“These pictures were owned by Mr Phipps?” Stimpson asked.
“No. They were found in a car he stole. I’m led to believe he attempted to sell them back to the car owner but that person’s denied any contact being made. However, soon after contact was or wasn’t made, Phipps was shot dead. Is that a coincidence? Phipps was just a street punk, as was his brother, but I think they were both assassinated to keep them quiet.”
“Assassinated, eh?” Stimpson mused. “Do you know who killed these men, Detective?”
“I think I do but, so far the Branch isn’t investigating that. I’m pursuing the blackmail angle.”
“You’re sure you know who killed these men?”
“I think so.” I looked at Smitherman. He was noncommittal.
“Any evidence of a blackmail plot?”
“None so far. Personally I don’t believe the man concerned could organise a blackmail scam if his life depended upon it, and in this instance it did.” I grinned. No one else did.
“Thus,” I continued, “I’m wondering if there isn’t another more sinister agenda involved. So, as he was identified in the pictures by one of my sources, it seemed logical to ask Perkins what the pictures were supposed to be about. That’s why I went to talk to him.”
“You say this person acquired the pictures from a stolen car. You know whose car?” Stimpson looked directly at me.
“Yes, I do. It’s amazing what you can uncover doing routine police work, isn’t it?”
Smitherman glared at me.
“And do these pictures belong to the car owner?” Stimpson ignored my sarcasm.
“Person says not. Claims not to have had anything of any value taken from the car at all. The same person admits to losing a bag but says it just had lots of stuff about to be junked, yet the victim maintains he took something that would be of considerable value to someone. The pictures of Perkins in uniform were amongst the things this guy took from the car.”
“Who was it who had the car stolen?”
“Do I have to answer that?” I looked at Smitherman. “This is a Branch case.”
Stimpson looked at me with a kind of “who do you think you are?” smirk.
“So who do you believe?” Smitherman quickly interjected.
“Louis Phipps had nothing to gain by bullshitting. He’s not politically aware or motivated. He just saw a chance to make some money. I believe his story. I believe the person concerned is lying about what was lost when their car was stolen.”
“Why do you think this person’s lying, Detective?” Stimpson settled back into his chair.
“I think something’s being covered up. That’s what I’m looking into. I’ve spoken to two people who say Phipps contacted this person. One was even in the room when the call was made and claims he heard what was said. The pictures I showed Perkins were from the bag that Phipps stole from the car, yet this person denies losing anything. There has to be something there, otherwise why does Perkins go crying to you ’cause I’ve spoken to him about the pictures?”
I looked at Stimpson. He radiated the kind of smug arrogance that comes from working behind the scenes when your views and sources are secure from any kind of public scrutiny. I didn’t like him and I didn’t like his shiny shoes or his creased trousers.
“That’s not quite what this is about, Detective. Christian Perkins maintains close links with the intelligence community in this country and has done for quite some while.”
“What, he’s ex-MI5?”
“That need not concern you. Suffice it to say he has been useful to us in the past. We just wanted to know why a Special Branch detective went to his home and showed him pictures taken whilst he was still in uniform and implied he was part of some conspiracy to overthrow the British Government.” He said this almost in a tone of disbelief.
“The wrong uniform, as well. He was never a major, yet in the picture he is. Anyway, that’s what my source told me the people in the picture were engaged in.”
“And who spun you this tale of intrigue, might I ask?”
I smiled at him and said nothing.
“Do you believe that’s what the pictures are showing?”
“I’m just investigating at present. What I do know is that Christian Perkins never rose beyond being a sergeant but, in one of the pictures I’ve obtained, he was wearing the pips of a ranking officer on his shoulder.” I paused. Stimpson continued staring at me. “In another picture a man’s being shot. Perkins says the picture was high jinks but the man in the picture actually did die from gunshot wounds around that time.”
Stimpson nodded sagely but said nothing.
“I came across these pictures whilst looking into why Louis Phipps was shot dead because he was supposed to be blackmailing someone. What I do believe is that Phipps wasn’t blackmailing anyone. That’s beyond his imagination. I believe he was silenced because of what these pictures mean to somebody. That’s what makes it a Special Branch matter. Especially considering where the pictures were obtained from.”
Stimpson tapped his fingers on his knees. Impatient or nervous? Or bored?
“In sum, Detective, do you believe you’re anywhere near to cracking the blackmail angle you say you’re investigating?”
“Working on it, making progress. Even if you’re stumbling, at least you’re going forwards. That’s what my old dad says.”
He looked at me as if he’d not understood what I’d just said. Perhaps he hadn’t.
Stimpson stood up and picked up his bag.
“Well, gentlemen, mustn’t detain you any longer. I just popped by to put DCI Smitherman in the picture.” He looked at me. “I’m sure he’ll decide what it is you should be told at the right time.”
He left the room after extending his limp hand again for me to shake.
“What did M want?” I nodded towards the door.
Smitherman sat still for a moment. He was thinking. Stimpson had clearly told him something important and the issue now was what I was to be told. If anything.
“You don’t like Colonel Stimpson, do you?” Smitherman stated.
“Am I that transparent?” I grinned.
“Well, what he had to say was quite revealing. I’m not able to go into everything he said but his presence should have told you this case has security implications.”
“Huh?” I was bemused.
“As I said, I can’t tell you much more just at this moment. Let’s just say that MI5 are aware of your suspicions about Mr Gant and why he may have been involved.”
“What, they know he killed the Phippses? Why hasn’t he been brought in?” I asked.
“It may not be that easy. I don’t know the whole story but it does seem that, for the moment, Gant is in the clear.”
I then spent the next five minutes explaining to Smitherman everything I’d been doing in the past few days – who I’d seen and what I’d heard, though again omitting any reference to picking Richard Clements’ brain about Debbie Frost. I told him I’d got the information about the plot to overthrow the Government from a very reliable source and it was this person who’d identified Perkins for me and also told me about the central role he’d played in the plot.
“Yesterday,” I continued, “the person who told me about what Phipps had found and his contact with Debbie Frost was found dead in his flat. Beaten to death. He caught someone rifling the flat and was attacked and died as a result. Whoever did it was looking for the package of stuff Phipps lifted from Debbie Frost’s car. He didn’t find it ’cause I had it. He’d given it to me earlier yesterday. The suspect is supposed to be a big guy, and I think I know who that might be. I saw a CCTV clip last night and this same person was with Gant. Also, the night before, I saw this same guy get out of a taxi with Debbie Frost and go into her flat, so she clearly knows a lot of people in this scenario.”
“You’re sure it was him?”
“Oh yeah. I didn’t recognise him straightaway but he left the flat soon after and I saw him then. It was de
finitely him, no question. No mistaking a big bastard his size.”
“So, why would she say she lost nothing?”
“That’s what I’m going to go and ask her when I leave here.”
Smitherman agreed that was a logical move.
Before that, though, I had to make a phone call.
George Selwood was still in his flat. He seldom went out, being a fully paid-up misanthrope, hating almost everything and everyone. If killing was legalised for people you disliked, numbers in his part of Elephant and Castle would diminish very rapidly. He encapsulated the fascist philosophy in its entirety, especially the deep rooted pessimism about humanity that all extreme right wingers I’ve ever encountered seem to possess.
He remembered me from our conversation yesterday. I began by asking him if what he’d told me about the involvement of Christian Perkins was really true.
“Oh yes, there’s no doubt. Mr Perkins was most definitely involved in what we were being trained for. I can guarantee you that.”
Listening to him on the phone, if you didn’t know who it was on the other end, you’d be forgiven for thinking you were conversing with someone in the very highest socio-economic class, rather than a self-confessed fascist who hated the human race. Or at least a very considerable percentage of it.
“I’ve spoken to Perkins. He’s just shrugged it all off. Didn’t seem to attach any importance to it at all. But, what I want to know is, the picture of the bloke blindfolded and about to be shot by a firing squad. Perkins maintains it was just a laugh, but you mentioned the name Eric Biggins. I’ve checked records and a soldier with that name died around the same time from gunshot wounds received on a training exercise. It’s listed on army records as an accidental death.”
“It was a training exercise but, trust me, there was nothing accidental about it. Perkins it was who gave the order to have the man bound and blindfolded and then shot.”
“You’re not bullshitting me, are you, George? Because if I find out you’re lying, I’ll put your name, address and your political history and beliefs on the websites of every left wing group I can find.”
I tried to sound threatening but it didn’t quite come off.
“I have no reason to lie to you, Officer. I don’t have too much longer in this wretched world so I’ve nothing to lose at all. But I swear to you, on the word of Adolf Hitler, that what I’ve told you is the truth.” He said this slowly and methodically, as though reading from a script.
This was hardly a ringing endorsement but I took his word to be the truth.
“There’s something else as well. The four men in the firing squad. Are there any still alive and, if so, do you know where they can be contacted?”
“I’m not sure. The only one I knew was someone called Rothery, but I don’t know if he’s still alive or where he lives.”
“I’ll check it out. Thanks for that. I appreciate the help.”
“There really was a plot to bring down the Labour Government in the seventies, you know? You’ve seen the pictures. I’ve pointed out Perkins’ role in it. He wrote the manifesto for it.”
“Really? Perkins put that stuff together?”
“He did,” Selwood stated firmly.
“Hmm, interesting. Thanks for the heads up.”
“He was always a pompous ass, was Perkins, and I doubt he’s any better as an MP, especially a Conservative MP.” He practically spat the word out.
“I thought you’d be on their side,” I said, almost light-heartedly.
“Oh, good God, no. They’re just as responsible for the mongrelisation of this once great country as the Socialists who sit opposite them. All the immigration they’ve encouraged has done is to let the Third World move into this country and turn what was a once proud Christian nation into a black Muslim state. Are you aware mosques now outnumber Christian churches in this area? If we’d carried our plan through, this country wouldn’t be what it is today, that I can assure you of.”
I thanked him for his trouble and hung up.
I was back on army records, checking anyone with the surname of Rothery. Only one was listed. A man named Jonathan Rothery had joined the army in 1969 and left in 1983. He was still alive and listed as residing in Watford. If the records were correct, he’d be in his early sixties today.
There was a number listed for his address. I phoned and it was answered by a woman who said she was Rothery’s daughter, Claire, and that her father lived with her as he was permanently in a wheelchair as a result of a car crash. Her mother had died some years ago and he lived with his daughter as he needed constant care and attention. Jonathan Rothery wasn’t in as he was attending physiotherapy at the local hospital but would be home later. I thanked her and hung up. I arranged to go to visit him.
It was long past time for something to eat. I grabbed a sandwich from the café in St James’s Park and sat on a bench to eat and take in the spring sunshine.
What had begun as two men taking refuge in the bar owned by a friend so as to hide from a man shooting at them was now developing into something quite unexpected. There seemed to be several different strands and I felt I knew nothing despite all the questions asked.
Since the Phipps had died, Simeon Adaka had met an unpleasant end because Louis Phipps had given him something to keep safe for him, and he’d maintained he’d obtained it from Debbie Frost’s car. She was central to this case but I didn’t know how or why. Time to add a touch of indigestion to her afternoon tea.
Before I left the office I phoned Mickey at his bar.
“You like politics, don’t you? Fancy going to a political meeting later today?”
I told him what I’d like him to do.
I was back at Millbank, at the headquarters of the Conservative Party. I asked to speak to Debbie Frost and I was given a visitor’s badge and escorted to her office. She was on her mobile when I entered, pacing around by the window. She looked at me as though I were a bad smell wafting into the room. She said she’d call back to whoever she was talking to.
“Now what?” She sounded exasperated. “I’m beginning to think you’re stalking me.”
“You should be so lucky.” I grinned and sat down without being asked to do so.
“I’m guessing you want something else.” She sat back in her Parker Knoll recliner. There was a jacket hanging on the back to remind everyone whose chair it was. She looked at the envelope I was holding quizzically, as though it contained exam results she was anxious to see.
“Actually no, I want the same thing as before, the right answers to my questions. I think you’re lying to me, Ms Frost.” I leaned against her desk.
She said nothing. She continued to stare at me. Richard Clements had said she was a looker and she was certainly that. I couldn’t help my eyes lowering to take in a fleeting glimpse of the swell of her body beneath her blouse. I loved her hair and I already knew she had great legs. In another reality I could really fancy her. But not this time around.
The silence lasted for a few more seconds.
“Do I need a lawyer? Why are you on my case?” She was attempting to sound pleasant as she spoke but her distaste at my presence was apparent.
“Now, that sounds like a persecution complex to me. Why would you need a lawyer? I’m just asking questions in the course of an investigation where, since last Monday night, three men have been killed.”
“Three? You told me two yesterday.”
“That was before yesterday afternoon when a man known to the other two guys was brutally beaten, and he died from his injuries. The person who did this was looking for whatever it was that got stolen from your car. So, that makes three fatalities. All three knew each other, all three in on what was taken and knowing what it was, yet you still maintain nothing was stolen from you that was worth anything.”
She looked sullen, like a teenage girl told her skirt was too short and she had to change before being allowed out the door for her date.
“I do. What else can I say?” she shr
ugged.
“Why were you parked at Waterloo station, Debbie? You don’t mind my being informal, do you? Was this for your job?”
“What I do takes me all across London, Detective. It’s quite likely I was on party business. It was nearly four months back. I can’t remember exactly. Besides, what’s that got to do with anything?”
“As I believe I mentioned when we spoke recently, your car was targeted. It was stolen to order and I believe it’s because somebody wanted what you were carrying. Therefore, somebody had to know you were going to be in the place where you were parked. That make sense?”
“I suppose so.”
“Okay. So somebody had to arrange for your vehicle to be stolen. That would suggest somebody who’s familiar with your movements on the day in question. Someone who would know where you were to be at the time your car was stolen. Yeah?”
“Okay.” She shrugged.
“I think it’s somebody who works in the same place as you, or is at least familiar with your movements. Was this a routine thing where you were? I mean, do you do it at the same time every week, every month, that kind of thing?”
“There are times when that occurs but this wasn’t one of them.”
“So, what does that suggest to you?”
“Doesn’t suggest anything. All it suggests is my car was stolen but it was recovered. I’m afraid I don’t buy into this theory you seem to have about my car and what I’m supposed to have lost.”
I waited for a few moments. I looked around. Her office was all mod cons. Everything looked new and the room was well appointed, even if the view was only rooftops behind Millbank. The tops of buildings in Smith Square could be seen. There was a portrait of Margaret Thatcher on the wall behind her desk.
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