‘Oh, it’s you,’ he said sourly, ‘it’s about time. You’d better come inside.’ He turned his back on Crosby, and that was a fatal error. The door clicked behind him and then the edge of Crosby’s right hand scythed into the back of his neck and broke it as easily as if it were a piece of fragile bone china. With almost catlike reflexes, Crosby caught hold of Penfold’s body and lowered it gently on to the floor. He then switched out the lights and stood there in the quiet office listening intently. He heard the patter of urgent feet on the staircase and waited. Somewhere above a radio was playing.
Crosby allowed five minutes to pass before he crept out of the office and locked the door behind him. As he was about to leave, some instinct made him look up, and on the landing above he saw a girl in profile, and at that precise moment, she also turned her head and noticed him. Knee-length blue suede boots hugged her silken legs, red satin hot-pants strained against her hips and the white blouse was slashed in a deep V.
‘What are you waiting down there for?’ she said. ‘I’m Gina, I won’t eat you.’ Her voice was harsh and beginning to rise. ‘Well, make up your mind,’ she snapped, ‘I haven’t got all night.’ If he backed away, there was always a chance that she might follow him down to the street mouthing abuse; he climbed the few steps to the upper landing.
She smiled without warmth. ‘That’s better. For a moment I thought we’d have to get the dog to bring you in.’ There was another open door to his right and, as he glanced sideways, his eyes met a contemptuous sneer. The woman was over fifty, stout, and wore a shapeless dress over her lumpy figure. Grey hair resembled a raveged bird’s nest, the stockings hung in wrinkles around her fat legs and swollen ankles and her toes were poking out of the carpet slippers. The Alsatian lying at her feet raised its head and snarled at him. Something foul was simmering on the stove; it smelt like boiled cabbage.
Gina said, ‘That’s Hilda, my maid; she’ll see we’re not disturbed.’ Hilda favoured Crosby with another sneer. He followed Gina into the bedroom and noticed that she was limping slightly.
‘Take your jacket off and make yourself comfortable,’ she said. She sat down on the bed, crossed her legs and casually lit a cigarette; pink lipstick formed a tide-mark around the filter tip. ‘My fee is three pounds and a tip for the maid,’ she said flatly.
Crosby weighed up the alternatives. He had been pushed into taking an enormous risk, but his life was always a series of risks, and there was no other real option open to him. It wouldn’t take long, and theirs was always a mechanical performance, and the chances were that she wouldn’t remember him, and Penfold was lying dead inside a dark locked office where no one could see him, and in less than two hours he would be catching the night flight to Paris. And with these factors in mind, he took a five- pound note out of his wallet and laid it on the bedside table.
Like an animated wooden doll, she stubbed out her cigarette in the ashtray, unzipped the hot-pants and stepped out of them, and then she rolled the tights down to her ankles.
Crosby said, ‘What about my change?’
She raised her head and forced a bright smile on to her face. ‘Listen,’ she said, ‘for five pounds I can show you some interesting variations. The French have a certain way of doing things.’
The man called Crosby, whom McKee knew as Jarman, allowed her to show him.
*
The instructions in Drabble’s letter were quite explicit and Tarrant wasted little time before telephoning Colonel Robin Mulholland. Officers like Tarrant, who worked in Military Intelligence, were expected to know where they could reach their Commanding Officer in out of duty hours. Drabble wanted to talk to the Director of Subversive Warfare whose name was Harper, and while this man was not exactly a stranger to Tarrant, he felt it would be best if Mulholland spoke to him first.
Monday
SECOND DAY
3
THE WINDOW, A DIRT-STAINED PORTHOLE ABOUT FIVE FEET IN DIAMETER, was divided by strips of wood into a number of octagonal segments. Pigeons roosted on the ledge outside and left their droppings on the glass. A firm of contractors gave the building a face-lift every three years, and it was said that, after they had washed the grime off the windows, you could actually see the National Gallery across the square. Winter or summer, strip lighting was constantly used in Harper’s office.
Harper was a man of average height and build, quiet yet authoritative, but saddled with a streak of obstinacy; a man, who once he had made up his mind that he was in the right, would not be deflected by argument. Those who knew him best said that he was very much a family man with wide-ranging interests outside his job, but if this was so, he took great care to conceal it from his colleagues. Outwardly then, he was a youthful-looking forty-eight with brown hair parted neatly on the left side, brown eyes and an unlined face in which the mouth seemed permanently on the point of breaking out into a smile.
In the few months that they had been acquainted, Mulholland had come to realise that it was a mistake to judge Harper superficially.
Harper said, ‘I don’t see why Major Tarrant has to see me.’
‘But you were specifically named in the letter he received.’
‘And my Department.’
It was more a statement of fact than a question, but Mulholland felt a reply of some kind was expected. ‘And your Department,’ he agreed reluctantly.
‘Tell me, in your opinion, how many people know of the Department for Subversive Warfare?’
Mulholland shifted uncomfortably in his chair. ‘Everyone who attends the weekly meeting of the General Purpose Intelligence Committee.’
‘Which, of course, includes Tarrant.’
‘Amongst many others,’ Mulholland said defensively. ‘Don’t forget that the Press is also aware that such an organisation does exist.’
‘Quite. But few outside Whitehall are as conversant with its detailed organisation as the writer of this letter seems to be. Could it be a hoax?’
‘The kidnapping?’
‘What else?’
‘The police have confirmed that two schoolboys are definitely missing. It was on the news this morning.’
‘I didn’t hear it.’
‘I did.’
‘What’s your opinion of Tarrant?’
‘You’ve seen him at the committee meetings.’
‘That isn’t what I meant.’
Mulholland smoothed the thinning blond hair across his pink scalp; it was a habit of his when embarrassed. ‘Well, he’s thirty- five, he was born in London of—shall we say, lower-middle-class parents—he attended a Direct Grant Grammar School as a day boy, got three A levels and entered Sandhurst at eighteen. He married the only daughter of a Yorkshire wool merchant when he was twenty but separated from her three years ago. He lives alone in a flat off Thessaly Road, and there is no girlfriend that I know of.’
Harper placed the letter on his blotter. ‘You’re a bit of a snob, Mulholland,’ he said casually.
‘I don’t think I am,’ Mulholland said heatedly. ‘Tarrant’s a good man, he won a Military Cross in Aden and only recently he was Positively Vetted.’
‘That practically makes him a saint.’
‘Will you see him now?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you want me to stay on?’
Harper examined his fingernails. ‘I don’t think that will be necessary,’ he said quietly.
Mulholland was a cavalry officer, and perhaps the saddest aspect of his life was the fact that he would never serve with his regiment again. The red tabs of a Colonel on the General Staff was a poor consolation. He didn’t mind working in Military Intelligence but he could strike no rapport with men like Harper, whose agency was outside the jurisdiction of the Ministry of Defence, and he doubted if Tarrant would either.
In this he was wrong. Harper was at pains to put Tarrant at his ease.
He said, ‘I don’t think you’ve ever been inside my office before, Major Tarrant. I’m afraid it’s rather a poky little place.
Do please sit down.’ He pushed the carved cigarette box across the desk. ‘I don’t use them myself but perhaps you would care for one?’ Tarrant helped himself and leaned forward to catch the flame from Harper’s gold Dunhill.
‘You look tired.’
‘I hardly slept at all last night.’
‘No, I don’t suppose you did.’ Harper picked up the sheet of paper. ‘Of course I’ve read this letter you collected from the left luggage at St Pancras, but there are one or two questions I’d like to ask you.’
‘I understand.’
‘Are you a rich man, Major Tarrant?’
‘What?’
‘Your son has been kidnapped, so whoever did it must have some asking price in mind.’
‘I haven’t got a private income.’
‘How about your father-in-law?’
‘He’s fairly comfortably off but I wouldn’t describe him as a wealthy man.’
‘And I don’t suppose your parents would be in a position to help you?’ Harper said diplomatically.
‘They’re both dead.’
Harper dropped the letter on to the desk. ‘Your son wasn’t alone when he was kidnapped?’
‘No, there was a boy called James Stroud with him, and he’s still missing.’
‘Has this man Drabble contacted Stroud’s parents?’
‘No. At least he hadn’t before I left home this morning.’
‘How odd. Of course, you reported the kidnapping to the Metropolitan Police?’
‘Yes, after I collected the letter.’
‘Why not before?’
‘The North Riding Police were already looking for them. I thought it was more important to see what was in the letter.’
‘Why do you think this man Drabble wants to speak to me?’
‘I really don’t know.’
‘Is anyone with your wife at the moment? Her mother perhaps?’
‘No, she’s alone. Her mother wanted to come down from Bradford last night, but you see, she’s very fond of her grandson, and quite honestly, she’s not very much good in a crisis, and Alex thought she would only make things worse.’
‘Have there been other crises?’
‘Our daughter was killed in a traffic accident four years ago.’
‘I’m sorry. Was that the cause of your separation?’
Tarrant could feel the colour flowing into his face. ‘There were other reasons,’ he said quietly. ‘Sarah’s death was the final straw.’
Harper said smoothly, ‘I apologise, I didn’t mean to pry into your private life.’ He picked up a pencil and drew a number of circles on the blotting-paper. ‘I shouldn’t think for a minute that Colonel Mulholland will expect to see you in the office again until this affair is over. Where can I get in touch with you should the need arise?’
‘At my wife’s flat,’ and then for no reason he felt compelled to say, ‘there’s a spare bedroom.’
Harper raised an eyebrow. ‘Oh yes?’ he said vaguely.
Tarrant said hesitantly, ‘Will you be there tonight, sir, when Drabble phones?’
‘Of course I will. Could I have the address?’
‘26B, Niger Avenue, Chiswick.’
Harper wrote it down on his pad, looked up and smiled. ‘I’ll be there just before eight,’ he said. Tarrant thanked him, stubbed out his cigarette and left. It wasn’t until he was walking down Whitehall that he remembered Harper still had Drabble’s letter.
*
Harper was a man with a logical mind who liked to think a problem out, and Tarrant was most definitely a problem, and the trouble was that he didn’t know enough about the man. There was little point in approaching MI5 to see what they had on him because Tarrant had only recently been positively vetted, but if there was anything shady about his private life which had been missed, then Special Branch were just the people to sniff it out.
He pressed the button on the office intercom and said, ‘Miss Nightingale, would you please get me Chief Superintendent Wray on the green line?’ Miss Nightingale was extremely efficient; he was connected in less than two minutes.
A gruff voice said, ‘Good morning, Cedric, what can I do for you?’
‘A lot, I hope,’ said Harper, ‘but I think we had better switch to secure means. Will you press your scrambler button now please?’ He waited for a few moments and then said, ‘Stanley, I have a problem with a young army officer called Tarrant whose son has apparently been kidnapped. Now I know kidnapping is outside your province, but I would like to know a lot more about his background than I do at present. You see, he’s with Military Intelligence and his section deals with Russia and the Warsaw Pact countries. I think we ought to have lunch together—say one o’clock at my club, if that’s convenient?’
Wray said that it was.
*
The branch line to Barnard Castle had been closed for years. Rails and sleepers had been ripped up and the gravel chippings had disappeared beneath the encroaching grass. Indeed, except for the obvious cuttings and embankments, it was not easy now to see exactly where the permanent way had been.
At ten that morning, a group of sixth-formers from the Russell Turner Comprehensive began walking the line from Barnard Castle to Darlington, mapping the old railway route as part of a school project. They had been going for nearly two hours and were well out into the country when they came across the boy. He was weaving towards them, and as far as they could deduce from his almost incoherent speech, he said his name was James Stroud and he had been sleeping in an old plate-layer’s hut. Despite his obvious youth, they were under the impression that he was drunk until one of their number spotted the egg-shaped lump and dried blood in the hair at the base of his skull. Convinced then that he was suffering from concussion, they insisted on carrying him to the main road by the most direct cross country route, while the fastest runner went ahead to phone for an ambulance.
At a quarter past one, James Stroud was admitted to the County Hospital, where a clinical examination showed that he was suffering from a mild case of concussion. Further tests revealed that he had been given Lysergic Acid Diethylamide. A request by the police to take a statement from him was refused on the grounds that he was still under the influence of the drug.
*
McKee had always admired the dining-room because it had a touch of grandeur about it. He liked the mullioned bow windows, the Spanish mahogany dining-table and chairs and the deep pile carpet which toned with the velvet drapes. The Burroughs knew how to live in style but of course they had had a head start with their converted Georgian farmhouse.
He pushed back his chair and stretching out his legs, crossed them at the ankle. ‘I liked the wine, Paul,’ he said, ‘you have quite a cellar.’
‘It’s getting a little crowded,’ Burroughs said pointedly.
‘We had to put the boy somewhere. I thought it was an ideal spot—soundproof, secure and adequately ventilated—what more could you ask?’
‘For you to go away.’
The smile faded on McKee’s face. ‘I’m afraid that’s impossible,’ he said softly.
‘Then I only hope what we are doing is worth it.’
‘I really am getting rather bored with that line, Paul.’
‘Killing Findon and Goring was a mistake.’
‘You think so?’ McKee said icily.
‘You know damn well it was, and dumping the Stroud boy was another.’
‘The people we shall be dealing with are a very hard-headed lot and we shall really have to frighten them to show that we mean business. Now, it would be bad for public relations if we’d killed the other boy, but Goring and Findon are in a different category. Their death is a sort of curtain-raiser.’
Burroughs stood up. ‘If you’ll excuse me,’ he said shakily, ‘it’s nearly two o’clock and I’ve got work to do.’
‘Don’t tell me—you’ve got a farm to run.’
‘But only for a few more days.’ The heavy footsteps and the door slamming behind Burroughs were obviou
s signs of his bitterness, anger and fear.
McKee said, ‘I’m sure you want to add your piece, Ruth.’
Ruth Burroughs smiled. ‘You mustn’t take it to heart; Paul is naturally disappointed to be leaving this place after he has made such a success of it.’
‘With our help, don’t forget.’
‘With your help,’ she agreed, ‘but things have been getting on top of him.’ A slim hand strayed across the table and lightly touched his wrist. ‘You understand?’
‘What’s he worried about? Around here he is known to be a Radio Ham. He has sent his last official message so now he can just amuse himself talking to that schoolteacher friend of his in Johore Bahru.’
Her eyes were deep and watchful. ‘Sometimes I wonder about you,’ she said quietly. ‘Are you a lonely man?’
‘As lonely as Tarrant.’
‘You’re alike?’
‘As brothers,’ he said morosely, ‘but not in appearance. He’s taller, heavier and fair, and of course he’s ten years younger, but we have a lot in common—an over-riding sense of loyalty, amongst other things. In a way, it’s a pity we have to destroy him.’
*
They were like strangers at a party, sizing one another up while they made small talk. Wray was hardly a social asset but then it was hardly a social occasion. He was a medium-sized man with iron-grey hair and a weight problem. Exchanging pleasantries was not his forte.
The lounge in Alex’s flat had undergone a drastic change, and now it was more like an Operations Centre than a home. A Grundig tape recorder had been plugged into the domestic telephone, and a second phone, giving them a direct line to the GPO Tower, had just been installed. This latter one was permanently manned by a duty policeman, who would be changed every eight hours round the clock.
There were five of them—Harper, Wray, Alex, Tarrant and the duty policeman—and their eyes were on the domestic telephone willing it to ring. In such a tense atmosphere the conversation was bound to be limited. At exactly ten minutes past eight the phone began to ring.
Seven Days to a Killing Page 3