by R. S. Sutton
‘Secure?’ said Valerie. ‘This is hardly the bloody Kremlin.’ His smile was polite but firm as he grabbed his mac and held the door open.
‘After you, Miss.’
The journey to the nearest police station was quick and uninformative, as the inspector restricted his conversation to the weather and how it would affect the running in the two-thirty at Kempton.
The police station, constructed during the optimism of the nineteen-fifties, stood back at the top of five wide steps. Once again Simonds courteously held the door for Valerie.
A uniformed sergeant looked up from his desk, pointing his pencil along the corridor to the side. ‘Along there, second door, he’s waiting for you.’ Uninterested, he went back to checking a file of papers as they passed.
The inspector led the way along a discoloured passageway. ‘Miss Stone, sir.’ His expression unchanged, he held the door to an office with the minimum of furniture.
‘So good of you to spare the time to come and see us, Valerie.’ The man, with a rich baritone voice, rose from the only comfortable-looking chair and held out his hand. ‘I’m Thompson, and this gentleman, as you know, is Simonds.’ He shook her hand, before waving her to a chair that wouldn’t have looked out of place in a Victorian classroom.
She looked at the two men. Thompson, in his sixties, was probably approaching six feet tall and, with a clipped moustache, just had to be ex-army. Simonds, the man that had brought her to the station, was younger, a strong, fit-looking man of about forty.
‘Simonds,’ said Thompson as they sat down, ‘has been keeping an eye on you, making sure you didn’t come to any harm.’
‘I didn’t notice him,’ said Valerie. ‘But what’s more to the point, why? Why should I have come to any harm?’
Thompson smiled. ‘He’d have been back in the office and behind a desk if you had seen him. And why…’ said Thompson, ‘is a little more involved. For one thing you’re on the inside and we’re not… at least, not anymore. So we… let’s see, how can I put it, wanted to sound you out on something, see if we might be able to help each other.’
Valerie moved her eyes from one man to the other. ‘Help each other is usually a euphemism for I help you, and if it coincides with me getting what I want then lucky me.’
‘No, no, no,’ said Thompson. ‘We are people of honour.’ He talked slowly while raising an eyebrow towards Simonds. ‘That’s more than can be said for the people you’ve been running around with for the last couple of weeks.’
‘Oh yes?’ said Valerie. ‘And what do you know about the people I’ve been running around with?’
‘We’ll get to that,’ cut in Simonds. ‘How do you feel about helping your country?’
‘What?! Some poor sod falls from a boat and suddenly I’m working for the police? I work for myself: private investigator, emphasis on the private.’
Thompson shook his head as Simonds was about to speak again. ‘We’re not the police. Simonds here carries a card for, let’s say, convenience. Saves a lot of explaining.’
‘Oh God,’ said Valerie, ‘spooks.’
‘No, we’re not anything like that.’
Thompson pulled a cigar tube from his inside pocket. ‘Please, get your cigarettes out. I’ll not tell if you don’t.’ He removed the screw top and, turning the tube upside down, let the single Havana fall into his palm. ‘Better open the window a bit, Bill.’ Wafting a match back and forth across the cigar, he let the smoke drift from his lips.
‘I take it you work for the government?’ said Valerie, accepting a light from the colonel’s dying match.
‘Kind of,’ said Simonds quickly. ‘We’re not a bunch of gangsters.’
‘Yes,’ said Thompson. ‘All a bit cloak and dagger, I know, but we’re definitely on the side of the angels.’
‘And I’m supposed to jump in and give my country a leg-up, am I?’ She drew on her cigarette and then, realising she didn’t want it, looked around the room for somewhere to put it out. Seeing nothing suitable, she held it between her fingers like a used tissue.
‘I live in a country that sells anything that’s worth ten pence to the highest foreign bidder. Throws everything you can think of down the drain, all to fund the latest politically correct piece of garbage.’ She stood and flicked the unwanted cigarette from the window. ‘All the car industry gone, ICI gone, Roundtree McIntosh, Pilkington’s, every precious and worthwhile company let go abroad.’ Her knuckles whitened as she gripped the chair back. ‘They blew every penny of Marshall aid on keeping a world presence and let all our industries go down the sewer. And where is the North Sea revenue? Gone. Wasted. And you want me to dive into my undies drawer and pull out my Union Jack knickers?’
She sat down again and looked at them both in disbelief. ‘Dear God,’ she said through clenched teeth, ‘some ruddy hope.’
Again, Thompson cut in as Simonds was about to say something. ‘Hold on, Bill. Just take a look at what we have here in front of us. You’re looking at that most rare of creatures.’ He got up and handed a card to Valerie. ‘Can you come to this address tomorrow? Nine o’clock, okay?’ He took her hand. ‘Nice to have met you, Valerie. Oh, by the way, as I presume you’re going to sleep on it, also consider this: your cut going from point seven five per cent to three.’
She wanted to ask how he knew of her arrangements with Southern and East but kept quiet.
***
To the edge of Trafalgar Square, Valerie stood outside the modest doorway, “Art Records” etched into the surface of a small brass plaque. She tapped Thompson’s card on her fingers and turned it face up. Colonel R. Thompson. British Museum. Fine Art and Antiquities. Records Dept.
The oak door glided easily as Valerie turned the replacement alloy knob.
‘Good morning, Miss.’ To one side, almost hidden behind a large vase of lilies, a grey-haired woman in a tight-fitting, pink cardigan got to her feet from behind the desk. ‘Would it be Miss Stone?’ Before Valerie could reply, the woman carried on in a soft voice. ‘Right on time. The colonel is expecting you. It’s in the basement, I’m afraid.’ She held a hand out towards the side of the small reception area. ‘Down the stairs, along to your right. There is a sign on the door.’
As soon as she reached the last step, the carpet ran out. She followed the concrete passageway past four steel doors to the last one, that had the department name on a green composite plate. Again, a heavy-looking door opened easily and she entered a modern office. Two desks sat on an olive carpet, a man behind one desk, the other empty.
‘Good morning.’ Leaving his work, he got to his feet. He was young, about her age, and looked every inch the college graduate who, glittering with Oxbridge firsts, had been guided into the Civil Service. Before coming around to Valerie’s side of the desk, he pressed a switch next to his computer terminal. ‘Miss Stone is here, Colonel.’ He continued his way round and ushered her through a thick oak door.
‘You and the lady at the front door seem to be expecting me…’ With slightly raised eyebrows, Valerie held on to the young man’s gaze.
‘Dennis, Miss Stone. Just call me Dennis,’ he said, holding the door.
‘Come in.’ Thompson was sat behind an elaborately tooled, leather-topped Georgian desk. A smaller one to the side, plush chairs and a rich red carpet all contributed towards the feel of comfortable opulence. Small alcoves contained classically clothed statues of one sort or another, and the walls were decorated with impressive paintings, both contemporary and antiquarian. Highly polished dog irons sat either side of a wide fireplace. The whole room was larger than would be needed for just an office. It made her think of the Reform Club, not that she’d ever set foot in it. All this was accompanied by a steady whirring in the background.
‘One of the perks of being in the same building as the arts,’ he said, noticing Valerie’s roving eye. ‘Only drawback is having this bloody air-c
onditioning going twenty-four hours.’ He took a bottle of water and half-filled a tumbler. ‘Bloody canned air plays havoc with my chest.’ Tapping at his ribs, he took a sip.
‘Surprised you wanted me to come, after what I said yesterday.’
Thompson looked at the young man. ‘Well, Dennis, you have the file on Miss Stone.’ The young man pulled out a chair, sat at the smaller table and opened a folder.
‘I have my own file?’ said Valerie with slight surprise.
Dennis peeled off a few pages. ‘Oh, just a few things, need to make sure we know with whom we are dealing. Then, of course, we’ve kept an eye on you since you started on this case. Down on the Exe with the fishermen and bringing The Sun Dancer back to the Medway with the younger one.’
‘Okay, so why am I here, apart from my own curiosity?’
‘Yes,’ said Thompson, ‘where to start?’
‘Well, there’s nothing in here,’ said Dennis, patting the file with a flat palm, ‘but…’
‘Yes,’ said Thompson, ‘but… There’s always a but.’
‘I think we can, sir, especially after what you told me about yesterday’s meeting.’
‘Yes, I think so too,’ said Thompson. ‘Well, Valerie, straight in at the deep end, if you’ll excuse the pun. The body on Weymouth beach was not, or we’re pretty certain was not, Alan Preston.’ He opened the highly polished box on his desk and selected a cigar.
‘PC not worked its way into the basement then?’ said Valerie, pulling a pack of cigarettes from her jacket.
‘No,’ said Thompson, reaching across with a lit match. ‘That’s the beauty of working here. No one’s going to charge in and drag us off to Camp Delta.’ A smile of satisfaction illuminated his face as the thick smoke was pulled towards the extractor.
‘The body found at Weymouth was not Preston?’ she repeated quizzically. ‘Seems you disregard DNA as you do the law on smoking. And his personal assistant, I presume you’ve had a word with her?’
‘No, I’m afraid not,’ said Dennis, waving a hand across his mouth while pushing his chair away from the smoke. ‘She seems to have disappeared just after signing the papers. Not been heard of since.’
‘DNA? It’s either right or it’s not.’ Valerie looked at each man in turn.
Thompson rolled his cigar between thumb and forefinger. ‘That’s easy,’ he said. ‘You find the lab technician, shove a pile of fifties and a blood sample under his nose, and tell him you know where he and his family live.’
‘I’m afraid we’re dealing with people that are going to get what they want and are not all that fussy about the way they get it,’ said Dennis. ‘It’s the way of the world.’
‘Okay,’ said Valerie, ‘what’s it about?’
Thompson tapped a forefinger on the table. ‘Let’s start with Alan Preston’s possible location.’ Valerie nodded and he carried on. ‘If he’s alive, and we think he is, he’s anywhere he wants to damn well be: South America, West Indies, Hong Kong, South Africa.’ He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Where is not as important as why.’
‘Yes, I suppose,’ said Valerie. ‘Okay, why? And who was on the beach?’
‘Yes, let’s go to who was on the beach,’ said Dennis. ‘Almost certain it was Clive Trent.’
‘Trent… okay, and where does Clive Trent fit into all this?’
Dennis took a file from a drawer in the small desk, removed the top page and handed it to Valerie. ‘One of us,’ he said as Valerie looked at the official photo attached to the details.
‘We think, or rather, we know,’ said Thompson, ‘it’s to do with bringing undesirables into the country. They have various side-lines, but at the moment it’s the trafficking of these rather nasty pieces of work.’
Valerie pushed a finger across her furrowed brow. ‘They’re coming in from all over the place, even rowing across the ruddy channel,’ she said. ‘You’re not going to tell me this is just an economic migrant scam; all this trouble and expensive transport, they’d be losing money on the deal. A grand would get you in without going to all this messing around, for Christ’s sake.’ Valerie put the sheet of paper on the desk and looked at the two men. ‘This is a lot bigger than you’re letting on. And if you think I’m going to be the next body on the beach, you can think again. Anyway, why make a claim on Preston’s insurance? It just draws attention.’
‘Not making a claim might have drawn even more attention, that’s, of course, if your new boyfriend knows what’s going on. He might be just an innocent putting in a claim, when the bad boys would rather he kept quiet.’
For the moment, Valerie pushed the thought of David Preston being involved to the back of her mind. It was unlikely, she thought; very unlikely, she hoped.
‘Well, it’s been lovely meeting you,’ she said, getting to her feet, ‘but I think I’ll get back to planet earth.’
‘We have no one else, Valerie,’ said Thompson, fixing her with a glowering stare. ‘You’re on the inside, or as much as we have on the inside. We need you. We can’t send in anyone else. Not again. And, as you so eloquently put it, time to pull on your Union Jack knickers.’
‘What for? This lot in Westminster, you kidding? The left is no better than Marxists and the others are somewhere to the right of Genghis Khan. They even use a Spanish bank. Where’s their patriotism? Why should I care when the government doesn’t?’
‘No, no, let her go.’
Dennis got out of the way as Valerie moved to the door.
Thompson pulled a file across the desk and took out his pen. ‘You have my card if you change your mind,’ he said without raising his eyes.
***
It was just ten-thirty the next morning.
‘Her Majesty’s Revenue and Customs.’ The man flicked at the plastic ID attached to the lapel of his grey suit as he bypassed Jane and approached Valerie’s desk. ‘We need to see you about your failure to submit a VAT return.’
‘What?’ said Valerie getting to her feet. ‘Return? What are you talking about?’
‘VAT.’
Dressed by Laura Ashley, a woman followed holding a tan briefcase under her arm. Dyed black hair was pulled tightly back from high cheekbones. The smile was thin, as were the lips that were heavy with lipstick. ‘Seems like you’ve been a little economical with the truth.’ Eyes that matched her hair swept around the office as she dropped a single sheet of paper on Valerie’s desk.
A cold sweat froze on Valerie’s spine. ‘You’re kidding?’ she said. ‘We’re not registered, don’t turn over enough.’
‘Not what we’ve heard.’ The woman sat behind Jane’s desk, opened the drawers and, inclining her head, gave the contents a sideward glance. ‘We think you’ve been a naughty girl. Making up VAT registration numbers just to bump up your accounts. Yes?’ Pulling out files and placing them on the desktop, she smiled.
‘Have to take all this lot back to the office,’ said the man as he looked around the shelving heavy with boxed files. ‘See if we can make sense of it all.’
In his mid-fifties, Valerie guessed him about the same age as the woman. Being out on the road towards the end of their careers, they had both probably been overlooked at several promotion opportunities.
Valerie went to her jacket hanging on the back of the toilet door and pulled out Thompson’s card. Taking her phone, she punched in his number and walked outside the office. ‘Okay,’ she said as he answered, ‘call the goons off. I’ll come in and see you.’
‘Valerie, lovely to hear from you.’ She could imagine Thompson’s smile as his plan fell into place. ‘What goons, my dear? What’s the problem?’
‘You bloody well know. The VAT are all over me like a badly fitting suit. Get them out of my soddin’ office.’
‘Valerie, Valerie,’ he said, ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘The hell you don’t. The VAT. Her M
ajesty’s Revenue and bloody Customs, come in here like the Waffen SS, as well you know.’
‘Valerie, calm down. What do you think I can do?’
‘I want them out of here. I get the message.’ She switched the phone off and stormed back in. ‘I’ll nail that manipulating sod to the wall,’ she said, throwing the phone onto the desk.
The man, rather startled, took a pile of files to the waiting car, as the woman flicked open a notepad. ‘Valerie Stone,’ she said. ‘That’s right, isn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ said Valerie, ‘of course. And who put the finger on me? As if I didn’t know.’
‘And it’s you here, and who else? Who do you employ?’
‘Only a secretary,’ she said, nodding across to a Jane, who was making an effort to look both confused and innocent.
‘Just employed? Not a partner?’
‘Just employed.’
Valerie was quite sure she knew what was going on and threw out anything that might keep them in the office while Thompson made his phone call. ‘Bet the bastard keeps the number on autodial.’ The woman raised her eyebrows, but Valerie carried on. ‘What happens next? Do you know how long this is going to take?’
‘We’ll have this lot out quite quickly.’ The woman had the smug expression of someone who was used to being in control. ‘Don’t worry.’
‘No, I mean how long when you get it all back to your office? Before I get the books back?’
‘Oh, usually you get put on the end of a queue, but we’ll make a special effort to get your case sorted. Should hear from us in a couple of months. No need to worry until then. After that? Well… then it’s oh-dear time.’
‘Oh-dear time?’ said Valerie. ‘Love your job, don’t you? Can’t make it out in the big bad world, so get to dish it out as a civil servant.’
‘Come on, Miss Stone, don’t be a poor loser. You win some, you lose some. Or in your case, it’s you lose some, you lose some more.’
The man came back, interrupting the conversation. ‘Have to take your phone too.’ Keeping his chin on the next pile of files, he held out a free hand.