The General said, “Come, come, gentlemen. I don’t think this is getting us anywhere. If Elfe tells us that we won’t get permission to tap telephones – and I take it that prohibition would go for intercepting mail as well—” Elfe nodded. For the moment he was too angry to speak;—“then we have to think of something else. Would it be possible to have his house watched?”
“It’d be a difficult place to watch,” said Bearstead. “It’s got more than an acre of garden. Main roads on the north and west sides, the Artillery Barracks on the east and a stretch of Woolwich Common to the south. To watch it permanently you’d need a team of six on duty, in three reliefs. Say eighteen men.”
“Which puts the idea out of court,” said Haydn-Smith flatly. He, too, was still angry.
Bearstead said, “On the other hand it wouldn’t be too difficult to have him followed when he goes out. That would only need one man on watch with a radio link to bring in any help he needed when Drayling was on the move.”
“As long as we don’t start getting complaints of harassment,” said Haydn-Smith.
“Our men are fairly skilful at watching,” said Bearstead.
And don’t clump round in heavy boots like regular policemen, thought Every. Go on. Why don’t you say it? Let’s have a real fight.
The General intervened once more. He said, “Let’s leave Drayling for the moment. What about those Pakistani boys? The ones Firn visited. How do they come into it?”
“Actually, there are two lots of boys,” said Bearstead, “the Pakistanis, who congregate at a garage at the end of Plumstead High Street, and a crowd of middle-class white boys – a sort of junior National Front – who have a headquarters behind the Social Club in Camlet Road. They seem to be heading for gang war.”
“But apart from the fact that Firn paid a visit to the Pakistani lot there’s no reason to suppose that either of them have got any connection with our problem?”
“No real reason,” agreed Bearstead, “just a hunch that they fit into the picture somewhere.”
“I don’t think we should neglect any lead, however unpromising,” said Elfe.
“That’s what I felt. And that’s why I made my number with the local Probation Officer. A man called Leone.”
“You considered him reliable?” asked Haydn-Smith.
“Entirely reliable, in my opinion,” said Elfe flatly.
No one seemed anxious to challenge this.
Bearstead said, “I’ve asked him to keep one of his eyes on the boys and the other on Drayling. If we can establish any sort of link between them we might be able to see our way a bit more clearly.”
“You’re grasping at straws,” said Haydn-Smith.
“Perhaps you’ve some better idea?” said Elfe.
“Might I make a suggestion?” said Mowatt. He, no more than the General, wanted to see the meeting degenerate into a boxing match between the police and the Special Branch. “This seems to me to be a case in which a division of labour might help. The conclusion we’ve reached is that the explosive will be leaving Belgium in some sort of small cargo vessel or coaster, aiming to land it somewhere in the Thames.”
“Not a conclusion,” said Haydn-Smith. “A guess.”
“All right,” said Mowatt patiently. “A guess. If it is correct, the first snag will be Customs clearance at Gravesend. But it’s not a serious one. The water guard at Gravesend are mainly concerned with seeing that dutiable goods pay duty. They sometimes carry out searches and checks, but not often and particularly not if they know the ship concerned. Moreover, and this I think is the main point, Gravesend don’t yet use the ACID detector. That is handled by the Metropolitan Police, at the docks. They have trained special officers to operate it. If the cargo is landed at a dock, it will have no chance of getting through undetected. Which means that if the IRA are bringing it into the river they are almost certainly planning to land it at some wharf or jetty. And whisking it away by road the moment they’ve got it ashore.”
Mowatt had been allowed to have his say, partly because no one else had any positive contribution to make, but also because he had perfected a smooth civil-service method of presenting his points.
“The problem,” he continued, “really boils down to discovering which of a great number of possible landing points is the one they plan to use. We can then have a suitable reception party organised.”
The General said, “Another way of dealing with it would be to equip the Customs people at Gravesend with this detector.”
“I should be very much opposed to that,” said Every, with unexpected firmness. “The men we’re dealing with are dangerous and quite ruthless. The last thing we want is a shoot-out in Gravesend Customs House. If there’s going to be a battle, I’d prefer to stage it in open country at the landward end of a wharf. Preferably an isolated one.”
“Something in that,” said the General. And to Mowatt, “I interrupted you again. You were going to make a suggestion.”
“It’s a very simple one, sir. It seems to me that there are two sides to our search area. The river itself and the river banks. So far as the river is concerned we could leave it to Colonel Every to make a physical inspection of the possible landing places. The Thames Division would be a great help there. They probably know a lot about them already. Then perhaps Chief Superintendent Bearstead could tackle the landward side. That would mean making discreet enquiries about the firms that own and operate the wharfs. Most of them are no doubt entirely respectable. One or two of them, perhaps, less so. It will mean a lot of slow and detailed police work and no one could expect quick results. In both cases—” he turned deferentially towards Haydn-Smith—“they would, of course, need to be backed by your authority.”
“I’m perfectly prepared,” said Haydn-Smith, “to co-operate in any plan which has the remotest chance of success. I still think you’re clutching at straws, but the method you suggest is, perhaps, the best way of clutching at these particular straws. I’ll have a word with the people concerned.”
“Thank you very much, sir.”
Mowatt congratulated himself on having read the Assistant Commissioner’s mind. The more the matter was dressed up as routine police work the more it would appeal to him.
“Superintendent Groener is the head of the Thames Division. South of the river is ‘R’ District. That’s Commander Tancred. The north bank’s a little more difficult. It’s ‘K’ District as far as the Beam River. That’s Commander Rowlands. But if you want to go east of the Beam River, you’ll have to contact the Essex Constabulary.”
“That covers the area nicely,” said Bearstead. “And we’re most grateful.”
When the meeting had dispersed, Every and Mowatt made for the nearest pub and a badly needed drink.
“It finished all right,” said Mowatt, “but there were one or two moments—”
“Why has Haydn-Smith got his knife into Salwyn?”
“I think they’re both under pressure and that brings out the worst in both of them. And Haydn-Smith is the sort of leader who doesn’t welcome explanations and corrections from one of his own subordinates. It’s human nature, really.”
“It’s bloody childishness,” said Every. He had none of Mowatt’s tolerance of human foibles.
10
Even had Mowatt been allowed to set the sort of watch on Arthur Drayling which he had wanted, it is by no means certain that the next visit which Liam paid to him would have been detected.
The letter had arrived in Drayling’s office with a great number of others. His morning post was normally heavy. It was in a crumpled buff envelope and contained one of Drayling’s own invoices, a number of which Liam had thoughtfully abstracted on his previous visit. Into it he had typed an imaginative quotation for a garden gate – ‘Wrought iron, five bars, decorated with rosettes and lilies – £185 delivered.’ Then, across the bottom, he had scrawled in ink – ‘Sorry. Your price too high. Could offer reduction of 15% with ten weeks for settlement.’
From th
is Drayling had understood that Liam proposed to visit him at ten o’clock on the evening of November 15th, which was this day. In fact, in less than an hour’s time. The thought was disturbing, because Liam had become a figure in his dreams. He had been bound by the wrists to a ring and Liam had been beating him. The blows had hurt and he had woken up sobbing. He had not cried since he was a child. He had lain awake turning over in his mind half a dozen ways of extracting himself from the pit of shame into which he had tumbled, but none of them had stood up to examination.
Since the letter had arrived by first post on the 13th it had given him plenty of time, had he wished, to inform the police and arrange an ambush. The boy was a terrorist. He had admitted as much. Indeed, he had seemed to glory in it. Certainly the authorities would welcome the chance to take him. But when he thought about this, he remembered the last few minutes of their talk on the previous occasion.
Liam had been sprawled in one chair with a foot up on another, smoking a cheap French cigarette, flicking off the ash on to the beautiful Sawonerie carpet. Everything he had done, everything he had said, had been designed to humiliate him.
“Whenever you get a message from me—” (he had already outlined the simple code he proposed to use)—“you will be in this room, on time and alone. And you will leave the terrace window unlocked. Understood?”
Drayling had nodded.
“If you understand, say yes.”
“Yes.”
“It might, of course, occur to you to arrange a reception committee. Police or soldiers. I will give you two reasons for not doing this. First, whatever arrangements you may have made I should contrive, then or later, to have a bullet put through your fat stomach. The doctors might save you, eventually. But I rather think the shock would kill you. A modern jacketed bullet makes a terrible mess of a man’s guts. A second reason, which you may think even more cogent, is that friends of mine will disseminate a certain photograph. You understand?”
“Yes.”
When Drayling thought of the insolent boy, lounging in his chair, confident in his mastery, he started to shake. Partly it was wounded pride and frustration. Partly it was a feeling that he found difficult to diagnose.
The part of Woolwich Common which lay on the south of Drayling’s garden was closed to the public every evening at seven o’clock. Liam had been there since six. Towards seven, when the old park keeper waddled in to lock the gates, he had melted into the darkness of the bushes. After that he had sat for nearly three hours, with the disciplined patience that was part of his armoury, watching and listening.
At ten to ten he had eased his way over the wall of Drayling’s garden. The stretch of lawn which lay behind it looked bare and harmless, but instead of crossing it directly he moved round it, keeping in the shadows until he had reached the terrace. As the clock on the Observatory Tower started to sound the hour of ten he rapped sharply on the lighted window. Drayling hurried across and swung open the unlocked French window.
“You’re very prompt,” he said. “Come in, come in.”
“Come out, come out,” said Liam. When Drayling hesitated, he said, “All right, go along and get a nice warm coat, you old softie. Only, no tricks.”
“I don’t need a coat,” said Drayling stiffly. “I just wondered why you wanted to sit out here, instead of indoors.”
“Rule number one. Never talk indoors if you can talk outside.” Liam sat down on the wooden bench and patted the seat beside him. Exactly as he would have done, thought Drayling, if he’d been inviting a dog to jump up.
“Now,” said Liam, “I’ve got some instructions for you, so listen carefully. Are you listening carefully?”
“Yes.” He tried to sound natural, but sitting so close to Liam was disturbing him.
“First, I want to know about those two lots of kids who spend their time scrapping with each other.”
“I don’t know much about the Pakistanis. Except that two of them are sons of Azam Kahn who keeps the garage at the end of Plumstead High Street. I suppose the others are friends of theirs.”
“What about the white kids?”
“The leaders are Ted and Robin Drummer. The only one of the others I know about is Norman Younger.”
“The boy football wonder?”
“Yes. Oh, and Andy Connors. His father’s in the Army. There may be one or two others who go around with them. They call themselves the Young Britons and they’ve got a sort of headquarters behind our Social Club in Camlet Road.”
Liam was sitting very still, seeming to docket this information. Then he said, “The two Drummer boys. What do they do besides picking fights with the Pakis?”
“Ted works in his father’s pet shop. Budgerigars, goldfish and things like that. Robin’s got a job at the Clipstone Sand and Gravel Works, at Cooling.”
“And how come you know so much about them?”
“Their father, Abel Drummer, happens to be a friend of mine.”
“Let’s hear about him, then.”
“What sort of things do you want to know? He’s an average type of patriotic Englishman; a member of the British Legion. He belonged for some years to the local TA Engineer Regiment. Is that the sort of thing you wanted?”
“Keep going. You’re painting quite a portrait.”
For the first time in their acquaintance Drayling seemed to detect a note of approval in his visitor’s voice.
He said, “I believe his father was a sapper and was badly wounded in North Africa on account of some mess-up with a Punjabi Regiment.”
“Which accounts, no doubt, for his hostility to the Pakistani crowd.”
“There’s more to it than that. One of the boys killed his dog.”
“Tell me about that.”
Again Liam listened in silence, a silence which continued after Drayling had finished. Then he said, “I’d like to meet Abel. Have a quiet talk with him. If you asked him up here, would he come?”
“He’d come like a shot. Do I tell him what you want to talk about?”
“Goldfish.”
“Goldfish?”
“That’s right. Tell him you’ve got a friend who might be able to supply him with a consignment of Garassius Auratus Leoninus Indicus. Indian Lion-heads. Only found in some of the streams and pools of Northern Pakistan. Much rarer and more valuable than the Japanese type. They’d have to be flown over, but it’d be worth it. He could ask fifty pounds apiece for them from keen aquarists. Have you got all that?”
“I’m to tell him that you can get him some Indian Lion-heads—”
“Wrong. You’re to give him the full name. Get a bit of paper and a pencil. All right. Ready? Carassius Auratus Leoninus Indicus.”
In the faint light which filtered out from the drawing room, and using his knee as a pad, Drayling scribbled desperately with Liam looking over his shoulder.
“Double ‘s’ in Carassius.”
“Oh, sorry.” It was like being back at school.
“Now that we’re friends, Arthur, I’ll tell you something that someone ought to have told you before. You’re soft. Soft as suet pudding. Soft and wet as a sponge. That’s right, isn’t it?”
“I suppose it is.”
“Don’t start supposing. Is it true or not?”
“Yes.”
“It’s not really your fault. The trouble is, you’ve had it all your own way. You’ve got to the top too easily. When I asked you if Abel would come up here, you said, ‘He’d come like a shot’, meaning he’d be flattered to be asked. Because you’re the big wheel round here. Right?”
“I suppose—I mean, yes.”
“Then all the others must be pretty small wheels.”
Drayling thought of the company at the club; Nabbs and Locke and Seligman and the others.
“Mind you,” said Liam without waiting for an answer, “I suppose like all of us when you were young you had to take the rough with the smooth. Were you bullied at school?”
“I went to a progressive school. They didn’
t believe in bullying.”
“Pity,” said Liam. “Being bullied would have done you a lot of good.” He got up. “I’ve been bullying you, see? And you’re all the better for it, aren’t you? I’ll write to you in the same way, telling you the date and time I want Drummer on parade here. And one other thing, Arthur. If he wants to know something about me, you can tell him that all you know about me is that I’m a clockmaker by profession.”
Before Drayling could say anything, Liam had jumped down the three steps on to the path. He made his way, straight across the lawn this time, and over the wall at the far side, slipping over it like a shadow, and disappearing into the shadows beyond.
Drayling sat staring after him. He became aware suddenly of the chill of the November evening and he was shivering as he got back into the warmth and comfort of his beautiful drawing room.
11
“What are you worried about?” said Sandra.
“Who said I was worried?”
“If you aren’t worried, why have you started talking in your sleep?”
“Good God!” said Anthony. “Have I really? What did I say?”
“I was too discreet to listen. Every time you started talking I kicked you.”
“I wondered what that bruise was on my thigh.” Anthony drank the last of his breakfast coffee and said, “Of course you’re right. I am worried.”
“About what?”
“About those boys.”
“They’re all right now. They’ve been bound over haven’t they? Nothing dramatic about that.”
“One of the conditions of the binding over order was that they were to remain on probation to me for a further six months.”
“Which only means you’ve got to keep an eye on them for Norrie for six months.”
“Not only for Norrie.”
“Who for, then?”
“Oh, I forgot. I’m not allowed to tell you.”
Sandra eyed her husband tolerantly. She said, “It’s for that man Bearstead, isn’t it?”
“All right. I didn’t tell you; you guessed it. And I can’t tell you anything more.”
Trouble Page 12