Old Flames (Frederick Troy 2)

by Lawton, John

  It was an hour’s drive to Scotland Yard down the Great North Road. Troy was due three more days holiday, but the drive into London had the added draw that it would free him from the attentions of his sisters, who had talked him into buying the goggle-box and would doubtless waste a whole evening talking him through their favourite programmes. If this guessing game were anything to go by, the damn contraption could be stuck in the servants’ hall the minute the sisters left and he need never be bothered with it again. By the time they next suffered a misdirected bout of maternal concern for him, some other fad would have taken its place.

  §2

  Troy’s Bullnose Morris had expired in 1952 at the age of seventeen. He did not want another. He had liked the car. He had even appreciated the mockery it had elicited in its tattier latter years, but he did not want another. For the first time since the death of his father in 1943 he had blown a portion of his inheritance on an incontrovertible indulgence—a five-litre, six-cylinder Bentley Continental Saloon with Mulliner’s sports bodywork. Long, stylish and fiercely raked at the blunt end, it was a car in a thousand and, as all who knew him had pointed out, utterly un-Troy. The pleasure it gave him to deny familiarity beggared description.

  He had the door open and was flinging his old leather briefcase onto the passenger seat when the other sister appeared. Sasha was drifting aimlessly in the spring twilight, clutching a handful of bluebells, humming tunelessly to herself as she approached the drive from the pig pens Troy had built at the bottom of the kitchen garden. She seemed to be in a very different mood from her twin. They read each other as though by telepathy but there appeared to be no rule in twindom that said they should think or feel alike at any one moment. When they did, of course, it was hell for those around them—two bodies with but a single personality, thought and purpose. Sasha was in meditative whimsy, Troy thought.

  ‘Off so soon?’ she said.

  ‘The Yard,’ muttered Troy, hoping this would suffice to kill the conversation.

  ‘That Old Spot’s turned out to be beauty. Are you going to have her put to the tup this month?’

  ‘I think you only call them tups if they’re sheep.’

  Sasha thought about this as though it were some great revelation, startling to contemplate and worth hours of harmless fun. Troy sat in the driver’s seat and reached for the door, but she put her hand across the top of the frame and emerged from reverie.

  ‘Oh well . . . are you going to get her fucked by a daddy pig then?’

  ‘Goodnight, Sasha.’

  She let go of the door.

  ‘Goodnight, Freddie.’

  Troy slipped the car into first and let it purr slowly down the drive, the crunch of gravel under-wheel louder than the engine. In his rearview mirror he could just make out Sasha sitting on the steps of the house gazing idly at the moon. He rounded the row of beech trees at the head of the drive and could see her no more. The way ahead was clear, he eased out of the gates and set the Bentley racing south towards the London road.

  §3

  Onions was waiting in Troy’s office, perched on the edge of the desk, back to the door, staring out at the moonlit Thames. He was often to be found this way. As Superintendent in charge of the Murder Squad he had developed the habit of office-hopping. Never, in Troy’s recollection, had Onions once summoned him to his own office. He would drop in, unexpected, uninvited and on occasion unwelcome, at any time of the day and expect to be briefed, or else Troy would arrive to find him hunched over the gas fire pulling on a Woodbine, or as now, watching the river flow. Almost idly, it seemed—but it never was. Onions learned every secret in his squad by rooting around with his nose to the ground. He was adept at reading documents upside down as he talked to you across the desk, and Troy had long ago learnt to leave nothing much lying around unless he felt happy with Onions reading it. Becoming Assistant Commissioner had not changed his habits. Meetings were always held in someone else’s office, information was still gleaned in this haphazard fashion. Troy returned the compliment. On days when he knew Onions was out he would go through his desk, as surely as Onions did his. The result: they had no secrets, except for the secret that they had no secrets.

  Onions was bristling. A glimmer of something unknown played about him.

  ‘Good,’ he said simply as Troy walked in. ‘Good, good.’

  Troy took the mood for excitement. Something as yet unspoken was giving him a great sense of anticipation, quite possibly great pleasure. He slipped off the desk. Troy heard the thick, black beetle-crusher boots clump on the floorboards. Onions slid his palms across the stubble that passed for a haircut, as though neatening that which did not exist to be neatened in the first place, and smiled. Troy slung his briefcase onto a chair and stuck his hands in his coat pockets, the merest hint of petulance and defiance in his posture.

  ‘Are you going to tell me what this is about, Stan? Or do I have to guess?’

  ‘Ted Wintrincham’s waiting for us in his office right now. Why don’t you give it half a mo’ and let him tell you.’

  Troy had no idea what to make of this.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘’Cos I think it might amuse you.’

  ‘Aha.’

  ‘Oh yes, laddie. In fact, if it strikes you as being half as funny as it strikes me, you’ll be a basket case in ten minutes.’

  ‘Stan, Special Branch are about as funny as Jimmy Wheeler’s rice pudding joke.’

  ‘Tell me later. When you’ve heard Wintrincham.’

  He smiled in a roguish way that was almost out of character. It seemed from the barely suppressed grin that Onions himself might corpse at any moment. He led off along the corridor. As they mounted the stairs to Wintrincham’s office, Troy fished.

  “Who died in the car crash?’

  ‘Herbert Boyle, and his sergeant. Young chap name of Briggs. Did you know ’em?’

  ‘I didn’t know Briggs. I knew Boyle. It was hard not to.’

  ‘Aye. You could never say he didn’t speak his mind.’

  ‘You could never say he wasn’t the most unconscionable bastard ever to walk the earth,’ said Troy.

  ‘Jesus Christ, Freddie, the man’s not been dead three hours.’

  They arrived at Wintrincham’s door. Onions thrust it open without knocking. Ted Wintrincham was a Deputy-Commander, and head of Special Branch. Much Troy’s superior, but it would never occur to Asst. Commissioner Onions to treat him any differently than he treated any other junior officer. One china shop was much like another to the bull. Wintrincham was seated behind his desk. He rose to shake hands with Troy and make the introductions.

  ‘Good of you to come so promptly, Chief Inspector Troy. You know Inspector Cobb, don’t you?’

  Troy looked at the big man lurching unsteadily to his feet to take his hand as he extended it. He knew Norman Cobb by sight. He was well over six foot, a good sixteen stone, and rather hard to miss. Troy had seen him around the corridors of Scotland Yard for years without ever exchanging a word. He was Troy’s idea of a surly bastard. Well suited to the Branch.

  ‘I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure,’ said Troy.

  Cobb gave him a bone-crunching grip and a brief glimpse of gleaming front teeth in an attempt at a smile. Troy threw his overcoat on the back of a chair and sat down next to Onions, facing Wintrincham. Cobb, Troy rapidly concluded, was cold or just plain huffy, sitting there in his natty blue gabardine mackintosh, buttoned to the neck—like a child sent by his mother to a party he’d determined to hate from the start. Wintrincham was a different kettle. He was the only Special Branch officer Troy liked, the only one with whom he’d pass the time of day without the sensation that he’d just had his pocket picked. He often wondered how the man had risen to the top of his disreputable job. He was a pleasant, friendly countryman. The best part of half a century in London had done little to clip his Hampshire burr, and he still spoke like a rustic and suffered the nickname ‘Farmer’ throughout the Metropolitan Police Force.


  ‘Ye’ll have heard about Inspector Boyle and Sergeant Briggs, I take it?’

  Troy nodded.

  ‘I hate losing men at the best of times, but this is a bad time. There’s a state visit this week—I’m sure that’s no secret.’

  Troy was looking at Onions. Onions looked back. Troy could almost swear he winked. Good God, how could the man sit on information like this and not burst? Suddenly he could see exactly what was animating Onions, could see exactly why he’d played on the element of surprise, could see exactly what was coming.

  ‘The papers are full of it, after all,’ Wintrincham went on. ‘First Secerterry Khrushchev and . . . ’ave I pronounced that right, d’ye reckon?’

  He was looking to Troy for an answer. Troy was almost at a loss for words.

  ‘Perfect, sir,’ he muttered.

  ‘Anyway. First Secerterry Krushchev and Marshal Bulganin will be docking at Portsmouth in the morning and disembarking tomorrow a.m. I’ve been asked to provide the bodyguard, and I gather it’s a matter of principle that the bodyguard should consist entirely of serving police officers. There’ll be the usual security arrangements—motorcycle escorts made up by the Met divisions—but the personal bodyguard will be Special Branch. Boyle and Briggs were on their way to Portsmouth when they were killed. It leaves me two men short. It would seem that you are the only available officer who meets the necessary requirements. You’ve good Russian, I’m told.’

  ‘Perfect, sir,’ Troy said again.

  ‘I know it’s unusual to ask to second an officer of your rank, and I appreciate you’ve a squad of your own to run, but under the circumstances I’d be very grateful if you’d agree to help us out in this matter.’

  ‘A week’s secondment, I take it?’

  ‘More like ten days. Mr Onions is willing. If you’d like a little time to . . . er . . .’

  ‘No, no,’ said Troy. ‘I’m sure Mr Onions has already said all he needs to on the matter.’

  Troy shot Stan a sideways glance, but he refused the bait and stared at the end of his boot.

  ‘But I’d like the opportunity to put a few questions to you if I may. Who, for instance, is in charge of the operation?’

  Cobb’s voice cut in from the corner. ‘I am.’ It was guttural, flat and Midlands, and he coughed into his hand as soon as he had spoken, as though reluctant to exercise his voice more than the minimum.

  ‘I see,’ said Troy. ‘How many men do we have?’

  ‘Five,’ he grunted again. ‘Six with you. Working in double shifts. Four with Khrushchev. Two on two off. Two with Bulganin. Same method. You’d be with the Marshal, and you could have the night shift. Less for you to do. Leave the important stuff to my lads. They’re trained for it, after all.’

  This irritated Troy. He knew damn well that Special Branch training amounted to no more than matriculation in steaming open envelopes and kicking down doors. Any fool could do that.

  ‘It doesn’t sound as though I’ll be needing much Russian,’ he said.

  ‘A precaution,’ said Wintrincham. ‘Of course, they’ll bring their own translators. But it’s been decided in another place that perhaps it would be better if everyone in regular contact with them spoke the language. That way nothing slips by.’

  Another place. If the man meant MI6, why didn’t he say so? Good God, could no one call a spook a spook any more?

  ‘Slips by?’ Troy said softly.

  ‘Anything . . . shall we say . . . anything of importance. Anything you hear that might be important would be reported back to Inspector Cobb. And I need hardly add that as far as the Russians are concerned we’re all coppers, and they’ve no reason to think we speak their language.’

  ‘Other than their natural suspicion,’ Troy said.

  ‘Can’t bargain for that. All I’m saying is if you keep your mouth shut and your ears open, the job should be no trouble to anyone.’

  Troy looked again at Onions to find him looking back. In for a penny, he thought.

  ‘Let me see if I understand you, sir,’ he began, using a well-tried opening of understated, deferential defiance. ‘You want me to spy on Marshal Bulganin?’

  ‘Not exactly . . .’

  ‘Ted,’ Onions cut in. ‘What else would you call it?’

  ‘I don’t know whether you’re aware of this, sir,’ Troy went on, ‘but less than ten years ago when I arrested an agent of the American Government on four counts of murder—four counts on which he was subsequently convicted—officers of this department sent me to Coventry. The sole exception was the late Inspector Boyle, who called me a traitor to my face. I wonder also, sir, if you’re aware that when we, every man jack of us, were vetted during the war, my vetting was, as Chief Inspector Walsh put it, marginal. A condition of which this department has felt it necessary to remind me from time to time when it’s suited its own purposes to portray me as less than wholly loyal to the interests of the force. Am I to take it that my credit with this department has risen? Am I now, after so much water under a dozen bridges, being asked to spy on a Marshal of the Soviet Union?’

  Wintrincham was stunned to silence. It occurred to Troy that he could scarcely be accustomed to being addressed in this fashion—the daily routine of Onions and Troy—by his own men. He was almost sorry. Wintrincham was behaving decently and giving him a choice, but the game was too rich to resist.

  ‘Because,’ Troy concluded, ‘I won’t do it.’

  Wintrincham was looking to Onions to bale him out, but it was Cobb who spoke.

  ‘Excuse me, sir, we don’t have to take this shit. We can do very well without Mr Troy.’

  ‘Hear the man out, Inspector,’ Onions said.

  ‘I rather thought Mr Troy had said his piece and shot his bolt, sir.’

  ‘Shut your gob, lad. He’s not through. Are you, Freddie?’

  Troy was silently in awe of the timing. It amounted almost to telepathy. And the use of his Christian name amounted to sanction for anything he might now say.

  ‘No, sir. I did have one more point to make.’

  Cobb rolled his eyes at the ceiling. Troy thought he heard a whispered ‘Jesus’.

  ‘I won’t spy on Marshal Bulganin.’

  ‘I told yer,’ muttered Cobb.

  ‘But I will spy on Khrushchev.’

  Cobb and Wintrincham looked at each other blankly. Troy looked at Onions, sitting there with his arms folded and smirking. Troy had often thought that he had no more liking for the Branch than he did himself. That the Branch was now under his command was simply a result of running C Division of the Yard. Troy could not believe this aspect of the command gave him any pleasure.

  Wintrincham spoke at last. ‘Who,’ he asked Cobb, ‘have you assigned to Khrushchev?’

  ‘It was Inspector Boyle. As things are, I was going to take him myself, sir. It’s my operation.’

  ‘I don’t want the operation. I just want Khrushchev. Preferably while he’s awake. You’d be wasting me on Bulganin,’ said Troy.

  ‘What makes you think that?’ Cobb snapped back at him.

  ‘Where did you learn your Russian, Mr Cobb?’

  ‘In the army. 1946.’

  ‘I’ve spoken Russian all my life. It’s my first language. Besides, compared to Khrushchev, Bulganin is taciturn. If you have to think what Khrushchev says once he gets on a roll he’ll leave you standing. He’s quick and he’s bad-tempered. And when he loses it, he talks nineteen to the dozen. Can you honestly tell me that you have anyone else as fluent as me?’

  Cobb stared back at him silently.

  ‘Are those your terms, Mr Troy?’ Wintrincham asked.

  ‘Not terms, sir. I wouldn’t dream of setting conditions on my service. I’m simply trying to be practical.’

  ‘I don’t think I believe you, Mr Troy. But it remains nevertheless that what suits your vanity is probably what suits the operation best. I’ll assign you to First Secerterry Khrushchev.’

  Cobb opened his mouth to speak, but Wintrincham got in fi
rst.

  ‘Whatever your objection is, Norman, I don’t want to hear it. I’ve made my decision. It’s still your command. You’ve enough decisions of your own without wasting time questioning mine. If you’ve any orders for Chief Inspector Troy, issue them now and I can bugger off home to bed. It’s been a long day.’

  Cobb coughed into his fist. He looked up at Troy with undisguised contempt.

  ‘Report to the garage at 6 a.m. We drive to Portsmouth for a briefing in the dockyard and weapons issue at nine-thirty. I’ll pair people off then and issue rosters. We wait for the Russian ship and meet the visitors at disembarkation. Back up to London by train. Formal meeting at Waterloo by HMG. And the evenings are mostly black tie—you do have evening dress don’t you, Mr Troy?’

  Well, thought Troy, he had to have his little dig one way or another, didn’t he?

  §4

  Back on their own landing, out in the corridor, Troy could not resist the cat-that-got-the-cream grin. Onions responded. A cheery display of nicotined teeth. For a moment he thought they’d both corpse. Onions was right, it was rich; it was irresistible, it was funny.

  ‘What was the gag?’ Onions said.

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Jimmy Wheeler and the rice pudding.’

  ‘I only meant it’s not funny. Everybody’s heard it. Wheeler cracks it every time he appears. Like Jack Benny playing the violin.’

  ‘Funny?’ Onions mused. ‘I don’t think I’ve heard it.’

  Troy thought that Onions must be the only man in Britain who hadn’t, but then he probably did not go out much, never went to the cinema or the variety and had probably never seen television in his life. For all Onions knew, Charlie Chaplin still wore a bowler hat and baggy pants, and Martin and Lewis was a department store.

  ‘Tramp calls at the door of the big house. Toff opens the door. Tramp says, “Evenin’ guvnor. Could you spare a tanner or a bite to eat?” “Well,” says the toff, “d’you like cold rice pudding?” “Great,” says the tramp, and the toff says, “Well come back tamorrer, it’s hot now.”’