by Graham Ison
‘Yes, indeed.’ Gaffney agreed with him and then paused. ‘I understand that your house was broken into last week, Mr Farrell? While you were dining in the West End?’ The question came suddenly and out of context.
Farrell stared at Gaffney for some seconds before replying. ‘My house? My house broken into? I think you must be mistaken.’ He smiled unconvincingly. ‘That would be an event, Chief Superintendent, I assure you.’ He recovered his poise and laughed outright.
‘Really?’ Gaffney looked sceptical. ‘But you did go out to dinner last Thursday?’
Farrell made an expansive gesture with his hands. ‘Chief Superintendent,’ he said, ‘my wife and I dine out most nights.’
‘But last Thursday, you noticed nothing amiss when you returned?’
‘Of course not. Do you think I would not report it to the police? I am puzzled. What makes you think this?’
‘We rely a lot on informants, Mr Farrell.’ Gaffney smiled. ‘But informants are not always reliable. Perhaps they were talking about another house.’
‘I think that must be the case.’ Farrell nodded, a certain relief apparent on his face. ‘But why the interest? What has this to do with Elizabeth Lavery?’
‘Nothing,’ said Gaffney blandly. ‘But 1 am interested in burglaries at houses which arc regularly visited by Cabinet Ministers.’
Farrell put the tips of his fingers together and smiled. ‘Yes, of course. I see,’ he said. ‘I see.’
‘Well, Mr Farrell, thank you very much for your time,’ said Gaffney, rising from his chair. ‘I can’t think of anything else.’
He glanced at Tipper who had remained silent throughout the interview. ‘Anything you wanted to ask Mr Farrell, Harry?’ ‘No thank you, sir.’ Tipper nodded at Farrell who felt strangely disturbed by the taciturnity of Gaffney’s colleague for a reason he couldn’t explain. He wasn’t to know that Tipper had that effect on a lot of people, particularly those with guilty consciences.
For a moment or two Farrell stared at the door after it had closed on the two policemen, then he walked across and unlocked a cabinet next to the bookcase. Inside was a direct-line telephone to which only he had access. Slowly he picked up the receiver and dialled a number.
Commander Murdo McGregor, head of the Yard’s Criminal Intelligence Branch, smiled amiably at Gaffney and puffed a cloud of pipe smoke into the air. ‘And what can I do to help now, John?’
‘Bernard Farrell, sir. Does the name mean anything?’ McGregor pondered for a second. ‘Runs some interesting business enterprises. But you obviously know that. What you’re asking is whether he’s bent, yes?’
‘Yes.’
‘Have you spoken to Fraud Squad?’
Gaffney nodded. ‘Yes, I have.’
‘And?’
‘They say he’s not bent, but he ought to be.’
McGregor laughed. ‘What that means is that they’re not clever enough to catch him at it.’ He leaned back in his chair. ‘As a matter of fact, John, we know of him, and we’re not too happy about his operation. There’s been a hell of a lot of rumour about his activities, but no proof; the typical policeman’s dilemma.’ He pouted. ‘I don’t know how much you know, but he’s trying to organise some fool charity in aid of released prisoners. Quite frankly, I don’t think he gives a damn about the prison population, but he’s using it as a tool to increase his own power-base — and his influence — among people he sees as important.’
Gaffney nodded. ‘Yes. Tommy Fox was telling me something about it.’
‘As a matter of fact, I got a note from the Commissioner recently, saying that he’d been invited to dinner with Farrell, and did I think it was all right to go.’ McGregor teased the tobacco in his pipe with the end of a dead match and then looked up. ‘I warned him off. I don’t know whether I did right, but there’s just something about the man that makes me feel uneasy. Anyway, the Commissioner took fright and cried off with a diplomatic guts-ache. What’s Tommy Fox been telling you about him?’
‘Much the same as you’ve just told me, sir. Incidentally has Tommy told you why I’m interested?’
McGregor shook his head. ‘I’ve been off for a couple of days … in the Highlands.’ A distant look came briefly into his eyes. ‘What’s Tommy Fox got hold of now?’
Gaffney summarised what Fox had told him. ‘But,’ he said finally, ‘Farrell denies all knowledge of a break-in.’ ‘Sure?’
‘Certain. I’ve been to see him.’
‘Then I would say he’s at it.’ McGregor scratched the side of his nose with the stem of his pipe. ‘There are three things that I can think of that he might have that he doesn’t want us to know about: cash, bullion or drugs. And,’ he continued, giving Gaffney the benefit of his thirty-three years’ service, ‘the motive could be quite varied too. Let’s give you an idea. Tommy Fox and his heathens lifted Masters a while ago for recovering certain goods — ’
Gaffney nodded. ‘He told me about that.’
‘Now, the situation here might be similar. Supposing friend Farrell is a handler, but has either taken more than his share, or hasn’t paid for services rendered. Masters does a repossession job — or takes payment in kind — and Farrell’s left with nothing … and no redress. In those circumstances, a bloke like Farrell would be grateful he just got away with losing the gear. He could have got duffed-up as well. On the other hand … ’ McGregor grinned; he was getting into his stride now. ‘On the other hand, Farrell, who is in business on his
own account — and I think this is more likely — is perhaps doing a bit of bent dealing on the side, in bullion or drugs, shall we say, and Masters gets wind of it. He goes and helps himself to some of the proceeds knowing that Farrell’s not going to go waltzing down to the local nick to file a crime report.’ McGregor laughed a short, malicious laugh, and swivelled his chair to and fro a couple of times. ‘But I’m afraid they’re all whispers, John,’ he said. ‘Certainly not enough to nick him for … or he’d have been nicked. Could even be someone putting the bubble in.’ He laid his pipe on his blotter. ‘We’ll have to do better than that.’ He smiled again. ‘It could be that Tommy Fox’s snout is spinning him a load of fanny. If I was Tommy, I’d go round and break all his fingers … just in case.’
‘By the way, Claire, have we heard from Croft yet?’
‘Croft, sir?’ The woman Sergeant looked momentarily puzzled.
Gaffney laughed. ‘Gotcha!’ he said. ‘The MP whose telephone number was found on an order-paper at the Home Secretary’s house.’
Claire Wentworth laughed. ‘Oh, him. No, sir, we’ve heard nothing so far.’
Gaffney nodded. ‘Still in Ankara, I suppose. Keep trying.’ He walked to the door and paused. ‘By the way, have we got any result from that cab enquiry yet? You know … the cab that was heard by a neighbour in Cutler’s Mews … ’
The Sergeant shook her head slowly. ‘Not so far, sir.’ ‘Probably a waste of time,’ said Gaffney. ‘By the time they’ve done all the cab-ranks and caught up with the part-time journeymen drivers, and put it in their newspaper — or whatever they do — they’ll have forgotten anyway. I have known it work, but not often.’ It looked to Gaffney as though every avenue he explored brought him, sooner rather than later, to a dead end.
Chapter Twelve
Gaffney gazed down on to the roof of London Transport’s headquarters and pouted. ‘The snow’s beginning to settle again,’ he said.
‘So’s this bloody inquiry,’ said Tipper. He dropped the file on to Gaffney’s desk and sighed. ‘We’re getting absolutely nowhere.’
Gaffney turned and sat down at his desk. ‘All we’ve got so far is an uncorroborated relationship between Elizabeth Lavery and a main-index villain. Then there’s the man Farrell who’s had his drum screwed, but denies it — ’
‘If it’s true.’
‘What?’
‘There’s not much proof of that, is there, sir?’
Gaffney laughed savagely. ‘I’m not sure that I want there
to be. It makes this game too difficult. But either way, this man Masters seems to be the one who’s got all the answers. And he’s in Spain.’
‘We could try talking to his associates, sir.’
‘Look what happened to the last one we talked to,’ said Gaffney and shook his head. ‘The moment we did that, we could say goodbye to Colin Masters for ever. The bastard would stay put in Seville. What I want to do, Harry, is to make sure I know every one of them — and where he is — so that the moment Masters sets foot in the UK again, we can nick the bloody lot.’
‘Bit heavy, guv’nor.’
‘So what. We are investigating the murder of the Home Secretary’s wife, after all. Who’s going to argue?’
Tipper sniffed eloquently. ‘All we’ve got to do is wait
for Masters to come home, and, when everyone’s sitting comfortably, we can begin,’ he said.
Gaffney chuckled. ‘But I’m not going to wait, Harry. I’m going to tempt him home. In fact, I’m going to make him an offer he can’t refuse.’
‘So you want the help of the Flying Squad yet again, I hear?’ Tommy Fox appeared in the doorway of Gaffney’s office and smiled.
‘Come and sit down,’ said Gaffney, ‘and give me the benefit of your advice.’
‘How did you get on with Farrell?’ asked Fox, lowering himself into one of Gaffney’s armchairs.
‘More or less as you predicted. He looked all blank when I mentioned the break-in. Must have got it all wrong, et cetera. He’s a smooth-talking bastard, I’ll give him that.’
‘You don’t get to make several millions by being dim. So what d’you reckon?’
‘How many villains usually work with Masters?’ asked Gaffney.
Fox looked thoughtful. ‘There are five who regularly run with him. That includes Waldo Conway, of course, so there are four out and about. Why?’
‘What sort of story could I feed to those monkeys that would get back to Colin Masters and make him angry enough to come home?’
For some moments Tommy Fox lay back in the armchair, his gaze fixed on the ceiling. Then he sat upright, a malicious smile on his face. ‘I don’t think we have to tell them anything. I think that just one telephone call will do the business.’ He leaned forward and rubbed his hands together vigorously. ‘Now,’ he said, ‘see how you like the sound of this for a scenario … ’
Police Constable Richards had got the hump. In fact, he was beginning seriously to wonder whether his selection of the Metropolitan Police as a career had been altogether wise. The moment he had come on duty at six o’clock that morning,
an irate sergeant had taken him to task about a report which had not been submitted as promptly as the sergeant would have wished. Secondly, there was no car driver to fill a beat which was definitely a car beat, and, as a result, Richards now found himself walking what would be about a five-mile round-trip. Thirdly, it was still dark, it was snowing, and it was cold. Richards was not happy, and was not, therefore, amiably disposed towards his fellow man. And that included postmen.
‘Morning, guv.’
Richards ignored the niceties. ‘You’re not allowed to ride a cycle on the footway.’
The postman ignored the rebuke. ‘I’ve just delivered to that house back there,’ he said, pointing, ‘and the front door’s open; looks like it’s been jemmied.’
‘Anyone at home, was there?’
‘Dunno!’ said the postman. ‘You’re the one who deals with people who break the law. My job’s to deliver letters. That’s why they give me a bicycle,’ he added, ‘so’s I can do it quicker. It’s all a matter of economics.’
‘Thanks,’ said Richards sarcastically, and made his way up the drive.
The front door was indeed open, but to suggest that it had been jemmied was something of an understatement; to Richards’ professional eye it looked as if it had been savagely attacked with a crowbar. The whole surround was splintered, large pieces were gouged out of the door itself, and the mortise-lock had been smashed right out of the woodwork. He shook his head in amazement; whoever was responsible must have made a lot of noise, but in this area — like most others these days — no one wanted to get involved.
Richards pushed the door wide and stepped inside. The beam of his pocket torch sought the light switch; he turned it on and illuminated the downstairs hallway. The first thing to meet his gaze was the telephone, ripped from its mounting and thrown into the centre of the carpet, but, as he looked around, he began to realise that everything movable had been wrecked. He went into the sitting room and again found
wreckage everywhere: tables were overturned, pictures tom off walls and destroyed, the backs of expensive chesterfields slashed open, and the contents of the cocktail cabinet had been opened and poured over the carpet.
Richards toured the house. There was no one there, but all the rooms had been subjected to the same onslaught. Deep scratches on the dining table, mattresses tom open in the bedrooms; in another room an expensive desk had been prised open, drawer by drawrcr, and all the books had been taken from their shelves and heaped in the centre of the floor as if in preparation for a bonfire. Richards was not a detective, but to him it looked as though the thieves, having failed to find anything of value to steal, had taken it out on the absent occupant by smashing anything they could find. He stepped on to the front porch and called the station on his personal radio.
That Richards had not been a policeman for very long accounted for his not knowing who lived in this particular house. But the station officer knew, and the duty CID officer most certainly knew.
The duty CID officer rang the detective inspector at home. ‘We’ve had a break-in, guv,’ he said, ‘at Colin Masters’ drum. They’ve wrecked the bloody place.’
Detective Chief Superintendent Fox noted the message that had been received from the DI at Wimbledon about the break-in at Masters’ house and walked down the corridor to the lift. He decided that there was no point in going to Wimbledon; he had after all inspected the property, so to speak, less than a week previously, and he didn’t have time to gloat. Instead he made his way upwards, to the eighteenth floor and John Gaffney’s office.
‘Good news, my friend,’ Fox said, pushing the door of Gaffney’s office open wide.
‘I’m glad someone has,’ said Gaffney. ‘D’you know Tommy, it’s two weeks tomorrow since this bloody murder, and I’m not a step closer to an arrest than when I started. Anyhow, what is this good news of which you speak?’
‘They took the bait. Colin Masters’ drum has been done over a treat.’
‘Really?’
‘Been taken apart by all accounts. I am waiting by the hour for a full scientific report, but I’ll lay even money right now that there’ll not be a fingerprint to be found.’
‘So what happens now?’
‘Word will out,’ said Fox. He grinned. ‘Selected Flying Squad officers are this day about to advise certain well known conduits in what the popular Press laughingly calls the underworld, that there has been a happening to the detriment of one Colin Masters. And, if I was you, I would alert Enrico Perez at the Spanish Embassy that a villain we know and love is almost certain to board an aircraft bound for the United Kingdom very shortly.’ He parted the slats of the Venetian blind and peered out. ‘In the meantime,’ he continued, his back to Gaffney, ‘I am reliably informed that the CID at Wimbledon are making strenuous efforts to trace the owner of the property. Unfortunately,’ he said, turning away from the window, ‘contrary to all our advice about crime prevention, he appears not to have advised the local police that his premises were unattended.’
‘Dear me,’ said Gaffney. He had had doubts when Fox had outlined his plans for persuading Masters back to England, but had to acknowledge that the Flying Squad chief had a far greater knowledge of the criminal world and the individuals who populated it than he, a Special Branch officer, was ever likely to have. He had not enquired too deeply as to how Fox had known that Farrell had a private telephone in a locked
cabinet in his office, or what its number was, but he would dearly like to have been a fly on the wall when Farrell had received the telephone call — anonymously, of course — advising him that there was a rumour being put about that it was Masters who had done his drum over at Borcham Wood, and that Farrell’s property was to be found at a certain address in Wimbledon.
All in all, Tommy rox was rather pleased with the result. It certainly ought to bring Masters home, but, more to the
point, it proved that Farrell was at it. Exactly what he was at remained to be discovered, but that was a minor point so far as the Flying Squad was concerned.
The heavy Jaguar slid into the kerb and the police motorcyclists deployed themselves in exactly the places which had been rehearsed several times over during the preceding week.
Detective Sergeant John Selway was out before the car had stopped and was quick to get hold of the handle of the Home Secretary’s door before anyone else did, glancing rapidly around and upwards at the same time.
Dudley Lavery stepped out, left hand gently patting his hair, right hand extended, and his television smile fixed firmly on his face for the benefit of the Press — mainly local — who seemed to make up most of the crowd.
The Chief Constable tugged at the hem of his tunic, saluted, and half-inclined his body as though the Home Secretary were minor royalty. ‘Good morning, sir,’ he said as they shook hands.
‘Chief Constable,’ murmured Lavery. ‘Good to see you again.’ He could have sworn that he had never set eyes on the head of this particular force before, but he had been assured by officials that he had had a quite lengthy conversation with him at a recent conference of chief police officers.
John Selway knew that his principal had met the Chief Constable before, had assessed also that he wanted a knighthood and didn’t mind how unctuous he had to be to get it. Lisle, Silvester and Selway, the three Special Branch officers responsible for Lavery’s safety, had worked out a simple formula based on the hard experience of visits such as this one. If the Chief Constable was present in uniform, it would be a cock-up; present in plain clothes and there was a fifty-fifty chance of success; not there at all and things usually went off smoothly. In fairness of course — and Selway hated being fair to senior officers — Lavery had come to open a new divisional police headquarters, and the Chief Constable had no alternative but to be there in uniform.