by Graham Ison
Masters strode across to the bar at the edge of the swimming pool and took three cans of beer out of the refrigerator. He poured them into ornate glasses and handed them round. Then he raised his glass. ‘Good luck.’ He took a sip and grinned. ‘How d’you say that in Spanish?’
‘Buena sombra.’
Masters nodded. ‘Yeah. Must try and remember that. Well, how’s crime, lads?’
‘How is it?’ Galeciras looked puzzled.
Masters laughed nervously. ‘English expression,’ he said. ‘Means er — what?’ He tried desperately to think of some suitable phrase that the Spaniard would understand. ‘How’s business?’
‘Ah! Business is very good.’ Galeciras took another swig of his beer. ‘My comrade — ’ He indicated his partner with a jerk of the head. ‘My comrade, he shot a bandido last week.’ He pointed at the two machine-guns resting incongruously on one of the poolside tables and made a noise like gunfire. It wasn’t true, but Galeciras felt that he had to justify his existence.
‘Oh, very good,’ said Masters unconvincingly. ‘Always nice to know you lads are looking after my hacienda.’ He laughed again. He knew that he shouldn’t be worried that the two policemen were standing on the very flagstones that he had sweated over replacing a few weeks ago, so that they looked as if they’d been there for years, but it made him feel uneasy nevertheless. ‘Why don’t you lads take the weight off your plates?’ he asked, pointing at the poolside chairs.
‘I’m sorry, I don’t — ’
‘My fault,’ said Masters. ‘That’s London English: means sit down.’
‘Ah!’ Galeciras grinned. ‘No thank you, senor.’
‘Another beer, then?’
Galeciras held up a hand. ‘No thank you, senor. We have other places to go. We just come to see you are okay, yes?’
‘Oh yes, very good. Drop in any time, lads. Always welcome. Liberty Hall, this is.’
They drove slowly down the track, watched thoughtfully by Masters from the gate. ‘What is this Liberty Hall?’ asked Galeciras’ partner. ‘I thought it was Puente Alcazaba.’
John Gaffney looked out of the window of his office on the eighteenth floor of New Scotland Yard, absently watching the depressing flurries of snow which swept sideways across his line of vision. He turned to face Harry Tipper, reclining in an armchair and slowly stirring a cup of coffee. ‘Five bloody days, Harry,’ he said, ‘and no further forward than we were on day one.’
‘What did Enrico have to say, guv’nor?’
‘Just that the local Old Bill had confirmed that Masters was at his place in Seville — or just outside it — and was apparently on his own.’ He threw his packet of cigars on to the desk and sat down in his swivel chair. ‘Which is some help and no help, if you see what I mean.’
‘Sort of,’ said Tipper. ‘I think we’re just going to have to be patient.’
‘That’s a bit difficult when we’ve got the team we’ve got breathing down our necks.’ He ticked them off on his fingers. ‘Apart from the Home Secretary, of course, there’s the PM, the Commissioner, and I’ve no doubt that Her Majesty is quite interested in the result.’ He spun on his chair and peered out of the window towards the Mall, as if seeking inspiration from a Buckingham Palace that was all but invisible through the snow. He turned back and saw for the first time a neat pile of papers on a side-table. ‘What’s that lot?’
‘Result of the house-to-house,sir.’
‘Any good?’
‘Nope!’ Tipper sniffed forlornly. ‘Only one thing … ’ ‘Yes?’
‘One of the neighbours … ’ He leaned forward and took the top sheet off the pile. ‘Number Nine said she heard a taxi pull into the mews at about eight o’clock — give or take half an hour — and leave again almost immediately.’
‘Give or take half an hour?’ Gaffney looked puzzled.
‘Yeah! She knows it was during a commercial break on television, but can’t remember which break it was.’
‘Smashing!’ said Gaffney sarcastically. ‘As a matter of fact, I didn’t think that cultured people like that lot ever watched commercial television.’
‘Neither did I,’ said Tipper. ‘Bit too ordinary for them.’ ‘So what results have we got from that?’
Tipper shook his head. ‘Nothing yet, sir. I’ve been in touch with Cabs Office but it usually takes one hell of a time, and frankly they don’t hold out a lot of hope. In the meantime what the hell do we do next … sir?’ He relaxed again and grinned.
‘Consider what we’ve got, Harry, that’s what we do. Now,’ he continued, ‘in five days there has been no claim from any terrorist organisation. Why’s that?’
Tipper shook his head. ‘Because it’s not down to terrorists, that’s why … ’
‘But it might have been a mistake.’
‘So? They’d still claim it; but there’s been nothing, and I reckon it’s too late now. Secondly, there appears to be nothing missing from the house, so burglary’s out.’ He reflected on that. ‘But I reckon it was never in. Strangulation’s not a usual method for a housebreaker to use. Cosh, maybe; gun more likely, these days. But strangulation? I doubt it, somewhow.’
Tipper nodded. ‘I’d go along with that, sir … if he’d bother at all. There’s no sign that she put up a fight.’ That was true. There was no sign of resistance from what they had seen, nor from the scientific examination of the body:
her fingernails had not been found to be secreting blood or skin that might have indicated a desperate effort to thwart her attacker. ‘In most cases a breaker, surprised by a woman, would cut and run.’
‘So we’re left with Masters,’ said Gaffney. ‘But I find that story of Conway’s hard to swallow. Are we seriously expected to believe that the Home Secretary’s wife is cavorting around naked in a swimming pool with an SOU main-index villain, and that her old man appears neither to know nor care?’
‘And don’t forget, guv’nor, that Colin Masters took it on his dancers on the first available flight out of Heathrow after the murder.’
Gaffney nodded. ‘And then there’s the chain. Asking for trouble, leaving that at Cutler’s Mews where her old man might find it. Why not leave it in Seville, at Masters’ villa?’
‘What, with all those criminals? Someone might have nicked it,’ said Tipper with a smile. ‘Hold on though, guv, that might just be it.’ Tipper leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and linking his fingers loosely together.
‘Might just be what?’
‘D’you remember what Conway said about Masters giving Liz Lavery the push? Or at least thinking about it.’ Gaffney nodded. ‘Suppose that is what happened. He kicked her arse out of it and she takes the chain back home as a keepsake — or something she can hock come a rainy day — and bungs it in the drawer of her dressing table and forgets it. Masters knows it’s adrift, and tops her to get it back — ’
‘No! He didn’t get it back, did he?’
‘Well, maybe he couldn’t find it,’ said Tipper.
‘Oh come on, Harry, it was in just about the most obvious place.’
‘Okay, try this one, then.’ Tipper smiled ruefully. ‘Heard she’d been topped; knew that the chain had gone from Spain and guessed where it was. Thinks he’s going to be our front-runner and has it on the toes until we nick someone else.’
Gaffney nodded slowly. ‘Sounds better. Maybe someone’s working one off on Masters by murdering her.’
‘That’s an interesting theory. Could have been one of his former lady-friends, you mean?’
‘Possible, but strangulation is not usually a female crime.’ ‘Hired assassin?’ Tipper grinned. ‘On her behalf?’
Gaffney smiled. ‘I think we’re drifting off into the realms of fantasy here, Harry. What d’you reckon your chances of pulling that off would be? Just suppose for one moment that you put yourself about in the market place offering a contract. So you get a taker and he says, “Who is it?” Quite casually you mention that it’s the Home Secretary’s wife; h
e’s going to run a mile, yes?’
Tipper nodded gravely. In his years of experience in criminal investigation, which was considerably more than Gaffney’s, he had dealt with one or two so-called gangland killings. But that’s what they were: villains taking out villains, because they’d got too big, or crossed into someone else’s territory, or cheated, or taken more than they were entitled to. Or they’d grassed. He couldn’t think of a single occasion when a killing of that sort had gone outside the victim’s own circle of acquaintances. ‘And what about Drake?’
‘Yes,’ said Gaffney. ‘What indeed? Any news on him?’ ‘Nothing, guv.’ Tipper shook his head. ‘I’ve put an obo on his drum, but I think we’re wasting our time. I’ve had a word with the DSS, but he’s not been in for his benefit. I’ve asked to be alerted if he shows up anywhere else to claim it; at least it’ll narrow the field, but I haven’t got much hope. I reckon Thames Division’s our best bet.’
‘Thames?’
‘Yeah!’ Tipper grinned. ‘It’s a racing certainty they’ll find him floating down past Tower Bridge.’ He became serious again. ‘So what do we do now?’
‘I think we probe backgrounds a little more. But I don’t want the anodyne statements of people like Desmond Marshall who’ll tell you that their marriage was idyllic — there’s no such thing — or information that you have to drag out of people like Waldo Conway, who I still reckon’s lying through his teeth — ’
‘I don’t,’ said Tipper.
‘He’s terrified of Masters, Harry. I reckon he made that whole story up, so that if it got back to Masters he’d just laugh, and even bask in the sort of reputation that screwing the Home Secretary’s wife would give him in the criminal fraternity, and Waldo couldn’t be accused of grassing; in fact, he’d be congratulated for having the Old Bill over.’
Tipper pouted. ‘Maybe. But don’t forget the chain. Anyway who’s left?’
‘His agent.’
‘His agent? What agent?’
‘Lavery’s constituency agent. One of the things the Special Branch has taught me is that, with politicians, their constituency agent is the one person who knows them better than anyone else.’ He turned and reached for the telephone. ‘But first, I think we’d better go and talk to the other side, just to put them in the picture. You never know,’ he added, ‘we might learn something.’
Hector Toogood was a senior Security Service officer with whom both Gaffney and Tipper had worked in the past. He sat behind his metal government desk and gazed at them bleakly. ‘And what d’you expect me to do with a piece of information like that, John?’ he asked. ‘It’s utterly incredible.’
Gaffney nodded amiably. ‘Yes, it is, isn’t it?’
‘But if it’s true, it represents a major security scandal. The Prime Minister will have to be told … ’
Gaffney raised a hand. ‘Now hold on, Hector, before you go running along to Downing Street — and possibly getting your fingers burned — let me just remind you that all we have is a piece of jewellery that was purchased by a known villain and was found in the Home Secretary’s house. That’s all. We have no idea how it got there, and nor, for that matter, has the Home Secretary. Added to that is the word of an extremely unreliable criminal who claims to have seen her — the late Elizabeth Lavery, that is — cavorting naked in a swimming pool with the said Colin Masters.’ Gaffney had deliberately not revealed the source of his information — few policemen did — but in this case there was sound reasoning behind it. It
was only with difficulty that Conway had been persuaded to talk at all. Any attempts by the Security Service to see him would be disastrous, and Gaffney might just need to see him again.
Toogood looked miserable. ‘D’you know anything about the set-up in … ’ He paused to consult the notes he had made during Gaffney’s initial explanation. ‘Puente Alcazaba?’
‘It’s about thirty kilometres or so south of Seville on the Cadiz road. It’s at the end of a turning up a long dirt-track, and an approach can be seen for miles around. So if you’ve got any clever thoughts about surveillance, it’d better be bloody sophisticated.’
‘This is terrible,’ said Toogood. ‘What arc we going to do?’
Gaffney laughed. ‘It s history, Hector. The woman’s dead, strangled, and quite frankly I don’t care what you do with that particular piece of information. My only interest is to see if you know, or can discover, anything which might help me to solve a murder. A murder I shouldn’t bloody well have been investigating in the first place,’ lie added bitterly.
Toogood still looked unhappy. ‘Cavorting naked in a swimming pool, you say?’ He shook his head as though unable to visualise anyone doing that, let alone the wife of his political boss. ‘I’m going to have to take this to the DG, John. I see no alternative.’
‘He’ll probably tell you it’s a load of uncorroborated crap, Hector,’ said Gaffney, smiling.
Toogood nodded. ‘He probably will, but for God’s sake, John, I can’t sit on it.’
Gaffney stood up. ‘I didn’t think you would, Hector,’ he said. ‘Not for one moment.’
Sir Raymond Grierson, the newly appointed Director-General of the Security Service, looked up as Toogood entered, accompanied now by David Meaker, Toogood’s own departmental boss.
‘I have just received some rather disturbing information from Special Branch, sir,’ he said. He had only just related it to Meaker who had reinforced Toogood’s view that the DG
should be told without delay, despite the apparent tenuousness of Gaffney’s tale.
‘Sit down, gentlemen,’ said Grierson, and listened dispassionately to Toogood’s account. Then he leaned back in his chair and smiled in a way that made both Meaker and Toogood feel as though they had just been accused of making a noise during morning assembly. ‘It seems to me, Hector,’ he said at length, ‘that what we have here is a whisper of unconfirmed scuttle-butt.’ And that was more or less what Gaffney had said he would say. ‘However, I suppose we had better set the wheels in motion … ’ He nodded his dismissal and waited until the door had closed. Then he lifted the receiver of his special telephone. ‘Richard?’
‘Yes, Ray,’ said the Chief of the Secret Intelligence Service.
The man behind the desk was a theatrical agent called Pearson. He was middle-aged and had the ascetic expression of one who suffered permanently from constipation. There was a sign on his desk which forbade smoking, and he looked like a candidate for an imminent heart attack. ‘Can’t you read?’ he asked testily. ‘There’s a sign out there that — ’
‘I’m not looking for a part, I’ve got one,’ said Detective Sergeant Ian Mackinnon. ‘I’m a police officer from New Scotland Yard.’ And he held his warrant card about six inches from the theatrical agent’s nose. ‘Are you Mr Pearson?’ ‘Great!’ The man threw down his pen. ‘I’ve been trying for three days now to get these bloody contracts sorted out.’ He leaned back with an exasperated sigh. ‘Well?’
Mackinnon retraced his steps and closed the door. Then he sat down uninvited. ‘Elizabeth Fairfax,’ he said. ‘I understand that you were her agent.’
‘So?’
‘You know she’s been murdered?’
‘Yeah. I saw.’ He leaned forward confidentially. ‘I’ve had nothing to do with her for years. She switched agents. Said she’d found a guy who could get her a better deal.’ He sniffed reproachfully. ‘I know the kind of deal he’d got in mind.’ He laughed cynically. ‘Now, if you don’t mind — ’
“She had a boy-friend — a live-in boy-friend, as you might say — before she got married.’
Pearson nodded. ‘I know. Don’t they all?’
‘Who was he?’
‘Now you’re asking … ’
‘Indeed I am, Mr Pearson.’ Mackinnon held the agent’s gaze for a brief second.
Reluctantly, Pearson got out of his chair and walked across the office to a filing cabinet. For a minute or two he rummaged in the mass of paper before turning back to the de
tective. ‘Paul Cody,’ he said.
‘D’you have an address for him?’
‘Sure, except that he’s not there anymore.’
‘How d’you know?’
‘Because he came storming in here one day, read my fortune for me, and told me he was going back to the States.’
‘Going back to the States? He was an American?’
‘Yes. He was a funny sort of American, though Pearson looked thoughtful. ‘I seem to remember he said he was born in Scotland. His father was a sergeant with the American Air Force, or some damn’ thing. He didn’t go to America until he was about seven. When he was eighteen or twenty, he came back here again. I think he thought he’d make a go of it more easily over here.’ He paused to chuckle throatily. ‘Didn’t though. Trouble was, he thought it was my fault.’ He sat down behind his desk again. ‘There’s no point in having these guys on your books if you can’t place them,’ he said. ‘There’s no percentage in that. Truth of the matter was that he was no bloody good. I got him one or two walk-ons. Even got him a four-week bit part in a soap. But after that, nothing.’
‘How long ago was all this?’
‘About five years, I suppose.’
‘Was this before or after Elizabeth Fairfax married Dudley Lavery?’
‘Just after, I think. Yes, it was. He was well pissed-off about that. I think that was half the trouble.’
‘Where did he go in America? Any idea?’
‘Nope! He said he was going to New York, to find fame and fortune on Broadway. Some hope. He’s probably working in a fast-food takeaway now; that’s where most of them seem to finish up. I’d be very surprised if he ever made a go of it.’ ‘How old would this Cody have been?’
Pearson thought for a moment or two. ‘Early thirties; at the time that is. Probably about thirty-seven, thirty-eight now.’
‘Thanks, Mr Pearson, you’ve been a great help.’
‘It’s in my nature, officer,’ said Pearson. ‘Is there a reward?’ ‘If there was,’ said Mackinnon, ‘you’d only get fifteen percent of it.’