by Graham Ison
‘No. He just said that it was your house, Mr Farrell.’ Fox smiled disarmingly.
Farrell shook his head. ‘1 am mystified, gentlemen. Is it so important though? I mean to say, if he has admitted to committing a crime, that’s all you need, surely?’
‘That’s the problem, Mr Farrell,’ said Fox. ‘You see, what
I am telling you is merely underworld scuttle-butt. I’ve not spoken to this man myself; I don’t even know where he is.’ ‘And of course that’s not the only crime, Mr Farrell.’ It was Gaffney who spoke as the two detectives rose to their feet. ‘I’m investigating the murder of Mrs Lavery, as you know.’
Farrell looked at him sharply. ‘Are you suggesting that there is some connection? Surely not.’
‘Why are you so adamant that there couldn’t be?’
Farrell backtracked. ‘I didn’t mean … obviously you know your job, gentlemen. It’s just that it seems so amazing.’ ‘Why? Why amazing?’ asked Fox.
‘From what I understand your colleague to be saying, it is possible that a man who says that he broke into my house — without my noticing — ’ He laughed. ‘That such a man could be involved in the death of the wife of my good friend the Home Secretary … ’ He shook his head gravely. ‘I don’t know what the world is coming to.’
‘Well, if you should hear anything of this man, Mr Farrell, or if he should contact you, I’d be grateful if you would let the police know.’ Fox paused. ‘As a public duty.’
‘Well?’ asked Gaffney. ‘What d’you think?’
‘Lying bastard,’ said Fox.
‘What now then?’
‘We’ll have a go at Masters.’
James Marchant smiled and closed the door of Gaffney’s office behind him.
‘Oh dear!’ said Gaffney.
‘Why “oh dear”, John?’
‘Because your appearance in my office usually means something ominous, James, that’s why.’
Marchant spread his hands. ‘My dear fellow,’ he said, ‘I’ve only come to help.’
‘That’s what I was afraid of.’
‘You know that they’ve found a body … at Masters’ villa?’
Gaffney nodded. ‘Yes. I had a phone call from Enrico Perez. Is it the Russian?’
‘As far as we can tell, yes.’
‘Have the Spanish told the Soviet authorities?’
‘Oh yes, but in the most formal way. Masters — if he was the murderer — didn’t bother to remove the man’s identity papers. Extremely careless for an experienced criminal. The papers were Spanish, of course, but it didn’t take the Spanish long to discover that they were forgeries — very skilful forgeries — but forgeries none the less.’
‘What did the Soviets say?’
‘Nothing. They denied all knowledge of the man. Which is no more than I would have expected. They are hardly going to say that he was a KGB agent and that they knew he was there with forged Spanish papers, are they? They more or less threw the police out of the embassy and asked them kindly not to waste their time.’
Gaffney smiled. ‘So what are the Spanish doing now?’
‘I think that they might ask for the extradition of friend Masters to face a charge of murder, John.’ He leaned back in his chair and smiled. ‘So what d’you think of that?’
‘Not a lot,’ said Gaffney. ‘Not a lot at all.’
‘That’s what I thought you’d say. I have seen “C” on your behalf and suggested that the Secretary of State intervenes with the Spanish Government to try to persuade them that it might be better all round if they forgot about it.’
Gaffney scoffed. ‘Some hope.’
‘Oh, I think they’ll be amenable, John. And it’ll give you an additional bargaining counter when you come to dealing with Masters, won’t it?’
Gaffney pouted. ‘Yes, I suppose it might,’ he said. ‘I should think that about forty years in a Spanish prison appeals to Masters even less than thirty years in an English one.’
‘Thirty? D’you think there’s a chance of your charging him with Elizabeth Lavery’s murder then?’
Gaffney grinned. ‘I wish I knew the answer to that, James. I really do wish I knew the answer to that.’
Apart from a carefully contrived air of injured innocence, Colin Masters betrayed no signs of nervousness at all.
‘This is Detective Chief Superintendent Gaffney of Special Branch,’ said Fox. ‘He wants to talk to you."
‘Oh yeah.’ Masters lit a cigarette. The lighter appeared to be of solid gold; so did the bracelet he was wearing which rattled as he put the lighter down on the table.
‘You left the country on the next available flight following the murder of Mrs Elizabeth Lavery and went to Seville,’ said Gaffney.
‘What’s that got to do with the price of fish?’
‘She was a friend of yours, that’s what.’ Gaffney leaned forward slightly and met Masters’ eyes.
‘Who told you that?’ Masters sat up slightly.
‘You did.’ Gaffney took a photocopy of the receipt for the gold waist-chain from a folder and laid it on the table.
Masters picked it up and gazed at it. ‘And what’s that supposed to prove?’
‘That’s a receipt for a gold chain that you had made and gave to Elizabeth Lavery. We found the receipt in your house, and the chain in hers.’
‘I never met the lady.’
‘Then how do you account for the chain being in her house?’
‘I was robbed.’
‘Are you suggesting that Mrs Lavery stole it?’ Gaffney knew that Masters was playing a game, but was determined to play along with it; he could make it last longer than Masters could.
‘I don’t know. Has she got form?’
Tipper looked up from the book — the record of interview — he was writing in, and decided that he was going to join in the game too. ‘Was that “form”, that last word?’ he asked, pen poised.
Masters looked at Tipper, then back at Gaffney, then across at Fox who was now sitting in the corner of the interview room reading a copy of The Times, apparently
uninterested in the proceedings. For the first time in many years, Masters was beginning to find an interview with the police a little disconcerting.
‘Yes,’ said Gaffney, looking at Tipper. ‘Mr Masters said, “I don’t know. Has she got form?”’ He half smiled at Masters. ‘I think that was it, wasn’t it?’
Masters grunted. He didn’t much care for this smooth bastard from Special Branch — didn’t know why he was there anyway — but he was damned if he was going to ask for his lawyer. That would be a sign of weakness … in his book anyway.
‘Why did you break your return journey at Valencia,’ asked Gaffney, ‘where presumably you hung around for an hour or so before catching a flight to Paris, hung around again and then flew into Gatwick?’
‘Any reason why I shouldn’t?’ asked Masters. ‘Anyway, what’s it got to do with you?’
Gaffney glanced at Tipper, appearing to wait until he had written down Masters’ latest contribution to the interrogation, and then turned once more. ‘I don’t think you quite realise the seriousness of your situation,’ he said. Masters smiled sarcastically and put his head on one side. ‘I have positive evidence that you consorted with Mrs Elizabeth Lavery on a regular basis, and that she visited your villa at Puente Alcazaba on more than one occasion. Furthermore, as I said just now, within hours of her having been strangled in her own home in Cutler’s Mews, you left the country on the very next flight for Seville … ’ Gaffney leaned back in his chair, the signal for which Fox had been waiting.
The head of the Flying Squad folded his newspaper untidily, like an unskilled housemaid disposing of a soiled tablecloth, and got slowly to his feet. Then he ambled across and pulled a chair into position on the third side of the table before sitting down between Masters and Gaffney.
‘Bernie Farrell’s put it all down to you, y’know, Colin,’ Fox began amiably.
‘I don’t know what you
mean, Mr Fox.’ Masters was visibly jarred by the introduction of Farrell’s name into
the conversation. He also knew Tommy Fox, knew that a detective chief superintendent who had got to be head of the Heavy Mob was a man to be reckoned with. Masters knew that anyway; he’d tangled with Fox before, and only escaped the consequences because of a very good lawyer … called Lavery.
‘And there was me thinking that I always spoke fairly clearly too. Let me try again, Colin. Bernie Farrell was talking about the cocaine. The little consignment that you thought he had when you turned his drum over, and the same consignment he thought you’d got when he went through your gaff.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mr Fox, God’s truth, I don’t. I don’t know nothing about no cocaine, neither.’ He looked keenly at Fox. ‘And who’s Farrell?’
‘He’s the bloke whose house you stopped outside just before you changed your mind and took it on the dancers. Remember?’
‘Oh, that Farrell,’ said Masters lamely.
Fox smiled. ‘Yes — that Farrell. What’s more, Colin, he’s put it all down to you, the whole lot. And why not. Respected member of the community; friend of the Home Secretary; something big in the world of high finance … ’ Fox sniffed and looked down at his signet ring. ‘And when he gets in the box at the Bailey, they’ll hang on his every word … and believe it. And down goes Colin Masters … for about ten years at a guess.’ He looked across at Tipper. ‘About ten I’d think, wouldn’t you, Harry?’ he asked, as if discussing a suitable time for a meeting in a pub.
Tipper nodded thoughtfully. ‘About ten, guv’nor, yes. Perhaps twelve if the judge’s got a liver on.’
Fox nodded as if Tipper had made a valid point. ‘Yeah, maybe, but either way it’ll be a fair stretch, Colin.’ He looked at Masters again and smiled benignly. ‘And then he’ll go out to dinner with his cronies … laughing, I wouldn’t wonder.’
‘Someone’s been telling you wicked lies about me, Mr Fox.’
Fox tutted and shook his head. ‘Happens all the time,’ he murmured. ‘It’s a wicked world.’
‘Can we have a little chat, Mr Fox?’ Masters spoke quietly, almost conspiratorially.
‘But we are having a little chat, Colin.’
‘You know what I mean, Mr Fox.’
Fox smiled and put one arm round Masters’s shoulders and the other round Gaffney’s. ‘You’re among friends, Colin,’ he said. ‘You can speak freely.’
Masters was unhappy. ‘Can we do a deal, like? Come to a sort of arrangement?’
‘Such as?’
‘Such as rowing me out, Mr Fox?’
Fox threw back his head and laughed. ‘You always were a bit of a card, Colin. I have concrete evidence from the upright Mr Farrell that you’re well at it. No doubt Mr Farrell, with a little gentle persuasion — like a subpoena — will come along and repeat what he has already told us. And you want me to row you out? Oh dear!’
Masters stared at his packet of cigarettes, probably considering his health, but not in relation to smoking. He took one and lit it. ‘I arranged the couriers for Farrell,’ he said shortly.
‘Yeah?’
‘Shouldn’t you caution me?’
‘Get on with it.’
‘To get the stuff back here.’
‘Always cocaine?’
‘Mostly. Sometimes heroin. I don’t know. I never asked.’ ‘How often was this?’
‘As and when.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
Masters looked unhappy. He realised what was happening and was by no means sure of Fox. He would just as likely screw him for every bit of information he’d got and still stick him on the sheet, probably for conspiracy as well. But what choice had he? It was a gamble. Perhaps Fox would let him turn Queen’s Evidence; on the other hand he might just be inviting him to screw himself further into the mire than he was already. ‘About six times altogether.’
‘Over how long a period of time was this?’
‘’Bout a year, maybe eighteen months.’
‘And how much each run?’
‘Never more than a kilo.’
‘Mmm! Anything you say will be taken down in writing and may be given in evidence.’
‘Thanks,’ said Masters, and pointed to the tape-recorder. ‘I suppose you’re only saying that because the gismo’s on.’ ‘It’s not,' said Fox. ‘My friend Mr Gaffney here has excluded it under the terms of the Official Secrets Act.’
‘What’s that got to do with it?’
‘You’d better ask him, but it’s pretty powerful stuff, and you’ve got involved in the death of the Home Secretary’s wife.’
‘But I — ’
Fox held up his hand. ‘Can we deal with one thing at a time? Where did these drug consignments come from?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Masters. Fox sighed and looked up at the ceiling. ‘Honest, Mr Fox, I don’t know. They was delivered to my place in Seville, and I arranged for them to be brought here.’
‘How?’
‘All sorts of ways.’
‘I’m beginning to feel more like a dentist all the time,’ said Fox, playing a little tattoo on the table with his fingers.
Masters looked nervous. ‘You’re asking me to put a lot of people in the frame here,’ he said.
‘Yes,’ said Fox, and looked sympathetic. ‘Well, you can take it on your own if you prefer, Colin. Farrell seems to think you will anyway.’
‘Bloody Farrell. If I go down, he comes with me.’
‘That’s the spirit,’ said Fox, beaming. ‘That’s what won the Empire.’
‘Sod the Empire,’ said Masters with feeling. ‘I’m not having him walk out of this one, I tell you that straight, Mr Fox.’ ‘Well you’d better go into a little more detail, eh?’
‘I’d get it carried across from Seville and deliver it to him in London, or wherever he wanted it.’
‘What happened to the last lot then?’ Fox reached the crux. And Masters knew it was coming. He sighed loudly. ‘I don’t know.’
‘I hope you’re not pussyfooting about again, Colin.’
‘She took it, but what happened after that — ’
‘Hold on, hold on,’ said Fox. ‘Who’s this “she” you’re talking about?’
‘Liz Lavery.’ Masters spoke resignedly.
‘Arc you suggesting that the Home Secretary’s wife was a drugs courier? Is that what you’re saying?’ Fox looked quite nasty.
‘I’m not suggesting it, Mr Fox, I’m telling you.’
‘You’d better tell me some more, then.’
Masters licked his lips; he realised that he was getting into serious business here. ‘She didn’t know of course. It was better that way. I put the packet into her case before she left Seville and marked the outside. The plan was for Farrell’s people to pick it up from her at Heathrow.’
A sardonic smile of disbelief crossed Fox’s face. ‘Really?’ he said sarcastically. ‘And how was that to be done … without Mrs Lavery knowing?’
‘I telephoned Farrell from Seville once she was airborne, and one of his people — a loader, I suppose — was going to nick it from her at the airport. Couldn’t be easier.’
‘So what happened?’
Masters shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I never heard from Farrell.’
‘Should you have done?’
‘Too bloody right. I should have got my cut.’
Fox laughed. ‘Oh dear, what a shame. Have you over, did he?’
‘It’s not funny, Mr Fox. I took a lot of risks there.’
‘So you went and took your share out of his drum at Boreham Wood, eh?’
‘Is that what Farrell told you?’ Masters’ eyes narrowed. ‘No! There’s nothing in the crime book at Boreham Wood; in fact, Farrell denies ever having had a break-in.’
‘Well, in that case, I never done it,’ said Masters.
Fox leaned menacingly across the table. ‘Don’t get clever with me, Colin. I’ve still got a
murder charge sculling around waiting for someone.’
Masters coughed. ‘I never done no topping job, Mr Fox, stand on me.’
‘Well, someone did, my friend, and right now you’re the one I’ve got in custody.’
Masters looked desperate. ‘Look, Mr Fox, there’d be no point in topping her. I was on to a good thing there. Farrell’s the one you should be looking at.’
‘We’re not talking about Liz Lavery now.’ It was Gaffney who spoke, and Masters darted a nervous glance at him. ‘We’re talking about a certain gentleman who the Russians mislaid, and whose body the Guardia Civil found crawling out from under a stone at your villa at Puente Alcazaba.’
‘I don’t know nothing about that.’ Masters licked his lips; that had come like a bombshell. ‘You couldn’t never prove it, anyway,’ he said desperately.
‘Wouldn’t even try,’ said Gaffney airily. ‘And I’ll tell you this: the KGB won’t worry too much about proof either. All I need to do is release you and tell the Soviet Embassy where and when I’m going to do it.’
‘Or tell Farrell,’ said Fox amiably. ‘So it might be a good idea for you to give us a hand to screw him down, don’t you think?’
Masters was now very rattled, and knew instinctively that he was in serious trouble on more than one front. And that bastard Fox just sat there smiling. ‘You mean you want me to turn Queen’s Evidence?’
Fox leaned back in his chair and smiled. ‘I must warn you about the risks of that … unfortunately. If you make a full confession and the court accepts it, it will only convict Farrell if other, corroborative evidence is forthcoming. And sadly, if the court doesn’t like your confession — that is to say, they think it’s a pack of lies — they might still convict you. There, got that have you?’
Masters looked very unhappy. It was time to surrender. ‘I want to see my solicitor.’