D-Notice

by Bill Walker

  Michael’s eyes widened and she immediately regretted telling him this.

  “Why didn’t you say something?”

  “I didn’t want to alarm you. I didn’t think they would follow me here.”

  “Erika, who are they?”

  The night had turned colder, and a mist had begun forming on the ground. Michael helped her to her feet and then put his jacket around her shoulders. She leaned against him, shock and exhaustion finally taking their toll.

  “My father had enemies,” she said finally, her eyes focused on a point far in the distance, “competitors who will stop at nothing to gain control of what is now my company.”

  “Including murder?”

  Erika said nothing, not sure if she could trust him, even after all they had been through. What would he say if he knew the whole truth? Would he still be willing to help her, or would he walk away?

  “The pub I mentioned isn’t far from here,” Michael offered. “About a mile and a half. We’ll hike there and hire a cab to take us into town. I suggest we take a room at a hotel for the night. They might be watching my flat.”

  “But surely they think we’re dead....”

  Michael shook his head. “I don’t think they’re that easily satisfied. At best, your little deception has bought us some time. Eventually, possibly tomorrow if they check the car again, they’ll know they’ve been had. In the meantime, we need to find out what my father left for me. Perhaps then we’ll be able to make some sense of all this.”

  Leaning on each other, they hobbled back to the road and headed off toward the pub.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  It was after one in the morning by the time they checked into the modest-looking hotel in East London.

  “No one will look for us in a place like this,” Erika said.

  She was right. The hotel lobby looked tired and threadbare around the edges, like a child’s once-favorite toy now relegated to the back of a closet. Cheap red carpeting dotted with dark oily stains, clashed with vomit-green walls and furniture covered in orange and black leatherette upholstery. The whole effect was of a room in some hideous corner of America’s heartland—the furthest thing from London’s East End. The only giveaway was a framed portrait of the queen staring sternly down from her perch on the wall above the soot-stained mantel.

  After paying in cash, Michael and Erika trudged up to their room, the manager dogging their heels. A gnomish man of indeterminate age, he babbled in his thick Birmingham accent, pointing out various aspects of the hotel. A moment later, he was gone, his admonishment not to play the television after nine fading down the hall.

  “Bloody depressing,” Michael said, wiping his finger along the top of the dresser. It came away smudged with grime.

  “You’ve obviously never been to Berlin. There are places even a rat wouldn’t live in.” Erika stripped off her blouse, revealing a frilly lace bra, her generous breasts threatening to spill out of the cups. “I’m going to take a bath.”

  She walked past Michael, her heady fragrance filling his nostrils. A flush of heat rose up from his collar.

  Bloody Christ!

  “Uhh, fine.... I’ll check the message machine at my flat.”

  Erika nodded wearily and disappeared into the bathroom. A moment later the sound of the water splashing into the tub filled the room. Shaking his head, Michael went over to the bed and sat down, reaching for the phone that sat on the battered nightstand. He grimaced when he noticed the rubbed-in filth on the ear- and mouthpieces. Wiping them off on the bedspread he dialed his number.

  “Hello, you’ve reached Michael’s answering machine. Though I’m not at home, you may leave a message after you hear the tone. Cheerio!”

  It sounded insipid now that he heard it as others did. He made a mental note to change it when he got home—if he ever did. And the bit about not being home, a bloody invitation to any thief who cased by phone.

  The machine beeped and Michael punched in his three-digit code. He heard the machine click and the message tape rewinding. Three seconds later the first message played back: “Michael, it’s mother, I’m sorry again about what happened. Please call me when you get back. I think we need to talk.”

  The machine beeped and then the second message played: “Michael! Where the bloody hell are you? Everything’s all mucked up. Call me as soon as you get home.”

  He listened for a few minutes more then hung up when he realized there were no more messages. He would call his mother back and apologize. It was the right thing to do, after all. But she could wait. Ferguson was another matter. Picking up the phone, he dialed again.

  Ferguson leapt for the phone when it rang, knocking it off the table. Cursing, he snatched it up and put it to his ear, suddenly nervous.

  “H—hello?”

  “Hi, John, it’s Michael.”

  Ferguson rocketed to his feet and began pacing, the ratty robe flapping open as he walked. “Dear God, man, where have you been? I’ve been going out of my mind.”

  “I’d rather not go into it. What’s the problem, someone misplace a grave?”

  Ferguson rolled his eyes. “You know, Michael, sometimes you’re a real shit. I’ve just spent the last five hours sitting under a bleedin’ hot light answering the same damn questions over and over again. Christ! It was like something out of a bad Yank movie. We opened a real can of worms, mate.”

  There was a long moment of stunned silence. “What are you talking about?”

  Ferguson’s motions became more frantic. “What the fuck do you think? The bloody South Wessex crap. There’s a D-notice on that! These wankers aren’t fucking around.”

  “Who? Special Branch?”

  “MI-bloody-Six! They kept asking me where you were. They want you to come in and talk to them, Michael.” Ferguson stopped pacing and listened. “Michael, are you there?”

  “I’m sorry you had to take the brunt of this, John. But there’s something strange going on with all of this, something I’m convinced is tied in with what happened to my dad. They’re hiding something—the D-notice confirms it.”

  “Never mind all that,” Ferguson said, pacing again. “If you want to keep your bloody job, you’ll tell them everything you know with a pretty-please-and-a-cherry-on-top. As for me, I want nothing more to do with this. As far as I’m concerned, the Royal South Wessex can bloody well rot.” Ferguson slammed the phone down and screamed, “Bloody gits!”

  Suddenly exhausted, Ferguson trudged back toward the bedroom. It was then that someone began pounding on the door. Sharp, insistent, and as relentless as before. Livid, he stormed toward the door and flung it open. He noticed that the lights in the hall were out, obscuring whoever it was standing outside his door.

  “Bloody Christ! I’ve had it with you bastards. I told you all I know.” Ferguson squinted into the gloom. “Where’s Welles, anyway? The shit too lazy to come himself this time?”

  Before he could say anything else, a silenced automatic pistol was thrust into his face. It fired once, sounding like a loud cough. A spot of red flowered on Ferguson’s forehead and he toppled to the floor. A moment later, the pistol coughed once more, and a heavily accented voice intoned, “The Eagle flies....”

  Michael hung up the phone and sighed, running his hand through his now unruly hair. He felt as if the four puke green walls of the room were closing in on him. Nothing made sense, not a bloody thing. And yet, there was a glimmer of hope that somehow it would all fit. The key was Cadwallader and Soames. Would they still have the things his father left in their care? After all, it had been forty-three years. Coming out of his thoughts, he heard Erika singing in the bathroom, her husky voice barely able to hold the tune. He recognized it as something by Duran Duran. A moment later the singing stopped.

  “Michael?”

  He looked up and caught sight of her standing in the bathroom doorway, wrapped in a damp towel. A wave of hot soapy air filled the room, raising the humidity to the saturation point. He didn’t notice. Every
drop of water stood out on her skin like tiny liquid diamonds, and her hair, now wet and scraggly, hung over her smoldering eyes, making her look like some world-weary waif.

  “The bath’s free,” she said, running a hand up her arm.

  Without realizing that he was doing it, Michael stood up and walked toward her. It felt as if some outside force were operating his body and he was along for the ride, watching as if through a pair of reversed binoculars. A heart-stopping moment later he stood in front of her, inhaling her scent and losing himself in her eyes. He could hear his heart beating in his ears and his head felt as if it were filled with wet cotton. He saw something in her face, a longing that matched his own, and yet a part of him wanted to run, wanted to hide from her. He raised a hand to touch her and stopped himself. What was he doing? Was he daft? They’d only just met. It was then that he realized that the room had returned to normal perspectives and the look he saw in her face had fled. Had it really been there to begin with, or was it just post-adolescent longing? Feeling awkward, he fumbled with the bathroom door.

  “Why don’t you order up some food. I’ll just be a minute.”

  Erika watched Michael disappear into the bathroom, her mind a tangle of conflicting thoughts and emotions. Michael was clearly attracted to her. That much was obvious. The problem was she was beginning to reciprocate those feelings, and that was not something she’d bargained for.

  Mein Gott, what am I to do? There’s no room in my life for this.

  She sighed and waited until she heard the sound of the shower, then went to the phone, picked it up and dialed.

  “Ja, it’s me,” she said.

  And then she began to speak in rapid German.

  The remnants of their carry-out fish and chips lay on paper plates strewn on one of the twin beds. Michael sat back against the headboard, his arm thrown over his eyes, his breathing deep and regular. Erika watched him; her expression neutral.

  “Are you awake?” she asked.

  “Mmmmm.... Just trying to sort everything out.”

  “What’s a D-notice, Michael?”

  He dropped his arm and looked at her with tired eyes. “You heard me?”

  “I didn’t mean to.... Your friend, he is angry with you?”

  “Scared was more like it.”

  He spent the next few minutes telling her about his conversation with Ferguson.

  “So, what does ‘D-notice’ mean?”

  Michael sat up and crossed his legs. “It’s a restriction the British government places on information it deems ‘injurious to the public good.’ Sort of like ‘Top Secret’ or ‘Eyes only.’”

  “And you think our fathers were involved in some way?”

  “I’d almost bet my life on it,” he said, his eyes burning with a fierce light.

  A flicker of worry crossed Erika’s face. Michael touched her hand, a brush of flesh against flesh. “I said...almost.... I’ve got to find out what happened to my father...and why. And to hell with the bloody government!”

  “It was wrong of me to come here and ask you to become involved in my problems,” she said.

  Michael shot her a look of disbelief. “What?”

  “Let’s forget the whole thing. Go back to your life, Michael...while you still can....”

  “Go back? Are you mad? After all that’s happened, you want to quit?”

  She touched him then, and it jolted him like an electric cattle prod. “Yes, please....”

  He looked into her eyes, and again he saw something there, a longing. “There’s something you’re not telling me.”

  She withdrew, shaking her head. “No, it’s nothing. We’ll keep going. I’ve no right to prevent you from finding the truth about your father. It’s what my father would have wanted.”

  Confused, Michael was unprepared when Erika leaned over and caressed his face, placing a delicate kiss on his nose. She then moved over to the other twin bed and lay down, her face turned away from him.

  Michael stared at her, his mind aswirl. A moment later his puzzled frown changed to a boyish grin. Sleep eluded him for the rest of the night.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  The offices of Cadwallader & Soames, Solicitors, occupied one of the white stone buildings on a quiet corner of Regent Street several blocks from the bustle of Piccadilly Circus.

  As Michael and Erika’s cab pulled over to the curb, his anxiety rose. What if they’d lost what had been entrusted to them? And what if they had it, and refused to relinquish it? These thoughts and others raced through his mind while he stared at the building’s forbidding facade.

  “Are you all right?” Erika asked.

  He nodded. “I’m fine, let’s go.”

  Michael handed the cabby a five-pound note and didn’t bother to wait for the change. Erika clambered out after him. They passed through the stout wooden doors and disappeared inside.

  The entry way led up a short flight of stairs covered in a thick forest green carpet that gave underfoot. The walls were paneled in a dark wood and lit by filigreed light fittings that gave off a pale amber glow. It was obvious the firm was no longer the one his mother remembered. It resembled a mausoleum. It was only later he learned that it employed over 200 attorneys.

  On reaching the first floor, Michael spotted the receptionist’s desk, a semicircular modern piece wholly out of place with the rest of the decor, yet it added an ominous tone of authority to the woman seated behind it. Middle-aged and dressed severely in a dark suit, the receptionist was everyone’s nightmare schoolmarm: sharp face, graying hair pulled into a tight bun and secured with a carved ivory comb. She wore a headset with a built-in microphone that allowed her hands to remain free to perform other tasks; and she was typing now as she spoke, her thin bloodless fingers a tangled blur.

  “Cadwallader and Soames. Yes, Mr. Halleday is expecting your call. Please hold.” She stopped typing only long enough to hit a series of buttons on the compact switchboard. “Mr. Halleday? Mr. Richardson on line five.... Cadwallader and Soames. No, I’m sorry, Mr. Bridges is on holiday until next week. Do you wish to leave word?”

  Michael watched while she scribbled something on one of the preprinted pink message slips, tore it off its pad, then slipped it into one of the slots behind her already bulging with messages.

  “Excuse me,” Michael said, leaning over the desk, “I’m looking for Mart—”

  “Cadwallader and Soames. Yes, Mr. Prentiss. I gave Mr. Gaylord your message over an hour ago. No, I don’t know why he hasn’t returned your call.”

  “Excuse me, Ma’am, but—”

  “Cadwallader and Soames. Yes, sir. The writs were delivered well before the filing deadline....”

  Michael shot Erika an annoyed look, his patience nearing its end. One thing he could never stand was rudeness in any form, especially from those who were supposed to be greeting the public. Erika shook her head and shrugged, apparently at a loss as to what to do. That was fine, for he knew exactly what to do.

  Reaching across the desk, Michael grabbed the cable leading from the receptionist’s headset and yanked it out of the switchboard. The receptionist jumped, as if someone had jabbed her with a needle. She lunged for the cable’s end, her eyes blazing. Michael deftly moved it farther away.

  “You give me that back, or I shall call security at once.”

  Erika smiled at Michael’s audacity.

  “That might be a little difficult,” he said, holding up the cable.

  The woman fumed. “What is it you want?”

  Michael put on his best smile. “So sorry to trouble you, but we’re looking for Martin Cadwallader, a matter of utmost importance.”

  The receptionist smiled then, and its cold, merciless expression sent a chill through Michael. She grabbed the cable back and plugged it in. Nearly every light on the switchboard was blinking.

  “I’m sorry. Mr. Cadwallader retired some years ago.”

  “But surely, someone would be familiar with our business....” Michael couldn’t keep
the disappointment from out of his voice. It turned to anger when he saw the gleam of pleasure in the receptionist’s eyes. He wanted to slap her.

  The receptionist tapped a series of buttons on the switchboard. “Mr. Ripley to reception.”

  Michael started to say something else, but Erika’s tap on his shoulder silenced him. There was no point in trying to win a game of one-upmanship with this woman. They went over and sat down on a leather-covered sofa. It felt cool against the skin of his arm and the smell of leather conditioner was a soothing balm to his spirit, something homely and familiar. A few moments later, a slight young man appeared. He looked as if he’d slept in his too-tight herringbone polyester suit, which clashed with his checked shirt and regimental tie. The young man stopped at the reception desk and spoke with the receptionist, who pointed a long finger at Michael and Erika. He smiled and nodded his thanks and walked over to them, his hand extended.

  “I’m Halbert Ripley, so glad to meet you,” he said, in a reedy voice. It sounded as if he’d been breathing helium. Michael just managed to keep a straight face as he took the man’s hand.

  “Michael Thorley, and this is my friend, Erika Rainer.”

  Ripley’s flaccid hand felt like a dead fish. He cracked a wan smile and pushed the thick black frames of his glasses back up the bridge of his pudgy nose. “Well, then, how may I help you?”

  “Perhaps we should go round to your office,” Michael said.

  Ripley nodded sharply. “Of course. Follow me.”

  They walked past the reception desk and Michael couldn’t resist giving the old girl a wink.

  Ripley led them through a maze of offices to a stairwell that took them down into the basement past rows and rows of files. At the end of the stacks, they came upon a door that Ripley held open for them. Inside was an eight-foot-square room lined with filing cabinets and a prim desk more at home in a schoolroom. Ripley, motioned for Michael and Erika to take the two straight-backed chairs facing the desk, then took his own seat behind it. Michael noticed the top of the man’s desk was perfectly neat, with pens and papers at perfect right angles to each other.