by Jim Eldridge
‘Thank you,’ said Rosa, acknowledging their appreciative reaction with a gentle smile. ‘Now, staying with the great Mr Carmichael …’ And then she launched into ‘Georgia on my Mind’, and Coburg thought he’d never heard the song sound so good.
Rosa then followed with more standards, pieces by the Gershwins, Irving Berlin and the clever subversive lyrics of Cole Porter’s ‘Let’s Do It’, before segueing into ‘Night and Day’, and then a medley of songs made famous by Ella Fitzgerald.
All too soon the performance was over. As Rosa gathered up her sheaves of music, Coburg made his way to the piano and was delighted to see Rosa’s face light up at his approach.
‘I knew you were here! I saw you, hiding.’
‘I wasn’t hiding, I just didn’t want to put you off,’ said Coburg. ‘Shall we go?’
‘We shall,’ said Rosa. ‘Have you still got your flat in Hampstead?’
‘I have.’
‘Good. My place is too crowded. I’m sharing with two other girls and it’s chaos. Or we could stay here. I’m sure George could accommodate us.’
‘I’m sure he could as well, but I’d prefer to keep things here on a professional footing. I don’t want to put George on the spot.’
‘So, Hampstead it is. I’ll just get my coat.’
‘Don’t forget your gas mask,’ Coburg reminded her.
She laughed. ‘No problem. It’s with my coat. I never go anywhere without it.’
‘Have you worn it yet?’ asked Coburg.
‘Only the first time I got it, just to test it out.’ Her nose wrinkled in distaste. ‘That stink of rubber is dreadful.’
‘You could always spray it with a nice scent,’ suggested Coburg.
‘I tried that,’ said Rosa. ‘It just stank even worse. Wait for me in reception.’
As Coburg and Rosa left the bar, they were watched by a heavily built middle-aged man wearing a tuxedo, sitting at a table on his own at the back of the room.
I guess that’s DCI Coburg, he thought to himself. And with the girl. Interesting. Very interesting.
As Coburg walked into the main reception hall, George signalled him over.
‘I’ve made enquiries and it seems that Count Ahmed is out of town, in the country.’
‘Do we know where in the country?’ asked Coburg.
‘Alas, no. But if I do hear, I’ll let you know.’ He smiled as he saw Rosa approaching. ‘Ah, here is the delightful Miss Weeks.’
Rosa, slipping her arm through Coburg’s, smiled at the hall porter and said: ‘See you tomorrow, George.’
They strolled out of the hotel and along Piccadilly to where Coburg had left the police car. As he unlocked it and opened the passenger door for her, Rosa looked at it in surprised amusement.
‘What happened to the Bentley?’ she asked.
‘Impounded as part of the war effort. So, this is my new chariot. What do you think?’
‘Stylish.’ Rosa smiled. ‘Yes, I like it. Do we get to play with the bell and the blue lights?’
‘No lights except the dipped headlights,’ said Coburg. ‘Blackout rules, remember.’
‘Spoilsport,’ she said. She leant across and kissed him. ‘But I hope you’ll make it up to me when we get to your place.’
Coburg’s flat was on the ground floor of a small block in Hampstead, not far from the Heath. Rosa looked around the flat while Coburg poured their drinks. He handed a glass to Rosa, who took a sip and then beamed at him. ‘Irish whiskey!’
‘I remembered it was your favourite,’ said Coburg.
‘After two years? I’m impressed.’
‘A Scot who prefers Irish is bound to be memorable,’ said Coburg. ‘And, of course, you’re very impressive.’
He took a drink, then put his glass down and wrapped his arms around her. ‘I’ve missed you.’
She gave a sceptical laugh. ‘I bet!’
‘It’s true,’ said Coburg. ‘You’re a hard act for anyone to follow.’
Rosa put her glass down. ‘With smooth-talking flattery like that,’ she said softly, ‘the whiskey can wait.’
It was two hours later that Coburg rose from the bed to fetch the two waiting glasses of whiskey for them.
‘Great sex, great whiskey,’ she murmured. ‘I could get used to this.’
‘So could I,’ admitted Coburg, getting back into the bed and putting an arm around her, pulling her close so she could nestle in to him.
‘What went wrong?’ she asked. ‘Why did we stop seeing one another?’
‘You were busy going all over the world, touring, and I was always seemed to be on some case or other.’
‘Yet we’re here now.’
‘Yes, we are, thankfully,’ said Coburg. ‘But I guess that you’ll be off somewhere again before too long.’
‘Not like before,’ she said. ‘Not with a war on. I’ve got some bookings coming up, but they’re all inland.’
‘Where are they?’
‘This week and next at the Ritz, then Ciro’s the week after.’
‘In Piccadilly?’
‘The very same.’
‘Well, that’s good, you’ll still be in London.’
‘And after that I’m booked for five nights in Glasgow. Then Birmingham and Coventry.’
‘So, we’d better take advantage of the fact you’ll be in London for now,’ said Coburg.
‘Especially as I hope you’ll be spending some time at the Ritz working on this case,’ said Rosa. ‘It would make a rare change for our work schedules to coincide.’
‘Indeed,’ said Coburg. ‘Let’s start tomorrow. How about I take you to lunch?’
‘Where?’
‘The Ritz, of course.’
‘On the house?’
‘No, my treat. I don’t like taking advantage.’
‘Unlike many of your colleagues who exist on free lunches and handouts.’
‘That’s them; this is my way.’
She smiled at him. ‘You’re a bit of a puritan on the quiet, aren’t you?’
He put his glass down on the bedside table, took hers from her and placed it next to his.
‘Not completely,’ he said. Then he kissed her and let his hand move gently down her body.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Wednesday 21st August
The next morning, Coburg drove Rosa to the house at the back of Oxford Street she shared with two other women, then headed for Scotland Yard, where Lampson was waiting in the rear courtyard for him.
‘It’s not the Bentley, guv,’ sighed Lampson wistfully as Coburg pulled to a halt.
‘Maybe not, but it drives well enough,’ said Coburg. ‘And I thought we’d share driving duties. Can’t have you forgetting how to handle a car.’
Lampson grinned. ‘Suits me!’ he said.
‘In that case,’ said Coburg, and he shifted across to the passenger seat so that Lampson could get behind the wheel.
‘Where to?’ asked Lampson.
‘I thought we’d make the mortuary at UCH our first stop,’ said Coburg. ‘The post-mortem should have been done so we might get some useful information. It’ll also give us a chance to examine the body properly for any clues that might help us identify what he did for a living. Blisters on the hands and feet. Any old scars.’
‘Sounds like a plan,’ said Lampson.
The streets were clearer of traffic than usual, the petrol rations taking their toll, and it wasn’t long before they arrived, where Lampson pulled the car into the side of Gower Street outside the old red-brick building that housed University College Hospital.
They walked into the building and down the stairs to the mortuary department, where they were met by an attendant in a long white coat, pushing an empty trolley along a corridor.
‘Police,’ said Coburg, flashing his warrant card. ‘We’ve come to look at the body that was brought in from the Ritz yesterday.’
‘Gone,’ said the man.
He was about to continue pushing his trolley when C
oburg stopped him.
‘What do you mean, gone?’ he asked.
The man looked at him morosely, like a man beaten down by life.
‘Like I said, he’s gone. Your blokes came and took him away yesterday.’
Coburg frowned. ‘I’m sorry, Mr … er …’
‘Eric Nugent. Mortuary orderly.’
‘When you say “our” blokes? Who were they, exactly?’
‘MI5, according to the warrant cards they showed me,’ said the man.
‘MI5 officers don’t have warrant cards,’ said Coburg. ‘It’s a secret organisation. Or, at least, it’s supposed to be.’
‘Well, they showed me them,’ said Nugent.
‘What time was this?’
‘About four. I know that because I was about to go on my break when they arrived.’
‘What did they look like? And how many of them were there?’
‘Four,’ said the man. ‘Though only one spoke.’ He paused, then added: ‘To be honest, they looked foreign. Though the one who did the talking spoke English well. Quite posh-sounding, in fact.’
‘When you say they looked foreign, what sort of foreign?’
Nugent shrugged. ‘I dunno. Maybe Greek. Mind, I’m only saying that cos we’ve got Greeks in the street where I live, and they looked a bit like them.’
‘Did you see what they transported him in? Ambulance? Van?’
Nugent shook his head. ‘No, I never went up with ’em. Not my job. I stayed here.’
‘What did they take the body in?’
‘A big, long bag. You know, a body bag.’
Coburg scowled as he and Lampson made their way back upstairs.
‘Unbelievable!’ he growled. ‘There’s a war on and all these signs up about watching out for suspicious strangers, but four foreigners come marching in and take away a dead body, and no one questions them.’
‘They had warrant cards,’ pointed out Lampson.
‘Faked,’ grunted Coburg. Then he stopped. ‘Or maybe not. Listen, Ted, I’m going to leave you here to ask questions, including getting hold of the post-mortem report. Check to see if anyone locally saw four men carrying a body in a bag out of here yesterday about four o’clock. If they did, what vehicle did they use, and which direction did it go in. The usual things.’
‘Right, guv,’ said Lampson. ‘Where are you off to?’
‘I’m going to check with MI5.’
‘But you said it couldn’t be them because of the business of the warrant cards.’
‘MI5 are perfectly capable of doing a double-bluff. Real MI5 pretending to be fake MI5 men to cover their tracks. I’ll see you back at the Yard.’
One positive thing about being at the wheel of an official police car was that the barriers at Wormwood Scrubs were raised as Coburg arrived. He still had to produce his warrant card, but the whole procedure passed quicker than if he’d been driving the Bentley. He was directed to the area of the car park reserved for MI5. Inside the old Victorian building he showed his warrant card at reception and asked for Inspector Hibbert. Hibbert appeared a few moments later and shot a sour look at Coburg.
‘I hope you’ve got news for me,’ he said, though his expression suggested he didn’t think whatever news Coburg would be bringing would be good news.
‘I have,’ said Coburg.
‘In that case you’d better come to my office,’ said Hibbert. He shot a look of suspicion towards the receptionist and muttered to Coburg as they walked away: ‘Walls have ears.’
‘They also make ice cream,’ said Coburg innocently.
‘Very funny,’ said Hibbert, unamused. ‘That receptionist, for example. I’d never seen her before today. Who’s to say who she is?’
‘A German spy?’ asked Coburg.
‘The trouble is, since the war, we’ve been taking on so many new staff in order to cope, I don’t know where they’re coming from. It’s why we had to move here. Too many people coming in, more than the old building at Thames House could cope with.’
They arrived at Hibbert’s office and Coburg followed him in.
‘Right, what’s the news?’ he asked. ‘Have you identified him yet? The dead man?’
‘No, and our task has now been made more difficult. Someone walked off with the body from UCH.’
Hibbert stared at Coburg, shocked. ‘What? Who?’
‘According to the mortuary attendant it was MI5.’
‘What!’ exploded Hibbert. ‘Of all the bloody nerve!’
‘Are you saying it wasn’t?’
‘Of course it wasn’t!’
‘The mortuary attendant said they had MI5 warrant cards.’
‘We don’t have bloody warrant cards!’
‘That’s what I told him. According to him the men who took the body away looked foreign. Possibly Greek.’
‘Greek?’ queried Hibbert. ‘Albanian, I bet you! This is connected to all that money and gold bullion in King Zog’s suite.’
‘Yes, the same thought struck me,’ said Coburg.
‘Who is this mortuary attendant? Did you bring him in for questioning?’
‘No. We questioned him at the hospital. There was no need for us to bring him in for further interrogation at this stage.’
‘Well, I will! What’s his name?’
‘Eric Nugent.’
‘Right, I’ll have him picked up.’
‘There is one thing,’ said Coburg. ‘As I assume you’ve been keeping an eye on King Zog and his retinue, do you have a picture of Count Idjbil Ahmed, the King’s personal secretary?’
‘Why?’ asked Hibbert warily.
‘According to Nugent, only one of the four men who took the body away spoke English, but the one who did spoke it very well. I’ve only spoken to the Count on the telephone, but his English is excellent.’
‘Pity we can’t touch him.’ Hibbert scowled. ‘Diplomatic immunity.’
‘But if you have a picture of him we can show Nugent, and if Nugent identifies him …’
‘Yes, well, we haven’t,’ grunted Hibbert.
‘I’m surprised,’ said Coburg. ‘I’d have thought you’d have got quite a gallery of the whole party, from the King downwards.’
‘We’ve got some,’ admitted Hibbert. ‘The King, obviously, and his sisters, along with most of their bodyguards, although we’ve still got to put names to most of them. But Count Ahmed seems to have been able to avoid having his picture taken.’
‘What about his passport? There’ll be a picture in that.’
‘Like I said, diplomatic immunity. We can’t just take it off him without a very good reason otherwise we’ll have a diplomatic incident on our hands.’
‘What about Ian Fleming? He’s one of yours, isn’t he? I heard he was the one who smuggled the King and his party out of France. He must have had access to the passports.’
Hibbert shook his head. ‘Naval Intelligence.’
‘Why did Naval Intelligence carry out that operation?’ asked Coburg. ‘Surely it would have come under the Secret Intelligence Service.’
‘I’m not saying it was done by them,’ said Hibbert. ‘To be honest, I’m never sure who Fleming’s working for. Himself, most of the time, I think.’ He looked at Coburg. ‘Anyway, you could always ask him direct. You went to school with him, and it seems that’s how these things are done, the old school tie.’
‘I was at the same school, but some years before him.’
‘Does that matter? I thought if you’d been to Eton you had a whole network at your beck and call.’
The tone of bitter resentment in Hibbert’s voice prompted Coburg to comment: ‘I expect it’s that way with most schools. The old boy network.’
‘Maybe it is for Eton and Harrow and the like, but I went to a secondary school in Surbiton, which produced mainly carpenters and plumbers,’ grunted Hibbert.
‘Which I imagine is more useful than being able to conjugate Latin verbs,’ said Coburg ruefully. He held out his hand. ‘Well, thanks for the inform
ation. If I get anything new, I’ll pass it on.’
CHAPTER EIGHT
Coburg decided his next point of call should be Sir Vincent Blessington at the Foreign Office to check if he had a picture of Count Ahmed, but he realised the time was disappearing, and he had a date with Rosa he wanted to keep. Instead, he returned to his office and phoned Sir Vincent but was told he was out. He got the same message when he tried Blessington’s home number. Coburg left a message at both places asking for Sir Vincent to call him when he returned. He was just hanging up the phone when Ted Lampson appeared.
‘I found someone working in a building on the other side of the road who saw the men come out, put the body in a hearse and drive off.’
‘A hearse? So, a local funeral director must be involved.’
‘Exactly, and the one who does all the funerals in the area is Leverton’s. So, I went to see them and it turns out they had one of their hearses nicked.’
‘When was it taken?’
‘Lunchtime yesterday. But when they arrived for work this morning, there it was parked round the corner from their place. And it was sparkling clean.’
‘Getting rid of any evidence.’
‘Exactly. I asked around the shops near to Leverton’s to see if anyone saw it being taken, or put back, but no one saw anything.’
‘It suggests local knowledge: they knew where to get hold of a hearse at short notice,’ mused Coburg.
‘Not necessarily,’ said Lampson. ‘Maybe they were looking for anything they could put a body in.’
‘Yes, I expect you’re right,’ sighed Coburg.
There was a knock at the door, which opened and a short, stiff-backed man with a military bearing entered.
‘DCI Coburg,’ he said. ‘Gerald Atkinson, MI6. Reception told me you were in.’
‘I’m just about to go out,’ said Coburg. ‘I have an appointment. If you’d had the courtesy to get them to ring me, I’d have been able to let you know and save you the trouble of coming upstairs.’
‘This won’t take a moment,’ said Atkinson. He looked at Lampson and said: ‘Would you give us the room, Sergeant?’