‘Southend Pier’s closed to civilians,’ said the short man. ‘It’s now a naval base. I’ll have to get you permits to enter. They’ll be ready in an hour.’
‘In Belgium, British troops have been consolidating their positions in and around the town of Liège, which they captured yesterday. Isolated pockets of resistance remain, but all enemy supply routes have been cut. Further south, American troops are advancing on a broad front—’
Mrs Hart switched off the radio as her daughter came through the door. She was pleased to see Jane looking brighter again, after the depression of the last few weeks. Her cheeks were a healthy pink.
‘Morning, Mum.’ Jane kissed her mother, and sat down at the kitchen table.
‘Good morning, dear. Ready for a cup of tea?’
‘Not half.’
Mrs Hart poured her tea in a blue-and-white striped mug. ‘Porridge is waiting. And I’ve got a bit of dried egg left. Shall I scramble it for you?’
‘No thanks, just porridge and toast for me, please.’
‘Sleep well?’
‘Yes, thanks. Like a log.’
‘It’s good to see you with a bit of colour in your cheeks again. Let’s hope we can all get back to normal, now that dreadful inquest’s over.’
Mrs Hart put a bowl of porridge in front of Jane. Then she poured herself a mug of tea, sat down beside her, and reported the morning’s news.
‘Jerry’s on the run again. Our lads are on top in Belgium.’
‘Yes. Mr Van Damm says the war will be over next year.’
‘Please God. How are things at the ’Mill?’
‘Fine. We’re still packing them in. We’ve got a brilliant new comic, Vic Dudley. He’s going to be a star.’
‘Oh yes, I’ve heard him on the radio. A bit like Ted Ray.’
‘All the girls think he’s hilarious. He does a lot of topical stuff.’
‘I hope he makes it.’ Mrs Hart sipped her tea. ‘Jane, dear, I don’t want to press you, but when d’you think you might start clearing those bits and pieces from Mr Jefferson’s room? I’ve already got a gentleman interested in it.’
Jane smiled triumphantly. ‘It’s already done. Adam Webber helped me with the job last night.’
‘Oh, that was quick. Thank you, dear.’
‘He put all Mark’s clothes in a holdall, and he’s going to take them to the Sally Army. I’ve got a few personal things Adam felt I’m entitled to keep.’
‘Well done! And it’s “Adam” now, is it?’
‘Oh yes, he’s a real friend. He was ever so helpful.’
‘Good. He seems a nice young man. Though I don’t know why he’s not in the army.’
‘He’s doing war work. Scientific research. Anyway, I was very glad he came to help last night. When I got to the room that awful Cooper man was there.’
‘Oh yes, I gave him the key, so he could look it over. He’s thinking of changing rooms.’
‘He wasn’t just looking at the room, he was prying into drawers and cupboards. When I questioned him, he turned very nasty. Grabbed my arm and threatened me!’
Mrs Hart was shocked. ‘Did he? Right! Then he’s not moving anywhere except out. I can’t say I ever liked him. Damn cheek!’
‘I don’t think he’ll give any more trouble. Adam hit him.’
‘He hit him?’
‘And he told him he’d get worse if he ever touched me again.’
‘Well, I don’t want that sort of thing in my house! I’ll give him notice today!’
‘Thanks, Mum. The place will feel better without him hanging around.’
‘He’ll be gone within the week. Anyway, dear, I’m glad you got that room cleared. Millie and I can go in this morning and start giving it a good clean.’
‘Well, don’t overdo it. Gosh, is that the time? I’ll have to hurry.’
Jane finished her breakfast swiftly, and was gone by 10.15. Mrs Hart had a third cup of tea, and then did some accounts. Room six could wait till after elevenses.
3
IN ROBERT WESTLEY’S Hampstead house, six men sat round a highly polished table. There were none of the formalities of a committee meeting but clearly important business was being discussed, and Westley himself was presiding. He turned to the gaunt man on his left.
‘Gerald, perhaps you’d bring us up to date on numbers.’
Gerald Collis had been polishing his glasses with his tie. Now he put them on, and studied the papers in front of him. ‘We have dominance in sixty-five locations,’ he pronounced. ‘Another thirty might be taken over, given time.’
‘Of which we have very little,’ said Westley. ‘We must leave might-bes out of the equation.’
Ernest Cox, the bald man on Westley’s right, spoke impatiently. His manner was as bullish as his appearance. ‘Sixty-five’s enough. Especially as we have strong support in London and the Home Counties. Am I right?’
Collis nodded. ‘Yes, forty per cent support in the London area. And since the other sixty per cent are likely to prove ineffectual, forty should suffice.’
‘So we’re still on course for the first of the month,’ said Alfred Jupp, sitting at the end of the table.
Westley managed a dry little smile. ‘I see no reason to amend our timetable. Assuming, of course, that things in Europe proceed as we expect.’
Colllis looked up. ‘Bob, there’s a rather important point I have to raise.’
‘Go ahead,’ said Westley.
‘Senior management. We’re all agreed, aren’t we, on the importance of having one or two of our people in every key area.’
‘Of course. It’s essential. Are you going to say there’s a gap somewhere?’
‘I think we might be under strength in Joint Service Planning.’
‘Really? But Neville Straker has been with us from the start.’
‘Yes. And I’m sure he still is. But he’s rather junior, isn’t he? Also, I hear he’s developed a drink problem, which could impair his efficiency.’
Jupp chimed in. ‘I know what Gerald means. I’m told Straker was pissed at a liaison meeting. Apparently, he got quite abusive.’
Westley’s eyebrows rose slightly. ‘Oh dear. You don’t think he’d rat on us?’
‘Oh no,’ said Collis. ‘Nothing like that. But I fear he might fall short on the day. I believe we need someone else there as well. Someone senior.’
‘Have you anyone in mind?’
‘Yes. Martin Hunter. I’d have proposed him in the first place, but he was in Australia. Now he’s back, and he’s right at the centre of things.’
‘So I gather. I hear he’s on the Executive Council.’
‘Yes,’ Collis continued. ‘I was at college with Martin. I know his views. I’m sure at heart he’s one of us.’
‘I know Hunter,’ said Jupp. ‘He’s the sort who should be on our side.’
‘Don’t bank on it,’ growled Cox. ‘He’s a bit too comfortable these days.’
‘That’s superficial,’ said Collis. ‘He’s still committed to the cause.’
Westley pondered. ‘It could be dangerous to bring in someone new at this late stage.’
‘Obviously we’d have to go very carefully,’ Collis conceded. ‘I’m due to lunch with Martin this week. Would you approve of my sounding him out?’
Charles Bell stopped doodling, and looked dubious. ‘There’s not much time for taking soundings, is there? You’d have to tell him what we’re planning. And then, if he didn’t want to go along with us, we’d be in trouble.’
‘Not half so much trouble as Hunter,’ said Cox. ‘He’d be dead. Like that fool Miller.’
Westley made his decision. ‘All right, Gerald. Go ahead. Don’t tell him more than the basic idea. No details, no dates.’
‘Are you sure about this?’ asked Bell.
‘I think we’ll be safe enough,’ said Westley. ‘I’ll have a twenty-four-hour tap on his phone. Besides, if he decided to blow the whistle, the first person he’d call would probably be me
.’
‘You say you definitely heard this man Webber threaten Mr Cooper?’ The inspector’s words were firm and emphatic.
George Fowler had no doubts. ‘Yeah, he hit him, see? And he said if Cooper made any more trouble, he’d get it worse. And he meant it. He was shaking his fist in Cooper’s face. Like that.’ Fowler waved a bony fist in the air. ‘I was just outside the door, see?’
The discovery of Cooper’s body had, understandably, brought extreme reactions from Cavendish personnel. Worst affected were Mrs Hart and Millie, who had opened the door on the grisly sight at midday. There was a lot of blood. Millie had fainted. Mrs Hart, in deep shock, had retained her wits long enough to catch the girl and guide her to a chair. Then she’d shouted for help, before herself subsiding, clutching hastily fetched smelling salts.
On the other hand, George Fowler – a keen reader of detective stories – had responded with what could almost be called enthusiasm. It was he who calmed the ladies, phoned the police, made the emergency pot of tea, and insisted that no one should intrude on the murder scene until the police got there. This injunction was scarcely necessary, since all the Cavendish residents were out, going about their daily business. But when Inspector Jessett and Sergeant Monk arrived, Fowler was able to assure them that nothing had been touched. And now he had taken on the role of star witness.
‘Where would Mr Webber be now?’ continued the inspector.
‘He’ll be at work, won’t he?’ said Fowler. ‘Unless he’s done a runner.’
Mrs Hart, at last recovered, was not to be left out of the dialogue any longer. ‘Mr Webber often goes off to work very early in the morning. George, would you go to his room and check? He might be home by now.’
George was briefly reluctant to leave the heart of the action. But then he moved off quickly, to ensure he got back without missing anything.
‘Mr Webber seems to do shift work,’ explained Mrs Hart. ‘Sometimes early, sometimes late. At the research place on Southend Pier.’
‘Who might have seen him last?’ The inspector was clearly interested in Adam Webber.
‘It was probably my daughter. As George told you, he was helping her clear Mr Jefferson’s room yesterday evening. That’s the room where … where you saw Mr Cooper’s body.’
‘And that was where Mr Webber threatened him. Yes, of course. And where is your daughter to be found, Mrs Hart?’
‘She’s a dancer. She’s in the show at the Windmill Theatre. In London.’
‘Ah yes,’ said Jessett. ‘I think we all know where the Windmill Theatre is.’
Sergeant Monk looked up from his notepad. ‘Do you want me to go there and talk to her, sir?’
Mrs Hart was alarmed. ‘I hope you won’t send anyone to the theatre, Superintendent. This is Jane’s first job. Being interviewed by the police won’t make a good impression.’
Jessett was reassuring. ‘We’ll have to talk to her, of course. But it’s not urgent.’ And then, as Monk shot a glance at him, he added, ‘And it’s not superintendent, I’m afraid. Just inspector. When will your daughter be here?’
‘She gets back around midnight. And she’ll be here all day tomorrow. They do alternate days, you know. It’s very tiring work.’
‘Of course. Well, tomorrow should be soon enough. We’ve got a lot to do before we chase more witnesses. Our doctor should be here in a minute. When he’s done his examination, the body will be removed.’
It was then that George Fowler burst through the door with more sensational news. ‘Mr Webber’s not there! And his room’s been done over! It looks like it was hit by a cyclone!’
Mrs Hart gasped. ‘My God! Whatever’s going on? What d’you mean “done over”?’
‘Come and see for yourself!’ said Fowler, who’d never had so much excitement in his life. ‘Someone’s turned everything upside-down!’
‘Excuse me, Inspector. I’d better find out what’s happened.’ Mrs Hart moved swiftly off, with George Fowler in the lead, eager to show her the damage.
In the silence that followed, Sergeant Monk ventured a theory. ‘What d’you think, sir? Sounds like Cooper smashed up Webber’s room, in retaliation for being thumped. And then Webber went back and roughed him up again. This time a bit too thoroughly. He may not even know he finished him off.’
Inspector Jessett nodded. ‘It has to be a possibility. Anyway, the sooner we talk to Webber the better. Phone Southend and have them send someone to this research place on the pier. Bring him in for questioning.’
‘I’ll ring right away, sir.’
‘On second thoughts, tell them to send two men. This Webber sounds a tough character.’
Southend Pier is the longest in Britain, more than a mile of timber and ironwork, stretching out into the Thames Estuary. Here, in peacetime, thousands of holidaymakers had swarmed: most of them on day trips from London, taking in fresh salt air, to drive out the city’s smoke. Southend has always been known as ‘London’s Lung’.
Most of the entertainments were sited at the seaward end, where the pier broadens out into a large double-decker platform. Here food, drink, music, fun and more drink rewarded patrons at the end of the one-mile walk. And, for those who didn’t fancy such strenuous exercise, an electric railway was installed, running the length of the pier. It was modelled on London’s underground train service, with neat coaches entered through remote-controlled sliding doors. Before the war, the carriages had been painted a merry mixture of green and cream. But now they were a sombre grey and, instead of happy families with ice creams and paper hats, they carried naval personnel and research workers with serious faces. The restaurant at the pier-head, now much partitioned, had been turned into naval offices. A scanner turned slowly atop a radar station, where once the band had played. And, tied up alongside, where pleasure steamers used to pick up passengers, a grim-looking naval corvette rose and fell with the waves.
The passes Cregan and Clark carried appeared legitimate. The men passed through security at the entrance to the pier, and took the train to the pier-head. They knew, though, that the hastily forged War Office ID cards would not bear close scrutiny, so they kept a low profile. There was a certain amount of activity out there on that wooden island in the middle of the sea. Sailors from the corvette, naval staff and civilian workers scurried purposefully about and were glad to get back indoors out of the chilly breeze. No one took any notice of the two men who left the train and strolled out onto the open deck, apparently deep in private conversation: but actually looking shrewdly around them.
They located the Marine Research Centre, a cluster of prefabricated cabins on the west side of the pier-head, and then they leaned against the railings that lined the edge of the pier, and waited. Eventually, a small middle-aged woman, with close-cropped grey hair, bustled out on her way from one cabin to another. She was wearing a white overall and a stern expression, and she looked displeased when Cregan accosted her.
‘Excuse me,’ he said. ‘Can you tell me where Adam Webber works?’
‘Who are you?’ snapped the woman. ‘And why do you want to know?’
‘Security,’ said Cregan, briefly flaunting his membership card for a snooker club. ‘There are gaps in Mr Webber’s file we need to fill in. Just routine.’
The woman snorted. ‘Paperwork! Pah! It’s all paperwork these days!’ Having got that off her chest, she remembered that she’d been asked a question. She pointed at the cabin from which she’d emerged. ‘He’s in there. But you’ll have to wait till he has a break. We’re in the middle of an experiment.’ And with that she disappeared through the opposite door.
Cregan and Clark resumed leaning against the railings, with their backs to the sea. They watched as the woman returned to her original cabin. The weather had got a lot gloomier and, now the lights were on, the men could look through the window and observe the researchers at work. The middle-aged woman and two men were studying instruments and making notes.
It was easy to identify their quarry. One man w
as short and bespectacled. The other, tall and well built, fitted the description Cooper had given them.
It was an hour later when Adam’s boss put down her clipboard. ‘That’s all we can do for now,’ she announced. ‘Webber, you may take the first tea break, if you wish. Newman and I will begin the report.’
Adam did wish to take the first tea break: it had been a long day already, following an active night, and an early-morning shock. He removed his white overall, put on his coat, left the cabin, and headed for the canteen. Halfway there, as he crossed a deserted area of the deck, the two men came up behind him, one on each side.
‘Adam Webber?’ said Cregan.
Adam was surprised. ‘Yes, that’s me.’
‘We’re War Office investigators. We need to talk to you.’ As he spoke, Cregan’s hand was on Adam’s arm, subtly moving him into a dark corner.
‘Really?’ Adam decided to be affable. ‘I’m on my way to the canteen. You can buy me a cup of tea. But I’ve only got ten minutes.’
‘It’ll take longer than that,’ said Cregan. ‘We got a lot of questions to ask.’
‘Then I’m afraid you’ll have to wait. I’m in the middle of a job.’
‘This can’t wait. Urgent government business. You’re coming with us. Now.’
‘Coming with you? Where to?’
‘We’ve orders to take you to London. There’s a car waiting on the sea front.’
‘That’s ridiculous. I have to work here till five. Have you spoken to my manager?’
‘Yeah,’ said Cregan. ‘It’s official.’
‘Then why didn’t she tell me? You’d better show me some authorization.’
‘My mate will show you something better than that, son,’ said Cregan. His large hand now had a firm hold on Adam’s arm.
Clark undid his coat and held it open with one hand. The other hand rested on the handle of a six-inch knife in a sheath on his belt.
‘Just do as we say,’ said Cregan, ‘or he’ll shove that in your guts before you can blink. And don’t shout, or he’ll shove it in your guts and twist it. Then you’ll be into the sea and we’ll be gone. Understand?’
The Shadow of Treason Page 4