by Jim Eldridge
Lampson looked quizzically at Coburg, who glared at the MI6 man.
‘Anything you have to say to me, my sergeant can hear,’ he said.
‘This is a matter of national security,’ retorted Atkinson crisply. ‘You’ve got the necessary clearance, Chief Inspector, your sergeant hasn’t.’
Coburg bridled. ‘Now look here—’ he began.
‘It’s all right, sir,’ said Lampson. ‘I’ve got things I need to do.’
With that, Lampson picked up some papers from the desk and left. Coburg regarded the MI6 man coldly.
‘This is an outrage,’ he said. ‘What’s so secret that my sergeant can’t be privy to it?’
‘We hear you’re involved in this business with King Zog.’
‘At the King’s request,’ said Coburg. ‘And my sergeant is fully involved in the investigation.’
‘Do be careful,’ said Atkinson. ‘There are sensitive issues at stake.’
‘So I’ve already been told by the Foreign Office and MI5,’ said Coburg. ‘What’s your involvement?’
‘Protecting the security of the country, as always,’ said Atkinson.
‘In that case, can I suggest you do a better job of it,’ said Coburg.
Atkinson glared at him. ‘What the hell do you mean by that?’ he snapped angrily.
‘I ran into one of your agents in the Lower Bar at the Ritz the other day, the Pink Sink. Guy Burgess.’
‘How do you know he’s anything to do with us?’ demanded Atkinson.
‘Because he’s a drunk, and when he gets drunk he’s a blabbermouth.’
‘He told you he was with Six?’ asked Atkinson challengingly.
‘No, but he didn’t need to,’ said Coburg. ‘He’s either MI5 or MI6, and Five told me he wasn’t one of theirs.’
‘How do you know so much about Burgess? Have you been keeping tabs on him for some reason?’
‘No need, he keeps putting himself in situations that bring attention to him. He and I went to the same school, albeit some years apart, and consequently we both know some of the same people, and plenty of them have tales of Burgess’s loose mouth. Don’t you vet people as security risks before you take them on? When I saw him he was drunk as a lord in the middle of the afternoon, and I guess blatantly looking for trade and making no bones about it. You don’t think that makes him a target ripe for blackmail by a foreign power?’
‘Of course we vet,’ said Atkinson. ‘But with some people there’s no need. Their background and social status are enough to qualify them. Burgess is highly recommended.’
‘By whom?’
‘Well, having been at Eton, for one thing. And then the crowd he ran with at Trinity. Philby. Blunt. All good chaps. Reliable.’
‘The fact that he’s a declared communist doesn’t worry you?’
‘Was a communist,’ stressed Atkinson. ‘A temporary youthful indiscretion.’
‘He joined the Communist Party while he was at Cambridge,’ said Coburg. ‘He made a great thing about supporting a communist revolution in this country. He made visits to Russia in support of the Soviets. You don’t think that raises concerned about where his true political allegiance lies?’
‘I’d be more concerned if he’d been an advocate for Hitler, in the way that many of your old school chums have been. We’re at war with Germany, we’re not at war with Russia.’
‘Technically, we are,’ pointed out Coburg. ‘Russia and Germany have signed a pact. They’re allies. So, if Germany is our enemy, so is Russia.’
‘It’s a non-aggression pact,’ countered Atkinson. ‘They won’t attack each other. And there’s no reason why Russia should attack us.’
‘To support it’s ally, Germany,’ persisted Coburg.
‘I’m not getting into this with you,’ retorted Atkinson petulantly. ‘It’s just politics, that’s all. I’m here because I want to know what you know.’
‘We know that a dead man was found in a suite at the Ritz belonging to a member of King Zog’s retinue. His throat had been cut. We have no idea who he is. The body was taken to University College Hospital, from where it was stolen by four men claiming to be officers of MI5. I’ve checked with Five and they say they had nothing to do with removing the body. We believe the body was transported from UCH in a hearse stolen from Leverton’s, a local funeral directors. It was my sergeant who discovered this. If you’d allowed him to stay you could have been informed of this by him direct.’
Atkinson regarded Coburg with an icy stare. ‘And?’ he demanded.
‘And?’ queried Coburg. ‘That’s it. There is no more. I suggest you talk to Five or the Foreign Office if you want more. Or the Ritz. Or Leverton’s. Or the mortuary attendant at University College Hospital. Although I expect they’ll just tell you the same as I have.
‘There are two things you can do that might help to move this case along. Do you have a photograph of Count Ahmed, King Zog’s personal secretary? And you can answer this: was Ian Fleming of Naval Intelligence working for Six when he smuggled the King and his family out of France?’
‘Who told you that?’ demanded Atkinson.
‘It seems to be common knowledge,’ said Coburg.
‘Amongst whom?’ asked Atkinson.
‘Everyone,’ said Coburg. ‘Have a word with your man Burgess, for example.’
‘I told you, he’s not our man,’ snapped Atkinson.
‘Yes, so you did,’ said Coburg.
‘Well, if that’s all, I’ll leave you to your appointment,’ said Atkinson curtly, and he made for the door.
‘You haven’t said if you’ve got a photograph of Count Ahmed,’ said Coburg.
‘No,’ snapped Atkinson.
‘No, you haven’t said; or no, you haven’t got one?’ asked Coburg.
‘Both,’ said Atkinson. And he left.
There was a brief pause, then the door opened, and Lampson returned.
‘I was hanging about down the corridor, waiting for him to leave,’ he said. ‘I didn’t like him.’
‘No, neither did I,’ said Coburg.
‘What did he want?’
‘The same as all the others. We have the Foreign Office wanting us to keep the investigation going and keep them informed of whatever we uncover; MI5, who want us to just go through the motions and in reality back off and not get in their way; and MI6, who have also warned us to tread carefully and not make waves.’
‘Why did MI5 and MI6 feel the need to come and say the same thing separately?’ asked Lampson. ‘Surely just one of them could have done it. They’re both secret service.’
‘But deadly rivals. They both want to be the top of the secret league. It’s a bit like that between Arsenal and Spurs.’
‘Nothing can be as deep as that, sir,’ said Lampson with a scowl. ‘Those bastards at Highbury can’t be trusted in any way.’
‘Of course, you’re a Spurs fan.’
‘Like my father before me, and his father before that. And there’s none in north London can say the same about Arsenal. Woolwich Arsenal. That’s where they came from. South-east London.’
‘People move around,’ said Coburg benignly. ‘Look at the Irish. They move to England and say they’re English.’
‘Not in football, sir,’ said Lampson sharply. ‘A Spurs fan is a Spurs fan, wherever they are.’ He looked at the clock. ‘Before that MI6 chap arrived, you were talking about an appointment.’
‘Yes, and I’m on my way there now.’
‘Anything I should know about?’
‘No.’ Coburg smiled. ‘Just that I’m meeting someone at the Ritz.’
‘Someone special?’
‘I think so. So, you keep the car.’
‘Me?’
‘If you go out it’ll be because you’re on official business. Mine is personal. I’ll get a taxi.’
Lampson shook his head. ‘Taxis ain’t easy to find right now. If I’ve got the car, then I’m taking you to the Ritz. Can’t have you being late.’
&nbs
p; ‘Thank you, Ted. I appreciate that.’ As they walked along the corridor, Coburg added: ‘One last thing. You might get a phone call from Sir Vincent Blessington from the Foreign Office. If you do, ask him if he’s got a picture of Count Ahmed he can let us have.’
‘And if he has?’
‘Take it to UCH and show it to the mortuary attendant. Ask him if he was one of the four men who took the body.’
CHAPTER NINE
After Coburg had left the car, Lampson stayed by the kerb, just in case whoever it was he was meeting wasn’t around. It had to be a woman. The guv’nor should have told that MI6 bloke he didn’t have time right now, to piss off and call back later. That’s what Lampson would have done. But then, Lampson wasn’t Coburg. Lampson hoped the woman, whoever she was, had hung around. Not many women would wait if their bloke was late. But then, this was lunch at the Ritz, and worth hanging around for.
As he watched, a young blonde woman bounced down the steps from the entrance of the Ritz, a big smile on her face, and threw herself at Coburg, who wrapped her in a hug, and the pair walked into the hotel hand in hand. So, all good, then. He was glad the guv’nor had some female company. Sometimes he worried that the DCI let himself get too caught up in the job. You needed more, which is why Lampson had Ruth, a neighbour who lived two streets away. A widow who brightened his life up when he needed it. Great company. The only drawback was that his parents didn’t like her. Well, tough luck on them, thought Lampson. He put the car in gear and headed back to the Yard.
Rosa forked a piece of beef into her mouth and looked at Coburg with an expression of delight mixed with awe.
‘This is delicious!’ she sighed. ‘No, it’s better than that. It is … a supreme piece of artistic culinary genius.’
Coburg smiled. ‘It’s the Ritz. The chef has a reputation to keep up.’
‘Even in wartime, with all the restrictions? Rationing?’
‘Rationing doesn’t apply to restaurants,’ Coburg reminded her.
‘Well, it seems to apply to the places I eat,’ said Rosa.
‘Surely you have some meals here if you’re part of the entertainment,’ said Coburg.
‘Snacks,’ said Rosa. ‘Great snacks, for sure. But nothing like this!’ She added in a wistful tone: ‘D’you think we can do this more often?’
‘No problem,’ said Coburg. ‘I think I’m going to be coming back for the next few days, maybe weeks, until we solve the case.’
‘How’s that going? No ideas?’
‘We won’t have any ideas until we can find out who he was. Which has just been made a bit more difficult because …’ He mentally kicked himself, then stopped and gave her an apologetic smile and said: ‘Sorry.’
‘What do you mean, sorry?’ she asked, puzzled.
‘I’ve already said too much. It’s a police matter. You’re a civilian. Forget I spoke.’
She looked at him, irritated. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I’m not just a civilian.’ She lowered her voice at hissed at him: ‘I’m the woman you were in bed with just a few hours ago. Or have you forgotten?’
‘No,’ he said awkwardly. ‘The point is I’m an officer of the law and I really shouldn’t discuss the case with—’
‘A potential victim?’ she demanded.
He stared at her, puzzled. ‘What do you mean, a potential victim?’
‘A man’s been murdered in this hotel. I am going to be here every day this week and next. Who’s to say this killer isn’t stalking this place even now, deciding who’s going to be his next victim?’
‘I don’t think that’s likely,’ said Coburg. ‘The dead man was found in a royal suite—’
‘Even more dangerous,’ said Rosa. ‘If he can get in there he can get into my dressing room here.’
Coburg groaned.
‘Look, just tell me what you were going to say and I’ll stop,’ said Rosa. ‘You cannot say half a sentence like: something’s been made a bit more difficult because … And then stop. It’s not fair. And it’s not as if you don’t know me. And I’m not just talking about … you know …’
‘Yes, all right,’ said Coburg, embarrassedly looking around.
‘We’ve known each other a long time. You know I’m not the kind who goes blabbing.’
‘Yes, but—’
Rosa gave him an amused look, one eyebrow raised. Coburg sighed, defeated. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘If you promise to keep it to yourself and not say anything.’
‘I promise.’
‘All right.’ He looked around to make sure he couldn’t be overheard before lowering his voice and whispering: ‘… someone stole his body from the mortuary.’
‘No!’ said Rosa, stunned.
‘So, all we’ve got left of him is a few photographs.’ He gave another sigh of defeat and added: ‘Having told you this, I might as well go the whole hog. But I’m only doing this because you might have bumped into him since you’ve been here. We’ll be showing his image to everyone who works here at the hotel.’ With that, he pulled out a photograph from his pocket and passed it to her.
Rosa studied it thoughtfully.
‘You’re not going to believe this—’ she began.
Coburg stared at her. ‘You’re not going to tell me you’ve seen him?’
‘Yes, but not at the Ritz. I’m sure he was with Julie, one of the girls I share with, at a party we had at our house.’ She gave him a rueful smile. ‘It’s wartime, which seems to bring out the party instincts in some people.’
‘Have fun today because tomorrow we die,’ said Coburg.
‘Something like that,’ agreed Rosa. She looked at the image again. ‘Yes, I’m more sure than ever it’s the same man.’
‘Where is Julie at the moment?’ asked Coburg.
‘At the house, I expect. She’s a dancer appearing in some nightclub, so she never gets in until it’s almost dawn. Then she sleeps most of the day.’
‘In that case, I don’t want to rush your meal, but the sooner I get to talk to her, the better.’
Rosa looked at him. ‘No dessert?’ she asked, disappointed.
‘Rosa, I promise you, if your friend is able to give us a name for this man, I shall buy you dessert every day for the rest of the week.’
She gave him a wicked grin of triumph. ‘Now aren’t you glad you told me?’
Lampson picked up the ringing telephone. ‘DCI Coburg’s telephone.’
‘Is DCI Coburg there?’ asked a man’s rather plummy voice.
‘I’m afraid not. This is his sergeant, DS Lampson. Can I take a message for him?’
‘This is Sir Vincent Blessington. DCI Coburg left messages asking me to call him.’
‘Ah, yes, Sir Vincent. He hoped you might call. He was wondering if you had a photograph of King Zog’s private secretary, Count Ahmed.’
‘Did he say why?’
‘I believe he just wants to check something. The DCI hasn’t been able to make contact with the Count, and I think he wanted to know what he looked like.’
‘Yes, well, if you’ll hold on a moment I’ll check in the file,’ said Blessington.
There was a clunk as the receiver was put down, and then the sound of papers being sifted through before it was picked up again.
‘Actually, we have,’ said Blessington. ‘It’s not a very good one, I’m afraid. It’s a copy taken from his original entry documents.’
‘I’m sure it will be perfect,’ said Lampson. ‘DCI Coburg wondered, if you had one, if you could send it over to us by messenger.’
‘It’s urgent, is it?’ asked Blessington.
‘We are trying to get to the bottom of this case,’ said Lampson in his politest voice, ‘and DCI Coburg feels this picture may play a vital part.’
‘Understood,’ said Blessington. ‘I’ll have a copy made and get a messenger to bring it over.’
The red-headed young woman sat at the kitchen table in her dressing gown and stared incredulously at the photograph that Coburg had given to her.
�
��My God, it’s Joe!’ she said.
‘Joe?’ asked Coburg.
He and Rosa were sitting on the other side of the table, watching as Julie Stafford put the photograph aside and took a cigarette from her packet, her fingers trembling.
‘I can’t believe he’s dead!’ said Julie. ‘How?’
‘He was found in a suite at the Ritz being used by the King of Albania,’ said Coburg. ‘I’m sorry to tell you this way, but his throat had been cut.’
‘What was he doing at the Ritz, and in some king’s suite?’ asked Julie. Having lit her cigarette, she took up the photograph again, looking at it with an expression of bewilderment.
‘That’s what we’re trying to find out,’ said Coburg gently.
Julie looked at Rosa. ‘He’s from the police?’ she asked.
‘Detective Chief Inspector Coburg,’ he answered.
Julie looked at him warily.
‘You can call me Edgar,’ said Coburg. ‘After all, you’re a friend of Rosa’s, and she and I are old friends.’
Julie looked at Rosa. ‘Is this for real?’ she asked.
‘I’m afraid it is,’ said Rosa.
‘What we’re trying to find out is who he is, where he lived and what he did,’ said Coburg. ‘You said his name was Joe.’
‘Joe Williams,’ said Julie. ‘Though he goes – went – by the stage name of Antonio. He said it sounded more Argentinian.’
‘Why Argentinian?’
‘He’s a tango dancer. He does – did – an act at El Torero, a club near Waterloo Station.’ She shook her head and looked suddenly distressed. ‘God, I can’t believe it! It’s not as if I was mad on him. We only went out a couple of times. I thought he was fun, which is why when we had a party I invited him along. But there was nothing serious between us.’ Suddenly she began to cry. ‘But there could have been. I mean, in a war you expect people to die. Bombs drop, buildings collapse. That’s the way it is. But you don’t expect someone to have their throat cut, especially in a place like the Ritz.’
CHAPTER TEN
Lampson stood in the mortuary at University College Hospital and watched Eric Nugent as he focused intently on the photograph of Count Ahmed. Finally, the mortuary attendant asked: ‘Who is he?’