‘I’d like that,’ I said. ‘I’d like it very much. You get tired of being with murderers all the time.’
‘Anyway,’ she said, ‘both the McGruders have got a red urgent on them.’
‘Good,’ I said. ‘That’s what they should have.’
38
I got off the train at York. I made a phone-call to the local police and then took a cab out to a residential suburb. I stopped the driver well before the house I wanted. It was a fine evening; spring was starting up at last and the sun shone across a pleasant road; the houses there were all set back, well-dressed wives were parking the Metro and getting the kids and shopping out. Boys in their early twenties, self-consciously grubby, lay on their backs tinkering with big Hondas and Suzukis. I suppose I envied them – the good job, the bridge parties, the half pint on Sunday mornings in the snug with the locals in the other bar. It looked peaceful, that road, as I walked up it, and I felt depressed, bringing the bad news that underlay the peacefulness – and then I wondered whether I envied them after all.
The house I wanted had a brand-new oak gate; beyond it lay a herbaceous border of the kind I wouldn’t have minded myself if only I had a garden. Spreading off away from the border was a wide lawn and behind, embracing both lawn and border, stood a three-storeyed house in pale brick.
On the lawn, a man was pushing a well-rehearsed lawnmower; neither was giving the other too much stick. From the gate I watched him for a while stooped over the mower against the evening sun; he wore tailored jeans, sneakers and a striped shirt with the sleeves rolled up.
All right, I thought, just get on with it.
I shut the gate behind me and walked until I came up with the man. He had turned the mower, unconscious of me, meaning to tackle another strip of grass, and he came towards me busily, a black shape against the sun. He was in his middle forties, his hair expensively cut to make it look unkempt; it was going grey in a way mine never will.
When he saw me he stopped the mower and said: ‘Good evening. Yes?’
‘Mr Phillips?’
‘Yes,’ he said indulgently.
‘Martin John Phillips?’
‘That’s right. I don’t think I know you, though. Who are you?’
‘Police.’
His face altered, all the more so because he tried not to let it. ‘You’d better come into the house,’ he said, ‘I’d rather we didn’t talk out here.’
The inside of the house was as agreeable as the outside. The hall was carpeted in beige and ran right through the ground floor to a high, cool room which gave onto more garden, as well cared for as an actress’s nails.
‘You alone here, Mr Phillips?’
‘That’s so,’ he said, ‘my wife’s away looking after her mother; she’s ill.’ He coughed and turned to a bar. ‘May I offer you a drink?’
‘No.’
‘This is official, then?’
‘You’ve seen my warrant card.’
‘Yes. Perhaps you’d like to sit down, at least?’
‘No.’
‘Look, what’s this about?’ he said, and his anxiety wasn’t faked.
‘It’s not a traffic fine.’
‘Have you any jurisdiction up here? Your identification says you’re working with the Metropolitan Police.’
‘Cut out the crap,’ I said. ‘This is no time to be going round the houses; have you really no idea what this is about?’
‘No, frankly I haven’t,’ he said. ‘It can’t be about that robbery we had – that was all settled long ago.’
I never can get over the way liars use the word frankly.
‘It’s got unsettled,’ I said, ‘there’s one detail in particular. You could tell me which one if you like, but if you don’t like, perhaps I could tell you.’
‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.’
‘When you signed the Official Secrets Act, Mr Phillips, naturally you were aware of its contents.’ I looked at him.
‘Of course.’
Now I looked at him hard, but he didn’t look back. Instead his eyes slid sideways and he looked at the floor. He walked across the room to an armchair with attempted nonchalance. I gave him time to think out what he was going to say next. When he had arranged himself in the chair and was sitting forward with a grave, good citizen expression, I socked it to him. I said: ‘When did you last see a man called Patrick Hawes?’
‘See him?’ he said indignantly, but his hands began to tremble. ‘The man who committed the robbery here, do you mean? What on earth gave you the impression that I ever met him?’
‘You must have done,’ I said. ‘Somebody had to collect the film.’
‘Film?’
‘Yes, film. The microfilm that was refilmed. You had access to it. You didn’t care. You were laughing. You had the ministry to cover you over any awkward questions. And somebody had to see Hawes for the film and get it to the Soviet Trade Delegation. Hawes wouldn’t have known how to handle that. But you would.’
‘That’s a monstrous accusation!’
‘It’s monstrous because it’s true. You were at Cambridge.’
‘I was.’
‘That’s where it started. I’ve been doing research on you. While you were at Cambridge you joined a society called the Friends of the Poor.’
‘No, I didn’t,’ he said quickly.
‘Oh, don’t lie to me,’ I said, ‘it’s a complete waste of time. Do you know what Alistair Forbes, who was chairman of that society in your time, is doing now?’
‘I’ve simply no idea.’
‘Yes you have. What Forbes is currently doing is fifteen years for selling information to a foreign power. Not only do you know that perfectly well, like anyone else who reads a newspaper, but what’s more you’ve been to see him at Maidstone.’
‘That’s totally untrue. You’re completely wrong.’
‘No, I’m dead right,’ I said. I produced a photocopy and showed it to him. ‘It took some doing,’ I said, ‘but these computers really do work, and this is a copy of a visiting order he sent you.’
‘All right, all right,’ he said at last. ‘Alistair’s an old friend of mine and I took pity on him. I was sorry for him.’
‘Old friends can sometimes get you into trouble,’ I said, ‘and this one has. You didn’t sever your connection with the Friends of the Poor when you left Cambridge, did you?’
‘Whether I did or not,’ said Phillips, ‘I’ve been cleared by security for the work I do here at top level, you must know that.’
‘Don’t snow me,’ I said. ‘What kind of society was the Friends of the Poor?’
‘It was founded in order to organize assistance for developing countries. The Third World.’
‘And was that all?’
‘That was all.’
‘Your memory’s playing tricks on you again,’ I said. I got a booklet out of my pocket. ‘Refresh the memory, Mr Phillips. This is a copy of the rules of that society, and fancy that – your name’s down there as secretary. There it is, look – M.J. Phillips.’
He went pale.
‘You’ll see that one of the propositions is to work for friendly relations with Eastern bloc countries. Is selling classified information to those countries your idea of friendly relations, Mr Phillips?’
‘What you’re saying is infamous!’ he said. ‘It’s insane. I tell you I’ve been cleared by security; I wouldn’t have got this job otherwise.’
‘I think ordinary police like us are often more thorough than they are, Mr Phillips. I think you may have blinded the Branch with all your degrees. Does the name Gureyevich mean anything to you? Ivan Gregory, I can’t do that in Russian.’
‘It does not.’
‘You’ve never met him?’
‘Never.’
‘Well, you could hardly say you had,’ I said, ‘because he’s the counsellor out at Highgate who’s actually the KGB resident.’
‘The name means nothing to me at all.’
‘When did y
ou last see Mr Bartlett?’ I said.
‘Bartlett? The minister of defence, you mean?’
‘That’s who I mean. Did you see him just after the robbery, Mr Phillips, as well as just before?’
‘Well, of course I saw him often, we come under the ministry. But I can’t possibly remember the dates offhand.’
‘Don’t worry,’ I said, ‘I’ve got them for you. You went down to London and saw Bartlett immediately before the robbery here; he came up and saw you at the factory immediately after.’
‘Well, what of it?’ he shouted thinly.
‘That’s what you’re going to tell us,’ I said, ‘the what of it. I have reason to believe that you’ve contravened the Official Secrets Act in an extremely serious manner, so serious that it could amount to treason; there could be a charge under the Defence of the Realm Act. I believe that the robbery was a blind; Hawes wasn’t just after the money, though it suited him. I believe someone inside the factory assisted Hawes in that robbery and I believe that, whether directly or indirectly, that person was you, and that a man by the name of Jack Hadrill knew it was you. I believe you either photographed certain classified microfilm that was in your charge, or showed another person where it could be photographed, and that you then handed over those photographs to the representative of a foreign power.’ I added: ‘For money. What did your wife know about your activities, by the way?’
‘Nothing! There was nothing for her to know, I tell you!’
‘You will keep lying,’ I said, ‘even though you’ve nothing whatever to gain by it. I spoke to your wife before I came up here, Mr Phillips. She’s staying with her mother all right. But her mother isn’t ill. What’s happened is that your wife’s left you. Why? Was she afraid? Or did she just despise you? How did she find out what you’d done? Did you get drunk? Did you tell her? Or, far more likely, did she find out that you were having an affair with a man? Who was the man, Mr Phillips? Was it Jackie Hadrill? Because you’re gay, aren’t you? That’s no crime – not until you start picking funny boyfriends. But do stop lying to me. Your wife will verify whether the man was Hadrill or not – it’s only a matter of her looking at a few photographs. Did you try and buy your wife off, Mr Phillips? With all that money from the Moscow Narodny Bank? It won’t have been drawn on that bank, of course, but we’ll trace it through. I could press your wife, of course, but I’d rather not. The only thing she’s done wrong is not coming forward out of loyalty to you, and I’d rather you told us everything yourself.’
He said, as they always do when they’re cracking: ‘I’d better talk to my lawyer.’
‘No lawyer on earth can get you out of this.’
‘I’m completely innocent! I shall speak to your superiors!’
‘You’re a hundred per cent guilty,’ I said, ‘and where you’re going you won’t be able to talk to anyone but us. Now I’m going to caution you.’
I did that.
After a silence he repeated: ‘I tell you, I’ve done nothing wrong.’
I said: ‘You mean that in a position of trust you sold defence material to the very people we’re defending ourselves against, and you don’t think that’s wrong?’
‘I don’t admit that I did it.’
‘You’d better save all that for your trial,’ I said. ‘Myself, I’d think that much more of you if you’d given the film away, but you didn’t, you did it for money, and we’ll prove that. You seem to have imagined that you could hold what political views you liked, do what you liked, sell this country and draw your wages from it all at the same time.’
After another silence he said: ‘Are you going to take me down to London now?’
‘Yes.’
‘Have you got a warrant?’
I produced it. Then he said something amazing: ‘You none of you have the correct attitude. Can’t you understand that the Soviet Union must never be allowed to grow weaker than the West; the superpowers must march absolutely in step when it comes to armed might.’
‘Don’t talk politics to me,’ I said, ‘not after you’ve banked the cheques. You’ve got hold of the wrong script.’ I looked out of the window. ‘The car’s ready for us.’
‘A police car? Will it look very conspicuous, the car?’
‘It’s an unmarked police vehicle. We’ll go upstairs now and you can pack some gear.’ I added: ‘You won’t need much.’
I watched him while he did it; then we went downstairs in silence. We went outside. He locked up carefully and then preceded me down the twilit herbaceous border. ‘I still believe,’ he muttered, looking at the ground. ‘I’m still a communist.’
And a capitalist, I thought.
It was growing dark as I took him up to the car, and the last thing I remember, looking back at that pleasant house, was the German lawnmower left abandoned in the shadows on the lawn.
39
I went round to the defence minister’s private house off Greycoats Street, but I found I was still thinking about McGruder, and how strange it was to have sat drinking with a multiple killer in a nice, polite South Kensington pub like the Painted Lady, a man who had wasted three men in cold blood and stapled one of them up in five shopping bags.
My view was that the defence minister was an unpleasant man, though I was well aware that I wasn’t meant to hold views. Still, we do have brains, and I had watched this puffed-up old self-seeker on television over the length of three governments, pontificating. He had tiny feet and hands, all well polished. He was small, pink, grey on top, with more pink bits showing through the scalp. He was fifty-five, but he looked about a hundred and fifty-five when I got him out of bed at seven in the morning. When he came into his drawing room where I was waiting for him he didn’t look the way he did on television. There, in front of the cameras, he couldn’t stop talking unless he was in danger of saying something definite in answer to a question. Then, if the interviewer got difficult, he would smile a father-of-all-the-family sort of smile, and say: ‘I can’t comment.’
Well, he was going to comment all right now. He had dressed to meet me. He was half my size. Looking at his feet, I thought his shoes were like his ideas, polished and secret. He had dressed, but he hadn’t shaved. He had his grandiose public expression on, but he hadn’t washed. His knees turned inwards, perhaps to support the weight of his ambition. Ambition had got him where he was, and now he depended on it to keep him there.
‘What is it?’ he said. ‘What’s this about?’
‘These death threats you’ve had,’ I said, ‘and perhaps one or two other things.’
‘Other things?’
‘We’ve pulled Martin Phillips in.’
‘You’ve done what?’ he shouted.
‘It’s all in order,’ I said, ‘it was okayed by the Branch.’
‘You’re just a police sergeant, you know, and it’s customary to call me sir.’
‘Maybe,’ I said, ‘but I’ve left my dictionary behind.’
‘What have you arrested Phillips for?’ he asked in a false caressing tone.
‘Espionage. He may also turn out to be an accessory to murder. Whichever way it goes, he’s had it.’
‘You’re really a very low-ranking police officer to be talking to me,’ he said.
‘This is a big case,’ I said. ‘We haven’t time to bother about rank on this one.’
‘All right,’ he said, ‘you tell me you’ve arrested Phillips; how do I come into it?’
‘Well, Phillips is going to sing,’ I said, ‘and sing hard. He’s started already. We’ve got him at the Factory, and people always sing there.’
‘If he’s guilty,’ said the minister, ‘let him sing.’
‘You won’t like it when he does.’
‘Are you suggesting that I’m connected with Phillips in a criminal sense?’
‘Yes, I am,’ I said, ‘that’s what I’m doing.’
‘I think I’ll just ring a few people,’ said the minister, ‘and have you sent back to your humble occupations, whatever t
hey may be.’
‘Don’t bother,’ I said, ‘it’ll get you nowhere. When did you last see Phillips? Before the robbery at York or after? Or both?’
‘You’re not implying that I was connected with a robbery, surely? Don’t you realize I’m a minister of the Crown?’
‘It’s not what I’m implying,’ I said, ‘it’s what I know.’
He looked at me in the way people always look at a copper when they’re in danger from him. I could see him thinking, it’s me or you, and wondering if he could break me. But I had no career to lose, and he had. I said: ‘It’s getting tight for you.’
‘You really must call me sir.’
‘There’s no time for that,’ I said, ‘if there’s a contract out for you, we want to know why and who, and we’ll find out.’
‘You seem very sure of yourself.’
‘I am.’
‘What is Phillips supposed to have done?’
‘He’s charged with having sold classified information on the President 2 missile to a foreign power.’
‘Oh, rubbish,’ said the minister. ‘Really!’
‘How frightened are you of being killed?’ I said.
‘Well, I’m not frightened,’ he said, with a trace of his official voice. ‘I don’t like it, of course, getting notes like that, but a public servant in my position …’ He tailed off. ‘So you’re working with the Branch, are you? I think I’ll just check that.’
‘Check by all means,’ I said. ‘You want an officer called Gordon there. Wait, I’ll give you the number.’
He went through the checking motions. When he had finished I said: ‘Are you satisfied?’
‘Whether I am or not, I still don’t like your tone.’
‘Well,’ I said, ‘it’s the only tone I’ve got, so it’ll have to do.’ I added: ‘There are two men, we reckon – one, or the other, or both – who are after you with a weapon; they’re both convicted killers and they’re both on the loose. One of them’s a man called Billy McGruder. I’m after him for stapling up a grass called Jack Hadrill in five plastic bags across the river; you may have read about him. The other’s the man who’s just made that jail break from Wandsworth, Pat Hawes. He did the robbery up at Phillips’s so-called shoe factory and nicked microfilm; a night guard was killed in the process. Hawes and Phillips were working for the Soviet Union. You ever meet Hawes?’
The Devil's Home on Leave (Factory 2) Page 19