but some multicoloured, and one even in pink. The music was loud: a mixture of heavy metal and garage.

It was Johnson who pushed her way to the bar, squeezing between the crush of bikers, and returned with two glasses of a clear liquid with ice cubes and lemon floating in it.