Icelight

by Aly Monroe

  ‘I’m not in with that set,’ she said.

  Cotton had not heard the word ‘set’ for some time. It was a word he associated with his mother’s generation and even she had used it with irony. ‘I could put you in touch with someone. No guarantees but you could try.’

  She squinted at him. ‘You’re playing straight with me?’

  ‘Yes! It’s a man called George Dyce. He has one of those surnames that is really part of a title. He lives in Cadogan Square. I’m not sure what he does any more amongst his family’s interests, or what he is allowed to do, but he does know people.’

  Anna Melville considered. ‘How could I meet him?’

  ‘I’ll write you a letter of introduction. How about that?’

  ‘You’d do this?’

  ‘Yes, I’ve just said so. I have his card somewhere.’

  ‘I’ll find it.’

  ‘All right. But don’t use it until I have contacted him. Fair? I’ll write to him tomorrow. I promise. What do you think?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘You’ve hurt me.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I’m tired.’

  ‘I’m sorry too. About your injuries.’

  ‘Thanks. I really need to get some sleep.’

  ‘All right.’

  Cotton took penicillin and went to bed alone.

  A while after he heard the front door bang. He closed his eyes. Was the door slamming a grand gesture on a freezing night? Or was she going downstairs to see Margot? Cotton did not have the energy to shrug. He fell asleep.

  36

  COTTON WOKE around six in the morning. He felt very stiff and very sore. He struggled up and sat on the edge of his bed. He could see his breath in the air but he felt over-warm. The pain in his leg made him feel sick. He closed his eyes and breathed in. He went to the window and looked out. It was snowing heavily. He went back and sat on his bed.

  Wondering how he could get a sock on his right foot, he could not remember how he had managed to get it off when he went to bed. The telephone rang.

  He hobbled along the hall and picked it up. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Colonel Cotton, this is Olivia Marx here.’

  ‘Good morning, Miss Marx.’

  ‘Mr Perlman would like to see you at your earliest convenience.’

  ‘Does he know I have some injuries?’

  There was a pause.

  ‘He does.’

  ‘Then he’ll understand that I find movement quite difficult.’

  ‘I don’t understand, sir.’

  ‘I’m happy to see Mr Perlman but it will have to be here, at my home.’

  There was a very brief pause. ‘Mr Perlman is most extraordinarily busy,’ said Miss Marx.

  ‘And I am most extraordinarily limited as to movement. It’s entirely up to him.’

  ‘I really don’t think he’ll be very happy, Colonel.’

  ‘I’m not in the slightest bit happy myself, Miss Marx. But I’m not going to get happier opening up stitches to save Mr Perlman a small trip.’

  ‘Very well, sir. I’ll pass that on. Will you be at home in the next couple of hours?’

  ‘I’m not thinking of moving from home at all, Miss Marx.’

  Cotton put down the telephone, then picked it up and rang Dickie Dawkins. Dawkins answered the telephone at once. He sounded hoarse.

  ‘Have you managed to sleep?’ asked Cotton.

  ‘No,’ said Dawkins. ‘It’s not the pain exactly, it’s the worry. How’s your leg?’

  ‘Stiff enough to insist Alfred Perlman comes to my home address.’

  There was a pause. Then a groan that turned into a hiss that included the word ‘shit’.

  ‘Do you think you can get here before Mr Perlman arrives? I can try to get a car to you, if you want.’

  ‘No,’ said Dawkins. ‘I don’t want that. I’ll get there.’

  ‘All right. Come on,’ said Cotton, ‘this is not so bad. Perlman is a lot better than Boyle and Sinclair’s friends.’

  ‘It’ll be horse-trading,’ said Dawkins.

  ‘Yes,’ said Cotton. ‘But we have something to trade.’

  Dawkins’s sigh did not sound very confident.

  Cotton went through to the kitchen. He found a note on the table from Anna Melville weighed down by a set of keys.

  ‘No hard feelings on my side – but no kind ones either.’ She had written down what she called a contact telephone number – ‘if you are really serious’.

  Cotton made himself some porridge, mostly for the warmth. His jaw ached from having clamped his teeth so much during the night. He mashed a couple of codeine pills in with the oats. Then he wrote George Dyce a note:

  Dear George,

  Having been involved in a slight mishap on ice (couple of broken fingers, stitches in my right leg) I find myself, rather literally, in a bind. Could you help me out?

  A talented young woman called Anna Melville is trying to put on a blacklight play and I had agreed to help with some contacts and pointers. She’s originally from Czechoslovakia where blacklight theatre is well established. She has some intriguing developments in the form and presently works at places like the Arts Theatre.

  Could I give her your number and address? You’ll find her pleasant and good fun.

  Yours,

  Peter

  The telephone rang again.

  ‘Colonel,’ said Miss Kelly. ‘Two telegrams.’

  ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘The Hon. Penelope Ayrtoun died at 10 a.m. – that’s Washington time – yesterday.’

  Cotton had no response. He did not even grunt.

  ‘Sir? Are you there?’

  ‘Yes. What’s the other telegram?’

  ‘It says Mr Ayrtoun has been granted indefinite leave with immediate effect.’

  ‘All right, Miss Kelly. Thank you. I won’t be coming in today. I’ll be at this number.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Cotton got out an envelope and addressed it to George Dyce. He put the note inside and a stamp on the envelope. As he did these things, slowly and deliberately, he kept calm. He had just lost his boss and Operation Sea-Snake. He went down to the porter’s desk with the letter.

  ‘A bit of an accident, sir?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Is the letter urgent, sir?’

  Cotton thought and nodded.

  ‘I can have it delivered quickly, sir.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  As Cotton turned to take the lift upstairs again Margot Fenwick came out.

  Cotton smiled. ‘Good morning,’ he said.

  Miss Fenwick looked alarmed then flustered.

  ‘Mummy’s not well,’ she said.

  ‘I’m sorry to hear it,’ said Cotton. ‘I hope it’s nothing serious.’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ said Miss Fenwick.

  ‘Are you going to visit her?’ asked Cotton.

  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘Good,’ said Cotton. He nodded, smiled again and got into the lift.

  A few minutes later Dickie Dawkins arrived. He looked startled. He remained looking startled.

  ‘Are you all right?’ said Cotton.

  Dawkins winced and blew out.

  The telephone rang.

  ‘Ten minutes,’ said Alfred Perlman’s other secretary.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Cotton. ‘That’s Marion, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Cotton put down the phone.

  ‘Perlman and his other secretary will be here in about ten minutes. My news is bad. Ayrtoun’s wife died yesterday. He’s been given indefinite leave with immediate effect.’

  ‘Oh God!’ said Dawkins. ‘Does that mean you’re high and dry?’

  Cotton shook his head. ‘Right now we have to manage Perlman.’

  ‘What did she die of?’

  ‘She was an alcoholic. I’m guessing something related. He said she’d had a bad attack of jaundice last year.’

  ‘Right.’ Dawkins looked to be i
n pain.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘I don’t know how to say this without sounding as if I’m whining,’ said Dawkins. ‘But – well. You are better provided for in life, if you know what I mean.’

  Cotton nodded. ‘I think Mr Perlman will huff and he’ll puff. He may then bluster and threaten,’ he said. He shook his head. ‘We are not going to be influenced by that.’

  ‘How do you know what he’ll do?’

  ‘I don’t,’ admitted Cotton. ‘But you’ll be able to check whether or not I’m right. If I’m wrong, we’ll pause and talk in private. All right?’

  Alfred Perlman arrived with Miss Olivia Marx. She was carrying a rug, a briefcase and a small picnic basket. He was wearing a black homburg and an extraordinarily large black coat that hung like cape. He took neither cape nor hat off. He dispensed with greetings.

  ‘We need a table,’ he said. He still had that awful head cold.

  ‘Then we’re in the kitchen,’ said Cotton. ‘Mr Perlman, Miss Marx, this is Mr Dawkins, of Special Branch.’

  If Alfred Perlman acknowledged the introduction it was very briefly. He walked to the far end of the table and plumped himself down, his back to the window, hard enough for his jowls to shake. Miss Marx put the briefcase in front of him and the small picnic basket to one side.

  ‘Put the kettle on,’ he told her.

  ‘By all means, Miss Marx,’ said Cotton.

  ‘Mr Perlman has not had time for breakfast,’ she said.

  ‘Quite,’ said Cotton. He turned to Dickie Dawkins. ‘Did you hear the weather forecast for today?’

  Dawkins looked doubtful. ‘More snow,’ he said. ‘I think they said something about a blizzard coming.’

  Cotton smiled. ‘Oh dear. We’ll just have to manage, then.’

  Even if Miles Crichton’s ortolan anecdote was not true, the preparations for Mr Perlman’s breakfast indicated how it might have come about. When Miss Marx had put the kettle on she opened the hamper and began taking things out. These included a silver knife and salt shaker and what Cotton thought of as a Russian tea glass or podstakannik, the holder also in silver. There was a white, monogrammed plate and a monogrammed linen napkin. Alfred Perlman’s breakfast consisted of three hard-boiled eggs, what looked to Cotton like madeleines or magdalenas but, he guessed, were not as sweet, and a jar of black roe, possibly caviar. ‘When available’, the egg allowance in Britain was one per ration book. Put another way, there was no fixed egg ration in the United Kingdom. Cotton took it that for a lawyer like Perlman this meant private or other egg arrangements were entirely legitimate.

  Perlman had also brought along a silver thermos flask that looked like a sizeable cocktail shaker. Miss Marx unscrewed the top and sniffed the contents. She nodded.

  Cotton saw that Dawkins, sitting to his left, was most taken by Alfred Perlman loosening his coat and fitting the napkin between his neck and his shirt collar. While Perlman was doing this, Miss Marx was shelling the hard-boiled eggs. Alfred Perlman picked up the first egg and shook a little salt on it.

  ‘My firm,’ he said, ‘has been asked to represent Messrs Francis Sinclair and John Boyle.’ He bit into the egg.

  ‘Have you accepted?’ said Cotton. ‘Or are you still considering your response?’

  Perlman ignored this. He indicated Miss Marx should put hot water into the thermos flask. She turned off the kettle and added a little hot water, no more than a couple of egg-cups’ worth.

  ‘My clients,’ he said as he swallowed, ‘have not been formally charged yet. Do you know what the charges might be?’

  Perlman put the rest of the egg into his mouth. Cotton looked round at Dawkins, only to find he had seized up. ‘I’m no lawyer or policeman,’ said Cotton. ‘But I’d imagine there would certainly be assault, perhaps grievous bodily harm—’ He turned again to Dickie Dawkins.

  ‘I can do you anything from attempted murder down,’ said Dawkins. ‘I can do you years and years of jail time – and then I can add some more. I can go down to loitering with intent and disturbance of the peace and I can go up to possession of a—’

  Perlman held up his hand.

  ‘My clients have to be charged or let go within twenty-four hours.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Cotton. ‘We still have plenty of time.’

  Perlman paused and indicated Miss Marx pour him some chamomile tea from the thermos flask.

  ‘I’ve helped you,’ he said.

  ‘And I you,’ said Cotton.

  Perlman looked surprised. ‘You equate them.’

  ‘Yes!’ said Cotton.

  Cotton had meant to be polite but firm. It was only when he felt Dawkins’s sudden start beside him and saw Miss Marx was in the act of knocking the glass cup off the table that he understood he had gone a long way past firm. The empty podstakannik tilted and fell towards the floor. Instantly Cotton shot out his hand and caught it. To do this he had to lurch forward and stamp his right foot. The pain that came up through his thigh made him grunt and bring his splinted left hand down on to the table: he just managed to hit the edge of the table with his wrist. With his right hand he put the Russian tea glass back on the table and looked up.

  Alfred Perlman had flinched and was now, at the very least, wary of physical harm. Miss Marx was staring at him. Cotton smiled, partly to reassure them but then out of shock at understanding they considered him potentially violent. He had access to violence, could lay his hands on the stuff. He shook his head. He knew that shock and anger increased adrenalin. He breathed in very carefully. To help him in this Miss Marx trembled as she poured the chamomile tea into the glass he had saved.

  Perlman cut his second egg in half, salted the first half and popped it into his mouth. He picked up a madeleine.

  ‘So what is it you want?’ he asked.

  ‘In exchange for what?’

  ‘My clients uncharged and let go.’

  Cotton answered in a drawl. ‘You simply cannot be serious, Mr Perlman. They committed a crime.’ To emphasize this he held up his left hand but did remember his own part in breaking the splinted fingers. ‘I don’t employ people who use cut-throat razors.’

  Mr Perlman sighed. ‘You’re being difficult,’ he said. He made arrangements to the inside of his cheeks. ‘Miss Marx, perhaps you’d be better in another room.’

  Olivia Marx blinked at Cotton. He got up and pushed open the double doors.

  Dawkins got up too. ‘I’ll join her,’ he said.

  Cotton was taken aback. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Cotton had not expected Dawkins to quit so soon. He decided to take it as a vote of confidence and leave any other considerations out of it.

  He closed the glazed double doors after them. They had never been particularly well hung and Cotton thought it was entirely likely Miss Marx and Dawkins would be able to hear everything that was said.

  For the third egg Alfred Perlman had put a smear of black roe on the top.

  ‘Colonel, you really should think of me as a go-between,’ said Alfred Perlman.

  Cotton watched him bite.

  ‘But you’re not just a messenger, surely?’ he said. ‘You have a degree of autonomy, certainly; power of attorney, perhaps.’

  ‘I advise my clients. Whether or not they take my advice, well—’

  ‘Yes, of course. That must be tricky. The case against them is pretty strong.’

  ‘I should tell you,’ said Perlman, ‘that I was not contacted by Messrs Boyle and Sinclair.’

  ‘Of course not. I suppose that’s also a problem.’

  ‘Colonel, I don’t have to tell you about lawyer–client confidentiality.’

  ‘What are Starmer-Smith and Radcliffe offering?’

  ‘You are making unnecessary assumptions.’

  ‘Of course. If I don’t, we’re not going to make any progress at all. I’m perfectly happy to see Boyle and Sinclair charged and sentenced.’

  ‘This conversation is off the record.’

 
‘I’d prefer it to be pre-record, Mr Perlman.’

  ‘I don’t quite know what you mean,’ said Alfred Perlman. ‘Some things are better left undefined. At least at the beginning. Definition and resolution are the final stages. Your willingness to meet would suggest you agree with me on this approach.’ Alfred Perlman spread more black roe on egg. ‘I take it you share the view that public knowledge of this terrible attack would be damaging for the Intelligence Services and distressing to the public.’

  ‘I see,’ said Cotton. He nodded. ‘Let me tell you my thinking, then, Mr Perlman. However I look at it, the attack was extraordinarily stupid. A couple of razor boys went for a pair of intelligence officers. What did they have in mind? Were they trying to frighten us off? Or were they just after revenge because my chief had drawn attention to the fact that a part of MI5 and possibly Special Branch were making use of criminals?’

  ‘Criminals are for the courts to sentence,’ said Alfred Perlman, ‘and there has been no trial. As for your chief—’

  ‘Exactly. I heard of Mr Ayrtoun’s fate earlier this morning. I imagine others may have heard what was going to happen yesterday.’ Cotton shrugged. ‘But I’m still left with two considerations. If your clients’ employers did know and set them on us, they’d be unfit for their jobs and better out of them. If they did not know, it means they had lost control of them and are also better out of their jobs.’

  ‘In your shoes, Colonel, I’d certainly consider my own future career.’

  ‘But I have. That was the first thing I did. Although I went through the usual unarmed combat course in the army, I didn’t think I’d need it in the Intelligence Service or that I’d get in the way of a department that employs razor-gang boys from Glasgow. But I do know that now. And that’s where the lesson of unarmed combat comes in.’

  Cotton paused. ‘I don’t mean beating a man’s face against ice and flagstone as I did yesterday. In unarmed combat you are taught, if need be, to take an attacker’s knife through your hand. The theory is that it parries, surprises, ties up the attacker’s thrust and leaves you with your other hand to strike back. Now I’m not much of a negotiator but I decided to proceed from a position that my career was already over. My left hand, as it were.’