by Graham Ison
‘Hope it keeps snowing,’ said Tipper, turning his back against the cold wind, ‘otherwise these tyre tracks, and our footmarks, are going to be a dead giveaway.’
‘It’s going to thaw tomorrow, guv,’ said the locks expert, a middle-aged detective constable from the Flying Squad, named Swann.
‘How d’you know?’ asked Fox.
‘My seaweed’s turned mildew.’ There wasn’t the trace of a smile on Swann’s mournful face.
‘Never mind all that crap,’ said Fox, ‘just get that bloody door open, will you.’
The constable surveyed the front door, and sucked through his teeth. ‘I’ll try the back,’ he said, and walked down the side of the house without waiting for his chief superintendent’s comment.
‘Bloody prima donna,’ said Fox, and slowly stamped his feet on the front doorstep, hunching his shoulders inside his sheepskin coat.
Five minutes later the door was opened by Swann. ‘You rang, sir?’
‘What took you so bloody long?’ asked Fox acidly. ‘I
think you’re getting past it,’ he added, and shouldered his way through the door.
It was undoubtedly what an estate agent would have described as a desirable, detached, four-bedroomed residence. There was nothing cheap about it; in fact its owner appeared to have been at pains to prove that he had money rather than taste, and there was an occasional gaudiness where patterns or colours clashed as though two different people had had a hand in its decoration, each unaware of the existence of the other.
But the detectives weren’t judging it for an interior decoration prize; they were looking for information, for evidence. Unfortunately they were not having a lot of luck. There was a room filled with keep-fit equipment, enough to start a small gymnasium, and off that a sauna and a Jacuzzi. And downstairs was a fully fitted kitchen that looked as though it had never been used.
‘This bastard’s loaded,’ said Fox enviously, ‘and bent!’ He stopped in front of a desk that occupied a corner of a room, the walls of which were largely taken up with bookshelves. ‘I suppose he’d call this the library, if he could bloody well read. Here, Swann, you useless object, come here.’ He pointed at the desk. ‘Sec if you can banjo that without leaving splinters all over the floor.’
Swann nodded. ‘Piece of cake, guv,’ he said, and knelt down. After a few moments of operating his ‘twirlers’ — a bunch of skeleton keys, the possession of which by anyone else would have ensured their instant arrest — he stood up. ‘There you go, sir.’
Fox opened the six drawers, one after the other. All were empty. ‘Bastard,’ he said.
‘He must have some private papers somewhere,’ said Gaffney.
Fox nodded. ‘I’ll put money on them being in a safety deposit box somewhere. What I wouldn’t give for an hour or two poking about in there.’ He looked thoughtful. ‘Where’s that Roller of his? In the garage?’
Gaffney shook his head. ‘It’s in the long-term car-park at Heathrow.’
‘How d’you know that?’
‘You’ve got DI Findlater of SOll to thank for that. When our blokes told him that Masters had left for Seville, he got his lads to look in the most obvious place, and there it was.’ ‘Was there any — ’
Gaffney shook his head. ‘Clean as a whistle,’ he said. ‘Our Mr Masters is obviously a very careful man.’ He looked around and shrugged. ‘Well, Tommy, I don’t see much profit in hanging about here. This is just a bloody show-house.’ Fox nodded his agreement. ‘I’m afraid you’re right, John. Where’s that idiot Swann?’
‘Here, guv,’ said the mournful detective.
‘Right. Let us out and lock up, will you.’
‘Before you go, sir,’ said Tipper from the doorway, ‘you might be interested in this.’ He held a brown manilla file in his hand.
‘Where was that, Harry?’ asked Gaffney.
‘In one of the drawers in the kitchen.’
‘What’s more to the point, what is it?’ asked Fox.
‘It’s a file of receipts, mainly household stuff: gas, electricity, telephone, a few repairs — that sort of thing; but there’s also a receipt for a gold chain … ’
‘Terrific!’ said Gaffney. ‘All we’ve found is what we already know.’
Chapter Eleven
Gaffney turned from the window as Harry Tipper entered the office. ‘What a waste of time,’ he said bitterly. ‘It wouldn’t have been so bad if we hadn’t had to get up so bloody early. I haven’t done that for years; at least, not for the Metropolitan Police.’
‘I didn’t expect a result, sir. A villain like Masters is going to make damned sure that he doesn’t leave anything lying about for the Old Bill to screw him with while he’s sunning himself in Spain, is he?’
‘Added to which,’ continued Gaffney, ‘the Prime Minister’s principal private secretary — that little weasel Ronnie Mansell — has been on the phone to the Commissioner asking him what progress is being made, and reminding us that it was a week ago today that the murder occurred.’
‘Happy anniversary,’ said Tipper. ‘What did the Commissioner say?’
‘That enquiries are being pursued with vigour.’
‘Oh good!’ Tipper stretched out his legs and yawned again. ‘I couldn’t half go a cup of coffee, guv’nor; how about you?’
‘I am wondering, Harry … ’ Gaffney ignored Tipper’s broad hint.
‘Well don’t keep me in suspense, sir.’
‘I’m wondering if there’s any connection between the break-in that Tommy Fox was talking about and our job, apart from Masters, I mean.’
‘You’ve lost me,’ said Tipper.
Gaffney stood up. ‘Come on, we’ll pay the Flying Squad a visit and have a chat with him. They might even give you a cup of coffee, too.’
‘My word, this is an honour. We don’t often get the gentlemen of Special Branch visiting us in our humble abode. Do take the weight off your plates, gents.’ Tommy Fox reclined in an armchair in his office with his feet propped up on a coffee table which was protected from his elegant Gucci footwear by a copy of The Times. ‘I dare say you’ll take coffee?’ He half turned and shouted out of the open door. ‘Swann!’
‘Yes, guv?’ It appeared that Swann was not only Fox’s locks expert but also his general factotum.
‘Three cups of coffee, dear boy.’
‘Yes, guv.’
‘And make it the Brazilian. None of your instant muck.’ ‘Yes, guv.’
‘He’ll do anything to stay off the streets,’ said Fox sympathetically. ‘Now then, what can I do to help?’
‘Yesterday morning, Tommy,’ said Gaffney, ‘when you came to see me with the sad news about Waldo Conway, you also told me about this break-in at Boreham Wood.’ Fox nodded. ‘I’m still wondering if there’s any connection between that job and mine — apart from Masters, I mean.’
Fox spread his hands. ‘No idea. How d’you propose to find out?’
‘Go and talk to him.’
‘Who?’
‘Farrell.’
‘What about?’
‘It did occur to me,’ said Gaffney, ‘from what you were saying about his charity venture and the Commissioner, that he might have had some contact with Dudley Lavery.’
Fox snorted. ‘More likely to cultivate the Chancellor of the Exchequer, I’d have thought.’ He stood up and walked over to his bookcase, shuffled through a pile of old newspapers and eventually pulled one out. Opening it at the court page, he handed it to Gaffney. ‘There you go,’ he said. ‘There’s a picture of him at Mrs Somebody-or-another’s Ball. Puts himself about does friend Farrell.’
Gaffney glanced at the photograph. ‘Is it likely to foul up your job if I do make enquiries of Farrell?’
Fox shook his head slowly. ‘Thank you, dear boy,’ he said, taking a cup of coffee from Swann who had reappeared, adroitly balancing three cups. ‘Close the door on your way out.’ He put a saccharin tablet into his coffee and stirred it gently. ‘As I said the other day,
there’s no job to foul up. Without a complainant — and Farrell has still not reported a break-in — we’ve got no crime. Christ, John, I know it’s irritating, but I haven’t really got time to go around drumming up trade.’ He yawned. ‘What does get on my wick is that Masters and his team seem to have hit on some smart-arse system of only robbing those blokes who aren’t going to scream. Now, that interests me, that definitely does interest me. For two reasons. Firstly, it’s time Masters got what he deserves — which is about fourteen years — and secondly, I don’t like the idea of people like Farrell getting up to some sort of villainy while at the same time pretending that they’re whitcr-than-whitc.’ He waved at the newspaper that Gaffney had put down on the table. ‘Like that sort of caper, for instance. Mind you, like I said, lie’s cleverer at it than Masters. He’s never been caught … yet!’ He paused for a moment. ‘What have you got at the back of your mind, then? That Mrs Lavery may have had something to do with this sort of blagging?’
Gaffney leaned forward and put his empty cup on the table. ‘Tommy, when I first heard about her and Masters in Spain, I didn’t believe it. Now, I’ll believe anything. The only trouble is that I’ve damn-all proof, and I can’t even talk to Masters; at least, not at the moment. The minute he lands on British soil, he’s going to get lifted and talked to.’
‘You’ve got that laid on, have you?’
Gaffney nodded. ‘Enrico Perez has arranged that the moment Masters boards a plane at Seville Airport, I get a phone call. Then we’ll have a reception committee waiting for him when he arrives.’
Fox scoffed. ‘Excuse my mirth, John, but the first thing
that’ll happen is that Masters will sit down, say sod-all, and demand his brief.’
Gaffney smiled. ‘Ah, but he’s never been arrested by Special Branch before, has he?’
‘He’s lunching with the London prison governors, Mr Gaffney. Then he’ll go straight to the House.’
‘Perhaps, Mr Stanhope, you would ask him if he has ever met a Mr Bernard Farrell. He’s … ’ He paused. ‘He’s an entrepreneur of some sort. If he has, I’d like to speak to him, the Home Secretary that is.’
‘I’ll get back to you as soon as I can,’ said Lavery’s private secretary. ‘You’ll be at the Yard, I take it?’
‘Yes. If not, someone will take a message. And thanks for your help.’ Gaffney replaced the receiver with a sigh. The problem with politicians had been summed up for him some years previously by an assistant secretary at Number Ten. ‘By the time you’ve caught up with the Prime Minister,’ he had said, ‘he’s somewhere else.’
Stanhope was as good as his word. He had spoken to Lavery in the car on his way to his luncheon engagement, and telephoned from the House.
Gaffney walked up Victoria Street from Scotland Yard, along Broad Sanctuary, through Parliament Square, and across St Margaret Street. He acknowledged the salute of the constable at the St Stephen’s Entrance and made his way to that part of the House known as Back of the Speaker’s Chair. It was here that Lavery had promised to meet him.
‘Ah, Mr Gaffney.’ Stanhope was waiting for him. ‘I’ll just signal the Secretary of State. It’s only Foreign Secretary’s questions.’ He said that with a grin.
‘You wanted to know about Bernard Farrell?’ The Home Secretary appeared through the screen doors, touched Gaffney’s elbow and steered him away from Stanhope.
‘I wanted to know if you knew him, sir.’
‘Well yes, but you intrigue me. Why are you asking? Is it something to do with Elizabeth’s death?’
‘Some information has come to me, sir, but it is unconfirmed. If you don’t mind, I’d rather not repeat it, not at this stage at any rate.’
‘My dear Mr Gaffney, how very mysterious. Come and sit down.’ He led Gaffney across to a green leather bench-seat. ‘I’ve had lunch with him a couple of times, along with a number of other people I may say.’ He raised his hands in an attitude of surrender.
‘Did Mrs Lavery ever meet him?’
‘Ah, now that you mention it, yes. He was very keen to do something for released prisoners, a sort of charitable foundation. He held this private dinner party at … ’ He flicked his fingers.
‘Boreham Wood?’
Lavery looked sharply at Gaffney. ‘That’s right. There were about a dozen of us altogether, I suppose. He did us very well, but all perfectly above-board, you understand.’ He said the last few words hurriedly as though afraid that Gaffney might think that he had been accepting hospitality that was unethical. ‘I seem to recall that there were one or two industrialists, the Chief Inspector of Prisons, my permanent secretary … oh, and a Fleet Street editor. All very respectable and upright people.’ There was a certain measure of relief in the way he said that, although Gaffney could not for the life of him understand why the Home Secretary, of all people, should feel it necessary to justify his actions to a mere chief superintendent. ‘But I’m still interested to know what this is all about.’
‘I think it may be nothing, sir, and as I said just now, I’d rather not start a hare running until I’ve learned a little more.’
‘Of course, Mr Gaffney. I quite understand.’ He paused. ‘Are you trying to warn me, in an oblique way, that I ought to steer away from this fellow?’ He looked a little apprehensive.
Gaffney smiled to himself. He never ceased to be amazed at the sensitivity of politicians’ antennae, and their skill at moving adroitly away from anything, however remote, which
might damage their careers in some way. ‘If there is anything, sir, you may rest assured that I shall let you know at once,’ said Gaffney.
Lavery patted Gaffney’s arm. ‘I should be most grateful,’ he murmured. ‘Most grateful.’
‘I am talking to everyone who may have known Mrs Lavery, however tenuously,’ said Gaffney.
Bernard Farrell advanced cautiously across his office. He was not a tall man, but had clearly tried to recover from his underprivileged childhood in Poplar; he now resembled a twist of tobacco: broad across the middle, but tapering at either end. His feet were small, almost dainty, and his head was pointed and narrow, its skin stretched like parchment over his skull. ‘I wrote immediately I heard; what a tragedy. How can such things happen in a civilised country, Chief Superintendent?’
‘Perhaps we make life in prison too easy,’ said Gaffney drily.
Farrell avoided that; turned instead to his intercom and flicked down a switch. ‘Hold my calls, Tracey, I’ve got the police — Scotland Yard — with me.’ He turned back and rested his arms on the desk giving Gaffney and Tipper his undivided attention.
Gaffney was unimpressed. Any secretary worth her salt would know not to put a call through when her boss had visitors. He put it down as an example of Farrell wielding power, and letting everyone know that he wielded it. ‘How well do you know the Home Secretary … or more particularly, how well did you know his late wife, Mr Farrell?’ he asked, and sat back to await the lies he was sure would be forthcoming.
‘Oh, very well, Chief Superintendent, very well indeed.’
‘How did you come to meet him?’
Farrell’s brief instructions to his secretary had given him time to collect his thoughts after Gaffney’s little tilt about prison conditions. ‘I have thought for a long time that half the problem with ex-prisoners is that we — by which I mean society — don’t really care what happens to them when they come out — ’
‘Mr Farrell!’ said Gaffney softly, and raised a hand.
Farrell stopped speaking and looked somewhat put out. ‘What?’
‘Could we get to the Home Secretary?’ Gaffney didn’t need a lecture on crime and punishment, particularly after learning how Waldo Conway proposed to speed up his chances of parole.
‘Oh yes, of course. I’m sorry, I do tend to get carried away. I was merely trying to explain that it was this idea of mine that brought us together. I must say that Dudley Lavery was very keen.’ Gaffney noted the way that he referred to the Home Secr
etary, implying a familiarity that was denied to policemen. ‘Very keen indeed. It was he who arranged that we got the interested parties together, and … ’ He interrupted himself by leaning over and pushing a silver cigarette box across the desk. ‘I’m sorry, very remiss of me. Will you have a cigarette? I don’t myself; gave it up five years ago, as a matter of fact. You know how it is: first my wife, then my doctor, getting on at me?’
‘Not for me, thank you.'
‘Very wise, very wise,’ said Farrell, moving the box back into its place. ‘Yes, the Home Secretary and various other good people helped enormously. As I said, he was very keen.5
‘Perhaps it might help to save time if I tell you that I have already spoken to the Home Secretary … several times,’ said Gaffney softly.
‘Ah!’ said Farrell, clasping his hands together and rocking back gently in his chair. ‘Ah!’
‘This dinner — at your house in Boreham Wood — was the first occasion that you met Mrs Lavery, I take it?’
‘Er, yes, I suppose it would have been.’ Farrell had appeared to give that some thought, but Gaffney was prepared to bet that he knew exactly where and when he had met anyone of importance; and that meant anyone who could further his career, which in turn meant anyone who could increase his wealth and influence. ‘Yes. I had met Dudley several times before, of course, at various functions.’ He waved his hand
as if to encompass the whole of London, and nodded.
‘But the first time you met Elizabeth Lavery was when she came to your house with her husband?’ Farrell nodded. ‘And that was also the last time?’ Gaffney put a questioning inflexion into the last sentence.
‘Alas, it was.’ Farrell shook his head slowly. ‘Dreadful, quite dreadful.’