“Me give evidence?”
“Yes.”
“But I thought you said that this Act, or whatever it was, laid down that I shouldn’t give evidence.”
“You are not compelled to give evidence. But if what you are able to tell the court helps us to establish diplomatic immunity, then there is nothing to prevent you doing so, if you wish.”
Mullen grunted again. A shark trapped in shallow water being tormented by shrimps, thought Roger.
The appearance, during the course of that week, of a small notice indicating that the Westminster Novelties Company had opened an office on the third floor of No. 15 Axe Lane excited little comment among the eleven other firms occupying that building. Some of them had been there for many years, some were birds of passage.
The junior employees of Ferryman & Lazenby, Average Adjusters, had noted the arrival of the two men who seemed to constitute the entire staff of Westminster Novelties. Since one of them was stout and looked amiable and the other was thin and looked depressed they had named them Laurel and Hardy and referred to them as such when they had occasion to speculate on exactly what sort of novelties they dealt in.
One curious point about the new tenants was that they seemed to receive no mail at all. Maybe as Christmas approached things would look up. But they were workers. They arrived early and departed late and the office was never left unattended. When one went out to lunch the other remained at his post. Also it seemed that they had made some arrangement with their landlords which allowed them to work on Saturdays.
“My clients,” Roland Auchstraw had told them, “regard Saturday morning as a very important period for observation. And should a young coloured girl appear, she will have to be followed.”
“One to follow, one to stay in observation,” said Harold Ratter.
Auchstraw thought about this. He had already spent a good deal of his clients’ money on securing the office so quickly. To put in a third man would add a further charge.
He said, “No. I understand that identifying this young lady is one of the main objects of the operation. If she appears, she must be followed. It will need two of you to do it. Fortunately, being a Saturday, the alternative exits will not be available to her.”
“Leave it to us,” said Ratter.
It was a job which suited him very well, since it consisted of taking turns with Chris Woodray, an old associate from ‘V’ Division days, at sitting in a comfortable chair observing the visitors to No. 10 as they came and went.
They were soon able to identify the staff, the secretaries and typists who arrived first and the more important male members who followed them. Also the regular callers, the postman, the milk delivery-man and a hopeful character who had visited all the offices in the Lane endeavouring, with little success, to sell them typing and carbon paper and other office requisites.
A careful note was kept of all these and a report went at the end of the day to Captain Hartshorn. He did not seem depressed by the negative nature of this information. He was interested mainly in one man, whom the watchers had identified, from a photograph, as Karl Mullen.
“He’s in and out half a dozen times a day,” said Ratter. “And since the first time we saw him he’s coming out, it’s a fair guess he’s staying there.”
Hartshorn agreed that this was probable. His daughter confirmed it. She said, “He’s always here in the mornings when we arrive. I guess he’s tucked away in a flat somewhere up at the top. Probably an old commissionaire’s pad.”
On Saturday morning, as eleven o’clock was striking from the City churches, Ratter said, “There she is, Chris. A neat little black packet as per specification. Going in now.”
No time was wasted. They switched off the electric fire and the lights and went out, locking the office door behind them. Being the only Saturday workers they had been entrusted with a key of the street door and they locked this too, before setting off, one up the Lane to Gresham Street, the other down it into Cheapside.
When they had turned the corner and were out of sight, all they had to do was to wait. The girl was bound to emerge at one end or the other. The second watcher, noting which way she turned, had then to circle round by St. Martin’s-le-Grand as quickly as possible and join his colleague. This manoeuvre was carried out without difficulty, helped by the fact that the girl had stopped to do some window-shopping in Cheapside, before making for St. Paul’s underground station. There she boarded a Central Line train for Tottenham Court Road, switched to the Northern Line and emerged finally at Tufnell Park.
Both of the men were experts at their job and it did not appear to them that the girl was aware that she was being followed. However, now that they seemed to be nearing the end of the chase precautions had to be taken.
They left the station ahead of the girl. One turned to the left, the other to the right, both swinging off as though they had some urgent job in hand. The girl turned right. As soon as he saw this, Woodray turned round, crossed the road and advanced along the opposite pavement. The two men now had her as firmly held as a plane in the beams of twin searchlights.
It was not a long chase. A few minutes later the girl was running up the steps of one of the terrace houses, halfway along a road of mixed houses and shops. They noted that she had no key and had to ring the bell. The door was opened by a middle-aged man with a white beard, wearing gold-rimmed glasses. He seemed glad to see her.
“Also Basuto,” said Woodray. “Her father, do you think? Uncle, maybe.”
Ratter offered no opinion about this. He was busy examining the shops on the far side of the road.
“We’ll try this one,” he said, selecting a small shop bearing the sign Sundridge Tobacconist and Newsagent. On such occasions he had found that it paid to come quickly to the point. He produced his professional card and showed it to the man behind the counter, who said, in tones of surprise and alarm, “Detectives! Wassit all about? Criminal stuff, eh.”
“Not criminal this time,” said Ratter, in a voice which suggested that he spent his working day pursuing armed robbers. “Civil work this time. Divorce. That girl we saw go in the house opposite – three doors up, the one with the green blinds – she’s a witness in the case. Our client thinks she’s a bad character. You know what I mean.”
“All the same these black girls,” said the newsagent. “No more morals than a monkey.”
“What we’ve got to do is watch the house. See if any gentlemen-friends come to call. If by any chance you were able to give us the use of an upstairs window—” he drew out a fat wallet—”our client would expect us to recompense you – appropriately.” The five syllables of this last word, drawn out impressively, were accompanied by the deposit of five five-pound notes on the counter. Any scruples which the tobacconist may have entertained were melted by the sight.
“I’ve an upstairs room I don’t use myself. Would you be wanting it for long?”
“That depends on what you can tell us about the young lady.”
“I don’t know a lot about her, not really.”
“About her habits.”
“Oh, her habits. Yes. Well, most Saturdays she arrives about this time and stays home – I call it her home, because I think the old pair are her father and mother – anyway, she stays put until after lunch on Sunday, then she pushes off. Seems like she must have a job somewhere and gets weekends off.”
“Sound thinking,” said Ratter. “Then one other thing. If so be you’ve got a telephone, I could keep my client informed. Another fiver should cover any calls I make. I shan’t be ringing up Timbuctoo, I promise you.”
Mr. Sundridge agreed that an additional five pounds would be satisfactory.
“Excellent,” said Captain Hartshorn when they telephoned him. “I don’t think you need stop the night there. Turn up in good time on Sunday. And bring a camera with you – one of those ones with a telescopic attachment. I expect you can raise one. Yes. Splendid. Then see if you can get a shot of the girl and the old man. If he’s
a recent import we can probably identify him.”
Ratter and Woodray were back on duty soon after breakfast. They had brought supplies of food and drink with them and were glad of them as the hours passed. It was nearly five o’clock before the house they were watching showed any sign of life.
When the front door opened they got two excellent snaps of the man and the girl as they stood together on the steps chatting. The camera was packed up and they were out in the street before the girl had reached the end of the road.
Once again the first part of the chase was by underground and presented no problems. Back down the Northern Line to the Embankment station, then a switch to the District Line. When the girl disregarded trains for both Richmond and Ealing it was clear that what she wanted was a Wimbledon train.
“Looks like a home run,” said Ratter with satisfaction.
Being old ‘V’ Division men the area of London south of the river, between Putney Bridge and Surbiton, was familiar territory.
“Depends which way she goes,” said Woodray. “That bit by the Heath’s too bloody open.” Ratter agreed with him. He, too, had worn out more than one pair of regulation boots on the long hard pavements of Wimbledon, Kingston and Malden.
The girl got out of the train at East Putney station and set off via Charlton Drive and up Putney Hill. She was walking more briskly now.
“Horse smelling the stable,” said Woodray. He swung along easily on his long legs. Ratter was not so happy. He was carrying too much weight. In this stretch it was not difficult for the pursuers to remain unobserved. The pavements were reasonably crowded with Sunday strollers. It was six o’clock, but still quite light. The girl turned right at the top of the hill and took the road which skirted the north side of the Heath.
This did present problems. On the right-hand side, what had once been half a dozen large houses, was now the Ashburton Council Estate. On the left lay the Heath, but part of this section had recently been fenced off by hurdles to form a pasture for sheep. The hurdles presented no difficulty, but the sheep, if they got among them, would certainly stampede and draw attention to them.
“Bloody animals,” said Ratter. It was a long straight stretch of road and, as it happened, almost empty of pedestrians. He could have wished it was an hour later, but the autumn sun hung with perverse brightness in the western sky. “You better keep up behind her, Chris. See which way she turns at the end. I’ll fall back a bit.”
The girl had now reached the corner where Putney Park Lane ran down to the Heath. There was a well-populated section ahead and Ratter was beginning to breathe more easily when the girl stopped and swung round, apparently to look at the sheep. Woodray, who was twenty yards behind her, had no option. He had to keep going. If he, too, had stopped he must have been noticed. As he passed the girl she gave him what started as a casual glance, but suddenly became more fixed.
Woodray knew what was coming. It had happened before. He had found that if you followed a person for some time, even though they took no apparent notice of you they were unconsciously registering a picture. Something glimpsed in a shop window, on a station platform, on a crowded pavement. Then, if you were brought face to face, the picture would come into focus. I’ve seen that man before! More than once!
Alarm bells ringing!
Since Ratter, also, was unable to stop he had done the next best thing by crossing to the other pavement. But his was not the sort of figure that was easily forgotten, even across the width of the road and in the gathering dusk. After a single scared glance the girl took to her heels.
At this moment three young men joined the party. It was difficult to say where they had come from. Two of them seemed to emerge from the cul-de-sac ahead. One might have been on the Heath itself.
Their leader and spokesman, a large fair-haired youth wearing corduroy trousers and a roll-neck sweater, said to Woodray, “Am I wrong, chum, or were you annoying that girl?”
The other two young men had closed up. Ratter also. Three to two looked like bad odds, but appearances were deceptive. It was three amateurs against two professionals.
Ratter walked straight up to the large young man and, without giving any indication of what he was planning to do, swung the heavy, hardwood, walking-stick which he was carrying. It was a scything blow which caught the young man behind his right knee and sent him rolling onto the ground.
Woodray’s action was even more decisive. He had caught a flash of blue further up the road. He pulled out a police whistle and blew a shrill blast on it. Its effect was immediate. The patrolling policeman swung round, the sheep on the common raised their heads in alarm and windows were jerked open. The other two young men, evidently deciding that discretion was the better part of valour, vaulted the hurdle and made off across the Heath scattering the already alarmed flock. The large young man had tried to get up and when he found that his right leg no longer worked had fallen back groaning.
“What’s all this about?” said the policeman. “Well, well. If it isn’t old Ratty. I thought you’d died long ago.”
“Might have died this evening if you hadn’t turned up. Attempted mugging. Three of them. Maybe more. Had to defend ourselves.”
“Who’s your friend? Chris Woodray, isn’t it? You’re a nice pair to get into trouble, I must say.”
The man on the ground called attention to himself by trying to sit up and groaning.
“Looks like we shall need some transport,” said the policeman. Front doors were opening and a small crowd was collecting. “Soon as possible.” He was about to use his bat-phone when Ratter stopped him. He said, “We don’t want a squad car. We want a taxi.”
“You’re not pressing charges then?”
“Charges,” said the young man indignantly. He had managed to hoist himself onto one leg by clinging to the lamppost. “He hit me, not me him.”
“Are you making a charge?”
The young man was about to say, ‘Yes, I bloody am’, when discretion prevailed. He said, “No. Leave it alone.”
“In that case,” said the policeman patiently, “one of you kind people might ring for a taxi and then I suggest you go home. All of you.”
“For God’s sake,” said Captain Hartshorn. “What is this? Civil war? We’re not going to get very far if we start fighting each other.”
“I’ve had a word with young Jepson,” said Sesolo. “He’s a good boy, but apt to jump to conclusions. And this time, I’m not sure you can blame him. His orders were to watch the Katanga household and see no one tried to interfere with them. Right?”
“And just because this girl was black, I suppose they assumed she had something to do with Katanga.”
“Assuming didn’t come into it. They’d been watching the house, on and off, for a week. They knew all about Anna. She’s the household help.”
“They’re sure about that?”
“Certain sure. She’s a trim little piece. Very easy on the eye. Like all young men they’ve got minds like sewers and they naturally thought she might be something more than just a help about the house—”
“Never mind about that,” said Hartshorn. “What’s important is what she does on Saturdays and Sundays.”
“Seems likely she has her weekends off. Quite a normal arrangement.”
“Indeed,” said Hartshorn softly. “But what isn’t so normal is how she spends her Saturday mornings before she gets back to her father’s house in Tufnell Park.” He was handling the report, in Ratter’s laborious handwriting, that lay, with two photographs clipped to it, on his desk.
“You tell me,” said Sesolo. “What does she do?”
“It seems she has a date – a regular Saturday morning date – with Fischer Yule’s security outfit.”
Sesolo absorbed this information slowly. His mind did not work at the same speed as Andrew Mkeba’s. Andrew had been sitting quietly in the corner. Now he said, “It’s odder than you think, Boyo. We’ve identified the old man. He seems to be the girl’s father. He’s Professor L
eon Macheli, from Maseru in Lesotho. He came over here after the December massacre. As a matter of fact, we’re already helping him. So you would hardly expect him – or his daughter – to have any sympathy for the South African establishment. Yet she trots off on Saturday mornings for a heart-to-heart chat with Yule. Which means that this interesting little piece has got a foot in both camps. So clearly she’s got to be watched. But we don’t want her watched by two different lots of our people, who start fighting as soon as they meet.”
“I was thinking the same thing,” said Hartshorn. It was like being back in his old job as Regimental Sergeant-Major. The most difficult job in the army, at the mid-point in the organisation, holding the balance between officers and other ranks. In the present case, he knew the value of Sesolo’s private army and did not want it discouraged.
He said, “I think, on the whole, we’ll sign off City Detectives. For the time being, at least. Give young—what’s his name—”
“Ronnie Jepson.”
“—give him a pat on the back from me and tell him that the information he’s given us about Anna was worth a knock or two. I gather he’s out and about again.”
“He’s back on his legs, yes.”
“Excellent. I’ve a feeling that the time is coming when he and his friends may be very useful indeed.”
9
“Number 27 on your register, sir,” said the Police Sergeant. “Karl Mullen.”
Mullen had spent the last hour sitting at the end of a bench in the Court anteroom, the other occupants of which appeared to be prostitutes, pimps and drunkards. He had been outraged by this treatment and saw no reason to hide the fact.
Nor was Mr. Lauderdale feeling at his best. He had come to Court early to prepare for the difficulties which he anticipated, and this had meant curtailing the quiet half-hour after breakfast which his doctor had prescribed. He looked with distaste at the crowded press benches and the overflow of the public at the back of the Court. Everyone had waited patiently while he dealt with his regular customers. Now, at last, they could see, in the flesh, the South African whose fingers had been so surprisingly trapped in the machinery of justice.
The Queen v. Karl Mullen Page 8