Icelight

by Aly Monroe

  Paul Mair made an effort. It did not last long. ‘I’m not good at dates,’ he complained.

  Cotton smiled. ‘You were at a reception at the Paris Embassy. You introduced a man called Vine to a young woman called Julia Gardener.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Paul Mair. ‘You’re right. I went over from London with him. He’s something atomic. Rather the Englishman abroad.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The timid husband looking for adventure, I suppose. He got quite excited when I picked up a girl. Her name was – Monique.’

  ‘I see,’ said Cotton. ‘You were leading by example.’

  Paul Mair looked as if he did not understand. ‘I only introduced them, you know. I’m not responsible for what went on after that.’

  ‘How did you know the girl?’

  Paul Mair frowned and thought. ‘Yes,’ he said after a while. ‘Julia. Quite slim, rather leggy? Pretty pert up top. Actually, you know, she turned me down. Said I wasn’t the right kind of man for her but was perfectly charming about it.’

  ‘What did that tell you?’

  Paul looked nonplussed. ‘Well, that she probably was open to another kind of man.’

  ‘Someone like Vine?’

  ‘I imagine someone she thought more reliable or long term. She gave me the impression of being quite ambitious. A stepping stone kind of girl.’

  ‘What about her husband?’

  Paul Mair closed his eyes long enough for Cotton to wonder if he had fallen asleep, but then he shook his head. ‘Awfully sorry! Can’t remember him at all. Just an impression of something doggy or perhaps dogged.’

  Cotton nodded and looked across at Paul Mair. Gloomily, Mair was staring straight ahead through the windscreen.

  ‘Pity you’re going to have to sell it,’ said Cotton.

  Mair sighed. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘I got her relatively cheap.’ He shook his head. ‘I’m not going to get a lot for her. I’m just too desperate.’

  ‘Concentrate,’ said Cotton.

  ‘I could do with a drink.’

  ‘I know. But I haven’t brought any. Sorry.’

  ‘I see. Yes. What do you want from me?’

  ‘Do you know a Frenchman called Bodard?’

  Mair nodded. ‘He’s an arms dealer. About fifty. Has jackets that button up too high. Wears his hair in that odd sticky-up sort of way.’

  ‘En brosse?’

  ‘Yes. That’s it. Looks like a brush. He has a thin moustache. Has a chateau, shoots boar there.’

  ‘Could he help you?’

  Paul Mair laughed. ‘Even I really don’t think that would be wise.’

  ‘But you’ve had dealings with him.’

  ‘Hardly. I’ve done him a couple of favours. He’s done me a couple.’

  ‘What did he want?’

  ‘Information, of course.’

  ‘Any particular subject?’

  ‘Not really. He vacuums information up. Anything to do with military equipment and supplies. He deals in anything. I mean the man has a Colonial War department already set up. Run by a Pole. He deals in helicopters, Sten guns, mines, jeeps—’

  Cotton interrupted him. ‘And witch hunts,’ he said.

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Did Bodard ask you for an introduction to Vine?’

  Paul Mair frowned.

  ‘I’m guessing, you see, that Vine heard from Bodard there was a particular scientist in the UK atom bomb development project who was homosexual.’

  Mair raised his chin. ‘Now you’re talking about Watson,’ he said.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I knew that,’ said Mair.

  ‘In May last year? Maybe June?’

  Mair did at least look doubtful but then thought of something. ‘The man was a Trotskyite as well.’

  ‘Who said?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Bodard?’

  ‘Jesus! It might have been. But . . . look, you make it sound all so planned.’

  Cotton nodded. ‘Let’s see,’ he said. ‘In May 1946 you introduce a civil servant to a secretary and they start an affair. The civil servant, gonads at last unrationed, is then told something that can justify more trips to Paris in the national interest. A scientist is not only homosexual, he is also a Trotskyite. These things may mean the scientist is an awful security risk. You lose your job at the end of September and in January this year somehow end up with the very same scientist near the Greyhound in Croydon to assist him into the next world, having actually believed you’d be paid four hundred pounds for this service. I suppose if you believed Watson was a Trotskyite, you’d believe in the money. Have I got that about right?’

  Paul Mair shook his head. ‘I wouldn’t put it like that. I mean hindsight is all very well.’

  ‘Is it? I’d have said a minimal degree of foresight rather does for later excuses. Someone has been toying with you, Mr Mair, without you registering very much at all.’

  There was a pause. ‘Well, it isn’t Bodard,’ Mair said.

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘If he told Vine something, he wasn’t doing it off his own bat.’

  ‘Quite,’ said Cotton. ‘You’ve got that right. Let’s go inside again.’

  They got out of the Lagonda and Mair pushed the little lamp under the radiator again. They walked out of the side door.

  ‘Did you know the word “avocado” came from the Greek for testicle?’ said Mair.

  ‘You’re talking about the cold,’ said Cotton.

  ‘Yes, I suppose I am.’

  They went into the house.

  Hans Bieber was sitting on a chair by the fire. He jumped up at once.

  ‘Where did you get this coal?’ he said.

  ‘It’s coke,’ said Paul Mair. ‘I got a delivery last week.’

  ‘How did you manage that?’

  ‘Neighbours,’ said Mair. ‘The people in front got a lorry load and passed some of it on to neighbours, out of solidarity apparently.’

  ‘The Soviets?’

  ‘Yes. They’re obviously on good terms with somebody. I’ve got about five bags left. I could let you have one, if you wanted.’

  ‘Mr Driver doesn’t need any fuel,’ said Cotton.

  The telephone rang. Startled, Paul Mair looked round.

  ‘It’s probably for us,’ said Cotton.

  Hans picked up the phone. He listened, then nodded.

  ‘Two or three minutes,’ he said. He put down the phone. ‘That’s Freddie,’ he said. ‘I’m going to collect him at the station.’

  ‘Good,’ said Cotton. ‘See if there’s anything open and get what you can in the way of food or drink.’

  ‘There won’t be,’ said Hans.

  ‘Try,’ said Cotton.

  ‘Good man,’ said Paul Mair.

  Both sat down at the card table though there was nothing to play. Mair glanced at Cotton, but seeing Cotton was not then going to ask him more questions, stared at the fire. Shortly after, his eyes closed.

  Cotton had been told in September 1945 that the Intelligence Services were ridding themselves of the schoolboys, adventurers, more obvious conmen. What had D said? The louche and the farouche. Obviously this was taking time, though he could imagine that using someone like Mair could have its advantages. Cotton looked at his watch. It was just past eight. He looked at the newspapers on the floor. The one nearest to him was from the summer of 1928 and lamented the poor performance of the British team at the Amsterdam Olympics. Only three gold medals: scant harvest in Holland. Cotton felt his lids drooping. He stretched out a leg and kicked Mair’s foot. Mair grunted.

  ‘What did you do after you gave Watson his syringe and his Goering juice?’

  ‘I’m not entirely heartless, you know. I went on a bender.’

  ‘Fine,’ said Cotton.

  ‘Who’s coming now?’ said Mair.

  ‘Someone who is going to sweep the house for listening devices.’

  ‘Is he going to b
ring any refreshments?’

  ‘I don’t know. Do you remember the name of the man from the Russian Embassy who got in touch with you when they thought you might be disgruntled?’

  ‘Oleg something.’

  ‘Great.’

  ‘Give me a moment! Cherkesov?’

  ‘Oleg Cherkesov. Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes. Something like that. Tall, bit of a pantomime villain, has hands from an El Greco painting.’

  Cotton knew very few of the names in the Soviet Embassy but Oleg Cherkesov was one. He was a ‘legal’, that is someone protected by diplomatic immunity, but he was also supposed to be Beria’s man in London, Beria being Stalin’s man in charge of Soviet secrecy, and now the Soviet effort to produce an atom bomb.

  ‘Shit,’ said Cotton.

  ‘Are you talking figuratively?’

  ‘Not really,’ said Cotton.

  In the event, Freddie Igloi had brought a thermos flask of tea as stewed and sweet as pre-invasion stuff. Hans had managed to get a half-bottle of brandy.

  ‘I’m really a whisky man,’ said Mair.

  ‘Take it or leave it,’ said Hans.

  Mair took it. ‘It does make my liver twinge, you know.’

  Freddie Igloi had already opened his small case. It did not take very long for him to check out the house, about twenty-five minutes. Cotton drank some tea, then washed out the cup-top and handed it on to Hans. Hans shook his head. The only hiatus was getting Mair to move. Cotton got him through to the kitchen, washed out his cup and offered him some tea.

  Mair looked put-upon. ‘I am not really a tea sort of person.’

  ‘All right.’

  ‘What’s going to happen?’

  ‘When the search is finished we’ll leave.’

  ‘But what am I supposed to do?’

  ‘I don’t know. You have this place for a bit longer, don’t you? Perhaps something will turn up.’

  ‘What would you do in my position?’

  ‘Sell the Lagonda.’

  ‘You’re not much help,’ said Mair. ‘I’m feeling rather low.’

  ‘Yes, I’m sorry about that. Do you want my card?’

  Mair thought about this. ‘All right.’ He looked up. ‘May I have one?’

  ‘Of course.’ Cotton gave him a business card.

  Freddie Igloi came through. ‘That’s done, Colonel Cotton.’

  ‘Oh Christ, you’re a colonel,’ said Paul Mair.

  ‘I was a colonel,’ said Cotton. ‘We’ll give you a lift back,’ he said to Freddie Igloi.

  ‘Will you?’ said Freddie Igloi. ‘That would be a help.’

  ‘Good. Well, Mr Mair, that’s it. If we need to be, we’ll be in touch. I take it you are going to be here for a few days more?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘That if you find you are on the move, you check with me first. All right?’

  ‘You can’t just leave me here.’

  ‘Why not? You’re not being charged. You are no longer an employee of the Intelligence Services, not even informally from what you tell me.’

  ‘Fuck it,’ said Paul Mair. He gave a sheepish smile. ‘I’ll have to give my liver a twinge.’

  ‘I could put him out of his misery,’ said Hans Bieber when they were back in the Triumph.

  Cotton stared at him.

  ‘He has nothing left,’ said Hans as if this was self-evident.

  ‘Stop it,’ said Cotton. ‘You are not going to touch Paul Mair, except to shake his hand and thank him for his contribution. Clear, Hans?’

  ‘If you say so.’

  ‘I will be in touch with Mr Ayrtoun about this. Have you got that?’

  ‘All right, all right.’

  ‘Good. We are leaving Paul Mair exactly where he is, that is, alive and in Totteridge, for two reasons. The first is that his neighbours might notice if he vanished. The second is that whoever is working with them on our side would also notice.’

  ‘Yes, but—’

  ‘By leaving him we make him their problem. Do you understand? He has only a few weeks left of his lease. We know where he is and that will do for now.’ He turned to Freddie Igloi. ‘What did you do?’

  ‘It’s not a bug exactly. We can’t afford too many. It flags the telephone exchange, and the numbers dialled and connecting to his telephone are recorded. It’s in the base of the apparatus.’

  ‘Good. All right, Hans. Now we need to know a few things. One, where did Mair go after he saw Watson off.’

  ‘Not here?’

  ‘The weather was terrible. He didn’t mention his Lagonda. Do you believe he drove back here from Croydon in the middle of a snowstorm? He also told me he’d gone on a bender. I’ll have it checked. The second thing we want to find out is who supplies him with his drugs.’

  ‘I don’t understand that,’ said Hans. ‘If he’s dealing in drugs, why is he poor?’

  ‘Good question.’

  ‘Drug dealers get paid up front,’ said Freddie Igloi.

  ‘Exactly,’ said Cotton. ‘That may be why losing the money in France has caused him so much trouble.’

  ‘Are you saying he has a French dealer?’

  ‘No, I am saying we have to find these things out.’

  ‘He could be the kind who gives out a little free, the party man. Then the dealer moves in,’ said Igloi. ‘It’s a thought.’

  ‘Where do you want to go?’ Hans asked Freddie Igloi.

  ‘Top of Edgware Road? Marble Arch?’

  ‘Fine,’ said Hans.

  They let Freddie Igloi out and made for Wilbraham Place.

  ‘May I ask you a question, sir?’ said Hans.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Have you thought Mair might take cyanide himself?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Cotton. ‘That’s up to him.’

  Cotton saw Hans shiver.

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘It’s this cold,’ said Hans. ‘It’s cold in Germany but it’s not like this.’

  26

  AT WILBRAHAM Place Cotton took his suitcase out of the Triumph and went upstairs. Light was showing under the door. He let himself in.

  ‘Where did you go?’ said Anna Melville.

  ‘I’ve been in Paris.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘I have proof.’

  He gave Anna Melville the remaining croissant and quail.

  ‘Have you eaten yours?’

  ‘I gave them to my secretary.’

  ‘What’s she called?’

  ‘Miss Kelly.’

  ‘Are you telling me she’s more than a secretary?’

  ‘No, I’m telling you she is a very good secretary.’

  Anna Melville laughed. ‘A secretary is more important than a lover, is that it?’

  ‘It depends what you’re doing, surely?’

  ‘So this food is not a romantic offering?’

  ‘It’s food not commonly available in this country.’

  ‘You’re a gourmet.’

  ‘Hardly. In Paris I also bought some razor-blades and this toilet case. The croissants and quail were chosen because they fitted nicely into the case.’

  She laughed. ‘Gus says you work for MI5, something like that.’

  Cotton shook his head. ‘That’s the problem with people who like drama.’

  ‘He says MI5 don’t employ women and Jews.’

  Cotton frowned. ‘Think about it. That can’t be true.’

  She shrugged. ‘Why did you go to Paris?’

  Cotton smiled. ‘Because I was sent there,’ he lied. ‘Exchange rates, the number of francs or dollars you get to a pound, make economists very excited. We and the French both have threadbare or moth-eaten empires. We have the Sterling Area, the French—’

  She interrupted. ‘You could have got me perfume or stockings, you know.’

  Cotton shook his head. ‘I didn’t know what kind of perfume you liked, thought stockings a little flimsy in this weather. I thought you might like something good to eat fo
r a change. And then I didn’t know that you’d be here.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘I would have eaten them myself if you hadn’t been.’

  She smiled. ‘My, you’re a practical chap.’ She broke off a piece of croissant and put it in her mouth. ‘It’s a bit near the end of the day to be quite fresh but – that’s butter I can taste, isn’t it?’

  ‘Probably.’

  She smiled. ‘Now I don’t want to strain your gentlemanly qualities,’ she said, ‘but I do like sex. Women aren’t supposed to say that, are they? Is that intimidating?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Off-putting?’

  ‘In my experience, it’s unusual.’

  She laughed. ‘Good. I thought we could start with a kiss. Would you like it with quail or a little more croissant?’

  The next day, Thursday, 6 February, Cotton and Hans visited Paul Mair’s estate agent, a man called Harold Rigsby who worked for a chain in a shop-cum-office on what was called a parade. There was a greengrocer, a butcher, a baker, a newsagent and post office, a place that sold equestrian goods, and then there was a small bow window with some panes of glass tinged pale green. Inside, Mr Rigsby was sitting behind a desk on which was a silver-plated candelabra. Only one of the three candles was lit but he lit the other two as they came in. There was a single-barred electric fire, but it was not on.

  Mr Rigsby was plump enough for his wedding band to look uncomfortable on his finger. On the small finger of his right hand he had a signet ring he rubbed when he talked. He tried, though his breath showed in the cold, to be pompous and business-like and to invoke client–agent confidentiality.

  ‘Mr Rigsby, you’re not a doctor and you’re not a priest. You deal in the selling, buying and renting of houses.’

  ‘We have a code of conduct, I assure you. We have a policy of strict adherence to ethical practices as a matter of course.’

  It took a little bluster time but Cotton got through to him and heard largely what he expected to hear.

  ‘I was contacted by the security forces of this country,’ said Mr Rigsby. ‘They told me they wanted to rent a house to keep an eye on the Soviets at 39 and 41. I hardly felt in a position to demur. I am, after all, as patriotic as the next man. But I must insist. We received all kinds of guarantees. And assurances that no damage would be done to the property.’

  Cotton smiled. ‘I am absolutely sure of it,’ he said. ‘My understanding is the deposit and a full six months’ rent were paid in full and in cash before Mr Mair—’