Confirm or Deny (Gaffney and Tipper Mysteries Book 2)

by Graham Ison

  Gaffney returned to the sitting room from his inspection of the loft just as another detective, who had been laboriously searching every book in the bookshelf there, gave a shout of triumph.

  “What have you got there?”

  “Currency, sir – a lot of it.”

  Gaffney moved his feet off the heavy coffee table, and the newspaper which had been protecting it. “Put it down there,” he said. “Let’s have a look at it.”

  The detective spread out the high denomination notes of US dollars and French francs, and started counting. “Excuse me, sir,” he said, reaching for the newspaper. He examined the foreign exchange column and did a few quick calculations. “About ten grand’s-worth in sterling equivalent, sir.”

  “Not bad,” said Gaffney. “Not bad at all.” He laughed. “They don’t change. It’s beginning to look like a carboncopy of the Portland job, and that was nearly thirty years ago.”

  A detective constable showed Gaffney a small instrument he had found beneath the floorboards in the study, in a specially crafted trap.

  “Good God!” said Gaffney. “That’s a microdot reader. You’ll be finding one-time pads next.”

  “These, sir?” asked the DC, and held up his other hand.

  Gaffney laughed. “I didn’t think they still used them,” he said. “Must be old stock.”

  “Starting to look like Aladdin’s cave, isn’t it, sir?” said Partridge.

  “Yes, Joe – we’ve certainly struck gold here. Several things now—”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “I’ll need to get scenes-of-crime officers and photographers down from London. And fingerprints – the whole place has got to be fingerprinted. But most important of all, have something to eat.”

  “Probably be better if we went into Tavistock for all that, sir,” said Partridge.

  Gaffney hesitated. “No, there’s one thing I must do right now. How far’s Plymouth Dockyard from here?”

  “Plymouth, sir?” Partridge looked surprised. “About fourteen miles, I suppose, but—”

  “Can you lay on a car to get me there as soon as possible?”

  “Yes, of course, sir.”

  “Good, I want to use their secure government line to the Yard. While I’m on my way can you telephone them and ask them to get hold of Harry Tipper so that I can speak to him the moment I arrive?” He grinned. “Otherwise we won’t get breakfast till lunch-time.”

  With the aid of blue lights, a two-tone horn and a skillful driver, Gaffney covered the fourteen miles in as many minutes, and when he strode into the office, an MOD policeman handed him the receiver.

  “DCI Tipper’s on the line, sir.”

  Gaffney took the handset and yawned. He and his team had now been working for about twenty hours.

  *

  The Bow Street magistrate was not happy at having to suspend his sitting in the middle of a very heavy list. Still holding the note which Tipper had had passed up to him, he strode into his room. “What is this all about, Chief Inspector?” he asked. “I don’t just suspend a sitting every time a police officer thinks he has something… what is it?” He paused to stare at the note through his half-glasses. “‘Delicate and urgent’ – well what’s delicate and urgent about it?”

  Tipper laid the form containing his information on the desk. “I am seeking a warrant for the arrest of an MI5 officer for serious offences under the Official Secrets Act, sir,” he said. “And we believe that there are other parties to the commission of those offences who we would not wish to have advanced notice of this man’s arrest – presuming, of course, that you grant the warrant.”

  The magistrate had the good grace to smile, and sat down at his desk. He read Tipper’s information carefully; then he took a New Testament from a drawer and handed it to the chief inspector.

  Tipper held the book in his right hand. “I swear by Almighty God that I will true answer make to all such questions that the court may demand of me,” he said rapidly. He laid the book down. “Harold Tipper, Detective Chief Inspector, Special Branch, New Scotland Yard.”

  The magistrate nodded. “Is this your information?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And is it true?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The magistrate nodded again and signed the warrant. “You don’t need a warrant for this, you know.”

  “I know, sir, but from my very first day in the force, I was always told that it’s better to have a warrant than not.”

  “So that the responsibility shifts from you to me, I suppose?”

  “Exactly so,” said Tipper, picking up the warrant. “Thank you, sir.”

  “Don’t mention it,” said the magistrate, “and now, if you’ll excuse me, Chief Inspector, I’ll get back to my prostitutes.”

  *

  Fortunately, the Director-General of the Security Service was in his office that morning, and Tipper was shown there immediately he arrived from Bow Street.

  “Mr Gaffney has asked me to see you, Sir Edward,” said Tipper when he had introduced himself and explained where he fitted into the investigation. “He will, of course, see you himself the moment he gets back from Devon—”

  “Devon,” said Griffin. “What has Devon to do with it?” Tipper told the DG about following Selby to Bere Watton and then repeated what Gaffney had told him on the telephone about the discoveries at Tanglewood. “That’s why I have a warrant for the arrest of Peter Selby,” he said finally.

  For some moments, Griffin stared out of the window, a sad look on his face, before turning to Tipper. “I had hoped it wouldn’t come to this,” he said. “I suppose that was hoping for too much. What d’you wish to do?”

  “Is he in the building – Selby?”

  “I don’t know.” He sounded tired. “But I can find out,” he said, reaching towards his intercom.

  “If he is,” Tipper said, “it might be better to have him come here, to this office…”

  Griffin nodded and flicked down the switch. “Ask Mr Selby to come and see me,” he said to his secretary.

  It was less than five minutes later when the girl opened the door. “Mr Selby’s here, Sir Edward.”

  There was an apprehensive expression on Selby’s face when he entered the office, an expression which became more marked as he recognized Tipper.

  “You wanted to see me, sir?”

  Griffin did not reply, but waved a hand towards the policeman.

  Tipper stood up. “Peter Selby, I have a warrant for your arrest charging you with committing acts preparatory to the commission of an offence under the Official Secrets Act. Anything you say will be given in evidence.”

  Selby’s face went deathly white and he swayed slightly, reaching out for the back of one of Griffin’s armchairs. “What on earth are you talking about?” he asked, the words coming out softly, barely above a whisper.

  “We can do this one of two ways,” said Tipper. “Either you walk out of here quietly, with me, or if you want to make a fuss, you can be taken out in handcuffs – whichever you prefer.”

  Selby turned to Griffin. “Sir, this is a terrible mistake. You must know that. I’m not a traitor – I’ve done nothing wrong. Can’t you help me?”

  Sir Edward Griffin turned from staring out of the window, his face like granite. For a second or two he studied the abject figure of Selby. “It’s nothing to do with me,” he said coldly. “It’s a matter for the police.”

  They walked down the stairs, to avoid the embarrassment of meeting people in the lift, and out of the main door. One of the Ministry of Defence policemen on duty there nodded. “Hallo, Mr Selby,” he said. Selby ignored him; suddenly the police were on the other side – all of them.

  They drove in silence to Rochester Row police station where Selby was placed in a cell in the secure interrogation unit. At one o’clock, he was brought lunch. He didn’t eat it.

  *

  The first thing that was handed to Gaffney on his return to Scotland Yard was a note asking him to
telephone a detective inspector in the Special Branch unit at Heathrow Airport, urgently.

  “I’ve got a bit of information about Barbara Rigby, sir.”

  “What is it?” asked Gaffney.

  “The security bloke from the airline she works for got it from one of his snouts. Apparently she was seen during a stopover in Vienna last month, having dinner with a steward from another airline.”

  “Big deal,” said Gaffney. “Which airline?”

  “Aeroflot, sir.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Gaffney and Tipper were already seated in the interview room when the haggard-looking Selby was brought in by two junior Special Branch officers.

  “Sit down,” said Gaffney. He had a file on the table in front of him, but it remained closed. “I’ve sent for some tea. I’m sure that you’d like a cup.”

  Selby ignored the niceties. “What the hell is this all about?” he asked. “This – this man—” He pointed at Tipper. “—this man comes to my office and arrests me, in the presence of my own Director-General. He said something about committing offences under the OSA.” He was what Tipper described as white and spiteful. “Well you’d better tell me what I’m supposed to have done, because I shall be getting on to my solicitor. I haven’t done anything. It’s – it’s a false arrest – wrongful imprisonment; I think that’s what it’s called.”

  “Mr Tipper tells me that he’s already cautioned you, Mr Selby, but just so that there’s no misunderstanding, I have to tell you that you are not obliged to say anything, but that anything you do say will be taken down in writing and may be put in evidence. Do you understand that?” He spoke softly, refusing to be ruffled by Selby’s tirade.

  Selby turned slightly sideways in his chair so that he was staring at the corner of the room to Gaffney’s right, and folded his arms. It was the same display of truculence that had caused Tipper previously to liken him to a petulant schoolboy.

  Gaffney took out a cigar and spent a little time lighting it. Blowing a cloud of smoke towards the ceiling, he said, “You’ve got a few questions to answer – if you should wish to do so, of course.” He smiled benignly.

  “I’m not answering any of your questions.” Selby continued to stare at the corner of the room. “A man is innocent until proved guilty – isn’t that what they say? And it’s up to you to prove me guilty, which you won’t be able to do.”

  “Where did you go last weekend, Mr Selby?” Selby remained silent, as if he hadn’t heard the question. “All right, then,” continued Gaffney. “Let me try it another way. Who is Mrs Rita Hamilton of Tanglewood, near Bere Watton in Devon? Not far from Tavistock, you’ll recall.”

  Selby swung round to face the two policemen. “So that’s it? That’s what all this charade is about, eh?” His face was still pale, but now wore a half-sneering expression. “Just because I’m having an affair with a married woman, and I didn’t tell those damned nosey parkers of vetting people, you drag me in here in the most embarrassing way possible. Well you won’t get away with that. Just because I work for MI5 doesn’t mean I don’t have any rights, you know. I’d never tell the vetting people – ever! And do you know why? Because they revel in it. They love the filth; love asking questions about whether you’ve had sexual intercourse, and how many times, and do you ever do it in the back of a car. All that stuff. They love it – and they write it all down, and put it in your personal file. Well not on my personal file they don’t. If I want to have an affair, I’ll have one. There’s nothing wrong with it. Lots of men have affairs – married men sometimes. Even married men in MI5 probably. So what? That’s not a crime, and certainly not a crime under the OSA. So you’d better think of something pretty good.”

  “I have some photographs here, Mr Selby.” Gaffney tapped the file on the table with his forefinger. “They are photographs which were taken at Tanglewood this morning.”

  Selby glanced down at the file, a supercilious expression of condescension on his face. “Really?”

  They were large color-prints, whole-plate in size. “That’s the house, isn’t it?” He handed over a photograph of the exterior. Selby left it on the table, affording it a mere cursory glance. “And that, Mr Selby, is a photograph of the car in which Peter Dickson made his escape when police attempted to arrest him.”

  Selby leaned across and pulled the print towards him. “So you found it. Where?”

  “In a locked barn in the grounds of the house in which you stayed last weekend. In the house itself we also found a transmitter, recording equipment, one-time pads, microdot readers, lots of foreign currency – in fact, Mr Selby, all manner of spying paraphernalia with which you, in the Security Service, will be more than familiar. Do you want to see the photographs of that, as well?”

  Selby’s arms dropped to his sides, hanging straight down by the chair. His jaw was slack and his face ashen. “I don’t believe you.”

  Both Gaffney and Tipper knew that he did, that his expression of disbelief was just a formality, a cypher. “Perhaps now you can understand why you were arrested, Mr Selby. So we’ll start again. Last weekend you traveled down to Tanglewood. You left your flat at about twenty to six on the Friday evening and you drove to Devon – we can tell you your precise route if you’re interested – and stayed at Tanglewood until Sunday afternoon when you returned to London. You stayed the weekend with Mrs Rita Hamilton who wrote to you to make the arrangements. I have a copy of her letter here.” He tapped the file again. “On the other hand,” he continued mildly, “I have to consider the possibility that Mrs Hamilton does not exist, that she is an invention of your imagination against a day such as this when, to coin a phrase, it all came on top, and you can, in all pretended innocence, blame a woman who has now conveniently disappeared.”

  There was silence in the room, broken only by the hum of traffic from outside in Rochester Row, and further afield in Vauxhall Bridge Road. Gaffney knew better than to interrupt, than to press for an answer. He knew from long experience, as did Tipper, that the response, when it came, would be the more valuable for its spontaneity.

  At last Selby looked up from his long contemplation of the photographs. “I love her,” he said. “We’re going to get married.”

  Gaffney didn’t say that he thought that unlikely, although he did recall that Houghton and Gee, two of those convicted in the Portland case, had waited until their release from prison to get married. “How did you meet?”

  “At a concert.” He paused as if recapturing the scene in his mind’s eye. “It was in Sussex, one of those country house music festivals. They’re almost private really. This one was Monteverdi.” He glanced briefly at Tipper seeking sympathy and understanding for a liking of the obscure seventeenth-century composer; Tipper just nodded. “She tipped wine over me, as a matter of fact.”

  “I see,” said Gaffney.

  “It was included,” said Selby humorlessly. Gaffney was tempted to make a frivolous remark. “There was this table where you queued up. We both turned away from it at the same time, each holding a glass of red wine, and she tipped hers over me – accidentally, of course. She was so embarrassed.” He put a hand up to adjust his tie, but stopped halfway as he remembered that he wasn’t wearing one; Tipper hadn’t wanted him hanging himself before Gaffney had had a chance to talk to him, and certainly not with such an expensive tie. “We got to talking – about the concert, the music – and we sat together for the remainder of the performance. The seats weren’t reserved, you see.” He said that intensely, as though it were important.

  “She was there alone, I take it?” asked Gaffney.

  “Yes – yes, she was. Her husband doesn’t like music very much – well, Johann Strauss, I think she said…” He spread his hands as if to indicate that Johann Strauss didn’t really count as serious music; Tipper could almost hear Selby dismissing him as a cafe bandleader.

  “Sussex seems a long way to travel from Devon for a concert.”

  “Yes, it does.” Selby gave that some thought, d
oubtless finding it strange that inconvenience should ever be considered in the matter of Monteverdi concerts. “I believe she said she was staying with a friend in town.”

  “A man friend?”

  “Of course not.” He spoke adamantly, but his ingenuous face indicated all too clearly that he hadn’t thought of it before.

  “Then what?”

  “What do you mean – then what?”

  “Well you presumably arranged to see her again.”

  “Yes. I told her about another concert – it was about ten days later, at the Queen Elizabeth Hall. She said she hadn’t heard about that one. Then she got out a little diary from her handbag and wrote it down. She said that she’d like to go, and would I mind if we went together. I said that would be fine, so I agreed to get the tickets, but she insisted on paying for hers. She said she wanted it to be all above-board – just a mutual interest in music, nothing more.”

  “Did you know, at that time, that she was married?”

  “Well no, not then; it was only much later that she mentioned him.”

  “Was she wearing a wedding ring?”

  Selby looked from one to the other, thoughtful. “I didn’t notice.” Tipper smiled. It was the first thing that he, and most other policemen he knew, looked for. “I don’t know.”

  “So you met in London, ten days later, at the Queen Elizabeth?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you attended the concert, and then both went your separate ways?”

  “Not quite. I invited her out to supper.”

  “And she went?”

  “Yes. But she insisted on paying for herself. She said it wasn’t fair that I should pay as she had foist herself on me.”

  “That would have made it quite a late evening – supper after a concert. Presumably she was staying in London again?”

  “I suppose so. Yes, I think she said as much.”

  “Who is this friend in London she stays with?”

  “I don’t know – I didn’t ask.”

  “And when did it start to get serious?”