by John Gardner
‘All right, I hope you’ve got a good story, Simon, because I’m fed up with having to work through Bruno on this one.’
‘You’d have been even more fed up if I’d stayed there. I was with Miller a few hours before he was killed.’
‘Well, go and write it.’
I calmed him and began to tell the story, slowly, taking it step by step and missing nothing out. When I finished Guy just sat there, the frown on his face deepening. You could count the seconds by the light movement of the pulse in his temple.
‘You think Fox was on to it?’ he asked finally.
The telephone rang and he answered, giving brief and concise instructions. Something about page four.
‘I’m certain he was on to it,’ I said once he had hung up. ‘They were looking for the missing pages, there’s no doubt about that.’
He looked at Poppy.
‘They went through everything of mine.’ She gave a tiny grin. ‘Everything. Embarrassing.’
‘Then Fox knows about Miller; he knows that Patterson went to see him; he knows why Hensman has gone missing, gone to earth.’ He stood up and scratched his head, it was difficult to know what was going through his mind, but the wheels were turning. You could almost hear the whirring. ‘You’re at risk, Simon,’ he said at last. ‘We’ll have to have more brains in on this.’
He rang through to Evans on the political desk. I gathered he was about to go home, but Guy insisted on his coming upstairs. It was the last thing I wanted: Evans was indisputably a good newspaperman, but you could never be certain of his loyalty when it came to the pinch. When I’d worked for him, on occasions in the past, I’d always been careful to wear both braces and a belt.
He came swaggering in already wearing his overcoat, holding a black bowler in his right hand and a bulging briefcase in the left: a small man, stocky, with eyes that gave you the impression he had looked upon a great deal of sin and was unimpressed by it. He appeared surprised to see me in Guy’s office, and regarded Poppy with suspicion.
‘Sorry to have bothered you, Edward.’ Guy always treated Evans with some deference. One could almost believe that the political editor had something on him: some skeleton of Guy’s past locked away in the order papers of his mind.
‘I had hoped to get home a little earlier tonight, but if it’s important ...’ His voice was smooth and older than his years: it matched the butterfly collars he wore with some affectation.
Guy motioned him into a chair. ‘Edward, all that is said in this office must be regarded as highly confidential.’
‘Naturally.’
Guy went through the story again, occasionally referring to me for accuracy on certain points. After we had gone over the meeting with Miller and his revelation, Evans took off his coat, as though prepared for a long session.
‘If this wasn’t England in 1938, I’d be inclined to say it’s conspiracy on a large scale,’ he said when Guy finished.
I was surprised, Evans always appeared to have cynicism burned into his soul with the acid of party politics. He knew better than most about the shrewd deals and sharp practices of a democracy at work.
Guy brought him down to earth. ‘Come off it Edward, every third politician is capable of corruption, and every other one capable of worse. You know these men: Ramsey, Trim, Nettlefold?’
‘I know one of them personally — Nettlefold — the others by sight and reputation.’
‘Do they wield power?’
‘Enough. Trim’s wings are clipped at the Foreign Office, particularly now Halifax is there, and the PM taking more and more control. But as a trio they have a fair influence.’
‘They could mould policies in certain directions?’
‘Not altogether mould them, but they could certainly make corrective suggestions which might give a bias to certain policies.’
‘They could make government decisions run off true?’ I suggested.
‘Between them yes. Yes, I suppose they could. All three are experienced, senior men. Trusted as well I’ve no doubt.’
‘Who’d be paying them and why?’ Guy looked up as one of the secretaries knocked on the glass panel of his door. ‘Go away,’ he shouted. There was a scuffling noise outside.
‘Guy,’ Evans glanced at me: a look of charity handouts. ‘You have no proof that anyone’s paying them anything. You have the word of a convicted felon who is now a dead felon. In fact, you haven’t his word at all. You have Simon’s word. It’s all fog and mystery. I don’t have to remind you that as a newspaper we deal in substantial facts, not mists and ghosts.’
‘Superintendent Fox is no ghost.’ I didn’t trouble to conceal anger. ‘And if you’re calling me a liar …’
He shook his head. ‘Not a liar, Simon. I’m just underlining the facts. We have no proof. There’s nothing we could take to court, let alone to press. A hint of this and the legal gents would be throwing bricks with writs tied to them.’
‘Supposing there is substantial truth in it?’ Guy showed no irritation at Evans’s pedantic excursion. ‘Who’d be paying them and why?’
‘I’ll grant,’ he began slowly, dusting a lapel with scrubbed fingers, ‘that the choice is admirable. If someone, or some government, wished to exercise influence over policy, they couldn’t have picked a better group. As to who? Well, take your pick. Industrialists wanting a hard line with our left wing brethren of the working classes. The management of major industry is sensitive. The trade unions frighten them to death.’
‘They terrify me,’ observed Guy with a smile, ‘but you’d have to be psychotic to go to those lengths.’
‘How many captains of industry do you know personally, Guy?’
He thought for a moment and then nodded. ‘You could be right. Power for the working classes is the thin end of the wedge.’
‘Paying men with influence could be like an insurance policy.’ Evans coughed and ran a finger across his dry lips. ‘Mind you, that would work both ways. The working class have men of great power on their side. They would want insurance for another reason. Then it could be purely criminal: the kind of thing that makes a row in the provinces from time to time.’
‘Local government officials taking bribes?’ I asked.
‘For favours, yes. The same system could apply. As for foreign powers — once more, take your pick: America, Russia, Germany. One or all could benefit in having three neatly placed civil servants in their pockets.’
‘But can you believe someone with a record like Charles Ramsey would sell out?’ Guy fiddled with his pen. I noticed that it was gold with an inscription engraved on one fat side. I had never seen it before. Or never taken it in. It was an expensive tool.
Evans stared back at him, then switched his look to me. ‘What about you, Simon? Would you believe it?’
‘I’d believe anything. We all know that most men have their price. People like Ramsey see this country going to the dogs anyway.’
‘Can we all sleep on it?’ Evans asked, rising to his feet and fiddling with his tie. ‘I think a little research at the bank wouldn’t come amiss.’
‘You mean whose safe deposits were opened? I had already made a note of that.’ Guy looked towards me, the question marks gleaming.
‘Fox must know that already,’ I said. ‘Now, if he knows the real truth concerning the notebook, he’ll be well alerted. Personally, I don’t think we stand a cat in hell’s chance of getting names. I worked on the case, remember?’
‘You can have another go.’ Guy always refused to take no for an answer. ‘I hope this hasn’t been too boring for you, Miss Cooke.’ The charm suddenly overtook the executive in him.
‘You could hardly call any of this boring,’ Poppy yawned. ‘I’m sorry, it’s been a long two days.’
We got a taxi paying off outside the building, and he took us up the Street, heading back to Marylebone. There was little traffic and few people on the pavements. In the Strand, a Rolls-Royce gleamed away from the Savoy; a pair of pacing policemen came ou
t of the forecourt of Charing Cross, as four night birds hurried across the road, long skirts lifted to avoid the damp, the two males in dinner jackets, the white shirt-fronts gleaming under their unbuttoned overcoats.
In Piccadilly there was another group, near the Trocadero, waiting for a taxi while a road sweeper cleared the rubbish from the gutter; then up Regent Street, with only a late bus for company, and a pair of lovers, entwined and walking in steady slow step as though they couldn’t bear to reach their destination. The BBC had all its lights burning as, presumably, nation spoke through it unto nation in modulated tones; we went down New Cavendish Street, turning off and finally stopping in the half darkness outside my block.
The street was quite empty and we stood for a second watching the vehicle disappear around the corner before going into the entrance hall. I picked up four letters from my box and rang for the lift. There were two men inside when the doors opened; one shaggy and small, the other built like a prize fighter. They came at us in a rush, the big one going straight for me, the small one tackling Poppy low.
I heard her scream as the breath was knocked out of me and I felt myself going over backwards.
My assailant had some kind of weapon in his hand — I think a piece of rubber hosing — which numbed my arm as I twisted to dodge the blow aimed for my head. He lifted his hand again and I brought my foot up, kicking with force at his most vulnerable area. The heel of my shoe connected, and the howl must have alerted the porter. Poppy was screaming and scratching at the little man’s face with her nails, while the bigger one doubled up, gasping and swearing softly. I rolled over and was on my feet again when the porter yelled from his doorway behind the desk. He was an elderly man, but came with the price of a flat and always managed to keep on good terms with the tenants. He was no coward either. In spite of his age he came running forward, shouting at our two assailants as though they were naughty children.
I lashed out at the small man’s shins and heard him yelp as the side of my shoe took skin and flesh off to the bone. He turned away, one hand to his face where Poppy had run her nails down his cheek, splitting the skin and leaving bloody furrows. The larger man had been really hurt by my foot; he scuffled towards the door, still gasping and crouching like the Laughton Quasimodo.
‘Get them, sir. Get them. Nab ‘em,’ cried the porter, but I put out my hand to stop him following. Poppy was gasping, crying with shock, and the bruise on my arm was losing its numbness and beginning to throb.
‘Footpads,’ said the elderly porter, his grey wispy hair almost prickling upwards to match the look of vexation on his face. ‘I don’t know what it’s coming to, sir; it’s getting so that you’re not safe on the streets. Still, we got a good look at them, Mr. Darrell, a good look. You all right, miss?’
Poppy nodded. ‘Sorry,’ she sniffed, leaning her head against my shoulder. ‘Sorry. Silly of me.’
‘I’ll ring for the police Mr. Darrell.’
‘No, George.’
‘But Mr. Darrell.’
‘No, George. I’ll go round to the police in the morning. I know what it’s about anyway. A story I wrote a few weeks ago.’ The lie came glibly. ‘You understand?’
He took the florin. ‘I still think we ought to get the police, sir. You never know what might happen.’
‘You were very plucky, George. I must thank you properly, but no police tonight. We’ve had a long and tiring journey. They’ll only have us up ‘till all hours. Miss Cooke’s going to put up in my flat tonight.’
He appeared to be inspecting Poppy, who managed a smile.
‘I see, sir. Yes, Mr. Darrell.’
He conveyed an immediate understanding and seemed uncertain whether he should condone such things. I could imagine him tutting to his wife about the way his tenants carried on. There was an uneasy pause, as though none of us knew how to make the proper exit.
‘You okay?’ I asked Poppy, my arm around her shoulders.
She bobbed her head, running a hand across her eyes to brush away the tears. I could feel her trembling. George took his cue and began to stumble around collecting our scattered luggage.
‘I’ll bring this up for you then sir — miss.’
‘Just pop it in the lift George. We’ll manage. You get back to ...’ I was going to say bed, but realizing he was fully dressed thought better of it. I wondered what he did at night, for he seemed perpetually on duty.
‘Was that the same business?’ She was still trembling in the lift, her voice small and quavering.
‘Shouldn’t think so. Quite unconnected I should imagine. Couple of roughs trying to make an easy few bob.’
She sighed, unconvinced, and I didn’t really believe it either. We both knew for sure when we reached the door of the flat. It swung open on its hinges, the lock jemmied open, the woodwork jagged. Inside there was devastation: cushions ripped open, the contents of drawers and cupboards scattered, pictures pulled from their hooks. They had made a good job of the search, it had about it the feel of a professional turning over. The atmosphere of rape. It was impossible to avoid the 99 call now.
The police kept us up until nearly five in the morning, though at half-past three, when they’d finished in the bedroom, I sent Poppy off while the urgent young sergeant still probed and questioned me and his assistants took fingerprint samples from the wreckage, like scavengers in a bombed building.
I was cross and frustrated by the time they left. The thieves had taken nothing, and even a fool could see they were searching for some small and definite item. Over and over I told the sergeant that I had no idea what it could be. I also told him that his own people seemed to have had the same idea at Dover earlier on. Pleading ignorance was the only method of defence I knew. They left reluctantly, promising to be back after further enquiries.
I rang the office, leaving a message that Guy would get in the morning, jammed a chair against the lock to shut the door, and went through to the bedroom. Poppy slept quietly, her face even in repose showing signs of exhaustion. Fagged out, I undressed and slid into the bed next to her. She didn’t move.
It felt as though I’d been asleep for only a few minutes when the telephone shattered whatever dream was peopling my mind. As though drugged, I stumbled out of bed and across to the living-room. Poppy made little noises as she also stirred.
My watch said nine-thirty and it was Guy on the phone.
‘I got your message, Simon. You all right?’
‘I’m fine, you woke me up.’
‘Yes. You worked with Puxley on the Hensman thing, didn’t you?’
‘You know I did.’
‘He’s dead,’ said Guy.
Any thought of more sleep was expelled as I came awake very quickly.
Chapter Seven
They had shattered the bathroom mirror, so I shaved twenty-four fractured images of my chin and jowls. In the living-room and kitchen, Poppy looked bewildered and hopeless trying to make coffee among the rubble. By daylight it all looked worse.
‘We can’t stay here, Sim; it’s impossible. And it’s going to take weeks to clear up.’ She made helpless gestures with her arms: signalling distress in a private semaphore. The world was not quite level yet; some of the poison which had built up in the last days silted out, making Poppy the innocent victim.
‘You want to go back to Tessa?’
She stood there in the wreckage, bright spots mounting her cheeks, ready to lash back. Before her personal storm broke I corrected the drift of anger. ‘Sorry, Pops. That was a rotten thing to say. Of course, we can’t stay here.’
‘You don’t really want me to go back to fat Tessa?’
‘We’ll go to an hotel. Somewhere near the Street.’
She grinned and suggested the Strand Palace. ‘It’s where businessmen take their secretaries. You told me.’ She giggled. ‘I keep thinking of all those shoes waiting to be cleaned outside the bedroom doors, with shorthand pads next to them.’
‘Okay, let’s be evil at the Strand Palace.’
There would be time to drop in and claim a room on the way down to the Street. Guy had telephoned from home, and it would be a while before he was in the office with the daily conference out of the way.
We packed our luggage again and I rang down to ask George if he would get the lock mended. He said he would start getting the flat tidied up as well. There was nothing of any real, or even sentimental, value in the place. I gave a last look at the smashed gramophone records, broken, it seemed, out of sheer viciousness: Ambrose, Henry Hall and Harry Roy mixed in with the New World Symphony and Rachmaninov’s Paganini Rhapsody, all jumbled by the radiogram Sarah and I had bought from Gamages.
As we came out of the lift, the detective sergeant walked through the street entrance, and an obvious thought came pounding into my head. They probably had me on toast. I’d forgotten the slip of paper, torn from the notebook, which I had given to Oscar Miller.
‘Good morning, Mr. Darrell.’ He was civil, almost friendly, asking if we had slept well. I covered my nervousness by blurting out that we were moving into an hotel. ‘You’ll leave your address, won’t you sir? We wouldn’t like to lose track of you.’
I told him he could always get me at the paper, and that we had thought of the Strand Palace.
‘Is that where you’re off to now?’
‘I’m on my way to the office, to Fleet Street, but we were going to register first at the hotel.’
‘We had hoped,’ he began, as though it was more than a hope, ‘that you’d have time to come in and look at some photographs. Our little rogues’ gallery. See if you can pick out the villains.’
‘Where would we have to go?’
‘To the Yard, sir.’
‘You want us to do this now?’
‘The sooner the better. I’ve got a car outside. It wouldn’t take long, and we could drive you anywhere you wanted to go afterwards.’
There were two uniformed men in the front of the car. We crushed together in the rear. The three policemen made remarks about characters they spotted on the pavements on our way down to the Embankment and Scotland Yard.