Icelight

by Aly Monroe

  In the event, Cotton found there was no debriefing. The fuss beforehand and the lack of follow-up seemed to him to sum up the state of British Intelligence. He wrote a staid report for MI6 and another, a lot more frank, for Ayrtoun.

  ‘In retrospect I’m slightly intrigued that Cherkesov took the trouble to have lunch with me – though he may just have wanted his beef roasted at Simpson’s. I increasingly incline to the view that he really didn’t mind that we were sowing confusion for them. Why would he?’

  Ayrtoun’s reply was almost immediate.

  ‘Oh, for Christ’s sake!’ he wrote. ‘We’re not the BBC pretending to have a balance. Cherkesov is the most brutal person you have ever met. That’s all. Your job is to take control of what you have.’

  Cotton laughed when he got this. The laugh took him by surprise, burst out of his lips as soft as cooked pearl barley.

  There was a moment he was alarmed, but then he decided not to be.

  Going to the Garrick Club on 12 February, Cotton read in a newspaper reduced to four pages that the day before, the Prime Minister, Major Clement Attlee, had been booed by people who had come to see Sir Winston Churchill’s daughter Mary marry in an unheated candlelit church.

  Attlee was reported as being ‘visibly upset’. Churchill had put his arm round him and brought him over to sign as a witness to the wedding.

  ‘I love this sort of stuff!’ said Miles Crichton. ‘The tragedy is, Clem is probably one of the most decent prime ministers we have ever had and yet he is hurt by what he sees as an over-personal element to the criticism. At least a couple of million children went to bed last night fully dressed but with their bellies empty. Why? Largely because their government is incompetent. And what have they got instead of competence? Righteousness, or in Attlee’s case, hurt.’ Miles Crichton laughed again. ‘Nobody is more authoritarian than a thwarted sentimentalist. I imagine Manny Shinwell has impressed his Cabinet colleagues in that line. After a decent interval of pretence that he was not a fool, he will be given a job where people will obey his orders – something military, probably.’

  ‘I haven’t seen Major Briggs recently,’ said Cotton.

  ‘He’ll be loyally keeping his head down for Manny.’ Miles smiled. ‘You should visit Alfred Perlman.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘To see whether or not he’s wearing an overcoat, like us. I bet his chambers are as cosy as the innards of a hot muffin.’

  Cotton smiled. ‘I was rather hoping to see Tom McEwan,’ he said.

  ‘I’m sure that can be arranged. Do you want it soon?’

  ‘If possible.’

  Back in his office Cotton wrote a note to Perlman. ‘I have a query for your client. The matter is delicate and I’d appreciate your advice.’

  ‘I can do this by telephone,’ said Miss Kelly.

  Within five minutes he learnt that Perlman had asked him to call in after work on Monday the 17th.

  A few minutes later he heard from Miles Crichton. Tom McEwan would see him in the Bunch of Grapes in Jermyn Street ‘a little before 3 p.m. tomorrow’.

  ‘He’s having lunch at Mme Prunier’s,’ said Miles.

  The next day Cotton was in the pub at two thirty. Tom McEwan appeared at ten to three.

  ‘Old times,’ he said. ‘I haven’t been to eat there since 1937. Ten years. Have you been?’

  ‘No,’ said Cotton.

  ‘You must go,’ said McEwan. ‘Looks like a fucking ocean liner, big chandeliers, banquettes like a creamy fish sauce. Wonderful.’ McEwan lit a Kensitas cigarette and Cotton bought him a brandy. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Cotton. ‘We’ve raised nothing on Sinclair and Boyle. I mean absolutely nothing. Apart from no addresses for them, we’ve not been able to find any report of their activities in the last seven years.’

  Tom McEwan laughed. ‘Are you appealing to sources outside the Intelligence Services?’

  ‘Oh, we do that.’

  Tom McEwan nodded. ‘How can I help?’

  ‘I’d be interested in any trace of Sinclair and Boyle at all.’

  McEwan paused. ‘What’s in it for me?’

  ‘You say.’

  ‘How about a bottle of whisky? Something good. A Jura, if you can.’

  Cotton was relieved. ‘Done.’

  ‘I’ll need a couple of days,’ said McEwan. ‘Fair?’

  ‘Of course.’

  McEwan squashed out his cigarette and lit another one. ‘Are you a socialist?’ he asked.

  ‘Are you?’ said Cotton.

  McEwan laughed. ‘I’ll go through Crichton, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘Not at all.’

  On the 14th Cotton returned home to find he had had a delivery from Twiss, Browning & Hallowes, a case of Dry Monopole champagne.

  ‘Christ, you are rich!’ said Anna Melville.

  Cotton opened the card inside. It was from his father, wishing him a happy birthday on the 20th.

  ‘You look surprised.’

  ‘I am,’ he said. ‘It’s not my father’s usual kind of birthday present.’

  ‘Is your birthday today?’

  ‘No. The 20th.’

  ‘How old will you be?’

  ‘Twenty-eight.’

  ‘You’re a baby.’

  ‘In comparison to?’

  ‘Me. I’m twenty-nine.’

  ‘When is your birthday?’

  ‘It’s been,’ she said. ‘Last month.’

  ‘Did you celebrate?’

  ‘It was the 17th. Do you remember? There was a dinner at Margot’s.’

  ‘I remember something about poetry but not about birthdays.’

  She laughed. ‘I didn’t announce it, silly. Nobody announces they are twenty-nine.’

  On Saturday Cotton queued and Anna had work. On Sunday she continued what she called ‘developing’ her blacklight play. He was surprised that she was following his bomb-shelter in the Tube suggestion. He saw that she could draw with both hands. From time to time she’d ask him something. This was slightly strange. She had more experience than he of being in London during the bombings, but she appeared to have little memory of the sounds, searchlights and blackouts.

  On Monday, 17 February Cotton went round to Alfred Perlman’s chambers in Jermyn Street at about 5.45 in the afternoon. Miss Olivia Marx showed him in directly. The lawyer was dressed for dinner, his jacket double-breasted, his black tie barely visible under his dewlap. The fire was banked but not lit. Instead, there were five small electric heaters around the edges of the room, two of which were on. Though no sauna, it was considerably warmer than Cotton’s own office.

  ‘I’m late,’ said Alfred Perlman, as if he were saying hello again. He made no effort to move. Instead, he rolled an unlit cigar between his fingers.

  ‘I like the smell,’ he explained, ‘but I don’t like the smoke.’ He waggled the cigar under his nose and breathed in. ‘I’m late for an opera meeting. Covent Garden. I’m on the board.’ He put the cigar down. ‘How can I help you, Colonel?’

  ‘Since 1939 MI5 has had a small team that pursues homosexuals. The justification for this is the security risk a homosexual in a sensitive job might present.’

  Cotton wondered whether Alfred Perlman had entirely closed his eyes or not.

  ‘This conversation is off the record,’ he said.

  ‘Of course it is. What I wanted to find out was the scope of your client’s interests. We believe this group in MI5 employs criminals who were Black Shirts.’

  Perlman had another sniff of his cigar. He nodded.

  ‘Allow me to speak as one who knows about reactions to Jews in this country,’ he said. ‘Any attempt to demonstrate anti-Semitism in the Intelligence Services would backfire. I’d say it was not in the interests of the Jewish community even to try that line.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Cotton. ‘That’s very helpful.’

  For the first time Cotton managed to induce a fleeting frown on Alfred Perlman’s lugubrious
face.

  ‘Don’t misunderstand,’ said Perlman. ‘I’m in favour of a Jewish State in Palestine. I’m sure you already know I’m on committees to this end. Our biggest problem in this country is Irgun and the Stern Gang. In the US, despite Einstein’s opposition to a Jewish state, they’re not a problem at all.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Cotton. ‘I spoke to Oleg Cherkesov about them.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He claimed to be delighted. If the US supports a Jewish state, the Soviet Union will do what it can with the Arab nations.’

  Perlman stared at him for a while, then shrugged.

  ‘We will have a piece of Europe in the Middle East,’ he said.

  ‘Mr Cherkesov was apparently happy to agree.’

  Perlman cleared his throat. ‘Why did you come to see me, Mr Cotton?’

  ‘To show you I had not forgotten your distinguished client.’

  ‘He’s a busy man, particularly with this coal crisis.’

  ‘Of course. The second reason was to thank you for your help in the Watson affair in Croydon.’

  ‘I did what I could,’ said Perlman. ‘A sad business.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Cotton, ‘but apart from losing an expert in plutonium enrichment, we had a little distraction in Croydon.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Following a tip-off, there was some press interest, I understand, in possible corruption there. The police cracked down.’

  Alfred Perlman shrugged. ‘I don’t apologize,’ he said. ‘I consider it a lack of respect.’

  ‘What do you mean exactly?’

  ‘I do my best, Colonel Cotton. I believe that if I were to apologize to a client, it would mean I had not done my best.’

  ‘It wasn’t all bad, Mr Perlman. There is a possibility that an ex-MP – a Tory baronet – is involved in criminal activities.’

  ‘As what the criminal fraternity calls . . . a banker?’ said Perlman.

  ‘Difficult to prove,’ said Cotton.

  That did not bother the lawyer. ‘It would be difficult to get good publicity,’ he said.

  ‘I was thinking of giving your distinguished client practice,’ said Cotton. ‘Acquiring experience in another field, perhaps.’

  Perlman shrugged. ‘A sort of breaking-in, you mean? I’d have to consider that.’

  ‘Of course.’

  Alfred Perlman may have smiled. He picked up his unlit cigar and put it back in a black leather holder. He glanced at the clock and grunted. ‘Now I really am late,’ he said. He stood up.

  ‘All right. I take your point, Colonel.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘That my distinguished client should decide on both the nature and the spheres of his interest in “security”. Perhaps limit his interests. This will not include anti-Semitism or the deviance of inverts.’ He gave Cotton a brief nod. ‘Thank you for asking after him. I’ll certainly pass your good wishes on.’

  On Tuesday, 18 February Cotton found a note from Miles Crichton. Cotton telephoned him.

  ‘The person you met in the Stab has something for you.’

  ‘What kind of thing?’

  Miles Crichton had decided to be arch. ‘I believe,’ he said, ‘that it has a Scottish theme.’

  At lunchtime, Cotton and Dawkins met Tom McEwan of the Daily Mirror in King William Street in the City of London. Cotton was becoming accustomed if not to the cold then at least to recognizing the different sorts of cold. There was numb and weary. This was cold to the shoulders, raw on the face.

  McEwan loosened the scarf round his mouth. ‘Your man works nearby,’ he said. ‘He’s prepared to speak to you on the strict condition that the information he gives stays as that, information only. He’s not prepared to give evidence, verbal or written. He must have that assurance or he won’t speak.’

  ‘So why is he doing this?’ said Dawkins.

  ‘He’s prepared to help you in the hope that what he says will in turn help you deal with Sinclair and Boyle.’

  Dawkins shook his head.

  Tom McEwan reacted sharply. ‘You haven’t seen or heard him yet!’

  ‘All right,’ said Cotton. ‘Information only.’

  ‘I have your assurance?’

  ‘Yes.’

  McEwan looked at Dawkins. Dawkins nodded.

  McEwan smiled. ‘That’s the spirit. There’s a pub in Arthur Street—’

  ‘I know it,’ said Dawkins.

  ‘He’ll be there in ten to fifteen minutes.’

  ‘And how are we going to recognize him?’

  ‘I gave him a description of you,’ said McEwan.

  Cotton held out his gloved hand and McEwan shook it. ‘Thank you,’ he said.

  McEwan laughed his breathy laugh. ‘Enjoy yourselves, gentlemen.’

  Cotton and Dawkins walked down to Arthur Street. The pub was in a cellar, poorly lit but, being in the City, served wine as much as beer. Cotton chose a claret.

  ‘I’ll stick to bitter,’ said Dawkins.

  The place was quite warm, though. They looked to be burning driftwood in the chimney place. They were given a short menu. There was soup of the day, steak and kidney pie, sausages and mash and Cornish pasty.

  ‘Cornish pasties?’ said Cotton.

  ‘It’ll be horse meat,’ said Dawkins, ‘with swede and carrots.’

  Cotton knew nothing at all about the ingredients of a Cornish pasty. Dawkins seemed most displeased by the carrots.

  ‘Two Cornish pasties, please,’ said Cotton.

  They went to a booth. ‘What’s the matter?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t know how we’re ever going to get someone to testify against Sinclair and Boyle,’ said Dawkins.

  ‘Let’s see what we get now.’

  They sat in the booth and waited. Their Cornish pasties had just arrived when a tall young man stooped over and asked Dawkins to slide along.

  ‘Which of you is Colonel Cotton?’

  ‘I am,’ said Cotton.

  The young man banged his gloves together, took them off and rubbed his hands to warm them. He used one hand to take off his hat, the other he offered to Cotton.

  ‘My name is Frederick Causley,’ he said.

  Because the light was so poor Cotton was not sure if he was seeing things. As if on cue, however, Causley lifted his face. On each cheek, someone had carved a saltire, the cross of St Andrew. The cuts were remarkably even, all four straight and the same length, about two inches. Cruelly – the national flag of Scotland is a white saltire on a blue background – the scars showed as whitish with blue-tinged edges.

  ‘Would you like a Cornish pasty? Something to drink?’ asked Cotton.

  The young man smiled. ‘No,’ he said, ‘I’ll have my usual.’ He lifted an arm and waggled his hand at the bar and someone there nodded.

  ‘Tom McEwan told you of my conditions?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Cotton.

  Frederick Causley looked round at Dawkins. Dawkins nodded.

  ‘I was eighteen in 1943,’ he said, ‘and had just left school. I came up to London at the beginning of August and met a very charming bomber pilot, a Wing Commander Graham Hands.’ He looked up. ‘No? He’d just won another DFC and was something of a hero. There were receptions for him and lots of parties. There was talk of him doing a tour of the US. I don’t really know what happened. I suppose I may have had something to do with it, but he wasn’t sent. Instead, he returned to duty and I hung about in London waiting for my orders to come through. I did get away to see him in Lincolnshire one weekend. It was after that things turned nasty.’

  The young man’s lunch arrived. It was sausage and mash and a glass of wine. He tasted the wine.

  ‘It’s supposed to be burgundy,’ he said. ‘It’s rough enough to mask flavours, particularly of the powdered potato.’ He cut into a sausage and steam rose up. He smiled.

  ‘At least it’s warm, eh?’

  ‘What happened?’ said Cotton.

  ‘Graham had a flat and I was
camping out there. One day I found a letter on the mat addressed to me. It said I was sullying a hero’s reputation and if I had any nobility of soul I’d get out and leave a great man alone.’ Causley shrugged. ‘I mean, there were actually spelling mistakes. It was “leaf” for ‘leave” for example, and the writer had had difficulty separating the words “reputation” and “repetition”. It was unpleasant, but I didn’t take it very seriously.’

  ‘Where was the flat?’ asked Dawkins.

  Causley smiled. ‘In Bruton Place. But I don’t think there is a spelling test to be able to live in Mayfair, is there? The next day there was another note asking why I was still there. It called me a few names as well.’

  ‘You don’t have these notes, do you?’ said Dawkins.

  ‘No, I don’t,’ he said firmly. ‘The next day I got caught. Two men with strong Scottish accents, one of them perhaps some kind of dwarf, got hold of me in Cork Street and shoved me into Cork Street Mews. One of them punched me hard in the ribs and the next I knew I had a forearm across my throat. The speed of it all was very shocking, to me at least. I couldn’t really see what they were doing but I could see the razor.’

  Causley paused and ate some mash. He drank a little wine, then turned his fork over and drew the prongs across the mash. ‘One of them punched me in the balls with a knuckleduster. That was by far the most painful thing. When I got out into Cork Street a woman screamed. They had cut my cheeks so deep she could see some of my teeth.’ He sighed. ‘It’s a difficult set of scars to get. There’s no sign of a bullet and the lines are too neat for war.’

  ‘Did you report the attack?’ said Dawkins.

  ‘Yes, but I had some problems. They had ruptured one of my testicles and I needed treatment. A police constable came to the hospital but it was 1943 and saying I had been attacked by two Scotsmen in civvies didn’t really provide the police with enough information they could work on. There was a war on and I didn’t really want to tell the police why I thought I had been attacked.’

  ‘What about Graham Hands?’

  Frederick Causley shook his head. ‘I didn’t see him again. His Lancaster came down somewhere near Bremen. The entire crew died. 27 September.’