Icelight

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Icelight Page 18

by Aly Monroe


  She closed the door. Andrew Vine made an attempt to look indignant but when he spoke he whispered.

  ‘Now look here! I don’t know who you are but you invade my home, you upset my wife, you—’

  Cotton waited. But Andrew Vine had run out of words. ‘What?’ he asked.

  There was no reply.

  ‘Two questions, then. First, who was it told you Watson was a security risk because of his politics? Second, was your affair with Mrs Gardener used to oblige you to inform the French of what you had been told about him?’

  ‘But it wasn’t like that! Good God, I was trying to help, do my duty!’

  ‘Really? That’s commendable, I suppose. Did you check on the information before you passed it on?’

  ‘That’s not my job,’ said Vine. ‘I acted in good faith, I assure you.’ He blinked. ‘I reported what I had heard. It would have been remiss not to do so.’

  ‘Did you know anything of Watson before this?’

  ‘I knew he was very prickly and difficult. I knew he could be very arrogant.’

  ‘So you could say you merely responded to a suggestion about something you already knew or suspected?’

  Vine looked unhappy. ‘Well, I wouldn’t put it quite like that,’ he said.

  ‘I see,’ said Cotton. ‘Do you know, Mr Vine, that Watson is dead? And that he might not be if you had kept your mouth shut.’

  ‘I certainly don’t accept responsibility.’

  Despite himself Cotton smiled. ‘I’m absolutely sure you don’t. Who suggested you talk about him to the French?’

  ‘It wasn’t like that,’ Vine said again. ‘It was far more – normal! Almost social.’

  Cotton gently waved the fingers of his right hand, then lightly clenched them.

  ‘Who?’ he said.

  ‘It’s complicated,’ pleaded Vine.

  ‘No it’s not,’ said Cotton.

  There was quite a pause before Vine spoke. There was appeal in his voice. ‘I was flattered,’ he said. ‘This was high up!’

  ‘Who?’ said Cotton.

  ‘For God’s sake! I got it on rice paper. I was told to eat the damned thing.’

  Cotton started to turn away.

  ‘MI6!’ said Andrew Vine. ‘That’s all I can say.’

  Cotton raised his eyebrows and shrugged. ‘Mr Vine, I don’t have to threaten you. Your wife is on the other side of the door.’

  ‘A man called Mair gave me the rice paper and then told me to see a Frenchman called Bodard. It was Bodard who told me they were worried about Watson. The man’s a Trotskyite!’

  ‘Was,’ said Cotton. ‘He’s dead. Why did you believe Bodard?’

  Vine was incredulous. ‘Why would he say that if it wasn’t true? Mair’s MI6, for God’s sake! And we were in the British Embassy!’

  ‘It didn’t strike you as odd that Bodard was speaking to you rather than someone in Intelligence. Like that man Mair, for example.’

  ‘But I’m on the committee,’ said Vine. ‘I can’t say more about Anglo-French cooperation on certain matters. The work is classified.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Cotton. ‘And you were flattered. What about Codename Julia?’

  Vine winced but did not speak.

  ‘The affair is over,’ said Cotton. ‘You will make no contact with Mrs Gardener again. You will not respond should she try to contact you. You will not tell her of this meeting.’

  ‘Do I have a choice?’

  ‘Yes. You can do what I say. Or not.’

  ‘Are you threatening me?’

  ‘I’m telling you, Mr Vine. It really couldn’t be simpler. Do you understand me?’

  Vine nodded.

  When Cotton came out of the house, he found the Triumph parked outside. It was snowing again, this time quite heavily. Hans Bieber got out and opened the door for him.

  ‘London, sir?’

  Cotton nodded.

  They started off. Hans turned the car right and moved towards Purley Way, but then pulled up.

  ‘Damn!’ he said. He looked behind. ‘That’s quite a steep slope.’

  It took Cotton a moment to catch on. He moved to get a better view.

  Down the Banstead Road by the Palm Court, men in uniform were sliding about all over the road, falling, punching and grabbing. There was blood and glass and fresh snow.

  It was like some perverse Christmas card except that, behind the fight, a blue light flashed and revolved again. The police were there with a black Maria but were not intervening.

  Cotton looked a little to the left. In the small park in front of Purley library shadows moved, as if on some night hunt. Three smallish men brought down a larger fellow.

  ‘The Jocks will win,’ said Hans Bieber.

  Cotton had not looked at who was fighting or how. Now he picked out that it was the Guards from Caterham and what looked like Highland Light Infantry. The Scots used a tactic like dancing girls, linking arms and spinning – even when someone spun off he was sliding at some speed with a broken bottle in his hand.

  ‘We can get by,’ said Cotton.

  ‘One moment, sir,’ said Hans.

  A few seconds later a jeep with military police and a dog sped past them.

  Hans checked the rear-view mirror and let the car creep forward. The fight was already melting away. The headlights illuminated a Guardsman on the pavement in the pose of the Dying Gaul. His cheek would need a lot of stitches and his nose would need to be reset. Broken glass gleamed on black ice.

  Hans Bieber shook his head. ‘These shit police have permitted too many escape routes,’ he said. As they turned left, he pointed at a couple of soldiers hiding by a bush across from a sign that said Coldharbour Lane.

  ‘Yes, they have,’ said Cotton. ‘Hans?’

  ‘Yes, sir?’

  Cotton waited till they were on Purley Way.

  ‘Where is Mr Ayrtoun?’

  He saw Hans Bieber glance at him in the rear-view mirror.

  ‘He’s in Paris.’

  ‘All right. Is he still there? Or is he there again?’

  ‘He came back from Washington yesterday, yes, Sunday.’

  ‘And how long will he be there?’

  ‘I don’t really know but certainly all this week.’

  ‘Tell him I’m coming to see him, would you?’

  22

  ACCORDING TO regulations, Cotton should have caught the boat train to Dover, the ferry across the Channel, and the French train from Calais to Paris, all first class. That was the so-called first option after the most recent government cuts. To his relief – Cotton loathed cold, choppy sea – the weather forecast in the Channel was too bad. So Hans drove him in the Triumph to Northolt in Middlesex. He flew from there to Paris on a BEA unpressurized Vickers Viking, one of only three passengers, after a delay of four hours. During the wait, he saw ice being scraped off the wings and the pilots let air out of the tyres. Apparently this meant a softer landing in Paris. On the plane the stewardess asked him if he was on business.

  ‘Government business,’ he replied.

  ‘We have an awful lot of sandwiches. Would you care for some, sir?’

  ‘No, thank you,’ replied Cotton. ‘Unless they’re real.’

  ‘No such luck, sir.’

  Below him, the south of England was grey-white, broken up by sketchy, wormlike hedgerows. They flew so low that he was just able to pick out the Brighton Pavilion as they went over the south coast. It was quite difficult to do. The gleam of the Pavilion domes had been iced over.

  To Cotton’s surprise Ayrtoun was waiting for him at Le Bourget airport. Paris felt quite as cold as London.

  ‘We’ll have supper later,’ said Ayrtoun.

  ‘All right.’

  ‘There’s something of a myth that you always eat well in Paris,’ said Ayrtoun. ‘It’s not true. Too many grey steaks and cut corners. But naturally they prefer horse meat to the ersatz. And they do have quantity.’ He looked up. ‘Tell me.’

  Cotton summarized h
is meeting with Vine.

  ‘Do you believe him?’

  ‘I’d like to interview Mrs Julia Gardener.’

  ‘Who wouldn’t?’ said Ayrtoun. ‘We’ll do that.’

  They went directly to the Embassy at 35 Rue de Faubourg Saint Honoré in a Citroën taxi. Cotton was interested to see how Ayrtoun would tackle Mrs Gardener.

  ‘Scoop Julia Gardener from the pool,’ he said to a young man, ‘and deliver her to me.’

  They did not have long to wait. Cotton had seen a photograph of her seated. She was tall, probably taller than her lover, and very slim. She raised her chin and stood up very straight. Cotton saw that her legs were trembling and that her stockings were silk.

  ‘Do sit down,’ said Ayrtoun.

  The young woman almost dropped into the chair.

  Ayrtoun squeezed out a smile. ‘Mrs Gardener, my name is Geoffrey Ayrtoun. I am based in Washington DC. But recently I have had to make too many trips here.’

  ‘Well, I’ve heard of you, sir, of course I have,’ said Julia Gardener. ‘It’s a privilege.’

  Ayrtoun paid no attention. ‘The person beside me is Colonel Cotton. He catches people. He catches people out.’ Ayrtoun looked up at her. ‘He tells me you are an adulterer. The Colonel has already spoken to your lover.’ Ayrtoun looked round at Cotton. ‘Did you talk about this affair to the man’s wife?’

  ‘No,’ said Cotton.

  ‘You see,’ said Ayrtoun. ‘We’re trying to help you. As further assistance, to help you desist entirely in ill-advised behaviour, you will find Mr Vine will no longer be enjoying jaunts to Paris and on you.’

  The young woman blinked at first but then, perhaps, there was something of a flutter in her eyelashes. She flushed slightly.

  ‘I really must beg your pardon!’ said Julia Gardener. ‘I have met Mr Vine but I can assure you I’m happily married to a splendid man.’

  Ayrtoun shrugged, then breathed out. He began by sounding more weary than annoyed.

  ‘It’s entirely as you wish, Mrs Gardener. But every time you lie to me I really will ask myself why I should spare you further humiliation. Next lie and your splendid husband’s career will start to crumble. And as a bonus we will provide evidence for your husband to divorce you. And for Mrs Vine to prosecute her husband. Is that clear to you?’

  Mrs Julia Gardener said nothing.

  ‘Good,’ said Ayrtoun. ‘I want to talk about a man called A. A. Watson.’

  That did surprise her. It is one thing to deny, another to be ignorant and frightened. ‘I don’t know him, I really don’t.’

  ‘Of course you don’t. Mr Vine knows – or rather knew of him. Watson committed suicide, you see, because the French enquired as to his probity and reliability. Something to do with his sexual habits, I believe. They did this because they were tipped off. By Mr Vine, in fact. Mr Vine, as you may indeed have experienced, is not an instigator. He goes along for the ride, as it were. He has told us where the prod came from. What we want to know is whether or not you helped him with this prod. Did anyone tell you to have an affair with Mr Vine?’

  ‘No! Of course not!’

  ‘Oh do think, Mrs Gardener. Your mind is perhaps as open to suggestion and flattery as your legs, though you may find that difficult to admit. Where did you meet Mr Vine?’

  ‘Here at the Embassy. At a reception, actually. It was—’ She stopped.

  ‘Do you know someone called Mair?’ Ayrtoun blinked. ‘Do you want another name? How about a local called Bodard?’

  Julia Gardener blinked but stayed silent.

  Ayrtoun let out a groan. ‘I really do think I am being quite patient,’ he said. He turned to Cotton again. ‘Did you ever see those terrible bits of newsreel when poor French bitches ended up with their heads shaved and then had to run a gauntlet of indignant would-be Resistance heroes? There wasn’t much anyone could do except feel appalled or sick.’

  Cotton glanced at Ayrtoun.

  ‘Most of those girls had just picked the wrong man, perhaps got a bit too comfortable,’ said Ayrtoun. ‘People hate that. But I suppose we could call them shop girls, village girls, innocent girls who didn’t know better—’

  ‘I’ve met Mair,’ said Julia Gardener. ‘I think he may have introduced me to Andrew.’

  Ayrtoun nodded. ‘All right, Mrs Gardener. This is what will happen. You will do your best to get pregnant—’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Of course you are. Does your husband know?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘And Mr Vine?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Splendid!’ Ayrtoun scratched his cheek. ‘Do we know who the father might be?’

  ‘My husband,’ said Julia Gardener.

  ‘Really?’ said Ayrtoun at his most incredulous. ‘Well, good for you! Then I suggest you tell him your glad tidings and resign your position. Perhaps you didn’t know it before, but you are now anxious to be a good, even excellent mother. He will receive an offer of a new job and a promotion. You will do your utmost to make him accept it. It’ll be something colonial but, I can assure you, a very pleasant colony. Nothing rough, like Nigeria.’ Ayrtoun turned and smiled at Cotton. ‘Malaya perhaps.’

  Mrs Gardener came to rather quickly. ‘Job offer before announcement and my resignation?’

  Ayrtoun smiled. ‘Done,’ he said. ‘Mr Vine is due for Civil Service Siberia. Ministry of Pensions, I imagine.’

  Mrs Gardener had already moved on. She showed no interest at all in the man she had shared chocolates with in Versailles.

  ‘Can you get your husband to accept?’ said Ayrtoun.

  ‘It depends how it’s sold,’ she said.

  And after she had gone: ‘Quite a clever girl, really.’

  ‘How did you know she’s pregnant?’

  Ayrtoun smiled. ‘She went to the Embassy doctor. Almost had a fit, apparently.’ He nodded. ‘She’ll play,’ he said.

  ‘I’m not so sure,’ said Cotton.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘She’s self-regarding enough to be silly – or possibly ruthless. She could bully her husband into a divorce and move on to someone with more prospects.’

  ‘Shit,’ said Ayrtoun. ‘Are you just saying this to annoy me?’

  ‘No. She lives very much in the present. I heard a recorded conversation she had with Vine. She can get excited by the tone of her own voice.’

  ‘What about Vine?’

  ‘He was the weaker partner. Weak doesn’t dare but—’

  ‘Quite,’ said Ayrtoun.

  Cotton shrugged. ‘Who’s this man Mair?’

  ‘What our Communist friends would call an ingratiating lick-spittle in MI6.’

  ‘Who is he licking?’

  Ayrtoun shook his head. ‘I didn’t mean that. He’s a good-looking pimp.’

  Cotton did not know whether Ayrtoun was disturbed or unsettled. ‘What about the Frenchman, Bodard?’

  ‘He’s in the arms-dealing business. He’s all profit and account.’

  ‘So why mention Trotsky and Watson, then?’

  ‘That I don’t know. But it will be part of a deal.’ Ayrtoun smiled. ‘He is, officially at any rate, resident in Switzerland. I’ll get on to our people there, but let’s be honest, the entire country is a safe. Will you look for Mair?’

  ‘Why would I have to?’

  ‘He was let go a while back.’

  ‘How long a while?’

  ‘Four or five months, I think.’ Ayrtoun looked round. ‘Why don’t you think about that. Dinner at seven?’ He gave Cotton the address of the restaurant.

  ‘It’s nothing too grand,’ Ayrtoun said. ‘But it’s honest.’

  In terms of temperature Cotton did not know whether Paris was more or less raw than London, but the cold cut through to his bones quicker, wind whipping the chill off the stone buildings on the short walk to his hotel in Rue La Boétie. He had never thought of London brick as being relatively gentle before. Cotton checked in and was taken up to his room in an ornate bu
t trundling ascenseur. As he went he saw the decorators were working on the second and third floors. His room, on the top floor, was a substantial kind of garret. The wallpaper was of wide red and white stripes, not his taste but then not too off-putting. What was clear was that the room had just been decorated. The sheets on the bed were also new, like the cover on the round bolster the French used for pillows. There were fresh cut flowers in a vase and a bottle of carbonated water on a tray. And the French were keeping rather warmer. The radiators were hot to touch. Though not to drink, the cold water in the bathroom was not icy and the hot steamed.

  Cotton showered. The soap provided was a little too perfumed for his taste but he had not felt quite that clean and comfortable for some time.

  He took a taxi to the restaurant, a small place with once plush booths and fin de siècle lamps, to find Ayrtoun already ensconced there and halfway down a bottle of burgundy.

  ‘We’re having onion soup, then slices of duck with shallots.’

  Cotton raised his eyebrows.

  ‘It’s what they recommend,’ said Ayrtoun. ‘And I never argue with them.’

  ‘All right.’ Cotton sat down.

  ‘What time are you leaving tomorrow?’

  Cotton told him.

  ‘Good,’ said Ayrtoun. ‘You’ll have time to call in on Fauchon. In La Place de la Madeleine. Get yourself some lunch. Have a little swim in Frenchness. All those glazed things.’ Ayrtoun smiled. ‘The French don’t have porridge and water socialists. But they have what I believe is called a political pourriture or mess. Probably why they are recovering from the war quicker than us.’ He lit a cigarette. ‘My wife has even heard their fashion people are coming back.’

  Ayrtoun had brought her up. ‘How is she?’ asked Cotton.

  ‘Oh, not too good,’ said Ayrtoun. ‘I blame myself. For marrying her, you see.’ He looked up. ‘She’s lost weight. Had a bad attack of jaundice in July.’

  Cotton had carried the alcoholic and unconscious Penelope Ayrtoun out of a seedy Washington roadhouse about fourteen months before. She had been very thin then.

  ‘She’s been losing hair,’ said Ayrtoun. ‘Terrible thing for a woman, you know.’

  Cotton nodded. Was this part of why Ayrtoun had mentioned shaved heads to Julia Gardener?

 

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