by Aly Monroe
‘Can you see like that?’ said Portman.
‘Perfectly,’ said the man. ‘Why do you ask?’
Cotton did have a note from Ayrtoun, though.
‘Are you all right?’ he asked Miss Kelly, before he left.
‘The typewriter keys are sticking in the cold,’ she said. ‘And the liquid in my eyes is making me see double.’
The E & E, also known as SP or Snoop Patrol was not based in St James’s Street or Whitehall but in Soho in Wardour Street. They were due to move but were making do with four rooms up a steep staircase with a tread so narrow Cotton had to walk on the balls of his feet. His contact there, a bored-looking man with very straight eyebrows that almost met in the middle and a lot of curly black hair coming out of a hat with ear flaps, took him into a makeshift listening booth.
Despite his name, Freddie Igloi had no hint of a Hungarian accent. He explained the presence of a car battery. ‘It’s the electricity supply. It wobbles.’ He looked round and pointed at a gas ring. ‘That’s about quarter normal pressure,’ he said. ‘I’ll have to turn it off. Sorry. It hisses.’
Igloi did that. He gave Cotton some earphones.
‘We have something that might interest you. Two British subjects, a man and a woman, in a restaurant in France. Near Versailles actually, on Saturday, 11 January this year.’
He looked round. Cotton nodded. Freddie Igloi raised one of his ear flaps and put one side of his earphones to his ear.
‘The conversation is the usual febrile, self-important stuff between adulterers. Headphones.’
Cotton put them on and listened. There was quite a lot of background noise, a knife scraping on a plate, some laughter, then, very close, a startlingly loud sigh.
‘Oh, this wine is heaven,’ a woman said. ‘Truly.’
Despite himself Cotton felt a twinge of embarrassment. He could hear her swallowing.
Freddie Igloi tapped Cotton’s arm. ‘She’s stroking his hand now,’ he said.
There was some desultory mumbling about ‘the long term’. That gave way to diary consultations and a date for sex nine days forward.
‘I’m looking forward to it already,’ she said.
‘Does your husband know about us?’ said the man.
‘He’s jolly well going to have to grow up! Divorce is damned serious! He’s going to have to pay the financial consequences! He really will!’
To an outsider, it was clear her companion’s reaction was more realistic or perhaps mealy-mouthed, certainly less insistently exclamatory when he described his own wife.
‘She’s a clinger, you see, gets weepy and sentimental and keeps talking about the investment we’ve put in.’
They were then interrupted by a child speaking in French, saying it was his ninth birthday. He was offering them some bonbons. The couple were polite, the woman taking the time to congratulate him in French words unaffected by any sort of French accent.
‘What a pretty boy!’ said the woman to the man.
‘Ah,’ said the boy in English, ‘you are British. My father says I should be most grateful to you for all your country has done for mine.’
Freddie Igloi stopped the tape and lifted one earpiece. Cotton did the same.
‘Pretty good, don’t you think?’ he said. ‘Wait.’
They listened to some more, through sorts of chocolate, before the boy excused himself.
‘Goodbye,’ he said.
‘Speaks very well!’ said the woman.
Freddie Igloi stopped the tape again.
‘That is because his name is Robinson. Son of our man in Paris.’
Cotton registered that love, or at least adultery, had failed to recognize a native speaker speaking English in France. He frowned. ‘What are they doing to the boy?’ he asked.
Freddie Igloi shrugged. ‘He got chocolates, didn’t he? His father bribed the waiter to put a bug under the table, said he was a divorce detective.’ He clicked the tape on.
‘Now,’ he said.
‘I’m pretty sure I’m on for a lot more trips,’ the man said. ‘Of course, I can’t tell you about it, my sweet, but I’ve been being useful recently. Tipped our people off about a security risk. It can’t have done me any harm, that’s for sure.’
Freddie Igloi clicked the switch again.
‘This man is your European source,’ he said. He got out a card. ‘His name is Andrew Vine. He spends a lot of time in Paris talking to the French on atomic matters. He’s a liaison officer.’
‘God,’ said Cotton. ‘Who isn’t? What does it mean in his case?’
‘That he’s a civil servant, a stickler, not a scientist,’ said Freddie Igloi. ‘Will I go on?’
Cotton smiled. ‘Yes, do.’
‘The stuff about Watson is what we call back-draught. Somebody talked about him to Vine in France. Vine then talked about him to the French and the French authorities kindly conveyed their security worries back to other British Intelligence departments.’
‘Why would he talk about Watson to the French?’
Freddie Igloi shook his head. ‘I don’t think we can trace where the instructions came from. That would be more your job, wouldn’t it?’
‘Quite.’ Cotton remembered that Ayrtoun had been flying to France from Croydon airport in December. ‘Tell me about the woman Vine is sleeping with.’
Freddie Igloi looked at another card. ‘She’s a secretary in the British Embassy in Paris. Julia Tennant as was, now Julia Gardener. Her husband is in the military, based in Paris, spends a lot of time in Brussels, carrying briefcases mostly.’
‘His rank?’
‘Just a captain.’
‘How long has the affair been going on, do you know?’
Freddie Igloi shrugged. ‘I don’t rightly know. She only went to Paris last May. But that conversation didn’t sound quite first flush of lust, did it? I’d guess they started last summer.’
‘What do you know about Vine?’
‘That he’s a lot older than the girl. She’s twenty-eight, he’s forty-two. He is married, three children under twelve. His own wife is forty. I can’t tell you if she has spread or anything. They live in a place called Purley.’
Cotton remembered Purley. It was where Ayrtoun had dropped Derek off before going to Croydon airport. ‘Purley?’ he said.
Freddie Igloi nodded. ‘Yes. It’s a hilly place in Surrey, on the fringes of London. He commutes in.’
There was a photograph, not that clear, taken by the boy’s father from just under tabletop level. Vine looked chubby but frail in a pompous sort of way, Mrs Gardener slender and with the strained look of trying to find a strong man she could direct. It was a question of body shapes and postures. Cotton was aware that his reaction and summary judgement had been only fractionally slower than the camera shutter. He’d placed Vine as easily manipulated. Was Julia Gardener his source? Or had he been encouraged by blackmail?
‘Thanks,’ said Cotton. ‘You’ve been very good. Now I have to be boring.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘No moonlighting,’ said Cotton. ‘If anybody here does work for Major Briggs MP, they’ll end up in Wormwood Scrubs.’
Freddie Igloi shrugged. ‘You want Giuseppe, also known as Joe – he does artistic photographs and agreed divorces. He’s eight doors down from here, same side of the street.’
It was lunchtime. The weather was raw, Cotton had just been listening in on a good meal and he needed a break.
‘You have a choice,’ he said to Hans through the window. ‘Lunch – or eight doors down you can meet a photographer called Giuseppe.’
‘What kind of lunch?’
‘I thought Chinese,’ said Cotton.
Hans shook his head. ‘I’m not a man for sauces,’ he said.
Cotton smiled. ‘How many times have you eaten Chinese food before?’
Hans did not answer directly. ‘I’ll grab something,’ he said. ‘In any case, it is not fitting that we have lunch together.’
‘Al
l right,’ said Cotton. ‘It seems Major Briggs uses Giuseppe. You don’t have to warn him off, but tell him we know. He can give us copies. Make the arrangement.’
‘I’m not sure,’ said Hans.
‘Yes, you are,’ said Cotton. ‘You want to be useful, don’t you?’
‘Mr Ayrtoun—’
‘Agrees with me.’
‘Where will you be?’
‘I was told to go where the Chinese are going.’
‘Where’s that?’
‘Where there are other Chinese eating. That means it’s good and doesn’t cost too much.’
Cotton found the restaurant he was looking for close by, on Brewer Street, simply by following a group of Chinese. Hans did not go until Cotton went in. He was the only European in the place. It was crowded and what with the voices, the sounds of eating and the clatter from the kitchens, filled with quite a racket.
A waiter spoke to him. It took Cotton a second to sort out the words. He had said something like ‘Are you with Dawkins?’
Cotton didn’t know that he had seen the man outside St Martin-in-the Fields but decided he should have.
Cotton nodded. ‘Sometimes,’ he said.
The waiter nodded. ‘Sit here. Squid? Crab? Yes.’
He left. Cotton was sitting on a stool at the end of a longish table. At the other end a family was eating without looking up. He closed his eyes. The place was steam-room warm and ear-buffetingly noisy, hardly an exotic holiday. But he enjoyed the smells, particularly the garlic and chilli, which reminded him of Mexico.
The food did not. The squid had been wok-fried and scattered with hot red flecks of chilli pepper. The crab was more complicated.
‘How much do I owe you?’
‘For you?’ said the waiter. ‘Five shillings and six pence.’
This was the standard restaurant charge. Cotton paid and thanked the waiter.
‘You tell Dawkins you got good treatment, you hear?’
Cotton found Hans Bieber in the Triumph, carefully eating some bread and salami.
‘How did it go?’
‘No problem,’ said Hans.
‘Did you pay him?’
‘I don’t have access to money, sir, only a garage and petrol account.’
‘Do we need to pay Giuseppe?’
‘No need.’
‘What did he say?’
‘He admitted he did some work for Major Briggs.’
‘Does Briggs pay him?’
‘If he does, it’s not a lot. Giuseppe’s had a little trouble in the past with the obscenity laws. There was a book, he said, confiscated. He’s not happy with this recent business of going to Croydon. He’s more an old whore-and-divorce-in-Brighton man.’
‘He’ll give us copies of what he takes for the Major?’
‘He already has.’
Hans opened the glove compartment and took out a Manila envelope. He gave it to Cotton.
‘Giuseppe says Major Briggs calls the last few of these “not to be seen by girls” photographs.’
‘Are they all compromising?’
Hans shook his head. ‘Most are men being where they shouldn’t but there’s a few through the keyhole and a bit of jiggery-pokery.’
‘Great. Did you threaten him?’
‘I didn’t have to. He really needs a little help with the obscenity charge.’
‘I can’t do that.’
‘I think this would be more for Mr Dawkins,’ said Hans.
‘That would be up to him,’ said Cotton.
When he had checked on Andrew Vine’s whereabouts, Cotton phoned Dickie Dawkins.
‘I ate at a Chinese restaurant today. The waiter wanted you to know they treated me well.’
Dawkins laughed. ‘Where was this?’
‘Brewer Street.’
‘Good?’
‘Not bad.’
‘How much?’
‘The usual.’
‘Ouch,’ said Dawkins. ‘You’ll need more visits to become a friend. What can I do for you?’
‘There’s a man called Giuseppe—’
‘I know,’ said Dawkins. ‘A divorce photographer.’
‘Yes. Major Briggs is using him.’
‘All right,’ said Dawkins. ‘What’s he got on Giuseppe?’
‘Something about obscene publications. Giuseppe is now collaborating with us too.’
‘That’s good, isn’t it?’ said Dawkins. ‘We can leave it where it is, if you want.’
‘Could you tell Giuseppe that you’re working on his problem but need time?’
‘Yes,’ said Dawkins. ‘I could do that.’
‘I’ve got a lead on how our dead friend acquired a reputation for left-wing politics. The source. I’m about to look into it.’
‘All right.’
‘How are you getting on?’
‘So-so,’ said Dawkins. ‘Radcliffe came by to ask me what I was doing. I said I was just obeying orders. To the letter.’
‘Was he friendly?’
‘Not really,’ said Dawkins.
‘I can imagine that,’ said Cotton. ‘I’ll keep you up to date.’
21
COTTON CALLED Hans Bieber and told him where and when to collect him in the Triumph. He left his office at 5.45, ate a spam sandwich and drank a cup of tea that tasted flowery, and at 6.43 took a train from Victoria to Purley station. The train was not fast. It took thirty-three minutes and stopped frequently. After East Croydon, there was South Croydon, Purley Oaks and then Purley itself.
Snow was falling, but only in the white equivalent of a drizzle. He got out of his compartment, walked down some stairs, through a dank red-brick tunnel and came out on to a small station forecourt. The lights there were poor and were attached to single-storey shops. A passenger in a bowler hat made his way towards a small Morris, got in and was driven off. Cotton ignored the solitary taxi and walked.
Out of the forecourt, he turned left. The slope was uncomfortably steep and he had to walk carefully, with quite small steps. After about seventy yards he turned right. Cotton kept going, past Dorothy’s café, the Jolly Farmer pub, and waited at traffic-lights to cross the Brighton Road.
He then walked up the Banstead Road, past the Palm Court Derek Jennings had mentioned. There were a few footguards from Caterham waiting outside. Then there was Purley library, a low civic thirties structure. Directly past that was a small park of about half an acre in the shape of a round-headed triangle, where the road forked, ready on the other side to turn into Purley Way.
Cotton crossed and kept going. About eighty yards further on, he turned left into Woodcote Valley Road. This road was narrower, there were a lot more snow-covered trees and less light. The only sounds he could hear were his feet and his breath.
Nearly opposite Purley Knoll he came across the corner plot he wanted. The house on it had red tiles on the roof and down the walls. It was low and long. The gate to the garden had a wooden porchlike arrangement, also tiled and there was something similar, presumably a false well, to one side of the crazy-paved path. On the other was a wooden bird table. Snow-covered rose bushes in diamond-shaped sections took up most of the rest.
Cotton walked to the front door. There was a lot of blacksmith’s work on it. He raised the knocker and rapped it three times. In the cold, the knocks sounded brittle enough to crack. An icicle from the eaves came down. It did not pierce the snow. It broke on the ice and rattled.
Cotton had become used to people on the inside of doors opening them dressed for the outdoors. This lady, cautious because of the weather and the time, was wearing a silk headscarf and what looked like a baby’s shawl round her shoulders. She frowned and Cotton decided how to speak.
‘Colonel Peter Cotton to see Mr Andrew Vine. Sorry about the time but it’s urgent and official.’
Mrs Vine let him in. The hall contained an unlit fireplace but had a Moroccan-looking column of metal in which a flame flickered. It looked like low lighting but was evidently meant to provide some heat.
Cotton noted Mrs Vine’s breath showed white when she spoke. The placed smelt of beeswax polish and something like pea soup.
‘I’ll go and get him.’ She was then struck by another thought. She moved across the hall and pushed at a door and clicked the light switch. A couple of wall lights came on in a small reception room. She went in and drew the curtains on the leaded lattice windows. In the fireplace was some rolled paper and kindling. She pointed very briefly and Cotton shook his head. The waiting room was even chillier than the hall. They were using it as a buffer round a core.
‘Do please sit down. I won’t be a moment.’
There were two armchairs by the fireplace but there was hardly room for any more furniture. There was a thin glazed bookcase on one wall containing small leather-bound books. Cotton had just picked out the titles Rasselas and The Rape of the Lock when his attention was taken by some whispering.
‘How would I know? Really! He’s come to see you!’
There was a pause. Though shorter, Mrs Vine had struck Cotton as quite similar looking to her husband’s lover, slim but with a more determinedly defensive jaw line. On the tape, Vine had called her sentimental and weak but to Cotton she looked much stronger than her husband.
Outside, Vine cleared his throat. Shortly he appeared, with Mrs Vine behind him. He was wearing a tweed jacket, university scarf and gloves. It made him look flabby and nostalgic.
‘This is most highly irregular,’ he said.
Cotton had not expected much better.
‘Mr Vine, I have come to see you about a matter that has a codename,’ he said.
Vine blinked. ‘What codename?’
Cotton paused to give him a chance. He looked at Mrs Vine. Her husband appeared to have been stunned into non-thought entirely.
‘What codename?’ insisted Vine.
‘Codename Julia,’ said Cotton.
Vine grunted. It was a low, almost soggy sound. He swallowed and cleared his throat. ‘Yes. It’s all right, dear. I’ll handle this.’
Mrs Vine was determined to be polite.
‘Colonel, may I offer you some refreshment?’ she said.
Cotton smiled. ‘You’re very kind, Mrs Vine, but no, thank you. This won’t take long.’