by Graham Ison
‘Have another bloody conference, I suppose,’ said Gaffney.
*
Gaffney had decided to restrict the conference this time. Just Hector Toogood and Harry Tipper were in his office. He had invited only the two of them on the grounds that more would be achieved by fewer people.
Harry Tipper, with more practical experience of murder enquiries than the Special Branch Chief Superintendent was pessimistic. ‘I agree that he’s got some explaining to do, sir,’ he said to Gaffney, ‘but it doesn’t prove that he was Penelope Lambert’s killer. He may have a plausible explanation. What have we got? Firstly, his dabs on the letter of resignation.’ He started to count the points off on his fingers. ‘There could be an acceptable explanation for that. I know he said he’d never seen the letter, but he could withdraw that — say he’d forgotten or something. That doesn’t prove he murdered her in France. Then there are the marks in the flat. Well …’ There was doubt in his voice. ‘We know he was having an affair with the Lambert woman, but he’s never denied it, because it’s never been put to him, but denying it would be understandable. After all, he’s having an affair with Kate McLaren — so your people say.’ He glanced at Toogood, who nodded.
‘But what about the mark on the camera?’ asked Gaffney.
‘Even if you accept it is his mark — and Sid said he couldn’t prove it — not formally anyway, there is nothing to indicate that it was there after the murder. It’s what is called portable evidence.’ He paused. ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ he said to Gaffney, ‘I didn’t mean to —’
Gaffney smiled. ‘It’s all right, Harry — I’ve never investigated a murder, not a conventional one, anyway. Go on.’
‘You see,’ continued Tipper, ‘he could claim that he had loaded the camera — or unloaded it — at her flat, months previously. He could even say that she had brought it to the office one day and asked him to change the film. The helpless woman bit. And from what we know of him, he probably would say that. He’s a pretty cool customer. The only thing at the moment is his so far unexplained absence from the office during the same weekend that she was away. Even so, he might come up with a good excuse. Just because he told them he was going golfing in Scotland doesn’t mean that he had to. For all we know he might have been having it off with some other bird in the West Country or wherever. It’s no crime — it might be a breach of Foreign Office regulations not to tell them where you’re going for the weekend — but it won’t get you as far as the Bailey.’
‘I must say you’re a great comfort, Harry.’
‘Well, you’ve got to look at all the possible defences this bloke’ll put up, guv’nor. He’s pretty shrewd — I don’t reckon you’ll get a cough out of him on the strength of what we’ve got so far. Anyway, the Director’d never let it go to court — not on the basis of his fifty per cent rule.’
Gaffney nodded. He knew about the Director of Public Prosecutions’ distaste for taking cases to court that had a less than evens chance of succeeding. ‘But let’s put it all together for a moment, Harry. What you’ve got, and what Hector and I have got. There’s a danger here, if we’re not careful, of dealing with the two jobs in isolation. Firstly, he denies ever having met Eva van Heem. We know that’s a lie — the C11 surveillance team can put him in a pub in Mornington Crescent with her. That’s what started it all. Secondly, there are the marks in the flat, on the letter, and on the camera — and I accept all you say about that, but leave it for a minute; and thirdly, there’s his weekend or whatever, allegedly in Scotland, where pretty certainly, he wasn’t. And then there’s —’
‘I’ve just had a thought, sir,’ said Tipper, interrupting. ‘Sorry, but it just occurred to me.’
‘Yes?’
‘Suppose he did go to France with Penelope Lambert. Set aside the murder for a moment — just suppose it was a dirty weekend.’ He chuckled. ‘They go off for a cosy couple of days in a French bed. No thought of murder — that doesn’t matter for the moment. Now Mr Toogood here says that Mallory was in the running for a knighthood, which is apparently very important to people like him. Presumably he wouldn’t want to upset his chances by being caught having it off with his secretary in France.’ Tipper paused before saying, triumphantly, ‘So he wouldn’t use his own passport, would he? He’d be afraid that the French immigration checks would show it up. You know how they work. The local Old Bill come round and collect up the cards, and he’d be on permanent record. Now he wouldn’t like that; he’s in the Foreign Office — he knows how these things work.’
‘It’s a good point, Harry, but didn’t you ask the French police if they’d done checks on that — after they discovered where Mrs Lambert had been staying?’
Tipper nodded slowly. ‘Yes, you’re right, I did.’
‘And what did they say?’
Tipper laughed sarcastically. ‘There was no trace of either of them; neither Penelope Lambert nor the bloke who was with her.’
‘So much for that, then.’
‘You’ll be pleased to learn, sir, that the French police are going to prosecute the owner of the house for failing to have cards filled in and forwarded to the proper authority.’
‘Big deal,’ said Gaffney.
‘But Mallory — if it’s Mallory we’re talking about — wasn’t to know in advance that that was going to happen. He couldn’t have afforded to take a chance on it. I still say he wouldn’t have used his own passport.’
‘What then?’
‘BVP,’ said Tipper.
‘What’s a BVP?’ asked Toogood.
‘British Visitors Passport,’ said both policemen together.
‘But why not a full passport?’ asked Toogood.
‘Easier to get,’ said Gaffney. ‘Less formality. You can get them at a post office or a DHSS office, and you don’t have to have referees — you know, the person who signs the back of the photograph and says it’s a good likeness.’
‘And it’s cheaper,’ said Tipper.
‘D’you mean that you can just walk in and get one of these things?’
‘More or less,’ said Gaffney. ‘I think you have to produce something to prove your identity — birth certificate, driving licence.’
‘How would he do that?’
‘Have you read The Day of the Jackal?’ asked Tipper.
‘Ah, yes, of course.’ Toogood hesitated. ‘But how d’you check?’
‘I suspect the answer to that is we don’t,’ said Gaffney. ‘For the very simple reason that we don’t know what we’re looking for — or more particularly, who we’re looking for. I don’t know where they store the forms, but even if it’s centrally it would take months, going through photographs, and even then we might not find him. You’d have to use searchers who knew what Mallory looked like, and he’d only have had to wear glasses, or comb his hair differently, and that would throw them completely.’
‘D’you know what I’d’ve done in his place?’ asked Tipper, reflectively. ‘Assuming that she’s got a passport in her own name — either Lambert or Gaston, but it’s probably Lambert; if I’d been Mallory, I’d have gone as Mr Lambert. It looks better, doesn’t it? Husband and wife, travelling together. No questions. No discerning glances from immigration officers and the rest. Nothing to cause anybody to remember them.’
Gaffney pondered on that. ‘But supposing Lambert — the real Lambert — has got a passport already?’
‘He almost certainly has,’ said Tipper. ‘When I interviewed him, he said that he was a computer salesman, and that he travelled a lot. He was talking about foreign porn magazines at the time.’
‘Then he’d have a full passport — the blue hard-bound job.’
‘I suppose so — we could always check.’
‘That rules that out then,’ said Toogood.
‘Doesn’t, you know,’ said Tipper. ‘I’ll bet you they never check on anyone who goes into a post office and gets a BVP. They might do the occasional spot check, but the assumption is that anyone who applies for a BVP hasn�
��t got a full passport. Anyway, by the time they’ve discovered it’s fraudulent, it’s usually too late. Duff address, false name — no trace; forget it, they’ll say.’
‘But how would he verify it?’ asked Gaffney.
‘Could do it a variety of ways, I should think. But isn’t it worth a go, sir? I could get somebody in C1 Passports to run a check on James Lambert, unless your contacts can do it quicker?’ He looked at Toogood.
‘I doubt it,’ said the MI5 man. ‘Anyway, if it does turn up, you’d need it as evidence, wouldn’t you?’
‘Yes, that’s true. Right,’ he said to Gaffney, ‘Leave it to me, guv’nor; I’ll get someone to do it.’
*
It took time. But it was positive. A post office in Camden Town had issued a British Visitors Passport on Friday, the twenty-second of August, to one James Lambert, who had produced a provisional driving licence to support his application. Detectives from C1 Passport Squad had checked the driving licence: the address was false, and the real James Lambert already possessed a full licence. But the photograph, probably taken in a booth on a railway station somewhere, was Robert Mallory — wearing glasses.
‘I think Master Mallory’s going to have a bit of explaining to do,’ said Gaffney mildly.
Chapter Eighteen
It is a popular myth that policemen favour executing search warrants at five o’clock in the morning. It is not true; policemen, in common with most people, detest getting up early. That is not to say that it doesn’t sometimes happen; there can be a distinct advantage in it, particularly when common criminals are involved, because the circumstances demand it. Common criminals, if they work at all, usually go to work early, frequently stay away from home all day, and spend their evenings in public houses, returning only at closing time, and in an alcoholic stupor. Indeed, the storming of a dwelling in the early hours gives the police a tactical advantage, involving, as it often does, the breaking down of doors with a sledge-hammer — known in the trade as a seven pound key — and the sudden influx of officers, some of whom these days are, of necessity, armed. A man with a hangover faced with such aggressive visitors is, to say the least, handicapped.
None of these considerations however, applied in the case of Robert Mallory; a senior official of the Foreign and Commonwealth Office hardly came into the category of common criminal, even if he was suspected of murder.
Because of the Official Secrets Act implications, Gaffney and Tipper decided that it should be a joint operation. A Special Branch surveillance operation had been mounted, but only so that Gaffney and his team could be certain that Mallory was at home when they visited him. The Bow Street magistrate had been seen that morning in his chambers, before the court sat, and had granted a search warrant to Detective Chief Inspector Terry Dobbs upon his information that Robert Mallory was believed to have been engaged in ‘acts preparatory’ to the commission of an offence under the Act.
At seven o’clock the same evening, a number of unmarked police cars drew silently into Chalfont St Giles and stopped outside the Mallorys’ elegant home. The surveillance team had reported that Robert Mallory and Lady Francesca were at home. Tessa was out.
The large double-fronted house lay back from the road, an adequacy of ground surrounding it, and at the back, French doors gave onto a patio and a swimming-pool, around which the Mallorys often entertained in the summer.
Gaffney and Tipper walked up the gravel drive, and as a precaution, two detective constables skirted the sides of the house to cater for the unlikely event of Mallory running away. It was a remote possibility, but experienced officers like Gaffney and Tipper knew that if the unthinkable happened, there would be no acceptable excuse for not having considered that it might just happen.
It was Lady Francesca who answered the door, and the policemen realised immediately that they were about to disrupt a social engagement of some importance. She was wearing a floor-length scarlet gown — Gaffney knew instinctively that the watered silk would rustle when she walked — with a large diamanté clasp on its silver belt. Her black hair was short and swept back, and she wore no jewellery. She looked at the two detectives and her whole body radiated disdain: she knew she was dealing with social inferiors.
‘Yes?’
‘Mr Mallory, please. We’re police officers.’
‘I’m his wife. What is it about?’ She didn’t move, but held the door firmly ajar with her left hand. ‘We’re about to go out; he won’t have time to see you now. I suggest that you make an appointment to see him at the Foreign Office tomorrow; that’s where he normally deals with business matters.’ She was even more haughty when she spoke.
‘It is not a Foreign Office matter, Lady Francesca.’ She looked slightly surprised to be correctly addressed. ‘And I’m afraid that we must insist on seeing him now.’
‘Out of the question. Anyway, he’s not here.’
‘I happen to know that he is,’ said Gaffney, his patience now starting to fray a little. ‘We have had him under observation.’
‘This is monstrous,’ said Lady Francesca. ‘I shall speak to your Commissioner about it; I’m seeing him later this evening.’
If only you knew what little impact that sort of threat had, thought Gaffney. Anyway, she might be seeing the Commissioner, but it was a racing certainty that her husband wouldn’t. Gaffney had had enough. He withdrew the single sheet of paper from his pocket. ‘I have a warrant to search these premises, Lady Francesca, and if you refuse to admit us, then I shall have no alternative but to enter forcibly — as this warrant empowers me to do.’
‘My God,’ she said, her face draining of colour, not from fear but from fury. She relinquished her hold on the door and retreated. ‘Robert,’ she called. ‘Come here, quickly.’
Robert Mallory appeared through a door at the back of the spacious hallway. He was attired in full evening dress, a cluster of miniature medals on his left lapel, and he absently twisted at his signet ring as he strode towards the front door.
‘What is it?’ He lifted his head as he spoke, looking down his nose in an imperious way so theatrical that it was almost comical. Then he recognised the policemen. ‘What’s the meaning of this? You should come to the office if you want to see me.’
Gaffney was getting just a little weary of this charade. ‘I have a warrant to search your house under the Official Secrets Act,’ he said. ‘It was granted by the Bow Street magistrate this morning.’
Suddenly the pomposity went out of Mallory. He took a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at his forehead. ‘You’d better come in,’ he said in a resigned tone.
At a signal from Tipper, four more police officers came quickly up the drive — among them Detective Sergeant Claire Wentworth and Charles Markham — and waited in the hallway, gazing round at the opulence of a property they knew would never come within the scope of their rent allowance.
‘What do these people want?’ asked Lady Francesca, clearly unwilling to surrender without a fight.
‘They are going to search the house, madam,’ said Tipper.
‘But — look, Robert …’
Mallory looked crossly at his wife. ‘Just let me deal with this, will you,’ he said sharply. ‘And I suggest that you go and get changed; I doubt that we’ll be going out tonight.’
‘But —’
He turned his back on her and addressed himself to Gaffney. ‘What exactly is this all about, Superintendent?’
Gaffney gauged that there was now nothing to lose by a correction. ‘Chief Superintendent,’ he said, emphasising the first word.
‘Yes — Chief Superintendent,’ said Mallory injecting a similar stress. ‘What do you want?’ He turned to watch his wife regally ascending the stairs, and Gaffney noted that the dress did indeed rustle. ‘Perhaps we should go into the study.’ He realigned his gaze on the policeman.
‘I think that might be a good idea,’ said Gaffney.
It was the sort of study that Gaffney had always wanted to have, but knew that he
would never be able to afford. Book-lined and richly carpeted, with a large desk across one corner, and a brass lamp casting a pool of light on the tooled leather top.
It was behind this desk that Mallory now seated himself. He waved a hand, limply, towards the two hide armchairs. ‘You’d better sit down. Would you like a drink?’
‘Thank you, no,’ said Gaffney, speaking for himself and Tipper.
‘D’you mind if I do?’ Mallory reached towards the decanter on the edge of the desk and paused.
It was unusual, but this was an unusual affair, and more might be gained from allowing Mallory to have the whisky he clearly so urgently needed at that moment. ‘Go ahead.’
Steadily, without the slightest indication of a shaking hand, Mallory poured a measure of Scotch into a chunky crystal tumbler. Slowly he lifted it, took a sip and set it down again. ‘Well?’ He was beginning to recover some of his poise.
‘How often did you see Eva van Heem?’ asked Gaffney.
Mallory smiled bleakly. ‘So that’s it.’ He looked down at his glass, his hand over the top, slowly rotating it, back and forth. ‘How can you be so sure that I saw her at all?’ he asked.
‘You were seen to meet her in a public house in Mornington Crescent about four weeks ago.’ Gaffney held Mallory’s gaze unblinkingly. ‘About five feet nine inches, short brown hair, wearing white jeans and a navy blue sweater. Lives in Hendon.’
Mallory nodded wearily. ‘It’s not an offence to meet a woman in a pub, you know — even if she is a South African diplomat.’
‘Why then did you deny it — when we last spoke?’
For the first time, Mallory showed a flash of annoyance. ‘Use your common sense, man — I’m married.’ Then he recovered. ‘I’m sorry — this has all come as a surprise.’
The door of the study opened; in contrast to the finery she had been wearing when the police arrived, Lady Francesca was now wearing faded blue jeans and a navy guernsey. ‘These people are all over the house,’ she said. There was outrage in her voice. ‘Robert — did you hear me?’ Gaffney’s woman sergeant hovered in the doorway behind Mallory’s wife.