by Aly Monroe
‘I have to speak to the Colonel,’ he said. ‘Can I do that without you listening?’
‘I have to bandage his thigh.’
‘Good,’ said Dawkins to her. He grimaced at Cotton. ‘Christ!’ he said.
‘Now, now,’ said the nurse.
‘Shhh,’ said Dawkins. He turned to Cotton. ‘Are you out of action?’
‘I don’t think so. It just looks messy.’
Dawkins was not really listening. The nurse indicated for Cotton to stand. She considered, then shook her head and got him to sit again at the very edge of the bed. She bent to put the first dressing on the cut.
‘Fucking hell!’ said Dawkins. ‘This is a right fucking mess!’
The nurse looked up.
‘Oh come on, love,’ said Dawkins. ‘You’re a nurse not a nun.’ He looked at Cotton. ‘What are we going to do?’
‘Right down the middle,’ said Cotton.
The nurse began wrapping the dressing to his leg.
‘We don’t want to cause any embarrassment,’ said Cotton. ‘We have the very best interests of the agencies involved at heart.’
Dawkins frowned. Cotton insisted.
‘Look, we can give certain colleagues pause, maybe even a little more. But we will have to show we are only too anxious to collaborate, for the sake of the agencies’ reputations, you understand, if we are to get anywhere at all.’
Dawkins leant down. ‘How are you doing?’ he asked the nurse.
‘I’m doing well,’ she replied. ‘But I’d do better without interruptions.’
Dawkins raised his face to the ceiling.
‘We need the use of a car,’ said Cotton. ‘We’ll go to Croydon police station. I’d really like a meeting with the Chief Constable when we’re there. All right?’
Dawkins nodded. ‘All right. I’ll get a car.’
Dawkins left and Cotton closed his eyes. As a last bandage, the nurse was wrapping crêpe round the dressing and the first bandage on his thigh. The smell was faintly rubbery. He pulled up his trousers.
The doctor had several pills for him, divided into two paper-cum-cardboard receptacles, like tiny cupcake holders with ruched or pleated lids.
‘These are painkillers, should you need them. Codeine really. These are penicillin. Possible side effects include nausea and diarrhoea. They are, however, absolutely marvellous against bacterial infections.’
Cotton nodded. ‘Thank you,’ he said. He saw the nurse turn his steaming sock over on the radiator. A trickle of sweat ran down his forehead. He wiped it away.
‘You’ll need to have that bandage changed. I take it you don’t live locally.’
‘No. I live off Sloane Street and I work in St James’s.’
‘Right,’ said the doctor. ‘I have a friend at Guy’s. Where I studied. How would that be? They rather specialize in accidents.’
‘All right,’ said Cotton.
‘And in due course, those stitches will have to be taken out. Unless you want to come back here, of course.’
‘No.’
‘Then I’ll refer you. The other man calls you Colonel Cotton.’
Cotton got a card out of his jacket and gave it to the doctor. ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘I’d like to see Mr Vine again. Would that be all right with you, Doctor?’
The doctor raised his eyebrows. ‘It’s like that, is it?’ he said. He shrugged. ‘I have no objection. But let the nurse finish helping you first.’
The nurse was sticking the cuts in his overcoat and jacket from the inside with tape.
‘This should hold till you get to a tailor,’ she said.
‘You’re very kind,’ said Cotton.
The nurse smiled. ‘The sock is still a little damp,’ she said.
‘That’s all right.’
The sock was damp but warm. It reeked of surgical soap. The nurse helped him with that and his shoe. Cotton put on his jacket and his coat.
‘How’s that bandage?’ she asked.
‘I can hardly feel my thigh.’
‘That means it’s tight enough.’
Cotton smiled. ‘I’ll take your word for it. Thanks for all you’ve done.’
Cotton walked back to the hospital entrance.
‘I’ve got us a car,’ said Dawkins, ‘and the Chief Constable will be there in half an hour.’
Cotton and Dawkins went back to Vine’s room. Cotton asked Vine’s wife to leave again.
‘Do you really think that’s helpful or necessary? He’s in a vulnerable condition.’
‘Yes, I do think it’s necessary,’ said Cotton. ‘And I do appreciate his condition.’
‘This was done with a cut-throat razor,’ said Dawkins, holding up his bandaged hand. He used it to point at Cotton. ‘They got him in the thigh. I don’t know about vulnerable but—’
Mrs Vine left the room. Cotton looked at Vine. He was sitting up in bed, looked pale, but his wife had certainly frightened some energy into him.
‘It is essential we know whether or not you have been in contact with anyone,’ said Cotton.
‘I don’t know what you mean. You simply can’t be suggesting I’ve had anything to do with this. I didn’t even know you were coming. I haven’t been in touch with anyone. I mean, I didn’t even know I’d be taken here.’
Cotton nodded. He thought this a pretty fair rundown and very likely true. ‘Where is Mrs Gardener staying?’
Vine blinked.
‘Look. Forget Work and Pensions,’ said Cotton. ‘You’ll have no work and no fucking pension.’
‘She’s staying with a friend in Pont Street.’
‘Number?’ said Cotton.
Vine gave it up.
‘What happened?’
Vine shook his head. ‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘She told me it was over.’
‘What did she want?’
‘I don’t know.’
Cotton frowned. ‘Mr Vine—’
‘She wanted me to pay for an abortion.’
‘Did you?’
Vine groaned. ‘I can’t win,’ he said. ‘I just can’t.’
‘What are you talking about?’ asked Cotton.
‘If you pay you’re not a gentleman. If you don’t, you’re a cad.’
‘How much?’ said Dawkins.
‘Forty pounds,’ said Vine.
Dawkins nodded. ‘He paid. And that’s more Harley Street than Wigmore Street.’
‘Mr Vine,’ said Cotton, ‘I really hope we don’t have to see you again. I’d prefer never even to hear of you. Is that clear?’
Vine looked unhappy.
‘Mr Vine,’ said Cotton, ‘is there anything else you want to tell us?’
‘No!’
Dawkins cleared his throat. ‘Both of us have just learnt what an improvement safety razors are, sir. You might like to think about that, for the future, you know, if you’re feeling a bit self-pitying or anything. Choose the cut-throat.’
Outside the room Mrs Vine was waiting for them.
‘I do have contacts, you know,’ she said.
‘Good,’ said Cotton. ‘Use them. And I can use mine. To start with I could ask my colleague here to arrest your husband. Now. To attempted suicide I am sure we could add some other charges.’
Mrs Vine narrowed her eyes. ‘You’re vile,’ she said.
‘Ma’am,’ said Dawkins, ‘the Colonel is a gentleman who understands a lady even when she’s distressed. We wouldn’t have stitches if your husband had been honest with you.’
They walked down the corridor.
‘I’m thinking,’ said Dawkins, ‘the forty pounds for the abortion may not have been all abortion.’
‘Mrs Gardener claimed a little cash as well?’
Dawkins grunted. ‘Nothing grand. Is your sock quite dry?’
‘Not quite,’ said Cotton.
‘Better to talk, then, before we go outside.’
They sat down on a bench.
‘First question,’ said Cotton. ‘How did Boyle and Sinclair know we were here
? You came to see me about five.’
‘I got a telephonist’s note about four thirty. It said Vine had attempted suicide and had been taken here.’
‘Well,’ said Cotton, ‘we can’t prove Radcliffe, and by extension Starmer-Smith, had anything to do with this. They’d certainly deny it. But it’s clear Boyle and Sinclair also got the information about Vine’s attempted suicide, his whereabouts, and where we would be going. It wouldn’t have meant anything unless they had also known that a report on them had been submitted. I don’t know whether or not Sir Percy Sillitoe has the report, is going to get the report, or whether it has been made to disappear. But our friends from Glasgow decided to act.’
Dawkins nodded. ‘We were set up,’ he said.
‘Yes, it looks like it. But we don’t know whether or not it was Boyle and Sinclair being stupid with razors. So now we’re going to report what happened but we will draw no conclusions. We will be serious, we will be concerned and very careful about the reputations of our respective agencies. We will be respectful. And leading.’
‘What do you mean – leading?’
‘We’ll lead our superiors towards certain conclusions. The main one is, whatever the association between Boyle and Sinclair and Starmer-Smith, that our superiors mark it at least as unwise. And if we’re lucky, we’ll get them to see that Starmer-Smith and Radcliffe lost control of the violent criminals they were using. It’s going to be very difficult to prove that Boyle and Sinclair are being paid by MI5.’
Dawkins frowned.
‘Well, I know my boss is paying people who don’t figure on the payroll,’ said Cotton. ‘In a modest way I even do it myself. It’s simply called expenses and gets tucked away.’
Dawkins sighed. ‘Yes. All right.’
‘The other thing is that we’ve been unable to get a shred of usable evidence on what our cut-throats have been doing for seven years. That’s seven. Mr Causley of the Scottish flags has been our best source for all that time and we can’t use him.’
Dawkins shook his head and sighed. ‘You don’t understand. You don’t work with Starmer-Smith,’ he said. ‘I’ll have Radcliffe all over my back.’
‘Don’t accuse him of anything. Don’t do more than describe the attack. In Purley of all places!’
‘Shit,’ said Dawkins. ‘I should have kept the knuckledusters.’
‘For the future? Or because they might be found?’
‘What?’ said Dawkins.
‘Come on,’ said Cotton. ‘My sock’s dry. Let’s get started.’
They stood up, walked out of the hospital, got into a police car and headed for Croydon police station.
35
CHIEF CONSTABLE Kitson was waiting for them in his office, buttons gleaming, uniform brushed. He stared at them, but continued with what he already had prepared.
‘I am duty bound, Colonel,’ he said, ‘to thank you for your assistance in bringing down the Bly gang.’
Cotton briefly remembered Maurice Bly in his brown dustcoat, showing his gappy little teeth, and wondered whether or not Bly would be flattered to be elevated into a gang leader. Probably not.
‘No, sir,’ said Cotton. ‘That was a police and Special Branch success. The help provided was very small.’
The Chief Constable frowned. ‘I say, do sit down. Do you need any attention?’
‘No, thank you sir,’ said Dawkins. ‘We were well looked after at the hospital.’
‘Am I to understand you were attacked in the High Street?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Dawkins.
‘I’m familiar with the blight of brawling amongst soldiers, though that is properly a military matter. But this kind of thing is quite unknown in Purley. Purley is not like that.’
‘Well, properly speaking,’ said Dawkins, ‘Purley was incidental to the attack.’
‘What are you talking about?’
Dawkins looked at Cotton. ‘We were attacked by two men, originally from Glasgow and originally part of the gang called the Billy Boys,’ said Cotton. ‘It would appear that they have been employed, certainly in the recent past, by one, possibly two of our own Intelligence agencies.’
Had he been in less pain, Cotton would have felt like kicking himself. He had forgotten the Chief Constable treated bad news as an impertinence.
‘It’s a very delicate matter,’ he said quickly. ‘We’d be grateful for your advice.’
‘What do you mean?’ said Kitson.
‘At one level it’s simply that there was an element of shock in the attack. I don’t have to tell you, sir, that shock does not give good advice.’
Cotton saw Dawkins glance at him. The glance did not show much approval of his playing the ‘I was recently a soldier’ card.
‘More importantly,’ said Cotton, ‘though the injuries are clear enough, we don’t know why we were attacked.’ He paused. ‘We have to assume that there was a catastrophic breakdown of communications. After all, it is hard to think that an agency would deliberately use two Billy Boys to carry out a razor attack on two officers from other agencies.’
Kitson looked at them. ‘I’m not quite clear,’ he said. ‘What is it you want from me?’
‘At this stage, sir, two things. First, that the men in your cells are not yet formally charged. The second thing, if you are agreeable, is a letter of protest. An attack like this in a public place, apparently involving a fight between Intelligence agencies, is intolerable.’
‘You’re expecting some kind of comeback or explanation for the confusion?’
‘Yes, sir. But it is quite late at night and—’
‘You want to give them time?’
Cotton nodded. ‘I think that would be wisest all round, sir.’
‘Yes. I see what you mean.’ Kitson paused. ‘You know, it is intolerable. Quite, I’ll fire off a letter, then.’
‘Thank you very much, Chief Constable.’
‘Good. How about some tea, chaps? I’ll do this letter.’
Dawkins and Cotton sat downstairs and drank a mug of tea.
‘Why did you do that, ask for a letter of protest?’
Cotton blew out. ‘We don’t know what form the comeback or explanation the Chief Constable mentioned might take.’
‘They know where we live,’ said Dawkins quietly. ‘Have you got a family?’
‘No. But you’ve got—’
‘A wife and two little girls. Yes.’ Dawkins paused. He made a face. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘Radcliffe is what he is, you know, talks about his “people” and things like that.’
‘What people?’
‘His family. Where he comes from, that sort of thing.’
‘Are you really saying he’s got more friends in Glasgow?’
‘Shit,’ said Dawkins. He shook his head. ‘He’s the kind of man who attacks to defend himself. I mean, he’s loud. But this! This is . . .’ Dawkins did not go on.
Cotton nodded. Dawkins evidently felt betrayed. ‘I know it’s hard but could you have another push to find someone who’s had dealings with Boyle and Sinclair? Our kind of dealings.’
Dawkins nodded. It did not mean he agreed. ‘I’m knackered,’ he said.
They were taken home in a police car. First Dawkins to a terraced house in Vauxhall, then across the river to Cotton’s flat in Wilbraham Place.
Cotton let himself in. It was a quarter past one in the morning. Between the throbbing of his hand and what felt like a toothed clamp on his thigh, the rest of him felt quite badly lacking. He had heard of the cilice, used by penitents to mortify the flesh and atone for Christ’s suffering. This felt as if he was wearing not one but about three barbed metal belts, and not just for a couple of hours. He went to the kitchen and with his good hand got out two codeine tablets and swallowed them.
‘Where the hell have you been?’
Cotton closed his eyes for a moment, then shuffled himself round. He was too weary and sore to do much else except shake his head.
Anna Melville put on her glasses. ‘God, you
’ve been in a car accident.’ She moved towards him.
Cotton surprised himself with his own vehemence. ‘No!’ He tried to soften it. ‘Not really.’
She had pulled up. She stared at him. ‘What happened?’
Cotton sighed. ‘Nothing terribly grand,’ he said.
‘Have you broken your arm?’
‘Just a couple of fingers.’
‘Anything else?’
Cotton nodded.
‘You look like shit,’ she said. It sounded like an accusation.
‘Yes, I imagine I do. Anything else?’
She frowned and looked hurt. ‘You don’t want me here, do you?’
Cotton was weary enough to think he might as well be honest. He accepted this was not a kind decision. ‘No,’ he said.
‘You’re a bastard.’
‘I’m battered,’ he said.
She frowned. ‘You’re not going to do it, are you?’
Cotton breathed in. ‘Do what?’
‘Back me.’
Cotton squinted at her. Anna Melville was talking about her blacklight play. He paused, felt the various thumps and throbs in his body. ‘I don’t have that kind of money,’ he said.
She said nothing.
‘I can’t help,’ he said.
She shook her head. ‘You wouldn’t have helped anyway.’
Cotton thought this was probably true or, at least from her point of view, accurate enough. He nodded.
‘You need someone with real money, spare money,’ he said.
She looked at him and shook her head again. He was clear her head-shake was at him.
‘How serious are you?’ he said. ‘Five hundred pounds is half my salary before tax. And considerably less after it. You can buy a small house for that kind of money!’
‘At least I thought you might know people, introduce me to them.’
‘All right,’ said Cotton. ‘What kind of person are you looking for?’
She had decided to be wistful. ‘I’ve liked it here,’ she said.
‘I’m serious,’ said Cotton. ‘I don’t even know what kind of person invests in plays. Theatre enthusiasts? People who want to be around actors? Family and friends helping out? And aren’t there people called angels? Get a few of them together. You need twenty-five people with twenty pounds. Isn’t that right? And I think there are also businesses that are anxious not to make money. They get a little kudos and some tax relief. Have you thought of that?’