by Aly Monroe
On 8 January Miss Kelly gave Cotton a file and a pair of tweezers.
‘Please do not touch the paper,’ she said. ‘Use the tweezers.’
Cotton opened the file. Inside it were two sheets of paper that reminded him of carbon paper at first, but were not. Their colour was more like the petal of the African Violet.
‘This is what is called a psychological profile of Watson,’ said Miss Kelly. ‘The idea is it can’t be photographed and that it picks up fingerprints from anyone who handles it.’
‘Does it work?’
‘Your risk, sir.’
Cotton smiled. ‘Do you know who wrote it?’
‘There are some initials, sir. Look. MC. I understand he’s associated with the Tavistock Institute and sat in on security interviews with the subject.’
‘OK. How long have I got?’
‘About two hours, sir.’
‘Thank you, Miss Kelly.’
‘Colonel.’
To read the report Cotton had to hold each sheet of paper up to the light. He learnt that Watson was an only child, born in Liverpool in 1910. His father, a doctor, had died in 1915. In 1921 his mother had remarried. Both mother and son had adopted the surname of her new husband, and moved to Birmingham. He had attended a Catholic grammar school and then taken a first in Physics at Imperial College:
He described himself as having been ‘arrogant, unforgiving and ambitious’ at that stage in his development. On being pressed he admitted to feelings of contempt towards many sections of society, including a number of scientists. When asked about his political leanings, he laughed. He had been initially attracted to the order apparent in totalitarian theories. These brief political stirrings ended when he returned to his childhood home to pursue his doctoral studies at the university there – in Watson’s own words ‘a disastrous decision but one that was the making of me’.
He found his mentor at grammar school, a Father Patrick McCleverty, ‘unable to countenance the fact that young men pass the age of eighteen’. Worse, he had soon entered into a furious dispute with his supervisor and professor, who he described as having ‘little science and fewer morals’. The result is that he was never awarded his doctorate.
‘I was right,’ he said several times. But his work was noticed elsewhere, and by 1937 he was working on the initial steps towards the Atom Bomb.
He spent the war in North America and both the Americans and the Canadians describe him as very hard working – the Americans even use the word ‘monomaniac’ – and he had good, even excellent reports from them on the quality of his work.
It is clear, however, that he is what the Canadians termed ‘prickly’. He is not sociable. In the little spare time available he says he listens to Bach and Mozart. He claims recently to have started reading Dante’s Divine Comedy in Italian. He says he uses a dictionary and his school Latin. On being asked, he admitted that the previous book he had read was T. E. Lawrence’s The Seven Pillars of Wisdom in 1935 or thereabouts. ‘But only the introduction.’
Cotton paused. He could hardly remember Lawrence’s book apart from an impression of overwrought prose and something about clean young male bodies in the introduction. He grunted and went back to the report.
The subject said he was inspired by Lawrence to buy a motor-bicycle and goggles. He described this as ‘a phase that lasted for about five years’ and that he had ‘enjoyed maintaining the machine’.
There was a little more about his work in the US and at Harwell. And then MC had delivered his verdict: ‘Narcissistic invert with pederastic tendencies. Good worker. Approved.’
Cotton shook his head – at reports in general – and replaced the purplish sheets.
‘Thank you, Miss Kelly. You haven’t risked trouble for this, have you?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Good,’ said Cotton.
What Cotton did not know until a week later was that on the same day he read the report on Watson, at a Cabinet meeting in Downing Street it was decided to appoint William Penney, the scientist who had written the report on the development of the British atom bomb, as head of the development itself. There was nothing remarkable or unexpected about the appointment. It was simply confirming what was already happening.
But it did automatically trigger a security review of those working on it.
15
WHEN COTTON got home he found two unstamped envelopes on his mat. One contained an invitation from Margot Fenwick to an after-theatre dinner party on the 17th of January.
‘Please do come,’ wrote Margot. ‘It will mean a lot to me and should be fun and exciting for you.’
Cotton grunted. The other note told him his shoes had been repaired. He accepted the invitation and went to collect his shoes the next day. Inside the shop he looked at the new soles. They resembled compacted and glued sawdust.
‘Is this leather?’ he asked.
‘It’s the quality that’s available, sir,’ said the cobbler.
Cotton stroked a sole with his index finger. A dank line appeared.
‘Let them soak something up,’ said the cobbler. ‘Even shoe polish will help.’
Cotton trudged and queued for his rations. In the grocer’s however he saw some glass jars containing three pounds of green beans in a saline solution. He bought one.
Cotton took his purchases home. He put his stores away and tackled his repaired shoes. He did not have much black shoe polish left so he rubbed in some brown that he had left over from military service. After three applications the sole had become only slightly darker. He did not think he was in danger of slipping. He wondered more if they were quite waterproof.
On Monday, 13 January, he put them on and went to work. On his way, he read that troops had been called in to substitute for striking lorry drivers. In his office, he had barely seen the first item on the morning bulletin – the day before, in Haifa, the Stern Gang had driven an explosive-laden vehicle into a British police station, killing four and injuring 140 – when he got a phone call from Derek.
‘I’m in hiding,’ said Derek.
‘What are you talking about?’
‘I’m in hiding, Mr C! In Whyteleafe.’
Cotton had no idea where Whyteleafe was. ‘Who are you hiding from?’
‘Maurice, of course!’ said Derek. ‘He catches me and I’m in trouble, Mr Cotton. He’s still got six chairs left! I need your help, Mr Cotton, I really do!’
‘All right,’ said Cotton. ‘I’m listening.’
It took Cotton some time to calm Derek down and get enough clear information to understand what his informant was talking about. Then he needed Dickie Dawkins’s help. They met at a tea room off Piccadilly and Cotton learnt that Whyteleafe was a village ‘past Kenley’, to the south-east of Purley in Surrey.
‘Maurice is Maurice Bly,’ said Dawkins. ‘He’s a loan shark.’
‘Are you telling me that Derek owes him money?’
‘No. Maurice doesn’t give a shit about Derek.’
‘So what’s going on?’
‘Our business in Croydon stirred things up. And that lawyer contact of yours didn’t help.’
‘Perlman? What did he do?’
‘He had Major Briggs mention to a couple of newspapermen that the Croydon police had corruption problems. Chief Constable Kitson was livid and started a review.’
‘Not to Maurice Bly’s taste?’
‘Not at all.’
‘Are you saying he identified Derek as part of his problem and threatened him to get a response? You’re saying he knows what Derek does?’
‘Of course. I imagine Derek mentions his contacts quite often.’
‘Christ,’ said Cotton. ‘So now Bly wants to know if Derek is bluffing or really does know people who could help.’
‘That’s about it,’ said Dawkins. ‘I’ll go down to Croydon tomorrow. You should come.’
‘Why?’
Dawkins shrugged. ‘You’ll actually see how things are.’
After a wh
ile, Cotton nodded. ‘All right. Now tell me about the chairs Derek mentioned.’
Dawkins smiled and shook his head. ‘Derek is talking about a man called Vernon Carter. He disappeared in December 1945. The story is Maurice beat him to death with a solid wood chair from a Snow White display. Probably Dopey’s.’
Cotton blinked. He remembered the window display he’d seen on his first visit to Croydon with Ayrtoun.
‘Maurice works for the store,’ said Dawkins. ‘He’s certainly not going to deny the story. It makes his debt-collectors’ jobs easier.’
‘What did this man Carter supposedly do?’ asked Cotton.
‘Carter dealt in “shrinkage”. That’s when stores “lose” some of their goods before they go up on the shelves. All stores have to allow for it. But not Maurice Bly’s. The management there is very happy.’
‘You’re telling me that a loan shark works for a department store?’
‘Yes. He works in the basement. This is one of the stores that “entertain to sell” as they put it. It’s for the kiddies. They’ve got a grotto, a little stream – oh, and an Indian Emporium. We may find tomorrow that Maurice smells a bit. It’s incense – sandalwood and all that stuff.’
Dawkins and Cotton went to Croydon by train the next day. From Victoria on a fast train it took barely twenty minutes to get to East Croydon station. They walked down past Whitgift Middle School to North End, crossed it and then tackled a steep, downward-sloping cobbled alley.
At the bottom of the slope they came out into light. On a corner, about fifty yards away to their right, standing entirely alone was a tiny, two-storey pub called the Duke of Wellington. The painting of the Duke was based on Goya’s with some added colour. Little remained of the buildings that had once stood around it except for a few scattered grey bricks on an area of about half a football pitch.
‘Bomb damage?’ said Cotton.
‘Doodlebugs,’ said Dawkins. ‘Croydon lost about seven hundred people to Doodlebugs falling short of London. In a way it has helped with the slum clearance. The remaining buildings were easier to condemn. Shaken up, you see.’
Just before they went into the pub a butcher’s boy on a bicycle pulled up.
‘After you,’ said Dawkins.
They followed the butcher’s boy inside. He made directly for a table and slapped down something wrapped in soft brown paper in front of a portly little man. The little man tweaked at the paper and revealed a little blood and kidneys. He nodded. Another man removed them from the table and the boy left.
‘This is Mr Smith,’ said Dawkins, indicating Cotton.
Maurice Bly lifted a finger in acknowledgement and smiled a little. ‘If you feel that’s incumbent upon you, it’s all right by me, Mr Dawkins.’
Bly was wearing a brown dustcoat. His cheeks were as crusty and cracked as cooking apples, he had a little white hair and, as he smiled, he exposed a number of gaps in teeth almost as small as milk teeth.
‘Is Mr Smith a man for bitter? Or does he prefer mild?’
Dawkins cleared his throat. ‘Mr Smith doesn’t drink beer, Maurice.’
‘A spirits man, then? But I don’t know that they can do you a pink gin here, Mr Smith.’
‘I’m on duty, Mr Bly,’ said Cotton. He could smell no exotic incense, just old beer.
‘I feel honoured,’ said Bly. ‘I do. But this is not a place for champagne, Mr Smith. They might have a bottle or two of cider here. They wouldn’t rise to draught.’
There was something Uriah Heepish about his manner, but it was evidently in no way serious.
‘I asked Mr Smith here as an observer,’ said Dickie Dawkins. ‘You don’t object to that?’
Maurice Bly shrugged happily. ‘Not my call, sir,’ he said. ‘This is a free country.’
They were interrupted by another butcher’s boy.
‘What’s this?’ said Bly.
‘Crown of lamb, sir.’
Cotton thought Maurice had to be spending very little on food and very little time queuing with his ration book.
‘Good,’ said Maurice. ‘Send this to – Mrs Statham. Yes, Mrs Statham.’
And, of course, food had become a currency. And power.
Maurice looked up. ‘You’ve heard I’ve been a bit unhappy, have you?’ he said.
‘Came straight down here as soon as I knew,’ said Dickie Dawkins.
Maurice Bly smiled. ‘Oh, it’s no laughing matter,’ he said. ‘We’ve been getting way too much attention since they had that poof kerfuffle at the Greyhound.’
‘What kind of attention?’
‘Bobbies on the beat at New Addington.’
Cotton only found out what Maurice was talking about on the train back. A lot of Maurice’s prime market, the poor, had been moved to the Boot Estate, built on what had been a farm, in New Addington. Although several hundred houses had gone up by 1938, the war and lack of money had isolated the estate and there was little in the way of infrastructure. There was no public transport and no other facilities, except a pub. No school, no doctor, no library. The estate was locally known as ‘Little Siberia’.
‘It’s right up a hill. There’s no midwife. They don’t even have trees,’ Dickie Dawkins told him. ‘I think there’s some word of a church being built as a contraceptive measure.’
Maurice was complaining that his debt collectors could no longer act with impunity.
Dawkins nodded and turned towards ‘Mr Smith’. ‘Have you seen enough?’
Cotton understood he was being asked to leave.
Maurice Bly smiled. ‘Only if it is quid pro quo,’ he said.
Cotton smiled back. ‘In return for what?’
‘Just my little joke,’ said Maurice. ‘Really for Mr Dawkins here. Is there anything I can do for you, sir?’
‘Yes,’ said Cotton. ‘Do you know someone called Derek Jennings?’
Bly feigned thought. ‘I might do.’
‘He’s off limits. You talk to Mr Dawkins. But don’t touch Derek.’
‘Why should you think I would?’
Cotton shrugged. ‘Do you have a lot of competition in your line of work, Mr Bly?’
Maurice frowned. ‘Are you talking about that fucking Greek in West Croydon?’
‘I wasn’t really. I was trying to get over to you that my interests are a little wider than local, and I and my team don’t have the … constraints, shall we say, or the limitations or needs that the local police do. Do you understand me?’
Cotton thought he had probably alarmed Dickie Dawkins more than Maurice Bly. Maurice smiled.
‘Yes, I’ve got that,’ he said. And then to demonstrate he understood. ‘You already drink champagne, right?’
Cotton smiled. ‘I was hoping to appeal to your patriotism.’
Maurice was delighted and possibly flattered. ‘Always, Mr Smith. Always.’
Cotton left them to it. On his way out he stepped aside for a boy bringing a box of groceries. Later he would see a delivery of vegetables.
Dawkins did not take long, but in the meantime Cotton watched the children, off school again, playing in the wasteland. Some had arranged blackened bricks into gun posts. A hopscotch game had been drawn in black and girls were skipping. A boy with ragged shorts, bare legs and plimsolls was using a battered pram wheel as a hoop, apparently excluded from the main game. Dawkins came out and they started walking.
‘Why isn’t Mr Bly in jail?’ said Cotton.
‘Nothing is in his name,’ said Dawkins. ‘Do you want to know more?’
‘Why not?’
‘We think he has an arrangement with a Tory baronet in East Grinstead – a backer.’
‘He’d be a champagne drinker, I take it?’
‘Yes,’ said Dawkins.
‘What’s going to happen?’
‘Oh, I imagine there’ll be the odd mechanical problem with police vehicles. It’s quite a climb to New Addington on a bike.’
‘Quiet law?’
‘Something like that. I called you
Mr Smith because—’
‘I know. Why has there been no progress in finding Vernon Carter? The police have had more than a year.’
‘You need informants,’ said Dawkins, ‘and there are some things informants don’t think worth the cost.’
‘What about the Greek?’
‘He’s a bookie. He’s called Randall. He was born in Greek Street, that’s all.’
‘And Mrs Statham, recipient of the crown of lamb—’
‘A police wife,’ said Dickie Dawkins.
Cotton nodded. ‘Someone in Motor Division?’
Dickie Dawkins grunted, more an acceptance of shabby realities than a yes.
On their way back on the train to London, Dickie Dawkins asked Cotton a question.
‘Are you armed?’
‘No. It’s not allowed. Are you?’
Dawkins tapped Cotton’s forearm. ‘Here,’ he said.
‘What is it?’
Dawkins put his hand in his side pocket and brought something out. He looked around.
‘Put out your palm.’
Cotton did. In a variation of a handshake, Dawkins transferred something warm and heavy into Cotton’s hand. Cotton opened his fingers.
The knuckledusters were made of brass, looked like four hexagonal nuts welded together, the inside edges smoothed off and the leading edges hammered down. On the small finger side there was a small curl that Cotton had seen on some scissor handles.
‘Does damage all right,’ said Dawkins, ‘but it’s really to protect your knuckles, you see? You don’t want to break your hand, do you?’
Cotton closed his fingers over the knuckledusters and looked at Dawkins.
‘Look,’ said the Special Branch man, ‘when I was a uniformed policeman I protected property and I was protected by the uniform. It’s not like that now. I’m plain clothes and that confuses, as any lawyer will tell you. I am not going down without inflicting damage first.’