‘You’ll have to believe it. Last night Hunter rang me at home. He said he’d picked up a rumour of an attempt to overthrow the government.’
The meeting was aghast, and Ernest Cox was very angry indeed. ‘Treacherous bastard!’ he thundered. ‘I said we shouldn’t trust him!’
‘This is disastrous!’ said Jupp. ‘How much does he know?’
Westley sought to calm his colleagues. ‘It’s not disastrous. Clearly he knows very little. I take it you didn’t give him any details, Gerald?’
‘Of course not.’ Collis tried to sound reassuring. ‘I just hinted at the general idea. But I’d have sworn he was going to come in with us. I’m shocked.’
Jupp looked anxiously at Westley. ‘What exactly did he say on the phone?’
‘He said he’d picked up a whisper at the Ministry that a left-wing group were planning to seize power, and that they have a secret source of men and weapons. Obviously, he was anxious to keep your name out of it, Gerald. He just said the government should check on extremists in the Labour Party.’
‘That’s bad enough,’ said Cox. ‘He must be silenced before he says any more.’
Collis protested. ‘Just a minute! Martin’s a good man, he won’t say more. If he were going to, he’d have told Bob straight off.’
‘We can’t bank on that,’ said Bell.
‘Look, I’ll go back to him, tell him it’s off. There’s been a change of plan.’
Jupp was not impressed. ‘But then he might guess that Bob had told us about his phone call. In which case he’d know Bob was in on this.’
‘There’s no more to be said,’ Cox insisted. ‘The man has to be eliminated.’
‘That’s not necessary,’ said Collis. ‘He just has to be kept out of the way for a while. A quick posting back to Australia. Bob, you could arrange that.’
Westley was making notes on the pad in front of him, but remained silent.
Jupp stared at Westley. ‘What did you tell him when he rang?’
‘I thanked him for the tip-off, and said I’d get Intelligence on to it. I told him to keep everything to himself for now, to avoid alerting the opposition.’
‘Good,’ said Cox. ‘Well done. Now get rid of him. And quick!’
‘For God’s sake!’ cried Collis. ‘We’re not a bunch of assassins!’
‘No, we’re not,’ said Cox. ‘We keep the killing to a minimum. But we all know we can’t achieve our objective without some bloodshed. We can’t jeopardize the whole operation because one man hasn’t the courage of his convictions!’
‘Right, gentlemen,’ said Westley, with suitable firmness. ‘I think that’s enough discussion on this issue. I will arrange for appropriate action. But take note that we’ll have to stick with Neville Straker doing that particular job, as originally planned. Bill, you know the man. Tell him to cut down the drink.’
Bill Ford nodded. ‘Yes, I’ll do that. And I have a point I’d like to raise.’
‘Go ahead,’ said Westley.
‘I’m told there’s been a breach of security in Tilfleet.’
Westley frowned. ‘That information hasn’t been officially released yet. How do you come to know about it?’
‘I have contacts in the Tilfleet area. It borders on my constituency.’
Westley was stern. ‘Our cells are not supposed to speak to each other laterally. Communication has to be done through the chain of command.’
‘That’s as may be,’ Ford persisted. ‘But you can’t stop people talking. And I’m reliably informed that confidential papers are missing.’
There were murmurs of alarm around the table.
‘I’m also told,’ continued Ford, ‘that the bizarre events on Southend Pier the other day have something to do with it. I think we should know the facts.’
Several voices were raised in agreement. Westley sighed. ‘Obviously I’d have told you about this matter in due course. But I had intended to wait a day or two, till things became clearer.’
‘I think you should put us fully in the picture,’ said Jupp.
‘Very well,’ said Westley. ‘I’ll tell you all that’s known at present. There was a break-in at our Tilfleet unit the other night – almost certainly a petty thief. A few items were stolen, including cash. More seriously, a notebook disappeared, containing some confidential information. The culprit was caught and eliminated, in case he’d stumbled on anything compromising.’
‘And the notebook?’ asked Ford.
‘It’s not yet been recovered, but it will be. Our people know who’s got it.’
‘Who?’ said Cox.
‘The thief had somehow passed it on to an accomplice, who’ll have no idea of its importance. The contents are encoded, of course.’
‘And what about the men who died on the pier?’ asked Ford. ‘I hear they were East End gangsters, working for us. Were they involved in the search?’
‘I believe so. But I’m assured they can’t be linked to our organization.’
Charles Bell let out a deep breath, and expressed his concerns with gravity. ‘It saddens me,’ he said, ‘that we employ professional criminals. Surely our work should be done by genuine supporters. People who believe in our cause.’
‘On the day, it will be,’ said Westley. ‘In the meantime, there are certain jobs which are best carried out by experts.’
‘Not expert enough, it seems,’ said Cox.
‘On this occasion, apparently not,’ Westley agreed. ‘However, this is the first mishap in a year of preparation. And it will be rectified.’
‘Let’s get this straight,’ said Cox. ‘Somewhere in the Tilfleet area there’s a thief in possession of a notebook with some details of our operation, which we hope he won’t understand.’
‘Which he certainly won’t understand,’ said Westley.
‘But there’s always the chance that it could fall into the hands of someone who might understand. The police, for instance.’
‘A remote possibility. But that’s why the theft was not reported. And that’s why our people are vigorously seeking the man Webber.’
‘Webber?’ said Jupp. ‘The man whose picture’s in all our papers?’
‘That’s right. The police want him for the Tilfleet murder. Our people have to catch him before the police do. And I’m sure they will.’ And with that Westley closed the subject. ‘Now, I’d like to hear your local area reports.’
When Jane got back to the flat, she found Adam somewhat morose. Sitting indoors doing nothing all day was something he wasn’t used to. The afternoon had been pleasant enough, listening to Maggie’s theatrical stories, which were highly scandalous and very amusing. But then Maggie had to go out, and the evening had been tedious. He’d read the newspaper from start to finish, without taking in much, except the Tilfleet story. He’d tried listening to the radio, but his mind had been too troubled to concentrate. He was looking serious when Jane joined him in the lounge, bringing with her a carrier bag. From it she took two bottles of brown ale.
‘First aid!’ she announced brightly.
Adam sighed, but managed a smile. ‘Jane, you’re a genius. Thanks.’
‘How was the day?’
‘OK. Maggie was fun this afternoon. She’s got some good stories.’
‘Right. And some of them are almost true. Where is she now?’
‘She went out to meet someone called Phil. They were going to the pictures.’
‘Oh yes, she’s seeing one of the boys from the ’Mill. Fine waste of time that’ll be. Still, it shouldn’t upset her gentleman friend.’ Jane removed the caps with a bottle opener and poured the beer, tilting the glasses to minimize froth. ‘Did she give you some lunch?’
‘Yes. Baked beans on toast and a tin of rice pudding.’
‘She likes you. That’s two tins off her points ration.’
‘The trouble is, I think she knows who I am.’
‘I’m sure she does. I’ll bet she twigged the minute I brought you here. All that stuff on the n
ews about Tilfleet. And she knows I come from there. When your picture turned up in the papers, that’ll have clinched it.’
‘And she still doesn’t mind my being here?’
‘Of course not. I’m her friend. You’re my friend. So you’re her friend. That’s the way it works in the East End.’
‘Has she said anything to you about me?’
‘Only that if you’ve got a brother, she’d like to meet him. Officially, you’re on leave from the army, by the way. Don’t worry, Adam, you’re safe with Maggie. She’s all right.’
‘Thank God for that.’ Adam was silent for a moment. Then he took a long swig of brown ale, and voiced the words that had been on his mind for the last two hours. ‘Listen, Jane, I don’t think this is fair on you.’
‘Of course it is,’ said Jane. ‘You can buy the next round.’
‘I don’t mean the beer, I mean this set-up. I’m dragging you into a mess you don’t deserve. I’ve been thinking.’
‘Always a mistake,’ said Jane cheerfully. ‘Have some more of this.’ She topped up Adam’s glass.
‘Seriously,’ said Adam. ‘If you’re caught helping me you could go to jail. And what would that do to your career?’
‘Nothing,’ said Jane. ‘One good thing about the stage: going to jail doesn’t finish you. Ivor Novello’s still working, isn’t he?’ Novello, a prominent actor, writer and composer, had been jailed for contravening petrol rationing. Jane took Adam’s hand. ‘Listen, fathead. You came to me for help, remember? So help is what you’re going to get.’
‘I still reckon I should try and get to Canada. Link up with my parents.’
‘Don’t be daft. That’s the first place the authorities will be looking for you. They’re probably on to the Canadian police already, chasing your mum and dad.’
‘They won’t be looking in Canada, will they? They’ll be trying to trace Adam Webber’s parents, and they’ll find they were killed in the Blitz.’
The reminder took Jane by surprise. She sipped her beer and nodded. ‘Oh yes, that’s true, I suppose.’
‘My parents are Mr and Mrs Carr. We may not be close, but they wouldn’t turn me away. If I join them, I can go back to being Adam Carr. I could start a new life over there. When I got things going, I’d send for you.’
‘Well, I’m afraid I wouldn’t come. Like I said, I’m not spending my life on the run. Anyway, Canada’s in the war too, right? You’d be called up for the Canadian army. No, Adam, it wouldn’t work.’
‘But what’s the point of staying here? I can’t spend the rest of my life hiding in Maggie’s flat.’
‘You know my solution. Give yourself up in an orderly fashion. Let the police sort it all out.’
‘No, sorry. I’m not doing that.’
‘Then the other option is to sort it out ourselves. Find out what’s going on. I asked you to rack your brains, didn’t I? Did you get any ideas?’
‘Well … there was one thought. When those sods were roughing me up on the pier, they got excited about a booklet in my pocket. It was just pier safety regulations, but they thought it was something they were looking for. It occurred to me it might tie up with that notebook we found in Mark’s room.’
‘I remember. It was in some kind of code, wasn’t it? You were going to show it to someone.’
‘I gave it to my friend Leo, on the pier. I hoped he might decode it. If he could, we might learn something. The trouble is, I couldn’t turn up there now without getting nicked. And I don’t know his phone number, or even if he’s got one.’
‘Perhaps I could go there.’
‘You couldn’t get on the pier without a permit.’
‘All right, that’s something we’ll have to work on. But I still think there’s a black market connection. George Fowler confirmed that Cooper was up to his neck in the local racket. And it operates from a pub called The Bull.’
‘Maybe I should go there and have a look round.’
‘You can’t do. Your picture’s on every front page; they’d be on to you at once. No, I’m going to ring the police inspector and tip him off. If they look into that lot, they might unearth something. And it’ll show I’m co-operating.’
‘Yes, that’s worth a try.’
‘George said the police don’t bother too much with the goings-on at The Bull. But if they think they’re involved in murder, they might feel differently. I’ll lay it on thick about Cooper’s black market dealings. George even gave me some names I can throw in.’
‘My God, Jane, you’re certainly a fighter!’
‘We’ve both got to be. There’s no point in giving up. And talking of not giving up, why have you got all that stubble? I brought you a razor.’
‘It’s intentional. Eventually, I’m going to have to go out, aren’t I? And a spot of beard and moustache might make me less like my picture in the papers.’
‘Good idea. I’d thought about that. I found some old glasses that belonged to my dad. They’re not strong, he had quite good eyesight. Anyway, I can see through them all right. You could wear those in an emergency – that might help.’
‘Thanks, I’ll give them a go.’ Adam smiled ruefully. ‘Glasses, moustache and beard! A Child’s Guide to Disguising Yourself!’
‘Don’t knock it,’ said Jane. ‘It could work, especially at night. Besides, it won’t just be a disguise, it’ll be an improvement. Now we’re going to need to eat. I’ve brought some tins from Mum’s store cupboard.’
‘Well done, I’m starving. What have we got?’
‘Good stuff. Baked beans, followed by rice pudding.’
London was enjoying another afternoon of autumn sunshine and, in St James’s Park, strollers were making the most of it. The flamingos were a little more animated today, sauntering around and showing off. Moorhens were hurrying about, pecking at insects, and ducks were basking in the warmth.
On the flat roof of one of the tall Regency buildings facing the park, a trap door was raised, and a man in workman’s overalls emerged. He was carrying a tall canvas bag, in which stood several lengthy implements. There were two or three long-handled brushes, some metal rods, and other items less easily identifiable. Clearly, the man was about to do something useful to some of the chimney pots which abound on that old London roof. Indeed, he began by selecting a thick iron rod and inserting it into one of the chimneys, while peering earnestly down the hole. After half a minute he shook his head thoughtfully, withdrew the rod, and returned it to the canvas bag. Then he stood upright and surveyed the pleasant vista around him: the deserted roofs bathed in sunshine, and the park below gently alive with leisure activities.
Up there he was totally alone, and he wasn’t overlooked by any windows. Satisfied, the man laid the canvas bag flat and knelt down beside it, beneath the level of the parapet. He took from the bag another lengthy object, this time a rifle: a rather sophisticated one with silencer and telescopic lens. He also produced a pair of binoculars and, from his pocket, a photograph of a man. Then he settled into a dark space between two chimney stacks and began to scan the park.
On the path by the bridge, Martin Hunter was taking his usual post-prandial walk. To park regulars, who were used to seeing him, it seemed like his customary casual afternoon stroll. But, in fact, Hunter was not in the relaxed mood that these perambulations usually induced. His agonized decision of a few nights ago still obsessed him.
Had he betrayed his friends and left them open to dire consequences or had his telephone warning been discreet enough to avert a national struggle without ruining the plotters’ lives? On the other hand, had he said enough? Had his mild words been sufficient to produce the necessary action? Deep in thought, he nearly collided with a small girl on a red tricycle. Indeed, he would have done, had the mother not pulled the child back.
Hunter doffed his bowler hat and apologized, before walking on. He took just a few more paces, the last of his life. And then, suddenly, all his heart searching was ended. A bullet hit him just above the left ear, l
eaving a neat hole, from which blood had started to trickle even before he hit the ground.
5
‘TWENTY-SEVEN … PENN STREET,’ Sergeant Monk repeated, as he wrote down the words. ‘Right, I’ve got all that. Thanks. I’ll tell the inspector.’
He replaced the receiver.
‘Good news, sir. Southend police have identified the jokers who got themselves killed on the pier.’
‘About time,’ said Jessett, carefully taking another biscuit. He was a meticulous man, one of the few individuals who could extract a digestive biscuit from the packet without damaging either. ‘Names mean anything?’
‘Frank Cregan and David Stanley Clark, both with addresses in Stepney.’
‘Cregan rings a bell,’ said Jessett thoughtfully. He stirred his tea and gently dipped the biscuit. ‘See if anything’s known.’
‘Southend have done that. They got the prints off the national records. Both men had form. Each done once for affray, Cregan twice for GBH.’
‘I remember now. Cregan was a strong-arm man for the Plaistow mob, wasn’t he? Moved into our manor last year. Friend of Reggie Paynter.’
‘That’s right, sir. And that reminds me.’ Monk pulled a pad from his pocket. ‘I had a chat with Sniffer Dean the other night. Cost us a tenner, but he’s ready to give us enough evidence to nail Reggie Paynter for that post office job.’
The phone rang, and he picked up the receiver. ‘Inspector Jessett’s office … Who? … Oh, Miss Hart … hang on, I’ll see if he’s free.’ He put his hand over the mouthpiece. ‘Jane Hart, sir. Will you take it?’
‘Yes,’ said Jessett. ‘Hold on a minute.’
The bottom of his biscuit had fallen into the tea, and the inspector was trying to retrieve it with his teaspoon. Now he gave up, and knocked the whole lot back with a couple of gulps. ‘OK, put her through.’
Jane came on the line, sounding bright and eager. ‘Hello, Inspector, it’s Jane Hart. You remember? From the Cavendish?’
The inspector responded affably. ‘Yes, Miss Hart, of course. How are you?’
The Shadow of Treason Page 8