by Graham Ison
‘I’m trying to do what I can to help the C1 chaps. They’ve still got three sets of unexplained fingerprints in Penelope Lambert’s flat in Wimbledon. Apparently the woman in the flat downstairs is a bit on the nosey side, fortunately. They wanted to try a photograph of Mallory on her — see if she recognised him. It would be useful to know how long their affair had been going on.’
‘Well I’m not too sure that we’d want —’
‘Save us sending out a nondescript van and photographer, Hector. They might just get in the way of your blokes — and we are investigating a murder, you know.’
‘Yes, OK, but not to be used in evidence. We can’t have our blokes appearing in court.’
‘Oh I know,’ said Gaffney with a sigh. ‘Yes, indeed — I do know that.’
*
Harry Tipper accepted the tit-bit that Special Branch had thrown him, and sent Charlie Markham down to Wimbledon.
‘It’s the police, Mrs Mason — DS Markham — remember me?’ Markham always felt rather foolish, conducting a tortuous conversation with a metal box next to a front door, but there was no other way of getting in to see the ballet mistress who kept herself to herself — sometimes.
‘I had rather hoped that I’d seen the last of the police,’ she said, when eventually Markham had been admitted to her sitting-room. ‘Which reminds me — am I to get the keys back?’
‘The keys, Mrs Mason?’
‘To that poor girl’s flat.’
‘I’m afraid not. Why do you want them?’
‘Well I did undertake to look after the place for her, and now she’s dead, well I feel a debt of honour to whoever are her — what d’you call them — next-of-kin?’
Markham smiled. ‘I’m afraid you won’t be getting the keys back, Mrs Mason.’ He was fairly certain that she wanted to have one last rummage around — now that she knew Penelope Lambert was dead, and for no other reason.
‘Oh!’ She sounded quite disappointed. ‘What have you come down for?’
‘I’d like you to look at this photograph, Mrs Mason.’ The watchers had done a good job. It was an almost full-face shot of Mallory, taken at lunchtime two days previously during one of his habitual walks around St James’s Park. It was good. Strolling as though he hadn’t a care in the world. It had quite disconcerted Gaffney. Perhaps he hadn’t any cares. And it might be that Gaffney was right the first time. He wouldn’t have been the first government employee to have an affair with a foreign diplomat, however injudicious it might subsequently turn out to be. Strange how the promise of sex banished all caution from even the shrewdest of men.
‘Oh yes,’ said Mrs Mason without hesitation. ‘He’s been here.’
‘You’re certain?’
‘Yes. I just happened to come out of my flat as he was coming down the stairs.’
‘I see.’ Markham thought that that would have been no coincidence.
‘I said “Good evening” — of course —’
‘Of course,’ murmured Markham.
‘And he said that he’d just dropped some papers in for Mrs Lambert. It seemed a funny thing to say.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘Well, it’s nothing to do with me who she had calling. After all, they’re self-contained flats.’
‘Yes, I suppose so. And you’re quite certain that this was the man?’
‘Absolutely — no doubt about it.’ Mrs Mason looked intently at the policeman. ‘Was poor Mrs Lambert murdered, Sergeant?’
‘What on earth makes you think that?’
‘Well you police seem to be taking an awful lot of interest in her.’
Markham smiled. ‘I think you’ve been watching too much television, Mrs Mason. The fact is that we are making all these enquiries for the French police. She was drowned in France, you see — and they keep sending lists of questions for us to get answers to. It’s all a bit of a nuisance, really.’
‘Mmm!’ She was clearly not satisfied, and Markham supposed that in her lonely unremarkable life, she really wanted there to be a mystery.
‘Sorry not to have a murder for you, Mrs Mason. And thank you very much — you’ve been most helpful.’
Markham had brought the keys of Penelope Lambert’s flat with him, and now opened the front door. There was something he wanted to satisfy himself about. He went into the bedroom and opened the door of the wardrobe. He was disappointed to discover that there was no two-way mirror, and no shelf brackets inside. In a way, though, their absence tended to support the theory that whatever had been her motives, the instigation almost certainly came from the South African, Webster.
Chapter Fourteen
The grizzled head of Maréchal des Logis-Chef Gaston Givry appeared round the door. ‘You have a moment?’
‘What is it, Chef?’
‘The matter of Mrs Lambert.’
‘Ah!’Jules Courbet laid down his pen. The matter of Mrs Lambert was an unsatisfactory one. Ever since the discovery of the young woman’s body on the foreshore at St Brouille and the disconcerting announcement by Dr Vemet that she had been murdered — well, that drowning was not the cause of death — the examining magistrate had been plaguing him with demands for progress. Scotland Yard had admittedly identified the girl, but had not helped one little bit in finding her killer. He supposed that they had taken the view that a murder committed in France was a problem for the French. Grudgingly he acknowledged that had the reverse been the case, he too might have been reluctant to get enthusiastic when there were so many other things to be done.
‘We have discovered where Mrs Lambert was staying, Captain.’
Courbet nodded, and with delicate movements, replaced the cap of his fountain pen. ‘So?’
‘Not one hundred metres from where her body was found.’
Courbet looked at the ceiling and back at Givry. ‘It is not possible.’
‘I have a positive identification, Captain. The Rue de la Digue contains a number of houses, yes?’
‘Go on.’
‘Some are let out —’
‘But we have checked all the gîtes and all the logis, surely?’ ‘They are not always gîtes or logis, Captain. This one — where she was — for instance, was not.’
‘Yes, yes. Get on.’
‘It was hired by Mrs Lambert through an advertisement in a periodical in England. I have seen the woman who owns it and I have shown her the picture. It is her.’
‘How did you find out, Chef?’
‘I had my men call at every house in St Brouille.’
The Captain scoffed. ‘Every house — surely not.’
‘Well not every house. We drew up a list of houses that we knew were likely. Showed the photograph around, you know?’
Courbet smiled. ‘Good police work, eh?’
Givry inclined his head slightly, acknowledging one of the Captain’s rare compliments.
‘And yesterday evening —’
‘How did you know about the advertisement in the English magazine?’ He pointed a manicured forefinger at Givry.
‘The woman — a Madame Salbris — told me.’
‘Was she alone there, this Mrs Lambert?’
‘No, Captain, She was accompanied by a man.’
‘Name?’
Givry spread his hands and shrugged. ‘Alas, no, Captain. She does not know it.’
Courbet swore. ‘A description? Did you get a description?’ Givry opened the folder he had brought with him, and withdrew a piece of paper. ‘It is anyone,’ he said.
Courbet read through Givry’s brief report and tutted. ‘As you say, Chef — it is anyone or everyone.’ He handed back the paper. ‘I must telephone Tipper. Perhaps it will provoke him into some action.’ He shook his head slowly as if he had just asked the impossible.
*
‘Well it’s taken them long enough,’ said Tipper.
‘When did you hear, sir?’ asked Markham.
‘Just had a phone call.’ Courbet, in common with most policemen throughout the world, knew better than to
wait for Interpol, and much of the day to day work of criminal investigation was now done by direct telephone calls.
‘Was she there alone?’
‘It seems not.’ Tipper passed his notes over to Markham. ‘But if you can identify anyone out of that, you’re welcome to swear out an information.’
‘Yeah — well that fits about two-thirds of the blokes walking down Victoria Street right now, I should think. It certainly doesn’t positively fit any of the men who’ve come into the frame so far. What about the photograph of Mallory, guv?’
‘What about it?’
‘The one I took down to Wimbledon — to Mrs Mason.’
‘Yeah, I know.’
‘Any chance of sending it over to the French? See if they can get an ident?’
‘Nothing to lose,’ said Tipper, ‘but I’ll have to speak to SB about it, see if they’ll release it.’
‘Why? We’ve got the bloody thing.’
‘I know, Charlie, but Special Branch works in mysterious ways — and they never tell us what they’re up to. Bloody secret squirrels. That photograph was given to us specifically to show to Mrs Mason. I’ll have to speak to Mr Gaffney before we can send it across the Channel.’
Tipper dialled Detective Chief Superintendent Gaffney’s number and put the problem to him. Needless to say, he didn’t get an immediate answer.
Gaffney spoke to Hector Toogood at the Security Service, who spoke to his director, before, somewhat reluctantly, the permission was given. The usual caveat was imposed, that no one should reveal where the photograph had come from, and they even asked that the Yard’s photographic branch should take out the background in case anyone in Brittany should identify it as St James’ Park. For what difference that’ll make, Tipper said.
*
The result was predictable. Givry showed the photograph to Madame Salbris who shrugged and said she wasn’t sure. Maybe it was — but again, maybe it wasn’t.
*
Gaffney’s reaction was to discount it as of no great importance. His main concern, and that of the Security Service, was to determine whether or not Mallory was spying for South Africa. A French murder enquiry, apparently unconnected, did not come very high in his list of priorities. Tipper’s suggestion that he and Markham should travel to France again to further their enquiries was dismissed as unnecessary. Possibly even counter-productive.
Chapter Fifteen
In order to operate successfully, the Security Service needs to have contacts. Such contacts need to be spread wide, and ideally, placed in key appointments in diverse fields. They have to be of proven trustworthiness, and above all, discreet. For most of the time they are dormant, unaware that they are waiting to be used, perhaps for just one operation, or to provide one piece of information. And often too, the one contribution they can make will, on its own, be meaningless to them — a single piece of the jigsaw, as MI5 is so fond of saying.
One such person was Geoffrey Fuller. Now in his early sixties, he had led an infantry platoon onto the beaches of Normandy in 1944, only to be repatriated forty-eight hours later, minus a foot but with a Military Cross; a transaction which in later life he was often to describe as an exchange of dubious advantage.
Since that time he had hobbled around the world, building up an impressive business empire, the wealth of which was founded firmly on import and export. His impeccable concern, which he described deprecatingly as buying and selling, had a reputation of the highest integrity, and apart from the similarity of their operation, had nothing in common with that owned, for example by Richard Jacob, who would unhesitatingly hire a discriminating stripper like Penelope Lambert in order to clinch a deal, giving not a thought to the immorality of it all.
But there are degrees of immorality, and a strong body of public opinion held the view that it was immoral to trade with South Africa. That too was debatable; to withhold trade, said others, was also immoral, because it would be the blacks who would suffer, not the white ruling minority. Geoffrey Fuller closed his eyes to such polemics; he was only a business man.
Such finer points of the political argument did not worry the Security Service too much either, and their real concern was to determine whether a particular man at a particular time would serve their purpose.
But cautiously. The school you had been to, the clubs you belonged to, and the company you kept, all helped officers of MI5 to gauge your probity. Nevertheless, there were expublic schoolboys to be found in Wormwood Scrubs, and doubtless there was a rogue or two in even the best London clubs — Hector Toogood didn’t know; he wasn’t a member of any of them.
Consequently a great deal of arcane enquiry work went on, even though Carfax, Toogood’s boss, knew Fuller socially, and had put his name forward in the first place.
‘Mr Fuller, my name is Granger — Robin Granger,’ said Toogood. ‘I understand that Mr Gaffney here mentioned that I would be coming to see you.’
‘So did John Carfax.’ Fuller smiled.
‘Ah! Quite so. In that case you’ve probably guessed what we’re here for.’
‘No!’ Fuller smiled again.
Toogood looked furtive. ‘Well …’
Fuller decided to help him out. ‘Look, old boy, I know you’re from Five, and that you want some help — yes?’
‘Well, yes, Mr Fuller, that’s it exactly.’
‘Good. Well fire away.’ Fuller sat back in one of the armchairs grouped in the corner of his large office.
‘I hope you don’t mind the formality,’ said Toogood, fumbling in his brief-case, ‘but I have to ask you to sign this. It’s a declaration under the Official Secrets Act.’
Fuller laughed, took out his pen and scribbled his signature at the foot of the form.
‘You really ought to read it, Mr Fuller.’
‘I’ve signed dozens of ’em old boy. I reckon you chaps must have a file of ’em that thick.’ He held up his hand, the forefinger and thumb about two inches apart.
‘Quite so,’ said Toogood again. Gaffney groaned inwardly. He wished to God that he’d get on with it. At last he did, taking what for him was a leap forward into the unknown. ‘We have reason to believe that there is a leakage of information from the Foreign Office. It has to do with South Africa.’
‘Oh?’ Fuller’s veneer of flippancy vanished. ‘Not to do with this company, I hope.’
‘Good Lord no. There’s no suggestion —’
‘That’s a relief.’
‘But it’s in that direction that we’re hoping that you can be of some help to us.’
‘I’ll certainly do what I can, Mr er — Granger. What did you have in mind?’
‘We want to feed in a spurious economic intelligence report to a certain individual at the Foreign Office. Something along the lines that you intend to stop trading with South Africa. That you’ve had quite enough of threats from people opposed to apartheid — that sort of thing — and they’ve hinted that they’ll disrupt your business.’
Fuller looked doubtful. ‘What’s the point of that?’
‘We suspect that information of that sort is being passed to the South African government. The advantage to the South Africans of receiving it in advance of its happening will be obvious to you. Particularly in the field of their manufacturing industries — such as they are.’
Fuller held up a staying hand. ‘Just a moment. I do quite a lot of business with South Africa. Now whatever the moral implications of that happen to be is neither here nor there. But if that sort of information gets passed to the South Africans it really could damage my business.’
‘There is no intention that it will, Mr Fuller. The report will be strictly controlled —’
‘But you said that it could be passed to the South African Government —’
‘Yes, but it won’t reach them. We’ll make sure of that.’
‘How can you be so certain?’
‘I’m as certain as can be. You see we are pretty sure that we know how the information is passed, and we’ll
be in a position to stop it.’
‘And what then do you want me to do?’
‘It is essential that this information has the ring of truth about it. It may be that our …’ He hesitated. ‘It may be that our suspect will contact you, to verify that what he has been told is true, although I doubt it. But it would be quite legitimate for him to do so. That, after all, is what he is there for.’
‘What precisely is he there for?’
‘The collation of economic reports — among a wide variety of other things — that will assist HMG to formulate its foreign trading policies.’
‘Very well, then — although I must admit I’m not awfully happy about it … Incidentally, what is the name of the man concerned?’
‘I’m afraid that I cannot reveal that, Mr Fuller.’
‘Then how the hell am I supposed to know if he rings me?’
Toogood smiled patiently. ‘There is only one man who will ring you, Mr Fuller — the only man who’ll have the information. I doubt if he’ll identify himself, but if he does, then so be it.’
‘Seems a damned funny way of doing things,’ growled Fuller.
*
There are some very clever men in the Security Service, men who are experts in all manner of specialised and unusual fields. One of their economists prepared a very clever report setting out Mr Fuller’s reservations about continuing to trade with South Africa, and adding that he intended to stop doing so.
There was some debate about what security classification should be put on this document. ‘Top Secret’ was vetoed on the grounds that it manifestly was not top secret; ‘Secret’ was bandied about a bit, but similarly dismissed because it was out of character for a document of that calibre, and, as there was no source disclosed, there was none to protect. Finally they settled for the all-embracing ‘Confidential’. Attribution of the report was not revealed, but a smart little phrase, familiar in government circles, implied that it had come from the Security Service itself. Toogood thought that to be quite amusing.
*
The watchers did not have long to wait. There were no telephone calls arranging a meeting, but that was no surprise. However, Eva van Heem received a catalogue for a washing-machine through the post. The Security Service was as sure as possible that she had not requested a catalogue for a washing-machine, and in any event the envelope had been handwritten and posted in central London — nowhere near the offices or the factory of the manufacturers, who were based in the north.