Icelight

by Aly Monroe

  ‘Which magnate?’ said the chief constable.

  ‘Lord Beaverbrook,’ said Dawkins. He nodded. ‘This lawyer was saying you’d be wasting your time, sir, and it’s a question of whether this goes down as a Driberg or as the other cases in between that are not public knowledge.’

  ‘But I am here to uphold the law,’ complained the chief constable. ‘That’s my responsibility.’ He looked up. ‘This is all more than highly irregular, you know!’

  ‘It only appears to be irregular,’ said Cotton. He wondered if he was blushing but realized he was past that. ‘Without entering into specifics, I can tell you that Mr Watson is involved in top secret work. Whatever his private tastes, our instructions are to ensure he continues to contribute to national security without undue demur or hindrance. We shall certainly mention your collaboration and discretion. We are not talking about the power of a newspaper magnate but the national interest.’

  ‘I’m sorry. You can’t be asking me just to make this thing go away?’

  Cotton decided he had flattered enough. ‘Correct me if I’m wrong, sir. Mr Watson’s alleged companion has not been arrested nor has he been identified. We are relying on the word and vision of an elderly night watchman on a dark winter’s night. He may have been asleep. He certainly thought at first that the IRA was attempting to rob the school armoury. Something to do with chain rattling. Later, however, the watchman shifted his story, while it was still as dark as ever, from the IRA to what he described as an unnatural act between two men. Under no circumstances do I want to suggest that an honourable old man could be mistaken or perhaps have been agitated in his imagination and the drama of shadows. But put, say, against a night-time stroll by an overworked scientist of repute involved in top secret work in the interests of national security, perhaps not as worldly as might be convenient, who wanders away from the street into a quiet scholastic environment through a gate we do not even know was closed, let alone locked, and then unfortunately decided to relieve himself quite near a pile of coal I understand, I’d suggest there were good grounds for doubt. I’m not a trained lawyer, Chief Constable. But imagine what a real, first-class lawyer, like Mr Perlman’s barrister for example, could do with that. The IRA are not known as a hotbed of homosexuals.’

  ‘What are you asking me?’

  ‘That given the possible difficulties in obtaining a conviction, the cost of a public hearing is not simply financial but could be very unfavourable to something affecting the security and defence of the realm.’

  ‘I’d want guarantees.’

  ‘Your cooperation would definitely be mentioned.’

  ‘I meant—’

  ‘I know what you meant, sir. May I ask you a question?’

  ‘What kind of question?’

  ‘Do you know what plutonium enrichment is?’

  ‘I haven’t the foggiest idea!’

  ‘Neither have I, sir. But that’s what Mr Watson does. And it’s not about what an elderly night watchman thinks, it’s a Cabinet level matter.’

  The chief constable asked for a few minutes to consider. Cotton and Dawkins left him to it.

  ‘What are you doing?’ said Dawkins. ‘What’s all this Perlman stuff?’

  ‘Just a test,’ said Cotton.

  ‘Of what?’

  ‘I wanted to know how long it would take him to find out what was going on and whether or not he knows the difference between discretion and secrecy. He won’t tell Briggs, not yet anyway.’

  Dawkins looked disbelieving. ‘You’re trusting him?’

  ‘Oh yes.’

  Dawkins was a little embarrassed. ‘You’re not going to be able to keep this secret, you know.’

  ‘That’s what Perlman just demonstrated,’ said Cotton. ‘If an informant can call me at six in the morning with the news of an arrest, I imagine others will have received that information too.’

  Perhaps Dawkins was trying to think on the bright side. ‘But it’s not as if he was an actor or someone famous.’

  ‘No, but Watson has just become a high-level commodity to trade. Poor, if rather snippy, bugger. The demand for queers is strong at present and the supply limited and erratic. What are you going to say to your people?’

  Dawkins sighed. He did not answer directly. ‘Could we make him the victim? Or make the charge more acceptable – drunk and disorderly, say?’

  ‘You have a queer hunter in Special Branch.’

  Dawkins nodded. ‘Radcliffe. He’s higher up than me. He’s religious. Goes on a lot about purity. Oh, and a woman’s crowning glory being her hair.’

  ‘You’re not joking?’

  ‘No. He’s involved with the Crusader lads, you know.’

  ‘No I don’t. What are they?’

  ‘Well, an organization like the Boys’ Brigade has a bit of religion, you know – tacked on. The Crusaders starts with the religion, then adds on the boys’ bit.’

  Dawkins paused, unsure whether he had quite been fair. Cotton ignored that.

  ‘I take it Radcliffe has been informed about this.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Dawkins. He paused. ‘He’s on his way here. He’ll have told MI5. Mr Starmer-Smith. He and Radcliffe are close. They even live close by.’

  Cotton nodded.

  ‘How long do you think the chief constable needs?’

  ‘He’ll be making a telephone call. I’ll wait here.’

  Cotton went for a walk. Within a few yards he heard footsteps two strides behind him keeping to his step.

  ‘Derek?’ he said without turning round.

  ‘The boy’s name is Bambi Bosworth,’ said Derek.

  Cotton nodded. ‘Where is he?’

  ‘He’s decided to have a little holiday with friends in Brighton.’

  ‘Good. Have you anything on the chief constable?’

  Derek sounded puzzled. ‘No. He’s officer class, the kind of man who thinks polished boots and buttons make for a good officer. He likes systems and he doesn’t like problems. Believes his men are honest. Used to be in the Punjab. Somewhere like that.’

  ‘All right,’ said Cotton. ‘Any press around?’

  ‘Only a stringer who works for the Daily Sketch and the People.’

  ‘What’s the local newspaper?’

  ‘Just one of the Advertisers,’ said Derek. ‘Mostly flower shows and second-hand cars. Croydon doesn’t even have a football team, Mr C.’

  ‘How much did you agree to pay for the tip-off on Watson?’

  ‘Five shillings, sir.’ He paused. ‘It is January, sir.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘People are hard up after Christmas.’

  Cotton nodded. ‘I’m going to turn,’ he said. ‘I’ll hand you a ten-shilling note as I pass. All right?’

  ‘Very good, sir.’

  Cotton stopped and put his hand into his pocket.

  ‘Has Watson been here before?’ he asked.

  ‘He’s been one of Bambi’s regulars once, maybe twice a month for three or four months,’ said Derek.

  Cotton did as he said. Information on Watson was proving depressingly cheap.

  14

  WHILE HE waited for the chief constable to finish fiddling with papers, Cotton looked for signs of the Punjab in him, or perhaps just somewhere warm. He found none. The chief constable was all pale, put-upon restraint.

  Dawkins caught his eye and nodded. Cotton got up and went down to tell Watson he was going to be released without charge quite shortly. Watson was still in the interview room, now doing the Times crossword.

  ‘I suggest you telephone Fort Halstead as soon as you can.’

  Watson surprised Cotton. ‘What’ll I say to them?’

  ‘That you’ve been delayed. You don’t have to invent anything. Or are they going to insist on a reason?’

  ‘No,’ said Watson. ‘Yes. I suppose I could do that.’

  Cotton considered him. Did Watson have a problem with the truth in that he usually told it? It was the first time Cotton had
had any impression Watson had taken on even a little of the delicacy of his position, enough to be confused or at least momentarily uncertain. Pity. Cotton knew Watson’s position was not in the slightest bit delicate.

  He gave Watson his card.

  ‘For now, anyway, this has some value. Should you find other security forces want to interview you, may I suggest you contact me at once?’

  Watson was unimpressed. ‘What? On the grounds that you’ve handled this business?’

  ‘Doesn’t that seem reasonable to you?’

  ‘I am certainly not going to apologize.’

  ‘I haven’t asked you to apologize. But I would suggest you choose another route, that is, give Croydon a miss on any further trips.’

  ‘My mother lives in Sanderstead.’

  ‘That’s not quite Croydon, is it?’ said Cotton.

  ‘It’s just by South Croydon.’

  Cotton nodded patiently. ‘But I take it you are able to pass the Greyhound Hotel without going in,’ he said, though he instantly realized he did not sound very patient. He tried again. ‘Mr Watson, we have contrived to persuade the chief constable this time. We won’t be able to do this again. Do you understand me? He believes he has principles too.’

  Watson shrugged. ‘I have absolutely nothing to apologize for.’

  ‘That’s not the point,’ said Cotton. ‘A number of people disagree and want to punish you by invoking the law. Do you understand? However unreasonable you think them, the law is presently on their side. Underestimate them and you will suffer.’

  ‘Are you threatening me?’

  ‘No. But some of the people who are threatening you will be arriving shortly. And I want to get you out of here before that happens.’

  Dawkins came in, waving a couple of sheets of paper.

  ‘That’s it! Let’s get you out of here.’

  Watson stood up. Dawkins raised his eyes heavenward at Cotton.

  ‘I got a lecture,’ he said. ‘I don’t think the chief constable would even speak to you. Radcliffe will be here any minute.’

  Cotton nodded. ‘Mr Watson! Mr Dawkins here is going to accompany you to the Greyhound Hotel. Make your telephone call from there, pay your bill. Mr Dawkins will see you off. All right?’

  ‘Am I to be given an apology?’ said Watson.

  ‘Do you want one?’ said Cotton.

  ‘Yes, I do.’

  ‘Then I apologize, Mr Watson. But you don’t seem to understand that I’m about to see someone who would never dream of apologizing. He wants your security clearance removed and you yourself in jail. I apologize again. But I can only apologize for what is in my power. Do you understand that? Mr Dawkins here—’

  ‘That’s enough,’ said Watson. ‘I don’t need any more.’

  ‘This way, sir,’ said Dickie Dawkins. He looked at Cotton. ‘Where are you going to be?’

  ‘I think I’ll stay here.’

  Dawkins was uncomfortable. ‘I don’t know how long I’m going to be.’

  ‘That’s all right. Your priority is to get him on the road.’

  When they had left, Cotton sat down in Watson’s chair. He was no longer sure what he was doing. Given the leaks and the interest of Special Branch and MI5, it was unlikely anyone could save Watson. The scientist had not been charged but that hardly mattered. The incident would be noted and, in security terms, he had been flagged as a risk, possibly serious. About the best Cotton could do was to submit a report about the ‘mistake’ and recommend Watson’s security clearance remain. It would be his perception of risk against two reports questioning Watson’s fitness.

  Annoyed, Cotton picked up the copy of The Times Watson had been looking at. The scientist had been doing the crossword and appeared to have done most of it except for one clue at the lower right-hand corner. It took Cotton a moment to understand the poor devil had not answered the clues. Instead he had written down some lines of Tennyson’s poem ‘Ulysses’:

  Come, my friends,

  ’Tis not too late to seek a newer world.

  Push off, and sitting well in order smite

  The sounding furrows, for my purpose holds

  To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths

  Of all the western stars until I—

  Watson had not written the next word – ‘die’. Cotton grunted. Evidently Alexander Ashley Watson was rather more dramatic and less confident than he wanted to appear.

  Radcliffe arrived with three other men. He did so noisily – and went to see the chief constable. That did not take very long. To Cotton, Special Branch was an annexe to the Metropolitan Police, its employees invariably ex-policemen. Employees in MI5 could not arrest anyone – that was always done by Special Branch. After some ten minutes Radcliffe barrelled into the interview room. He was younger than Cotton expected, perhaps forty, with a square, curiously flat face, partly due to a Churchillian thrust of expression and a habit of walking with his hands behind his back. His face was flushed. He was a barker.

  ‘Who gave you the right to interfere, laddie?’

  Evidently Cotton too was younger than Radcliffe expected.

  ‘Mr Radcliffe?’ said Cotton. He got up and offered his hand. ‘Peter Cotton. I’m delighted to meet you.’

  Radcliffe pushed back his shoulders and raised his chin. ‘I said—’

  Cotton interrupted him. ‘I know what you said.’ He spoke quietly. ‘But two things. One, for someone with an interest in this, you’ve arrived awfully late. Two, I am not, under any circumstances whatsoever, your laddie.’

  ‘I can’t imagine you know who you are talking to!’

  ‘Radcliffe? Special Branch? Keen interest in homosexuals?’

  ‘Do you know what insubordination is?’

  ‘Yes. And it’s certainly not this.’ Cotton got out his pass, the paper signed by Sir Percy Sillitoe and by Sir Stewart Menzies. He offered it to Radcliffe.

  ‘What’s this supposed to mean?’

  ‘That MI5 and MI6 are involved and the heads of both have signed off on it. I don’t know about Special Branch.’

  ‘Starmer-Smith has said nothing about this.’

  Cotton shrugged very slightly. ‘Forgive me. Starmer-Smith has not been informed.’

  ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘There was a misunderstanding,’ said Cotton. ‘It’s been cleared up.’ He paused. ‘Do you know what they do at Harwell? And at Fort Halstead?’

  Radcliffe did not reply directly. He took one hand from behind his back and pulled on his nose. He sniffed.

  ‘Bad timing for your man.’

  ‘He’s not my man,’ said Cotton.

  ‘I’ve been making enquiries,’ said Radcliffe. ‘I don’t rush into things.’ He sniffed again. ‘We’ll get him, you know.’

  ‘Very possibly.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Just that. I take it I represent one effort to make this country’s development of an atom bomb a priority. I daresay you have others. Priorities, that is. To do with ejaculations rather than explosions measured in megatons.’

  Radcliffe wagged a finger at him. ‘You don’t even know what your own people are saying.’

  ‘What people?’

  ‘MI5 and MI6.’

  ‘Strictly speaking I’m with neither. That’s the point of this, Inspector.’

  Radcliffe laughed. ‘You’ll see.’

  ‘Of course I will.’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’

  ‘That our Intelligence Services lack consistency and coherence and are prone to empire builders in offices and cubbyholes, a number of them working at cross-purposes.’

  ‘Are you trying to be offensive?’

  ‘No. Just accurate in my descriptions.’

  ‘Are you calling yourself an empire builder?’

  ‘Not at all.’

  Cotton took Radcliffe’s expression as either pity or contempt.

  ‘But even if I were, I’d hardly say so, would I?’ said Cotton.

  Radcliffe
pushed out his lips and nodded. ‘You think I’m just a humbug.’ He shook his head. ‘I’ll tell you something for free. I’ve learnt that morality is the basis of everything. If a man has no decency or discipline, he is unreliable, he is weak. If he cannot control his urges, he becomes prey. Everything else stems from that. He takes his excuses where he can. Politically and in every way. He has betrayal in his bones.’

  ‘I’m not aware the Soviets themselves are particularly kind to homosexuals but that doesn’t stop them trying to take advantage of our attitudes.’

  Radcliffe shook his head. He held up two fingers.

  ‘Is that victory?’ said Cotton.

  Radcliffe smiled. ‘You’ll see. You’ll find two things happen.’

  ‘And you are not going to tell me what they are.’

  Radcliffe smiled again. ‘That’s up to you. Maybe we’ll meet again.’

  Don’t know where, don’t know when, thought Cotton. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘I look forward to it.’

  Radcliffe crossed his arms behind his back and barrelled off.

  Cotton sighed. He had, probably unavoidably, just made an enemy. He also thought Radcliffe was probably right. Two things, he had said. Cotton was almost surprised there were so few.

  As soon as he got back to his office he put in a request for information. Everything on Watson. He knew this would be difficult for Miss Kelly because Watson was, as far as he knew, working at the highest level of secrecy. He also talked to her about Starmer-Smith and Radcliffe. She said she’d dig, and advised him that he might find the E & E, or Ears & Eyes, the department in charge of ‘listening devices and cameras’, useful.

  ‘There’s a small department in London,’ she said. ‘Close-up work really.’

  On his way home, Cotton bought an evening paper. Sixteen hundred pits and 700,000 miners were well short of fulfilling the coal production needed to get British industry going again and to keep British houses heated. A lady in Blackburn was quoted as saying it was not just coal. There had been no bread, no bacon and no fat that day. In Manchester half the cotton mills were silent. In the Midlands car production was half what it should be. The paper suggested the miners were only interested in a five-day week.