by Daniel Kemp
“I've no idea, Jack. Perhaps you should ask them,” she replied, picking up her well-worn, yellowing wig from the bar top, replacing it with her empty glass containing a partially chewed lemon slice.
“Excuse me, but I couldn't help but overhear some parts of your argument there, old boy. I might be able to help you in some small part. I'm David Lewis by the way,” Dicky announced himself.
“And I'm Audrey Goldsmith,” the brown-haired barrister replied. “Pleased to meet you, David, but I'm sorry, only popped in for one G and T. Due back in court in ten. Must away. Bye, bye, Jack, I hope you sort the government out soon. See you another time, then.” She departed, waving over her shoulder as she left.
“I hope I didn't lead to that lady's departure by barging in like that, Jack. We still have you down as married on the company books.”
“Have we met…old boy?” emphasising the old boy, Jack sarcastically replied.
“Briefly, but obviously I left no impression. You were working at Harwich sorting out the imports from the exports. Barrington someone introduced us. He spoke highly of you as I remember.”
“Either he was drunk or you were. Can't stand the fellow. He represents all that's wrong in this country of ours, Dave.”
“What's all this about Haslemere, Jack? You're making alarm bells ring in every fire brigade station in London.”
“Have the brown nose brigade got each other's wives knickers in a twist? Worried about the poor of London being housed next door to their Guildford mansions are they? Sent you to tell me off and smack my hands no doubt.”
“If I hadn't heard you lambasting Clem Attlee I would now be thinking you'd joined the Fabian Society donning a red beret every Sunday morning at Speaker's Corner, Jack. Should we notify the Soviets that you might be joining their side? What's your real beef, old boy?”
“I just hate the snobbery. They act as though they own the world, but they don't, do they? All they own is the shit that comes out of their mouths and the only ones they care about is their own. As you're on the same pay-roll as them you can buy me my next pint!”
“Gladly, if you tell me who's paid for all the others? Only we haven't seen any published articles under your name for some time, old boy.”
“I sell my stories to the highest bidder. Sometimes that means my name is removed from the article in favour of the editor. Would you like me to send you an eloquent piece on the Porton Down research lab, or some samples of the banned chemicals they're working on, Dave? Perhaps you'd rather I send my jottings to The Times? No? Didn't think so. Don't you worry about where my loyalties lie. I wear a Union Jack handkerchief on my head whilst paddling at Bognor Regis on my hols. My money has the Queen's head on it just like yours, only mine might be fresher than yours. I quite like people who were born into power, it's those that have power by self-ordained decree that I object to. Pilchard, or whatever his surname, was a crap agent who should have been shafted along with loads of the other ponces. It's his breed that perpetuate the class system that this country is riddled with.”
“You don't mince words do you, Jack, but I'm only the messenger boy. All that is way beyond me. It might be in your best interests to keep away from the subject of abandoned military bases and it will definitely be in your favour not to mention Porton Down again to me, or anyone else. I'll tell the powers at be that you took your rap across the knuckles without a murmur of protest and leave it there. Allowances and expenses untouched. What say you?”
“What did you say your name was again?” Jack asked, as the barman placed his pint of Courage Best in front of him.
“David Lewis, old boy.”
“I'll look out for you, Dave. That's if you last! You're brighter than the rest and that will worry them. They don't like bright lights burning in the dark corners they inhabit.”
“You really should watch out for that inverted snobbery of yours, doesn't do you any favours to wear that chip so prominently. I doubt we'll meet again, unless you misbehave of course, and if happens I might be the person who stops that allowance of yours. I'd hate to do that,” Dicky countered, frowning as he turned to leave.
“Do what you like, Dave, old boy. I'd still get paid by people far more powerful than you, or any of those in Whitehall come to that. Don't waste time worrying about Jack. Jack can look after himself, David, old boy.”
* * *
For three long hours Dicky alternated between sitting at his table and prancing to and fro reading from those files then placing them, relevant page face up, at a space on the floor in an order that left Louise and Fraser mystified. He listened to the tapes of Trenchard and Beaumont, both standing over Louise whilst she wrote notes and sitting whilst she read them back.
“Whatever it is that they're covering up happened in Vienna, of that I'm certain, but what was it? Let's go through it all again and look at the facts, shall we?”
“Are you inviting my analysis, as I'm not really qualified in that area,” Louise replied, somewhat embarrassed.
“I'm supposed to be amongst the best in the country, but this has me baffled, so why not throw in your comments. More minds on the job the better.”
“You said that Lord Beaumont did not know the whole truth. You added that it's because it's too important. It could also be that it happened before his time.”
“Yes, obviously, Louise. Go on.”
“Well, this Gregory Stiles worked for the Duke of Windsor who died last month, so, if the secret involved the Duke in his younger days then Beaumont might not know about them.”
“I'm listening.”
“Price, you say, loves the Royal Family.” She looked at Fraser who nodded back at her. “He would keep a secret about the Duke, but now the Duke's dead is the secret still needed to be kept?”
“Yes, I believe it would be.” It was Dicky who answered her question.
“Not if everyone who knew of the secret were dead.”
“We're on parallel lines, Louise. Keep going.”
“Are you following Louise's hypothesis, Fraser?”
“I am, sir, but not too sure I'm liking where it's leading.”
Louise gave him a puzzled look which neither man could understand.
“I'm going to give away my age here, sir. Please don't repeat what I tell you to any in my section upstairs, I'd die if you did.”
Dicky sighed with his eyebrows raised in a look of understanding that he would normally reserve for Sheila when hearing about mischievous behaviour either by, or exacted upon one of his children.
“When I was younger I had a crush on Edward VIII. I read every story about him in all the women's magazines I could lay my hands on. I never thought that he would marry that ugly Wallis Simpson, especially if he'd met me. I know how that sounds and I know it's rubbish, but that was me. He was a dish, sir, and to put it bluntly had an obvious attraction to women. What if he fathered a child who's alive as we speak? That would be some secret to keep.”
“I came to the same conclusion, Louise, with the man I met in Tel Aviv telling Jack of the secret when Jack was in Vienna working for this department. But there's something else working its way through those two that connects to Argentina. Aberman is closely connected to the disappearance and probable murder of several ex-Nazis. Where for example do Jack and Patrick West fit into that? Aberman, that's the man I met in Israel, is in New York along with Stiles and Price. I'll stick my neck out and say that he was blackmailing the Windsors, but I'd sell my soul to the devil before I'd believe that Price was in it with him. Price knew West's father who was in Italy at the end of the war interrogating captured German troops. We must assume that Harry West found out something important and told Price. The only thing that I can think of would be the list of sympathetic names carried by Hess when he landed in Scotland. If the names on that list were discovered, and then subsequently interrogated, they would no doubt comprehensibly incriminate the Duke as being the leading light in appeasing Hitler. That could explain why Price found Captain West a posit
ion in the War Department and all records of what he worked on were erased by the Palace.
There's nothing that leads me to conclude that Price told Aberman of that list. If there was, then those who went under the hammer would have screamed like pigs by now and Beaumont would have heard. No, Jack's not into any blackmail scam and I'm pretty sure not involved with ex-Nazis. As much as the Court of St James disapproved of the Duke, with the Queen's mother blaming him for her husband's early death, they would certainly agree to pay to keep the birth of an illegitimate child from the general public as well as those in ministerial offices. Stiles would make the perfect go-between, not Jack. But what if Stiles told Jack something and Jack is trying to tell me?”
“How can you find out, sir? Louise asked, looking up from her notepad.
“We have to go and ask him.”
“We, sir?” Louise's eyes almost flew out of their sockets.
“I was thinking of Fraser going with me, Louise. I think he has more expertise for this one.” With a beaming smile on his face Dicky directly addressed Louise, who blushed slightly in embarrassment.
“Will he tell us, sir, if we ask him nicely?” It was Fraser's turn to ask a question.
“I think he will as I think he needs us.”
Fifteen minutes later the two men left Century House by a service exit which was surrounded by garbage bins, and drove to Lavington Street in Fraser's white Ford Cortina. Barrington was already awake. Dicky thrust the report containing the names of corrupt police officers on the table as Trenchard rose to meet them, but he never got to his feet. The report was left unopened.
“Tell me again how you knew of Price's Soho address. As nobody can find that statement of his that you mentioned.”
“Well, I saw one. Saw his signature with the capitals P and R of his surname. That's how I knew where he was living and where to send West.”
“You sure it wasn't Gregory Stiles who told you?”
“No, it was not!”
“You are in a bad mood this morning, Barrington, aren't you. Had a restless night, have we? We're sorry to add to your woes but on the table is a list of all those other custodians of the law who were bent and you knew of. When you sent West looking for Price were you so dumb as to think that your complicity would remain undiscovered? Someone, presumably Price, has made off with that statement leaving you looking somewhat naked when it comes to knowing of Price's whereabouts. Where is the rationale in sending West to expose an endemic corrupt practice that you're bang in the centre of? As dumb as you are I cannot believe you signed your own suicide note without a compelling motive. Care to expound on that, old chap?”
“Gregory was to look after me. We both decided that my time was up and I needed to get out. Neither he nor I saw you in the picture, Sir Richard. I'm to blame for that. Had I of known that it would be you on the case then I would not have underestimated your tenacity. Could I have something to drink please, I feel a thirst coming on.”
Fraser pulled the hip flask he carried from his jacket pocket, placing it on top of the all accusing papers that lay undisturbed on the table. Trenchard reached across for it, then went to unscrew the lid. He was stopped short by Fraser's hand on his arm.
“Truth is always the best way of alleviating the lump of a lie in one's throat, Barrington. First your capitulation then you get the whisky as a treat.” Fraser stepped back holding the flask.
“I met Gregory at David's funeral at the beginning of June this year. The Duke of Widsor was buried at the Royal burial site at Frogmore, Windsor. We hadn't seen each other for about three years, so his letter of invitation came as a complete surprise. I'll be extra truthful here, and admit I was elated, over the moon in expectation, but he had changed considerably. His cheerfulness had disappeared along with all other aspects of his conviviality and intoxication. At first I put that down to the occasion, the solemnity of it all and his personal loss. He loved that man before anything else in this world.
If you're thinking that they must have been lovers then I can neither confirm nor deny that, but my opinion would be that they were. I asked him outright about that once. The only reply I got was that he wished they were. It was said in a way that carried no element of regret, nor hope, more as a way of defence and defiance. Anyway, the reason for his change was not what I first thought. As the ceremony was ending he took hold of me, leading me away further into the gardens. That's where this plan of ours was hatched.
Aberman, the Jewish man you mentioned, Sir Richard, was blackmailing the Duke. Asking for astonishing amounts of money that Gregory raised on his behalf from our present Royals. Aberman is not the most careful of men. He talks a lot. Early into their monetary relationship he mentioned that he had an accomplice. Said that if anything untoward happened to him then Jack, yes, he actually used that name, would take up the reins to the money cart and drive it harder. Now, he said, that the ex-king is dead, is the time to even the books on them both. He wants to kill them, Sir Richard, and needed my help to flush them out.
Over the years of that extortion, Gregory had found Jack's full name, mainly through Patrick West's father's involvement in operations run through the War Department. Mountbatten had inside knowledge on some and others, who knew Gregory from his former gregarious days, helped in the rest. The Palace were not directly involved in a hands-on fashion, but they covered all traces of West's work in the WD in case of any recriminations at a future date. Very thorough, are the ways of the Royal Court. You would fit in well there I'm sure of it!”
“Take time out to have a swallow, Barrington, but don't let it interrupt where you're going in this highly interesting story. You have the undivided attention of us both, old chap.” Dicky nodded to Fraser, who handed Trenchard the whisky.
“I knew I'd be caught in any inquiry into police corruption, but he faithfully promised to get me out before any shit hit the fan. I believed him, as I wanted to get out, but as I said, I hadn't reckoned on you.” Barrington took a hard swallow and lit a cigarette.
“It was Stiles that led you to recruit the young West, Barrington.”
“Yes, it was his idea.”
“Why?” Dicky asked.
“In his role as the Duke's and Mrs Simpson's confidant, Gregory had plenty of time on his hands. One thing you can depend upon with the Army is that they keep immaculate records. He found a German officer whose name he recognised being interrogated and interned by Captain Harry West. He simply had to follow that lead, adding up the numbers, finding Jack's highly probable connection in the profit column. You had me turning somersaults when you mentioned Hess's name to me, sir Richard.”
“Did he think that the elder West told the younger one then?”
“He said it was a possibility that he couldn't ignore, Sir Richard.”
“Has he gone to New York with the resolve of murdering Jack, Patrick West and Aberman?”
“Yes! But it won't be he who fires the bullets. It will be his newfound lover who does that.”
“Does Stiles know the name and whereabouts of the child that the Duke of Windsor fathered?”
“No, he doesn't. But he wants to find that out before he does away with Price and the Jew.”
“Does Price have any idea that Stiles knew of West's father?”
“Not that I'm aware of, no. But Price won't be able to protect West. Gregory is somewhat unhinged when it comes to David and Mrs Simpson. He will cover all the angles to preserve the Duke's reputation; even murder. Up until this point he has been exceptionally thorough in that.”
“Now would seem an opportune time to explain why Gregory was given that code name of Alhambra, Barrington. It has intrigued me for many years.” Barrington took another swallow before he contritely continued.
“Gregory was in Spain during the Civil War on the royalist side. He had a nephew of the King of Spain as his lover. One night, and I do not know the details why, he cut off the boy's penis and then stuffed it down his throat before he garrotted him. It all happened in the
gardens of what the Moors described as a pearl set among emeralds. Gregory had a nickname for the boy. He called him the emerald of Alhambra.”
Dicky looked hard and long into Trenchard's eyes searching for a flaw in his conviction, but there was none to be found. There was only the obdurate strength of certitude.
“Give Fraser the name of Stiles's lover then finish the Scotch if you want, Barrington. I'm going to take some air. A walk in the rain might just clear my mind over what to recommend about you. It could be a long walk indeed.”
* * *
“Did you notice that there was one enormous answer missing from Trenchard's lips, Fraser?”
“I didn't, sir, no.” Fraser replied.
“It's the one that's still puzzling me and I believe only Jack can supply the answer.”
The drizzle had turned into a downpour that neither men noticed as they walked in careful thought.
* * *
At three-thirty that Wednesday afternoon a Mr David Lewis and a Mr Fergus Andrews boarded the Pan American flight leaving London to New York. They touched down a little after six pm, New York time.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Arrivals