‘I think my telephone is safe,’ he said, taking the case to the table next to the window overlooking Covent Garden. He moved several papers and put the case down. ‘It’s all yours.’
Ena took the key from her purse and unlocked it.
‘If there’s anything I can do…?’
‘No, but thanks…’ Ena said, taking out Sid’s journal.
‘Then I’ll get on with some paperwork.’
Ena read the title of each entry, skipping any mention of the 1936 Olympics and giving extra attention to passages where Walter and Frieda’s names were written. She saw nothing new. She turned to the last half dozen pages and read them again. There was nothing there that she hadn’t read before.
She yawned. Her back ached from sitting hunched over the table. She stretched to rid her spine of tension and yawned again.
‘Are you tired, Ena?’
‘Yes, but I’m not as tired as I am cold. I yawn uncontrollably when I’m really cold. It’s irritating, I know. It drives Henry mad.’
‘But it isn’t cold in here. Perhaps you’re coming down with something.’
‘I hope not,’ she said, still reading.
‘When did you last eat?’
‘Err,’ she lifted her head and looked out of the window, as if the answer lay on the other side of the pane of glass. She hadn’t touched the egg roll in Lyons Corner House. ‘I had a slice of toast this morning.’
‘Which was also the last time I ate. So, as it is three-thirty, how about I take you for something to eat?’
‘Inspector Powell, I am a married woman!’ Ena joked, swinging round in her chair to look at him. ‘It’s very kind of you. I am hungry. My rumbling stomach is stopping me from concentrating. I had to read the last page of Sid’s journal twice.’ She returned the journal and the letter to the case, locked it, and put it under the table out of sight. The inspector took her coat from the chair by his desk and held it up for her to slip her arms in.
‘Wait!’
‘What is it?’
‘There was nothing in the journal that I hadn’t read before, because what I’m looking for isn’t in the journal.’ On her knees Ena scrambled under the desk, dragged the case out and hauled it onto the table. ‘It’s in Sid’s letter,’ she said, unlocking the case and taking out the brown envelope containing the letter. ‘Sid said something that… Damn it! What’s wrong with my bloody brain?’
The inspector picked up his telephone. ‘Sergeant? Get one of the lads to go to the café in the market and get four rounds of sandwiches. Anything will do: meat, cheese - and tell him to put a spurt on. Stick an IOU in petty cash, will you? Oh, and get Jarvis to bring a jug of coffee and two mugs up to my office as soon as she can.’
When the inspector put down the telephone, Ena lifted her head from the case and frowned. ‘Something Sid wrote is niggling me.’ She shut her eyes. She could see the typewritten page, but whatever it was that he was trying to tell her was just beyond her memory’s reach. She turned to the last few pages of the letter and began to read. And there it was:
“… I attended some rallies, yes, but I didn’t march. I was working for The Times. It was my job to record the events, and then Highsmith wired them to the newspaper. But, as you’ll see, there are several rallies where my face has been placed on someone else’s body. That was it, the sentence that had lodged in her memory. Ena, please look at the photographs with the Hitler Youth articles. Look closely at them and you’ll see it isn’t me. Walter said if I destroyed their war records, they wouldn’t bother me again. So, I put a request in to McKenzie Robinson to follow up a lead I’d been given about a couple of suspected German agents and he gave me permission to see their records…”
Ena glanced at the remainder of the letter stopping when she got to the bottom of the page. Sid said again that she shouldn’t be shocked by the photographs, that they were clever forgeries, but it wasn’t a photograph of Sid that she wanted to see.
It hadn’t registered with her at the time, but she had seen someone, a couple. It was them Ena was interested in.
“There’s something else, Ena. I don’t think Walter or Frieda worked alone. It isn’t the uncle we talked about. It is someone at Leconfield House. Someone above suspicion. Ah! I hear your key in the door. To be cont. Sid.”
Ena put the letter to one side and took out the newspaper cuttings. She laid them out on the table and examined them one at a time.
‘Inspector, do you have a magnifying glass?’
DI Powell rummaged in the top right drawer of his desk, then the left, found a magnifier with a handle and took it to her.
‘Look at this photograph. That’s Sid in thirty-six.’
DI Powell put the glass up to his eye and then lowered it slowly until it was just above the newspaper cutting. ‘He looks very young.’
‘He was very young,’ Ena said.
At that moment there was a knock at the door and Constable Jarvis entered balancing coffee, milk and mugs on a tray. The inspector handed Ena the magnifying glass and took the tray from the constable. A second later the sandwiches arrived.
‘Ena, food. Come and eat something. That is an order!’
Ena reluctantly left the table and sat down at the inspector’s desk. She took a sip of coffee. It was hot and strong. ‘Mmmm… Just what I need.’
DI Powell ripped open several paper bags to reveal four rounds of sandwiches that had been cut in halves. Ena took one that was nearest to her. It was cheese and tomato. She devoured it in minutes and washed it down with coffee.
When they had finished eating, Ena leaned back against the circular backrest of the chair. She closed her eyes. Words raced round in her head: request to McKenzie Robinson… someone at Leconfield House… someone above suspicion…
She jumped up. ‘I am going to examine the newspaper cuttings.’
‘Can I help?’
‘Yes, but should you be? Helping me, I mean? Aren’t you supposed to be out there catching criminals?’
‘I’ve told you before, I’m the boss. If anything important comes in I shall leave you to it. Until then, I’m in here catching criminals.’
‘Good!’ Ena pointed to two photographs of her late work colleague when he was in his early twenties. ‘This is Sid.’ DI Powell took a pair of spectacles from his breast pocket. ‘Do you want the magnifying glass?’ He shook his head. ‘Okay.’ Ena separated the cuttings into two piles. ‘You look for Sid in this lot, and I’ll look through these. When we get to the end we’ll swap and look again, in case either of us have missed him.’
Ena had scrutinised the first pile of newspaper cuttings and armed with another cup of coffee began looking through the second pile. ‘Oh my God!’
‘What is it?’
Shock took her voice. ‘I’m not sure,’ she said at last, tears filling her eyes.
‘Is it Sid?’
‘No.’
DI Powell leaned over and peered at the photograph that was upsetting Ena. He held the magnifying glass directly above the face of a woman in her late-twenties. The woman was looking up at a much younger man. They were both laughing. She was small with a tipped up nose, wide mouth, full lips, and short fair hair. On closer inspection, the young man was a teenager. His hair was cut in the cropped style of Hitler Youth and looked lighter than the woman’s. Ena took the magnifying glass from the inspector and held it over the woman’s face. Picturing her hair with grey in it, add two stone and twenty-two years, and there was no mistaking her.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
‘Who is she?’ the inspector asked.
‘She,’ Ena said, a bitter edge to her voice, ‘is the woman I have just spent four days with in Brighton. Her name is Helen Crowther, personal assistant to the late Director of MI5, McKenzie Robinson.’
‘And the boy?’
‘Shaun O’Shaughnessy, if that’s his real name. He is a nasty piece of work who manipulated Artie and got him drunk to get information out of him. And who I suspect, killed Sid and threw
him off Waterloo Bridge. Oh no!’
‘What is it?’
‘Frieda was telling the truth. When I asked her if she had killed McKenzie Robinson she said she hadn’t. She said she went to the hospital to warn him and to tell him there was a mole at Leconfield House.’ Ena wiped her tears. ‘I didn’t believe her.’ She buried her head in her hands and wept.
‘I know what you need,’ Inspector Powell said, going to his desk and taking a bottle of brandy from the top drawer. He tipped what was left of their coffee back into the jug and poured each of them a drink.
Ena took her brandy with shaking hands. ‘Thank you.’
‘Medicinal purposes,’ the DI said, smiling thinly.
‘What are you going to do?’ he asked, when Ena had stopped crying.
‘I don’t know. Perhaps nothing - yet.’ She looked briefly at the table of incriminating evidence. ‘I ought to hand it over to MI5, but I don’t know who I can trust.’
‘You can trust your husband.’
‘Yes.’
‘And you can trust me.’
Ena said yes again. ‘But, I’m not going to do anything until I have spoken to Sid’s mother. I must tell her first. I owe Sid that much. She needs to know that what she will be reading in the newspapers about her son is not true. There’s always the possibility that Five won’t go public with the story. They may well bury it because Helen Crowther is one of their own.’
DI Powell downed his brandy. ‘Come on,’ he said, put that lot back in the case, I’m taking you home.’
Ena returned the damning evidence against Sid, Helen Crowther and Shaun O’Shaughnessy to the case and locked it.
‘Ready?’
‘Almost.’ She handed Inspector Powell the large brown envelope. ‘Keep this for me, will you?’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘There is no need for the Home Office or MI5 to see falsified photographs of Sid in compromising positions. The pictures Sid talks about in the letter to me I’ve put in the case. They will be enough to show that Sid was being blackmailed by Frieda Voight. These,’ she extended her hand holding the envelope to the inspector, ‘serve no purpose. They won’t help Sid’s case, nor will they help in the case against Crowther and O’Shaughnessy.’
Henry was at home when Ena and Inspector Powell arrived. Ena told him briefly about the letter Sid had written to her. She didn’t mention Helen Crowther but said, ‘I know who the mole is at Leconfield House. The evidence is in this briefcase. I don’t think I should show it to you, do you?’
‘No, darling. I’ll be under suspicion, the entire department will be. The less I know the better.’ Henry turned to Inspector Powell. ‘I suppose you’ve seen the contents of the briefcase?’
‘Yes. And,’ he said, turning to Ena, ‘I can’t ignore what’s in it. Sid Parfitt’s murder is still my case. I shall be telephoning Director Bentley at the Home Office tomorrow… afternoon.’
Ena saw Inspector Powell to the door. ‘And the envelope you’re keeping for me?’
‘What envelope?’
Ena put her arms around the inspector and whispered, ‘Thank you.’
Artie was waiting in the reception area of the Home Office when Ena arrived. Washed and shaved with his hair clean and neatly combed, he looked the smartest she’d ever seen him look.
‘You’ll miss the old office in Mercer Street,’ Artie said.
‘We will, but we’ll be safer here.’
‘We?’
‘Of course, we. A lot has happened since I put you in that taxi yesterday. There’s no time to explain now, but if you hadn’t met that toe-rag O’Shaughnessy, none of it would have come to light. So,’ Ena looked at Artie sternly, ‘let me do the talking when we’re with Dick Bentley. You–’
‘Follow your lead.’
‘Exactly. Ena Green and Artie Mallory to see Director Bentley,’ Ena announced to the receptionist.
‘He’s expecting you, Mrs Green.’
Ena led the way to Dick Bentley’s office.
She knocked on the director’s door. ‘And remember,’ Ena said to Artie, ‘don’t speak unless the director or I speak to you. If either of us ask you a question, answer, but don’t volunteer anything. Oh, and don’t look surprised when I mention O’Shaughnessy.’
Artie took a sharp breath. ‘You’re going to tell him?’
‘No, of course not.’ Ena straightened his tie. ‘Relax. Don’t look so worried.’
The director’s door opened and his secretary came out. She held the door open for Ena and Artie to go in. ‘Come in, Ena.’ Director Bentley reached over his desk and shook Ena’s hand. ‘And Mr Mallory?’ he said, his arm outstretched. Artie took his hand and gave it a shake. ‘Good to see you. Take a seat. Now, what happened on that church roof?’
Ena told the director everything, including Frieda insisting that she hadn’t killed Sid or McKenzie Robinson. ‘I believe she was telling the truth,’ Ena said. She opened Sid’s briefcase and took out his journal, part of the letter and the three photographs Sid referred to in the letter, along with the damning newspaper cutting where Helen Crowther was on a Hitler Youth march with Shaun O’Shaughnessy. She gave the newspaper cutting to the director first.
‘Is this what I think it is?’
‘Yes, sir. It’s a Hitler Youth rally.’
‘Good God!’ Director Bentley held the newspaper closer. ‘And is this who I think it is?’
‘Yes, Director.’
‘Who’s the fellow she’s with?’
‘His name is Shaun O’Shaughnessy.’
Out of the corner of her eye, Ena saw Artie flinch.
‘Do you know him?’
‘Yes. I met O’Shaughnessy in Brighton with Helen Crowther.’
‘And did you know about this at the time?’
‘No. Crowther befriended me after McKenzie Robinson’s funeral. I think I told you that Eve Robinson blamed me for her husband’s death.’ The director nodded. ‘Crowther was sympathetic and said she would speak to Mrs Robinson on my behalf. She gave me her number and said if I ever need to talk, I could ring her. She said I’d be welcome to visit her in Brighton. So, the evening that I was almost run down, I got in touch with her and she invited me to stay with her for a few days. I thought it was a good idea, give things time to cool down here.’ Ena took an envelope addressed to Director Bentley from her handbag and passed it across the desk to him. ‘It’s all in here, sir.’
The director put it in the top drawer of his desk. ‘I shall read it later.’ He picked up Sid’s journal, photographs and some of the pages Sid had written to Ena. ‘These I presume are for me too?’
‘Yes, sir. Together they explain why Sid Parfitt was forced to work for the Voights, and why he was killed.’
‘Your husband’s at Leconfield House, isn’t he.’
The director was not asking Ena a question, he was making a statement. ‘Yes. And because Helen Crowther was his boss’s personal assistant, I haven’t told him anything about her, or what is in this briefcase.’
‘Your husband was Frieda Voight’s handler?’
That was a question. ‘Yes, sir. Frieda told me when we were on the roof of St. Leonard’s church.’
‘And is that why she was going to shoot him?’
The director had been well informed. ‘She told me she was going to shoot Henry because he had lied to her. She said Henry had promised to get her brother out of prison and back to Berlin if she worked for MI5.’
‘The things we have to do to keep our country safe, Ena. Not always morally right, but always necessary. Leave this with me. I’ll read it thoroughly over Christmas. A meeting has been convened for January first. What to do about Helen Crowther will be decided then. For now,’ he looked from Ena to Artie, ‘it goes without saying that what we have discussed today stays within these walls.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Ena looked at Artie. He nodded.
‘Well, we had better find our new office.’
‘That won’t be necessary. You’ll be breaking up for Christmas in
two days. Go and do your Christmas shopping, better still, go home and rest. By God, you deserve a rest after all you’ve been through, Ena.’
Ena laughed. ‘We have been busy, haven’t we, Artie?’
The director didn’t give Artie time to reply. ‘I was thinking that, as your new office is piled high with boxes, Mr Mallory here might like to unpack them. Get your new work space ready for your return after Christmas. New Year, new office, new cold case.’
Ena looked at Artie and pulled a sorry frown.
‘I’ll get straight to it, sir,’ Artie said, beaming a grateful smile at Ena.
‘Well, if you’re sure,’ she said, ‘I do need to do some shopping. Henry and I are going home to Lowarth for Christmas. Oh.’ A worrying thought crossed Ena’s mind. ‘Henry will be able to go away at Christmas?’
‘Of course. Your husband has given a full account of his work with the Voights. As for the Crowther case, nothing will happen about that until the new year.’
‘Thank you, then I’ll go.’ Ena said, shaking Director Bentley’s hand.
Reaching up and hugging Artie, she whispered, ‘Behave yourself.’
At the door, Ena turned back and looked at both men. ‘Happy Christmas.’
THE END
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Madalyn Morgan has been an actress for more than thirty years working in repertory theatre, the West End, film, radio and television. She is a radio presenter, writes poetry, and has written many articles for newspapers and magazines.
Madalyn was brought up in Lutterworth, at the Fox Inn. “The pub was a great place for an aspiring actress and writer to live, as there were so many different characters to study and accents to learn.” At twenty-four Madalyn gave up a successful hairdressing salon and wig-hire business for a place at E15 Drama College and a career as an actress.
In 2000, with fewer parts available for older actresses, Madalyn taught herself to touch type, completed a two-year correspondence course with The Writer’s Bureau, and started writing. After living in London for thirty-six years, she has returned to her home town of Lutterworth, swapping two window boxes and a mortgage for a garden and the freedom to write.
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