The Home Secretary Will See You Now

by Graham Ison

‘Dudley Lavery, QC, MP, who is now her Majesty’s Secretary of State for the Home Department.’

  Those who did not know Tommy Fox were tempted to describe him as dandified. It was a mistake. Although a slender six feet tall and a snappy dresser — today, for instance, he wore an immaculately cut suit in Prince of Wales check — he was also the Detective Chief Superintendent in charge of the Flying Squad. Furthermore, some years previously, he had been awarded the Queen’s Gallantry Medal for disarming a robber who had made the terrible mistake of pointing

  a loaded pistol at him. It is said that Tommy Fox walked swiftly across the room, seized the gun with his left hand, and felled the robber with a single blow to the jaw with his right; the villain was not to know that Fox was a southpaw. Witnesses testified to the Honours Committee that he then stood on the gunman’s hand, bent down and said, ‘You’re nicked, you saucy bastard’. It may be, though, that the last part was apocryphal; such stories tend to be embellished in the Metropolitan Police, and particularly in the Flying Squad. However, it is fair to say that only fools trifled with Tommy Fox.

  ‘I am reliably informed that you’re interested in one of my favourite villains.’ Fox stood framed in Gaffney’s doorway, his hand resting lightly on the handle, and grinned. Unlike some of his colleagues, Fox had not bothered with elocution lessons; his East End patter, spoken in a rich Cockney accent was, he said, the language that his clientele understood. Gaffney laughed. ‘Colin Masters, you mean?’

  Fox advanced into the room. ‘I’m sorry to have to say, John, that it was me who arrested him the last time he was up. And he got away with it.’

  ‘So I saw from the file. Any idea where he is now?’

  ‘He’s got a place in Wimbledon. And he’s got one in Spain.’ ‘Yes, I saw that too.’

  ‘I won’t ask why you’re interested in him,’ said Fox with a disarming smile, ‘because you Special Branch buggers never tell anybody anything, but I wouldn’t mind having a little money riding on the fact that he was defended by a brief called Lavery, who later became Home Secretary, and whose missus got topped the night before last.’

  Gaffney nodded. ‘As a matter of fact, Tommy, there’s a bit more to it than that. We found some jewellery in Lavery’s house that we’ve traced back to Masters.’

  ‘Have you now? Well, well.’ Fox grinned. ‘Not poking her, was he?’

  Gaffney wrinkled his nose in mock distaste. ‘Please, Tommy, we’re not accustomed to that sort of full frontal approach up here in Special Branch.’

  Fox laughed. ‘If I know Masters, there’s no other construction you can put on it.’

  ‘This place in Spain — is it his?’ asked Gaffney.

  ‘Oh yes! And paid for out of the proceeds of crime, if I’m any judge. It’s about twenty miles outside Seville; where the oranges come from — ’

  ‘And the hairdressers,’ said Gaffney quietly.

  ‘It’s quite a set-up. Typical Spanish villa built round a swimming pool. Cost a few grand, I should think, even over there.’

  ‘Have you seen it, then?’

  ‘No,’ said Fox, laying a forefinger alongside his nose, ‘but I’ve got some good informants. He has weekends there from time to time. Usually takes a few of his cronies across, together with their women. Sometimes they’ll stay there for up to a fortnight or more.’

  ‘When’s that?’ asked Gaffney. ‘After they’ve pulled off a job?’

  Fox laughed derisively. ‘Unfortunately, it’s not that easy. If it was, we’d have nailed the bastard years ago.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Masters calls himself a company director; to be more precise, a director of companies, saucy sod. He is too. He buys and sells things, so he claims, but I’ve a shrewd suspicion that he sells more than he buys, if you see what I mean. He takes in laundry too, but we’ve never caught him at it.’

  ‘Through Spain, you mean?’ There were several high-grade criminals who were in the business of exchanging stolen money for untraceable and legitimate money … at a price: ‘laundering’ is what both policemen and criminals called it.

  ‘Bloody sure of it, John. And there’s been more than a hint that he’s into drugs in some way. Trouble is, he’s got a bloody good accountant; bent as arseholes, of course.’ He sighed a sigh of resignation. ‘Never mind; he’ll come one day. They always do.’ He leaned forward. ‘Reckon him for this Lavery job, do you?’

  ‘I don’t think it’s that simple,’ said Gaffney, ‘but let me

  say that there are reasons why it might be profitable for me to have a little chat with him.’

  ‘Well, good luck. You’ll get sod-all out of him.’ He relapsed into silence for a moment or two. ‘The only redeeming feature is that basically he’s still a villain, and he’ll never get out of the habit of occasionally doing things himself. And another thing: like most of his type, he always bears a grudge, and if he reckons someone owes him he’ll work it off one way or another.’ Fox looked thoughtful. ‘I’ll tell you what, though, John. There’s a geezer called Waldo Conway, used to run with Masters; in fact, he went down when Masters got off: that job I was telling you about. Waldo’s doing a five-stretch in the Scrubs … ’ He paused. ‘Or it might be in Wandsworth. Anyhow, a chat with him might be helpful. Non-attributable, as they say in Fleet Street.’

  ‘What can you tell me about Masters himself?’

  Fox laughed. ‘Flash bastard, he is. They call him Mr Gold.’ He adjusted his pocket handkerchief. ‘Gold watch, gold bracelet, gold cuff-links, gold chain round his neck. He’s even got a gold-coloured Rolls-Royce; I always thought that was a bit over the top.’ Fox regarded himself as an arbiter of good taste.

  ‘All of which, I presume, can be shown to be the proceeds of legitimate business?’ asked Gaffney. Fox nodded sadly. ‘Isn’t that thumbing his nose a bit? Putting himself on offer like that, I mean.’

  ‘Yeah! But that’s him; reckons he’s too fly for the likes of us, with his clever accountant and his clever lawyers. But there are a few villains who don’t want to know about Masters. It’s natural enough; they reckon he’s pushing his luck with the Old Bill, just taunting us to find the evidence. We will, of course; it’s only a matter of time, and they all come in the end.’

  ‘Where’s he come from?’

  ‘Oh, he’s a local boy. Born in Wandsworth and went to a comprehensive school thereabouts. Didn’t get any O-levels though.’ Fox smiled benignly. ‘There isn’t an O-level for screwing — safes or women. He was caught bang to rights

  when he was about twenty-one — that’d be about eighteen years ago — and he went down for five for armed robbery. His dear old mum, Gawd bless’er, came trotting along to the Bailey to tell his lordship that young Colin had been mixing with the wrong sort of lads, and he was always such a good boy at home. As a matter of fact, it was the other way round: he was the ringleader. She couldn’t understand it, what with him bringing in the coal and chopping the firewood.’ Fox scoffed. ‘He had to; his old man was doing two years in the’Ville, for housebreaking. He learned a few tricks while he was in stir, and when he came out he swore he’d never do time again.’ Fox sighed and glanced at his watch. ‘And he never has, the bastard … but he will.’

  ‘What’s his method, then?’

  ‘Nothing simple, believe me. We’re pretty convinced that he sets up jobs; and they’re good jobs too. He’s a very bright lad, make no mistake about that. He seems to have the nose to suss out something big, and can assemble the right team for it. What’s more, he takes care of them; looks after their birds if they get nicked, particularly if they’ve got kids. He doesn’t care that much, of course, but it’s a form of insurance against them grassing. That’s always the danger when you get a clever bastard like Masters working it all out. When the foot-soldiers get nicked and he doesn’t, they sometimes get vindictive. That’s why he got pulled last time: someone spoke out of turn.’ Fox yawned. ‘And that particular villain’s disappeared off the face of the earth; almost certain to be part
of a motorway now, but we’ve no way of proving it. The mistake Masters made, of course, was to get involved in the job himself, but that’s what I was saying earlier on, you see; he reckoned someone owed him, and he was going to take it out of his hide … personally. They never learn, even the big-time villains, and frankly that’s our only hope of catching them.’ Fox stood up. ‘If there’s anything else I can help you with, give me a shout. And if you’re in danger of nicking Masters, let me know, will you, just so I can come and watch.’ He paused and smiled maliciously. ‘Have you still got Harry Tipper up here?’ he asked.

  Gaffney nodded. ‘Yes … and I’m keeping him.’

  ‘He knows Conway. As a matter of fact, I think he nicked him once … when he was a proper policeman. Be lucky!’ With a wink and a grin he left the office, slamming the door behind him.

  You asked me to arrange an appointment for you to see Mr Croft, sir,’ said Claire Wentworth.

  ‘Croft? Who the hell’s Croft?’ asked Gaffney.

  ‘He’s the MP whose telephone number was on the order-paper that was found in the Home Secretary’s house, sir.’ ‘Ah! So I did.’

  ‘He’s in Ankara; an Inter-Parliamentary Union meeting, I think it was.’ She consulted a note on her desk and nodded. ‘Apparently he’s combining it with a bit of a holiday, and won’t be back for about a fortnight. His secretary’s promised to ring the moment he returns. I emphasised the urgency.’

  Gaffney laughed. ‘Urgent is the one thing it isn’t, but thanks anyway.’

  ‘I’m so sorry to have kept you waiting; I’m Desmond Marshall.’ He was tall, and slightly stooped as though he had spent a lifetime ducking through doorways and had eventually got stuck like it. ‘Do come in, Chief Superintendent.’ Gaffney’s rank rolled off his tongue with the practised ease of a man who had spent years at the criminal bar, examining police witnesses.

  Gaffney returned the secretary’s newspaper with a smile and a brief word of thanks, and followed the barrister into his office.

  ‘The Temple is becoming impossibly overcrowded, you know,’ said Marshall, shifting a pile of pink-taped briefs off a leather armchair which had definitely seen better days. ‘There, do sit down. I expect you could do with a cup of tea; I certainly could. Hang on a moment.’ He walked through to the outer office again and Gaffney heard him asking the secretary for two cups of tea.

  ‘Absolute bugger of a case today,’ continued Marshall,

  returning. ‘Excuse me doing this; didn’t want to keep you waiting any longer than necessary.’ He pulled off his bands and replaced them with a collar and an Old Harrovian tie; it was the only one Gaffney could readily identify because of its similarity to that of the Criminal Investigation Department: something which did not please all Old Harrovians.

  The secretary appeared in the doorway, balancing two cups of tea and a sugar-bowl on a small tray. Marshall smiled at her and looked at Gaffney. ‘There are still some things in the legal profession that can be done with astonishing speed.’ He glanced back at the girl. ‘That was very quick of you, my dear,’ he said.

  The secretary blushed and put the tray down; she obviously fancied Marshall. ‘I made it as soon as you came in,’ she said. ‘I thought you’d be needing one.’

  ‘Splendid.’ Marshall seated himself, jacketless, behind the large partners desk and sipped his tea sadly. ‘I’ve given up sugar,’ he said. ‘My wife says it’s poison.’ He looked up and smiled wearily. ‘Well now, Chief Superintendent, what can I do for you?’

  ‘As I said on the phone, Mr Marshall, I am investigating the death of Elizabeth Lavery.’

  Marshall nodded gravely. ‘Yes, what a bloody tragedy, absolutely awful. Strange thing really, we’re dealing with it in the courts all day long, but it doesn’t touch you until it happens to someone you know. Any leads yet?’

  ‘Nothing to talk of.’ He had no intention of telling Lavery’s friend what he had learned about Masters, but there would be some profit in getting Marshall to talk about him, if that was possible. ‘I was going to suggest that it might be helpful if you could tell me a bit about the Home Secretary. We know the public persona, so to speak, but not much about Dudley Lavery the man.’ Gaffney leaned forward and stirred his tea.

  ‘Mmm! Difficult to know where to start really.’ He smiled the smile he usually reserved for juries when trying to convince them that the pack of lies his client had just told was the gospel truth. ‘At the beginning, I suppose. Dudley had the best of everything: public school, Oxford, commission

  in the navy. The only thing he couldn’t seem to do was to pick a wife … ’ He broke off, apparently alarmed at what he had just said. ‘I take it this conversation is in confidence, Chief Superintendent?’

  Gaffney nodded. ‘Of course. I’m merely trying to discover something of Mr Lavery’s background; or, more particularly, Mrs Lavery’s.’

  ‘Yes.’ Marshall seemed reassured. ‘I suppose it was because Dudley was a workaholic that his first marriage was a disaster; an absolute wash-out.’

  ‘When was that?’

  Marshall pursed his lips, thinking. ‘I knew you were going to ask that.’ He paused again. ‘I’m working it out backwards,’ he said. ‘Let me see; Dudley must have been called when he was about twenty-three, straight after he came out of the navy.’ Seeing Gaffney’s raised eyebrows, Marshall added: ‘National Service, two years. I think he was about thirty when he married.’ He nodded, as if confirming his own statement. ‘He was working damned hard then to establish his practice. He was adamant that he was going to take silk bang on ten years; I think we all say that when we start. Never do though.’ He smiled at the folly of his own youthful naivety. ‘Some of us don’t do it at all,’ he said ruefully. ‘I think Dudley did it in thirteen, after all; it’s not bad. I seem to recall he got his seat in the same year; yes, I’m sure he did; we always seemed to be opening champagne in chambers that year.’ He held up a packet of cigarettes. ‘Do you do this?’ he asked.

  ‘No thank you, not cigarettes anyway.’

  ‘Very wise; wish I didn’t.’ Marshall stood up and walked to a cupboard in the huge old-fashioned bookcase. He took out a bottle of whisky and turned to face Gaffney. ‘I’ve yet to meet a detective who doesn’t do this, though,’ he said.

  ‘Nor have I, but just a small one, please.’

  ‘Right,’ said Marshall, spinning the top off the bottle and immediately demonstrating that his concept of a ‘small one’ was somewhat different from Gaffney’s. ‘I suppose Dudley must have been about thirty-six then,’ he continued, settling himself behind his desk once more, ‘and he’d been married

  for five years probably. Very ordinary sort of girl, Dorothy, and if that sounds disparaging it’s not meant to; she’d have made him a damned good wife if he’d let her. But he was never at home; always in court or in the House. To be a lawyer-MP is a recipe for a disastrous marriage, believe me.’

  The door opened and a head appeared round it. ‘Oh, sorry, Marshall.’ The door closed again.

  ‘Poor sod,’ said Marshall. ‘Probably finish up holding a conference on the stairs.’ He looked as though he didn’t much care. ‘It was an amicable divorce, although some said that Dudley had been playing around with his secretary for a while … ’ He shrugged. ‘Frankly, I think it was malicious gossip. You’ve no idea what a bitchy lot they can be in the the Temple … particularly about someone who’s successful. Anyway it got to the point where Dorothy had had enough … of being neglected, I should think. She’s married to a doctor in the States now, I believe.’

  ‘How did he meet Elizabeth?’

  Marshall chuckled. ‘Clark turned up with this brief — ’ ‘Clark?’

  ‘Yes, he’s one of the solicitors we deal with. It was a defamation. Well, Dudley doesn’t do much in the way of civil — not that sort, anyway — but Clark imposed on him to see the plaintiff, one Elizabeth Fairfax. And that was that. She was an actress, as you probably know, and once he’d met her, he was lost. Very attractive gi
rl … Must have been about twenty-nine at that time, I should think.’

  ‘About five years ago, that would have been then?’ asked Gaffney.

  ‘Be about it,’ said Marshall. ‘If I remember correctly, some gossip columnist had written a piece about her suggesting that she’d only got a part in a television play because she’d been to bed with the producer. Probably had too, but the truth is no defence to libel, as you know.’ He paused briefly and looked slightly guilty at what he had just said. ‘Anyway, Dudley took the case and settled out of court. Got a substantial settlement, as I recall.’ His hand played a silent tattoo on the desk-top. ‘Six months later they were married.’

  ‘Bit sudden, wasn’t it?’

  Marshall sniffed. ‘I think Dudley thought he was running out of time. Nearly fifty then, he must have been; bit late for getting married. Of course the cynics said that he was hoping for a Cabinet post come the election, and he wouldn’t get one without a wife. As for Elizabeth, I think she saw great benefit in having a husband who appeared destined for Government, whether she continued her acting career or not.’

  ‘Had she been married before?’ Gaffney was having to be patient; much of what the lawyer was saying was of little interest, but he didn’t want to shut him up.

  For a moment or two Marshall stared reflectively at the ceiling. ‘There was a wonderful expression that my mother used to use when she thought that we children weren’t listening: married but not churched. That, I think, would fairly accurately have been Elizabeth’s previous state.’ He anticipated Gaffney’s next question. ‘An actor, I think he was; she was living with him for quite some time, I believe. I don’t know what this attraction is in the acting business, but it seems fairly prevalent.’

  Gaffney winced inwardly; his wife had left him in favour of an actor. ‘And that lasted until something better came along; like a Member of Parliament who was also a high-earning lawyer?’ he asked savagely.

  Marshall laughed. ‘I can see that it’s not only the law that your profession and mine have in common, Chief Superintendent,’ he said. ‘It’s also congenital cynicism.’