by Graham Ison
Tipper shrugged. ‘I suppose it was an obvious question to ask in the circumstances,’ he said, ‘although I don’t know what made him ask it, but … ’ He paused to extract another piece of paper and pass it across. ‘Put with that, it becomes quite interesting. Walter Croft, the MP whose telephone number we found on that old order-paper, has come home
at last.’ He nodded at the message form which Gaffney was now reading. ‘I spoke to him about twenty minutes ago. That information, incidentally, hasn’t been recorded anywhere else.’
Gaffney looked up and grinned. ‘Christ Almighty, Harry,’ he said. ‘You realise what this means, don’t you?’
‘Livens it up a bit, doesn’t it?’ Tipper was non-committal.
‘When can we see him — Croft?’
‘This morning, sir. I’ve made an appointment for ten-thirty, if that’s all right?’
‘That’ll do fine. Then, Harry, you and I will make some further discreet enquiries.’ He leaned back in his chair. ‘Anything else?’
Tipper smirked. ‘Yes, sir. The Commissioner would like to see you as soon as possible to give him an update, and the Home Secretary wants to see us at five this afternoon for the same reason.’
Gaffney smiled. ‘Docs he now? Well, that could be just about the right timing. Let’s hope we’ll have something to say to him.’ He stood up and stretched. ‘Harry — ’
‘Sir?’
‘Get one of the lads to go down to the Commissioner’s library for me, will you?’
‘Yes, sir … ?’ Tipper looked puzzled.
‘See if they’ve still got a copy of Fred Cherrill’s autobiography.’
‘Who’s Fred Cherrill, guv?’
Gaffney smiled. ‘Probably one of the greatest fingerprint men ever. He was detective chief superintendent in charge of Fingerprint Branch years ago, well before our time. But I’ve just had an idea. It’s a long shot, but when you’ve got nothing else … ’ He walked across the office and put the file he had been studying into his safe. ‘When you’ve done that, we’ll see Croft, and then we’ll go clubbing.’
‘At this time in the morning, guv?’
‘Not quite. We’ve a call to make first, just to eliminate a suspect.’
? ? ?
The woman who answered the door was about thirty-five years of age. She wore black leather trousers and a white silk blouse with long voluminous sleeves. Her red hair tumbled about her shoulders and she was holding a glass of red wine. She looked vaguely at Gaffney and Tipper. ‘Yes?’ she said. ‘We’re police officers. Mrs Anne Tremayne, is it?’
‘Yes,’ said the woman again, making no move to admit them.
‘I understand you know Lord Slade … ’
‘Oh! Perhaps you’d better come in.’ She led them into the sitting room and refilled her glass, neither offering the policemen one, nor inviting them to sit down.
‘During the course of certain enquiries,’ Gaffney explained, ‘Lord Slade accounted for his movements on the last Tuesday of last month by telling us that he spent the afternoon and evening with you.’ He glanced down at his pocket book. ‘He said that you lunched together, then spent the afternoon here. He went on to say that you then both dined here and spent the night together.’ Gaffney looked up. ‘Are you prepared to confirm that, Mrs Tremayne?’
Mrs Tremayne contrived to look both astonished and angry at the same time. ‘He actually told you that he’d spent the night with me?’
‘Yes, he did,’ said Gaffney.
‘Well, that’s bloody rich. And I thought he was supposed to be a gentleman.’ Anne Tremayne banged her glass heavily on a side-table. ‘Well, as a matter of fact he did,’ she said, ‘but it’ll be the last bloody time he does.’ She took a cigarette out of an open packet on the table, lit it and pulled on it. ‘We went out to lunch, way out in the country somewhere. That was so that none of his friends would see him and report us to his wife, I suppose.’ She stubbed the cigarette out viciously. ‘I don’t know why I ever got mixed up with him,’ she said half to herself. ‘Yes, then we came back here and went to bed. We got up, had a bit of supper, and then went back to bed.’ She folded her arms tightly and stared out of the window. ‘I’ve a good mind to ring him up and tell him I’m pregnant.’ She turned to face the two detectives. ‘Or, better still, ring up
his wife.’ She took another cigarette. ‘So much for a discreet affair,’ she said.
‘End of a beautiful friendship,’ said Tipper when they got back to the car.
‘End of another suspect, too,’ said Gaffney.
Chapter Seventeen
At ten past five, Gaffney and Tipper were still sitting in the waiting room near the Home Secretary’s office at Queen Anne’s Gate.
‘Bloody marvellous, isn’t it?’ Tipper spoke in low tones. ‘He makes the appointment for five, and then keeps us waiting.’
Gaffney was leaning back in his chair, legs stretched out, arms folded and eyes closed. ‘He’s a politician,’ he said, which in his view was sufficient explanation. He was feeling reasonably happy about the day’s work; the results of his enquiries were the best that could be hoped for, but the next half-hour or so would be the testing time.
After what seemed an age, Charles Stanhope, Lavery’s private secretary, appeared in the doorway. ‘I’m sorry to have kept you waiting, Mr Gaffney,’ he said. ‘The Home Secretary will see you now.’
The only illumination in the darkening office was a brass banker’s lamp which cast a pool of light on the desk and gave the eerie impression that Dudley Lavery was headless.
‘Detective Chief Superintendent Gaffney, Home Secretary,’ said Stanhope.
Lavery rose from the desk with a weary smile. ‘Ah, Mr Gaffney, come and sit down; you too, Mr Tipper.’ He glanced at Stanhope. ‘Charles, perhaps you’d put the overhead lights on.’ He peered across at the high windows. ‘Still snowing, I see.’ He indicated the little circle of chairs with a gesture. ‘Oh, and Charles, could you arrange for us to have some tea?’
‘Yes, Home Secretary,’ murmured Stanhope. He switched on the lights and walked across to the window. ‘I’d better
just draw the blinds,’ he said, ‘or I shall have these gentlemen complaining that you’re being exposed to assassins on rooftops.’
‘Do make yourselves comfortable,’ said Lavery. ‘Perhaps you would excuse me just for a few moments while I sign these papers.’ He resumed his seat behind the large desk.
The tea arrived, and Lavery walked across to join the two detectives. ‘Well, Mr Gaffney?’ He sat down, took a cup of tea and gently stirred it. ‘What progress have you to report? I understand that you’ve made an arrest?’
Gaffney nodded. ‘As a matter of fact, we have about five or six persons in custody, sir, yes.’
Lavery leaned forward earnestly. ‘That is good news, Mr Gaffney. Many congratulations. I assume that one of them is the man who — ’
‘We haven’t got to that stage yet, sir. There are a few things that I have to check. Perhaps you can help me with them?’
‘Of course, of course.’ Lavery leaned back, relaxing, and letting his forearms lie flat along the arms of the chair.
Unprompted, Tipper opened his brief-case and handed a sheaf of papers to Gaffney.
‘I have here,’ began Gaffney, ‘a copy of the statement which was made by Detective Sergeant John Sclway … ’ He glanced up at the Home Secretary. ‘One of your protection officers, of course.’ He smiled and Lavery nodded. He turned a couple of pages until he found the paragraph he wanted. ‘He says here that you left the House at six-fifty on the evening of your wife’s murder and arrived at the Chesterfield Club at about a minute to seven.’
Lavery gestured with his hands. ‘I’m sure that’s right. If John Selway says that was the time, then so be it.’
‘He then goes on to say,’ continued Gaffney, concentrating once more on Selway’s statement, ‘that you remained there until nine-twenty when you left to return to the House.’ He paused before looking
up. ‘And you arrived at the House at half-past nine.’
‘I’m sure that’s absolutely right. But why are you going
over these times again, Mr Gaffney? Has one of the men you have in custody … Masters, perhaps … ?’ Lavery had been advised of the arrests by DCI Lisle, his senior protection officer. ‘Has he said something — made some statement — that is germane to those times?’ Lavery spoke in a detached way, politely, as though, in his capacity as the police authority, he was listening to a senior officer’s account of a crime with which he was unconnected.
‘No, he hasn’t.’ Gaffney glossed over that, but he was interested that, out of all the men in custody, Lavery should have selected that name. Not even a mention of Farrell, whom he claimed to know on a social level. ‘Why Masters in particular, sir?’ he asked.
Lavery smiled blandly. ‘I defended him once,’ he said. ‘Ironic, isn’t it?’
‘Perhaps you’d just have a look at this, sir … ’ Gaffney waited until Tipper had handed Lavery the order-paper. ‘This is a House of Commons order-paper … ’
Lavery smiled tolerantly and took the document, turning it over in his hand. ‘I have seen one before you know,’ he said. He returned it after only a cursory examination. ‘Does that have some special significance?’ he asked, with a puzzled expression on his face.
‘It may have, sir. You will sec that it has a telephone number written on it.’ Lavery nodded. ‘Our enquiries show that it is the home telephone number of Mr Walter Croft, MP.’
‘Ah, Wally Croft,’ murmured Lavery and nodded.
‘Do you remember his giving it to you, sir?’
Lavery raised his hands and then let them fall again.‘My dear Mr Gaffney,’ he said, ‘how on earth can you possibly expect me to remember a thing like that?’ He shook his head and stretched out a hand. ‘May I?’ He studied the order-paper once more. ‘Well, I suppose the date is some indication, but it was a week before my wife’s death,’ he said, and returned the document to Gaffney. ‘It was probably on that day.’ He said it with an air of lofty indifference. ‘Look, is this really of any importance?’
‘We found it in the bedroom at Cutler’s Mews on the
night your wife’s body was discovered there,’ said Gaffney quietly.
Lavery waved a deprecating hand. ‘That’s Edna for you,’ he said dismissively. ‘Cleaning women are so damned difficult to find these days, you just have to put up with what you can get, or do without.’
‘Mr Croft remembers quite clearly when he gave you that order-paper, sir. He states that he gave it to you at about five o’clock on the afternoon of the day that your wife was murdered.’ Lavery opened his mouth as if to speak, but Gaffney went on: ‘He’s quite adamant about it.’ Tipper passed another written statement across. ‘He says that he spoke to you on the matter of one Joseph Ellis, a constituent of his, about the treatment of Mr Ellis’s son while serving a term of imprisonment. According to Mr Croft, you undertook to make some enquiries and telephone him urgently. He gave you his home telephone number, written on the back of that old order-paper, because he would not be attending the House again prior to leaving for Ankara for an Interparliamentary Union meeting.’ Gaffney paused. ‘He also says that you did not ring him back … ’
There was a long pause before Lavery spoke again. When he did, the old politician’s smile was firmly fixed on his face. ‘I think there must be some mistake here, Mr Gaffney. I don’t recall having seen that before.' He gestured towards the order-paper which Gaffney was still holding. ‘Why has it taken so long to produce this rather odd piece of … I suppose you’d call it evidence?’
‘Very simply, sir, because Mr Croft didn’t get back until yesterday.’
‘Ah!’ Lavery let out a long sigh. ‘Well, what are you suggesting?’
‘I’m not suggesting anything, sir,’ said Gaffney slowly. ‘I’m just curious to know how it managed to get from your pocket — which is where Mr Croft swears he saw you put it — to beneath your bed near the body of your wife, when you claim not to have been home that evening.’ Gaffney leaned back in his chair, waiting for the storm to break. There was
little doubt in his mind that his career, by that question, had been laid firmly on the line.
Lavery smiled owlishly. ‘Poor old Wally,’ he said. ‘He is getting a bit past it.’ He leaned forward slightly, false concern on his face. ‘I wouldn’t want you to repeat that, of course.’ He appeared visibly to relax and surveyed Gaffney for some time before speaking again. ‘I hope, Mr Gaffney,’ he said, his voice conveying an element of threat, ‘that you are not suggesting that I — the Home Secretary — would have done anything untoward.’ He smiled as if to soften the menace. ‘You will know, of course’ — he gestured towards the pile of statements resting on Gaffney’s knees — ‘that John Selway was at the Chesterfield with me all that evening.’
Gaffney had the feeling that he was being dragged under. One of the things that he had learned early on in his days at Downing Street, looking after the Prime Minister, was that you didn’t joust with a politician unless you were absolutely sure of your facts, and not even then if it could possibly be avoided. ‘John Selway was there, sir, but not with you.’ Lavery smiled blandly. ‘Are you suggesting that I slipped out of the back door then?’ he asked jocularly.
‘I have made enquiries at the Chesterfield,’ said Gaffney heavily. ‘I can find no one, no one at all, who can remember seeing you between a quarter past seven and half-past eight when you went in for dinner.’
‘I was in a private room upstairs. I told you I went there for some peace and quiet to read the Prisons Bill.’ He frowned. ‘Look, Mr Gaffney, I have been as co-operative as possible, but I have to say there comes a point when this whole thing gets too bizarre for words. I can only suggest that you get back to this man Masters and charge him with my wife’s murder.’ Gaffney spread his hands in an attitude of resignation. ‘I apologise, sir, but I’m sure that you — more than most people — will realise that when inconsistencies of this nature arise they have to be resolved.’
‘Of course, of course.’ Lavery smiled magnanimously. ‘It is rather irksome though.’
So now it came to it. Now was the point when Gaffney
had to gamble. And not only to gamble on the inquiry he was conducting, but with his career, too. If he lost, he would be looking for a job; there was no doubt in his mind about that, and that meant leaving under a cloud. Even if he stayed, having failed to find the murderer of the Home Secretary’s wife, it wouldn’t do his professional career a great deal of good. It would certainly banish all hopes of his ever becoming a commander, and would tarnish the reputation of Special Branch as well. There would be pointing fingers, the laughter, and the suggestions that the inquiry should have been given to a real policeman.
‘Masters didn’t murder your wife, sir,’ said Gaffney quietly.
Lavery affected a surprised look. ‘Oh? Are you certain?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘But how can you be so sure? From what Lisle told me — indeed from my own knowledge of the man — Masters is an out-and-out criminal … ’
Gaffney relaxed. There was no point in being tense now that he had made his bid. ‘Some years ago, sir, well before my time, there was a detective chief superintendent at Scotland Yard called Chcrrill who was head of our Fingerprint Branch.’ Lavery raised an eyebrow, clearly wondering what relevance this had. ‘And in 1941,’ continued Gaffney, ‘he was called to investigate the murder of a young woman called Maple Church … in Camden Town, I believe — ’
‘Strange name,’ murmured Lavery.
Gaffney wasn’t sure whether Lavery was referring to Maple Church or Camden Town. ‘The interesting thing about it,’ he continued, ‘was that he found the imprint of a finger-mark on the body: an identifiable fingerprint. It was the first time that such a mark had been discovered on a body … ’ He paused. ‘But not the last.’
Lavery glanced at his watch. ‘I suppose all this i
s leading somewhere,’ he said, his face showing no emotion.
Gaffney was impressed by Lavcry’s control. ‘And it has happened in the case of your wife’s murder.’ Gaffney spoke quietly and precisely. ‘That is how I can be so sure that Colin Masters did not kill her.’
Slowly the Home Secretary sat up, his eyes fixed gimlet-like on Gaffney’s face, as if willing him to say no more. ‘Well, who did?’ He frowned intently.
‘I don’t know,’ said Gaffney. ‘You see, sir, the killer’s fingerprints aren’t on record; he has no previous convictions.’
‘Why did you arrest Masters, then?’
‘We arrested him on drug-smuggling charges, sir,’ said Gaffney, varnishing the truth only a little.
‘Good Lord!’ Lavery looked genuinely astonished. ‘Well, what are you going to — ’
‘I propose to take elimination fingerprints from everyone who may have had contact with your wife, sir, however tenuously. I was wondering if you would set an example by giving us your own to start with. The others could hardly refuse then, could they?’
Slowly Lavery stood up and walked across to the window. He parted the slats of the vertical blinds and for an age stared out. ‘It’s still snowing,’ he said absently. Then he turned and focused his gaze on the detective’s face. ‘There is no need, Mr Gaffney,’ he said. ‘It was I who killed my wife.’
Gaffney, conscious of the uniqueness of the situation, waited silently, expecting the Home Secretary to say something else. But Lavery remained still and silent, arms limply at his sides, gazing unseeing at his desk, just the occasional twitch of his bottom lip betraying the emotion of the drama. Finally Gaffney spoke: ‘Dudley Lavery, I am arresting you for the wilful murder of your wife, Elizabeth Lavery. Anything you say will be given in evidence.’
At last the Home Secretary looked at Gaffney, staring him in the face. ‘Of course, of course,’ he murmured. Even in his anguish he could not forget that he was the political head of the police force of which Gaffney was a member. ‘You should go far in your chosen profession, Mr Gaffney. You are a brilliant detective.’ He smiled ruefully. ‘Which is more than I can say of my career; I only asked the Commissioner to have Special Branch investigate the murder because I didn’t think they’d solve it. Just shows how little I know of your abilities.