Confirm or Deny (Gaffney and Tipper Mysteries Book 2)

by Graham Ison

  *

  The constable on duty at the counter carefully examined Gaffney’s warrant card and then Claire Wentworth’s before conducting them to Joe Partridge’s office.

  “Bit keen on security, your bloke on the counter, Joe,” said Gaffney, smiling.

  “Oh, him – he’s a worry-guts,” said Partridge. He glanced appraisingly at Gaffney’s companion. “I don’t think we’ve met.”

  “DS Claire Wentworth, sir,” she said.

  “Right, sit down. I’ll just get some coffee organized and then I’ll be right with you, sir.” Partridge went into the next office, returning minutes later with three mugs of coffee on a tin tray. “Right then.” He drew a file across his desk. “This house – Tanglewood – used to be Watton Farm, but some years back it was bought, and the farmland sold off. That’s farmed by Jed Morgan now. I had a chat with him. There’s quite a lot of land left round the house – about an acre, I suppose. He told me the house was refurbished, but he’s never seen anyone there.”

  “Who did the work – the refurbishment?”

  “It wasn’t locals, sir – least not local to Bere Watton. Could have been a firm from here in Tavistock, I suppose, but I can’t find that out very easily without people wanting to know why. They’re very nosey round here, sir – useful sometimes, but not always,” he added with a chuckle.

  “D’you think the house is closed up, then?”

  “It might be, I suppose. We’ve got a few houses like that around here. Rich folk from London own them and use them for holidays and the like – seems a waste to me, but no one’s ever seen anyone there. Mind you, it is a bit remote. Anyhow, I popped out there to see what I could see—”

  “Bit risky, wasn’t it?”

  “Not at all, sir. Happens down here all the time. People knock on doors asking for directions – that sort of thing. But there was no answer. I had a skirt round like, and it’s well secure: couple of good mortise locks on the front door – solid as a rock it was – and locks on all the windows. I tell you what, sir, you wouldn’t get in there in a hurry.” Partridge leaned back in his chair. “So I took the helicopter out and had a look over it.” He smiled.

  “Helicopter?” Gaffney looked surprised.

  “Oh yes, sir, us country coppers have got a few strokes we can pull, you know. No, as a matter of fact, we do the occasional flight over the prison – routine security – so I cadged a lift over the weekend and got the pilot to take me round the house. It won’t have surprised anyone, they’re quite used to it round here – it doesn’t even frighten the sheep any more.”

  “Any luck?”

  “No. I was hoping there might be a vehicle tucked away round the back – you can do a lot with an index number.” Gaffney nodded. “But nothing,” continued Partridge. “There’s what looks like a covered swimming pool on the back of the house – either that or it’s a conservatory – and there’s trees and bushes all round the garden. Damned great garden it is, too, but you’d never see it from the outside. I suppose that’s why they call it Tanglewood.”

  “What about the electoral roll? Anything there?”

  “No, sir. No names down for it. I had a word with the bloke who works in the electoral registration office at the town hall – ex-policeman, he is – and he never got the form back. He said he took a run out there, doing a follow-up, but got no answer. He put it down as empty. Probably means they’re on a voters’ list somewhere else. London, perhaps? If that’s the case they could only be put on here for local elections, and I doubt they’re going to be too worried about that. Half the buggers who live here aren’t.”

  “What about the rating department, Joe, did you try them?”

  “Of course I did, sir.” Partridge grinned. “Rates are paid by a Mrs Rita Hamilton, and sent to Tanglewood – and they’re always paid prompt on the nail, in full. There’s a telephone at the house, too – Bere Watton 142 is the number, but it’s ex-directory. That goes out to Mrs Rita Hamilton, too. I checked with British Telecom. Again the bill’s always paid by return, but there’s not much on it, apparently – isn’t used much. Mind you, that’s no surprise. There’s a few round here, still, who’d rather walk half a mile than use the phone.”

  “So the mysterious Mrs Hamilton comes down here regularly, if only to deal with the bills. Yet no one’s ever seen her. That’s odd.”

  “P’raps she comes down during the night,” said Partridge with a laugh. “And down here night means any time after about half-past eight.”

  “That’s a pity. We’d come down in the hope of interviewing this mystery woman today.”

  “Looks like you’ve had a wasted journey, sir.”

  “No I haven’t,” said Gaffney. “You’re going to buy me that pint of cider, now.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Detective Sergeant Ian Mackinnon was put out at being excluded from what he saw as the mainstream of the enquiry. He knew that something was going on in Devon; Gaffney’s briefing had told him that much. Detective Chief Inspector Tipper knew where the action was too, which was why Mackinnon, and not Tipper, found himself on the way to Brighton to interview some old duffer who had long since retired from the Foreign Office, whatever that had to do with anything. Mackinnon knew that background enquiries were vital to any investigation; he just wished that someone else could do them.

  “Mr Marsh?”

  “You must be the fellow from the Yard – telephoned me, eh? Come in, come in. Awful day. Let me take your brolly.”

  Mackinnon followed him through to a comfortable room that was a combination of sitting room and study. It had a desk across one corner, and a whole wall lined with books in a high bookcase that rose to the ceiling. There were three or four armchairs, but the only sign of Marsh’s African days was a pair of Ibo face masks on the wall over the fireplace.

  “Rather good, aren’t they? Cost five pounds Nigerian in Lagos market; charge you a fortune in London for those. Do sit down.” Without asking, he crossed to a cabinet and poured two liberal measures of whisky into chunky crystal tumblers. One he put on the small table next to Mackinnon, together with a jug of water.

  “Thank you.” It was only half-past eleven, but Mackinnon had read about old Africa hands.

  “Excuse the muddle,” said Marsh, “But my wife died a couple of years ago, and I can’t be bothered with housework. Get a woman in once a week. Complains like mad, but clears it all up for me. Apart from anything else I’m trying to write my memoirs.” He waved a hand towards the desk which was covered with piles of paper. “Not that anyone’ll be interested now: Mau Mau, Rhodesia, Biafran war – all that stuff. Old hat, now. Never mind, keeps me occupied. Oh, did you want soda – I think I’ve got some somewhere.” He turned back towards his drinks cabinet.

  “No – no, this is fine,” said Mackinnon.

  “Always used to drink soda out there,” said Marsh. “Never trust the water in those parts, take a tip from me. Yes,” he continued, lowering himself with some difficulty into a chair, and then interrupting himself: “It’s the arthritis, you know. This damned climate’s no good for arthritis. Still I am seventy – not bad, I suppose. Yes – as I was saying, nobody’s interested in yesterday. Too much going on. Chaps on the moon – that sort of thing. I was out there when the war was on – the Biafran war, I mean. Knew Jack Gowon quite well – good chap. Got chased out eventually, of course – they all do. And Colonel Ojukwu, the Biafran fellow – Chuk, we used to call him, never could pronounce his first name. He went too – well he went first, when he lost. Ran off to the Ivory Coast; never did know what happened to him after that. Lovely place, Nigeria, you know.”

  Mackinnon took a sip of his whisky and gazed through the French doors into the garden; it was still raining. “Do you live here alone, Mr Marsh?”

  “Yes.” He chuckled. “Shows, does it? Don’t often get anyone to talk to. Say hallo to the postman when I see him, but it’s no good trying to have a conversation with my cleaning woman; all she wants to talk about are
those damned soap things on television. Half the time I think she’s talking about her own family. Come to think of it, I think she does too.”

  “I understand you knew George and Helen Simpson in Nigeria?” said Mackinnon. He had explained to Dudley Marsh on the telephone how he had come to have his name. Marsh had been delighted to think that someone was coming to talk to him about Africa.

  “Yes, indeed. Good old stick, George Simpson. Lovely girl, Helen. Damned shame, getting killed like that. Only a few years to go for retirement, you know.” He suddenly looked sad, and glanced round the room. “Still, I don’t know that that’s all it’s cracked up to be. What did you want to know about old George, Mr – sorry, forgotten your name.”

  “Mackinnon – Ian Mackinnon.”

  “Which department are you, then?”

  “Special Branch,” said Mackinnon. There seemed no point in hiding it.

  “Thought so – Africa and all that. Met one of your chaps once. Came out to Nigeria with the Prime Minister – Harold Wilson that was – can’t remember his name either. Hopeless with names.”

  It wouldn’t have meant anything in all probability. Mackinnon thought it unnecessary to tell Marsh that he had been at school when Harold Wilson was in Nigeria trying to stop the war. It was evident that Marsh, in common with a lot of people of his age, particularly those who had once led active lives, tended to telescope and confuse events which had occurred in the past.

  “About four years younger than me, was George.” Marsh carried on. “We overlapped by about a year, perhaps a bit less – can’t remember now. He was an old Colonial Office chap, you know. I was Foreign Office through and through, but then we all got mixed up together. That was the socialists, you know. Hell of a mess. Still I suppose it’s all settled itself down now; must be twenty years since that happened. Amazing the way time flies.”

  Marsh droned on, plucking cameos out of his past, and occasionally smiling at some resuscitated memory. For about the tenth time since his arrival in Brighton, Mackinnon cursed his chief inspector for submitting him to the wanderings of this old fool. He was certain that nothing would come from the interview, had been from the start, and was wondering how quickly he could extricate himself.

  “So when did you leave Nigeria, Mr Marsh?”

  Marsh looked up at the ceiling. “Middle of seventy-one, it must have been. Went off to Reykjavik. Damned silly – one extreme to the other. Didn’t know a thing about Iceland, but that’s the Diplomatic for you. Fascinating place, Iceland, you know.” He paused and stared at Mackinnon’s glass. “Have the other half?”

  Mackinnon drained his glass. Why not? he thought. We shall get to the point eventually.

  “I was there for the second cod war, of course. Should put that in my book, really. Make a nice contrast with Biafra – all quite gentlemanly – good chaps the old Icelanders.” Marsh stopped for long enough to take a swig of whisky. “Not the same as Africa, though. It gets in your blood, Africa. George did the right thing – volunteered for a second tour.” He stared into his glass, looking for some rationale of life. “Perhaps not, though,” he said, looking up at Mackinnon. “Poor devil might still have been alive if he’d come home. Still, there we are.”

  “Was the Simpsons’ daughter working out there at that time?” asked Mackinnon.

  Marsh was on his feet again. “’Nother drink, Mr er…?”

  “Not for me, thanks.”

  “Think I’ll just have a small one,” said Marsh, pouring a good inch of whisky into his tumbler. “This rain gets into old bones, you know.”

  “The daughter, Mr Marsh – you were saying about the Simpsons’ daughter…”

  Marsh lowered himself carefully into his armchair again. “Yes,” he said. “I think you’re right, they did have a daughter. Now let me see… I remember something about her.” He pinched the bridge of his nose and stared into his glass as if seeking the answer there.

  “She worked in Africa, for a charity.” Mackinnon prompted him. “Certainly in Ethiopia – but possibly in Nigeria, too.”

  The old man nodded. “Yes,” he said. “There was something.” He relapsed into silence again, slowly shaking his head. “There was something about that girl…” He looked up sharply. “No, it’s no good – can’t remember. If it comes to me I’ll telephone you. Leave me your number, young man, and I’ll ring you if it comes to me.”

  Mackinnon thought it unlikely that he would ever hear from Marsh again. Nevertheless, he wrote his name and telephone number on a slip of paper and handed it to the old man.

  For a moment or two, Marsh studied it, then he folded it carefully and put it on his desk, among all the other pieces of paper. “I do believe it’s stopped raining,” he said.

  *

  It was two hundred miles from London to Tavistock, and despite having police advanced drivers it still took Gaffney and his team almost four hours to reach Bere Watton. They had had to obtain a search warrant from the Bow Street magistrate who had the unique power to issue warrants for anywhere in the country. Gaffney had also tried to get hold of an expert locksmith, but had given up in favor of a sledge-hammer.

  Detective Inspector Joe Partridge and two of his officers were waiting at Tanglewood when they arrived. “I’ve got a locksmith standing by, sir,” he said, as Gaffney got out of his car and stretched. “He’s at Tavistock. He doesn’t know what it’s about, of course, but having had a look at those locks I thought you might need him.”

  Gaffney grinned. “Well done, Joe,” he said. “Get him out here as soon as you can.” Gaffney surveyed the front door. “But I reckon he’ll have to be damned good to pick those.” Partridge just grinned, walked back to the car and made a call on the radio.

  The locksmith, when he arrived by police car, carefully examined the front door. He took off his cap, scratched his head, and made a sucking noise through his teeth. Then he stood up and slowly shook his head. “Can’t be done, sir,” he said. “Leastways, not in a hurry. Them’s damned good locks. I might do them, but I’ve got me doubts. It’d probably take me an hour or more.” He shook his head again. “I reckon your best bet’s to take the door in, sir. Mind you it’ll make a mess of it, but probably the easiest is to go for the hinges. Always the weakest bit, the hinges. Pity about that – don’t like being beaten.”

  Gaffney shrugged. “I knew it was too good to be true,” he said.

  “On the other hand you might go through them panels,” said the locksmith helpfully. “Often find the panels is weak, an’ all.”

  “Sorry about that, sir,” said Partridge. “He’s very good, but if he says it’s no go, then that’s it. I suppose you’ll be needing a sledge-hammer?”

  “Got one, Joe,” said Gaffney. “Never go anywhere without one.” He grinned and looked across to one of the sergeants on his team, a tall, hefty-looking man. “That’s your speciality, isn’t it?”

  The sergeant nodded. “I’ll give it a go, guv,” he said, and walked back to the boot of his car.

  It took about ten minutes of concerted hammering to smash the door in and effect an entry, during which time the remaining members of the team stood around making the sort of helpful comments of which only policemen are capable.

  At last, Gaffney was able to step over the threshold. As he did so he surveyed the damage that had been done to the door, and fervently hoped that it was all going to be worthwhile.

  It was an unremarkable house and there was a mustiness about it that confirmed what Joe Partridge had said about the occupants not being seen by the locals. In the front of the house were a study and a dining room, and at the back, running the full width of the building, a sitting room, but what Partridge had believed to be a swimming pool turned out to be a large conservatory. Upstairs were three bedrooms, one about the size of the other two put together, and the only one with a made-up bed in it.

  Gaffney despatched a detective sergeant to look outside at the back of the house, and to do a check of the outbuildings. He returned promptl
y to report that there was a bam under the trees, well hidden. Partridge went out and looked, and told Gaffney that he hadn’t been able to see it from the air. What was more interesting was the substantial lock on it. They didn’t waste time trying to pick it; they sent for a pair of bolt-cutters.

  Inside was a car. Gaffney looked at the number plate. “Doesn’t mean anything,” he said, “But get someone to do a check.” He opened the boot; inside was a different set of plates.

  “I’ll check those too, sir,” said the sergeant.

  “Don’t bother. They belong to a Welsh milk-float.” The sergeant looked puzzled. “This is the car Dickson escaped in.” He leaned back against the wall of the bam. “And that’s what I call evidence,” he said. “Make a note in the action book: statement from the surveillance bloke, identifying this vehicle as the one he saw Dickson getting into at the Aldwych.”

  “We haven’t got an action book, sir,” said the sergeant.

  “You have now, lad,” said Gaffney. He turned to Partridge. “Right, now we take this place apart.” He breathed a sigh of relief; at least now the damage would be justified.

  *

  “We’ve tried to get into the loft, sir,” said a detective constable, appearing in the doorway of the sitting room. Gaffney was sitting in an armchair, not interfering, knowing that too many officers searching at the same time invariably got in each other’s way. Gaffney, as the officer in charge, remained in one place so that his officers could consult him when necessary, and would know where to find him.

  “What’s the problem?”

  “It’s a heavy steel plate, sir, and it’s locked in place.”

  “Interesting,” said Gaffney. “Try going through the ceiling in one of the bedrooms.”

  “Won’t that make a hell of a mess, sir?”

  “Yes,” said Gaffney.

  It was there, in the loft, that they found the transmitter and equipment for recording signals on tape which could then be broadcast in one very fast burst, making detection extremely difficult.