‘Yes, but that isn’t why I’m here. MI5 are aware of it and they’re keeping an eye on me. It’s likely to be the contents of this case that my tail is after, not me personally. Which is why I don’t want to take it to the office or my home.
‘The other thing - and this may sound strange to you - I don’t want to have to explain what’s in the case to my husband, Henry, or to my work colleague, Artie. So, would you look after it for me?’
DI Powell got up from his chair, walked round his desk and perched on the corner. He looked at the case, and then at Ena. ‘What’s in it?’
‘Papers, mostly. An envelope containing a letter addressed to me; a journal recording events during the 1936 Olympics in Berlin, newspaper cuttings and photographs.’
Frowning, the inspector returned to his chair. For several minutes he sat with his elbows on the desk, his hands clasped together as if he was in prayer, and his eyes closed. When he opened his eyes he said, ‘No.’
Ena caught her breath. She had been sure Inspector Powell would help her. It took her a couple of seconds to recover from the shock of him saying he wouldn’t. She was near to tears and swallowed hard. ‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked you.’
‘No, you shouldn’t. Not without showing me the contents of the case.’
Ena picked up the case. ‘I thought you trusted me,’ she said, unable to hide the sarcasm in her voice. ‘Clearly you don’t! I’m sorry to have bothered you. Good bye.’ She fled across the room to the door.
‘Ena? Stop! Let me explain.’
Emotionally drained, Ena shrugged her shoulders. ‘There’s no need. I understand.’
‘No, I don’t think you do. However much I would like to help you by looking after your case, I can’t without looking in it. It could contain a hidden device for all I know, a bomb.’
‘Do you think I would ask you to look after a bomb? I told you the case contains papers.’
‘And I believe you, but if the Chief Super got to hear about it and I didn’t know what was inside, I’d be facing early retirement without a pension.’
Ena lifted the case and slammed it down on his desk. ‘Open the damn thing then. Go on,’ she shouted, taking the key from her pocket and dropping it on top of the case. ‘Well if you won’t, I will.’ She put the key into the small raised brass button lock and turned. It sprang open. She lifted the leather strap, opened the case wide, and pushed it across the inspector’s desk. ‘Papers!’
‘Papers.’
‘No bombs, no surveillance equipment, no chemicals– Nothing. The pockets are empty and there isn’t a false bottom to the bloody thing either, I’ve checked.’
DI Powell laughed. ‘It’s a Gladstone bag, too old to have a false bottom.’
Ena opened her mouth to argue, realised the DI wasn’t being serious and said, ‘I knew that.’ She took out the envelope addressed to her. ‘In here there’s a letter from Sid Parfitt. It should help me to expose the woman I’m after and close her case file once and for all. But it won’t if she, or one of MI5’s spooks get their hands on it.
‘I want to get this woman, Inspector. I think she killed Sid and I’m almost certain she had something to do with McKenzie Robinson’s death. She may not have killed him herself, but I’d gamble she ordered the hit. She once tried to kill me.’
‘What?’
‘During the war. It’s a long story.’
‘I have the time.’
‘I’m sorry but I don’t. I’ll tell you one day, over a drink,’ she said, with a cheeky grin. She remembered the bottle of scotch in her handbag, wondered if she should offer the inspector a tot and thought better of it.
‘I’ll hold you to that.’ The DI flicked through the newspapers. ‘German!’
‘Berlin. The 1936 Olympics. Some Hitler Youth rallies.’
He picked up a photograph, tilted his head to the left and right, turned it sideways, and then upside down. ‘Not the kind of thing you should be looking at, Ena.’
Ena glanced over his shoulder and blushed scarlet. ‘I wouldn’t do if it wasn’t important to my investigation.’ She laughed nervously. ‘Most of the photographs have been doctored, as they say. Like this one.’ She held up the photograph of Sid surrounded by naked women. ‘The women have been added.’ She shook her head. ‘They were used to blackmail Sid Parfitt.’
DI Powell took the remaining photographs out and ran the flat of his hand over the base of the bag. Finding nothing he replaced the newspapers and photographs, journal and envelope, and closed it. ‘Lock it. I’ll put it in the office safe.’
Ena leapt up and threw her arms round the inspector’s neck. ‘Thank you!’ When she had calmed down she offered him the key.
‘Keep it. I don’t intend to open the case without you being here.’
Ena took her purse from her handbag, placed the key in it, and snapped it shut. ‘Thank you again, Inspector,’ she said, and followed him to the door. ‘I’ll be in touch.’
‘Don’t leave it too long.’
‘I won’t.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Ena left Bow Street police station relieved that Sid’s briefcase was in Detective Inspector Powell’s safe. She glanced over her shoulder as she walked along James Street where she had left the car. She had been looking over her shoulder since picking up Sid’s case from Waterloo Station. Even at The Hope and Anchor she was worried she had been followed. She looked over her shoulder again. She wasn’t being followed now.
After picking up the Sunbeam, Ena drove the short distance to Mercer Street and parked. She let herself into the indoor courtyard and then the cold case office. There was no sign of Artie. He had obviously cleared off for the day. Ena didn’t blame him. Sid’s death had hit him hard. She went over to her desk. Not a single message on the telephone notepad, so she checked the window was securely latched, everything electric had been switched off in the kitchen, and left.
She crossed Mercer Street to the car with a spring in her step, opened the driver’s door and slid in behind the steering wheel. ‘Home,’ she said, turning the key in the ignition.
Looking forward to taking off the clothes she’d been wearing all day and soaking in a long hot bath, she turned into St. Michael’s Square. Passing the surveillance car, she parked outside the flat and jumped out. Before she had time to close the Sunbeam’s door she heard the powerful engine of the green Austin Cambridge roar into life.
Ena looked in the direction of the sound to see the Austin racing towards her. She dived out of the way, landing on the pavement seconds before the speeding car caught the open driver’s door of the Sunbeam. Deafened by the abrading sound of metal being wrenched from metal, as the door of her car was severed from its body and propelled along the street, Ena pressed the palms of her hands against her ears.
Henry ran out of the flat, taking the steps to the pavement two at a time. ‘Ena?’
‘Over here,’ she shouted.
‘What the hell happened?’ Henry sounded more angry than worried. ‘You could have been killed,’ he said, hauling her to her feet.
Holding onto Henry’s arm, Ena stood on one leg. ‘I must have caught my knee on the kerb when I dived out of the way of that maniac.’ Looking down, Ena saw blood seeping from a deep graze. ‘It’s only a scratch,’ she said, limping from pain she suspected was nothing compared to the pain she would feel the next day when the bruising came out.
‘Come on, let’s get you inside.’
‘I need my bag. I’ll get it from the car and you look for the door. It’ll be goodness knows where by now.’
Henry took her arm. ‘I’ll get your bag and the car door when you are safely inside.’
Ena pulled away from him. ‘Get the bag now! Please, Henry, it has work papers in it.’
With a face like thunder, Henry left Ena leaning on the handrail at the beginning of the steps leading to the flat and went to the car. He returned with her bag. ‘Now, will you please do as I ask!’
Leaning on Henry,
Ena took the steps slowly. Once inside the flat with the door locked, she shrugged off her coat and, with Henry’s help, limped into the sitting room. While she took off her laddered stockings, Henry went to the kitchen, filled a bowl with warm water, took a bottle of Dettol and a wrap of cotton wool from the cupboard and returned to the sitting room.
‘Let’s see.’ Putting the bowl at Ena’s feet, Henry knelt in front of her. At first the Dettol stung, but it soon began to sooth.
Ena took a pull of cotton wool and dipped it into the warm water. ‘Aw!’ She opened her hand to reveal a graze from the heel of her hand to the start of her fingers. She leaned forward and submerged her hand in the warm water. Henry pulled off a length of cotton wool and, lifting her hand out of the water, dabbed her palm until there was no grit left in it.
‘Thank you, Henry.’ Unable to stop the tears, Ena laid her head on his shoulder and sobbed.
‘Hey? Come on.’ Henry put his arms around her.
‘I’m okay. It’s shock, I expect.’
‘You could have been killed.’ Henry moved the bowl of water to the table and sat next to her. ‘And not for the first time.’
‘No. But I’m safe now.’ Ena leaned forward to kiss Henry. He turned his head away.
‘You’re safe now,’ he said, angrily. ‘What about next time, and the next?’
‘Henry, don’t.’
‘Don’t what, Ena? Don’t remind you that you may not have time to jump out of the way of the next car that tries to run you down? Good God, Ena, you may not even see it. It’s a dangerous game that you’re playing. It’s time to stop this obsession with Frieda Voight.’
‘How can I? She killed Sid!’
‘Exactly. And if you get in her way, she’ll kill you.’
‘So, what do you suggest I do?’
‘Get out of London. Not to Lowarth. It would be dangerous for the family. There must be somewhere you can go that Frieda doesn’t know about. Somewhere where you’ll be safe.’
There were places Ena could go, but only one where she would be safe and at the same time learn more about Frieda Voight. Helen Crowther’s words on the day of McKenzie Robinson’s funeral, came into her mind. “If you want to get out of London for a break, give me a ring.”
‘There is,’ Ena said, ‘Brighton. A friend invited me to go down and see her not long ago.’
‘Thank God. Go and pack a bag. The sooner you’re out of London the better.’
‘What about you?’
‘I’ll be all right. It’s you who’s in danger not me.’
Ena ran into the bathroom and grabbed her toiletries, flannel and a clean towel. In the bedroom she dragged a small suitcase out of the wardrobe, wrapped a couple of pairs of shoes in brown paper and dropped them into it. She threw in clean underwear, stockings, skirts, jumpers, and a couple of dresses.
‘Are you ready?’ Henry shouted.
‘Yes.’
She left the bedroom, grabbed her coat from the hook in the hall and put it on. ‘I don’t want to leave you.’
‘I don’t see you have a choice. If you’d have left this Frieda Voight obsession alone, when I told you to…’ Henry looked angry and hurt. ‘I can’t take you to the station in the Sunbeam. I’ll get a cab. Shut the door after me and don’t answer it to anyone. I’ll be as quick as I can.’
While Henry was out, Ena telephoned Helen in Brighton and Detective Inspector Powell at Bow Street. Helen answered her telephone almost immediately. Without saying Helen’s name, Ena asked her if she could take her up on her offer of a sea view. Helen said yes, let me know what time your train gets in.
DI Powell wasn’t in his office. Ena was put through to Sergeant Thompson. ‘Sergeant, it’s Ena Green. Would you give the inspector a message for me?’
‘Of course, Mrs Green, as soon as he arrives in the morning.’
‘Tell him I’ve had to get out of London. Tell him, I’ll be in the same neck of the woods as his pal from Hendon.’
The call was interrupted by hammering on the door and Henry shouting, ‘It’s me!’
‘I have to go. Thank you, Sergeant.’ Ena put down the telephone and hurried to open the door.
Henry grabbed her suitcase and weekend bag and hustled her out of the flat. He locked the door and walked in front of her down the steps to the waiting taxi.
‘Victoria Station, as quickly as you can.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Except that Helen’s house was on the sea front, with an unobstructed view of the sea one way and a small jetty where fishing boats were moored the other, the crescent-shaped terrace of fourteen houses could have been an early nineteenth century terrace in West London.
The house was smaller inside than it looked from the outside. The dining room, decorated in fashionable bold greens and deep orange, doubled as a library with built-in bookcases in arched recesses. The room was modern and expensively furnished. Being a PA to the head of MI5 obviously paid well, Ena thought, or perhaps Helen came from money. From the short time she spent with her after McKenzie Robinson’s funeral Ena could tell her friend was educated. She spoke well, dressed well - and from the books on her bookcases, she was well read.
Ena browsed the bookcase, settling on a shelf of biographies of nineteenth and twentieth century spies that ranged from the American Confederate spy Isabella Marie Boyd and Mata Hari, to Sidney Reilly, known as the ace of spies, who was recruited by Scotland Yard, and husband and wife team, Julius and Ethel Rosenberg, American Communists who passed classified information by radio to the KGB.
‘I haven’t read them all,’ Helen said, entering the dining room carrying a tray with teapot, cups and saucers, and two plates of buttered crumpets. She paused briefly by the bookcase. ‘Borrow one, two if you like.’
Ena laughed, ‘Thank you, but I’ll decline. One of these books would take me a month to read.’
‘You don’t know what you’re missing,’ Helen said, playfully, over her shoulder. ‘Dinner won’t be ready for a while, but I thought you looked as if you could do with something to eat now.’ Putting the tray down on the coffee table in front of the fire she poured two cups of tea. ‘Help yourself.’
‘I haven’t had crumpets since I lived at home,’ Ena said. She took a bite of the small griddle cake. Butter dripped from her chin and Helen passed her a serviette.
By the time they had finished tea the afternoon light had faded. ‘Draw the curtains will you, Ena, while I take the tea things to the kitchen.’
Ena got up and went over to the tall sash window. Not quite dark but no longer light, she looked across the road to the pebble beach. The tide was coming in. The sea looked black and cold and unforgiving. Icy fingers ran down her back. Someone’s walked over your grave, her mother would have said. Ena dismissed the thought. She didn’t believe in such things.
Closing the curtains, Ena stood with her back to them and looked around the dining room, as Helen called it - a combination of studio, library and office. An artist’s easel stood in the corner with an unfinished seascape on it. Ena walked around the oval dining table. There was a pile of books in the middle, a table lamp at one end next to a typewriter and notepad.
‘Is this where you work?’ Ena asked, when Helen returned.
‘It was going to be,’ she said with sigh. ‘I was going to write McKenzie’s memoirs.’
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to remind you.’
‘Don’t be. I’m over Mac’s death. Not over it, but I’m coming to terms with it. I had to be strong for Eve. She didn’t like talking about him. She quickly gave away everything that belonged to him - his clothes and shoes - even his golf clubs. I stayed with her for a week after Mac died - and again after the funeral. While I was with her I couldn’t grieve. She became upset if I talked about him, so I came home. She’s fine about him now. In fact she said the last time I saw her that she would tell me all about McKenzie - the man and the husband - because she wanted me to write his memoirs.’
‘And are you going
to?’
‘I don’t know.’ Helen went to the drinks cabinet and took a decanter and two sherry schooners from it. ‘I know everything there is to know about Mac the director of MI5. I have his papers.’
‘Then why don’t you?’
‘Well, I would want to give a true account of Mac’s life - his working life and private life - and there are parts of both that would hurt Eve. Sherry?’
‘Thank you.’ Ena followed Helen to the armchairs at the side of the fire. She didn’t know her friend well enough to ask which parts of her boss’s life would hurt his wife.
Helen poured the sherry, handed Ena a glass and sat back in her chair. ‘I was McKenzie’s personal assistant for more than thirty years,’ she said, wistfully. I would be still if someone hadn’t–’
Ena took a sip of her drink. “If someone hadn’t” told Ena Helen knew her boss had been murdered. It didn’t tell her who she thought had murderer him. Ena was desperate to know who Helen suspected. She looked at her. There were tears in her eyes. Now was not the time to ask.
‘For a long time, McKenzie and I thought there was a mole in Leconfield House,’ Helen said suddenly. ‘We purposely didn’t tell anyone. We were getting close to exposing him when you came to see Mac about Frieda Voight.’
Ena held her breath. She felt sure Helen was about to tell her who the mole was. When she didn’t, she said, ‘Does Mrs Robinson still blame me for her husband’s death?’
Helen shook her head. ‘No. That Mac died shortly after you came to see him was a coincidence, nothing more.’
Ena exhaled. ‘Thank you for telling me.’ She wanted to ask Helen if she knew Frieda Voight had visited Director Robinson in hospital. She took another sip of her sherry. There would be time enough, she hoped.
‘So, Ena, what brings you to Brighton? Oh,’ Helen said, clasping her hand over her mouth. ‘Do not answer that question,’ she said, laughing. ‘Working with McKenzie for such a long time has made me inquisitive. Gentle interrogation, he used to call it. I call it being nosy.’
Ena laughed too. She wasn’t ready to tell Helen everything, but she felt she needed to tell her something.
There Is No Going Home Page 18