by Jim Kelly
‘Is this really necessary, Brooke?’ The thin military lips were set murderously straight.
Staunton sat on a bench opposite. ‘You said you’d be alone,’ she said, addressing Brooke directly. ‘Why have we been summoned here?’
She fussed with a loose thread at her hem, and Brooke was struck once more by how odd she looked out of the soft, ordered world of her rooms. The mist, which hemmed them in, seemed to make her nervous.
‘I had two things to show you both,’ said Brooke, taking out the gun that had killed Chris Childe and placing it on the seat beside Swift-Lane, set on its green felt bag. The lustre of the polished metal, enhanced by the droplets of water in the air, was almost luminous.
‘Joelyn Stone has been released from custody,’ Brooke said. ‘He didn’t kill Chris Childe. I suspect all his vices are dull. He’s certainly not a cold-blooded murderer. Trying to frame him by planting the murder weapon up at Madingley Hall was a crucial mistake.’
Vera Staunton’s mouth hung open, and she went to speak, but checked herself, intimidated by a glare from Swift-Lane.
From his greatcoat Brooke produced a manila file, tattered and tied with a discoloured tape.
‘Second item. A comprehensive, and official, account of the heroic death of Harry Staunton. You’ll both be familiar with the contents.
‘Let’s consider the glaring contradiction at the core of this: a woman widowed by the Red Army, whose husband volunteered to fight communism, finds herself at the heart of the local communist party. How can we reconcile these facts? Let’s try.’
‘This is a farce,’ said the colonel. ‘You’ll pay for this, Inspector.’
Brooke smiled at Staunton.
‘I think that when the colonel brought back your husband’s pistol you began, what? A relationship, certainly. Frederick was born, and the school fees were paid. But your new mentor wanted more, didn’t he? By then he was working for military intelligence. You, I suspect, revealed a violent hatred for the regime that had left you a widow.
‘It’s a classic – if patient – strategy. The key is never to apply, to always be approached, that way there is never any suspicion. So you joined the Peace Pledge Union first; a perfectly respectable protest against the horrors of war, bolstered by the story you invented to underpin your convictions, that your husband was a victim of the horrors of the Western Front.
‘You made yourself useful; no doubt you expressed further sympathy for the wider political cause: international socialism, and an end to war on a global scale. Most of all you were efficient, clerical. Eventually, inevitably, they approached you. That put you in an exalted position, an invaluable operative for any intelligence officer. No doubt you were also expected to report back on your clients as well, all those military officers seeking female company. All that indiscreet pillow talk.
‘Which is why, when Chris Childe’s letter fell into your hands, you thought it might be politic to keep it safe. It was never posted. I think you used Ida’s phone that morning to ring the colonel and fill him in on Childe: that he was a witness, that he was determined to get information to London. Did Ida hear that conversation, by the way?’
‘What’s Ida got to do with this?’ asked Staunton.
Brooke left them a few moments’ silence. ‘At first there was no need to panic over the letter. Chris had his copy, but had no plans to divulge its contents until London gave its orders. But then it all changed. Buoyed up by his success at the tribunal, and perhaps wary that his letter would simply disappear into the Party machine, he decided to bypass London entirely.’
The mist, thickening, began to drip from the trees around them.
‘I think Childe returned to Babylon Street after his tribunal and told you he was going to tell his comrades at the meeting what he’d seen, that he’d go to the newspapers too.
‘Either way, the cat was almost out of the bag. He had to be stopped. So you rang the colonel again. Or did he call round? Yes, to pick up the letter? While he was there you took the time to bring him up to date on Joelyn Stone as well: his ambitious junior, determined to silence Childe himself, but for very different reasons.
‘I think the colonel saw his chance. I think he helped himself to the gun and its ammunition. Then he went to Midsummer Common and followed Childe after work to the cemetery, where he put a bullet in his brain. If Childe had a copy, he took it off the body.’
‘It was you?’ she said.
‘Vera, enough. Remember the boy,’ said Swift-Lane.
Brooke nodded. ‘You thought it was Stone all along, Mrs Staunton, although I suspect you were eventually encouraged to make your helpful statement of incrimination. The colonel here stole the gun, not Major Stone.’
‘If I’d wanted to stop Childe I’d have made a citizen’s arrest,’ said Swift-Lane. ‘Why kill him? He was a clear and imminent danger to national security. I could have had him in the Castle like that …’ He clicked his fingers. ‘That’s where I dumped his comrades. Murder is murder, Brooke. I’ve no protection in any court. Why would I kill the wretch?’
Staunton had subsided back into her seat.
‘Indeed. The question,’ said Brooke. ‘Certainly not to protect national security, although I’m sure we will hear that defence. No, you took the chance because you saw a way of securing that glittering prize: a heroic, even historic, command.
‘I rang the War Office, you see, to check on Stone’s new posting. A surprising, innovative appointment, in that they’d passed over the favourite for the job, an officer of higher rank. A certain George Swift-Lane. Your reputation for erratic command could not be lightly discarded. They’d rung you with the bad news on the day Childe died …
‘How did you react on the phone? Fine, officer, perfectly understandable, younger man, total support, et cetera, et cetera … But how did you feel when you put the phone down? This wasn’t any old posting, was it? The Cabinet was behind the scheme, the prime minister himself. What lay ahead? A title, honours. Equality at last with those dazzling elder brothers. You’d worked, with your diligent junior, to perfect the scheme, and now all of this had been snatched from your grasp.
‘And then this opportunity fell to you, to kill Childe, shore up the security breach your lax command had allowed and put Stone behind bars. Irresistible to a man of action.’
Swift-Lane swung round in his seat. ‘Evidence, Inspector? Or do we take all this on the basis of your moral authority? The hero of the desert has divined the truth, so that is enough, is it?’
‘Then you killed Ida Trew,’ said Brooke.
Staunton half stood, her face oddly tilted down so that she could level those brown eyes at the father of her child.
‘Vera. The boy’s future is in my hands,’ warned Swift-Lane.
She sat, finally, turning to Brooke. ‘Ida was a good friend. We just wanted to make sure she didn’t blurt out George’s name. I …’
‘But she’d seen too much, heard too much, hadn’t she, Colonel? Childe’s second visit, Stone’s visit, not least your own. The telephone calls. Perhaps, at first, you tried to plead discretion. I can’t see you initiating the violence. She was rather fond of Stone, of course. The presents, the kind attentions.’
‘She had a weak heart,’ said Staunton. ‘You said she collapsed, George.’
‘Shut up,’ said Swift-Lane, this time brushing spittle from his bottom lip. For a moment he seemed to struggle for breath, pressing a handkerchief to his mouth.
‘Maybe she did fall,’ said Brooke. ‘There’s a trace of blood on the oven door. Either way, you had to get rid of the body. The Bentley, I think, down the back alley, after dark. I can only assume she appeared lifeless. Or didn’t you care?
‘Once they were both dead all you had to do was cover your tracks. The awkward witnesses were taken care of; Childe’s comrades were already in the Castle Gaol, the soldiers who’d dug the pits posted to Scotland. Even the runaway Corporal Currie had to be tracked down and silenced. When you couldn’t find him, y
ou enlisted my help. Very cool and calculated.’
‘Any evidence to support this fantasy?’ asked the colonel. ‘It will never get to court, Brooke. Think it through, man. The implications …’
‘It will go to court if I tell the truth,’ said Staunton, on her feet. ‘You made me tell them about Joelyn. You lied about Ida. You’ve used me, George. You used me.’
At a low angle, the sun had appeared through the mist at last, a pale but waxing gold.
‘I think Frederick’s old enough to stand on his own feet now, George,’ she said. ‘He’s a rather remarkable young man. One day you’ll be proud of him. He’s never going to be proud of you.’
CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX
Twenty-four hours later, Brooke found himself summoned to Carnegie-Brown’s office. He’d submitted his eight-page summary report on Swift-Lane to the chief constable the day before. Edison had typed it, while Brooke dictated. Five carbon copies had been made, and he could see one of them on Carnegie-Brown’s blotter. Swift-Lane, on a holding charge, was in cell five.
‘Good work, Brooke,’ she said. ‘A comprehensive job; well done.’
She gave him a glass of sherry, decanted from a bottle made of what looked like milky glass, until Brooke realised it was simply encased in dust.
‘I had your report couriered to the Yard. Special Branch have just rung the chief constable. I want to brief you on developments. Everyone is aware that this is very much your case.
‘A car’s on its way for the prisoner, although there may be a slight delay, as he is complaining of a sore throat and giddy spells – the doctor suspects a chill, so we’d better take care: he’s no spring chicken.
‘When he does go south he’ll be signed off our books. A meeting’s been called in Whitehall for tomorrow, with the Yard in the chair. Military intelligence, and Downing Street, wish to be briefed. The precise location is to be advised. I’m to represent the chief constable, and the Borough.’
‘I could charge him now,’ said Brooke, downing the sweet sherry in a single gulp. ‘I have the evidence,’ he added. ‘Putting aside the tyre prints on Swift-Lane’s Bentley, which match tracks behind the house in Babylon Street, and the gunshot residue on the right sleeve of a jacket we found in his rooms, we have the letter – Childe’s eyewitness account, and the copy. Both were found in Swift-Lane’s private papers, hidden away in his attic room at Madingley. And then we have Staunton’s testimony. She’s ready to take the stand.’
‘Indeed, Brooke. But a trial? What kind of justice is that? The case would be held in camera, with no jury. And what would the defendant say from the dock? That he was motivated to protect national security. Item: the letter, and its copy. The tone of his defence is not difficult to predict.
‘I know he’s guilty of murder, Brooke, and so do you. He could have frogmarched Childe to the nearest police station, not shot him at point-blank range. It was a desperate attempt to cover up his own shortcomings in leadership, and to frame his rival. But he’ll want the content of the film divulged; that’s his right. Even in a closed court that may be asking too much.
‘We may never know his fate, Brooke, but I can tell you that we’ve been assured, at the highest level, that he will never regain his freedom, let alone his career.’
She drummed her fingers on the desk. ‘You need to let go of this, Brooke. You’ve done your job. The in-tray’s full. Why don’t we get on with our jobs?’
‘At this meeting,’ said Brooke. ‘At a location to be announced. I’d like you, if you would, to indicate that I’m content for them to proceed as they wish. I have little choice, although they will need access to our files, our notes. But I’d ask you to make three requests on my behalf.’
He tilted his head to make sure she knew he was asking a question.
She nodded.
‘The first is easy. I’d like PC Cable to receive a commendation. If he hadn’t spotted the dodgy paperwork on Castle Hill, none of this would have come to light. It was diligent police work. It always comes back to that.
‘Second: Swift-Lane may, technically, be a former member of the military intelligence, but he seems to have been active nonetheless. I think he was a recruiter here in Cambridge after he left the service, focusing on the university. He may have gathered up a research student called Marcus Ashmore. I’d like to know where Marcus is, as he’s gone missing, and I’d like to speak to him. His family’s worried. It’s an entirely personal matter.’
‘And the third?’
‘I want to see the film.’
CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN
Three days later, Brooke sat alone in the Galen’s lecture theatre, watching the flickering black-and-white square of film, a soundtrack crackling, until the picture cleared and a handwritten blackboard appeared, with chalked letters reading:
MINISTRY OF WAR
EXPERIMENTS ON HOAY
JULY 21st–25th 1939
A blurred frame, then the blackboard rewritten:
CLASSIFIED
RELEASED ON AUTHORITY OF PORTON DOWN
A voiceover cut in, the tone pure Whitehall mandarin.
Hoay, the audience was told, was a ‘remote island of the St Kilda archipelago, more than sixty miles further west than the Outer Hebrides. An Atlantic island, a day’s boat journey from the Isle of Lewis.’
The voice pronounced the word ‘Hee-brides’ in the classic manner.
The spot had been chosen because even Hirta, the main island, was uninhabited, and had been since the evacuation of the entire population in 1930. The distance of site from Lewis meant that offshore westerly winds posed no lethal threat to human beings.
Why, Brooke asked himself, could a wind pose a threat to life?
Research was under way into ‘BWs’ at both Oxford and Cambridge, the commentary continued. A serum had been developed, Vollum 14578, and it was hoped that the experiments on Hoay would determine whether its spores could survive delivery by mortar, or a 4 lb bomb, and proceed to infect a population.
Brooke’s brain didn’t process this information; it simply registered it, suspending analysis, or questions of any kind. What were BWs?
The film sprang to life, at the slightly manic speed characteristic of a silent movie. Hoay and Hirta could be seen from a pitching boat. Thousand-foot cliffs lowered over a choppy grey sea, while the sky was alive with wheeling masses of birds. Despite the grainy film, the scene projected an extraordinary inner light: the white horses of the ocean and the circling gulls emitting a neon-white intensity against a grey, shifting world.
‘The chosen infectious agent is anthrax,’ said the announcer. ‘This film begins at Base X on Hirta.’
Anthrax. The first question forced itself upon Brooke’s conscious mind: what did he know of anthrax? A bacterium, certainly, which leads to infection and lethal disease, by the agent of its spores – its seed.
BWs – biological weapons.
Hoay – Gaelic, according to the voiceover, for ‘windy island’ – proved to be a rocky outlier of the main island, dominated by a sloping high moor. A boat moored in a bay was loaded with sheep at a wooden jetty, then towed by landing craft towards the islet, where the animals were herded ashore by dogs.
The film jumped to a new scene. Here the sheep were up on the moor, being wedged into crates, from which only their heads protruded, and these were hooded. This final indignity made Brooke shift in his hard wooden seat. Hoods led to execution: the obliteration of sight, the loss – perhaps – of emotional empathy. There was a suggestion of the shameful about the use of such a device.
The voiceover, by contrast, coolly explained that the crates and hoods were designed to ensure that any resulting fatalities were the result of inhalation of the spores only, and not by any other agency, such as physical contact, or infection of one animal by another.
The men were hooded too. An adapted gas mask had been produced, with a wide tarpaulin bib, which sat over a full-body suit. The crates were lugged out onto the hillside and set in three parallel l
ines so that the beasts would face the cloud when it came. The voice tried to impart a certain nobility to this, as if the victims had a choice.
The various delivery systems were discussed with a note of schoolboy excitement. A bombing raid had been tested, although the 4 lb bombs had plugged into the deep peaty soil without detonation. A night-time exercise was considered, with a luminescent agent added to the anthrax so that the drifting cloud could be visibly tracked. This had proved feasible, and further work was being undertaken at Porton Down to find a suitable isotope of uranium.
Luminescent agent: had this, thought Brooke, been Ernst Lux’s inadvertent contribution to the project?
‘But today’s live firing will be delivered by inverted mortar. A shell will be fired into the ground from a wooden gallows.’
A long shot of the open moor showed the gibbet stark against a white sky, supporting an upturned gun barrel rather than a felon’s corpse. A sudden spasm marked the firing itself, and then a wisp of dirty smoke drifted away from the spot, towards the crated sheep. Within a second or two it was not visible, the blustery Atlantic air dissipating it into the atmosphere.
‘Now it is imperative to monitor the effects of the agent.’
The film shifted, and the blackboard announced: THE NEXT DAY.
Hooded men worked at freeing the sheep and then tethering them to rope lines. One or two broke free and the announcer’s tone shifted. ‘Anyone who thinks that a sheep is a docile, placid animal should try herding one which has ideas of freedom!’ Men chased animals in a jittery comic opera.
DAY THREE
‘Fatalities have begun.’
Several of the animals lay unmoving on their tethers. These were cut free and tossed onto wheelbarrows. Brooke noted that the men never seemed to look at the animals which were left.
DAY SEVEN
‘Only a few remain alive. It is now essential to undertake autopsies in order to make sure death is the result of inhalation of the anthrax spores.’