by Graham Ison
The sergeant went next door, to the office of Detective Superintendent George Winter, who dealt with administration, and a thousand and one other things.
“Yes?” asked Winter, adopting the permanently harassed look that tended to put off most people who bothered him.
The sergeant explained.
“Well – what about it?” asked Winter.
“From the description of the card, sir, it sounds like a pass for Security Service buildings.”
“I should give them a ring then, ask them. Better still, go along to the commander – he holds a pass for MI5 – have a look at his.” Winter was clearly intolerant of what he perceived to be trivia.
The problem was explained to Commander Hussey who took out his pass and showed it to the sergeant. “Anything like that, is it?”
“It could be, sir, yes.”
“What was the name of this bloke they found?”
“Hodder, sir, Geoffrey Hodder,” said the sergeant, consulting his notes.
“Christ!” said the commander. “Get hold of Mr Gaffney, as quickly as you can.”
*
Gaffney strode through the outer office, nodding to the DAC’s secretary, and tapped lightly on Logan’s open door. “May I close the door, sir?” asked Gaffney.
“Yes. What’s the problem?”
“Hodder, sir. He was found dead in a cubicle in the gents’ at Waterloo Station earlier this morning. Looks like suicide. He had a plastic bag over his head.”
“I’d’ve thought he had more finesse than that,” said Logan. “Do we know how long he’d been there before he was found?”
“No, not really. Lavatory attendant noticed the cubicle had been occupied for some time. He said about an hour, but he wasn’t really sure – could have been there all night. They’re quite used to it, apparently. Get drug addicts in there, and tramps kipping – that sort of thing. The railway police have got a statement from him, but it’s not much good. I haven’t seen it yet, but it’s all a load of nothing; doesn’t actually remember seeing him come in.”
“How did we get to know so soon?” asked Logan.
“Bit of luck, really. Railway police asked Kennington Lane what to do about the office pass. They didn’t know, told him to ring us. Our skipper didn’t know either, and finished up asking Mr Hussey. Of course he recognized the name.”
“Bloody hell,” said Logan. “We’re always impressing people by accident. Where’s the body now?”
“On its way to Tennis Street mortuary, I understand.”
“Post-mortem?”
“Today – three o’clock, sir.”
“You going?”
“No – I’ll probably send Harry Tipper – he’s used to dealing with dead bodies.”
“Fine. Well keep me informed, John.”
“Yes, sir.” Gaffney paused with his hand on the doorknob. “I’ve been thinking that we might use this to our advantage.”
“How so?”
“If we can keep the cause of death under wraps, surround it in mystery, we could perhaps make it an excuse for our enquiries into Sir Edward’s leak. That would enable us to come out into the open and ask a few direct questions.” Logan looked doubtful. “Well, sir, you remember the Georgi Markov business – the Bulgarian who was murderd on Waterloo Bridge by a bloke with a lethal umbrella?” Logan nodded. “If we could hint that we might have a similar sort of job on our hands, it could be helpful.”
“Yes, that’s a good idea, John.” He paused. “But first of all, make sure that Hodder wasn’t in fact murdered, won’t you.”
“Well?”
“Usual carve-up, guv’nor.”
“Spare me the jokes, Harry.”
“No, seriously. Bloody pathologist was an hour late. Said he hadn’t been told, or some damned thing.”
“Terrible,” said Gaffney, shaking his head. “What did he say?”
“Asphyxiation compatible with deceased having placed a plastic bag over his head which, I may say, came as no surprise to any of us.”
“Harry.”
“Yes, sir?”
“I am right, there wasn’t a note in his property, was there?”
Tipper sniffed. “No, sir, nor upon his person.”
“That’s typical,” said Gaffney. “They can never do a bloody job properly. What was the pathologist’s view?”
“Privately he’s in no doubt it was suicide.” Tipper looked glumly at the ceiling before continuing in a monotone similar to that in which he normally gave evidence. “Estimated time of death nine o’clock this morning – give or take. Which means that the late Geoffrey was an early riser, or stayed at the office overnight.”
“Why do you say that, Harry?”
“He lived in Surrey.”
“So?”
“He lived out in the country. Nearest station is Guildford, and that’s about four to five miles away, and the fastest train from there to Waterloo takes about forty minutes.”
“I can see you’ve been doing some work.”
Tipper laughed. “Not me, guv. Railway police came up with all that. Incidentally I gave them all the warning formula. Told them not to mention he was with MI5 – and not to talk to the press under any circumstances.”
Gaffney leaned forward and placed his arms on his desk. “How in hell’s name did they know that?”
“Some big-mouth clever PC recognized the address of this terribly secret Ministry of Defence establishment he was working at. Mind you, every cab-driver in London knows it too.”
“Terrific!” said Gaffney. “That’s all we need – a bloody spotlight to work under.”
Tipper smiled. “It’s all right, sir. I gave them all a friendly little lecture – and promised them five years under the Official Secrets Act if a word of it got out.”
Gaffney laughed. “You do have a way with words, Harry.” He opened the bottom drawer of his desk and took out a bottle of Scotch and two glasses. “I suppose there’s no chance that he was murdered?” he asked thoughtfully, sliding one half-full tumbler of whisky across the desk towards Tipper.
“Murdered? What makes you ask?”
“The Markov job. D’you remember Markov, the Bulgarian who was jabbed with an umbrella?”
Tipper nodded. “Yes. It was a platinum pellet doctored with…” He paused. “Ricin; it’s a poison developed from the castor oil plant.”
“Well?”
“Too soon. Death takes much longer in a case like that. And then it has the appearance of cardiovascular collapse, like a heart attack, perhaps two or three days later.”
Gaffney laughed. “I can see you’ve done your homework, Harry.”
Tipper looked offended. “I have investigated quite a few murders, sir,” he said.
“All right.” Gaffney raised a placating hand. “When’s the inquest open?”
“Tomorrow; Southwark Coroner’s Court.” Tipper took a mouthful of Scotch and grimaced. “Open and shut case, I should think.”
“Open, Harry, but not shut, not yet. I shall see the coroner, get him to open and adjourn for further police enquiries. And no evidence put in about cause of death at that hearing. We can then ask all sorts of people all sorts of questions, leading them to believe that we’re conducting a murder enquiry. How’s that grab you, Harry?”
“Blimey, guv’nor, you’ll never pull a stroke like that.”
Gaffney smiled, a tolerant smile. “One of the things you will eventually learn about Special Branch when you’ve been in it a bit longer, Harry, is that when they need to they can deploy some pretty powerful guns.”
*
“You will appreciate, of course, Sir Edward, that Geoffrey Hodder’s death will greatly assist me.”
Griffin looked directly at Gaffney, a slight frown on his face. “Really?” There was an element of disdain, an old-fashioned disapproval of talking about the departed in that way, certainly before a suitable period of mourning had been observed.
“Certainly,” said Gaffney cheerfully. He
suffered none of the inhibitions that seemed to be affecting the Director-General. “I am going to work on the basis that Hodder was possibly murdered – he wasn’t, of course – which will allow me to ask a lot more questions without alerting people, particularly your people, to the fact that we’re looking for a traitor.” Griffin nodded and looked away. He much preferred euphemisms like mole or leak; the word traitor was too stark, too real for him. “Yes, I see. Where are you going to start?”
“With Hodder. I want to get as much background material on him as possible. On the face of it, Sir Edward, he could be your man. Why else should he commit suicide? Guilty, wouldn’t you say?” Gaffney didn’t think that at all – not yet. If the evidence subsequently proved that to be the case, well so be it, but he had been wrong too often. But he posed the question to see what Griffin’s reaction would be.
The Director-General shook his head. “I’d never have thought so, but I have to admit that a man must have a strong reason for taking his own life – and that is a strong enough reason in my book.” He sighed, a sigh of sorrow; he didn’t seem at all angry. “What help do you need from me, Mr Gaffney – any?”
“Just a sight of his personal file, Sir Edward, please. That will give me a base from which to start.”
*
“Put the “Engaged” sign on the door, Harry, and come and sit down.”
“You ought to have it screwed on, guv’nor – it seems to be up there most of the time,” said Tipper.
“I’ve got Hodder’s personal file from the DG.”
“Anything interesting?”
“Not really, just the bare bones. Funny thing, isn’t it? There’s a man’s complete professional life.” He held up the slim manilla folder containing perhaps a dozen sheets of paper. “That’s him and all about him.” He turned his chair on its swivel base, stretched out his legs and crossed them at the ankles. “Decent grammar school in the Midlands, then to university. Got a two-two in German, then into the army for his national service – commissioned in the Intelligence Corps.”
“What made them pick him for that?”
“God knows. There’s nothing here to indicate any special talents. Probably just had vacancies that week. You know how the army works.”
“No!” said Tipper.
“But that was undoubtedly his entree to MI5 which he joined in 1963. Married Elizabeth Barlow two years later, and they had two children: a boy in 1966 and a girl in 1968. All perfectly orthodox until 1978—”
“What happened then?”
“He divorced Elizabeth and married a girl called Julia – Julia Simpson, she was twenty-five.”
“And how old was he, sir?”
Gaffney did a calculation. “Thirty-six, coming up thirty-seven,” he said.
“Good for old Geoffrey,” said Tipper.
“Regular vetting clearances, including an extra one they put in after his remarriage, so the current Mrs Hodder’s been cleared as well.”
“So where do we go from here, sir?” said Tipper.
Gaffney stood up. “To use a well-known phrase, we go about our enquiries, Harry.”
*
Brigadier Parker smiled as he shook hands. “Well, you’ve arrested one army officer,” he said. “Don’t tell me you want another one?”
“No,” said Gaffney. “He’ll do nicely, thank you. But I would like the records of one.” He sat down and opened his briefcase, continuing to talk as he did so: “It’s a Second Lieutenant Geoffrey Hodder, sometime of the Intelligence Corps.” He opened a file. “I’ve got his personal number here somewhere. He was a National Service officer in the early sixties.” Gaffney extracted a piece of paper from the file and handed it to the Provost-Marshal. “It’s all on there,” he said.
Parker took the paper and glanced at it. Then he smiled. “I don’t suppose our records will tell you any more than you’ve got there, Mr Gaffney.”
“That’s not enough.”
“No – I didn’t somehow think it would be. What else d’you want?”
“Names,” said Gaffney. “The names of his commanding officer, anyone who served with him. In fact, anyone who can tell me anything about him during his time in Germany.”
“Good God, man! D’you know what you’re asking? You’ve seen army personal records before, I take it?” Gaffney nodded.
“The most you’ll get is a couple of confidential reports – probably with indecipherable signatures. The chief clerk of the day will have scrawled on a few bits of paper, and if you’re very lucky the quartermaster will have signed his eleven-fifty-seven.”
“What’s that?”
“His record of clothing and equipment – if he’s got one. Officers have to buy their own uniforms in the army, you know.” The military always seemed mildly irritated that senior policemen were issued with their uniforms free of charge.
“Lucky to have uniforms at all,” said Gaffney with the mock severity of a detective annoyed at having to pay tax on his plain-clothes allowance.
“All right,” said Parker. “I’ll do what I can. I suppose, as usual, you’re in some tearing hurry?”
*
It took only forty-eight hours before Parker rang Gaffney, which considering the work involved was pretty good going.
“I’ve got three names. There may be more, but I somehow doubt it. I thought I’d let you have these to be going on with.”
“That’s better than I’d hoped for,” said Gaffney.
“Two of them are out of the army now. One’s a recently retired brigadier called Chapman. He was Major Chapman when he was your man Hodder’s company commander. I’ve got an address for him – it should be right, it’s where they send his pension.” Parker chuckled. “The other one is called Withers. He was a subaltern along with Hodder, but he was a National Serviceman too, and left the army at about the same time. No idea where he is now, but I can give you full name and date of birth. Perhaps you can trace him. The third is still serving, Major Colin Sadler. He was a warrant officer class two in Hodder’s unit at the time. He’s stationed in Aldershot now.”
“Thank God for that,” said Gaffney. “I felt certain he was going to be in the Falklands.”
*
“Hodder? Yes, I remember young Mr Hodder. As a matter of fact, I think he’s in that picture there.” Major Sadler walked across to a battery of group photographs which occupied a large part of his office wall. “That’s him, there.” He jabbed at a face with a nicotine-stained forefinger. “Second from the left.” He resumed the seat behind his desk and continued to play with a paper-knife. “What d’you want to know about him? More to the point, why? In trouble, is he?”
“No, not unless you call being dead in trouble.”
“Oh!” said Sadler, and raised his eyebrows. “No point in me saying I’m sorry to hear it; hardly knew the chap. Not seen him for – must be twenty-five years. What happened – he get murdered?”
“Why d’you presume that, Major Sadler?”
Sadler grinned. “Stands to reason, doesn’t it? Big shot down from the Yard. He’s not going to have been run over by a bus.” The humor suddenly disappeared from Sadler’s face and his eyes narrowed. “Just a minute. Didn’t he go to Five when he left the army?”
Gaffney nodded. “Yes, he did.”
Sadler leaned back in his chair, very much the intelligence officer. “You from Special Branch, then?”
“Yes, we are.”
“Right.” He pushed his hands down gently on the blotter as though doing some callisthenic exercise as a preliminary to the work to come.
“You asked just now if he was in trouble,” said Gaffney. Sadler nodded. “Did you expect him to be? Or to put it another way – would you have been surprised if I’d said yes?”
Sadler laughed. “Boys and men – boys and men,” he said. “Twenty-five years ago I wouldn’t have been surprised what he got up to, but now, well, he must have been getting on for fifty?” He looked enquiringly at Gaffney.
“Forty-six,
forty-seven, yes. What did he get up to, all those years ago, Major Sadler?”
“Young officers, away from mother for the first time in their lives.” He shrugged. “Bit of responsibility – not much, but quite a lot of power, at least for a twenty year old. Army’s like that, you know. I suppose it goes back to the Indian Raj – further probably. An officer is God. Got their own mess, their own servants – well, used to have.” He pouted. “Which is why I can only tell you what I heard for the most part.”
“I don’t quite—”
“I was a warrant officer then. Sergeants’ Mess – all that. Never set foot in the Officers’ Mess until I was commissioned.” He stood up and walked over to a cupboard. He put a bottle of whisky on the table and poured a measure into each of the glasses without asking. “Wasn’t much cop when I did,” he said. “Much preferred the old Woes-and-Joes.” He reached across to the window-sill for a carafe of water which he banged on the desk in front of them. “But young Mr Hodder was a bit wild, so I understand, but then we probably all were.”
“Which part of Germany was your unit in?” asked Gaffney, taking a sip of whisky.
“Berlin, old boy. A very good place to run wild in.”
“Doing what exactly – the unit I mean?”
“BRIXMIS.”
“What was that?”
“British Military Mission,” said Sadler. “We used to go across into the eastern sector, almost every day. It was part of the agreement – still is, of course. Entitled to show the flag, which is precisely what we used to do. Never got anything out of it, mind you.”
“And Hodder went too?”
“Oh yes. There was either an officer or a warrant officer in charge. We usually took a Volkswagen with a bloody great Union Jack on it, and through Checkpoint Charlie we would go, drive around a bit – just baiting the Russkies, really – and then home to tea.” He dropped his bantering tone and leaned forward. “To be perfectly honest it was a bit hairy. There were all sorts of things going on at that time. They’d just built the Berlin Wall, and there’d been the Bay of Pigs fiasco. There was the Cuban missile thing while we were there, as well. Frankly, we thought that war was going to break out any day; the last thing I wanted to be was on the wrong side of the wall when it did. Come to that – either side of it, that near, anyway.”