by Aly Monroe
‘You’re leaving her with a complete stranger?’
The red-haired man had a go at thinking. He looked put upon and slightly sick. After a while, he spoke. ‘I can’t think of a reason. She’s not my type, if you understand me?’ He giggled.
‘Then you’ll have no problem staying with her,’ said Cotton.
‘Damn!’ said the red-haired man. He sighed. ‘You wouldn’t mind if I just nipped out to—’
‘Yes, I would mind,’ said Cotton. ‘In fact, if you go on like this, I’ll help you downstairs with her.’
Gus made a face. ‘Would you have a telephone?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good! Would you mind if I used it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘You won’t get a taxi. The evening is over. And I’m truly fed up with this. Stay here with the girl. Or you both leave. What do you say?’
‘For God’s sake. I barely know her. We met at the Arts Theatre. She does something behind the scenes there. Usually has a paintbrush between her teeth.’
‘Is she really Czech?’
‘I don’t know. She says she is. But she could be from Bootle for all I know.’
‘Fine,’ said Cotton. ‘I’ll get you a blanket.’
When Cotton came back Gus had sat down, closed his eyes and opened his mouth. Cotton dropped the blanket on him. He went to the kitchen, poured two glasses of water for them and set them down beside each one. He also got a salad bowl. He prodded Gus.
‘If you vomit, you vomit in here. Have you got that?’
Gus groaned.
Cotton went to the front door, locked the door and removed the key.
He looked at them. The girl looked to be out, unconscious rather than asleep. The man was twitching. Cotton thought. They could hardly be part of a honey trap operation for someone whose sexual tastes were not yet recorded. He went to bed.
At eight something woke Cotton. He got up, put on some clothes and went to the bathroom. The door was locked.
‘I’m having a bath,’ the girl called. ‘I’m having a lovely bath.’
Cotton went through to the kitchen. He looked through the doors into the living room. Gus was still fast asleep. When he turned round he saw the girl had been busy. She had found some soap flakes, spilt them but washed out her stockings and knickers in the sink. The knickers were on the towel rail, the tea towel tossed on to a chair. She had taken the cord of the kitchen blind, stretched it out and tied the loose end over a cupboard doorknob and used it as a short washing line for her stockings. Neither stockings nor knickers looked remotely new.
Cotton put on a kettle to boil and cleared up the soap flakes. He unlocked the front door. He cut some bread to toast.
The girl appeared smiling with her hair still wet.
‘Absolute bliss!’ she said. ‘You have no idea. I hope you don’t mind but I used your shampoo. Oh, and I borrowed your razor.’
‘Did you change the blade?’ said Cotton.
‘No,’ she said. ‘Do you own this place?’
‘You have a keen interest in property?’
‘In consumption, darling. What were the paintings on the wall?’
‘I understand there was once a Matisse, a Dufy and a Derain.’
‘Wow! You’re rich. Or at least you were. Did you have to sell them?’
‘No. I never bought them. They belonged to a previous occupant. I think she was an actress.’
‘What was her name?’
Cotton shook his head. ‘I have no idea.’
He went to the bathroom. Anna Melville had omitted to clean the bath. She had left his razor out. He changed the blade – it was his last – and brushed his teeth and his hair. He half expected her to have gone but she was sitting at the kitchen table with her glasses on and her eyes shut. The underwear and stockings had gone.
‘Who cleans the bath in your house?’ he asked.
The girl opened her eyes and looked up. ‘Who said we had a proper bath?’ My God, you’re a bit of a stickler, aren’t you? We just had a party, that’s all.’ She frowned. ‘Don’t you have a maid?’
‘No,’ said Cotton, ‘I don’t.’
She shook her head. ‘You’re not an intellectual, are you?’
‘As against what? An actor?’
‘Did you go to university?’
‘Yes. It doesn’t mean you’re an intellectual though.’
‘Where did you go?’
‘Cambridge.’
‘Are they more intellectual at Oxford?’
‘Even less.’
She laughed. ‘Are you saying you don’t need to be clever to go to Oxford?’ she said.
‘Intelligence is negotiable. You always need funds.’
‘Good. That’s useful information.’
‘Is it? I’m glad.’
‘Tell me about Cambridge.’
‘Why?’
‘That man through there is still asleep.’
Cotton nodded. ‘I studied economics.’
‘You’re telling me you’re clever.’
‘I didn’t say that. I had a friend in college on six hundred pounds a year. There were even a few on a thousand. Strings-of-pearls money we called it.’
‘Why?’
‘Because of the presents to girlfriends.’
She laughed. ‘I like this country.’
‘Why?’
‘It has opportunities.’
‘Surely America has more.’
‘Not theatrically, darling. What’s the time?’
Cotton told her. It was a little after nine.
‘Damn. I’m supposed to get home for lunch.’
‘Is it far?’
‘My parents live in south Croydon. My father managed a factory in Brno. Now he’s a bookkeeper.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Why? When we first arrived we were sent to Wolverhampton! They’re very pleased with Croydon.’ She looked up. ‘They’re hoping my brother becomes a professional violinist.’ She shook her head. ‘He’s twenty-three. That’s too old and he’s not tough enough. He’s the youngest.’
‘And you are?’
‘The oldest of three. My sister lives in Bradford. She married a dentist called Green and breeds.’
‘You don’t want to do that?’
‘Darling,’ she said. ‘Don’t joke.’ She smiled. ‘I’m quite ambitious, you know. I have plans.’
‘Good,’ said Cotton.
‘Mind you, people like him,’ she said pointing in the direction of Gus, ‘don’t take women seriously. Unless they suffer, of course.’
Cotton was not sure how old she was. There was something of her playing younger, as if that might be winsomely attractive.
She and Gus, finally woken, left about eleven to go, they said, to Lupus Street in Pimlico. Cotton telephoned his father, cleaned up the flat – Gus had left a smear of black and white greasepaint on the sofa he did not know how to get off – and went for a walk. At about five he took an aspirin, made something to eat, read a little, listened to some Art Tatum music and wrote a letter to his sister in New York. Around nine he had a bath. He was asleep by ten.
12
ON 2 January Cotton found Miss Kelly already at work. There was no sign of Phyllis and he did not ask what had happened to her. Miss Kelly had made other changes, to the position of her desk, for example; he thought she had probably cleaned the windows as well.
He started her off by suggesting she contact Alfred Perlman’s secretary.
‘Mr Perlman is a lawyer. He represents, among many other distinguished clients, Major Albert Briggs MP. Major Briggs has a keen interest in security matters.’
Miss Kelly nodded. A few minutes later she returned.
‘I have spoken with Miss Marx and we have exchanged private telephone numbers,’ she said.
After that, they sat down and Cotton explained what he wanted and why. By the end of Friday he had what Miss Kelly described as ‘an informal map’ of the departments w
ithin the agencies. There were a couple Cotton had never heard of. Miss Kelly had also identified a list of vulnerable government departments, military research establishments and associated private companies. A draft sketch looked like a fly-clogged cobweb. There were over 130 addresses.
On Saturday, 4 January Hans Bieber drove Cotton to Fontwell Park in the Triumph to meet Major Bertie Briggs. The day was cold but the sun was bright, strong enough to break up most of the mist in the air and reveal the glint on the frost on the ground. Hans flipped at the sun visor as they headed towards the south coast. They arrived shortly before noon and were met by a young man.
‘Major Briggs is on the racecourse, having a look at the going, sir,’ he said. ‘This way.’
The main building at Fontwell looked rather American to Cotton, a white structure like a demure plantation house on the South Downs. The young man led Cotton round it. Fontwell was a national hunt course. Hurdling was on a simple loop course, steeplechase on a figure of eight. The course was small – the figure of eight no more than a mile – and to Cotton’s eye rather odd; the small grandstand had a thatched roof.
Major Briggs was at the finishing post. Cotton was not sure what he was dressed as, possibly a trainer, perhaps a starter. The MP was wearing a bowler hat and a stout, whitish officer’s coat and was carrying a shooting stick. It had never occurred to Cotton before that the seat part resembled stirrups.
‘Nothing like it, eh?’ said Major Briggs, holding out an arm and offering a view of the course.
Cotton looked. He thought the view was spoilt by the white railings. They shook hands. ‘This is my first visit to a racecourse, Major Briggs.’
‘Well, you have led a sheltered life then.’ Briggs smiled. ‘Or perhaps not. Is that what you are saying?’
‘No,’ said Cotton. ‘Just that I’ve never been to a racecourse before.’
‘No nags today, I’m afraid, ‘said Major Bertie sadly. ‘Still it is a lovely place. England at its very best.’ He turned and they strolled on the turf. ‘Do you think I should drop the Major?’
Cotton smiled. ‘The Prime Minister is often called Major Attlee.’
Briggs nodded. ‘What were you?’
‘A half-colonel, sir.’
‘You’re a clever beggar, is that it?’
‘No. I was given that rank when I went to Washington DC, and never felt very comfortable with it. I was a soldier for about half my service. And I was a captain then.’
‘But you saw action.’
‘Only in Sicily.’
Briggs raised his chin. ‘Wounded?’
‘Just some broken bones.’
Briggs nodded, then squinted and then enquired, ‘You’re not actually a toff, are you?’
Cotton shook his head. ‘No. My father was a bank manager but in Mexico mostly. There were advantages in that.’
Briggs abruptly smiled. ‘All right. And who do you think you are now?’
‘An intelligence officer talking to a member of His Majesty’s governing party who has a keen interest in security matters.’
Briggs smiled and nodded. ‘You are a clever bugger then,’ he said. He sniffed. ‘I also like military strategy,’ he said. ‘You?’
Cotton shook his head. ‘No. I was never involved in that and I suspect I lack the necessary talents.’
Briggs was shocked, as if he had never heard anyone admit similar before. ‘What do you mean by that?’
‘Some people are born with a good ear for music. Or we say a surgeon has “good hands”. It’s not just analysis. That’s relatively passive. A good general needs grasp, sees ways and usually has a gift for self-publicity. Learning is involved but a basic talent is required. I deal in much quieter things.’
Briggs stared at him. ‘Are you a team player? Did you play sports at school?’
Cotton nodded. ‘Yes. And at university.’
‘What did you play?’
‘Football.’
‘Rugger?’
‘No. Round ball.’
‘What position did you play?’
‘Goalkeeper.’
‘Right,’ said Briggs. ‘Why was that?’
‘Oh,’ said Cotton. ‘I think that came from Mexico. Goalkeepers are viewed as rather heroic there.’
Briggs laughed and nodded. ‘Play anything else?’
‘I was an undistinguished member of the tennis team.’
‘What was the problem?’
‘An erratic backhand and a very belated realization that the strings on the racquet need to be tighter than I ever had them.’
Major Briggs paused, nodded, then wagged a finger.
‘I’ll tell you what it is,’ he said. ‘You’re not a toff but you’re not like me. Do you know the difference between us? People like you can afford to be self-deprecating. People like me can’t.’
Cotton did not ask what Briggs meant by ‘afford’. Nor did he say he disagreed.
Briggs nodded. ‘How did you get your MC?’
Cotton sighed and told him. He realized as he was doing so, that he was more or less repeating what he usually said when asked. He had been lucky to escape the worst effects of a blast. According to the citation, his medal had been for assisting others when under heavy fire. The citation did not mention that most of the fire had been from offshore.
Briggs nodded. ‘Friendly fire, was it?’
‘An American shell started it,’ said Cotton.
‘Are you married?’
‘No. But I’ve been engaged. Twice.’
Briggs frowned. ‘I don’t like the sound of that. You shied at the last fence, is that it?’
‘No, they both died. One in a bombing raid in Clerkenwell during the war, the other in a car accident in Washington DC just over a year ago.’
Briggs blinked. ‘Christ, lad,’ he said. It was the first time that Cotton felt he was hearing Briggs’ real voice. ‘There’s bad luck and there’s—’ He paused. ‘What’s that handbag woman called? In a play?’
‘Lady Bracknell? The Importance of Being Earnest?’
‘Yes. Something about misfortune can account for one mishap, but two can only be carelessness?’ Briggs looked round and stared at him.
It was, thought Cotton, in the nature of this job to have his sexuality considered, however peremptorily while standing on a racecourse.
‘Nah,’ said Briggs confidently. ‘You’ll find somebody. There’s a girl out there waiting for you. I’m sure there is.’
Cotton nodded politely.
‘But two!’ said Briggs. ‘Are you lucky? Or those around you unlucky?’
‘I’m not superstitious.’
Briggs laughed. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘I bet you’re fucking not.’
Major Bertie had a young assistant called Swayles in attendance. The young man accompanied them but was always about twenty feet away.
‘How are we doing, Tommy?’ Briggs called.
‘I’ll check, sir,’ said Swayles. The boy ran off towards the house.
Briggs turned and they began walking towards the finishing post.
‘That’s my electoral agent’s boy,’ said Briggs. ‘He had a bad time at the Battle of the Bulge. Only eighteen then. Suffers claustrophobia, fears enclosed spaces. And flames. He was in tanks, you see. Has nightmares about getting cooked. I look after him as best I can.’
Cotton nodded. Major Briggs was showing himself to be a gracious, charitable man and conscious of human misfortune.
Briggs grunted and stamped a foot on the ground. ‘The going would be a bit slippery today. The ground underneath is hard but the surface looks like it would cut up.’
‘I see,’ said Cotton. Major Briggs, however, knew his stuff and was no push-over.
Shortly afterwards Swayles waved from the upstairs.
‘Major Briggs! Major Briggs! Everything’s ready, sir!’
Briggs waved back. ‘That’s the spirit,’ he said to Cotton. ‘Now, what would you say to some bubbly, eh? Pol Roger. Winston’s brew.’ He laughed.
‘I never saw why a socialist can’t like champagne. Why the hell not?’
They went inside and upstairs. A buffet lunch had been arranged for them.
‘Quite a spread, eh?’ said Major Bertie. ‘That’s smoked trout there. A gift, you know. MPs get treated like doctors.’ He laughed. ‘Pile your plate, lad, and tuck in.’
Cotton had the trout. Major Bertie chose ham and chutney. They sat down.
‘Right,’ said Briggs. He poured from the bottle of Pol Roger. ‘What’s all this stuff about queers?’
‘It’s more general, Major. It’s about the possibilities of blackmail and extortion.’
Cotton was not sure that Briggs was actually winking. He shut one eye and raised the other eyebrow.
‘And what do you think? Mm? Should they be legalized?’
Cotton nodded. ‘Yes. At present the illegality gives our enemies an unnecessary lever and confuses us. Outside a group in MI5 and the Special Branch, that’s the common view amongst intelligence people I’ve talked to because they deal with the practicalities. It’s when you introduce spurious moralities that things become impractical and often grotesque.’
Major Bertie was unimpressed.
‘Do you know what I dislike about them?’ he said. ‘That air they have of being nature’s specially blessed cases. You tell me this now. Do you really think that those who betray nature would have the slightest qualm about betraying their country? They’re like that fellow who wrote A Passage to India. What’s his name?’
‘Do you mean E. M. Forster?’
‘Yes. He’s the superior pansy who said he hoped he’d betray his country before his friends. That’s private income talking before he calls for someone else to pick up the bill. Do you think that’s going to wash coal in Seaham?’
Seaham was Manny Shinwell’s constituency in County Durham, a mining area. Cotton understood Shinwell’s constituency was being invoked to remind him of Briggs’ contacts and also took it as shorthand for what would wash with honest to God public opinion. Cotton had taken Forster to mean that patriotism and loyalty were not necessarily identical, that patriotism could be a sham and most people’s loyalty was directed at a few people around them. He decided not to answer Briggs directly.
‘I understand Forster voted Labour,’ Cotton said, though he had no idea whether he had or not. ‘A lot of people in the arts did, I believe.’