by Aly Monroe
He had a conversation with Miss Kelly. Cotton really wanted a report on Ayrtoun’s state of health and mind but Ayrtoun was of a superior rank, and a couple of minutes with Miss Kelly demonstrated clearly the extent to which the high-ranking were buttressed. Almost any enquiry would be construed as lack of deference enough to end a career.
He was left with simple social enquiry. Later, when he telephoned his father, James Cotton told him he had received ‘a couple of Christmas cards’.
‘In February?’
‘They’re both from America. Washington postmark.’
Cotton asked him to open them.
‘The first is from a Dr Aforey. It has palm trees on it. It says “Seasons Greetings and sincere good wishes from an old friend”.’
‘The other?’
His father sighed. Cotton heard ripping paper. ‘This one is from an Evelyn Duquesne. It says “I hope your trews still fit.” I have no idea what that’s about.’
Cotton smiled. That evening he wrote to Evelyn Duquesne, an elderly but spritely and very rich widow who lived in Dupont Circle, who had once introduced him to the very drunk Hon. Penelope Ayrtoun. He did not ask direct questions and doubted (a) that his letter would get to her very soon and (b) that she would volunteer very much anyway, but it was something to do.
32
DAWKINS GOT back to Cotton on Saturday, 22 February. They met up at the King’s Arms in Buckingham Palace Road.
‘Sorry to disturb your weekend.’
‘That’s fine.’
‘The planning committee in Beddington is really run by a man called Cedric Hammond. He’s, well . . . hoping to make good use of the damage caused by doodlebugs in that area.’
‘Where exactly is this?’
‘West of Croydon, across Purley Way. Hammond has been there for quite a while. That area got a lot of housing pre-war. Height restrictions, you see, because of Croydon airport. He’s got quite a reputation with house builders from that time. There’s an area now north of Mill Lane and Waddon ponds that got so badly hit it’s looking good for postwar development.’ Dawkins paused. ‘Mr Hammond is an elder at his local chapel, you know. He lives quite near the gasworks.’
Cotton raised his eyebrows.
‘The Lord has just given him a new Austin car,’ said Dawkins. ‘The garage owner also got a hundred pounds to help the Lord move Hammond up the waiting list.’
‘And these garages Bly built?’
‘Yes. Well placed, apparently. They’re screened a bit by trees and have a good view out towards the ponds.’
‘Are there other decisions that might bring Hammond to the attention of the authorities?’
‘We’ve got four so far. Is that enough?’
‘Anything big?’
‘There is something biggish in the pipeline. Permission for thirty-four semi-detached houses is going through.’
‘All right. Would that be enough to screen Derek?’
‘You should ask him.’
‘I will.’ Cotton sat back. ‘Do you think this is enough to disturb Mr Bly into action? He’s really got to believe these garages will have to come down. He could appeal, surely? It could take months.’
Dawkins squinted at Cotton. ‘Colonel, he’s a five-bob man!’
‘What are you saying?’
Dawkins meant that Bly’s standard loan was five shillings.
‘Believe me,’ said Dawkins. ‘At five bob, he’s hands on.’
‘You mean he’ll be there?’
‘With Vernon he’ll have used one other man. No more. Not in Croydon or Beddington.’
‘Do you know who the other man would be?’
‘Oh yes, big fellow, called Turner.’
‘All right,’ said Cotton. ‘What are you going to do?’
‘Tip off Croydon police, draw up the charges, break down Hammond’s door, you know, make noise and watch what Bly does.’
Cotton nodded. ‘This is yours,’ he said.
Dawkins shook his head. ‘It’s the Chief Constable’s,’ he said.
Cotton saw Derek Jennings on Monday, 24 February. He brought him up to date on what was happening about Bly. Derek nodded but had other things on his mind.
‘I’d like to get out of my present line of work,’ he said.
‘I’m afraid that’s not up to me, Derek.’
‘I know, Mr C. But I’m thinking ahead.’
‘And what have you thought, Derek?’
‘I told you about my brother-in-law, the greengrocer?’
‘Yes. He has a stall in Croydon market, storage facilities in Wallington?’
‘Very good, Mr C. We’ve been thinking about expanding.’
‘You want to be a greengrocer?’
‘No, no. Ha! My sister’s thinking of china. I’m thinking of a gentleman’s outfitters.’
‘You want to open a shop?’
‘No,’ said Derek, ‘a stall. It’s a step up, Mr C, and it makes sense. I’m not getting any younger and I’ve got some experience with clothes.’
‘If we manage to get Mr Bly, Derek, do you think you’ll be safe?’
‘Yes,’ said Derek. ‘Maurice is a mean bastard. Not a lot of loyalty around him, if you know what I mean. Apart from Turner, that is. But he’s stupid.’
‘Who’ll take over from him?’
‘Greek Randall, you know, the bookie in West Croydon.’
Cotton nodded and changed subject. ‘When is the next conga party in East Grinstead?’
‘Are you thinking of coming, sir? They’d like a big chap like you.’
Cotton shook his head. ‘Remember neck ties, Derek.’
Derek laughed.
‘Don’t laugh, Derek. When is this party?’
‘March the 1st,’ said Derek.
‘Good,’ said Cotton. ‘You can take some photographs.’
Derek protested. ‘I’m not a party pooper.’
‘You’re a party snapper,’ said Cotton. ‘You’ll be given a small camera and you’ll think. The only thing I want is a link between Sir Hear-Hear Johnson’s house and the conga. Got it?’
Derek frowned. ‘I don’t get anything for this? Christ, I’ve given you Bly, Colonel.’
‘I don’t care about Bly. You do,’ said Cotton. ‘I care about this. Do it well and I’ll do my best for you. Fair?’
Derek did not look as if he thought it at all fair. ‘But where am I going to put a camera?’
‘Who wears what?’
‘Nobody wears much of anything,’ said Derek. ‘Some of the toffs wear masks.’
‘Then be a toff for the night, Derek. I think we can do that for you.’
‘Christ,’ said Derek.
On Wednesday, 26 February Dawkins called Cotton.
‘A man started digging up the floor of one of Bly’s garages today.’
‘All right. What’s happening now?’
‘We’ve put a watch on it. We’re waiting for Maurice.’
‘Good. Keep me informed.’
In Wardour Street Freddie Igloi said he had ‘just the thing’ for the East Grinstead conga party.
‘It’s actually German,’ he said. ‘Look at that.’
The camera was remarkably flat, about the area of a matchbox. The biggest part was the lens.
‘We can dress this up as part of a mask. With a bit of glitter, you know.’
‘Do you know who can do this?’
‘I always go to the Chinese. They’re very quick at sparkle. And they keep quiet.’
‘How long?’
‘Couple of hours. It’ll probably be red, though. Is that a problem?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Focus will be a problem. But he can take the shot and look like he’s adjusting the mask. The other problem is that he only has six exposures. Can he manage that?’
‘We’ll have to hope so.’
On the morning of February 27, Dawkins called Cotton again.
‘They got Maurice at 2.15 this morning.’
�
�Vernon Carter?’
‘Not looking too well. Well, he’d been under concrete since December 1945.’
‘But they have to prove it was Maurice,’ said Cotton.
‘Well, there’s the chair as well. Not Dopey’s, you know.’
‘No?’
‘Guess,’ said Dawkins.
‘I’ve no idea.’
‘Bashful’s,’ said Dawkins. ‘They’ll get him. Turner is too thick to stand questioning. He contradicts himself, you see. Doesn’t understand the word “accessory” when applied to “after the fact”. But he’ll get there.’
In the afternoon Derek called to say he had received the mask.
‘It’s fucking red,’ he said.
‘Do you understand how it works?’
‘I think so. I’m not happy about the red.’
‘Why?’ said Cotton.
‘Most masks are black or deep blue.’
‘Be notorious,’ said Cotton. ‘And tell me about Bly.’
‘What about him?’
‘Come on, Derek. He’s been arrested for murder.’
Derek was determined to be unimpressed. ‘Nah,’ he said. ‘He got what he deserved.’
‘If you say so, Derek. You’ve got very few shots with this camera. Get used to wearing the mask.’
Anna Melville was back at work. On Saturday evening she appeared with two pound notes and offered to take him to lunch on Sunday. They went to a small place and ate something containing chicken and mushrooms. She talked a lot about her blacklight play – she had now settled on children talking to coloured ghosts in the Underground.
‘But I don’t want the ghosts to be sentimental, you see. I want them to be witty, even tough.’
Cotton smiled and encouraged her but he was really waiting to hear how Derek had managed on Saturday night.
On the morning of Monday, 3 March Cotton heard from Freddie Igloi. He had the camera back and was about to develop the film.
‘Did you see Derek?’
‘The little fellow who delivered the film? He said the party had been fucking great and that he was exhausted.’
Cotton grunted. ‘Call me when you have something.’
Freddie Igloi called about two hours later. ‘We have four usable pictures. Two are hopeless.’
‘What have we got?’
‘Do you want to see them?’
‘Not particularly. What matters is that Sir Hear-Hear is in one.’
‘He’s the star,’ said Freddie. ‘He’s in three.’
‘Could an MP with a keen interest in security matters and prurience be able to use them?’
‘Oh yes.’
‘All right. Would you send copies to Alfred Perlman in Jermyn Street with my compliments. There’s a message. Say: “Not to be seen by girls.” Yes, add: “I hope your client approves.”’
33
AT AROUND five in the afternoon of Monday, 3 March Dickie Dawkins came in person to Cotton’s office.
‘We have a suicide attempt,’ he said.
Cotton frowned. ‘It’s not Mair, is it?’
‘No,’ said Dawkins. ‘It’s a civil servant called Vine. You know him, apparently. Lives in Purley.’
‘What did he do?’
‘They say he cut his wrists.’
‘He’s still alive?’
‘That’s my information.’
Cotton stood up. He had forgotten again that going outside merely meant tightening up the clothes he already had on and adding a hat and gloves.
Dawkins and Cotton took a crowded commuter train from Victoria to Purley. Though the passengers thinned out, particularly at East Croydon, they did not speak until they were walking towards the Cottage Hospital.
‘Why do you get this kind of thing?’ Cotton asked.
‘Special Branch gets flagged if someone who has had access to sensitive information does anything silly.’
‘Not MI5?’
‘In the first instance, attempted suicide is still a crime.’
The Cottage Hospital, built to be homely, was all beige linoleum, pale green walls and the smell of bleach. After a short wait Cotton and Dawkins were seen by a youngish doctor.
‘It’s what they call a cry for help, apparently,’ he said.
‘Why do you say that?’ said Dawkins.
The doctor was almost too bored to be impatient. ‘If Mr Vine had been truly serious he would have cut here.’ The doctor pushed out his hand and used the middle finger of his other hand to draw a line quite near the base of the thumb.
‘Maybe he didn’t know,’ said Dawkins.
‘But that’s precisely my point,’ the doctor said. ‘If he had been really serious he would have taken the trouble to learn what cut would have caused him to bleed out. As it is . . . well, you’ve probably cut yourself worse shaving, certainly on the right wrist. The left cut opened three veins. Nothing too deep. There’s tentative and there’s fumbling with a razor-blade.’
‘Where was he found?’ said Cotton.
‘In the bath,’ said the doctor, as if he had never heard anything quite so feeble. ‘Apparently his wife heard him sobbing. Quite loudly, I understand.’
Dawkins blinked. Whatever his respect for the medical profession, it did not excuse a doctor who spoke so dismissively of a patient.
‘The drawbacks to a classical education,’ said Cotton. ‘The Roman way out but poor at anatomy.’
The doctor frowned at him. ‘You could say that, I suppose. He’s under mild sedation but is perfectly able to talk. Mrs Vine insists it was an accident. We do treat flesh wounds. A real suicide attempt would have gone to another hospital. Nurse!’
The doctor turned and strode away.
‘Busy man,’ said Cotton.
Dawkins shook his head. ‘I wouldn’t want him,’ he said, ‘near my family.’ He unbuttoned his coat. The Cottage Hospital had priority heating.
The nurse took them to Vine’s room. There was a night-light, his wife may have been dozing but she came to and stood up very promptly. She was not as huddled as Cotton remembered her, was slim and had more neck. She lifted her chin.
‘I know you,’ she said to Cotton. ‘Do you have anything to do with this?’
‘It’s possible. This is Mr Dawkins, Mrs Vine. He’s from Special Branch.’
Mrs Vine let her arms drop. ‘Oh God,’ she said. ‘Has my husband done something utterly stupid?’
Dawkins shook his head. ‘We’re here to make some enquiries, ma’am.’
Mrs Vine frowned, possibly at Dawkins’s soft, careful, south London accent.
‘Are you going to arrest him?’
‘We haven’t asked him any questions yet.’
Mrs Vine gave up on Dawkins and turned to Cotton.
‘What is it you want to know?’
‘How serious was this attempt? Was it planned? Did he make arrangements?’
Mrs Vine stared at him.
Cotton added a little snap to more volume. ‘Did he leave a note, for example?’
Mrs Vine’s head came up. ‘Oh yes. Propped on the mantelpiece, like an invitation to a drinks party.’
‘What did it say?’
‘It said “sorry”,’ said Mrs Vine. She paused. ‘That’s all. “Sorry”!’ If she was near tears, they were tears of rage. ‘He was never a good father nor much of a husband, but this really is quite, quite despicable.’
Cotton looked at Andrew Vine. He had his eyes closed but Cotton had the impression this was more a try at self-protection than to rest.
‘All right,’ he said. ‘Why don’t you let us handle the next part now?’
‘What do you mean?’ said Mrs Vine.
‘That we’d like to speak to him on his own. Would you mind stepping outside for a moment?’
Mrs Vine paused, then shook her head. ‘Do you know something? The only advantage I can see to this entire wretched business is that we are all warm at last.’
Dawkins couldn’t help himself. ‘There are some draughts in the corridors,�
�� he said.
Mrs Vine was not a woman who would ever really swear but her face expressed quite clearly that, had she not been a lady, she would have used a verbal spade on him.
‘Lids up,’ said Cotton when Mrs Vine had gone.
Vine obeyed, with a little theatrical flutter, rather badly done.
‘How serious was this?’ Cotton asked.
‘I couldn’t see a way out!’ Vine’s voice was extraordinary, all sloppy quaver and bleat, and Cotton instantly understood what had so irritated his wife and the doctor.
‘Way out of what?’ The rest – ‘Don’t lie or I’ll tear off the bandages and work at the cuts myself. The doctor has told me what to do’ – Cotton kept to himself.
Vine was still moaning. ‘I got a letter. It said I was being moved to Work and Pensions.’
‘So you got out your razor?’
‘I can’t hold my head up in Work and Pensions! Everybody would know I had been sidelined. It’s humiliating! Utterly humiliating!’
Before Cotton could reply, Dawkins leant forward.
‘Then you lump it – or you leave the Civil Service! You don’t mess around with your family or get other people who have families to run after you when they’d rather be at home!’
Vine looked awfully aggrieved, as if baffled and put upon by the aggression in Dawkins’s tone. Cotton had seen an army sergeant really break in Sicily. The horrible thing was that the poor man had no defences left. There had been no trace of self-concern, complaint or self-pity – the sergeant was incapacitated, besieged by nightmare images, what looked like waking blackouts and a disorientation so complete it had become physical. The man had been warding off bits of air.
‘He means,’ said Cotton, ‘that you may want to consider another career. After all, there’s business, any number of other possibilities. Though, on the other hand, if you want security, Work and Pensions wouldn’t be so bad.’
‘I felt my life was over,’ said Vine. ‘That woman despises me.’
Cotton nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Where are your children?’
‘With her parents, I think.’
‘What does your father-in-law do?’
‘He’s retired.’
Cotton suspected Mrs Vine’s father was of sterner or more successful stuff than her husband.