The semi-euphoric mood lasted McHarg through a transport driver’s breakfast and only began to fade when he reported in at the Yard. Security had always been tough but in the old days his had been a familiar face and he could move around with the assurance of an inmate.
Now he knew what it was like to be a stranger. His credentials were carefully checked three times in succession before he was invited to take a seat and await the arrival of Chief Superintendent Highfield, who was in charge of the Partington case. McHarg glanced at his watch. It was still early.
He decided to take a walk.
His look of authoritative certainty carried him through most barriers, but when he finally reached his chosen goal, he found the resistance stiffer.
“Mr Allardyce went two years ago, sir,” said a young sergeant called Williams who had the lilt of the Rhondda in his voice. “Can I help you?”
McHarg produced the information Mr Flint had given him on the Jaguar and explained that he would like a list of possibilities.
Sergeant Williams pursed his lips and went away and returned with a uniformed inspector who made McHarg explain himself again.
“You’ve got authorization?” he said.
“Authorization?”
“That’s right.”
“Look,” said McHarg. “I don’t want the key to the Commissioner’s private bog, I just want a simple bit of information. You’ve got the biggest computer in the land at your disposal, or so the hand-outs say. What’s it do all day? Work out your pools plan?”
It was not the right tactic. The discussion developed, got warmer and was on the point of exploding when the door opened behind McHarg and the sergeant and inspector stiffened to attention and silence.
“Good morning,” said a quiet voice. “It’s McHarg, isn’t it? Doug McHarg. I thought I recognized that voice.”
McHarg turned frowning. But the frown faded immediately and he grasped the outstretched hand.
“Thank God for a friendly face,” he said. “Freddie Grossmith! I thought they paid you to keep out of the country these days!”
Freddie Grossmith and McHarg had once been very close, not friends so much as members of the same club whose entry requirements were a calm, self-contained competence and a fireproof skin when Sir Robert Mark’s purging flames were licking round the building in 1972. In many other respects they were completely opposite. Grossmith was a slight, quiet man who would never draw attention in a crowd. And this anonimity in terms of everything except efficiency had set his career on an upward sweep which had soon sent him soaring high above the plateau where McHarg’s uncompromising outspokenness kept him anchored. The difference in rank had begun to separate them just as certainly as the difference in role, McHarg developing his career in the Royal Squad, while Grossmith had become part of the Yard’s Interpol link team.
“What are you doing here, Doug?” asked Grossmith.
McHarg explained, both generally then specifically. Grossmith glanced at the bit of paper with the details of the Jaguar.
“Run it,” he said to the inspector. “Put what you get through to my office. And try to remember, official channels are intended for ease of passage, not for obstruction.”
Outside in the corridor, he said, “Come along to my office. Let’s swap news.”
“What are you now, Freddie?” asked McHarg. “Chief Super?”
For answer, Grossmith pointed at the legend on the door which they were approaching.
“Jesus,” said McHarg. “Commander, sir! I’m sorry. What I mean is, congratulations. Commander of what?”
“Same line, basically. Interpol links. International relations are more and more important. We need a constant exchange of information and ideas. No hold-ups, no gaps for the absconder, the smuggler, the terrorist, to fall through. Come on in.”
He ushered McHarg into what turned out to be an outer office. A stocky man of about thirty rose from behind a desk and stood to attention. He was surrounded by banks of filing cabinets plus what McHarg recognized as a computer terminal with visual read-off facility as well as print-out.
“Inspector Elkin, Inspector McHarg. George, ring Mr Highfield’s office, tell them Mr McHarg is here with me when they want him.”
“Will do,” said Elkin in a raw East End accent. “You want some coffee, guv?”
“Doug? Yes, that would be nice. In here.”
He opened the door to an inner office.
As McHarg went through, Grossmith said to Elkin, “There’ll be some information about a car coming through for Mr McHarg. Let me know when you have it.”
The office was comfortably appointed in the unostentatious functional style that Scotland Yard thinks suitable for its top men. Out of the window there was a not very inspiring view of London roofs with a thin glimpse of St James’s Park distantly visible between a couple of blocks of glass and concrete.
Grossmith peered out into the grey air and said, “I was sorry to hear about Mavis.”
“Yes,” said McHarg.
“You had a girl? How’s she doing?”
“OK. She’s in the States. An academic.”
“Takes after her father?” said Grossmith, trying to lighten the mood as he turned and sat down. “What’s it like down at the seaside, Doug?”
“Sandy. Though even sand has hidden depths.”
Grossmith made a puzzled face and McHarg found himself talking about Wainwright’s discovery of the tongue and about Morrison’s death. It was shop, but anything was preferable to polite discussion of his personal status, either emotional or professional.
“Interesting,” said Grossmith. “This man Morrison, I know his stuff. He could write well. You’ll be checking on him, I expect?”
“I thought while I was in town,” said McHarg.
“Save yourself some legwork, use the facilities.”
There was a tap on the door. Elkin came in with two cups of coffee on a tray and a short length of print-out paper which he handed to McHarg.
“Yours, I think,” he said.
“George, see what you can get on James Morrison. Freelance journalist. London address not known, but he owned the Mill House at—where was it, Doug?”
“Little Pailey, near Sanderton,” said McHarg, who was busy studying the paper.
There were three names on it.
Samuel Gray, 25, Lea Road, Hounslow.
Edgar Franklin, The Grange, Uppercross Lane, Richmond.
Sayed ibn Aziz, Flat 73, St Bridget’s Mansions, Kensington.
“Anything, Doug?” asked Grossmith.
“Not to me. Could we run them?” asked McHarg.
“Of course. George, feed these through too, will you?”
As Elkin turned away he rolled his eyes expressively. McHarg got the impression he didn’t care too much to be wasting his precious time on helping out some hayseed from the sticks. McHarg didn’t give a sod.
At least Elkin was efficient. By the time they’d finished their coffee and just received news that Superintendent Highfield had finally arrived, he’d collected what information was on record about the four men.
James Morrison was fairly comprehensively covered. As a well-known journalist and therefore a man of potential influence and/or nuisance value, his particulars and background were automatically fed into the computer. McHarg was impressed to see that the record was completely up to date—i.e., it included details of the fire and Morrison’s death. His only direct interest with the law (and therefore theoretically the only information necessary for police records) was a conviction for drunk driving and another for causing a disturbance in a London hotel. There was nothing in the background information that obviously suggested a link with Partington.
The Arab too was covered in some detail, mainly because he had some distant link with the Saudi royal family and was therefore regarded as a possible target for terrorist attack.
Edgar Franklin was a company director, aged fifty-nine, and had two convictions for speeding. Samuel Gray was completely unknown.
“Still not much help,” said Grossmith, who had been peering over his shoulder.
“I don’t know. If my Mr Flint can be relied on, neither of the men looked Arabic and even the elder of the two was well below fifty-nine. So that leaves Mr Samuel Gray.”
“Unless your Mr Flint got any of his details wrong. About the car, I mean, or about the number.’”
“I think I’d back him,” said McHarg.
He stood up.
“I’d better be on my way,” he said. “Thanks for making me welcome.”
As they passed through the outer office Grossmith said, “I’ll be busy later so I won’t be able to see you, but a thought occurs. If you’re at a loose end tonight, there’s something that might interest you. The BBC are doing a big series on the Crime-Fighters and there’s a reception at the TV Centre in Wood Lane tonight to launch it. I can’t go, but George here will be there. He did most of the liaison work on the international side, so he deserves the treat anyway. Why don’t you go instead of me? Treat yourself at the taxpayer’s expense. It could be fun. They go out of their way to please, George tells me.”
“That’s right, guv,” said Elkin. “They dearly love a real-life bobby, all these arty-farties. We’re like shit to a blow-fly.”
“No thanks,” said McHarg. “Not my cup of tea.”
“Think about it,” said Grossmith. “Where are you staying?”
McHarg gave the address of the small private hotel in Victoria where he was booked in.
“George will give you a ring later on in case you change your mind.”
Elkin looked unenthusiastic
“I think I’ll be busy,” said McHarg. “Goodbye. Thanks a lot.”
Nearly eight hours later, McHarg came out of the Old Bailey into a drizzly evening through which crowds of city workers were scuttling towards home and shelter.
He paused on the steps and glanced up at the figures of Truth and Patience which loom above the entrance. He felt a bit short on the latter quality. The preliminaries had been even longer drawn out than was usual. The defense was clearly determined to fight every inch of the way. His eyes rose higher to the bronze statue of Justice with scales and sword. If Partington was to be nailed, the shining lady would have to hit him with the scales after pinning him down with the sword. It was a good job she didn’t wear a blindfold. McHarg as arresting officer would be the first prosecution witness, but he hadn’t yet been called. There were many more profitable ways he could have spent the day. Still, it hadn’t been altogether wasted.
At lunchtime he had looked up Samuel Gray in the phone directory and rung his home. Mrs Gray had answered. McHarg, who had something of a gift for mimicry, had put on his best Home Counties voice and spun a line about meeting Gray last—when was it?—Monday night. He had struck oil immediately.
“At the Masonic Dinner?” Mrs Gray had said.
“That’s right. I’m sorry he got back so late,” he probed. She didn’t mind, she replied chattily. She was used to it on these occasions, had gone to bed with a book and a pill, never even noticed him returning.
McHarg went on: “Something we were talking about. I said I’d ring him at his office, but I’ve lost his business number.”
He got it and rang. It was a firm of stockbrokers with an address only a quarter of a mile away from the Bailey. There hadn’t been time at lunch but now he turned up his collar against the rain and set off walking. He hoped that Samuel Gray kept respectable office hours and wasn’t one of the home-for-tea set.
As he got out of the lift in the building which housed Gray’s firm, one of the fattest men he’d ever seen, with a completely bald pate, came dashing out through a door marked “Enquiries” and jumped into the lift which he completely occupied. He carried a briefcase with the initials S.G. on the side.
McHarg’s heart sank. The girl in the Enquiries office confirmed the worst. Yes, the portly gent who had just left was Mr Samuel Gray of Hounslow.
It could still have been his car, thought McHarg. But the prospect now seemed gloomy to the point of total obscurity. He had a couple of large Scotches till the crowd of homegoing drinkers began to depress him. Then he went back to his hotel room and had a couple of hefty belts at his own bottle till his own company began to depress him. He needed something to occupy him, someone to talk to.
So when the phone rang and it turned out to be Inspector George Elkin, obediently but unenthusiastically asking how he felt about the BBC reception, to his surprise he found himself hesitating the direct refusal.
“Tell you what, pussycat,” said Elkin. “I’ll leave word at reception you might be coming, OK? That way they can warn the band. Pip pip.”
He rang off.
Cheeky bastard, thought McHarg. Would it bother Elkin more if he came or if he stayed away?
The answer seemed obvious.
McHarg had another couple for the road and set off.
CHAPTER 11
Elkin had been as good as his word. McHarg was greeted like a man of distinction at the TV center and escorted to the reception by a girl with a face like a nun’s and a rump like a racehorse’s. She’d obviously been told to treat all the guests like top people and at a glance McHarg could see why. The place was full of media-familiar faces. He recognized Justin Greenwood, MP, prominent member of the Tribune Group, talking to his opposite number, Charley Beal, whose membership in the Monday Club went as far back as Sunday (a Westminster joke). There was a whole punk rock group present with names like Paul Pee and Tony Turd, standing menacingly around a swinging bishop with an even stupider name. In balance with these was the little throng surrounding Lord Hunsingore, founder of New Vision, one of the numerous moral regeneration movements of the ’seventies. McHarg recognized Hymie Small, who’d seen the light in Parkhurst, where he also discovered you can make more money with a paintbrush than a pick handle; Mrs Rose le Queux, one-time leader of the biggest of the new prostitutes’ unions, but now one of New Vision’s star proselytes; Mrs Ena Dyas, housewife conscience of the nation…And so on, as far as the eye could see.
The centaur girl got him a large Scotch and went on her way. He helped himself to half a pound of smoked salmon to keep the thirst coming and another Scotch when it came. A gap opened up ahead of him and he spotted Elkin. The group he was with consisted of an elegant youngish man with rosebud lips puckering beneath a neat military moustache, three or four epicene youths in hemp shirts and tight cords, a woman of about thirty in a wheelchair and a slight grey man with a skull like a death’s head whom McHarg recognized as Harry Preston, chief crime reporter for one of the big tabloids.
He went across and joined them. Elkin was doing the PR thing, it seemed, and managed to look pleased to see him, introducing him as the key witness in the Partington case. Rosy lips turned out to be Basil Younger, Deputy Controller of News and Documentary. The woman in the chair, whose face showed some polite animation on introduction before relapsing into a mask of contemptuous boredom, was Betty Woodstock, one of the Crime-Fighters research team. The henchmen in hemp were all production assistants with the same name, or so it seemed.
Preston lit a cigarette from the one he had smoked till it scorched his thin lips and said, “McHarg. Rings a bell.”
Younger said, “What’s poor Partington going to get? I presume it’s all cut and dried in advance.”
“Couldn’t really say, sir,” said McHarg in his best wooden constabulary manner. He felt the drink working in him, which was surprising. It had been a long time since booze had got to him.
“Got you,” said Preston. “You’re the one who told Prince Arthur to fuck off.”
“No,” said McHarg.
“No? It would have made a good story,” said Preston, showing his teeth in what might have been a grin.
“Risk hell-fire for a good story, wouldn’t you, Harry boy?” laughed Elkin, very jolly.
“One of your colleagues found out about hell-fire the other night,” said McHarg.
There was a s
ilence in the group.
“What do you mean by that?” asked the woman in the wheelchair.
“James Morrison. Did you know him?”
“Did you?”
“Only after the event, so to speak. It happened on my patch.”
“Poor James,” said Younger. “Yes, I think we all knew him. He was once a pretty big figure.”
“What’s that mean?” asked McHarg.
Preston answered through a cloud of smoke. “He could once ask four figures for a feature. He’d managed to drink himself down to two.”
“Come now. De mortuis…” said Younger. “A sad accident. Sad.”
“What’s your interest, Inspector?” asked Betty Woodstock.
“No interest. Just my job,” said McHarg.
“Any unusual death, we’ve got to look into it,” said Elkin almost apologetically.
“But without interest? How’s that for blasé,” said the woman.
“I meant disinterested rather than uninterested,” said McHarg.
“You mean, the Partington trial for instance, you don’t care about the result?” asked Younger with a hint of a sneer.
“Can’t talk about that,” said McHarg, who was feeling belligerent but not so that he was going to forget the company he was in.
“Sub judice, you mean? Well, it’s a useful cop-out, if you’ll excuse the expression. I sometimes think it goes too far, wouldn’t you agree, Mr Preston?” said Younger. “A little responsible media coverage while the trial’s on might do a lot of good.”
“Hard to say without a lot more evidence,” answered McHarg.
Younger’s lips pursed like an old woman’s, and he said, “Time to circulate, I think. Lovely to meet you all.” He moved away with the epicenes behind him, fluttering like washing on a line.
Preston’s teeth were on show again.
He said: “McHarg, I could get you a good deal for your memoirs of life with Prince Arthur. You ever want a ghost, you remember me.”
“You’ll be the first in my mind,” said McHarg.
“Jesus, McHarg!” said Elkin as Preston moved away. “They don’t teach you no diplomacy down at the seaside, do they?”
Who Guards a Prince? Page 7