by John Gardner
‘Not everyone was present this year, Stalks, were they?’ Keene, she noticed, was not looking at her as he spoke.
‘No, that’s for sure, and it only made matters worse.’
‘In what way?’
She paused, then asked if she was legally bound to answer questions about the family who now employed her.
Willis began to say something, but Gus Keene overrode him. ‘I suppose not. Not at an informal gathering like this. But you know the score, Stalks. Everyone in this fair land is bound by the Official Secrets Act, though precious few of them realize it. Some of us are further bound because we’ve signed a piece of paper which says we’ve read the damned thing. I’m not being difficult, old love, but we could get nasty and make it official.’
‘I see.’ She certainly did see. ‘So might I ask the purpose of this informal gathering?’
‘Ask away.’ Keene gave her his avuncular smile.
‘Take it that I’ve asked.’
‘Right.’ Keene drew in on the pipe. ‘Naldo and Barbara were in absentia this year.’ Statement of fact, not a question.
‘Yes.’
‘You know why?’
‘No, but it was bloody difficult because young Arthur and Emma were present. They were also bloody unhappy and plagued everyone with questions. They missed their parents dreadfully.’
‘So do we all,’ Willis said, as though he really meant it. ‘And were young Arthur and Emma given any satisfactory answers?’
‘I heard Richard saying they musn’t worry. Oh, and they had cards, letters and gifts from their mother and father.’
‘Happen to notice where they were posted — the cards and letters, I mean?’ Keene cocked one eye at her as if to say that people like Stalks do not lose the habits of a lifetime.
‘Southend. Letters and cards both. Richard had a long letter as well. It contained a cheque to buy the presents, a job which I eventually did in Oxford.’
‘Southend as well?’
Stalks nodded.
‘Well, that’s as likely a place as any. You have a theory about where Mum and Dad had got to?’
‘It’s pretty obvious they’ve gone AWOL. I’m treated like family. Most of them expressed alarm, and not a little despondency.’
‘Most?’
‘Not that pompous excuse for a lawyer, Andrew, or his nasty little brother, Alex. Their wives were concerned. Richard and Sara were nearly out of their minds with worry, as were James and his dear wife. But they would be, wouldn’t they? Son and daughter-in-law vanished. They had the big German chap, Kruger, with them for the festivities. He was also worried, but he did try and liven things up. Party spirit. Nice man. Full of music. Good at his job, I shouldn’t wonder.’
‘I shouldn’t wonder either, Stalks. They mention me, by any chance?’ Keene removed his pipe, tapping the stem against his teeth.
‘I got the impression they were all going to see you at some point.’ Stalks appeared to relax for the first time. ‘It didn’t bother Richard and Sara. Nor James and Margaret, but it worries the hell out of Andrew and Alexander. Caspar’s widow’s still too distraught to make any sense of it, but it’s spooked Andrew and Alex.’
‘So it should. Kruger?’
‘Oh, you’ve talked to him already. I suppose you’re seeing him again. He really couldn’t care less about you, Gus. Herbie’s that kind of bloke. Straight. Does his job and brooks no funny business.’
‘Ah.’ Keene was still a little annoyed at the way his first session with Kruger had gone. Herbie had denied all knowledge of what had happened; owned to having lunched with Naldo at Gennaros, but denied either seeing or talking with him since. He also pointedly said that if anyone could believe Naldo had gone over they must be flat earthers. It was a term he had obviously just learned because of the way he used it indiscriminately. ‘People who only listen to Bach are flat earthers,’ he had announced during the interview, apropos of nothing. Keene was to try again, in a couple of weeks, but did not fancy his chances. As for the short interview with Phoebe, the poor woman was half out of her mind. Who would have thought Caspar’s widow would have gone near crazy with grief? She had once been a trained nurse, and always appeared very down to earth. ‘Tell me about the wives,’ he said. ‘Alexander’s wife, for instance.’
Stalks would have sworn that she saw a lecherous glint in Keene’s eye.
Alexander’s wife was very young, and a recent acquisition. Tall, slender, blonde with dark roots, vivacious and with an aura of sexual promise that was enough to make any redblooded male turn to fantasies.
‘Maiden name was Butcher,’ Keene mused aloud. ‘Delia Butcher. Sounds like something from a novel. I always think of Delia as one of those women who dress up for men. You know, strict nanny, or jackbooted torturer.’
Stalks thought that Keene was shrewd as well as lecherous. She had, on one occasion over Christmas, seen the inside of Alex and Delia’s bedroom. The wardrobe door was open and gave her a new insight into Alexander Railton’s private life. ‘You might be right,’ was all she said for now.
‘You know something, Stalks. I can always tell with you. I’m right, aren’t I?’
‘Each to his or her own taste, as long as they don’t do it in the street and frighten the horses, as they say. It could be her particular kick, you know, not Alex’s.’
‘But you rather think it’s him, yes?’
‘I don’t really know. I’m aware that they play sexual games, but who of us hasn’t in our time, Augustus Claudius?’ It was her turn to cock an eyebrow, and Keene suddenly recalled a night, not really all that long ago, after some successful operation when he and Stalks had been alone together. He could hear his voice echoing from the past, ‘Talk dirty, Stalks. You always look such a lady. Talk dirty.’ Aloud, he asked, ‘Would he stray?’
‘Who? Alex?’
‘Who else?’
‘Why should he? I think he’s found his fantasy. Or rather a whole flock of fantasies.’
‘Doesn’t mean a thing, and you know it, Kate Stear. Alex is in a sensitive position. Sometimes doesn’t get home for a week at a time. Would he seek the services of specialists?’
After she had thought about it, Stalks had to say yes he might.
‘But Delia was sorry for Naldo and Barbara?’
‘Concerned. Worried, yes. Barbara’s become a chum, it seems. I think she’s the only Railton who takes Delia seriously.’
‘And Anne?’ Anne was Andrew’s wife. Spiteful people said he had married her for her name, because Andrew and Anne Railton sounded nicely upper crust. There was money around as well, and Andrew was never a sluggard where hard cash was concerned.
‘Anne?’ Stalks nodded. ‘Nice. Comforting to James and Margaret. Helpful to Richard and Sara. Treats me like a servant, of course.’
‘Of course. Unless you’re descended directly from royalty, or own something trendy and very expensive, like a pop group or a nightclub, you’re peasant class. Anne was brought up that way. But you like her, Stalks?’
She gave a thin smile, ‘I’m sorry for her, and, yes, yes, I do like her, Anne’s such a bloody snob and all the others take the —’
‘You were going to say, take the piss out of her, Stalks.’ Keene chuckled again and pulled on his pipe. ‘Bad influence, working with people in this service for most of your life.’
She nodded. ‘Anne tries really hard, but she’s such a mousy little thing, and has absolutely no style. She has a magnificent body when stripped, by the by. I’ve seen it. In my servant capacity, of course.’
‘Of course,’ Keene added.
‘But she’s so bloody foolish, and such a slave to that bugger Andrew.’ Stalks scowled. ‘Sometimes I find it very hard to believe that two superbly nice people like Caspar and Phoebe could have such idiot sons. Oh, yes, Anne said —’ She stopped abruptly.
Keene coaxed. ‘Anne said what, exactly, Stalks? It’s why you’re here. Family gossip.’
‘Anne had the vapours because Andrew’s a
pparently been removed from the P4 list.’
‘And did Alexander also gripe?’
She hated herself for it, ‘Yes. Says he wants an explanation. He’s been cut out of some of the more sensitive areas at Cheltenham. Going to ask you straight, Willis.’ She moved her head slightly towards Willis’ desk.
‘Good,’ Keene answered on the DCSS’s behalf. ‘We’ll be able to tell him that he’s a possible security risk. Kinky goings on with the ladies and all that. What else did you learn from your prying, with your eye to the keyhole and tooth glass to the wall, Stalks?’
She thought for a moment, then said to herself, ‘What the hell, they’ll get it anyway.’ Aloud she told them there were already family squabbles about the Eccleston Square house. ‘It’s Naldo’s, but there’s nobody to live in it. Andrew’s livid.’
‘And what else? Was it, in spite of the things you’ve mentioned, a good Christmas?’
‘They tried, for the sake of the kids. Andrew’s children were there, almost out of school now, young William’s going to be like his father, he’s an absolute prig. Naldo’s Arthur put him in his place, though. Fists flew.’
‘Perish the thought. Fisticuffs at Redhill as the yule log burned bright. Give us all the dope, Stalks. All the juicy gossip.’
‘They went through the motions of enjoying themselves. Delia was furious with her husband. His gift was definitely not appreciated.’
‘And it was what?’
‘One of those new Sony portable television sets. The label said it was so she had something to watch in bed. He added a crudity concerning the way they performed sex and it didn’t leave much to the imagination. It was quite uncalled for.’
Even Willis laughed.
‘Nothing else?’
Stalks shrugged. ‘If you don’t count what I suspect was a bit of incest between William and Emma — is it incest with cousins? — and Big Herb getting rolling drunk on Christmas night. Oh, and a knock-down drag-out fight between Andrew and his uncle James, that was about Eccleston Square incidentally. No, a good family Christmas.’ She grinned to indicate sarcasm. ‘Turkey, ham, mince pies, plum pudding, crystallized ginger, sausages, champagne, brandy, fourteen kinds of wine. Ooh, my! Ooh, my! Ooh, my!’ Stalks did her world-class impression of Mole from The Wind in the Willows.
‘Ooh, my! indeed,’ Keene said sagely. ‘And the talk about Naldo and Barbara?’
‘There was no talk about them, as such; and I’ve told you, it was obvious that they’ve gone missing.’ She gave a pert little smile. ‘Oh, the Railtons who count do not believe for one moment that Naldo’s a traitor. Nor Barbara for that matter.’
‘So?’ Keene nodded.
‘Nor, I should add,’ Stalks gave him her biggest rosy-cheeked smile, ‘do any of the senior Railtons hold with the current theory on the late Sir Caspar.’
‘What current theory would that be, Stalks?’ Keene looked at her hard, but got no reply. Stalks returned to Redhill under a kind of discipline. ‘If there’s any sign of the missing pair: letter, postcard, telephone call, you’re to let us know instantly,’ BMW told her.
On the following morning, Gus Keene had his first interview with Alexander Railton.
2
They met in almost farcical secrecy, in a rather opulent safe house the firm kept for delicate matters just off St James’s. There were even code sentences to be exchanged on arrival and, once inside, Alexander Percival Railton almost went berserk.
‘I was told Willis Maitland-Wood was to meet me here with you. I insist on seeing him. There are questions I must put to him.’
Gus Keene, accompanied by Martin Brook, thought Alex was going to stamp his small foot.
Indeed, Alexander’s size went totally against genetics. All the Railton men produced in their own image, in spite of their chosen wives’ genes. They had sons about them who were tall, long-boned, fine-looking and with one distinctive feature, patrician noses that flared slightly at the nostrils. Railton men who sired females found the daughters all took after their mothers.
Like his great-grandfather Giles, whom he had never met, Alexander was the exception and Caspar, though he never said a word, was sad at the physical shaping of his son, overcompensating by being more generous and affectionate to Alexander, though the son showed little respect for his parents. Alexander was short, just over five feet, with dark unruly hair, and an odd strutting gait which bespoke arrogance, not an unknown quality in small men.
Certainly he was brilliant, a superb mathematician with a distinct bent towards electronics, who had graduated into the field of clandestine communications during the Second World War. It was natural that he would become a senior officer at GCHQ, and he had risen there, happily concerning himself with codes, ciphers and analysis.
Even when he had met, courted, bedded and then married the fair Delia Butcher, at the relatively late age of forty-two — Delia was twenty-six — in 1962, Alexander seemed to continue to be wrapped up in his work. He had no really close friends at GCHQ, but those who knew him best said that with marriage he had become less tense, and certainly seemed to look younger and even dress differently. If it had been a woman, people would have said ‘mutton dressed as lamb’. With Alexander, friends admired the new, fashionable cut of his clothes.
Yet now, throwing this small tantrum in the house off St James’s, Gus Keene’s instinct told him this was a Railton who could turn out to be a painful thorn in his flesh. He had absolutely no desire to interrogate the unpleasant, moody little man, but he started right in with a certain amount of aggression.
‘Mr Maitland-Wood can be called.’ He placed a hand gently but firmly on Alexander’s shoulder, propelling him into the room they planned to use. ‘You may talk to him when he’s free. In the meantime, Mr Railton, I require words with you.’
‘And who the bloody blazes do you think you are, Keene?’ Both words and voice betrayed the terror under the bluster.
‘You know very well who I am. The name’s Keene, Mr Railton, and that’s really what I am, and you know it. Keen as mustard, keen to get on with my job, keen for results. As for the bloody blazes, I’m your senior three times over. In some matters I can even override the great C himself, so I would suggest you keep a civil tongue in your head, come in here, and answer a few questions.’ Without even pausing for breath, Keene told Martin Brook to get BMW on the telephone. ‘Tell him a Mr Alexander Railton from GCHQ is kicking up a stink and appears to crave a boon.’
Gus Keene guided Alexander into a chair, pulled another close and started in as though he was dealing with an obviously hostile suspect. ‘First off, you can tell me what you want to talk about to Mr Maitland-Wood.’
‘You’ve still not really said what you want with me. This is undemocratic. You’re treating me like some guilty suspect in a murder investigation.’ Keene’s actions and manner did not appear to have dispersed any of Railton’s arrogance.
‘What do I want with you?’ Keene roared, and his roar could be considerable when he put his mind to it. ‘You’ll soon know what I want. For starters, what was it you wanted to ask the DCSS?’
‘A private matter.’
Keene took out his pipe and began to light it as Martin Brook returned to the high-ceilinged room they had christened the inquisition chamber. ‘Says it’s a private matter; what he wants the DCSS for.’ Keene did not even move his head.
‘Oh yes?’ Fat Martin said cheerfully.
‘Has not yet learned the new lesson. For members of the Railton family there are no such things as private matters.’
‘This is outrageous,’ blustered Alex Railton. ‘I want a lawyer. My brother. He’ll soon put matters to right.’
Keene puffed contentedly. ‘Oh, no. My brother’s bigger than your brother, Alexander.’ He leaned forward. ‘Shall I tell you a secret? If you fail to cooperate, we have the right to cast you into durance vile and throw away the keys.’
‘Above the law, are you?’
‘In certain respects,’ Keene paus
ed. ‘In certain respects, yes. People in this service, and those under discipline to this service, which means you, have been known to go missing. Some have never been found.’
‘He’s right, you know, Mr Railton,’ Fat Martin added cheerfully. ‘I would advise you to tell Mr Keene what he wants to know.’
‘It’s a very personal matter.’ Some of the bite seemed to have drained from Alexander.
‘Such as why certain files have stopped crossing your desk at Cheltenham?’
Railton scowled, opened his mouth, closed it and scowled again.
‘Because if it is a question of classified files being withdrawn from your previously considerable orbit, Mr Railton, I can be of help.’
‘How so?’
‘I can help by getting your answers to certain questions. Questions, first, about your cousin Naldo.’
‘Donald.’ Alex spat the word. ‘I might’ve known it was mixed up with that sneaky bastard.’
‘Naldo, and your father, Alex. We have to know some things about Sir Caspar as well.’
Alex Railton remained silent, so Keene went on. ‘Tell me, Alex, when did you last see Naldo?’
‘If you must call him by that babyish nickname, I last saw him at my father’s funeral.’
‘You spoke to him?’
‘No. Well, just in passing, I suppose.’
‘And the time before that?’
‘When my father died. I came in from Cheltenham. It was a very difficult day.’
‘Yes, I can imagine.’
‘What with father’s death and my mother in such a state …’
‘And the house …?’ Keene did not complete the sentence.