THE

CRYPTO MAN

An absolutely gripping classic British thriller full of twists

KENNETH ROYCE

Spider Scott Thrillers Book 6

Revised edition 2024

Joffe Books, London

www.joffebooks.com

First published in Great Britain by Hodder & Stoughton Ltd in 1984

© Kenneth Royce 1984, 2024

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental. The spelling used is British English except where fidelity to the author’s rendering of accent or dialect supersedes this. The right of Kenneth Royce to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner for the purpose of training artificial intelligence technologies or systems. In accordance with Article 4(3) of the Digital Single Market Directive 2019/790, Joffe Books expressly reserves this work from the text and data mining exception.

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Cover art by Nebojša Zorić

ISBN: 978-1-83526-510-9

CONTENTS

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Editor’s Note

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

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For Stella

Editor’s Note

At the time of first publication in 1984, it was thought necessary to explain certain underworld slang terms in footnotes. A more streetwise contemporary readership is unlikely to need such explanations.

Also, the British domestic security service (MI5) was briefly better known as DI5 (Defence Intelligence, Section 5).

Please note this book was published in the 1980s, when social attitudes were very different.

Prologue

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France 1944

Stacey fingered his identity tag and shivered. It was freezing in the prison and outside the wind was blasting against the old walls. The snow had stopped falling but snowflakes covered the area for miles, adhering to the dirty prison windows like goose down and reflecting an ethereal glare into the crowded cells.

Stacey glanced round at his fellow prisoners. For once the overcrowding offered an advantage although it was almost impossible to appreciate. Bodies gave warmth, but the benefit in a draught-riddled cell was minimal. The five men huddled in the confined space. No-one spoke. Dubost had been taken from the cell early that morning. Now, almost midday, he had still not returned and his continued absence preyed on the minds of his friends; it had been too long and the resistance leader was not in good condition anyway. They all thought the same though no-one voiced the fear that they would not be seeing the gutsy, cheerful little Frenchman again. And they each knew that they could be next. A spate of executions was due.

Those who possessed special knowledge could only wonder whether the Germans fully knew the vital information they had in their hands. Sooner or later, after constant deprivation and torture someone would talk. Morale amongst the prisoners was low. And so it would be out there in the streets of Amiens and beyond, among leaderless groups of ardent patriots seeking some direction in the knowledge that key members of their far-reaching organisation were now captured or dead.

Not only French resistance leaders had been rounded up. There were British and American agents among them who carried too much knowledge for safe captivity. And women, too.

Stacey was an American who had been separated from his French and British contacts. Fair-haired and blue-eyed, his colleagues had at first thought him to be a Nazi plant, particularly as he spoke fluent German. In fact his ancestry was Danish and he was third generation American. The whisper from those who had worked with him soon circulated; if he was German then he had taken a strange delight in killing his true compatriots. It was only a matter of time before the interrogators would work on him in full measure. There were hundreds of prisoners and Stacey had been picked up only three days ago. He had yet to be tortured but had seen the results on some of those who had been, like Dubost, and he ceaselessly worried about how he would stand up to it. If he did half as well as the Frenchman his companions would have no cause for complaint.

By some oversight Stacey still had his wristwatch; they would take it away from him soon but meanwhile he kept it out of sight. He glanced at it now. It was fifty-five minutes after eleven on the morning of the 18th of February 1944. Suddenly he heard aircraft engines. So did the others in the cell. They glanced at each other, puzzled by the throbbing so unbelievably low, which increased ominously above the blustering sound of the wind.

The planes were at rooftop height. What was so important in Amiens to justify such risks? But it took only a few seconds for them to realise that the answer might be within the prison compound itself.

The drone increased to thunder. They heard the ack-ack and then the first of the bombs. The old walls shook. The explosions, like enormous thunder-claps, were difficult to place, but they could well be around the German barracks. Sirens added to the great confusion of noise.

By now the five men had risen to their feet, backs against the walls. Snow and ice cocooned the prison but failed to muffle the blasts. Reverberations ran the length of the buildings, sending up tremors like an earthquake as planes roared away, their bays empty after dropping their bombs.

Shouts came from the corridors. The running footsteps of guards were muted by hasty commands in German. And then the scream of bombs came nearer, very brief on such short drops, and the explosions started around the prison itself, rocking the walls and moving through the foundations in waves.

The men squatted again, realising their danger. As the bombs came nearer the prisoners sometimes heard a secondary scream before an explosion — as if the bombs were skidding on the ice before striking head-on to set off the detonators. The walls trembled and then began to crumble. Debris came hurtling down and the men crouched at the door.

For the next few minutes the prison took a pounding as waves of aircraft flew over with bombs being aimed directly at the walls. The whole place was shuddering and Stacey, with his back to the door, suddenly felt it move as brickwork and plaster crumbled around its frame. He shouted to the others just as they were all blown flat by an enormous blast that seared their sight and created a painful pressure on their eardrums. They instinctively covered their heads and tried to ball up as the outside wall came crashing down.

Dust, mortar and rubble flew into the air, carried by a wind that cut through the thin clothing of the prisoners. They peered through the dust haze to the gaping, ragged hole in the prison wall. The sound of bombs and guns continued with the roar of aircraft, intermingled with the increasing volume of a yelling multitude, the frantic bellowing of commands in German and the subdued and erratic crack of small arms fire. People were running in every direction, seen momentarily, then screened by the rising palls of smoke.

With an almost simultaneous shout of glee, three of the men dived for the breach in the wall, shaking off brick dust and snow as they moved forward. Stacey was with them when he noticed the fifth man did not move. He hesitated over the body and removed some rubble. But the man was dead, his head smashed in. Snow had turned the blood to pink streamers and there was nothing to be done. Stacey peered through the hole. There seemed to be hundreds of escaping prisoners with only a handful of soldiers chasing them, but it was a token chase. There were far too many escapees even for armed men to cope with, and Stacey glimpsed at least one soldier attacked by a mass of prisoners who beat him down with his own gun.

As he was about to duck through the gap, loose masonry fell from above to strike his head and he collapsed on to the rubble.

He came to with a pounding head and a sense of panic; he was not sure how much time he had lost and it was impossible to know as his watch was now broken. The prison yard was empty and he could see through the huge rupture of the outer wall to the Route d’Albert. The sound of firing was more distant and the bombing had stopped.

He glanced back at the door which was now hanging from its hinges. Blood was trickling down his neck. Stacey stepped through the door into a rubble-strewn corridor. There was nobody in sight and he knew immediately where he wanted to go; the office where he had received a preliminary interrogation. At that time his identity tag had been the cause of the postponement of a real torture session. He had stuck to the story of being a United States Air Force captain, shot down over northern France, trying to evade capture for the last two months. The French clothes he wore he claimed he had stolen. In the short term, the rank, name and number on the tag round his neck had supported that claim.

He ran lightly along the corridor, skirting piles of rubble and continued round the corner. There were no guards in sight. Mounting the stairs two at a time he rounded a bend on a landing to find half the outside wall blown to bits. Spreadeagled on the landing was a German officer, arms hanging through the gap.

Stacey took a quick look. The man was dead; an oberleutnant. He had to think quickly. But for prisoners still trapped in their cells, the upper floors would almost certainly be empty. Prison staff would either have run for the comparative safety of the lower floor or would be out trying to recapture prisoners. The oberleutnant was bigger than Stacey but it was better than being smaller. The American raised the corpse in a fireman’s lift and continued up the stairs. At the end of the upper corridor he found an empty office. He entered and closed the door.

Stacey started to strip the German. He had great difficulty in pulling his own clothes over the larger frame of the officer and split the shirt and pants but he quickly dressed in the uniform which was loose and the jackboots too big. It did not matter.

He went to the Governor’s office. The door was wide open and a strong smell of burning pervaded the place. The empty drawers of the filing cabinets were hanging out and Stacey quickly realised what had happened; while he had lain unconscious someone else had done what he had come to do. Prisoners’ records and card indexes had been piled onto the office floor and had been burned; they still smouldered behind the desk. He quickly checked the desk drawers. They too had been ransacked. Then he turned towards the door as he heard footsteps.

The sturmbannführer who faced Stacey showed total surprise. His uniform was caked with dust and bloodied down one arm. He had expected the office to be empty and he did not recognise the young oberleutnant standing on the wrong side of the desk. Had he been less confused he would have acted more quickly. Stacey grabbed the Luger he had placed on top of a cabinet, cocked it as the sturmbannführer, eyes widening with enlightenment, went for his own holstered gun, and shot him dead. Gun in hand, Stacey stepped round the desk, peered into the empty corridor and ran as fast as he could. Reaching the ground floor he dived through the nearest gap and fled across the churned-up snow to get as far away from the prison as he could.

He headed south across the river Somme and past the Gare du Nord. As he continued he realised he was close to Gestapo H.Q., on the corner of the Rue Dhavernas and the Rue Jeanne d’Arc. Would the uniform protect him? The streets seemed empty yet he was sure he was being observed. Crazily he continued on until he reached the old building. The front door was wide open. With gun in hand he went in. The place was empty. Everybody was out chasing hundreds of escaping prisoners.

Stacey found a big man lying face down with blood on his back where he had been stabbed. In Baumann’s office, the head of Gestapo, an old safe lay ransacked, its back ripped open; filing cabinets were open and empty. Everything told the same story as the Governor’s office in the prison. Only a smouldering pile of ashes remained of the prisoners’ files. The Gestapo records had been destroyed. But when he searched the desk he found a card index with photographs stuck to one corner of each card. There was no time to examine or burn them now, and Stacey quickly stuffed the documents inside his jacket and left the deserted building.

He continued on. A police car went howling past but nobody in it took any notice of him. He guessed that prison escapees had scattered everywhere. There were distant shapes ahead but he could not determine who they were. He swung wide of them, stumbled, and then fell over some scattered masonry. A stray bomb had partially demolished an outbuilding.

As he climbed up Stacey noticed a group of figures lying still and flat in the snow. Six men and one woman, all dead, presumably shot by soldiers. On impulse he searched for identity tags and found that three of the men were wearing them. He tore the tags off and pocketed them so the Germans would not be able to identify those they had killed.

There was nothing he could do for the dead. Only yards from him there was a sudden wail and a long gasp of agony. He stepped over the rubble and entered a two-sided room — the other two walls had been destroyed. The ceiling hung precariously and a trickle of rubble and plaster cascaded down. Something moved above, and the ceiling tilted more ominously. In the far corner of the room, sheltered and partially hidden behind the debris of smashed furniture were two huddled women. One of them was moaning.

Stacey’s approach did nothing to reassure them and they glanced up in fear. One woman held the broken leg of a table ready to strike out at him if he came nearer. He only belatedly realised what it was that scared them.

“I’m American,” he explained in French. “I took the uniform off a dead German. Look, see how badly it fits.”

They were not quick to believe. He undid the jacket neck, and pulled out his I.D. “You want to look?” And when they did not reply he added, “Okay, I’ll push off, but first what’s your problem?” He addressed the woman crouched awkwardly with her back to the wall.

“She’s in labour.”

“Oh Christ.” In the freezing snow and ice, barely under cover, and with no hot water, sanitary arrangements, or clean towels, neither mother nor child could possibly survive the conditions.

“Isn’t there somewhere we can take her?”

“She cannot walk.”

As he scrambled nearer, Stacey could see that they were very young. Their heads were bare, their faces haggard, with clothes flimsy and inadequate. He unbuttoned his tunic, and placed it over the swollen stomach of the mother to be. He tried to cushion her head with his arm. And then he recognised her. She was no more than twenty but her reputation as a resistance worker was already renowned. If he was not very much mistaken he knew who the prospective father was. But where was he now? Escaped? Dead?

And then Stacey and the other girl who called herself Jeanette were far too busy delivering the child to think of anything but the problem in hand. The big danger was noise. The woman, who Stacey knew as Paulette Dumain, was in agony. He gave her the belt to bite upon, and encouraged her, sometimes warning her about the noise. Jeanette, without experience, performed the midwife’s job of delivery. As the baby’s head emerged, Stacey looked round desperately for something to keep it warm. He crawled across the floor to the remnants of a table and from the pieces of wood and brick and dust, pulled out a tablecloth, shook it as best he could and folded it to size. Behind him the child made its first cry and Jeanette quickly cradled it to stifle the sound.

Stacey struggled back with the cloth and Jeanette folded it round the tiny, wrinkled figure already striving to live. He searched around for something warmer for the baby and looked up at the tilting ceiling. If there was a bed up there, surely there would be blankets too. The stairs were in a bad way but he had to risk it. Could the already dangerously poised upper floor take his weight? The two girls were in the best position for safety. Anything sliding through should fall away from them unless the whole ceiling came down.

Time was against them. The longer they stayed too near the prison the less would be their chance of escaping. He could not leave the girls and the baby now being cradled so lovingly. He glanced at the young mother. Paulette appeared to be near death. Her face was as white as the snow and her breathing very shallow. He adjusted the jacket round her and noticed the blood between her legs. He stroked her face, took the belt away and strapped it round his waist, leaving the holster flap unbuttoned. The intense cold bit through his shirt.

He reached the stairs and started to climb their weakened and littered treads. Halfway up they began to shake. The banisters and handrail were already broken so he kept to the wall which was itself split right down. The whole building was in a state of near-collapse, and it was a wonder the wind had not finished the job.

Suddenly he stopped, awkwardly balanced. There were footsteps outside; more than one set. Someone was climbing through the rubble. Stacey tried to turn, pulling out his gun as he did so but he was obliquely placed when he saw the first man enter, then another and another, and others were moving outside. From the way they were dressed they were clearly French, and the German arms they carried had probably been picked up from dead soldiers, victims of the air raid.

The first man was climbing through the wreckage towards the girls, closely followed by the second. The third man, not far from the foot of the stairs, heard Stacey turn, looked up, and when he saw jackboots and breeches and a loosely held Luger, fired without hesitation. Stacey crashed down the stairs.

The American was lying with his legs up the rickety stairs and his head on the floorboards when he realised he was still alive. As his mind cleared, he knew that he had been hit at least once. His head ached and when he moved his eyes he could see his own blood on the floorboards only inches away from them. There was movement outside and Stacey could hear voices; German, and very near.

He lay there, hazily aware that if his wounds did not kill him, the cold most certainly would; his outstretched hands were already frozen stiff. He believed that whoever was outside was examining the bodies he had found earlier. Fleetingly, he felt glad that he had removed the identity tags. If he survived he would report back the I.D. details he had in his jacket pocket. Then with a flurry of panic he remembered that he was not wearing the jacket. No wonder he was so cold. Why wasn’t the baby crying? He lifted his head involuntarily and the pain shot through him. Blood drifted into his eye. He did not think he had been shot in the head; he must have cracked it open in the fall.

The voices and the footsteps, moved on; no-one entered the building. With enormous effort Stacey dragged himself face downwards until he was flat on the floor. He gazed over to where the girls should be but debris obstructed his view. In great pain he nevertheless managed to rise to his knees, but the men had already gone. And Jeanette. And the baby.

Paulette Dumain was there though, his jacket still partly covering her. He started to crawl across to her and periodically stopped to clutch at his stomach. Some time must have passed since he had been shot; though it was still daylight, Stacey guessed that he had been unconscious for a while. He fingered his head; the blood had largely congealed and was one more area of pain. He wiped his eye with stiff, cold fingers, and continued on, thinking only that they should not have left Paulette behind.

As he reached her, he guessed the worst. They had not even troubled to close her staring eyes and Stacey did so now with difficulty; she would not feel the icy touch of his fingers. He touched her face, now so cold and hard. Twenty, he thought, if that. She had really never seen the baby. He did not know whether she had been religious, but he stumbled over a crude prayer he made up as he went along, ill-phrased but sincere.

For a while he stayed here, saddened, as he tried to gather strength to make a move. He must get away from here no matter how difficult it would be. Whatever suffering his escape entailed it would be better than being at the hands of the Gestapo.

He had placed the index cards beside her body at the time he had taken his jacket off, but they were no longer where he had put them. He searched around and lifted the jacket to peer beneath. It was then that he saw the bullet wound straight through her heart. The shot had been fired through the jacket and he could now see the small rent.

Stacey sat back sickened, momentarily forgetting his own pain. He accepted that Paulette might have been shot out of compassion; she had been in pain and would probably not have survived even with full medical help. Even so, it seemed to be so cold-blooded. He apologised to her there, cursing the evils of war and life itself. But life had to go on and the war would not go away.

He retrieved the jacket, put it on his shivering body with difficulty, then buckled the belt over it, the holster now empty. He made another search for the cards, then groped in one of the jacket pockets for the I.D. tags. But they, too, had gone. He turned out the other pockets to find them empty.

Somebody had taken the cards and tags. Somebody had shot Paulette and had left him for dead. And that same person and the others with him had taken Jeanette and the baby. Deeply bitter, Stacey began the difficult and painful journey to the door, unsure even of reaching it and not contemplating what lay beyond. What point was there? He did not rate his chances further than each agonising step.

He was not to know that the daring R.A.F. Mosquito raid had accounted for at least fifty dead Nazis, some French Gestapo and eighty-five prisoners. There were also some seventy German wounded and about eighty prisoners. But over seven hundred prisoners had broken out and some four hundred were to remain free.

All Stacey could think of as he tried to reach the door was a young dead mother behind him and the tiny, struggling baby she had never suckled and who was soon likely to join her.

Chapter One

Present Day, England

Brooks rose to the sound of the bell and stepped barefoot into a pool of blood. He recognised the tackiness before looking down to see it and yelled as Naylor sat up in the bunk above him.

“For Christ’s sake, Brooksie. Cut the noise.”

“Bugger you. Look!” Brooks tried to follow the line of blood but it had spread everywhere, even under the cell door and it was still creeping. “God Almighty.” He had just realised its source. “Chesfield’s topped himself.”

“What!” Naylor leaned further over. “Jesus. He’s slashed his wrists.” He swung his legs over the side of the bunk. “Call a screw. For Christ’s sake hurry.”

But Brooks did not want to move. “I can’t get round it.”

“Then step through it, you bloody fool. Bang the door.”

But Brooks could not take his eyes from the body of Chesfield who lay in the opposite lower bunk, a mass of red blotches where the blood had spurted from the artery in his right wrist. The left arm, its wrist also slashed, was mainly responsible for the blood that had oozed to the floor. The whole bunk was saturated.

“Move, damn you,” Naylor yelled.

“You bloody well move.” But Brooks stepped forward slowly, as if by the careful lowering of his feet he could avoid the mess. He got to the door and started to hammer at it, yelling loudly until he reached a point of near-hysteria.

Naylor stayed where he was, feet well clear of the floor and gazed critically at and around the body of the wretched Chesfield who had never been able to adapt to prison life even for the short time he had been there.

* * *

The clean-up of the cramped cell was inevitably messy; mops and buckets and rubber boots. A makeshift knife was found when the bed was stripped and the blankets rolled into saturated red balls. It had been made from a small piece of plywood. In spite of the fact that the ‘blade’ had been filed down, the cutting edge was blunt, and the wrists must have been hacked at in order to cut deep. The pain must have been excruciating. It could only have been the act of a man totally without hope, a final gesture of total despair which only death can cure.

The usual inquiry followed the tragedy; how had the dead man obtained the knife? It was a laughable question to most of the cons. In the first place Chesfield had been working in the carpentry shop, but there were always ways to obtain illicit items. Had not the two prisoners sharing the cell with him heard anything? No, they assured the board. And a full Home Office inquiry was satisfied. Suicides showed a lack of vigilance on the part of the prison staff and sections of the press would feast upon it. Some would obliquely suggest that certain of the staff turned a blind eye. But the realists knew that no system, however vigilant, could prevent a determined man from killing himself.

There was another aspect the press investigated, but in no way significantly. Chesfield had been a highly educated man. Harrow and Oxford. He had not been short of money, and had been a member of Lloyd’s, amongst other profitable interests. His friends had been moneyed people, as would be expected. Some were in the public eye. Among those who were becoming increasingly so was Walter Clarke, Foreign Minister in Her Majesty’s Government. They had been about the same age.

When interviewed, Walter Clarke spoke highly of Chesfield. They had not been close friends but had been at Oxford together and had drifted apart since graduating. Politics, and finance in its many forms, did not always mix. But Clarke had possessed great respect for Chesfield; the man had been brilliant, his future virtually assured. Who could know what brainstorm had turned him into an accessory to premeditated murder? A murder that was without a known motive, a motive which Chesfield had now taken with him to a premature grave. He had been in his early forties. His torment had clearly been unbearable.

But nowhere did the unfortunate episode make big news. Chesfield stirred little interest. Until his death he had been one of the great unknowns to the general public who were not unduly roused when he ended his life. Some rumours did circulate but they lasted less time than was generally taken to recall his name, which slipped into obscurity even before the Home Office inquiry findings were made public. But in certain quarters he was never to be forgotten — for one reason or another — and none of the reasons were so self-obliterating as the man himself had been.

* * *

Detective Superintendent Alfred George Bulman crossed Pall Mall, apparently without concern for the irate drivers who slowed or swerved to avoid him. His chunky, hunched figure mounted the canopied steps and he pushed the huge doors to enter the club. He went straight to the commissionaire’s desk to ask for Sir Stuart Halliman. Halliman stood waiting at the rear of the long vestibule, and on seeing Bulman came forward.

“Hello, George. I almost didn’t recognise you.”

Bulman turned; the eyes smiled in the rough face as he gazed up at the tall figure. “I’d always recognise you, Sir Stuart. It is good of you to see me.”

Halliman took Bulman’s arm and propelled him to the downstairs bar. When they had drinks, they went to the quietest corner table. “You’ve thickened out and you’ve lost some hair,” commented Halliman as they sat down.

Bulman fingered his rapidly thinning dark hair. “Have to comb it forward these days or you wouldn’t see it at all. You don’t look any different.”

“You were always a flatterer.” Halliman smiled fleetingly. “I understand the Chesfield business worries you.”

“I don’t believe he topped himself.”

“The coroner did. And the subsequent inquiry.”

“Oh, I know all that. That’s why I wanted to see you.”

“But the police are satisfied, surely? They’ll go along with the findings?”

“I should think so. But my chief doesn’t and nor do I. We have never been satisfied about the Chesfield affair; there’s much more to it than has come out, and I believe you can help.”

Halliman was thoughtful. He had a great deal of respect for Bulman as a detective; much of the brusqueness had gone and his manner was easier than Halliman remembered. Perhaps he had stopped going round upsetting people. “Are you still playing loose head with the M.I.5 pack, George? Isn’t Sir Lewis Hope your chief?”

Bulman smiled. “Even you use the obsolete name for the Security Service. I’m nearer to them than the Met. In fact, I sometimes wonder why I’m kept on as a copper.”

“No you don’t. You’re in too useful a position. Free of the formalities of Special Branch and clear of the bureaucracy of the Metropolitan Police. You used to love it. What can I possibly do that Lewis Hope cannot? You know very well I’ve been retired these last few years.”

“Retired from office, you mean?”

“No. Retired. Period. But how can I help an old friend?”

Bulman sat forward, spatulate fingers clasped. He seemed uncomfortable in his chair. “I don’t think there’s been a whitewash. As you know, in top security prisons it’s usually one to a cell, but there have been renovations going on at Hull. With trouble at some of the other prisons, some storerooms converted back to cells are being shared, as a temporary measure. It’s gone on longer than planned but these things always do. There were three men in the cell but no obvious reason why either of the other two would want to kill Chesfield. But I believe one, or both of them, did.”

“Motive?”

“Money.”

Halliman did not move, but at that moment his eyes flashed cold. “Paid to do it? By whom?”

“Directly, it could have been anyone. I can identify the most likely cons who could have been used as paymaster. And indirectly, by whoever did not want the motive for Chesfield being guilty of murder coming to light.”

Halliman stared. “A political motive?”

Bulman shrugged. “Who knows? It’s a gut feeling. That’s all.”

“A very strong one for you to seek me out. And you still haven’t told me why.”

“Bear with me a little. The police have got nowhere. The coroner is satisfied, and the subsequent inquiry uncovered nothing.”

“Perhaps there was nothing there,” Halliman interrupted. “Why can’t you accept matters as they are? You’re not a stirrer. Is there something you’re not telling me?”

Bulman rubbed an ear and looked apologetic. “I know nothing. But I believe we haven’t heard the full story. The police won’t get anywhere with the cons, and if I show my face, there’d be a wall of silence. Someone who knows them, someone who has been inside and who they trust, might just winkle something out. From someone. Anyone. Not necessarily from those directly involved.”

Halliman sat back and crossed his long legs. Understanding touched the cool eyes. “Now I know why you’re here but you’re going too far back, George. It’s years since I used him. He will have lost his old contacts a long time ago.”

“Maybe. Maybe not all. He’s the sort of character people don’t forget.”

“Evidently. We both know who we’re talking about and yet haven’t mentioned his name. Did he ever get round to marrying that very lovely girl Maggie Parsons?”

“I don’t think so, although I believe they are still together.”

“That doesn’t surprise me; they were made for each other and I’m no romantic.” Halliman’s eyes misted. “Willie ‘Spider’ Scott. A character indeed.” Halliman switched off the reverie. “He won’t help you.”

“I know. He hates my guts. With reason. But he might help you.”

“Ah! You’re wrong, George. Willie would hate me just as much. And he certainly wouldn’t trust me. Lewis Hope should approach him if he’s the man in control.”

“Sir Lewis doesn’t stand a chance. He’s the wrong type. Willie doesn’t know him anyway and would just show him the door as soon as talk to him.”

The two men smiled a little bitterly. “He’s always respected you, though,” Bulman insisted. “He would listen to you.”

Halliman considered the point. “After all this time he would immediately be suspicious. And rightly so.” After a long pause Halliman asked, “Do you really consider it to be so important?”

“Would I have asked you otherwise, Sir Stuart?”

Halliman fingered his moustache. “There might be a way round it. Chesfield’s father is an acquaintance of mine and a member of this club. Understandably he’s not happy with the outcome of his son’s death either. Give me a day or two to think it over. If I can help I will. But we both know that Willie Scott is not the easiest man to handle.”

* * *

Willie Scott locked up his offices just off St Martin’s Lane as a cab pulled up to the screech of peak London traffic. He turned his back to glance up at the repainted sign above the shop window. SCOTT TRAVEL LTD. Nothing dramatic. Certainly not as eye-catching as the previous name: XYY TRAVEL. It was a few years now since he had changed the name. It had reminded him too much of the past and, anyway, he now considered the chromosome concept in relation to villainous tendencies as a load of rubbish. There were too many medical controversies. And he had proved them all wrong. Show me a scientific expert, he reflected, and I’ll show you muddle and contradiction.

The strong autumnal nip in the air suggested an early onset of winter. Scott strode towards Trafalgar Square and wondered what Maggie would cook for dinner. The cold made him feel hungry. He drifted easily through the home-going crowd and suddenly felt his sleeve being tugged. He turned, quickly placing a hand over his wallet wondering if a pair of dips were trying the knock and snatch routine; it was a habit born of long experience.

A short, plumpish, well-dressed elderly man retained a hand on Scott’s sleeve and was breathlessly trying to smile. He had clearly been running. “I’m so sorry. I saw you leave the travel agency as my taxi drew up. Are you Mr Scott by any chance?”

Scott gazed down; the man could be in his seventies. “Take it easy,” he said. “You’ll bust a valve. Yes, I’m Scott.” He had an unmistakable London accent.

“Thank God. I’m sorry I’m so late. The traffic . . .” He tailed off as he fought for breath. He noted Scott’s concern. “It’s all right. Really. Shouldn’t run at my age. Could I speak to you for a few minutes? Back at your office?”

“I’m closed. Won’t tomorrow do?”

Disappointment crossed the plump face. Scott noticed the sad pale blue eyes. The stranger’s lips moved to speak but instead opened wide to suck in air. The two men were an island on the pavement, with streams of people hurrying each side of them.

“If it’s about travel I’m afraid it must wait,” Scott added. He felt sorry for the old boy but the number of times he had fruitlessly stayed late in an effort to please people could not be counted.

“It’s not travel. Something else. A private matter. Very personal.”

Scott grinned. It was an infectious, warm action which spread to the wide-spaced eyes. “You sure you’ve got the right bloke?”

“Oh, yes. It won’t take long.” The plump man hesitated, not sure whether what he was about to say would be offensive. “I’m quite willing to pay for your trouble.”

Scott saw the uncertainty. “I don’t charge for listening, old son.”

“No, of course not. I’m sorry. Well, shall we . . . ?”

Scott took him by the elbow and escorted him back to the office. “What’s your name?”

“Chesfield. Sir Richard Chesfield. I mention the title only so that should you later wish to check on me, you can find the details in Debrett.”

The name stirred uneasily in Scott’s mind and as he turned the key in the lock he began to feel less amiable. But he couldn’t let the old boy down now. He would listen.

Inside, stood a long low table covered with travel brochures, near to suspended travel literature racks. “Take a pew,” he said as he led the way to the chrome and plastic chairs which he secretly detested.

Sir Richard Chesfield puffed his way across the shop floor to the small reception area.

“Shall I take your topcoat? We do run to a clothes stand.” Scott, over six feet in height, towered over the portly figure.

“Thank you, no. I think your heating is off.”

Scott made no comment about the quantity of natural insulation Chesfield carried over his frame.

The two men sat across the table from each other and as Chesfield undid the buttons of his topcoat his chins wobbled below the rosy moon face. He laid his hat carefully on the chair beside him, revealing a crop of dark hair with no grey in it — presumably tinted. Vanity came in many forms, Scott reflected.

Chesfield produced a cigar and Scott hoped that he would not still be sitting there by the time it was finished.

“I don’t smoke,” he said as Chesfield held out the case and scanned the table for an ashtray. Scott pushed one across, observing that now they were here, Chesfield was already baulking the issue he had called about.

“My son committed suicide,” Chesfield at last blurted out. “Quite recently.”

Scott’s memory stirred. “Hull Prison, wasn’t it? I read about the case in the papers. Sad business. I’m sorry.” He wanted to hear no more but Chesfield was suffering now he had spoken. His face sagged and suddenly he looked much more tired, his face seemingly less florid. He gazed at the glowing tip of his cigar then at the passers-by beyond the windows as though afraid that they could overhear. “I think it was murder,” he added abruptly.

Scott said nothing. What was there to say? And what the hell was it to do with him?

Chesfield gazed across the narrow table. “Doesn’t that surprise you?”

“Death in prison is often followed by that kind of assertion. Warders beat up a prisoner and there’s a big cover-up, that sort of thing. Sometimes it’s true. Perhaps it’s natural for a father to think that.”

“Don’t be so damned condescending, young man. I’m not a fool.”

“Time to go,” Scott said, standing up. “I don’t know where this is leading and I don’t want to know.”

“I’m sorry,” Chesfield pleaded. His eyes were tear-filled. “I shouldn’t have said that, I know. But I had to identify him, had to attend the inquiry. It was bad enough him being in prison at all. But to hack his wrists with a piece of blunt wood . . . I . . . can’t . . .” He broke down and lowered his head. A tear dropped on a travel brochure and spread slowly over the coloured print.

Scott, seeing the obvious distress, sat down again. It was as though the old boy’s guts were being torn from him. Maybe he had nothing left to believe in. Perhaps he had doted on his son; to be convicted of murder and then to have finished as a bloodless corpse must have hit the father like a multi-headed bomb. Gently, Scott said, “I’m sorry but I really don’t see what this has to do with me. Who sent you here?”

Chesfield gathered himself. “It’s disgraceful to behave like this. I’m not usually an emotional person. Financiers seldom are.” He dabbed his eyes with a folded handkerchief. “The tears were not for myself, Mr Scott. I hate to see a life end like that without apparent reason. He should have had everything to live for.”

“You haven’t answered my question.”

“I was recommended to you by a friend.”

“Who is he? For what reason?”

“I’d rather not say who.”

“Do I know him?”

“I believe so. Perhaps I should have said a mutual friend.”

That was difficult to believe. “I doubt that we move in the same circles. And I still need to know who and why.” Scott glanced pointedly at his watch.

Chesfield moved uncomfortably as Scott prodded, “Were you warned not to pass on the name?”

“I saw it as a confidence. It’s really irrelevant. I need . . .”

“It’s relevant to me, cocker. Now let’s have it or you leave now.”

“Sir Stuart Halliman.”

Scott sat back as the years rolled away. Sir Stuart Halliman. Fairfax; the codename Scott first knew him by. Jesus Christ, it was like a spirit from the grave. One that brought unpleasant memories. And fear. And anguish. The respect had come much later but had never brought with it a sense of trust.

Halliman had used him and had then tried to put him away for life to save a politician’s face. And yet, despite all this they had eventually developed an understanding. He felt shaken and uneasy and wanted Chesfield out of the office.

“I haven’t met him for several years.” Scott’s voice betrayed his anxiety. He was disgusted with his own reaction.

“So I understand. But he has never forgotten you. He has the highest regard for your integrity.”

“I suppose to a man who has none, even the smallest quantity would be noticeable in someone else.” That was better.

“He has it too.”

“You could have fooled me. Now we come to the why.”

Chesfield puffed slowly at his cigar as he collected his thoughts. He felt easier now, having crossed a bridge relatively unscathed. “I thought you might have guessed. I need your help.”

“In what possible way?” Scott snapped, still irritated and disturbed.

“To find out who killed my son. And why.”

Scott stared across the table and met the mild expression. Chesfield had regained his full composure; he was now negotiating something he fully understood.

“You’re off your rocker. I’m a travel agent not a bloody copper. You should go to the police.”

“You’ve had experience of these things; Halliman would not otherwise have recommended you.”

“Experience of what? I’ve never investigated a bloody murder in my life. Or do you mean I’m familiar with murdering?”

“No. No. Forgive me. You must know what I mean.”

“You mean I’m an old lag? A one-time recidivist? A creeper? A cat burglar to you. And you think that qualifies me to investigate your son’s death? For God’s sake, even if it did, do you realise how long I’ve been out of touch?”

“I understand that, Mr Scott. I don’t think Sir Stuart had your past profession in mind and I am sure he fully appreciates the time lapse. It is clear that he recognises qualities in you which you do not, or which you refuse to acknowledge. Only you and he know what has happened in the past between you. And that left a deep impression on him.”

“It left a deep impression on me as well, mate. Tell him he’s lost touch, too.” Scott suddenly leaned across the table. “Look, I’ve not always seen eye to eye with the fuzz. There are some I wouldn’t touch with a barge pole. But there are others I’ve developed a grudging respect for. Damn it, there’s been a Home Office inquiry into your son’s death? What more do you want? Are you suggesting there’s a cover-up?”

“Not in the inquiry. I think it was open and honest in so far as investigation is concerned. I don’t think the truth came out but I’m not suggesting that it was withheld by members of the inquiry.”

“Well then, take your suspicions to the police. They’ll deal with it.”

Chesfield hesitated. He glanced quickly through the window.

“I already have. My title opened doors to the right man; an assistant commissioner. I was referred back to the findings of the inquiry. And there the matter rests unless I can produce new evidence.”

“Which you can’t?”

“I’ve no evidence at all. My son might well have had weaknesses, but cowardice was not one of them. He would have faced up to prison and though he suffered hell there, I am convinced he would have stood it.”

“A part character reference is not evidence, and if the police can’t find any with their resources, just what do you imagine I can do? I’m sorry. I appreciate your confidence. I can hold my tongue. But there’s no way I can help you.”

“Sir Stuart described it, I think, as it being impossible for you to ‘grass’ on anyone. I don’t think I would be insulting you at this stage if I mentioned that money is absolutely no object. Write your own cheque. Secure your future.”

Scott smiled resignedly. “That’s my trouble. You spotted it. I’d under cost myself.”

“Then let me do it for you. In many ways I may be ruthless, I may be mean, but in this I could not possibly be. If you had kidnapped my son, what would I be prepared to pay out in ransom? That’s the sort of figure I’d contemplate, Mr Scott. I want to clear his name.”

“I’m not in the ransom business. Anyway, with this recession things are dicey and I can’t afford to neglect the business.”

“I could buy you another one.”

Scott sighed wearily. “It doesn’t even tempt me. You’ve got me all wrong. I could fleece you and come up with nothing. But Sir Stuart might also have told you that for an ex-villain I’ve got my own brand of honesty. It’s no use. I wouldn’t know where to start.”

“You won’t sleep on it?”

“There’s no need. I know my limitations. I’m getting married soon and I won’t let anything get in the way of that. And there’s another thing.” Scott looked Chesfield directly in the eye. “You frighten me. You haven’t once suggested that you want the truth. What you want is proof that your son was murdered. Right or wrong.”

* * *

Scott had considered it many times; if he had to select one outstanding physical attraction in Maggie Parsons, he would choose her eyes. Blue, green, they could change with the light or her mood and could reflect everything about her. And then he would consider her skin which she had always cared for; it was like touching the softest velvet.

Maggie’s most irritating foible was her intermittent insistence on covering perfectly natural, deep auburn hair with a similarly coloured wig. She would usually explain that her hairdresser had cut her hair too short and she preferred it long. He never understood why this was allowed to happen in the first place but had learned not to question it. Maggie did her own thing and he had no complaints. And she had kept her figure.

Maggie Parsons shared the same kind of sensitivity as Willie Scott and she also shared his sense of humour. But she was strong willed. Had she not been, their relationship would have broken down years ago. She had endured constant pressure from her middle class and reasonably wealthy parents to break away from Scott.

And Scott himself had supported the parents’ view. He understood their feelings and had never wanted to bring Maggie down to what he saw as his own, lower level. Which was why he had not married her. Maggie saw it differently. She had learned that she could not change him and now understood that if she did he would not be the man she loved. She wanted Willie Scott just as he was, whatever he did, whatever his past. And it had worked.

It was a few years now since Scott had felt one of those impossibly strong urges to do a job, if only for the challenge. Life could never be dull with him; he would always find outlets for his irrepressible nature, but he now found them within the law. Which was why they had decided to get married after so long. And, more importantly, Maggie was pregnant.

Maggie had, for the past few years, worked at her old job at the United Nations branch in London; she was an excellent linguist — in total contrast to Willie, who had always claimed that he had enough problems with his own language.

Their love for each other ran very deep. Few associations could have endured the earlier crises that had confronted them, and at one time Scott had been used ruthlessly for one reason or another. His special talents had been exploited and, but for his own courage and wit, he would now be in prison as an innocent man. In those days his partnership with Maggie had somehow thrived on the dangers flung at them, their bond extraordinarily strong.

It was with these recollections that Scott went home the night he had met Sir Richard Chesfield. The meeting had put back the clock for him and he felt an odd kind of despondency. In truth he had been partly attracted to the proposition. It was an old, almost forgotten feeling which frightened him, believing as he had that it had gone forever. But there was no way he would let Maggie down; not now, not ever, not deliberately.

They lived in an apartment in North Kensington. He went up the stairs, thoughtful and saddened by Chesfield’s position but fully aware that the man’s convictions could simply be wishful thinking. He had met other Chesfields who had climbed down their social ladder to plead with him, but they had never worried him. The person who did was Sir Stuart Halliman; his presence, even by proxy, was sufficient to make vibrations of the wrong kind.

Scott let himself in. Maggie called out from the kitchen, and they met halfway across the drawing room and embraced like new lovers.

“You’ll squeeze our baby to death.” Maggie pulled back her head, eyes mischievous, arms still round his neck.

He placed his hand over her stomach. “He’s not even a contour, yet. Unless he’s a flathead.”

“It’s a she. Come on, I’m cooking.”

He followed her into the large, ultra-modern kitchen. Their finances had improved over the years and most of their money was spent on the home and collecting antiques and objects d’art. He poured them a whisky each; ginger ale in hers, water in his. No ice.

“Cheers.”

“Cheers. What’s on your mind, Willie?” She always knew when he was troubled.

“We always have a Scotch.”

“Not this big.” She returned to her pots, her back to him.

He told her what had happened and saw her stiffen. Did the incident revive the same sort of memories in her? He did not dare ask.

They spent a quiet evening together, holding hands on the sofa and watching television. But it was not the silence of contentment; too much was left unsaid between them. Maggie prayed that nothing would upset their plans. They were due to be married in a month’s time. It had taken years to reach this point in their relationship and the marriage she had always craved. Willie had said that he had quite forcibly rejected Chesfield’s appeal for help and she believed him. As with Scott, it was Sir Stuart Halliman’s oblique involvement that concerned her. God, it had been so long ago. But the time factor did not ease the qualms.

Scott put his arm round her. “Stop worrying.”

“I’m not.” But because he had voiced the need to stop, she knew that it was on his mind too. So, she worried the more. For him.

* * *

Three nights later Scott arrived home to find Sir Stuart Halliman drinking champagne with Maggie. His first reaction was one of shock; he had not seen the man for so long. Then he realised that Maggie seemed so much at ease with him. She rose now, champagne flute in hand, and crossed the room to give him a warm peck. “Look who’s here,” she said as if Scott could somehow miss the visitor. She gave Scott a wink but he was not sure how he was supposed to interpret it. She slipped an arm through his and led him to Halliman who was rising from an armchair.

“My dear Willie. How nice to see you.” The tall, grey-haired soldierly figure came forward to shake Scott warmly by the hand. “My God, you haven’t changed at all.”

“And I’d be a bloody fool to believe that you have either.” But Scott could not help grinning. He could see that physically, Fairfax had changed little. He was older, as they all were, with slightly less hair, and a lean face, more lined than he recalled. The eyes were still clear and diamond bright, teeth still his own, and he had not put on weight. The suaveness he would take to his grave; he could not be anything other than eternally polite, and there was still a misleading openness about him which accurately reflected a part of him, though much would always remain hidden.

Scott could not help being pleased to see him. It was one of those gut acceptances: in spite of himself, Scott liked the man. But he could not understand why Maggie was so composed. He glanced at the bottle in the ice bucket and at the flutes; but they had not drunk so much that she would be influenced.

Halliman reached for the bottle and poured champagne into a spare flute. “We should have waited for you.” He passed the drink over. “But Maggie was so upset at seeing me that I felt she needed a quick one. Your good health, Spider.”

“Cheers. Maggie doesn’t like me being called Spider. Reminds her of the bad old days.”

“I’m sorry.” Halliman turned to Maggie. “You should have told me, my dear.”

“I thought you knew,” Maggie said sweetly.

They sat down and Halliman gazed slowly round the room. “You always had good taste. Both of you. You really have some very nice pieces. Those bronze plaques; the porcelain looks early English. And the furnishings . . .” Halliman gazed quizzically at Scott and murmured, “You didn’t by any chance . . .”

“No, I didn’t. You want to see the receipts?”

“God forbid. I was pulling your leg.”

“You’ve come about Chesfield,” Scott said bluntly.

“Just as direct, Willie. I’ve explained to Maggie. The silly man pushed you too far. He told me what he asked of you. It was ridiculous.”

“Yet you recommended him to see me.”

“Of course. Not for what he suggested, though.”

“Fairfax, you’re a crafty bastard. You always were.” Scott gave Maggie a quick glance, warning her not to intercede.

Halliman sat back unabashed, legs crossed. He smiled reflectively. “You haven’t even changed your vocabulary. And Fairfax, I’m afraid, is no longer applicable to me. I retired some five years ago. I have no official status.” He raised his flute. “That should put your mind at rest.”

“It should. But it doesn’t. You’ve put yourself out to come here. You must have good reason.”

“Naturally. Dick Chesfield has used my name improperly. It requires explanation. These days I have time on my hands and I liked the idea of seeing you both again.”

It was as though nothing had ever changed. Scott could see that Maggie was fractionally uptight at his rudeness towards Halliman, but he needed that sort of direct talk, and Scott knew that he could not match Halliman in the diplomatic game. They were opposites, and they understood each other.

“The champagne is good,” observed Scott. “But what else could it be, coming from you? Now let’s see if your line of bull is up to the same standard. You seem to have conned Maggie.”

“Oh, Willie, Willie.” Halliman put down his drink. He wanted to smoke a cigar but knew that neither of his hosts smoked and he could not see an ashtray in sight. “Maggie is relieved because I’m retired. Out of the game. Out of touch. Nobody wants an old boy in my old line of work. Methods change. I’m outdated. She also knows that what Chesfield requested was far beyond my understanding. I merely told him that if he was so convinced his son was murdered, I knew a man who might possibly be able to find out.”

“So, what’s different? That’s exactly what he wanted me to do.”

“I understand he asked you to find out who the murderer is. Quite different, surely?”

Scott studied the still-handsome face, but nothing was to be learned from it.

He turned to Maggie. She seemed to be a little embarrassed. “It is different, Willie.” From Maggie? What else had Halliman told her?

He turned back to his visitor. “I think you’re splitting hairs. How am I supposed to do that when a Home Office inquiry failed?”

“Willie, you surprise me. Prisoners close ranks against the police, but they might be more honest with you. Enough to give a pointer . . .”

“You mean I go up to Hull and ask around?”

“Not quite so simple. But if there is word around you might well pick it up. Not who, but whether or not it happened. And that would be the end of your involvement.”

Scott shook his head in despair. “Fairfax, I told Chesfield. Like you, I’m out of touch. I don’t know any of the old crowd anymore.”

Halliman appeared to give it some thought but Scott knew instinctively that the wily ex-intelligence chief had done all his thinking long before he called.

“I can probably get a list of the present inmates. There must be some still there who you used to know. They would not have forgotten you; you underestimate your reputation.” He turned to Maggie. “Forgive me for that, but it’s true.”

“I thought you’d retired. Getting a list like that needs high connections.”

“I can still ask a favour.” Seeing Scott’s suspicion, he added, “I really have retired. It was published and it’s checkable. This is a favour for a friend. He’s probably wrong anyway, but at least he’ll know that inquiry has been made through non-official channels.”

Scott did not reply. He looked across to Maggie who uncomfortably avoided his gaze. This was the effect that Halliman always had on them. Doubt, suspicion, and uncertainty clothed him like an aura and yet his own appearance always belied it.

“Look,” continued Halliman. “No pressure.” He spread his hands. “What possible pressure could I exert? If I get a list and there is nobody on it who you feel you can approach then we’ll forget it. If you go, just one visit, then, whatever the result, a magnificent wedding present. That’s the least Chesfield could do.”

So, he had even wheedled their wedding plans out of Maggie. Perhaps that was why she looked so guilty. But Scott did not blame her. He knew how adroit Halliman could be.

“Incidentally,” added Halliman, “I was more than thrilled to hear that you two are at last getting married. Marvellous. Absolutely marvellous.”

You crafty bugger, thought Scott, but for Maggie’s sake he did not voice it. “I’m an old lag. I have to get Home Office permission to visit. It’s doubtful that they’ll give it to me.”

“That can be arranged.”

What have I said? reflected Scott. I almost conceded. He wished he had more active support from Maggie who would normally have backed him up to the hilt to refuse. He turned to her. “What has he said to you? Why are you putting up with this?”

Maggie returned his gaze. She was a little drawn and thoughtful.

“I know what you’re thinking. But he’s not going to leave us alone, is he? Or even if he does we’re going to reproach ourselves for letting him down. If it’s as simple as he says, one visit and finished, then you’ve done what you can. As a favour. We want nothing from it except peace of mind. But only you can judge if it’s as simple as he says. And I go along with whatever you decide. What I don’t want is it hanging over our heads; some sort of regret.” She spoke as if Halliman were not present.

Halliman observed quietly, “Would you rather I left while you discuss it?”

“Would it make a difference? Stay where you are. Let me think.”

“I am being honest with you,” prompted Halliman.

“Part of you is; the bit I like. It’s the other part that worries me. Perhaps I owe you one for old time’s sake. If you can get a list of prisoners, I’ll look at it. If there is someone on it who I think might help, I’ll talk to him if you can fix it. And that’s as far as I’ll go. Chesfield can stick his money and his wedding present. This is a favour to you. That way, what morality you have should come down on my side.”

Halliman finished his drink silently. “I’m not offended by what you say: I’m well aware of what I tried to do to you all those years ago. I thought I had long since redeemed myself, but I do understand.” He turned to Maggie, took one of her hands. “Do you really think I’d risk doing anything to upset you two again? After so long and on the brink of getting married?”

Scott knew that Halliman already had. Even if he himself had refused to help, the upset would still be there.

When Halliman had gone, they clung together as if they were about to part for a long time. It was not simply an old and precious love that united them like that, but a renewed need; they had been here before.

“Why didn’t you stop me?” Scott whispered in Maggie’s ear.

“Because you want to go. I’ve suffered it before. And so have you. Get it out of your system, Willie. It can’t be as bad as the other times. Your restraint was much better, and you’d have refused had I insisted. That’s a big step, isn’t it? A big step.”

Chapter Two

Scott drove up to Hull in his ten-year-old 4.2 litre Jaguar. Home Office permission had come through remarkably quickly: Halliman knew how to pull strings. The weather was chilly but Scott still preferred to have an open window and he left the radio off. Driving, to him, was a single-minded occupation. During his last stretch in Dartmoor he had been offered a job as driver for the Reisen mob, to be effective immediately on release. It was a back-handed compliment he did not need but turning it down had been a tricky business.

Scott had always been a loner. Only once or twice had he used help during some of his old jobs. Nor did he use fancy and heavy tackle. He had worked on his personal skills. For such a big man he had been amazingly agile and had been able to climb a rain stack at great speed. Nor had alarms worried him. His approach to them had been simple and basic. Why risk cutting wires when the bloody siren and bell could be choked with foam?

The very act of driving up the motorway to Hull Prison brought back memories of some of the capers he had enjoyed, and a few of the villains he had known. When studying Halliman’s long list, he had been staggered by the number of names he knew. Old mates. Old enemies. He had then made Halliman check on the four names he had selected to discover which block they were in. That was important in a top security prison. Then he had selected one name.

Scott glanced at his speedometer. He was doing a ton. Thirty miles an hour over the seventy-mile speed limit. He glanced at the mirrors, maintaining speed. As a traffic cop had once explained to him, “We don’t nick you for speeding. We get you for driving without due care and attention.” Which meant that you had been stupid enough not to notice the fuzz noticing you. Slow down, acknowledge you’ve been seen. It was like doffing your cap to them. They appreciated that.

Old memories. Many of them sweet. Old urges. And it was this that worried him most, what Maggie had so quickly perceived. True, his very first reaction was to get rid of Chesfield. But the problem then began to tug at him and his reason for getting rid of him had changed before he left. At the time it had been difficult to define, but now he could clearly see that he was beginning to be tempted. It had nothing to do with the money. His concern for Maggie had saved him. Then. He hoped to God that he had more control over himself now. He had shown some control. The years had honed him down, but how much? In some respects, Halliman knew him only too well. He must prove him wrong, for Maggie’s sake.

He made one brief stop en route and had an early light lunch in a motorway self-service. He wanted to get it over. He smiled to himself as he strapped up again. He wanted to get there. That was different. By the time he crossed the Humber River and drove into the chewed-up edges of Hull, his feelings changed. When he finally pulled up opposite Hull Prison, he found that he had to park across the street. To be so close to the prison was having a strange effect on him.

He looked across the street at the huge gates flanked by the squat Victorian towers, and at the adjacent graveyard. To his surprise he found he was sweating a little. He did not want to go in. He knew the security by heart: twenty foot high walls, wired and with arc-lamps and television scanners brooding over them. Fifteen feet inside stood an equally high wire fence, alarmed, illuminated and televised. And inside that were dogs and handlers with two-way radios. The recollection was bitter.

Scott locked the car and shakily crossed the wide street. A group of visitors was already waiting in the cold, women mostly, come to see husbands or sweethearts. They had to go through the series of safety locks as if they were visiting wild animals in a game park.

The visitors’ room was like a cafeteria, tables and chairs quite well separated and a small soft drinks bar at one side. Scott selected a table and sat down nervously. He was reliving a life of incarceration. If he needed deterrent, it was here all round him. He fought down the urge to run out; he was a visitor now, on the other side of the fence. But the realisation did not help much. He had been in this room before as a con. And he knew that the prisoners would enter the door facing him at the further end of the room. Warders were not too evident, just one screw positioned at each end of the long room — Authority trying to achieve an informal atmosphere.

Tables were filling up and Scott became anxious in case another visitor might be forced to sit next to him. If that happened, it would be impossible to say what he wanted. And then he rose as he saw Lennie Peel being ushered towards him. He was shocked at the sight of the old forger; the man had aged almost beyond recognition. The short, hunched figure was ashen and appeared to be ill. The only hair he had left hung about his large ears in dirty white tufts.

Yet Lennie recognised Scott at once. A smile broke over the prematurely aged face. He shuffled forward hurriedly as the warder dropped back. “Spider. Me old mate. Where the bloody hell have you been?”

The two men shook hands vigorously. As Peel sat down, Scott said with feeling, “Great to see you, Inky. Tea or coffee?” He went to the bar, bought tea and biscuits and put a steaming cup in front of Peel who placed stiff hands round it for warmth. Scott noticed the stiffness of the swollen fingers.

“Arthritis,” explained Peel, noticing Scott’s glance. “Murder, in my game. I do get a bit of painting done in here, but it’s hard, Spider. Bloody hard.”

Peel had been a fine artist until he found easier money in forgery, and he had been an artist at that, too. If he could not use his hands, there was nothing left for him.

They talked of old times and better days. There was much to laugh about and Scott was glad to see Peel respond so easily. Peel had not received a visitor for five months and his underlying dejection made Scott realise all too clearly what could have become of himself.

Time was running out when Peel asked, as Scott knew that eventually he would, “So why have you really come, Spider, as much as I’m pleased to see you?”

“I had to see you like this so that no eyebrows would be raised. Just an ordinary prison visit.” Scott lowered his voice. “What’s the inside word on Chesfield?”

“Chesfield?” Peel’s face went blank. “The bloke who topped himself?”

“Did he?”

“Did he what?”

“Inky, it’s me, your old mate, Spider. You can trust me.”

“For a minute I thought it was the fuzz. What’s your game? You crossed over?”

Scott laughed. “You know better. How could I do that?”

Peel gripped his empty cup, his fingers trembling slightly. “I dunno. You got up to some funny dodges a few years back. A bloody hero, the papers said.”

“Come on, that was ages ago and it was nothing to do with the police. I don’t want detail. Just the whisper. As a favour to me. I’m acting for a friend who is definitely not fuzz.”

Peel surreptitiously peered round the room. In the far corner a prisoner was fondling a woman quite openly. The nearby warder was trying not to look, but then there would be a point at which he would have to intervene. Peel turned back. “You wouldn’t believe it’s his wife, would you? It’s time for me to go, old mate.”

“There’s money in it. In a bank or to relatives. Could be used for little extras in here.”

“This isn’t like you, Spider.”

“I’m not trying to finger anyone.”

“Money? How much?”

“I can’t give a figure. It’s not mine. You can trust me, though. I’ll see that you’re more than fairly paid.”

Peel appeared subdued. He gazed across the table, still gripping the cup. “If you’re the old Spider, I know you will.” He paused for a long time. Some visitors were already leaving but Scott remained patient. Peel said, “I’d have to be alive to enjoy it.”

Scott observed carefully, “We’ll be guided by you. We won’t make the payments obvious.”

Peel was clearly nervous. He thought carefully, weighing up friendship and money. Scott had helped him many times in the past but honour amongst thieves was a load of rubbish, for the most part anyway. He said slowly, “I don’t want the same thing happening to me, Spider.”

Scott accepted the inference in the way it was intended. Inky Peel had come as close as he dared. “Why?”

“That’s not on the agenda, brother.”

“You don’t know?”

“I don’t want to know. The guy topped himself like they said, okay? You read the papers.”

The room was almost empty, and the two warders were getting restless. “Sure. I understand.” And then, Scott added, “An act of God, then? The outside universe or inside the pearly gates?” The riddle would be understood by Peel, who could honestly say that he had openly betrayed nothing.

Suddenly one of the warders called out to Peel who rose at once. He smiled wanly. “There’s no God in here, mate. Except in the Governor’s office. I believe you’ve got one your side who spreads the word. Nice to see you, Spider. Really nice.”

The two men shook hands and Inky Peel shuffled down the aisle to the room beyond for a routine search.

* * *

Scott and Halliman sat in a quiet corner of Sir Stuart’s club. They each had a cognac on the low table in front of them.

“You’re reading an awful lot into it,” observed Halliman.

“No. There are times when a villain prefers to talk in parables. I’ve had friends telling me about jobs they have done, but they don’t describe the actual job, just something akin to it. So that the confession is not quite there. What did you expect Inky to say? ‘I don’t want the same thing happening to me.’ That means it happened to Chesfield. He was topped, all right.”

“And you’re saying that the instructions came from outside?” Halliman drew slowly on his cigar.

“That’s what Inky implied.”

“Can we get more from him?”

“No. I doubt that he knows more anyway. It’s a whisper that spreads among the cons. Innuendos. Insight. An understanding. No more.”

“But it’s not evidence and could be utterly misleading.” Halliman frowned, obviously dissatisfied with what Scott had told him.

“Not something like this. There would be foundation. Take it or leave it.”

Halliman inclined his head, eyes sharp as he looked at Scott. “Not much to tell Chesfield, is it?”

“He doesn’t need convincing. He’s already sold on the idea. I’m satisfied that Inky’s satisfied that Gordon Chesfield was topped in his cell.”

“Which means it was Naylor or Brooks, or both.”

“That’s right. And they’re not going to confess to it, are they? They need only hold their nerve and keep quiet.”

“And you think someone contacted them from outside?”

“Either that or one of the barons inside was contacted, who in turn chose his moment. The inducement would have been substantial. A bent screw might have been contacted.”

“Why?” asked Halliman, but he was really asking himself.

“Chesfield must cough up. I can fix the method. Inky must not appear suddenly flush.”

“I’ll attend to it. If Chesfield is satisfied.”

“Not if he’s satisfied. Because I’m satisfied. Okay?”

“Touchy, Spider. Not like you.”

“It’s a point of honour.”

“Do you know Naylor or Brooks?”

“No. I could ask around, but it won’t help.”

“Well, that seems to be that, but I’m not entirely satisfied. The whole thing seems ambiguous.”

“Let’s put it this way,” smiled Scott, “you thought enough of me to put me on the job, so you’ll have to think as highly of my findings. I haven’t even charged for expenses. But if Chesfield welches on Inky then I’ll have to raise the money from press articles.”

“That’s blackmail.”

Scott rose and then drained his goblet. “That’s right. You know my motto. Never make a threat unless you mean it. Cheers, Fairfax. I’ve kept my word. Now you keep yours.”

* * *

“Maggie. I’m home.”

She entered the drawing room from the kitchen, her expression guarded.

“We’re going out,” Scott said. “I’ve got shift of Fairfax.”

“It’s over?”

“It’s over.”

Maggie twirled, skirt billowing. She spun to face him again. “Willie, I’m so pleased. In the old days you’d have found an excuse to go on with it. Thank you, darling.”

He caught her hand and pulled her to him.

“The old days have gone, love. I told you.”

* * *

Sir Richard Chesfield was not alone in thinking that his son had been murdered. Walter Clarke at the Foreign Office also had his suspicions. He shared Sir Richard’s belief that Gordon Chesfield was not the type to commit suicide. It was easy to take such a view but in this case it was firmly founded on his knowledge of the man.

Chesfield had been able to maintain silence in any situation, whatever the pressures, if it concerned someone close to him. He could be utterly relied on, his loyalty unquestioned. And he had possessed his own cast-iron brand of justice. He would willingly have served his prison sentence for someone else if his belief in the other was sufficiently strong. He would have endured the downgrading of his own standards and would have accepted public findings regarding his own guilt. There had been no middle way with Chesfield; whatever weaknesses he might possess, he had immense and unusual strengths, however misguided. Unfortunately, though, it was not the kind of personal assessment that had any value in law.

Sir Richard Chesfield and Walter Clarke met only briefly at the funeral — which had been delayed by the inquiry. They did not know each other well and did not discuss their personal beliefs, but even if they had been closer, it was doubtful whether the matter would have been discussed. Their reasons would have been quite different. Both men were strong willed. And ambition was another common denominator, though Sir Richard’s had waned somewhat of late.

Walter Clarke, on the other hand, wanted to be Foreign Secretary to Her Majesty’s Government. At least. He was already Foreign Minister. He was young and there were colleagues who objected to his ‘whizz kid’ attitude. But nobody, not even his political enemies, could deny his ability. Walter Clarke was brilliant and sufficiently sensible to keep within the bounds of personal integrity. He paid his taxes and had no secret bank accounts in the Channel Islands or elsewhere. He was unmarried but was discreet about his love affairs. He was going places. And few doubted that he would get there.

On that chill autumn morning, as Clarke watched the coffin being lowered into the ground, he could not help reflecting that he was responsible. Not directly, of course. But he had some knowledge of what had led up to it. He felt deep regret as his one-time friend disappeared for ever. And he was left feeling worried for himself. Something had gone radically wrong.

There were a good many people at the funeral including Sir Stuart Halliman who had decided to attend now that Bulman had raised his interest. Halliman was aware that there were onlookers some distance away but they could have been passers-by attracted to the event by the mass of colour provided by the banks of flowers and wreaths. And behind them he thought he saw Spider Scott.

There was to be no reception afterwards. Sir Richard, a widower these past few years, saw nothing in the tragedy to drink about. When he was driven off towards London in his Silver Cloud Rolls-Royce, he was unaware that he was being discreetly followed. Even Halliman did not realise it with so many cars at the funeral.

Walter Clarke drove himself home in his new Daimler saloon. Above middle height, he had a strong face, keen, searching eyes, and dark, thick hair which he allowed to drop noticeably over one eyebrow, a characteristic the political cartoonists were quick to pick up — as he had intended they should. It was difficult to judge that he was worried. His face was grim but so had been the funeral he had attended. Behind the severe mask, his fertile mind grappled with his problem. He would solve it for sure. He had striven too hard to let anything interfere with his future. Brave, determined thoughts. So what was making him feel so physically sick?

* * *

The offices of the First Chief Directorate of the K.G.B. had been moved to a new building off the circumferential highway just outside Moscow in 1972. General Anatoli Rogov had not liked the move from the outset. Even though, during that time he had improved his rank and status to Chief of Foreign Operations, and his personal office was now sumptuous compared to the previous one, he still preferred the old offices in Dzerzhinsky Square. At least from there he had been able to look through his window, small as it had been, and see something of Moscow life. He had always loved the city.

But here, where he now sat, there were no such distractions. In spite of its size, fashioned as it was on the lines of the C.I.A. buildings in Virginia, it was, for him, too isolated. He was unrelentingly surrounded by his own profession which was fine for work, but not good for the spirit. Distraction could sometimes stimulate the mind and, therefore, work could benefit. His office was an island in the huge network. When a colonel, mixing with colleagues had been a daily routine, but now all he got was deference, hypocrisy and obsequiousness. He was astute enough to recognise these defects, but at times he yearned for a common chat with old friends. He was intolerant of yes-men which in turn made life difficult for some. But his position demanded respect from subordinates, and he could not allow himself to slip.

Rogov was young for his position. At forty-eight he supposed that he might be considered too young by some and consequently he had grown older and more serious too soon. As he studied the report in front of him he did not miss the fact that his comparative youth was something he shared with Walter Clarke, M.P. It seemed, too, that Clarke shared his strength and some of his ruthlessness. The similarities provided interesting speculation.

Rogov had already absorbed the Home Office findings on the death of Gordon Chesfield. They were thorough and long-winded, as all official inquiries tended to be. He had no comment to make on them. What interested him was Sir Richard Chesfield’s reaction, for that could be a pointer to developments. (Crucially Sir Richard Chesfield was a friend of Sir Stuart Halliman, who had, some years ago, used Scott. And Chesfield had called on Scott.) Without actually having direct access to Sir Richard’s dialogue the indications were that he was restless about the way his son had died.

The re-appearance of Sir Stuart Halliman was also interesting. When the late Yuri Andropov had been Chairman of the K.G.B. he had told Rogov many stories concerning Halliman and had clearly retained a respect for him as an adversary. But Halliman had retired — sound checks confirmed this, and there was a four-year gap between Halliman’s retirement and Rogov’s present appointment just over a year ago. Prior to that Rogov had mainly been in the field, largely in the United States, so his knowledge of Halliman was mostly second-hand. Reputations had a habit of sticking, and Halliman still retained the aura of a legend. A pity he was not Russian.

Rogov studied the old files. Willie Scott, known as Spider. A thief. Apparently one with scruples. An old-fashioned thief then? But still a thief. He read the dossier with interest, wondering just how much had been omitted to cover the failings of the ‘resident’ in London of the day, Colonel Kransouski. Now a colonel general. Rogov instructed an aide over the intercom to bring up the colonel general’s file.

When Rogov had the papers he studied them closely. He could not be expected to remember all the personnel under him, even those in the higher ranks. His organisation was vast. It seemed that at one time Kransouski was thought of highly. His decline stemmed from his period in London and it would seem that the common thief Scott was involved in the matter.

The more Rogov studied the files the more he became convinced that Scott had been used by Halliman, and that Kransouski had perhaps been too harshly treated on his return to Moscow. He checked Kransouski’s present posting to discover he had only five years left before retirement was due. Kransouski was with the Eleventh Department of the First Chief Directorate and was now in Bucharest keeping a fatherly eye on Rumanian intelligence. Rogov picked up a telephone and ordered Kransouski’s return to Moscow. Perhaps the colonel general should be given the chance to go out in a blaze of glory.

Chapter Three

Scott was not sure why he had gone to the funeral of Gordon Chesfield. He hated funerals, particularly when they were so far away. But he knew why he had hung back from the crowd and guessed that Halliman might have seen him. Maggie knew why he had attended. She understood his impulses better than anyone. Much better than he did himself.

Anyway, he learned nothing by going and saw nobody he knew other than Halliman and the elder Chesfield. So it had been a waste of time.

Chesfield, through Halliman, had accepted Scott’s findings, unfounded as they were. An arrangement was made to see that Lennie Peel received some benefit and now that it was over, Scott felt empty of purpose. The business was not doing well in the face of recession. The holiday season was over and business travel was slack. Many of the villains who had booked through him, some extremely wealthy and with large legitimate interests, had drifted away for one reason or another. The business just about ticked over, and they relied too much on Maggie’s job at the United Nations. And when the baby’s arrival became imminent, that income would stop.

Scott recognised that he was giving himself reasons to turn to other interests. The old urge had been dormant, not dead, and he was satisfied only in that he knew there was no risk of him returning to crime. Maggie would not have to worry about that again. But she would detect his restlessness and that would worry her sick because she knew where it could lead. With a baby on the way Scott could not let that happen, but it was with considerable effort that he hid his feelings from her.

Sir Richard Chesfield called two nights later to repeat his original request for Scott to find out who had murdered his son — and why. Scott’s reactions to the idea had drastically changed as the days had passed, and the urge had slowly built up despite all efforts to stem it. His resolve had been eroded much like the inevitable encroachment of rust on exposed metal. It had taken longer than it used to, and he clung to this: it was an improvement. But after so long he now had to face the fact that, whatever the time lapse, there would be occasions like this again, and the tremendous urge that bedevilled him, he would harbour through his life. Scott wept inside as he realised the effect this would have on Maggie.

To his credit he fought off the offer, still refused — if shakily — and then seized on one disturbing aspect of what Chesfield was telling him across the desk.

“You say you went to the police again?” Scott asked.

“I told them what you had discovered.”

“You brought me into it? I’ve a record.”

“It did no harm. I explained the position.”

Scott braced himself. “You didn’t mention Lennie Peel by any chance?”

“Well, I had to give credence to what . . .”

“You bloody fool. If the police make enquiries at Hull the screws will soon know what it’s about. If your son was killed you could have killed Lennie, too. They’ll get him if they think he’s talked.”

“Surely not? He made only innuendos which you interpreted.”

Scott rubbed his face. He felt sick. “I’ll have to speak to Sir Stuart. We’ve got to get Lennie out of there. Poor sod.”

Chesfield could not believe it was so bad. Still obsessed with his own problem he asked, “Will you help?”

“Not now, you bastard. I don’t trust you.” But the shock also brought him back to earth. Even if he wanted to, what could he do? Men like Naylor and Brooks would never talk.

* * *

Colonel General Kransouski had the condescending arrogant bearing of an aristocrat. This had an anachronistic effect on some of his colleagues who could easily believe he had stepped straight out of Czarist days. He was tall and elegant and moved with a quiet air of purpose. He dressed well and exuded an unconscious aura of prosperity. Over the last few years, he had greyed, but this change served only to heighten the dignity of his appearance. He sometimes carried a cane and swung it as it should be swung. And yet there was nothing of the dandy about him.

Those who really knew him feared him. Those who did not know him so well soon learned, and painfully. It was true that some of his power had ebbed and that in his present post his long experience and ability were largely wasted. This had made him bitter and more dangerous to those who worked for him. The system understood this, for failure could be turned to advantage with the right move. There was no way that Kransouski would tolerate failure from those he controlled, especially as he had once failed himself.

When he was instructed to return to Moscow he did so with a degree of indifference. He knew his true value and that everything was under control. He caught the Aeroflot flight to Moscow without misgiving.

General Anatoli Rogov received Kransouski warmly. He knew how to deal with older men, men who might believe they had been passed over, and could sometimes detect their hidden resentment. Kransouski showed none as he shook hands but Rogov could have sworn there was a speck of disdain in the cold, grey eyes. After the greetings, Rogov asked, “How’s Bucharest?”

After his own small office in the Soviet Embassy in Bucharest Kransouski felt he should raise his voice in order to reach Rogov behind the jungle of telephones and intercoms.

Kransouski gave Rogov the answer he already knew. “Restless. We will always need to be there.”

“Do you think it’s time you had a change?”

Kransouski was wary. “Are you offering me one, Comrade General?”

Rogov smiled. “Relax. I’m merely sounding you out about a return to London.”

Kransouski stiffened. This he had not expected and there would be a reason, not necessarily to his advantage.

“Does it appeal?”

“London certainly appeals. I speak fluent English, though it is perhaps a little rusty now. I developed a good network there, but it broke up, so everything would depend on what is now required. But if you are ordering me, then there is nothing more for me to say.”

Rogov sat back and eyed Kransouski easily. “No order. I don’t like ordering men with your experience. You’ve been at the game far longer than I and your record is largely impressive. I’ve studied your file. It was right to bring you back at the time but not to let you stagnate where you are. You’re a field man, not nursemaid to a dissident satellite.”

Kransouski was fully aware that Rogov had in no way been involved in his recall from London. “Tell me what you have in mind? I can then give an honest appraisal. I know London better than anywhere.”

“I know.” Rogov turned a page of the file in front of him. “Does the name Scott mean anything to you?”

“In London? Scott. Willie Scott? The burglar?”

“It’s good that you remember him. Tell me more.”

Kransouski cupped his long-fingered hands. As he gazed over them at Rogov he was annoyed to see the tremor in his fingers. But he kept his hands there knowing that Rogov would already have seen his reaction. His usually tidy mind was in turmoil. The name Scott was like a trigger-word under hypnosis. He took his time.

“He’s not a man to forget. He was called Spider because he could climb like one. The first time we met was soon after he had been released from prison. Some years ago, S.I.S. used him to burgle the Chinese Legation and incredibly he managed it. However, he had been set up by S.I.S. It was intended that he should return to prison or better still be killed. The photographs he stole attracted the attention of all the big agencies. I was among those who tried to obtain what he took. But he survived us all.”

Rogov glanced at the file. “He made rings round everybody?”

Kransouski shook his head slowly. “That’s a claim I doubt even Scott would make. He was in deep trouble; he wormed his way out. That’s all. A question of survival. And he had luck; a lot of luck.”

Rogov goaded once more, trying to widen the scanty perimeters of the original report. “And the rest of you had none?”

Kransouski shrugged, slightly ruffled. “He took us by surprise. He was unorthodox. The Americans would offer the same opinion.”

Rogov laughed quietly. “I believe their man finished up in Ecuador.” He did not know it, but he was giving Kransouski the doubtful comfort of believing that banishment did not only apply to him.

“It could not happen again. Scott eventually became predictable. Had the matter dragged out a little longer the results would have been quite different.”

“I’m glad you said that. You might have another opportunity to get him. Would that appeal to you?”

Kransouski quickly saw that he had trapped himself. But it did not matter. He replied truthfully and, in a cold, even voice, “Yes, it would. I believe in paying debts.”

“Good. It may amount to nothing and if so I shall have wasted your time. But you will not be returned to Bucharest. I want an eye kept on Scott. Sir Stuart Halliman — who’s retired by the way — has, I believe, seen him. I simply want to know what Scott is up to. We can give it a month. If, after that time it’s obvious that he’s leading a normal life, then we’ll drop it.”

“How do you want me to operate?”

“Obviously you won’t follow him personally. You will become a Polish national and you will arrive in London from Warsaw on a trade mission to link up with a delegation already there. Poland is in such a bad way that almost all their intelligence strength is at present centred on home ground. You will operate through the Polish Embassy in London. Discreetly. I’ll arrange for them to have personnel available to you.”

Rogov pressed a buzzer and a secretary came in. He raised his brows at Kransouski. “Coffee? We’ve much to talk about afterwards. I want your briefing to be thorough. And you’ll be answerable solely to me.”

Kransouski held up a hand. “One question, please. Is Scott still with a girl called Margaret Parsons?”

Rogov referred to his files. “There is mention on the original file. The recent notes are understandably scanty as we are not yet sure of Scott’s interest. Is she important?”

“Extremely. If they are still together.” Kransouski uncrossed his long legs. “Perhaps I’m being carried away. A long time has passed but it was no casual affair. They had a deep dependence on each other: opposites but with a common core.”

“They were in love,” prompted Rogov with a smile.

“A special kind of love. There were special factors involved. Everyone was trying to tear them apart.”

“I can see your interest. You’ll know when you get there.”

* * *

“He refuses to help. I upset him by mentioning that forger chap to the police.” Chesfield was petulant, one fat leg crossed over the other.

“I’m not surprised. It was an indelicate thing to do. Scott’s spoken to me, and I’ve already had a word with the Home Secretary. I don’t want the police tramping all over Lennie Peel just to show willing to a cause they don’t believe in. You have to understand people like Scott. He gave his word.”

“Well, I’m damned if I like the way he spoke to me.”

Halliman laughed softly. “I’ve suffered it too. Often. And I can’t think of a single occasion when I hadn’t asked for it. Position means nothing to him. You have to earn his respect.”

“You suggest he’s worth it.”

“Oh, he’s worth it. I like him. And I trust him. Which is far more than he would say for me.”

“You’d still use him, though?”

“As I keep telling everybody, I’m retired. But you know, he’s really the sort of person who gets used, sometimes quite unintentionally. Although he’s been through a long, quiet spell, when he stirs, things seem to happen to him. Don’t push him anymore. If he wants to help he’ll surface. He might even do a little on his own account. But I want an understanding from you, Richard, that if anything happens to him because of this, you’ll damn well see that Maggie Parsons is cared for.”

Chesfield uncrossed his leg with difficulty and sat forward.

“What are you talking about? Why should anything happen to him? Is there something you are not telling me? Is that why you’ve tried to help?”

Halliman was watching the smoke spiral of his cigar drift and intermingle with that of his host. “Not at all. But somehow things happen to Scott, usually unpleasant things. And you don’t believe there’s a simple answer to your son’s death any more than I do.”

* * *

Someone was tailing him. After all this time. Bloody hell. But Scott had been followed so many times in the past and he had become so used to it, that it had never before worried him unduly.

He continued walking towards his offices. By the use of shop windows, the mirrors of parked cars, reflections on moving buses, he located one man. A short burst of window shopping confirmed his opinion. He spotted another man across the street, intermittently on view through the traffic gaps. And now he believed he saw one ahead of him.

A familiar stirring raised his adrenalin. It could not be ‘old bill’; he had been clean for too long. Even the half-forgotten terms were entering his mind. They were probably out of date now, but he was thinking like a villain again, and this both worried and stimulated him. He entered the already-open shop door.

Charlie Hewitt, the office manager, threw out an automatic greeting as Scott moved behind the counter where Charlie stood checking the morning’s mail, and went into his office. As he sat at his desk, he could see the other man’s shadow against the translucent glass partition. From the cell next door came the sound of Lulu clacking at her typewriter.

Scott sat quite still. It was a long time since he had likened Lulu’s tiny office to a cell. What was happening to him? He picked up his direct-line telephone and dialled the number Halliman had given him. It rang out so long that he was in the act of hanging up when he just caught Halliman’s answer. He pulled the instrument back to his ear.

“You took your time.”

“Good God, Willie, I was in bed.”

“Now I believe you’re retired. There’s a team on my tail.”

“A team? Professional?”

“They’d think so. I don’t think they are police. Thought you might have an idea.”

“Nothing to do with me. Anyway, I haven’t that kind of pull any more.”

“Balls. But I’ll believe they’re not yours. So whose?”

“Can you handle it or do you need help?”

“I can handle the tailing but I don’t know how far they’ve been told to go. Can you raise somebody to see where they drift to when the shifts change?”

“I’ll ring you back. Oh, and Willie — don’t be overconfident. It’s been a very long time.” Halliman hesitated before using Scott’s own jargon, but by so doing strengthened its impact. “Be lucky.”

Scott put down the phone. Halliman hated criminal slang. To use that expression as he had, endorsed the concern behind it.

* * *

Walter Clarke idly watched the captions go up on the screen in the visitors’ restaurant of the House of Commons. He was entertaining a striking beauty whose posture and clothes sense suggested that she might be a model. Many eyes turned their way; beauty was not all that usual in the restaurant, or elsewhere in the House for that matter. And as Clarke was considered to be one of the most eligible bachelors in London, polite speculation ran high. They made a splendid couple.

Clarke enjoyed the company and he quietly revelled in the pockets of envy scattered round the room. But all good things must come to an end. He had to be available that afternoon; the opposition had tabled a question that he was to answer in the absence of the Foreign Secretary.

After lunch he returned to the lobby and bumped into the fair-haired Tony Marchant, an under-secretary in the Home Office. The two men walked down the corridor together.

“You knew Gordon Chesfield, didn’t you?” queried Marchant.

“Well enough to go to his funeral. We were at Oxford together.”

“Strange development. We’ve been asked to transfer one of the prisoners in Hull because of him. Apparently, this old lag was visited by another old lag in connection with Chesfield.”

“That’s odd. What’s it about?”

“Haven’t a clue, though the ‘old man’ thought sufficiently of it to action the transfer. I believe he was nudged by the Security Service.”

“What’s his name?”

“Whose?”

“Well, both. I don’t suppose it will throw any light, but you never know.”

Surprised, Marchant glanced at his colleague. “If you’re really interested I’ll let you know — if you can give me an introduction to the dish you had lunch with. She raised a few temperatures, including mine. Anything serious?”

“With Sue? No. Not really. Her personality doesn’t live up to her looks. You might be disappointed.”

Marchant grinned. “In the long term, perhaps. The short term could be quite interesting, though. Come on, let’s go to the office. Confidential, mind. Although I don’t think it’s meant to be too big a secret.”

* * *

Scott walked to Embankment underground station as he always did. He was now absolutely certain of being followed but did nothing to show that he knew.

When he opened the apartment door to call out to Maggie — who was invariably home first — he felt more relaxed. He could cope. The television was on and he stood watching it for a while. He turned to see Maggie standing in the doorway, sporting a cheerful apron, and a wooden spoon held high in one hand.

“You going to clobber me with that?” he asked with a smile.

Maggie lowered the spoon. “Are you going to take your coat off?”

They embraced and as they broke away, she said, “It’s starting again, isn’t it?”

He noticed her anxiety, led her to a chair, lowered her into it and sat opposite, topcoat still on. “Do you think I’ve forgotten what you put up with? Do you believe I could ever forget your suffering?”

Maggie knew then that she had been right.

“I’ve no regrets, Willie. But it’s different now with a baby on the way. And you can’t be as agile as you once were. I just don’t want it to start again.” She sat with the wooden spoon held in both hands, in a kind of innocent pose that had always pulled at Scott.

“I was tempted, Maggie. Not as much as before, but I’d be a liar if I said I wasn’t. But I turned down Chesfield’s offer. Twice. So far as that’s concerned it’s over.”

Maggie waggled the spoon, her blue-green eyes on him. “But,” she prompted.

“I’m being followed.”

“Oh, God,” she sighed, now gripping the spoon tightly between her knees.

“I’ve asked Fairfax to look into it for me.”

Maggie gazed at him, wondering whether she could endure it all again.

“It’s not like before,” he tried to explain. “This isn’t because of something I’ve taken on. Don’t worry, I’ll find out.”

“Don’t worry.” Maggie shook her head in despair. “Don’t worry. Just like that.” The spoon dropped to the floor, but she didn’t notice.

The telephone rang and Scott rose to cross the room. After giving his number he simply listened, avoiding the temptation to glance at Maggie. He put the instrument down and braced himself. “That was Fairfax,” he said. “Just to say he had managed to arrange a check. It’s not the police, anyway.” He watched Maggie groping for the spoon and lied, “He’ll let me know when he has something definite.”

Maggie rose. “I’d better get on with dinner then.” She stopped halfway to the door. “Don’t try to protect me, Willie. I love you too much. Don’t lie to me.”

He dropped his gaze. “I’m sorry. One man has been traced back to an apartment used by the Polish Embassy.” He held up his hands, palms outwards. “For God’s sake don’t ask me why because I’ve no idea.”

Maggie’s hands crept down to her stomach. She pressed slightly as if to reassure the baby inside. “But you’re going to find out.” It was a statement.

“What else can I do?” he pleaded, “I haven’t asked for this.”

“Well, take your coat off first. Dinner’s almost ready.”

He did not like her stiffness; Maggie was so essentially warm. Oh Christ. Where had he gone wrong?

“They were cooked in the Marmitout,” she explained when they were eating. “The vegetables. No water; just in their own juice.”

“Terrific,” he said. But his appetite had gone.

She gazed at him across the table, her lips trembling. How could anyone with his record convey such wide-eyed innocence? At the moment he was like a little boy; it was no act. And she knew how worried he was for her. Being followed did not trouble him, but her own reaction to it did. “I love you, Willie,” she said simply. “Nothing can change that. I shall never fully understand why these things happen but I’m with you all the way. It’s all right. I’m getting over the shock.”

* * *

It was cold on the flat roof. He had put his topcoat on. He walked across to the parapet and peered down into the street. Car roofs reflected like oil patches. Doorways slunk back in the shadows, but Scott could dissect shadows into various shades. He located movement in one of them. And the interior light of a stationary car came on for a second. It was too cold for lovers. And too public.

The modern block of apartments on whose roof he stood faced older buildings across the street. Small balconies went down the front of the block; there was one attached to their own apartment. He wondered if he could still climb down, balcony to balcony? Would his muscles stand up to it? A cigarette glowed in the car. Bloody amateurs; he felt affronted. For Maggie’s sake he decided to leave it for tonight but if Fairfax did not come up with anything concrete by tomorrow, then he would be forced to act himself.

* * *

Walter Clarke’s apartment was large, expensively furnished and situated in a fashionable area of London. He also owned a small country estate in his Wiltshire constituency. He rose, showered and shaved and afterwards gazed through the large windows at the view across the street. Some people were already walking their dogs. It was a sunny, crisp morning, and Clarke had slept well. But for one minor, niggling problem, he felt good.

He went into the hall, said good morning to the ebony blackamoor stood perpetually smiling by the door, arms outstretched to hold a silver card tray, and bent down to collect his mail. His official mail went to the House of Commons. This address was not publicised, and the telephone number remained ex-directory.

He entered the kitchen, placed his mail on the coffee bar and switched on the coffee maker. The letter which so dramatically changed his mood and took the blood from his face was to be the fifth one he opened.

Walter Clarke held on to the bar and retched; the envelope fluttered to the Italian tiled floor in lazy movements as if to taunt him. After forcing himself to straighten he gazed again at the contents of the envelope. But he had to lay the paper down flat, his hands too unsteady to hold it. It was a photocopy.

He could not think straight. He had believed it to be over. Finished and dead. But here it was again threatening his whole future. There were no demands; they would come quite separately. The dreadful thing was that he would not know when, and the longer he was kept waiting the worse it would be.

Clarke groped for a bar stool and eased himself onto it. He poured some coffee. He was forcing himself to do these things. Though still shaken he had to think clearly and avoid panic.

He folded the sheet to envelope size and slipped it into his dressing-gown pocket. Even now he could not really grasp that he was the subject of blackmail. He had done nothing morally wrong in his life; not that he would consider to be wrong, anyway. Nothing corrupt. And yet his whole future was threatened unless he could somehow solve the problem.

The main threat lay from what was in his pocket. There seemed to be a second threat developing although it was difficult to take seriously, and he could not really see how it could lead anywhere. He had learned from Tony Marchant that an ex-burglar named Willie Scott had been to see a prisoner in Hull to quiz him about the way Gordon Chesfield had died. There was nothing directly to threaten him there; he himself was puzzled by the death, but it niggled at him. Someone was stirring. He could not see how he could be affected, yet he would obviously prefer the death to remain as found.

Clarke sipped at his coffee steadying the cup in both hands. He needed help. And there was no official channel to which he could safely turn, even with his top-level contacts. Indeed, those kinds of contacts must never know his problem.

Chapter Four

Willie Scott, even with Maggie’s reluctant acceptance of what he must do, still avoided distressing her as much as he could. He waited until he reached the office before calling Ray Lynch, and when he did, had to endure another frustrating hour before he could raise him.

“A voice from the dead,” he announced at last. “Your angels protect you well, oh father.”

“Balls. Spider, my God, I thought you were dead.”

“Stop talking to yourself, cocker. I need to see you.”

“You only ever saw me when you brought trouble with you.”

“Since when has good news been of use to a newspaper man? Anyway, you did well out of it.”

“Time for me to pay my debts, then?”

“Come off it. When and where?”

“Twelve thirty, my office.” Lynch changed his tone. “Nice to know you’re still around, boyo. It’s been too long.”

Ray Lynch was of average height and slight build with fair hair, short on top and tidily long at the back. It was the impression of general neatness that took Scott by surprise. Although he had briefly seen Lynch about two years ago it was the image he presented before that which always stuck in his mind. Lynch had then been a failure, on the booze and heading quickly for skid row. Now he was almost a picture of health — as much as any journalist could be.

Lynch, after his unrestrained friendly greeting, took Scott to the Cheshire Cheese in Fleet Street. It was obvious from the moment they sat down that Lynch had not given up drink or cigarettes but at least he now controlled his intake.

As the pie arrived, Scott said, “I heard you could have been editor of the Mail?”

Lynch raised his wine. “I prefer my column on the Express. I’m an investigative journalist, boyo. The best since Chapman Pincher. And what’s more, I like it.”

Scott said, “Sally will be pleased?”

“Who?”

“Oh, hell.” Scott concentrated on his food.

Lynch smiled. “Don’t worry, boyo. I divorced her four years ago. She was sleeping around.” He looked up over a forkful of pie. “Made a play for you once, didn’t she?”

“If she did, I didn’t notice.”

“Same old Spider. Straight down the line. So how can I help? If you’re on the run, forget it.”

“What do you know about Gordon Chesfield, the bloke who topped himself?”

Lynch looked surprised. “Not much. Not newsworthy until he committed murder. Know more about his old man; rich, ruthless bastard.”

“Can you look through your files? Give me what you’ve got?”

“No need.” Lynch waved a fork. “Don’t want the pie to get cold. Wait till coffee.”

They had the cubicle to themselves, and Scott ate slowly. He gazed around. Dickens had eaten here. And Boswell. Perhaps the restaurant’s history was partly why it drew so many journalists. He was glad that Lynch had pulled himself from the rut; sometimes it was difficult to equate the man eating steadily opposite him with the one who had helped him before, but always under a shroud of alcohol.

When the coffee was in front of them Lynch gazed up at the ceiling reflectively. “Gordon Chesfield. Poor bugger.” His focus switched to Scott. “You going to tell me why you want to know, boyo?”

“Usual terms. You’ll be the first if there’s anything to it.” Lynch nodded.

“An enigma. Some thought he was gay but there was never any hard evidence. Seemed to be under the strong arm of his father who’s into tax avoidance up to his hairline, if he has one. Quiet, retiring bloke; self-effacing and good at finance. Few friends, so far as is known, but strongly loyal to those he had. Mixed with, but had no reputation for, women. Could have been that he had tendencies he managed to subjugate.”

Lynch pulled out a packet of cigarettes, knowing better than to offer the packet to Scott. “His short life might well be described as a continuing innuendo. But nobody really cared. He was too back-seat to rouse journalistic passion.”

“Until he sanctioned murder.”

“Is this what you’re after? Why he did it?” Lynch eyed Scott thoughtfully. “If it is, then there’s a lot more to it than meets the eye.” He called for two cognacs. “Don’t worry, I know you too well to try and trap you. The truth is, boyo, nobody has a clue why he did it. And once he’d made up his mind to keep quiet there was no way of finding out.”

Lynch pushed his empty cup away. “How do you intimidate someone who puts up no defence? Makes no denial? Offers no protest on getting a life sentence? Okay, he might have been out in ten years, even less, but with his lifestyle those ten years would have been sheer purgatory. I can understand why he . . .” Lynch tailed off as an idea struck him and asked, “You think he didn’t . . . ?”

Scott did not answer.

“Maybe that’s answer enough, boyo. Jesus. In prison?”

“I came to ask the questions. I didn’t follow the trial because I wasn’t interested at the time.”

“Well,” said Lynch, cupping his brandy balloon, “it seems that he wanted this character knocked off. Knowing that he was incapable of managing it himself he hired someone who could. But he was right out of his depth. As clever as he tried to be, he left a trail that no experienced copper could miss. He finally hired a guy who did the job, crudely, six shots all over the body. The victim died more from multiple wounds than from any one bullet. In fact, he was still alive when they found him but too far gone to speak; D.O.A. at Charing Cross Hospital.

“The hired killer was a ham, a braggart. It was probably his first job. Chesfield had paid him so well that he couldn’t keep the money in his pocket, nor the liquor from his guts. He hadn’t even fixed an alibi. The trail really led from him back to Chesfield. Anyway, he’s in Parkhurst doing life.”

“So if Chesfield had been more careful in his selection of hit men, he might have got away with it?”

Lynch threw up his hands. “Willie, the whole thing was a complete cock-up. Unbelievable. The blind leading the blind.”

“But the job was done just the same.”

“Chesfield would have done better firing the bloody gun himself. Motive was never established and never will be now. The killer — Bert Smith, really, I ask you — killed for money. That, and the fact that the other guy was dead, were the only established facts. Boyo, I’m telling you that it was the most unprofessional killing of all time. The only thing that kept it going was Chesfield’s part in it, rich upper bracket, and the mystery of why? Only one thing can be said for the whole unholy mess: because it was so cut and dried the trial was brief and therefore saved the taxpayer’s money.”

“Who was the murdered man?”

“Nobody of note. One Duncan Seddon. Had a small pad in Kilburn. Shady but no record. Unemployed. The best part about him was his name. It was a nothing crime committed by nothing men to a nothing victim. There was no motive at all that came to light.”

“Blackmail? You suggested that Chesfield might have been gay.”

“That was fully gone into. At one time it seemed the only hope of getting anywhere. But it was a completely dead end. Seddon was straight; in fact his only claim to local fame was his interest in women. He had no money. That theme was pursued so much that Chesfield came out of it quite well, whatever his inclinations might have been. Funny business altogether.”

“You say Smith’s in Parkhurst?”

“You’ll get nothing from him. You could read a transcript of the trial but I don’t think you’ll get any more than I’ve told you. You sure you’re not in trouble, boyo? You sound like a bloody tec instead of an old lag.”

Scott laughed. “I’m clean. Have been for years, Ray.”

Lynch called for the bill. “You’re up to something. Make it a good one for me.”

Scott did not tell his old friend that he had been followed here, nor that he would be followed back.

* * *

Scott left the Cheshire Cheese and walked slowly down towards the Strand and Trafalgar Square. It was a reasonable route to take to return to his office but a fair walking distance with cabs and buses available. He did not hurry. When he reached the Strand Palace Hotel he pulled out an air ticket wallet, briefly checked its contents and entered the hotel with the wallet still in his hand as if making a delivery.

Once inside he moved at rapid speed towards the baggage entrance in Exeter Street which formed a T-junction with the Strand. He was already out of sight by the time his tail had entered the hotel. He hurried round the curve of Exeter Street and turned left into Burleigh Street and left again at Tavistock Street. He moved very quickly, using the back streets to Shaftesbury Avenue before cutting up to Dean Street into strip-club land. Soho had always been cosmopolitan but it had changed for the worse. Some of the character remained, the institutions of its restaurants and coffee houses, but hard porn was openly gnawing at its core.

He turned off Dean Street. The once-faded sign had been considerably improved; the whole façade recently painted. The upper windows, though, were still opaque. Gainboy Studios. Well, well. Some things do not change but this studio was one that should have done a long time ago. Scott rang the bell. There was an entry phone now and it crackled. “Who is it?”

Scott smiled to himself. That plaintive whine could be from only one person. “Bluie. It’s Spider. Open up.”

“Spider? Spider? My dear boy, what a time to call. I’m in session.”

“I can wait, but let me in.”

“Are you alone?”

“Aren’t I always? Come on, Bluie, open up. The fuzz are beginning to take an interest.”

There was a buzz and the door clicked. Scott pushed it open and went up the expensively carpeted stairs. The address might be the same but Bluie’s fortunes had definitely changed for the better. He could smell perfume in the air and the quality of that seemed to have improved since the last time he had called here.

At the top of the stairs was a door marked ‘Studio’ and a notice which said, ‘Please Ring’. Scott rang.

The door opened and at first Scott did not recognise his old acquaintance. Bluie Palmer had lost all his hair, but he did not look his age, his face virtually unwrinkled, even without make-up. Bluie beamed at Scott who could see a girl dressing over the shorter man’s shoulder. For a moment Scott thought he was about to be embraced but Bluie remembered in time and settled for preening himself. “It’s so lovely to see you, Willie. Really, after so long. You look just as gorgeous as ever.” He wore tight jeans and a loose jacket with a roll top beneath.

Scott was expecting this affectionate tirade from Bluie, so nicknamed because of his pornographic filmmaking. As Scott followed his friend inside, he noticed the girl was slipping into her bra. A well-proportioned blonde, she saw Scott and quickly dived behind a screen.

The studio was larger than Scott remembered, and he guessed that another room had been opened up. As he stepped over cables and props he noticed the quality and variety of the equipment; arc-lamps, cameras, backcloths, an open wardrobe of deviationist apparatus, and the inevitable bed. Bluie was a brilliant photographer by any standards and Scott had never understood why he had gone the way he had. But the man had a few things going for him, and, like the dead Chesfield, loyalty was among his plusses.

They crossed the wide, littered floor and as they passed the screen Bluie called out, “See you next week, ducky.” The girl did not reply, nor respond to Scott’s wicked grin above the screen.

The living room was fussy with flowers and tassels and a colour scheme of mixed pastels. Bluie poured two large whiskies and passed one to Scott, then sat on the arm of a massive settee. “Well, darling, I don’t suppose you’ve come to see me for my own sake. Cheers, just the same.”

“Cheers. You remember this bloke Chesfield who was up for murder and slit his wrists inside?”

“Ghastly business.” Bluie shivered and gulped down half his drink.

“Was he a gay?”

“How should I know, lovey? There are a lot of us, and we use gay clubs all round the country.”

“That’s just it. He was a Londoner. West End. Okay, your lives were quite different, but wouldn’t moneyed men be attracted to moneyed clubs? I mean, is there a social status amongst you? Would you and he frequent the same sort of club?”

“I’ve never thought about it.”

“Think about it now. Where would a man like Chesfield go?”

Bluie gave it some thought. “I think you’re on the wrong track, ducky. It’s true that some of us would avoid certain clubs, and not all gays go to clubs anyway. I haven’t heard of him as a gay. If he was one, he was getting us all a bad name.”

“So, you don’t know whether he was one or not?”

“No.”

“You all have an affinity. There’s a natural magnetism among you. You’re not holding out are you, Bluie?”

Bluie could be serious when he wanted to be. He dropped the pose that everyone expected of him, even lowered his voice a tone and he displayed a toughness he was usually careful to hide. “I wouldn’t handle you this way, Spider. You and I were good pals a long time ago. I know you don’t care for the way I make a living, but it’s easy and I’m bone idle.”

Scott gazed around him at the obvious affluence.

“I don’t know how you’ve got away with it for so long without finishing in stir. Look, can you make a few inquiries for me? It’s something I want to clear up. It could be important.”

“Sure. I’ll pass the word round though it won’t guarantee a correct answer.”

“If he was gay it will come out one way or the other. Oh, and it’s not information I intend to publicise. I think he suffered enough.”

“I’ll try.”

* * *

Back at the office Scott rang Halliman at his club. “Can you produce that prison list again?”

“Possibly. Why?”

“Are there any strong Commies on it? I mean, if I have a red tail there must be a reason.”

“I already made notes on that. I have one or two names.”

“Dammit, you didn’t tell me.”

“It was purely routine.”

“Anyone significant?”

“Willie, you should know better than anyone the types who go to prison. There are almost bound to be some political bods: terrorists, I.R.A., the extreme left and right. But it wasn’t the obvious ones I was looking for. Not the paid-up members or the bombers. I found two who were known to be active sympathisers without carrying a card. I won’t give you names now; I’ll drop them in this evening.”

* * *

“I reckon you topped him,” Brooks accused Naylor.

Naylor, sitting on the opposite bunk, plate in one hand, fork in the other, looked across the steaming stew. “What you on about, sunshine?”

“Chesfield. I reckon you topped him in the night.”

Naylor’s vicious eyes narrowed. “With you in here? You’ve lost your marbles.” And because he believed he should have said more, added, “What made you say a crazy thing like that?”

The door was open. All cells remained open from the time of slopping out to nine in the evening when the inmates were locked in again. During the day prisoners could come and go as they pleased, mix in the cells, or go to the workrooms or television rooms. Top security was outside and the comparative freedom inside of dangerous and long-term prisoners helped to stave off gate fever and ease the burden of chronic overcrowding.

Naylor and Brooks had only just got their cell back. Police forensic had been crawling all over it and then it had been sealed off for a few days.

“Why did they move Lennie Peel? In a hell of a hurry, too. And nobody knows where he’s gone.”

Naylor had recovered from the first shock. “What’s he got to do with it? Up and about in the middle of the night looking through closed grills was he? What’s got into you?”

Brooks would not be put off. “The whisper is that Lennie had a visitor who wanted to know what inside opinion was.”

“There’s only you and me, for Christ’s sake. How could anyone know anything apart from us? Chesfield topped himself. Now shut up, you’re spoiling my grub.”

“The whisper now is that there was a third person. Someone you know.”

“In here?” Naylor waved his fork angrily, his plate tilting. “You’re a nutter. I’ll close your mouth if you go on with this crap.”

Brooks produced his ace. “You could, too. I’m no match for you. But you can’t get away with it twice — you’re bright enough to realise that. You know I’m a heavy sleeper. When I hit the deck, I’ve gone.”

“So, while you were asleep I hacked his wrists and he let me? Be your age.”

“You gagged him, probably with your own pillow and then you held him. He’d have struggled but you’re plenty strong enough. And the struggling would soon have eased.”

“Okay, sunshine. Have it your way. I slashed his wrists. How did I avoid the blood? It spurted all over the place.”

“I thought about that. Not easy. You might have half suffocated him first. You might have thumped him one. And you’d have worked from behind his head. One wrist at a time. You probably stripped off. When the screws came I fetched up in the bowl. There was a trace of blood on the rim. Not much but enough. The blood I took over with me was on my feet. My hands were clean. I reckon you dipped your fingertips in the water jug and stirred it around. I used some of the water anyway, and the mess I left would have confused anyone.”

Naylor carefully put his plate down on the bed and balanced the fork across it. He eyed Brooks thoughtfully, his expression chilling. “Will you be sleeping heavily tonight, sunshine? Can you chance it?”

Brooks struggled to keep his nerve. He had tentatively built up a case against his cell mate, more than half believing it but never quite sure. And Naylor was tough and extremely cunning; Chesfield would have been no problem to him. Now Brooks was almost a hundred per cent certain and the man opposite frightened him considerably. He was sorry that he had started it. “Like I said,” he managed nervously, “they’ll never swallow it twice.”

“You’ve spoiled my bloody dinner, Brooksie. I’ll get you for that alone. Anyway, you’re talking through the back of your head. Going to tell the Governor, are you? Implicate yourself. Nobody will believe you were asleep if you spread that kind of bullshit. If I had wanted to top Chesfield I’d have waited until we were back in single cells; it would’ve been easier.”

“I don’t intend to tell anyone.”

“You’ve told me. And I’m the last person you should tell. Dear, oh, dear. Poor Brooksie. Tell me though, why did I do it?”

“Money. Someone here put you up to it. And they’d have paid you well. Very well considering the risks.”

“And you want your share?”

“Not of yours. You’ve earned it. But whoever’s footing the bill can pass some my way. You’re out in nine months, so there’s no way you’d have done it for peanuts.”

Naylor picked up his plate again, forked some food into his mouth then threw the plate down angrily. “It’s gone cold. Sod you, Brooksie. But if you pass any of this on, I’ll get you. And I’ll know before they come for me. I know you inside out. You won’t be able to hide it. If they get me for one it might as well be for two.”

“I’m not screwing you for chrissake. Just pass the word. I don’t expect what you got. They should have brought me into it in the first place.”

Naylor nodded slowly in agreement. He sighed, hands clasped between the legs that overhung the bunk. “You’re right, Brooksie. They should have. I’ll see what I can do.”

Brooks did not like the way it was said. Naylor was even trying to smile at him but his eyes stayed the same, matching the hardness of the cold cell walls. In two days’ time they would be returned to separate cells.

* * *

Mervin Soames saw Naylor in the non-fiction section and sensed trouble. Although they had first met in the prison library Naylor was rarely seen there. He was standing in front of the biographical shelves. That Naylor would be interested in anyone else’s life was, in itself, an instant giveaway. Soames edged himself nearer. His prison clothes hung like a sack on him. Bony and lanky, he had an awkward frame and a hungry, thin face with bright brown eyes that seemed always to appear feverish. He ate like a horse but never put on weight, and despite his sickly appearance rarely reported sick. His wispy hair was combed forward in a futile attempt to hide his baldness, though that small vanity was just the tip of the iceberg. Soames was immensely vain and described himself unflinchingly as an intellectual. He was in prison because society was not yet ready for him; more realistically he had been found guilty of repeated fraud.

“Try Frank Costello,” he suggested as he sidled up to Naylor. “It’s up your street.” He was not even sure that Naylor could read; the book Naylor had pulled out was being held upside down.

“There’s trouble with Brooksie,” said Naylor. “He wants a cut.”

“There was always that risk. Perhaps we should have had him in at the beginning.”

“That’s what he said. But he’d have chickened out. You’ll have to see that he gets something.”

“That’s no problem. But he’ll have to be patient. I’ve got to wait for a visit. And then it will have to be sanctioned.”

“It didn’t take you long with me, Soamesy.”

“That was an emergency.”

“So is this. If he opens his mouth, so do I.”

They moved down the row of shelves, occasionally eyed by a warder. But they were well practised and conversed like two aspiring ventriloquists, lips barely moving, voices pitched just sufficiently loud for each other to hear.

Soames smiled nastily. “You can open yours as wide as you like. You’d never prove a thing. But don’t worry, I’ll take care of it. Keep him happy meanwhile.”

“How much shall I say?”

“A couple of hundred?”

“You’re kidding. We’re talking about a topping.”

“Tell him four figures then, but no specific amount. But just remember this; the longer he keeps quiet the more difficult it will be for him not to.”

* * *

The two men shook hands without warmth. The third secretary of the Soviet Embassy in London, Nicolai Gorkin, was K.G.B. ‘resident’ in the United Kingdom. Of peasant stock, he was of medium height and muscular. Now in his fifties Gorkin had occupied his position for only the last four months, since his predecessor had been declared persona non grata by Her Majesty’s Government.

This fact tied his hands and made it necessary for him to keep a low profile. Technically, as ‘resident’, he was Kransouski’s superior officer, though in the hierarchy of things he was of lower rank. Yet it was not that which caused the ill-concealed friction between them. Kransouski was on a special mission under the direction of General Rogov; Gorkin, therefore, would be wise not to interfere. And yet they would get nowhere without co-operation, though even this delicate balance was not the only cause of their immediate distrust of each other.

They were opposites, their backgrounds quite different. Men like Gorkin would always suspect men like Kransouski, who sometimes flaunted his aristocratic bearing and his impeccable academic education. It might have been easier for Gorkin had his well-born compatriot been a theorist or even a planner behind a desk. But Kransouski had long since proven his value as a field man with all the ruthless toughness that implied, and had held Gorkin’s present position when Gorkin had been much further down in the organisation.

They were, of course, polite to each other. Sitting in Gorkin’s office at the Embassy, the utilitarian surroundings did not prevent them from drinking together, and now each nursed a generous vodka.

Before leaving Warsaw it had been suggested that Kransouski change his appearance.

Though it had been some years since he had operated in London, he had been forced to leave hurriedly, under a cloud and British Intelligence had a long memory. The natural process of ageing would go someway to protect his identity; hair dye and cheek pads would do the rest. After all, it was acknowledged that even K.G.B. men sometimes moved to other work, the supreme example being the late Soviet Secretary General. Also, his mission was limited and largely exploratory; no state secrets were involved.

Even now Gorkin felt annoyed. Kransouski sat cross-legged with the quiet air of a man who owned the place. There was no deliberate arrogance, it was simply something about him, a self-assurance that Gorkin knew he could not emulate. In comparison with Kransouski, he was a bulldozer, though a highly discriminating one. He pushed things through. And after the polite generalities, punctured too often by short, awkward silences, he finally stated what was on his mind.

“We could do the job very efficiently with our existing personnel, and I don’t understand why you should have been sent over here.”

“It’s simply that I knew the man Scott. Quite intimately at one time.” Kransouski smiled an actor’s smile. “He’s a slippery customer. Perhaps the good General Rogov understands my value.”

Gorkin moved awkwardly in his chair and was reminded of his colleague’s apparent comfort. “Even so . . . so trivial a matter . . . ?”

Kransouski was aware that he had made Gorkin uncomfortable. “Look at yesterday,” he said. “Scott is lost in a London hotel. Panic.”

“Are you criticising the operation?”

“I’m just saying that I’ve been handed a bunch of amateurs. Scott knew what he was doing. But what was so important about his real destination that he found it necessary to shake off my men? The newspaper man I knew about. It’s the one I don’t know that concerns me.”

“The men slipped up, I agree.”

“That’s what I mean about knowing Scott. He’s probably been aware of the tail since the beginning. He decided that this time he did not want to be seen and so he wasn’t.”

“He was delivering tickets,” Gorkin blustered.

Kransouski laughed. “Typical Scott. He has some nice touches.”

“But you saw through him. Apparently.”

Kransouski ignored the innuendo. “He doesn’t know I’m here. Colonel Gorkin, I’m now satisfied that Scott has something to hide from us. And that’s what I was sent to find out. If he knows he’s being followed, then he’ll know by whom. For the moment he’ll believe the Poles are behind it but that won’t last for long. I want two things from you; some decent men are vital. There used to be a first-class detective agency that could handle this sort of thing. Expensive but good. I shall drop my present crew and use the agency. Secondly, I need to know from you exactly what this is in aid of.”

“Your brief was very precise — to watch this man Scott.”

“It’s moved on a stage. I can’t run blind.”

“Then you must refer back to General Rogov. I have no authority to inform you.” Gorkin was enjoying himself; at last — he was cracking the whip.

Kransouski finished his drink slowly, allowing the silence to build up around the small action. He eyed Gorkin passively before putting down his glass on the desk. “So you won’t help me?”

“I can’t. Not without Moscow clearance.”

Kransouski nodded slowly. “I’m beginning to wonder if you know any more than I.” He rose, bowed politely. “Then I’ll do it my way, Colonel. I’ll log this conversation.”

Gorkin rose too. “By all means. But you can always have a copy of my own tape.”

Chapter Five

“Fuller, Clitheroe, Soames, McWatt,” Halliman read out.

“McWatt, you can pretty well rule out.”

They sat round the kitchen table each with paper and pen. The coffee maker was within Maggie’s reach.

“He was suspected of sending letter bombs but nothing was proved. He’s capable of setting something up but his aims are so obscure that ultimately, he would be a risk.”

“Clitheroe?” asked Scott. “I knew him slightly once.”

Halliman arched a critical brow. “I had a friend look into the dossiers of these four before calling here. They’re all political, all extreme left. I’ve excluded the extreme right because of the Poles. I don’t think Clitheroe has the stomach for it. He’ll organise muscle at pickets, and he’s a great stirrer but I can’t see him having the nerve for organised murder. Our best bet is Soames or Fuller. Both are nasty pieces of work. Hate each other’s guts, incidentally.” Halliman looked up from his list.

“How can we put a watch on their visitors?”

“I’ll have to seek more favours, Willie.” Halliman leaned back and the kitchen chair creaked.

“Wouldn’t Special Branch give a helping hand?”

Halliman inclined his head. “I’ve considered various options. In the end it comes down to judgement. I have a feeling that the fewer people who know about this the better. It’s by no means easy to hide murder inside a prison. There must be a lot of money involved, but to take the risk in the first place suggests a very serious issue indeed.”

“Perhaps the Poles are involved in the murder,” Maggie said.

Halliman rubbed his temples. “If they are, then it’s something really big for them to stick their necks out like that. And in that case I very much doubt that it’s the Poles themselves.”

Maggie’s hand crept into Scott’s. “Can’t you give Willie some protection? They’ll know you’ve been here.”

While Halliman hesitated uneasily, Maggie added, “What’s wrong with you two? All this is supposed to be to help Sir Richard Chesfield discover whether his son was murdered or not. So let him foot the bill. We need help.” The two men did not argue.

* * *

Claude Denise switched off the television and walked over to the big Victorian windows of his shabby Bayswater apartment. It was evening and outside he could see motorists jockeying for parking slots.

In his early forties, the Frenchman was slimly built and wore a loose turtleneck pullover which betrayed no bulges. His lantern features carried deep lines to the jawbone giving him a half-starved look and his dark brown eyes had a bright feverishness about them. He wore old jeans, and, generally, he gave the impression of being slightly down at heel.

But he was wearing over a thousand pounds’ worth of chronometer on his sinewy wrist — a heavy eighteen-carat gold Rolex watch. And below the near shabby jeans were handmade turtle-skin shoes.

He was restless at the window and a powerful nervous energy began to show. Yet he could control or find harmless outlets for it. He had entertained many women in the apartment and had always been attractive to women from his early teens. It was not something he boasted about, but simply accepted his luck without humility, a word he did not anyway understand. When it came to the really important issues he could pace himself whatever his urge: nothing could divert him from the course he had carefully reasoned.

Above all things Claude Denise liked money and possessed a good deal of it. There could never be enough though, and he used its power with expertise and a sadistic delight when he could wield it to make other rich men squirm. He accepted that there could be power without money, but that combination was formidable. He was a loner, not a company or committee man, a characteristic he shared with Willie Scott, a man of whose existence he was unaware.

He returned to the divan and pulled a flat document case from under the mattress. It was no hiding place against professionals, but then he would not expect professionals to find sufficient pickings in a place like this. He laid the contents out on the coverlet. The originals were in a safe deposit and he had created a death trail to obtain the documents now before him. Killing did not worry him.

He had two main ambitions: to be master of his own destiny and to work from his system a hatred that governed most of his actions. Claude Denise, when in his early twenties, had been interned in a criminal asylum in France after killing his half-sister; it was during the years of his imprisonment that he had learned to control his reactions. He had never gone back after doctors had proclaimed him cured. And he never would again.

He gazed down at the items on the bed and thought about Walter Clarke, Her Britannic Majesty’s Foreign Minister. Clarke had surprised him considerably. He now knew what he was up against, realising that Walter Clarke would go all the way to protect his own position. It was worth knowing, for Clarke was the only person who could produce deep loathing in him. When he thought of him, Denise could control his feelings only with enormous effort, and he would need calm and wit to destroy the man.

He cared nothing about the death of Duncan Seddon. Nor for that matter about the sad fate of Gordon Chesfield. But he was worried about the way Chesfield had died. And he guessed that Walter Clarke might be too. For once in his life Denise had qualms as he realised the magnitude of the power he was up against. The Soviets were formidable, and cunning like himself. But qualms did not induce fear; they merely increased the flow of adrenalin. When all was said and done, he had forced the issue, forced everyone concerned to show their hand. But they had no idea who he was.

At moments like these his feeling of total power exhilarated him. He was not the worried party, though he knew what he was up against. Working with care, there was no way he could lose. Precautions had been laid a long time ago. Let Clarke sweat. And let the Russians too.

* * *

“You give him complete control of the funds. Open an account he can draw on.”

“Stuart, you can’t possibly be serious. A burglar?” Chesfield was appalled at the idea.

“An ex-burglar,” Halliman pointed out. “Your money will be a damned sight safer with him than with some of your investment companies. He cannot possibly do it without financial help.”

“How much have you in mind?” Chesfield’s flabby features betrayed a steely truculence.

“A few thousand.”

“What?”

Halliman’s poise faltered. “You’d better make up your mind whether you want anything done or not. If you do, then fund Scott.”

“But you already know who the murderer is.”

“We think we do. But that’s as far as it goes. We have no idea what’s behind it, though with your help we might find out.” Halliman waved a warning finger. “And if we do, you might not like what we find. It will be then your decision whether we sit on it or pass it over to officialdom. It could be a big advantage to you.”

“Will he spend this money on detective agencies or something? Dammit, I can do that myself.”

“Not without showing your hand. It might be unwise to do that, Richard,” Halliman argued. “I’m no longer part of the service. There’s a limit to the help I can raise. Trust Scott, you’ll find no-one better.” And thus Halliman avoided answering the direct question about using a detective agency. He dare not tell Chesfield how he thought Scott might spend the money.

“Will you underwrite me, then?”

Halliman laughed quietly. “Sometimes I think you really don’t deserve help. Rich and mean. Surely you’d prefer a better epitaph? Make it about three thousand to begin with. That’s petty cash to you.” And then, pointedly, “Expenses, not fees. Those will come later if Scott succeeds. If it goes wrong for him then I’ll remind you about looking after Maggie Parsons. You have my own services free of charge. Think what you’re saving on that.”

Chesfield nodded slowly. “All right. I don’t begrudge fees. I’ve already told him that. It’s the free rein on my money for expenses that frightens me. You’ll keep me in touch?”

“Of course. But this is not like instant coffee; we’ll have to stir a lot more before we recognise the brew. And it could just turn out to be cyanide.”

* * *

When Sir Stuart Halliman requested the favour from old friends that he be supplied with a list of all future visitors to Hull Prison, he was surprised at being refused. He could understand the reluctance to invade the privacy of visitors but his reasons for wanting them were anything but flippant. When he pushed a little harder he was able to discover only that the blockage was directly with the Home Office. And he wondered why.

* * *

Willie Scott sensed a difference the moment he left the apartment block. Until then he had been quick to detect his immediate tail and had not worried too much. But now he was not sure. Either he was no longer under surveillance or a new and better team had been put on. If that was the case then they had known he was aware of them. He walked to the tube station as usual but it was not until he was striding up St Martin’s Lane from Charing Cross that he was really sure he had company.

This lot are good, he thought. He did not accept that he was rusty. Over the last few days all the old instincts had returned: he had forgotten nothing. After entering the agency he greeted Charlie Hewitt and Lulu, and nodded to a youngster Charlie had taken on. He sat at his desk listening to Lulu clacking next door while she gossiped to a temp.

He had to have freedom of movement without arousing suspicion, and that would be far from easy. He rang Bluie Palmer and cut the protest short. “I’m not chasing you about Chesfield. Listen. I want some mug shots of the visitors up at Hull. Name your price.”

“Ducky, I’m too busy. Besides I hate prisons, even the outsides.”

“Give me a figure, Bluie. If you can’t do it I want someone who can. Someone who doesn’t talk in his sleep.”

Bluie thought for a moment. “How long for?”

“Every day for a week. Everyone who goes in. If they’re missed entering, I want them coming out.”

“It can’t be a stand-up job. People would hide their faces. We’ll need a van.”

“Just give me a figure and ring me back when you’ve fixed it. Today, Bluie.”

“There’s a woman. Did a turn in Holloway but very good with a camera.”

Scott had no time to express surprise. “I want the positives posted to me daily. First class.”

“She can develop in the van.”

As an afterthought, Scott said suspiciously, “On her own, Bluie. I don’t want anything else developing in the van.”

Scott then rang Rex Reisen. Reisen was the active side of a two-brother crime syndicate. The ferret-eyed felon had recently left jail after a five-year stretch, less remission. Five years was nominal for a man with his record, but like so many gang leaders he was difficult to pin down on actual charges. Normally Scott would never have contacted a man like that whose turn of mind could be deadly. He was too finely balanced; a pat on the back could be a death sentence. But Reisen had power and contacts.

As he announced himself and waited for Reisen to come on the line Scott felt apprehensive. This was one contact that he dare not tell Maggie about. He would have had greater qualms himself but for one thing. Reisen was a strange phenomenon; a highly placed criminal who was also a staunch patriot. He was the only villain Scott knew who had a Union Jack on a chrome stand permanently on his desk, since rumoured to have been changed to solid silver. Scott had once convinced Reisen, at considerable risk, that a job he was asking him to do was for the government. Intelligence. It was the only way through to him, and it was fortunate that Reisen wanted to believe it. Fairfax had helped, of course, supporting the illusion by offering expenses.

Reisen came on the line. “Spider? I don’t bloody believe it. Where’ve you been?”

It was where Reisen had been that had broken some of the sequence, but Scott was not fool enough to say it. “Life’s been quiet, Rex.” Scott felt obligated to swap notes; Reisen was nobody’s fool and could not be rushed. He was also unpredictable. In moments of uncertainty and stress he often saw the easiest way of solving problems as literally to remove them from the face of the earth.

Scott was careful. “Remember that caper some years back? You did the old country a service then. You’re on record for it.”

“Spider, they gave me five, the cheeky buggers; if it hadn’t been for my help then, it would have been ten, I’m telling you.” Reisen would believe it.

“That’s what I heard, too,” lied Scott. “There’s something similar going on now. I need a little help.”

“What sort of help?” Feelings for Queen and Country did not remove suspicion.

“I had some pirates following me from one of the embassies. Their pudding faces were like a string of sputniks. They’ve wised up to it and put the McCoy on. Pros. Local, I would say. Can you spare one of your long service boys to wander down while I’m still in the office.”

“You want them sorted out? That’ll cost you.”

Christ no. “Nothing like that. Your bloke might see a face he knows. Long shot but you never know.”

“That all?” Reisen sounded cheated.

“For the moment. I don’t want to show my hand.”

Reisen chewed it over. “I’ll do what I can. I’ve lost a lot of good boys. Some went inside with me, some are still there. Things aren’t the same, Spider. The finesse has gone out of the game. You sure it’s for H.M.?”

“Absolutely.”

“I’ve got a big portrait of the Queen behind the desk now. Oil. Drop in and see it. Be nice to see you, boy. You were a bloody good artist yourself once. A craftsman.”

Scott found he was sweating slightly when he put down the phone. Reisen’s bonhomie meant nothing. Like a gun with a hair trigger he could explode at any time. But to give him his due, when Reisen did a favour, he would see that the job was done properly. Some of his men had been at the game for a very long time. And his well-guarded offices were not more than a twenty-minute walk away.

Reisen rang back before lunch. “No problem,” he announced. “There were two my boy picked out. One is an ex-Flying Squad sergeant he recognised straight away. The other one he doesn’t know but reckons his beads are fastened on your place all night — he’s stamping his size tens on account of standing around too long.”

“Does he know who they work for?”

“Sure. The ex-Sweeney is called Barber. Tough sod. He works for the Hammerton Agency, off Bond Street.”

“Thanks, Rex. I’ll call in to toast the Queen and salute the flag.”

* * *

There were no problems in drilling a hole through the side of the van nor in mounting the camera inside. The worst part had been the tedious drive to Hull. Parking on the opposite side of the street was easy too, obviously none of the visitors wanted their vehicles to be seen immediately outside the jail.

Kate Mooney was a striking brunette with sparkling blue eyes and a surprisingly clear skin if one considered the hours she kept and the smoke-filled cellars she helped prop up. Her voluptuous figure fitted the requirements of her part-time job of luring wealthy married men from bars to boudoirs. She rigged her own hidden cameras which cut expenses and left all the profit her own. The blackmail was one shot, quick return with the negatives handed over on a lump sum payment. She took the view that she was an indispensable asset to married women; after one misdemeanour with her, their husbands clung fearfully to the straight and narrow thereafter.

She was a superb photographer or Bluie would not otherwise have used her. Another of her sidelines was photography for cook books which these days required the highest standards. She had vaguely heard of Willie Scott but as she was only twenty-six she had been too young to pick up the full legend about him.

The battered van was blue, with the white painted inscription ‘Jessop’s Collection Service’ on both sides. The hole had been drilled in the first vowel of the second word. Kate knew all about prison visits. She had a telephoto lens mounted and reasoned that her best shots would be when the visitors left the prison and would be facing the lens. With her long legs now encased in slacks, she crouched behind the camera and waited. She would do a good job. She always did. Her main problem was fear of being noticed by the prison staff when the gate was opened. If she was seen in the same position for a week it might arouse suspicion, so she varied her parking as far as possible. This sometimes made her shots more difficult, but nothing was simple, and she did not complain.

* * *

Willie Scott put on his tracksuit and zipped up the front. Maggie eyed him in alarm. “Oh, no,” she protested, hands going to her mouth. “Willie, please, no.”

He had been expecting her reaction. He could have smuggled the tracksuit out to the office and told her he was working late but that would have raised other problems. “It’s all right, love. Stop worrying. I’m only doing a casing.”

She shook her head and ran a hand nervously through her hair. “I’ve been dreading this,” she burst out. “It doesn’t even fit you anymore. Look at it.”

“It’ll be better when I’ve covered a few miles. The pounds will soon drop off then. Stop worrying. I’m not sticking my neck out for Chesfield.”

Maggie was close to tears. She had not anticipated that the clock would be put back so far. “You’re going to break in,” she said simply. “It’s as though the past few years have no meaning. We’re right back where we started.”

He placed his hands on her shoulders, but she backed away, shaking her head miserably. Then she turned and disappeared into the bedroom. Scott had the sense not to follow. There was nothing he could say that would reassure her; she knew him too well. He should give up the whole business now. Maggie needed him and she wanted their baby to have a father. Yet the hook was already in him. He wanted desperately to finish the job. At this moment, men were waiting to take up his trail for a reason he did not yet understand. He called out, “Maggie, I can’t go up to these jokers and tell them there’s no need to follow me anymore, I’ve packed it in. They won’t believe me.” He could have added that it might even make them desperate. Detective hire on this scale was costly and that meant there was something to protect at any price. “I won’t be long. Okay?” He closed the door, feeling wretched.

He took the elevator to the basement and went behind the boilers to see if his old racing bicycle was still there. The frame was cobwebbed, and he roughly cleaned it down. The lamp worked by a dynamo turned by the wheels and he hoped it would still operate. He pumped up the flat tyres and slung the cycle over his shoulder to mount the stairs to the ground floor.

It was quite dark outside; the streetlamps cast their artificial light unevenly, but still he knew that he would be seen, and made no attempt to avoid the issue. He sat on the saddle, finding it hard after so long, and felt the strain on his back as he reached awkwardly for the drop handlebars. He moved off and the bike’s lights flickered on, throwing a shaky beam which improved as he picked up speed. A car engine started, and footsteps rushed towards it as he continued down the street between the two rows of parked cars.

Scott ignored the car behind, more concerned with the rising ache in his legs. His spine felt as if he had cricked it. I’m in my early forties and I’m already like an old man, he reflected. He increased speed and the woollen bobble hat he was wearing for warmth nearly fell off. If he could not ride a cycle without discomfort, how could he expect to scale a wall?

It was just after eleven p.m. and he kept a steady pace as thickening traffic headed towards him from the West End. His legs were moving better but were still painful on the upper thighs. His speed was steady but awkwardly slow for the following car, when suddenly he lifted his front wheel, crossed the pavement, and sped up a narrow alley between two blocks of stores. The bicycle lamp picked out bins and empty crates which he managed to avoid, and at last he began to feel at ease. The car would circle round to try to pick him up the other end, but he knew that it would be far too late, and he was too fast anyway for a pursuer on foot.

When he reached the West End Scott made a careful check to ensure that the car driver had not struck lucky. Just to be on the safe side he took the long way round to Bond Street. No longer familiar with police patrols he wanted to get his bearings and to get the feel of the place again. Bicycles seemed incongruous in so wealthy an area but in his tracksuit, and on a racer, he raised no eyebrows. A patrol car passed by and his only worry then was the possibility of a stop search. Trying to appear blasé as he passed two overweight joggers, Scott waved to them.

He turned into Maddox Street and then turned left after a short distance. The street was virtually empty. Someone was paying off a taxi, the yellow sign visible above the carline. He passed the Hammerton Detective Agency, its neon sign still on until the time switch doused it at midnight. He travelled the length of the street, then sat, waited, and listened, as the noise of traffic filtered through from Bond Street. Footsteps approached, uneven and sometimes stopping. Lovers. He did not need to see them.

Scott turned round and cycled back slowly. He dismounted outside the agency, alarmed to see a high-class fur shop two doors away; that would be on the police rounds for sure. He knew that the Hammerton Detective Agency occupied offices above street level although the sign gave an illusion of ground-floor premises.

He propped his bicycle against the short inside railings leading to the door, then examined the door itself. It was solid pine, though there was no sign of an alarm mechanism attached. Who would want to burgle a detective agency? But there were two security locks, just in case.

Scott carried a variety of security key heads which he could fix in turn to a specially made shank he had designed himself. At home he also had a full set of antique pick locks, made by a craftsman well over one hundred years before. But there were so many, the thin shanks so long and the ring that held them so large, that they were really impracticable to carry. Scott had chosen a few that had general use, and had re-cast them onto much shorter shanks, still keeping them at right angles to the key head instead of the usual straight-on design. He carried no more than six of these dispersed round his waistband.

It took him longer than he remembered to find the right key heads and he had to admit to himself that the gift of instinctive choice had rusted. The delay created danger because he was on view, and he became more conspicuous as the streets emptied around him. Each approach of footsteps or car became an increasing threat and he would huddle down in the doorway until the danger had passed. His build-up of tension concerned him, and he was taking too long to get in. Perhaps it was impossible to put the clock back after all.

At last the tumblers moved and the second lock opened more quickly. He pushed open the door, saw the stairs ahead, then wheeled the cycle into the small hall. Resisting the urge to use the main lights for fear of them showing under the front door, he used instead the limited beam of a pencil torch and went up the stairs, keeping to the outer edges where the creaking would be minimal.

By the time he reached the landing Scott was feeling a little shaky. He stopped for a few moments, reflecting on the slowing down of his skills, and wondered whether his nerve had gone as well. He was glad that nobody who knew him in the old days could see him now.

Of the two doors facing him one was marked ‘Enquiries’. He broke into the office quite easily and immediately began to feel better. He entered the room using his torch carefully; the walls were hung with crime prevention posters and plush armchairs were scattered around the reception area. Scott went past the switchboard and entered an unlocked general office. Well-spaced typist desks with hooded machines formed three neat rows.

Scott found the clients’ filing index in one of the four private offices. The cabinet was easily opened with a pick lock but finding the name of the client who had authorised his tail proved a longer task. He had nothing to work on but opened another cabinet and found a cross index. Under his own name was a reference to the main file and a Mr Peter Goring. He returned to the first cabinet.

There was a time log, detailing each day and the number of men assigned to the case: a twenty-four-hour watch, a team of three from eight a.m. to midnight after which surveillance became the responsibility of one man. The change of shift was four-hourly except for the night watch. The names of all the operators so far used were meticulously listed with a time check.

Scott sat behind the desk to study the file. They had done a good job, and it knocked any complacency from him. Even an agency this size could not employ the fifteen men so far used for a single job of surveillance, so they must have access to ex-policemen who were willing to operate on a stand-by basis. But the cost would be considerable. He made a note of Mr Peter Goring’s Kensington address, then carefully returned the file and relocked both cabinets.

Scott locked up as he went. At the bottom of the stairs he opened the front door slightly, listened, took out the two key heads he had used to get in, then stepped out, pushing his cycle quietly before him.

Chapter Six

When Charlie Hewitt rang through to Scott’s office to advise him that a Mr Bulman was here to see him, Scott momentarily felt that he was sitting in a prison cell. The sensation was so real that for several moments he sat staring into space, reliving his past. From a distance Hewitt’s voice kept nagging at him and Scott suddenly realised he was holding the phone away from his ear.

“Send him in,” he said hoarsely. He was standing when Bulman entered the office, and at first Scott did not recognise him.

Bulman came forward and held out a hand. He had changed; fattened out, a broad smile indenting a melon face. And because he had put on weight he seemed shorter. His dark hair was now sparse and brushed forward. But the small eyes were bright and without malice. “Hello, cocker,” said Bulman pleasantly. “Long time no see.”

As Scott took his hand, surprised by the warmth of the grip, he haphazardly recalled the number of times Bulman had tried to put him away. But Bulman was not acting like an old enemy, and that worried Scott more.

“All right to sit down?”

Bulman being polite? Scott indicated a chair and slowly sat down himself, highly suspicious and showing it.

“You’ve worn well, Spider.” And then Bulman spoiled it by saying with a grin, “But I’m forgetting you started young.”

Scott was not used to this type of bonhomie from Bulman and did not know what to make of it. “I won’t say it’s nice to see you, because you’d know that I’d be lying through my teeth.”

Bulman laughed. “Well, some of us change a bit, don’t we? Mellow with the years.” He beamed. “I know I did a lot of things to you I shouldn’t have done, but you didn’t make it easy for me, did you?”

That was true. Yet this still could not be a social call. Scott remained wary. “Coffee?”

“Why not? You’ve got suspicion written all over your mug. Never seen a villain who gives his feelings away so much.”

Scott ordered the coffee by shouting through to Lulu. “Ex-villain. Still in the force?”

“What else could I do?” asked Bulman reasonably. “Detective Superintendent now. A lot of water under the bridge.”

“Congratulations. Local?”

“Yard. Been there for five, six years. Special Duties.”

“Which can cover a multitude of things, I’m sure.”

“More or less. Nudges towards the political but I’m not with Special Branch.”

“They’d tie you down too much.” Scott was sorry that he said that, but Bulman took no notice.

Lulu flounced in with coffee in plastic cups, giving Bulman a quick look on her way out. She usually sized people up after one glance but Scott learned nothing from her about Bulman; she declared an open verdict.

“I’ve called about your visit to Hull,” announced Bulman as he sipped the hot coffee. “You saw Lennie Peel. Old Inky. How was he?”

“Ageing and arthritic. I should think his forging days are over.”

“Sad in a way. Ever see any of his copies of the old Masters? Thank God he didn’t flog them; they’d have caused havoc in the art world. Murder Squad don’t rate your conclusions, Spider.”

“Murder Squad can get knotted.” Now that Scott knew why Bulman had called, he felt more at ease.

“I mean, Inky would say anything.”

“Not to me, he wouldn’t.”

Bulman rubbed the corner of an eye. He looked thoughtful. “Anything else you can tell me?”

“Are you investigating Chesfield’s murder then?”

Bulman did not reply immediately, noting instead that Scott had not lost his knack of nailing coppers to the post with directness. “I just told you, we don’t see it as murder. Not without something else. There’s got to be a reason. I saw your name on the report and thought it would be a good idea to say hello at the same time as seeing what the form is.”

“You haven’t answered my question.”

“I’m not in Murder Squad. I’m merely doing a little liaison for them.”

Scott accepted that. Bulman was clever; sometimes in the past he had been too clever. “I’ve nothing to add. I went up as a favour to Sir Richard Chesfield. I made one visit and received no fee for it. It means nothing to me personally to discover how Chesfield was killed.”

“I suppose Sir Stuart Halliman put his fellow knight onto you.”

“It’ll be in the report.”

Bulman put his cup down on the edge of the desk and peered across at Scott. His expression was half-friendly, half-serious.

“Will you believe I’m here to help you?”

Scott could not resist a smile. “That’ll be a turn-up.”

“Do you really think Chesfield was topped?”

“Yes.”

“You wouldn’t know why?”

“No idea.”

“I believe you. Oh, by the way, did you know that Kransouski’s in town?”

Scott froze. He hadn’t enjoyed his morning so far, and it wasn’t getting any better. It was like stepping in and out of a time capsule. His fingers were stiff on the desk. “That’s interesting. But it can’t be anything to do with me.”

“Maybe. Thought you’d like to know. He came in as a late addition to a Polish trade delegation. It was a lucky sighting. Sickness in immigration brought in one of the old boys as a replacement. Kransouski could be genuine, of course. These characters get shifted around if they cock something up. We didn’t kick him out at the time. He was recalled.”

Polish delegation? The word rattled in Scott’s head. Polish. “Are you watching him?”

“On-off surveillance only. He’s with the delegation a lot. Nothing to shout about so far. Coming in openly like that means he’s probably clean.”

“Where does he hang out?”

“You want to drop in?” Bulman laughed again. “Kensington, where most of them hang out.”

“He used his own name?”

“Apparently. It’s more Polish than Russian, anyway.”

Kensington. “Do you know his actual address?”

“I couldn’t give it to you if I did.”

“If you’re here to help me, you could.”

“Come on, Spider. Unless you’ve something to trade.”

“I’ll find out the hard way. What happens now?”

“Not much. Anyone tailing you?”

“Me? What the hell for?”

“I thought I recognised one of our old boys hanging around outside.”

“It’s a free country. There’s nothing on me. I’m clean and I’m straight.”

“Glad to hear that, Spider. More than you think.” Bulman finished his coffee and rose. “So you’ve nothing else to tell me about Chesfield?”

“He’s dead,” Scott replied.

Bulman pulled out a card and laid it on the desk. “If anything crops up. You know.” He held out a hand again. “Nice to see you, Spider. Come and have a drink in the canteen sometime.”

Scott said that he would. They both knew that the invitation was dead: it would take more than a drink to entice Scott into any copper’s nick.

* * *

They studied the photographs, placing them face down as they finished. “Anyone?” asked Scott.

Halliman went through them again and picked out one of a bespectacled man, innocuous in appearance, medium height and fair-haired. “Not a man to catch the attention,” Halliman pronounced. “But exceedingly dangerous, notwithstanding.” He turned to Scott. “I have to be sure. May I borrow this?”

“You want your old friends to run it through?”

“I also want to know who he visited. My guess is Mervin Soames or Gary Fuller. As the Home Office has suddenly become so unhelpful I must try elsewhere.”

“Try Bulman. He called on me today.”

“I thought he might. He’s been in touch with me, too, but I’d rather leave the police out of it for the moment. If they were hooked on the murder possibility it might be different but as things stand they could be obstructive.” Halliman paused. “They could even be behind the Home Office’s reluctance to help.” He slipped the photograph into his pocket and continued talking. “This Kate Mooney, she’d better finish this week. Did Bulman tell you about Kransouski?”

“Yes. It shook me. Why would he come in so openly?”

Halliman buttoned his coat as he rose. “All sorts of reasons. He may have nothing to hide, in general terms. I think he was originally Polish, or his parents were. If he disguised himself, used an alias and was spotted he would be out on his ear.” Halliman became pensive. He gave Scott a strange look. “Or, quite simply, he was ordered to come here openly. I can’t see him as a trade delegate, so he’ll be here for a specific purpose as opposed to overall stirring, that is. And the way he’s been set up could mean that after the event, Moscow is not too concerned what happens to him.”

“Can you find out where he lives? I have an address but haven’t the time to stake it out myself.”

* * *

Walter Clarke stared at the blackmail letter and the accompanying typed sheet. He sat down well away from the window, instinctively trying to hide from view. He was glad now that he was unmarried. In his bachelor apartment he did not have to hide his feelings and could openly show his fear without worrying about anybody finding out.

After a while he rallied as he always did. Hooking one leg over the arm of his chair he re-read the demand; no money was involved — a pity, for it would be much easier that way. And then the accompanying threat. It was an article written in French for the French press with an English translation attached. The torture was to be slow: publication in some obscure French magazine which might take time to be picked up by the larger newssheets, at which point it would find its way across the Channel to Britain. And all he would be able to do was to wait for it to happen. The threat itself, however, carried no deadline — as if the blackmailer knew that Clarke would not panic, that he would hold out in the belief that once the material was released, the threat, and therefore any gain from it, could no longer apply.

Clarke recognised the flaws in this strategy. Money could be obtained for the article so the blackmailer would not entirely lose. And the cat-and-mouse game would have to end sometime. There would come a point when his own nerve would snap or he would stand off once too often. Either way he would be finished. So he needed judgement as never before. And before all else he desperately needed to know who was behind the threats.

In all these careful deliberations Clarke never once considered calling in the police. He could have obtained priority attention but the possibility never even entered his head. He memorised the contents of the sheets off by heart and considered burning them but then saw the possibilities for future use. They were typewritten; the sender knew that type could be traced to a particular machine, he obviously did not care. But there might be other facets.

* * *

Halliman laid the photograph down on the table. He had met Scott for lunch in Rules just off the Strand. They sat in the quiet, elegant interior, aware that Scott’s followers were outside. The two men had arrived separately although both knew they had been linked.

“Victor Anthony,” said Halliman, firming his military moustache. “Sounds like two Christian names but in fact Anthony is a derivative of Antopolov. Grandparents emigrated from Russia towards the end of the last century. The name was anglicised by Victor’s father as far back as 1930. Victor was born in 1940. Political history far right of centre. Became a member of the National Front some years ago, stayed in the organisation for a while and was imprisoned for two months due to his violent behaviour at one of their demonstrations. The day Kate Mooney took this shot he was visiting Mervin Soames.”

“So the right-wing stuff is a cover?” Scott asked.

“Yes, we’ve known that for some time. Even when I was still in office. But he’s difficult to nail down. A backroom boy. Really a behind-the-scenes organiser.”

“As far as murder?”

“That wouldn’t worry him.” Halliman toyed with his Dover sole, then continued. “It would seem that the block at the Home Office doesn’t go as far as the Minister, though I’m reluctant to approach him at this stage. Anyway, I can manage without him, but it’s interesting.”

“Are you saying that someone in the Home Office has an interest in clamming up?”

“Not at all, but there are plenty of bureaucrats flexing their muscles. Somebody is probably doing somebody else a favour and sees no harm in it. After all, I have no official status.”

As Halliman did not enlarge on the issue Scott continued to eat his escalope.

“I’ll have to go back to Hull,” he observed after a while.

“To see Soames? He won’t be forthcoming.”

“To see Garry Fuller.”

Halliman lowered his fork slowly and gazed across at Scott, “And you call me devious?”

Scott grinned. “I’ll need another visitor’s pass. Will Home Office block that?”

“They’d find it difficult after already granting one. Leave it with me.”

“If there’s a problem, I’ll have a word with Bulman; they won’t block the police.”

“You think he’d want you to go?”

“I’m bloody sure he would.”

Halliman pushed a piece of paper across the table. “That’s the address you wanted.”

Scott’s pulse quickened. It was the address he had stolen from the detective agency.

* * *

Scott took his tail with him back to Hull Prison. On balance he thought it better that they knew where he was going; it was one method of stirring things. He had told Bluie to inform Kate Mooney of his impending arrival and instruct her to take detailed shots of his tail who would show himself more clearly once he was inside.

A nasty, biting wind was flowing down the estuary off the east coast as Scott parked behind Kate’s blue van and winked at the drilled-out hole as he went past. After the usual herding-in he managed to select the same table as before in the visiting room. He had studied a mug shot of Fuller before leaving London.

However, Fuller in the flesh appeared much older than his photograph. He was on the short side, wiry, with a hangdog look on a hatchet face and a disgruntled curl to his lips. At first glance Scott put him down as a trouble-maker yet his prison record suggested otherwise. Deep brown eyes scanned the room as he entered, and Scott rose quickly to make himself known.

“Scott?”

“That’s right. Glad you agreed to see me.”

Fuller sat down while Scott obtained tea and biscuits from the small bar. “Thanks,” said Fuller as Scott returned. “I don’t think we’ve met before so what’s on your mind?”

“We did meet. Briefly. Years ago. I couldn’t have made much impression.”

“Don’t piss about. Get on with it.” Fuller stirred his tea.

“Why the hurry? Do you get that many visitors?”

“I don’t need them. You came up for a purpose and I want to know what it is. Simple. You were on the creep, weren’t you? I mean, you’d feel at home here?”

“I haven’t done a job for years. But I still keep in touch with some of the boys. I was up here visiting not long ago.”

“So I heard. Did that have anything to do with Inky taking a dive?”

“I wouldn’t hurt Inky.”

“Someone buggered up his home life. After your visit, too. Anyway, do you get to the point or do I finish my tea and push off?”

“The word is that Chesfield was topped in his cell. I need to know what you’ve heard.”

Fuller sneered. “You’ve lost touch. Anyone spouting that kind of crap would finish up the same way.”

“I’m not talking of open dialogue and you bloody well know it. But there must have been whispers, oblique looks, understanding.”

“You working for the fuzz?”

“I could never do that. Ask around. I was hoping to do you a favour. But now I’ve met you I’m beginning to change my mind. You’re a creep. And this is where you should be.”

Fuller’s eyes narrowed and biscuit crumbs dropped from his petulant lips. “Okay. So we don’t like each other. Now get on with it.”

“You don’t like Mervin Soames, either, do you?”

Fuller spilled his tea. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve, eyeing Scott viciously. Too late, he said, “Soames is nothing to me. I hardly know him.”

“Is that why you thumped him during a demo and then swore it was a copper?”

“Where’re you getting this crap? You are working for the fuzz. Only they could have told you that.”

“If they’d told me I wouldn’t have believed it. You’ve got fuzz on the brain. You’re like a certain type of Irish who blame Britain for everything they cock up.”

Fuller looked over his shoulder at the warder standing by the far door. He turned back and tapped the table hard with a forefinger. “I’ve had enough of you. I still don’t know why you came. If . . .”

“The word outside is that you made the arrangements for Chesfield’s topping.”

“I what?” Fuller half rose, realised how much he had raised his voice and sat down quickly. He glared at Scott, hatred oozing out of him. “What are you trying to fix on me, you bastard?” he hissed.

“I’m trying to help you.” Scott flashed a warning. “Keep your voice down, the screws are watching.” He knew that he now had Fuller’s attention and there was no risk of him walking out.

“The bloody fuzz are trying to fix me.”

“The bloody fuzz don’t believe Chesfield was topped so they can’t be. But if Soames opens his mouth again, they might begin to take notice.”

“What do you mean? Soames? What’s the lying bastard said?”

“He had a visitor the other day who brought back the possibility that you were hired to set up Naylor or Brooks — or both — for the murder of Chesfield. How many visitors have you had since Chesfield was brought here?” Scott already knew the answer for his strategy depended on it.

Fuller became defensive. “A couple. They’re not important.” But they both had strong political leanings. Fuller was so violently sold on his beliefs and so warped in outlook, that fellow travellers were the only people likely to visit him. His wife had divorced him ten years ago after Fuller’s brutality towards her had been brought up in court.

Scott watched the sinewy fingers clawing at the table. “Could they have political links by any chance?”

“What’s it to you?”

“Answer me first.”

“No. What the hell has politics to do with Chesfield?”

“You should reverse that.” Scott pushed his chair back, the sound carrying down the hall. “Well, if they weren’t involved in any political extremism you’re probably in the clear. Don’t worry about it.”

But Fuller was worried. His lie could easily backfire.

“You’re saying that Soames has passed the word that I set up Chesfield?” The malice oozed out of him.

“No. I’d have had to have heard them talk. I’m just saying that the party who visited Soames came back and mentioned that was what Soames said. People listen to accusations like that.”

“I’ll fix that lying bastard. If it takes me the rest of my stretch, I’ll nail him.”

Scott gave him time to think it through, ready for the question he knew must come.

Fuller glared suspiciously at Scott but his thoughts were still largely on the man he had always detested. “What’s your interest? Why would you come up here to spin something like that? I’m nothing to you.”

“That’s right. I wouldn’t give you the time of day. My only interest is Chesfield. I know his old man, and it’s important to him that someone goes to the wall for his son’s murder. If he thinks you’re responsible he has enough money and clout to nail it on you. But that doesn’t worry me either.”

Scott paused for a while, keeping Fuller on the end of the line of distrust and uncertainty. Nobody knew better than Scott the frustration that could build up in a prisoner when something needed to be tackled outside. The hopelessness of not being able to come to grips with a problem directly could send a man off his head and sometimes did, particularly with highly emotional issues.

“I’m trying to help Chesfield. I don’t believe in easy options. If Soames did send out word like that, why would he do it?”

“He’d do anything to get at me.”

“But would he go so far?”

Fuller thought it over. “It has to be that. He’s stirring.”

Scott conceded the possibility and then said, “Of course, there is a chance that he set the thing up himself. Maybe he got a bit scared after Inky left. If he became worried, he might have started spreading his risks. To push suspicion your way would be very tempting. And useful. If he’s involved, he’s the bloke I want.”

When this information had sunk in Scott added, “I came here to help you, not for your sake but for Chesfield’s father. I couldn’t care less what happens to you, Fuller. But I do care that if Soames fixed something and is trying to squeeze through the door before it jams on you, then he should not get away with it. If he does, you’re in deep trouble, mate. Be lucky.”

Chapter Seven

Scott left the prison and walked over to the blue van. He knocked on the rear door but guessed that Kate Mooney would have seen him through the spy hole. She opened the door and he said, “I’m Willie Scott,” and ducked to climb in.

“I know,” Kate replied. “I’ve got you on film.”

Scott smiled. “As long as it’s not one of your usual variety.”

The dark-haired Kate eyed him provocatively. “With you, darling, I wouldn’t even put a film in the camera.” She offered a devastating smile. “Freebies.”

Scott lowered himself onto a small canvas stool. “I’m tempted, Kate. You’re as dishy as they say. But there’s this girl I’m about to marry, and a baby to come.”

“In that order?” Kate asked cheekily. “I’ve never broken up a marriage in my life. Reckon I’ve saved a few though.”

She eyed him again, pouting. “Pity. Here you are right on the spot and there’s a mattress.”

“I’d need a book of instructions these days, Kate.”

They laughed and Scott could easily see how Kate lured her men.

She turned back to the mounted camera and peered through the view-finder. “I suppose you realise you’ve buggered everything up?”

Scott made no comment.

Kate continued, “I’ve just missed some of the visitors leaving but apart from that, the party tailing you, who arrived in the red Citroen, now know what I’m here for. You’ve blown me, Willie. And you’ve exposed yourself as being the one who put me here.”

“I know. But it doesn’t matter now, Kate. You can wrap it up.”

She turned, saw that he meant it, and immediately started to dismantle the camera and tripod. It was gloomy in the van, though a certain amount of light came through the sliding opaque glass panel separating the driving section, and a circle of light appeared in the side of the van as the camera was withdrawn. Kate worked deftly and soon there was nothing to be seen of her camera gear except the two packed cases. She squatted on the mattress. “I use this while I’m waiting for the visitors to arrive.”

Scott nodded. “Send a bill for the full week.”

“You’ve got what you wanted?”

“I think so. They were good shots, Kate. They helped. I’ll thank Bluie for passing you on to me.”

“I hope you knew what you were doing when you showed your hand just now.”

“So do I, Kate.” Scott reached for the door handle. “I’m just about to find out. Thanks again.”

Kate shrugged. “Makes a change. If I can help again — in any way . . . ?” Her wide-eyed expression left the offer double-edged.

Scott climbed out.

* * *

Nicolai Gorkin was slightly confused. He could not fully grasp why Kransouski should be used for an issue that should surely be under his own control. He appreciated that Kransouski knew something of the man Scott, but he himself could just as easily have dealt with it, and far less expensively. The first account from the Hammerton Detective Agency had been presented for payment. Not directly to the Embassy, of course, but to one Peter Goring, who was insisting on paying cash. The amount was astronomical, and that worried Gorkin, too.

Kransouski had arrived quite openly at the Soviet Embassy with two other delegates from the Polish trade mission, ostensibly on a courtesy visit. Sitting opposite Gorkin he was aware of an increasing frustration but was not the type of man to show it. Indeed, he was too courteous to show anything at all. Kransouski had expected the bill to annoy Gorkin, but he had obtained results and that was what he had been sent to do.

“I told you before that I can only offer sub-standard service unless I know precisely what I’m looking for.” Kransouski was speaking for the tape recorder in Gorkin’s drawer.

“I understand your feelings, General. Meanwhile, may I have your report. Something that might justify this,” he added, waving the account from the Hammerton Agency.

“Scott went to Hull Prison. We don’t yet know who he saw but we’ll find out. Afterwards, he reported to a van outside the prison. The men watching quickly picked out the viewing hole in its side. It seems that a woman was photographing everyone who entered or left the prison. And we believe that she got what she wanted as the van has not been seen since.” Kransouski waved a deprecating hand. “There’ll be another bill for that small service.”

“Was she photographing visitors?”

Kransouski was irritated. “Of course. The prisoners do not come out on view.”

Gorkin held back an urge to grab Kransouski by the throat; the matter was of vital importance. “How long had she been doing it?”

“We haven’t been watching her, but it might have been for a few days. Part guess, part local inquiry which of necessity had to be guarded.”

“Thank you. That’s most useful.”

The tone of dismissal surprised Kransouski. “Is that all you want to know?”

“That’s all. Continue to watch Scott.”

“My orders come from General Rogov, comrade. I do not require your endorsement. And my report will go direct to him.” Kransouski stood up.

“As will mine, comrade.” Gorkin was smiling vindictively.

* * *

Nicolai Gorkin met Victor Anthony inside the reptile house at London Zoo. These meetings were very rare. Indeed, he had only ever met Anthony once before, and disliked such meetings intensely. The risk was enormous because M.I.5 knew that he was Moscow Centre’s resident and would therefore have him under surveillance. It had meant the tedium of deception, the use of other men he preferred not to expose in order to block or draw off his watchers. And all that just to meet one man for a short time. But he had to see Anthony personally.

The dim lighting of the reptile house was ideal for the meet, but it was necessary to go outside in order to speak freely. They strolled together towards the Russian bear pit, neither aware of the irony. The zoo on this cold autumn day was far from full and there was ample space to stand side by side at the railings.

“How did you get on at Hull?” asked Gorkin, looking down into the pit.

Anthony had expected something more than this after the summons. “I gave a report to John. Full detail.”

“I’ve read the report. I want your own words.”

Anthony was annoyed that his meticulously worded report needed further clarification.

When he had finished, Gorkin asked whether there had been a blue van outside the prison.

“A blue van?”

“Think. Think most carefully. And take your time.”

This alarmed Anthony: Gorkin was here for this very special and unusual meet, yet he seemed to be asking unnecessary questions which must be more important than they sounded. “I think there was,” he replied at last. “I mean, I wasn’t looking for one. I seem to remember . . .”

“Did it have on the side in white letters ‘Jessop’s Collection Service’?”

Anthony did not like this new drift. Somehow there seemed to be a sinister undertone to everything Gorkin said. He was not absolutely certain that he could recall the van, and suddenly felt the awkwardness of his position. Gorkin did not particularly look his part, and appeared to be shabby, though not as shabby as Anthony did himself. But the man carried immense power and through his own increasing unease Anthony realised, perhaps for the first time, that if Gorkin became awkward, he himself had no-one to turn to. He had never felt so vulnerable before. It seemed that Gorkin wanted confirmation of this bloody van, so he would humour him. “Jessop seems to stick in my mind, but I can’t remember the rest.”

Gorkin turned his head to stare directly at Anthony.

“Where was the van?”

“Outside the prison.” That was easy enough. “The letters were white. I remember that.” Gorkin had already told him.

“Good. Thank you, Matthew.”

He had used his code name. Anthony ran a finger round the inside of his collar. It was not supposed to be like this. He could not understand why he felt so uncomfortable. He was sweating round the collar, yet it was cold and beginning to drizzle. Inside the enclosure a bear started to climb his pole to the amusement of the onlookers. Anthony saw the controlled power of the beast, the huge jaws and the strong claws digging into the wood. He would hate to be down there, he reflected. Yet the bear had taken his mind off Gorkin. Eventually he said, “Is that all you want?” But when he turned, Gorkin was not there. He swung round to see the Russian walking away, raincoat collar untidily turned up, hands in pockets, shoulders hunched. Anthony was glad to see him go; he much preferred to deal with John whom he had got to know quite well over the years. Removing his glasses he absently polished them and several moments later started back for the reptile house, deciding to get value for his money.

* * *

Scott had warned Maggie that his movements might become erratic and had put Charlie Hewitt in charge of the office. But Maggie wanted to be more involved; she was not only worried but intended personally to keep an eye on him as much as she could. There were occasions when this could be advantageous. A man and a woman together seldom drew attention when separately they might. And so it was with Maggie that Scott took a taxi to Kensington to be dropped off near the house of Peter Goring.

This was Embassy land, and discounting Park Lane, Kensington and Knightsbridge probably commanded the highest property prices in the whole metropolis. The area brought back memories for Scott. Expensive apartments had burglar locks, spy holes and alarms. The penthouses carried iron grids to cut off the picture windows from the balconies at night, and skylights here were a burglar’s nightmare. He smiled to himself. All this had not stopped him and nor, apparently, had it stopped others; the crime rate was still increasing.

The street was off the wide, busy stretch of Kensington High Street. Adept at finding cover, even in daylight, Scott had opted for the simplest protection. A bus stop was almost opposite, and the angle sufficiently wide for the house to be seen from the bus shelter. Maggie and Scott simply stood there and waited.

That morning Scott had telephoned the Hammerton Detective Agency on behalf of Peter Goring and had instructed them to call off their men until further notice. He confirmed the address. Before collecting Maggie later that evening he had done an elaborate check to ensure that he was now free of surveillance. The ruse would work for a short while, until Kransouski caught up with it. But a short while was all he needed.

Maggie looked stunning and Scott was well aware of the envious glances cast her way. They stood arm-in-arm in the bus queue, letting others pass them when a bus pulled in.

After three quarters of an hour Maggie began to feel sorry that she had come and tried to ease her feet in her shoes.

“I told you to wear flats,” Scott said.

“But you don’t even know that he’ll come,” Maggie protested.

“You need patience in this game, love. I could wait all night. The two best times are early morning and evening. If he’s there at all, that is.” He looked down at her and saw her try to smile. “Shall I call a cab? You go back and leave me here?”

“No. I’ll stay.”

“Good girl. Knocks the romance out of it though, doesn’t it?”

They were talking almost in whispers, the queue having grown around them.

Twenty minutes later, Maggie protested, “You’re breaking my fingers, darling.”

Scott had not realised how tightly he had grasped her hand. Kransouski had appeared on the steps of the house. He was not arriving but leaving. As Scott eased his grip on Maggie she followed the direction of his gaze, alarmed at the effect on him.

“I don’t recognise him.”

“It’s him.”

“Now I can see. Like that, he reminds me of Sir Stuart.”

“They have a lot in common, believe me.”

“He’s kept his looks, though.”

“He’s a sadist. You’ve forgotten too much. He could smile as you died in agony.” There was so much feeling in Scott’s voice that Maggie realised just how much he must have omitted to tell her about the Russian.

They lost sight of Kransouski as the lights changed and the traffic roared across to cut off their vision. “Come on,” said Scott. “I just wanted to be sure. Now I know where I can find him.”

Maggie strode out beside him, distressed that Kransouski could have made such an impact on Scott whose jawline had tightened like a clamp, eyes uncharacteristically hard. Scott had been shaken and that didn’t happen easily. Her hand was numb in his grasp; at the moment it was doubtful if he was wholly aware of her presence.

* * *

An atmosphere of hate was seeping into the room like creeping gas. The television screen flickered, the film was entertaining, yet concentration began to waver as furtive glances were cast from one inmate to another.

One moment there had been a reasonably satisfied prison audience watching the screen but within the hour a restlessness had slowly developed.

It had started from the moment Garry Fuller came into the room and noticed Mervin Soames sitting there. It was already known among the men that these two did not like each other. Usually they kept well clear of each other. But this time Fuller not only sat down but got as close to Soames as he could. From that moment he did nothing but glare balefully at Soames, and soon the feeling of malevolence began to penetrate.

When he finally caught Fuller’s stare, Soames suddenly went cold. The pair had always exchanged contemptuous glances before now, but this was entirely different. This was loathing coupled with an implicit, but deadly, threat. There was total menace in Fuller’s unrelenting expression, and others began to notice. One or two of those near to Fuller left the room. And Fuller was able to move two chairs nearer to his enemy. In spite of efforts to resist, Soames frequently turned his head; Fuller’s mind must have snapped.

Someone told Soames to stop fidgeting but the reason for his increasing unease became clearer as time passed and spread to others. Nobody normal could silently blaze hatred for so long and so unwaveringly. Soames wanted to leave but had always considered himself superior to Fuller in every way. But the longer he sat the faster his confidence ebbed. He began to sweat.

There was nothing Soames could do in the television room, no retaliation he could take. Neither he nor Fuller were popular with the majority, who did not consider them to be traditional villains. Fuller was now leaning forward as if to will Soames into some action he would regret.

Soames left, relieved to get out of the room. He propped himself up against the corridor wall and had hardly begun to relax when he felt Fuller’s hot breath on his neck.

“I’m going to kill you, you scheming bastard,” whispered Fuller.

Normally Soames would have laughed off such bravado, especially from Fuller, but the voice had a terrible menace to it.

“Your time’s up, Soames. I’ll choose my moment. Just as Naylor chose his. You tried to fix me. Well, I have friends, sonny boy. I know what happened and you’re going to drop for what you tried to do.”

“I haven’t tried anything, you stupid bugger.”

Fuller cunningly swung his back to the warder further down the corridor. He was leering at Soames, eyes narrowed and vicious. “You’re on borrowed time, friend. I know all about it.”

Soames, about to grab Fuller by his scraggy throat, peered over Fuller’s shoulder to see the warder looking their way.

Fuller said icily, “Try it and I’ll do you now.” He moved his arm and Soames saw that Fuller was holding a crude blade embedded in a rough wooden handle. He knew of Fuller’s wife-beating record but this was another person, a demented man filled with hate and obsession. Before he could say any more, Fuller moved off, the knife miraculously gone, and Soames was left with a feeling of horror.

Back in his cell, he tried to think it through. It was clear that Fuller knew about Chesfield and that was enough to dement him. He now badly needed to see Anthony again, but visits had to be regulated. He had three weeks to wait and that was going to be a very long time with Fuller acting like a pathological killer. But at least Anthony was there as a lifeline even if he had to wait. And after that someone would get at Fuller.

* * *

Kransouski had nobody with whom to discuss his problems. Gorkin had pushed unhelpfulness too far for him to be acting on his own initiative and was probably anyway under orders to reveal nothing of the real issue to Kransouski. But when he reflected on that he could not accept that General Rogov would uproot him from Bucharest just to organise the surveillance of Scott, unless there were deeper purpose to the whole issue. And if Kransouski, with his length of service, and with his loyalty never in question, could not be permitted to have a glimpse of that issue, then it had to be of major importance, or simply did not exist.

There was nothing more he could do about Scott. That matter was now under control. He rang the Hammerton Detective Agency because they had not rung him as was usual, each day at five p.m. He did not expect a director to ring, indeed he preferred no continuing relationship with any particular person; all he asked for was a report on time. When he was told that he had cancelled the service earlier that day Kransouski went cold. Would Gorkin go so far?

What had the man sounded like? The person answering the phone found the clerk who had taken the morning call but it was difficult for him to remember the timbre of the voice. The caller had said he was speaking for Mr Goring, had quoted the address and telephone number and had asked for the account to be sent for final settlement.

“Was there anything distinctive about the voice?” Kransouski persisted.

“Slightly foreign. Very slightly.”

There was no answer to that. Kransouski himself had a slightly foreign accent. He explained that there had obviously been a mistake and reaffirmed the original arrangements.

Afterwards he sat back wondering who would action such a cancellation. It had been bound to come to light. Surely Gorkin would not be so crude. Why should it be done and who could possibly benefit?

Kransouski slowly massaged his temples. Scott? Kransouski felt sick at the thought. If it was Scott then he would know who had put the tail on him and also this address. And he wanted Kransouski to be aware of this. Had he known from the beginning?

Kransouski was then glad he was acting alone, that Gorkin knew nothing of this. One way or another, Scott would pay.

* * *

Victor Anthony put on the kettle and looked for another jar of instant coffee. The apartment was untidy yet possessed a messy sort of charm. It was clear that Anthony’s interests were diversified, as if one subject was never sufficient to hold his interest. Yet among the confusion was a basic artistic tendency towards quality.

A product of a broken home, Anthony had hated both his father and mother, a hatred that had begun long before they went their separate ways. Family strife had forced him to be a secret person from a very early age, and so burying his opinions and openly covering them with others had never been a problem to him.

Anthony’s one consistency had been a political activism and that had not wavered over the years. But he believed he had covered his views from all except those very few he wished to know them, for only by so doing could he serve them. He possessed the kind of blind fanaticism that could only deepen when opposed. He did not want to know the other side to the story, for in that way lay confusion.

Up to this time he had encountered no psychological problem in following his set course. And he was not wavering now. What did concern him, however, was a pattern of events that might suddenly raise eyebrows. His visits to Soames had, in his view, been too frequent. Since Chesfield had died he had called too often yet he could understand the need to present a normal front for a while. But Soames was coping, and it was time to sever the link.

This attitude was supported by Gorkin — known to him as Peter — calling the panic meeting at the zoo. Peter was in the big league and yet the subject matter had appeared to be small stuff. Anthony still felt uneasy about the meeting. He had been trusted with the most serious of projects, a trust well founded, and now he felt he was being excluded in some way. What was this about a blue van? What did it matter? And yet Peter had given the impression that it involved a threat of some kind. Anthony needed to speak to his usual contact, John, to have this out. And as if the thought was plucked straight from his head the telephone rang, and John was on the other end of the line. That was unique. John never telephoned. Drops, cut-outs, all the usual standard procedures were used but never the telephone.

John wanted to pick him up in one hour exactly on the Embankment opposite the Savoy Hotel back entrance. A yellow Ford Cortina R registration. Another panic meeting. Something was going wrong; Anthony hoped that John could tell him. John had been helpful all along the line and had not been ungenerous.

Anthony finished his coffee; an hour was a close call. He left the apartment wearing denims, with an unbuttoned anorak flapping over the top. The breeze ruffled his blonde hair.

Setting out at a fair pace he arrived at the Embankment five minutes early. An intermittent breeze came off the river, carrying the double hoot of a tug pulling barges. The water slopped lazily at the stonework below the parapet, and across the river Festival Hall sprawled like a hybrid monument.

John was a few minutes late and profusely apologetic. As Anthony climbed in beside the slightly-built Russian he was surprised by the concern: John was normally unflappable, cool-headed, and did not apologise for anything. Now he seemed to be uncharacteristically flustered.

They drove towards Westminster, crossing the bridge in silence, passed St Thomas’s Hospital and continued towards Kennington. Anthony was surprised. Usually they had a brief meeting somewhere and that was that. The briefer the better.

John smiled a little nervously. “I’m sorry about this, but I hate driving in London. It is the one thing that is likely to throw me off my balance.” He did not take his gaze from the road.

Anthony felt better. It explained John’s fluster. “Where are we going?”

“Into the country. I want you to meet someone.” John shot a glance at Anthony and then returned his gaze to the road, his gloved hands too tight on the steering wheel. “Would you prefer to drive?”

That made Anthony feel a little more important. John always managed to make him feel an integral part of the whole Soviet set-up, no matter what was being discussed. “You’re doing all right.”

“No, really.” Another glance, almost a plea. “I hate this bloody driving.”

Anthony laughed. The ‘bloody’ had sounded so funny. No foreigner, not even the Americans, can express bloody as the British do; there is an inflexion that is difficult to imitate whether soft or overstated. Anyway, John was pulling in.

They changed places and strapped up. John was obviously relieved. “I’ll tell you where to go.” He pulled a map out and folded it to show a small section. “I don’t really need this, but I must be sure.” He smiled warmly. “You drive much better. I drive on my nerves.”

Anthony smiled back. It was difficult to imagine a nervous John. He wanted to raise the meeting with Peter but thought it better to wait. Like his passenger, he preferred to be single-minded and found it difficult to talk seriously when concentrating on traffic.

Under John’s directions he drove through Lambeth, and Brixton — both good propaganda areas for them — and then into Streatham and Croydon and beyond until they reached the open Surrey countryside. He enjoyed the driving. And the company. John and he had always been comfortable with each other.

Directions became intricate and the massive sprawl of a largely decaying London had long faded from sight and mind. Surrey was beautiful, spoiled only by the intense belt of snobbery which enfolded it. So mused Anthony as John gave him his final direction. They had been driving for about an hour and a half.

The trees were golden brown, more than half their leaves already down to form a crunchy patterned carpet under the wheels. The breeze kept the leaves spiralling and birds swooped through the foliage at various heights. The two men left the car on the edge of the woods and started to walk down a well-hidden track.

“Why so far out?” asked Anthony as he followed John’s slight, almost jockeyish figure.

“He lives here,” answered John without turning. “A case of the mountain to Mohammed. Nearly there.”

John stopped and Anthony came panting up behind him. John turned, holding a gun. “I’m sorry, Matthew. But I know you will understand. You’ve always been a dedicated servant.”

Anthony blanched. He had always trusted this man but now he felt himself choking in fear. He stood panting, eyeing the gun and the man who held it — whom he now realised he had never really known.

“But I’ve always been loyal,” he protested. He could hardly speak through the dryness of his mouth.

“I know you have.” John appeared ridiculously benign. “But these things are sometimes necessary. It’s a pity that we can’t take the risk.”

“What risk, for God’s sake?”

“If you haven’t worked it out by now, I certainly haven’t the time to explain. Take my word that it has to be done.”

Anthony’s gaze was transfixed on the gun. It was small and looked so stupidly inadequate. He was facing what he believed to be the danger and was on the point of making a run for it when he was seized by each arm. He opened his mouth to scream and a solid gag was thrust between his teeth. Only then did he realise that it was not to be the gun, and that he had missed what little chance he might have had.

The two men held him while he kicked out. They let him spend his energy while John put his gun away. As Anthony struggled he tried to push the gag out with his tongue. His struggling grew weaker but he was still alive and was still not sure what they intended to do. Perhaps they were simply trying to frighten him. But he had done nothing to deserve it and this terrified him most of all.

His strength was going. He was not a powerful man and was beginning to sag between the two men holding him. John received a signal from one of the men and stepped forward, keeping to one side to be clear of Anthony’s lashing feet. The two men partially lowered Anthony so that it was almost impossible for him to kick out with his legs bent under him. John pinched Anthony’s nose and cut off the air supply.

Anthony struggled like a maniac, his glasses falling off in the last effort to escape, his head going from side to side in sheer terror. But he was already largely spent and his movements tailed off quite quickly. When he collapsed they lowered him gently while John still retained a grip on the nose. After making quite sure that he was dead, they awkwardly removed the gag. One man retrieved the glasses and jammed them in Anthony’s pocket.

John wiped his hands on a handkerchief. “I must get back,” he said, glancing at his watch. “You know what to do.”

As he went back to his car, seemingly unaffected by the cold-blooded silent killing, the two men lifted the body and carried it through the woods to a small, disused chalk pit. They tossed the corpse over, then one man climbed down after it while the other went back to a nearby car; he returned carrying two cans of petrol and followed his colleague into the pit.

Anthony’s body was drenched with petrol, the open eyes unaware of the stinging fuel being poured into them. When the cans were empty the two men climbed up to the ridge where one of them opened a box of matches, jammed most of them between the tray and the box, lit them, and dropped the flaming box down. Anthony exploded in a huge burst of flame. The two men went back to their car where they changed into spare shoes, carefully dropping the chalk coated ones into a carrier bag. They then brushed all chalk marks from their clothes, each helping the other.

Chapter Eight

Nicolai Gorkin needed someone to talk to but there was nobody above him in Britain, and Moscow, despite the excellent lines of communication, seemed suddenly remote.

Two men had been killed, always a reluctant step whatever the circumstances and Anthony had formed a link that could possibly have led back to Gorkin himself. That was understood. The trail back was now dead. But time was passing and nothing had come of it until the arrival of a message that now lay on the desk. The request to be patient, to someone who had taken years to set up various networks at first seemed ludicrous, and in some ways was indeed so. But Gorkin’s patience held out longest when he pulled the strings himself and knew precisely what to do.

In this particular matter he had no control and yet he had twice sanctioned killing for it. He had to go over it again and again to try to persuade himself that he had so far done the right thing. And General Rogov had agreed. But his position remained weak because he was in the hands of an outsider whom he had never met in spite of all efforts to trace him and whose note now lay on his desk. He had accepted promises believing them to be genuine and hoping that in the end it would be well worth the wait.

Gorkin was a hard, dedicated and highly experienced man. A carrot was no good to him unless he knew who held the stick. On this one occasion he had taken the carrot without that knowledge, but he had not been guided by wishful thinking; there was no such thing in his profession. Evidence of a bizarre nature had been produced for him, not the kind that would normally be expected. And yet, in its way, it was more solid than the accepted form. And no money had yet changed hands except in one minor respect, so his risks were not financial.

He gazed at the note again. How could be track down the sender? The question was always with him. To discover his identity was to gain direct control and that was what he must achieve. He ignored the insistent buzz of his intercom while he tried to work out an effective trap.

* * *

Walter Clarke had repeatedly tried to do the same but the only trap he had sprung had tragically misfired. Undeniably, he was dealing with an extremely cunning and relentless opponent. He stared at his desk and felt the loneliness of his apartment.

The nature of the attempted blackmail was obviously political yet because of the method of approach he had held the feeling that a foreign power was not directly involved. Recent events, however, had made him wonder again. It was as though he were being pulled in opposite directions at the same time. And he did not know how to react.

All he could do was to wait, for he had no means by which to communicate. There was perhaps one possible action he could take; it would be unorthodox and risky but he could see no other course. He would have to be very careful but it was surely worth a try.

* * *

“Come on, I’ll buy you a drink.”

Scott stared up from his desk at the unbelievably benign figure of Detective Superintendent Alfred George Bulman. The ‘Alfred’ was never used; Bulman hated the name. There was a smile on the moon face and an unmistakable twinkle in the heavily creased, deep-set eyes. Scott sat rooted; it was difficult to accept the change in the man.

“What’s the matter?” asked Bulman pleasantly. “Afraid to be seen with me?”

Scott shook his head. “Nobody will believe me when I tell them. That’s what’s griping me. George Bulman offered Spider Scott a drink. Jesus.”

“We’ve both grown up, Spider. Bury the hatchet. I’m a good copper and you were once an ‘honest’ villain. They don’t come like that anymore. Come on; I’ll make it a large one.”

As Scott came round the desk, he called an instruction to the tireless Lulu. Before he reached the door he casually asked Bulman, “Where’s Fairfax got to? I’ve been trying to raise him for three days.”

“He’s gone away. Asked me to keep an eye on things.”

Scott stopped at the door. “Gone away? Where?”

“Jamaica, I think. Needed a break.”

Scott stopped with his hand on the door handle. “You saying he’s pissed off and left me carrying the can?”

“Couldn’t put it better.” Bulman appeared slightly pained. “You’ve got me to lend you a hand.”

“Jesus, I’ve got a tail outside. Doesn’t he care? He lands me in it and then buggers off.”

“Let’s get that drink. You can complain on the way.”

They left the office and turned towards St Martin’s Lane. A wedding was taking place in bright sunshine at St Martin-in-the-Fields. The wedding group was posing for the cameras between the huge pillars at the top of the steps arrayed in morning suits and expensive dresses; grey toppers and splendid bouquets. A crowd watched at the foot of the steps, swelled by lunch time office workers.

Scott and Bulman stepped into the busy street to skirt the crowd. “We could have lost our tail then,” Scott pointed out as he jumped back from an approaching bus.

“Your tail, Spider. I haven’t got one. You want to get rid of them?”

“Let them stay. They need the practice.” They were struggling against the thickening crowd.

“I mean permanently.”

“How can you do that?”

“The agency is licensed. I can point out that it will be in their interests to refuse this particular client.”

“They’d tell you to get stuffed.”

“Not with the yarn I can spin them.”

Scott led the way through the double doors of the pub which was already filling rapidly. They eased their way to the bar and Bulman called for two large Teachers. “On expenses,” he explained to Scott with a grin. “Don’t want to destroy my mean bastard image.”

They struggled with their drinks to a position by the bottle-glass windows. Scott was just tall enough to see through the plain glass above the opaque panel and almost immediately noticed one of his followers outside stepping back against the bustling human stream. When he turned round he saw that the ex-copper Barber had come into the bar.

“Well?” demanded Bulman.

“Pulling them off? I pulled them off myself for a bit but as they’re back, Kransouski knows that I know. To hell with it. Make it difficult for him.”

“I’ll see to it.”

“He’ll try another agency.”

“I’d deal with that, too.”

“He’ll use his own mob, then.”

“You can handle them; they’re bums. Cheers.” Bulman raised his glass.

Scott gave a wary reply. He could not get used to this new image of Bulman. A helpful Bulman. All in all it was difficult to swallow. “Is that what you called about?” he asked suspiciously. He could clearly see the balding patch beneath the sparse hair combed forward. The change in Bulman came in many forms.

“No. That’s just a favour. It can be bloody annoying with a dog pack on your tail.” He gazed around, sweeping up Barber across the crowded room with barely a glance. He lowered his voice as he said, “I think you’re right about Gordon Chesfield. I’ve changed my mind. To be honest, Fairfax filled me in before he left.”

“So the police will re-open?”

“I didn’t say the police. I said I’ve changed my mind.”

“You are the bloody police.”

“Yes, well, it’s a private opinion. It had to be Naylor. You’ve been stirring it up there. Soames has requested a transfer to another prison. Reckons his life’s in danger.”

“Will he get it?”

“Dunno. I think he should stay. Something might break and if Fuller does top him, it will be no more than he deserves.” Bulman sipped his drink sparingly, gazing up sagely at Scott above the rim. “We might eventually get Naylor, although if everybody up there keeps his head it’s doubtful. The best way is the method you used. Sow suspicions among them. I can help stir it by fiddling a transfer for Brooks to another cell. That will leave Naylor worrying his guts out why, and he’s nowhere to run.”

“There’s more than that behind it.”

Bulman shrugged. “We’ll never get the bastards who set it up. Soames won’t talk because he knows he’ll be done, by us or by them. He’ll either get killed or spend the rest of his life inside with enemies. Naylor won’t talk anyway, and the real culprits will be protected by diplomatic privilege. But give them their due, they’ve tidied up. Victor Anthony hasn’t shown his face for a couple of days.”

“Can’t you start a search?”

“It’s not worth it nationwide. Ties up far too many coppers. Somewhere, some time, some poor sod will stumble over what’s left of him. I just hope it won’t be a girl.” Bulman drained his glass and pointedly passed it to Scott. “Let’s just assume he’s dead.”

“That’s that, then,” said Scott disappointed. “They get away with it.”

“I didn’t say that,” Bulman objected. “I wouldn’t say a thing like that. Do you just stand there or do you get them in? Make it a treble, Spider, it’ll be murder getting to the bar again.”

* * *

“For an English girl you are not bad at all.” Claude Denise reached for his shirt.

“Thanks for nothing, darling. You’ve finished then?” Gloria sat up in bed, hands covering large breasts in a strangely ironical act of modesty. Pay time was over. It was back to nothing for nothing time. She swung shapely legs over the side of the bed and reached, in turn, for bra, panties and tights. She slipped on her dress before she stood up. A smiling, partially dressed Denise came round the bed to do up her zip. He gave her a last caress which she resisted but would not have done had she known that he could have turned ugly at the rebuff. Fortunately, Denise was in a good mood.

Gloria combed her blonde hair and repaired her make-up. She slipped on high-heeled sandals, aware that Denise was watching her all the time. He was beginning to give her the creeps. As she reached for her handbag, he spoke from behind her.

“You think I will take the money back?”

She could see his reflection in the mirror and noticed a leer that had not been there before. “If you tried that, darling, I’d scream the house down and sling this through the bloody window.” She held up a heavy gold compact.

“I believe you would,” he agreed, amused. “So you had better go before I try!” He was smiling again, pulling his trousers on.

Gloria collected her coat from the back of the door and gazed round the room. “Is this the best you can do? I’m not used to crummy places like this.”

He pulled up his zip and took a jacket from the back of a chair. “We all know what you’re used to, eh? All ceilings look the same, cherie, from where you stare at them.” As she opened the door he added, “Come again. My money is better than the room. And I’m an expert lover.” He was laughing as she closed the door behind her.

When Gloria had gone, Denise began to smarten himself up, stooping to see himself in the mirror as he combed his hair. He was tired of the room and of the area. Time and again he had considered booking into a first-class hotel or leasing a flat and enjoying the luxury he much preferred. But it was a matter of self-discipline; in matters like this he could exercise it because self-preservation was a top priority in order to destroy the one person he hated deeply. Hotels meant registration, and smart apartments needed references.

He moved one end of the bed aside and kicked the ruckled rug away. Using a jack-knife he eased up a floorboard. The Colt automatic was still there, together with two packs of cartridges. He checked daily. He replaced the floorboard, put back the rug and the bed. For a few moments he stared down at the hiding place, his face tense with indecision. He hated leaving the pistol there and would much prefer to take it with him. That was particularly true now. There was a strong sense of assurance about a gun, a backing for strong dialogue of the kind he was about to make.

Denise left the room and went to the nearest call box to ring Walter Clarke M.P. There was no answer from the home number, so he rang the House of Commons. It was evening but the House might well be sitting and if Clarke was in the chamber he would not be called out. Denise left a message with Clarke’s secretary that a Monsieur Dumain had called. Monsieur Dumain from Amiens. He would ring Monsieur Clarke at home at nine that evening and no, he would not leave a number.

Denise was willing to gamble that, provided Walter Clarke received the message, he would somehow contrive to be at home to take the call whatever the importance of government debate. When he telephoned precisely at nine, Clarke was there. And from the speed the call was answered he was there solely to receive it. But his voice was controlled, and not for the first time Denise felt a begrudging respect. He gave a number for Clarke to call in precisely one hour and made him repeat it. He hung up before Clarke could say any more. The fish had to be brought in carefully.

Denise caught an underground train to Waterloo Station. He had a snack in the bar and a small cognac. At ten minutes to ten he went to a short row of call boxes in the station, lit a Camel cigarette and waited. At this time, most of the booths were empty, but at three minutes to ten he entered the right-hand end booth as he saw two girls approach searching their handbags for coins.

Clarke rang on time as Denise knew he would. It was the Frenchman’s turn to answer quickly. “Dumain. I want the minutes of yesterday’s defence meeting of the Joint Chiefs of Staff or I will release the first bulletin. You have less than two days from midnight tonight. Leave the document at the left luggage at Waterloo Station in a Marks and Spencer carrier bag and telephone the following number at fourteen hundred the day after tomorrow to give me the ticket code. The number is . . .”

“But I’m not in defence. For God’s sake . . .”

“The number is . . . listen to me. Make a mistake now and it will be the biggest of your life. Well, perhaps the second biggest. Take this number down.” Denise gave another call box number, this time at Paddington Station. He hung up as Clarke started to protest again.

Denise stepped from the booth. This was the testing time. Clarke would have had time to call in the police to check the location of the number, but Denise would not have given it had he believed that Clarke would do that. Nevertheless, it was necessary to have confirmation of one’s own judgement. Clarke was going to be a difficult fish to land; he would fight all the way to the pot.

Satisfied that nobody was with him, Denise moved away. The war was now really on, and he believed that he had just won a major battle.

* * *

Willie Scott experienced a stab of apprehension, something he had not felt for a very long time. It was a kind of creeping warning which gave him a slightly sick feeling in the pit of his stomach and was made worse because he could not quite pinpoint its cause. He knew his visit to Hull had produced an interest in him from old enemies, and that he had skated on thin ice up there, but he did not believe that was the cause of his anxiety. After all, being satisfied that Naylor had killed Chesfield was far removed from proving it, and, like Bulman, he did not think it ever would be. So in spite of his involvement, he did not see himself as any great danger to anyone. Not yet anyway.

But Scott did not ignore intuitions. They had served him well in the past. By the time he reached home that night he realised that Bulman had moved very quickly against the Hammerton Agency; his tail had gone. So at a time he should be feeling happier he had become far more cautious.

He greeted Maggie with a huge hug. “It’s good to see you, love,” he murmured into her ear.

Maggie stood back from him. As he reached for her again, she said quietly, “I can’t go. I’m due no holiday leave and I’m not going to cry sick.” She leaned forward to peck him on the cheek.

He stared at her. Why was it he could never fool her? “Now you’ve raised it, I think it is a good idea.”

“There,” she stated in triumph. “I’m not going. I like my job and I’m not ducking out unless you can give me a very, very good reason.”

“You could be in danger.”

“Over this Chesfield business? Don’t be silly. The person you think did it is already in prison.”

“There’s much more to it.” Scott pleaded: “I’ve got a feeling that it’s all about to get out of hand.”

“Darling, it always seems worse when you don’t know quite what you’re worried about. If you sent me away, I’d be sick wondering what was happening to you.”

It had always come down to this. He tried not to alarm Maggie by keeping his voice down. “They might try to get at me through you. They know it’s my weak spot.”

“They? Kransouski? So I won’t take lifts or sweets from strange men. I’m not stupid.”

“No.” Scott held his arms out to implore her. “But you close your eyes because of me when you should be keeping them open. Please, love. Speak to George Bulman. He’ll be around about nine.”

“George Bulman?” Maggie held her hands over her ears as if they hurt her. “You hate him. What’s happened to change your mind? You’d never have him in the house before.”

Scott shrugged. It was difficult to explain. “He’s changed. We’ve all changed. He’s filling in for Fairfax.”

Maggie paced up and down helplessly. “He’s a better reason for my going than the one you’ve just given me. I don’t know anything any more.” Maggie gave Scott a perplexed stare before entering the kitchen. Scott said nothing, well aware that he had failed to persuade her to leave.

* * *

Cancellation of arrangement came with the evening’s telephone report. Don Hammerton, Managing Director of the agency, made the call personally. Kransouski listened attentively, knowing that he was being given a string of lies.

“Well, sir, for one thing your account is still outstanding. It was agreed on a weekly basis and twenty-five per cent in advance.”

Gorkin was a fool, reflected Kransouski. Holding up the money only drew attention, provided an excuse. “I’ll see that it’s paid by tomorrow. It will come by hand.”

“It’s not only that, sir. We are tying up too many men on one operation. And there’s another thing; the police have been seen with Scott and some of our men are ex-policemen. It raises a risk of recognition.”

“You are saying that no matter what I say or what I pay, you can no longer accommodate me.”

“That’s about it, sir. Perhaps in a week or two . . .”

Kransouski hung up. Pressure had been brought to bear on the Hammerton Agency, and although Scott did not have the power, the police did. And a Detective Superintendent Bulman had been seen with Scott. The name stirred in Kransouski’s mind but he was certain that he had not met him at any time. There were other agencies. He reached for the yellow pages and decided to ring round the next morning; by now they would be closed. It concerned him that he had no immediate coverage of Scott’s movements. And it worried him why pressure had been brought to bear.

By noon the next day Kransouski realised the extent of that pressure. No main agency would take him as a client. All said the same thing; they had not the men available for a conscientious round-the-clock surveillance.

The blockage made Kransouski thoughtful. He would have to call on the help he had first used. This did not now seem so objectionable. The men were not good nor sufficiently well practised to fool someone like Scott, but Scott had known he was being watched, even by the professional Hammerton staff. So why should it matter anymore? Let him know. It might unnerve him.

Kransouski checked himself in mid-smile. Unless Scott had changed character completely, he would not be unnerved so easily; he might even enjoy it. Perhaps it was time to come face to face with his old adversary.

* * *

Maggie had poured drinks for them but it was taking her time to get used to the friendly liaison that now seemed to exist between Scott and Bulman. She did not trust the Detective Superintendent, although he had certainly mellowed from what she recalled of him. She could give him that at least.

Bulman produced a stapled list of Gordon Chesfield’s friends and acquaintances. He glanced uneasily at Scott then at Maggie, trying to avoid looking at her legs, and waved the list. “People we know that Chesfield knew. I’ve been looking into their backgrounds over the last few days. A few have skeletons but nothing significant. Did Bluie come up with anything?”

“Rang this afternoon. Not a whisper about Chesfield. Anywhere.”

Bulman scanned the pages, flicking them over slowly. “Nothing here either that matches the gay theory. There are one or two known homosexuals but there is no evidence of any affair with Chesfield. On the contrary, he rarely saw any of these people. But he did deal with them, usually by letter or telephone, in business.”

“So the list is useless?”

Bulman smiled crookedly. “That depends on what it hides. When you look into people’s backgrounds almost always there are one or two surprises. Our problem is trying to link that with what happened to Chesfield, and discover why he murdered Duncan Seddon, a man who he had not previously known. There’s no evidence of blackmail at all.”

Bulman waved the sheets again. “There is one man here with a fascinating background. I don’t think it adds anything and it might even confuse things, but it’s worth pointing out as a matter of interest. Walter Clarke, M.P., Minister at the Foreign Office. Future extremely bright. In a recent poll he was tipped as the politician most likely to become P.M. during the next decade. Young as politicians go.”

Bulman folded the sheets and leaned against the back of the chair, his eyes fixed on the ceiling. “He was born prematurely in the middle of an air raid on Amiens prison in February 1944. The raid was one of ours, and its purpose was to release prisoners from jail who might otherwise be forced to talk to the Gestapo. Hundreds escaped and a good few were killed — as were some Germans. The mother died, having given birth in the freezing cold in a bombed-out house. She was shot, apparently to save her from further suffering. The resistance group who found her took the baby and the woman friend who had helped the mother. The baby survived — obviously — but it was touch and go at the time.”

“How could they place the parentage?”

“That was never in doubt. The mother was Paulette Dumain, a young, passionate resistance worker who had shacked up with a dashing young English captain parachuted into France to help the resistance. He did well, too. Survived two years before capture. Paulette was also captured. The raid didn’t save her and he was one of its lesser casualties. He was recaptured and released after the war ended.

“His name was Gerald Clarke, son of Colonel Austin Clarke, a peppery old devil who lost an arm at Ypres in the first world war. Gerald knew that Paulette was pregnant and that the child was his, once he caught up with the news. He was shattered over Paulette’s death, particularly the way in which she died. It was apparently very much an affair of the heart. Like you and Maggie.”

“Obviously he found the baby.”

“The baby was kept by a girl called Jeanette Renore. She was the one who helped at the birth. The resistance took Jeanette and the baby to her mother’s house where she raised the child until Gerald Clarke finally caught up with her. Jeanette was able to tell him exactly what had happened.

“There was an unfortunate twist to it. An American officer named Stacey was one of the escapees. He had the bright idea of dressing as a German officer and simply strolling away, but it didn’t quite work out that way. He found Paulette and Jeanette and helped them as much as he could. One of the French resistance men who appeared on the scene thought that he was a German and shot him, leaving him for dead. But he didn’t die. He suffered and his story is almost as bizarre as the other; but he survived, and so far as I know he’s still alive.”

“What’s this got to do with Chesfield?”

Bulman jerked himself from a reverie. “Nothing. It’s simply background to one of Chesfield’s friends. They were at Oxford together. Close at one time but inquiries show nothing sinister.”

“Presumably Captain Clarke brought the baby back to England with him after the war?”

“His father, the Colonel, apparently did his nut. He didn’t want any grandchild of his born out of wedlock and despised his son for what he had done. He moved heaven and earth and spent a ton of money which he could well afford, on trying to disprove the parentage. But it was too cut and dried. There was no funny business and Clarke knew Jeanette and her family very well. They were much respected. She was a brave girl. In fact she was awarded the Legion of Honour. So was Gerald Clarke.”

“And absolutely nothing to do with Chesfield?” asked Scott again.

“How can it be? Where or how Walter Clarke was born has damn all to do with anything. There were press articles after the war. Made good copy. They looked for scandal but there was none except the out-of-wedlock bit. And even that doesn’t matter these days.”

“Makes your nose itch though, doesn’t it?” observed Scott.

Bulman riffled the sheets. “There was no attempt to hide it.”

“Even so.” Scott intertwined his fingers and leaned forward. “Kransouski. Walter Clarke; he could be a top priority target.”

“Kransouski came over after the event. My guess is he came to keep an eye on you, his old enemy, who went to Hull and started to stir. In spite of him once having you tortured you still beat him and he’ll do anything to get back at you. Anyway, Clarke would take a hell of a lot of bending. My check suggests that there’s nothing strong enough. If there were compromising photos he’s the kind to order a dozen copies and insist on them being framed. And money wouldn’t do it; he was left a bundle. He has no wife for them to lean on. Funny business.”

“Was he close to Chesfield?”

“Not in recent years. They did meet occasionally but their closest liaison was at Oxford. And I repeat that it stood up to inquiry. I can’t see a connection. There are too many bloody big gaps.”

“But your nose itches, too?”

“That could be through lack of booze.” Bulman fiddled with his empty glass hoping that it would catch Scott’s eye, who took the hint and poured fresh drinks, asking, “You going to poke around some more?”

“I’ll go to Oxford. See what’s been missed.” Bulman stared critically at his fresh drink. “Would you go to America for me?”

Scott almost dropped his glass. “America? Where’s that?”

“I know this is your patch and that you prefer to eat your continental under Maggie’s magic touch. But don’t kid me. You’re a travel agent, you’ve been around.”

“Who pays?”

Bulman ran a finger round his collar. He avoided looking at Scott. “I dare say I can drum up expenses. Provided that you get yourself a concessionary ticket through your business.”

Scott struggled to find an expletive sufficiently strong.

“Look at it this way,” Bulman said reasonably. “I can go to America and you can go to Oxford. But you’d be out of your element among the dons.”

Scott glanced towards Maggie who refused to help him. “Where in America?”

“Just over the pond.”

“To see this bloke Stacey? Is it worth it?”

“That’s why I suggested a concessionary ticket. If we do the job we do it right. A lot of leg work will be wasted.” Bulman stood up, convinced that he would not get another drink. He drained his glass and studied it to see if he had missed a droplet. “We’re in business then?”

Scott felt a flicker of disquiet. He had to remind himself of old encounters with this man. “Why me? Why not one of your own crowd?”

“Well, I think Fairfax would prefer it to be non-official. Perhaps he doesn’t want the word to get around.”

“But Fairfax keeps telling us he’s retired. And he’s pushed off at a crucial moment.”

Bulman reluctantly put his glass down. “He has retired. But his mind hasn’t. I think he’s pushed off to confuse the Home Office. He didn’t enjoy being baulked by them after the service he’s given to the country.”

“All right,” agreed Scott. “I’ve got some clearing up to do first. A day or two. The visa’s okay.”

“Good.” Bulman held out a hand. “Be strange working together. Always wanted to study your M.O.”

They shook hands to cement the agreement and Bulman said good night to Maggie. When he had gone Scott said, “While I’m over there you’ll have to go away.”

But Maggie did not reply. She was sitting straight backed and tense as if she had seen a disturbing preview of the future.

Chapter Nine

Claude Denise walked slowly from bookstall to bookstall, buying a newspaper at each. He went down to the Gentlemen’s toilet and reappeared moments later. He crossed to the entrance of platform two then moved along to the doorway of the FOTO FAST shop, almost opposite the left luggage office. Walter Clarke was standing by the advertising triangle, halfway between Denise and the left luggage office.

Denise knew that Clarke could not stay there all day. Unless he had made arrangements he would have to get back to the Foreign Office or the House, whatever his duties demanded.

It did not matter anyway. When Clarke had deposited the Marks and Spencer carrier bag another man had joined him at the counter to leave a suitcase; that man had received the luggage docket following directly after the one Clarke had taken. An hour later the same man had returned claiming to have lost his ticket but was able to give the number and a description of the bag. Denise had already received the typesheets and had mailed them off.

Intermittently Denise had called at the station to see what action Clarke might take. That Clarke was making such a hash of observation did not surprise him. And it indicated that his victim was still reluctant to call in help. He stiffened, as it belatedly occurred to him that there might be another reason. Not quite so sure of himself he watched Clarke for a little longer then left the station.

Walter Clarke accepted that what he was doing was futile. And yet what other action could he take? The man who called himself Dumain was certain to have worked it all out, and yet on the basis of ‘you never know’ Clarke was compelled to make what effort he could. He could have used an agency but he was too well known.

So many people had been to the counter that further surveillance had become impossible. Clarke had decided to leave when he saw a woman approach, fumbling in her handbag. She stood in front of the counter, her back to Clarke who could not see what she received.

Suddenly she turned and he saw that she was holding a Marks and Spencer bag. He broke into a run, realised that he was behaving foolishly and immediately slowed to a quick walk. He approached side on as she headed for the exit next to the video library. Unable to stop himself Clarke raced forward again, stretched out a hand to grab the woman’s arm then saw that she also had a small attaché case and a second carrier. He was almost sick on the spot. Instinctively he knew that the carrier was not his.

The woman saw him only at the last moment and thought he was about to attack her. She reeled back, case held in front of her like a shield, eyes wide and mouth open ready to scream.

Clarke halted at once, red-faced and extremely embarrassed.

“I’m so sorry,” he blurted out. “I thought you were somebody else. I’m so very sorry.” He backed away flustered and confused, desperately hoping that he had not been recognised from one of his television appearances. He turned and ran for the nearest exit.

Outside the station he leaned against the wall, still feeling sick. For an awful moment he thought a passer-by was about to ask him if he was all right and he pulled himself together quickly. But he was shaken.

What a mess. Belatedly he assumed that his bag had long since gone. What a bloody amateurish thing to do. His own inadequacy sickened him most. A boy scout would have done better, and he did not even have the satisfaction of knowing that his blackmailer had missed the incident. In his tormented mind everyone on the station had seen it. He walked to the taxi queue and tagged on the end, knowing that if he did not do better he was doomed.

* * *

Claude Denise reached his room and was annoyed that he had been so hasty in posting off the parcel. He sat on his bed and thought of Walter Clarke waiting at the station. Strangely the image gave him no comfort. Clarke might well be an idiot when it came to surveillance but in other respects he could be very sharp. Denise wondered if he had for once underestimated his man. He tried to remember the documents: they had all been photocopies and certainly related to military matters, figures, plans, prospects but really they had made little sense to him. Yet at least he had satisfied himself that they related to defence. He told himself he was worrying too much, but was finding it increasingly difficult to remain cool, nevertheless.

* * *

Naylor was worried though not to a point of desperation — that was unlikely for anyone as cold-blooded as he. He had taken an opportunity to see Soames and to remind him that Brooks wanted hush money. He satisfied Soames that his cell mate knew nothing that could be used as evidence, but by fixing him with a sum of money, slipping it into his account or a numbered account abroad, it would keep him both happy and quiet and would, of course, serve the added purpose of implicating him, too.

Since then two things had happened to his colleague. Garry Fuller was being increasingly intimidating, and although Soames had tried to speak to Fuller, to get him into a reasonable mood in order to find out what was really troubling him, he would not listen. Soames could be clever with words and his antagonist knew it. Fuller had no intention of being talked out of what he increasingly believed.

Soames’ application to the Governor for a transfer to another prison had been refused. The great difficulty was for him to put up a convincing case, and if he told the Governor that Fuller was waiting for an opportunity to kill him, he would have to state why. Then Fuller would be interviewed and God knows what he would say. Soames had repeatedly gone over it. He was in a trap. Perhaps, eventually, Fuller would calm down, but there was no sign of it yet.

The second thing to worry him was the non-appearance of Victor Anthony. Surely if he could not come, another contact would be arranged? With some considerable concern Soames began to feel that the contact had been withdrawn completely. He was on his own. He could cope with that, satisfied that he had been paid for his part, but now there was no way that he could arrange for Brooks to benefit. And that could be dangerous.

He tried to explain to Naylor that the contact had failed him but Naylor did not believe him. Soames pointed out that he himself was in just as much danger if Brooks started to talk and Naylor reluctantly accepted this. But meanwhile Brooks had begun to agitate. So far, Naylor had curtailed him with threats. And now there was talk of separating them. One of the warders had tipped Brooks off that he was to be accommodated in another cell. Suspicion, fear and threats grew. And Soames found himself a centre of focus.

* * *

As Kransouski strolled up St Martin’s Lane he refused to open his umbrella for a mere drizzle. Sporting a bowler hat and a dark suit he looked every inch an English gentleman, and yet there would always remain an air of old St Petersburg about him. He announced himself to Charlie Hewitt with the barest trace of accent.

When Kransouski stepped into the inner office Scott was already standing, not from politeness but in physical readiness. His middle desk drawer was open, a heavy bone rule close to hand.

It was difficult for Scott to believe his eyes; he saw through the thin disguise at once. How many more old friends and enemies was he destined to meet? Kransouski greeted Scott gravely with the slightest of bows, propped his umbrella against the desk and carefully placed his folded gloves on top. He did not offer his hand for he knew that Scott would refuse to take it. He smiled coldly, opened his jacket wide. “No gun. No weapon of any kind. And no strings, Mr Scott. You can safely close your drawer and put away whatever it is you were ready to strike me with.”

It was as though they were meeting after the shortest of partings instead of a gap of years. Scott closed the drawer and the two men sat down simultaneously, eyeing each other warily.

“You haven’t changed, Willie. Not at all, except perhaps for a little extra weight.”

“I got a lot of exercise running away from your goons, Boris.” Scott had never known Kransouski’s first name; he had thought of him as Boris from the outset and the Russian had not corrected him. “How’s Fyodor?”

“Alas, dead. I’m surprised you remember him.”

How could he forget; Fyodor had tried to kill him more than once. “You’ve worn well,” he acknowledged reluctantly. “As this can’t be a social call why not get to the point.”

Kransouski gazed round the office disdainfully. “You have not done too well in all these years. That’s a pity.”

“I’ve done a bloody sight better than if I’d been in your eternal prison camp, matey. Now get on with it. Sadistic bastards like you have a bad effect on me.”

“You’re very unforgiving, Willie.” Kransouski shook his head regretfully and Scott had to remind himself of what he had suffered at this man’s hands. “You were always a brash young man,” Kransouski added, “but you are direct.”

“That must be tough for you when you’re used to so many lies.”

“I thought we might be of help to one another.” Kransouski’s cool eyes did not leave Scott’s. “Let’s not hedge. I’ve had you followed. We both know it. At the moment you are roaming loose but I can still provide a team, not polished, but capable. You would know but that would no longer matter.”

Scott was amused. “You want me to save you a lot of time and money by providing you with a daily report of my movements?”

“Why not? Wouldn’t it be better than chasing through the Strand Palace Hotel every time you wanted to lose my men?”

Scott smiled, shaking his head in disbelief. “You want it typewritten or longhand?”

“Willie, I’ve had you under surveillance but I have not the slightest idea why. I have absolutely no inkling of where it is supposed to lead.”

“So who do you report to?”

“You know I won’t answer that.” Kransouski waved a finger. “You were trapped by your own people once. Perhaps it’s happening again. But this time it is also happening to me. I don’t like it. And you already know the feeling.”

“So?”

“Why have I been asked to keep an eye on you?”

“How the hell do I know?”

“But you realise that what you have done has aroused interest. Can you not tell me that much?”

“I must be going barmy. You’re honestly expecting me to help you? Do you realise the trouble you’ve caused?”

“Come now. I’ve livened your day. You’ve discovered you’re as sharp as ever you were.”

“Now you’re lying. I’m slower. I reckon it took me two days to suss you out. Look, this is going to lead nowhere. It was stupid of you to come.”

“Perhaps.” Kransouski remained quite still, hands slightly clasped, shrewd eyes steady. “You know the feeling when operating on misinformation. That is what is happening to me. It’s possible that it’s also happening to you. We might need each other, as unlikely as that sounds. Think about it. I haven’t been used in this way for many years. So why now? Because I once knew you? That was a long time ago, and I don’t think you’ve operated for a long time either. Isn’t that a strange coincidence?”

“I’m not operating now,” Scott insisted. “I did a small favour for someone. That’s it. Finished. My business is here.”

“Which will account for your frequent absences? Willie, why the photographs at Hull? Why is that place the focus?”

Scott thought round it. He took his time. “Are you saying that you don’t know, or are you trying to get confirmation of what you already know?”

Kransouski recognised that this was no time to lie. Scott was as skilled with the bluff as he was. And there was no need. “Something is going on here of which I have no knowledge. I have asked for information and have been refused. For telling you that alone, I could be shot.”

“I’m not running a tape and you know it. You’re not risking anything.” It was a mental toss of the coin. There could be advantages in telling Kransouski, or it could go the other way. Scott forgot reason and followed his instinct. “We believe a man called Chesfield was murdered in Hull on the instructions of your crowd. The inquest arrived at suicide, and a Home Office inquiry concluded the same.”

“And they put you in to tap the grapevine?”

“Nicely said, Boris. That’s my job over.”

Kransouski was silent for quite a while. He seemed to be perturbed, his eyes unusually reflective. He reached for his umbrella and placed both hands on top as if he needed the support. “You will understand if I say that your claim is ludicrous. We would never stoop to murder in your country, particularly in circumstances so bizarre.”

“Of course not,” said Scott drily.

“Who and what was this man Chesfield?”

“You do your own homework. Ask the bloke who’s holding out on you. Now what do I get in return?”

“Do you know why this man died?”

“No idea. It’s not my business. It’s one you’ve got away with. Be grateful. I’m still waiting for the mutual help bit.”

Kransouski nodded slowly but he was deep in thought, stooped forward over the umbrella. “There is no information I can give in return because I have none. But I will stop the surveillance.”

Scott was immediately suspicious. He had not really imparted information for a return — he could not trust Kransouski that far — but in order to cast dissent and distrust amongst the Russians. Kransouski’s offer surprised him and he tried to see beyond it. “I’ll know if they’re there,” he stated simply.

“Who better?” Kransouski rose slowly, for once showing his age. He straightened and gazed abstractedly at Scott but his thoughts were elsewhere. “Now at least I know why I was designated to observe your movements.”

“And now you also know what a waste of time it was.” But as Kransouski crossed to the door Scott was not as confident as he sounded. He wondered if he had made a mistake; Kransouski had offered too much too soon.

* * *

Nicolai Gorkin refused Kransouski’s request to see him at the office. In his view they were meeting too often and he considered that Kransouski was in danger of breaking his Polish trade delegation cover which in turn could embarrass the Embassy.

It was in Sheffield that Gorkin arranged a meeting between one of his men and Kransouski after a factory visit made under the auspices of the trade delegation. They sat side by side in a limousine, the glass partition closed behind the chauffeur.

Kransouski’s request was quite simple. “I want some women trained in surveillance,” he asked his stone-faced companion. “Not many. I don’t need a team operation, just one woman at a time, provided they are frequently changed.”

“A woman would be noticed,” Gorkin’s man pointed out. “Particularly if she’s attractive.”

Kransouski hid his irritation. “A man would notice,” he replied patiently, “although I doubt that you are able to provide a bevy of beauties. If you have any you keep them well hidden.”

“I’ll pass the request on.”

“It’s not a request. You do as I say. My orders are from Moscow. And to allay your puerile doubts, it’s not a man I want followed, but a woman.” Kransouski turned his head, smiling weakly. “A woman being followed might be sensitive to a man’s presence, wouldn’t you say? Particularly if he’s attractive.”

* * *

The message was in the ‘deaths’ column of the Daily Telegraph. It took Claude Denise a little time to work out the simple code in order to extract the telephone number, date, and time that he should ring. He was now used to this method of contact and it suited him well for it worked and kept the two parties apart. Three days had elapsed since he had posted the parcel to the agreed address, and the response was still faster than he had expected, although he had scanned the Telegraph daily.

The call was scheduled for the day after publication; and failing that, for two more consecutive days at the same time. Call box to call box. He approved. Only once had the number been engaged and he had waited for several minutes. As an extra precaution he used a different call box each time, always well away from his living area. Nor did he leave it to chance; he always plotted his boxes in advance and checked that they had not been vandalised — which was why he chose the better districts.

Kensington was one such area and it amused Denise that it was so close to the Soviet Embassy. He dialled the number exactly on time. The voice that answered was heavily accented, but the man understood well enough and was able to make his point slowly. After the usual identity skirmish the voice said to Denise, “The documents you sent are useless. They are over two years old.”

Denise gripped the telephone in fury. In his anger he replied in French. “Don’t lie to me, you fool. And don’t try that again.”

But the voice merely repeated the accusation. “Over two years old. The information is correct but we already know it. Your man has tricked you.”

Denise thought quickly. “If you are right, he won’t have tricked me for long.” The blood was racing through his veins.

“It would be much better if you let us handle this directly. We are skilled at it and will ensure that you don’t lose out. It can only save you a great deal of trouble.”

“Oh no you don’t. The control is mine and it stays mine. Only that way can I be sure of a fair deal.” Denise needed time to think and a telephone call could not provide it.

The voice continued in its tortuous English, “We already know who the man is. We agree that he is valuable but it will not work like this; you will never get the best out of him.”

The doubt and the challenge restored some of Denise’s shattered calm. “You might think you know who he is, but it won’t help you at all. Leave it with me. I’ll make contact in the usual way.”

Anxious now, the voice urged Denise not to be too hasty. “Don’t destroy it. Use patience.”

His reply was brusque. “I know how to handle it. I’ve produced something, haven’t I? He’s already committed himself even if it is old stuff. And I’m not just taking your word for that.” He hung up, some of his earlier fury returning. Clarke had made a fool of him and the big temptation was to make him pay dearly for that. Well, Clarke would pay eventually, very dearly indeed, but the Russian was right. Keep cool, as difficult as that might be. He told himself again that it was a game of nerves he could not ultimately lose. There could only ever be one loser. As Denise left the call box this basic thought enabled him to come to terms with what was after all only a temporary set-back. He had known that it would not be easy, and as a last resort he held the means to destroy Walter Clarke.

Denise went to the West End Air France office and booked a flight to Paris for the following day.

* * *

She ran a hand over his chest. Her long, painted fingernails splayed out towards his chin and she lifted her head from the pillow to gaze at his face. “You exude strength, darling. Everything about you. You must use the Parliament gym a lot.”

“No. But I play squash regularly. And tennis when I can. And I was second row at Oxford.”

“Is that rowing?”

He smiled, captivated by the girl but filled with humiliation at what had just happened. “Rugby football,” he explained. She had told him not to worry, that these things could happen. Well, it had never happened to him before and he was worried sick. He gazed at her; she was ravishingly beautiful and eager for him, even now after such disappointment.

He took her and kissed her and knew that it would be even worse than before. He broke away, panting and frustrated because he did not understand what was happening to him. And Susan was not one who was slow to help.

“Leave it,” she said softly, touching his lips with her fingers. “It will make it worse if you try too hard.”

“Hell! I shouldn’t need to try at all with you.”

He sat up and she placed her head on his shoulder. “What’s on your mind, darling? What’s worrying you?”

He put an arm round her. It was crazy to be like this. “Worrying?”

She lifted her head. “This is not physical, it couldn’t be. I know you too well. Walter, something’s on your mind.”

Was this his future? Was this how it was going to be? He kissed Susan lightly on the forehead. God forbid. He had not heard from Dumain for days and he had been scanning the newspapers far more than duty demanded.

The problem was lack of knowledge. Dumain was an unknown quantity. If he could put a face to him, a character, he would know better how to deal with him. Yet he had no regrets in having taken the course he had. It was vital to test the strength of the opposition even if it meant ruin, but if he really believed that, he would not have taken such a step.

“You’re miles away,” Susan observed. “And I don’t take that as a compliment.”

Oh God. He turned to her. “Forgive me. You’re quite right. I do have something on my mind.” He smiled at her. “Otherwise I’d have to be raving mad, wouldn’t I?”

“I hope it’s not another woman, my darling.”

Clarke began to laugh. “If only it were so simple.” His laughter grew until it became uncontrollable. And as he laughed, tears began to prick his eyes, the tension flowed from his body and she felt him begin to respond.

* * *

Willie Scott’s common denominator with the gangster Rex Reisen was his belief in Great Britain and his belief was unwavering. His car was British and he would fly nothing but British Airways to New York.

Before leaving for Heathrow Airport he had contacted Detective Superintendent George Bulman with a personal plea to keep an eye on Maggie in his absence. Maggie had refused to budge from the apartment. Bulman had promised to have her protected so far as he could. They both knew that police protection wouldn’t stop a determined person, but it was the best that could be done.

As the 747 took off, Scott sat in tourist class still worrying about Maggie. His feelings had been growing stronger since he had seen Kransouski. He reclined his seat and stretched his long legs. Typically, Bulman had refused to pay for first class on Concorde and had been alarmed when Scott had explained that concessionary tickets required proper application forms which took time to approve. Public funds had provided a full fare and Bulman would have to justify the cost. The fact that he could, merely indicated to Scott that there were probably aspects of the case that Bulman was keeping to himself.

Scott had positioned himself in the middle row of seats. He hated flying and by sitting well away from the windows he could try to forget the emptiness outside. This was odd because he had a strong head for heights no matter how far from the ground as long as he was directly connected to it. He paid for the headphones and watched the film, trying to forget the vast, deep stretch of the Atlantic Ocean below him.

Scott was well aware of his own complexes. There was nothing he or anybody else could do about them, but they contributed to his charm and his unpredictability. His mind wandered as he tried to watch the film. He believed that George Bulman had decided not to go to New York himself because police presence would have to be declared and official interest was best kept hidden. Meanwhile Scott drank more than he should and ate everything that came his way, anything to fill in the time and to help him stop wondering how this huge monstrosity of a plane stayed up.

It was early afternoon when they landed at Kennedy and once through customs Scott took a cab to Brooklyn. It was some time since he had visited New York but he retained an affinity with the city as most townees do. He chatted with the cab driver as the place unfolded in white and brown patches and the buildings multiplied as they progressed. It was strangely colder than London.

General Lorne Stacey lived in a Victorian house that rested in one of the quiet old spots of Brooklyn. The house was big but rather seedy and somehow Scott felt that an American general should have something much grander, a ranch out west perhaps.

Scott paid off the cab, gave a wink to some watching children and climbed the steps to the big front door which had an old-fashioned bell pull. He yanked the chain and the ensuing peals sounded like a fire alarm from inside.

“Mr Scott?”

It was as though the man had been waiting behind the door. He wore baggy slacks to accommodate a prominent paunch and was shorter than Scott had expected. A loose, canvas jacket partly covered an open-necked shirt and blue eyes smiled from a chunky face which was topped by an unruly mass of greying hair.

“General Stacey?” Scott was not sure.

“Did you expect me to be in uniform?” Stacey held out a hand and Scott increased the pressure from his own before his fingers could be crushed. “The uniform wouldn’t fit me now anyway. Come in. You’re on time. Dump your case in the hall.”

Scott followed the stocky figure down a hall passageway and a door was opened for him to enter. It was a large bright living room full of old and comfortable armchairs with an ashtray next to each one. The vague smell of tobacco suggested the General smoked a pipe. Tapestries hung on the walls, and a corner cabinet displayed some old china. Scott realised that he was eyeing the place in his old capacity. He saw no security locks on the windows, no alarms.

“Take a seat; anywhere. I’ve got it fixed so that I don’t get too fond of any one chair.” And then shrewdly Stacey asked, “You think I should be wired up?”

Scott sank into a chair, still looking round. “You’ve got some good stuff. You should take care of it.”

Stacey sat opposite Scott and pulled out a pipe. “They know me round here.”

“You want to worry about the ones who don’t. People talk. Believe me, I know.”

“You’re a cop?”

“I was a burglar.” Scott grinned. “I’d like to take a look at the stuff before I leave. Then I’ll tell you how to protect it.”

Stacey laughed loudly. “I like you. You don’t pull punches. But this is not what you crossed the Atlantic for. By the way, have you eaten?”

“On the plane. I’ll probably go back tonight.”

“Like hell you will. I have many good friends in England and have had too many good times there to let you get away that easy. Tonight we’ll go to Manhattan and do the town. I can still drink and eat like a horse. I hope you can. Now tell me what you want to know.” Stacey puffed at his pipe as he listened to Scott relate the story of Gordon Chesfield’s involvement in a murder and to the account of his demise.

Stacey did not interrupt at any point but when Scott had finished he asked, “So you’re chasing up the background of anyone this guy Chesfield knew? Walter Clarke being one of them. You a cockney?”

“Not quite. I was born outside the hearing of Bow Bells. I don’t think I talk like a cockney.”

Stacey waved his pipe. “I’m losing touch. Without being offensive, why is an ex-con looking into the background of a British Foreign Minister?”

“I was asked to do it.”

“Who by?” As Scott hesitated Stacey blew out a stream of smoke and added, “Look, I was in the O.S.S., forerunner to the C.I.A. I had to ask.”

“Then you’ll have heard of Sir Stuart Halliman?”

“Stu? Heard of him? I know him. He sent you?”

“Indirectly.”

“But he’s out of the game. Like me. Retired.”

“He can’t get used to the idea.”

Stacey was watching Scott closely. “That’s him all right. Clever. We had a few words from time to time. Awkward cuss.”

“No comment.”

“Okay. Sit back and I’ll tell you the story of when I put on a German uniform which hung like a sack, and thought I could just walk away from trouble. There’s no secret about it.”

As Stacey talked, Scott built up another picture of the man: younger, courageous, determined. Scott’s gaze slipped to a photograph on top of a bureau and guessed that he was seeing Stacey as he had appeared forty years ago. The general was still forceful and as he unfolded his story, became slightly animated. He had lost some good and brave friends during the war and this was an occasion to remember them. Scott had a glimpse of a period in recent history that he had only read about or seen as Pathé news film. The man facing him was digging into memories that would always be there, and in Stacey’s telling Scott felt the cold, saw the snow and heard the first cries of a tiny baby who was to live against all odds.

A silence followed the general’s recounting of the prison bombing and the breakout. His pipe stayed steady in his hand while he slowly brought his mind back to the present. And then he said, “We read of different reasons for that bombing now. It was unfortunate because many of our own were killed; the prison walls were weak and the goddamn bombs were skidding off the ice and ricocheting right through them. But hundreds escaped and I was one of them, in spite of being plugged.” He rubbed his stomach. “Still plays up in this weather.”

“So Walter Clarke was the baby?”

“Well, the baby became Walter Clarke. I knew his father well. Good man. We worked together in the field. It was tragic that Paulette Dumain should have died like that. It was brutal, but perhaps necessary. The Germans were searching everywhere.”

“And there were no problems that you know of?”

“About the baby? Jeanette Renore took care of it. None better. It all worked out in the end. Clarkey caught up with his son and took him to England. Old boy Clarke was the problem. He didn’t want the baby in the family. An oddball, the old man. Hated the French. Claimed that he had personally been at war with them all his life and blamed them for everything that went wrong. He wasn’t liked; his wife tried to divorce him and Clarkey would have left home but for the child and for the inheritance he would one day receive.” Stacey drew on the neglected pipe before it went out. He fiddled with a box of matches. “Young Walter’s done well then? Being tipped for even higher honours. A pity his father did not live to see it.”

Scott said nothing. Stacey was still recounting, bringing events up to date.

“I’m surprised you’ve come all this way to find out about him. You could have looked up Jeanette Renore in France. I believe she’s still alive although I last heard that she was sick, in a nursing home.”

“Perhaps they want a rounded picture. Everything they can get hold of.”

“Well, nice as it is to meet you, you’ve wasted your time. In spite of the strange background it’s all cut and dried. I met young Walter a few times after the war. He was a bright boy, full of promise even then. The only person he resented and feared was his grandfather. They never got along together at any time although his grandmother cherished him. I think she’s still alive, too. She was a good deal younger than her husband, but she must be getting on.” Stacey pointed the stem of his pipe at Scott.

“You must know that. Easier from there than here.”

“I know damn all.”

“Well that figures if it’s anything to do with Stu Halliman. When we set up the C.I.A. after the war I liaised with him a lot. How many more of Chesfield’s friends have you got to look into?”

“Three or four,” lied Scott. “They’re the easy ones.”

“And is any of this going to help?”

Scott took the warning; Stacey had a right to be sceptical.

“I doubt it. I’m very grateful for what you’ve told me but I don’t think it will help in establishing the reason for Chesfield’s murder.”

“Who says he was murdered?”

“I do. And he was.”

Stacey inclined his head. “There’s no answer to that. You’ve got a tough one. Two murders and nobody knows why?”

Scott resisted the prompting. He had said nothing of Russian involvement but the mention of Sir Stuart would produce its own thought waves in Stacey’s mind.

“By the way did you ever find those missing dossiers or identity tags you mentioned?”

“No. I never found out who took them. The group scattered once Jeanette settled with the baby. I hope they were used sensibly.”

His account finished, Stacey rapped his pipe on a glass ashtray. Scott considered it remarkable that both pipe and tray stood up to the treatment. “Ever approached Manhattan over Brooklyn Bridge at night?”

“Once only.”

“What did you think?”

“It’s like approaching another planet. A galaxy of lights. Nothing like it back home.”

“No. Well, by the same token you’ve plenty we like to see. Have a short nap, freshen up, then we’ll go out. If I can think of anything else I’ll tell you.” Two hours later, while Scott was absent, Stacey went to a small book-lined study at the back of the house and push-buttoned a telephone number. After a few seconds’ wait he said, “Is Jim Cernik back from lunch?” Stacey smiled. “Now, now, we all know Jim makes a point of scudding back by four. It’s General Stacey. Put me through.”

When Cernik came on the line Stacey explained, “Jim? Lorne. Small job for you. Do a run-down on an English guy called Scott. Willie Scott. Ex-con. Base, London. Says he was sent by Stu Halliman; yes that old devil’s still around. I must go see him some time. Dig as deep as you can and go back as far as possible. Check description. Height six feet plus. Weight about a hundred and ninety. Eyes grey. Hair dark. Says he was a burglar. And find out through London what he might be doing currently. There was a cop in one of those grey areas between Special Branch and M.I.5 but who officially operated for the Metropolitan Police who might be helpful. Based at Scotland Yard. George Bulman. He was a detective chief inspector the last time I heard but that was a while ago. Let me know.”

Stacey went to his desk, opened a drawer and took out a flat tobacco tin. Inside was a military button. He clasped it in his hands and closed his eyes. Vivid memories came back to him as if the button had magical qualities. He opened his fingers. The button needed cleaning; it was the only souvenir of the German uniform he had worn over forty years ago.

Chapter Ten

Walking through Oxford’s historic streets, George Bulman felt cheated that he had never been an undergraduate here. But the family had not encouraged such scholastic ambition; his father had been a sergeant major in the King’s African Rifles and had wanted Bulman to follow suit. Eventually Bulman had come to see the police as a perfect compromise.

During the period he had first run into Scott, Bulman had suffered the effects of false rumours and malicious gossip, both from jealous colleagues and revengeful villains. Stories were spread about the way he had gained promotion to detective sergeant and innuendos were cast about some of his arrests. These were some of the dangerous assertions that had reached Scott at that time, and above all things Scott detested bent coppers.

The truth was different. Bulman was, and always had been, a first-class detective. He did not always go by the book but he had never discarded it. In this sense he had many of the traits of his old adversary; he was unorthodox but was not given to physical violence. And that was used by some as indicating cowardice. Bulman would always confess to being a coward, but those who really knew him knew also the impossibility of the claim.

George Bulman, realising the disadvantages of his background, had set out to improve his mind and in so doing had accumulated a mass of information, ranging from Communism to poetry, much of it useless. But he could at least quote verse with genuine feeling.

He had not wanted to visit the colleges, believing he would feel out of place and rather envious. And yet he liked to tread the same ground as Roger Bacon, Sir Thomas More and even the once Chancellor, Oliver Cromwell. It brought home to Bulman all he was not — and all he would like to have been.

He met Professor Julien at the rounded corner of the Bodleian Library and from there they walked towards the Clarendon building and the Bodleian extension. They made a striking pair; Bulman was wearing his smartest overcoat and had brushed and lacquered his hair against the stiff breeze. Professor Julien had a torn pocket in his shabby raincoat, and his flamboyant tie was badly knotted and askew; his sparse hair pointed everywhere in a series of flattened spikes. He was lean and stooped and looked half-starved.

“It is very good of you to see me, sir.” Bulman did not quite bow. “I had to make sure you were the right person.”

“I may not be.” Julien pecked at his words quickly, but each was distinct. “I did know both men well when they were undergraduates. The police have already asked, you know.”

“I know, sir. I’m sorry it’s cropped up again. All I want . . .”

“Look, can’t we pop in for a drink?”

Bulman peered ahead to the pub which seemed to be hiding between two buildings. He could not read the sign. “Won’t we be overheard?”

“Not at all. You do drink, don’t you?”

Bulman was already calculating his expenses. He nodded weakly.

The professor led the way. The bar was small, and smoke curled up to the blackened beams. It was half full although it was not yet twelve thirty. The young barmaid spotted him, gave him a wink and a nod and Julien opened a door at the side of the bar and went through. It was a tiny snuggery, just a small table with two rough benches, and the two men had it to themselves.

Bulman developed a new respect for the professor. Almost before they sat down the barmaid brought in a pint of bitter and placed it in front of Julien with a plateful of sandwiches.

“Same for you, sir?” The barmaid switched her bright smile to Bulman who could only nod in awe. “Chesfield and Clarke,” he prompted when the barmaid had gone.

“There’s little I can tell you that has not already been said.” Julien bit into a sandwich then swigged his beer while he was still chewing. Bulman looked on, fascinated, and took his pint from the barmaid as she came in.

“Cheers,” said Bulman knowing that if Julien spoke now he would choke himself.

“Walter Clarke was brilliant,” said Julien scattering moistened breadcrumbs. “Do have a sandwich. Ham or egg.” He pushed the plate across. “Chesfield wasn’t gifted in the same way, but he did work hard.”

Bulman had resigned himself to an intermittent recitation punctuated by chewing and beer-swilling, but he knew the value of patience.

“They were good friends.” Julien frowned, his long jaws now in perpetual motion. “And it was difficult to understand why, for they were poles apart. Clarke was a scholar and an athlete and did not neglect either talent. Chesfield played no games well and rather hated playing them at all.”

“Was there any funny business between them?” asked Bulman cautiously.

“Committing buggery, you mean?” Julien wiped his lips in a quick action as if it interfered with his drinking. His eyes were piercing above the glass rim. “This keeps cropping up. The answer cannot be changed by repeating the question.” He put his almost-empty glass down.

“I’ve consulted others about this,” Julien continued. “Those who knew them at the time. We’ve discussed it in depth, and at times it has seemed that the police would like to prove such a relationship when none apparently existed.”

“Apparently?”

“Who can be absolutely sure? If such a relationship existed, then it was never uncovered. Personally, I don’t think there was anything sexual between them.”

“But you did say they were close, sir.”

“I said they were good friends.” Julien suddenly bellowed for more beer and Bulman fumbled for his wallet. The barmaid entered with two pints and Julien ordered a large pork pie, which left Bulman wondering just where the calories went.

“I’ve thought this over many times. I’ll accept your inaccurate interpretation of what I said. They were close. You are quite right, but it was a rather one-sided affair as I recall. Chesfield doted on Clarke. It’s not uncommon at that age. He was dashing, a pacesetter, brainy and Chesfield simply set his sights on that image. He hero-worshipped Clarke, and if he was inclined to be effeminate, so far as I know it stopped at that. In his eyes his friend could do no wrong. And Clarke tolerated him for quite solid reasons.

“Clarke’s own background was rather unfortunate. He had a grandfather whose home he lived in but who was otherwise totally intolerant of him. Underneath the self-assured image Clarke could be quite sensitive. His periodic brashness was a cover for his own uncertainties: I’m quite sure of that. Clarke had to prove himself and he was fortunate enough to have the ability to do so. He drove himself hard, but he always had a soft spot for Chesfield which most of the others didn’t share. Perhaps he saw in Chesfield, who had a dominant father, something of his own problems, which he could overcome but which poor Chesfield could not.”

Julien was chewing more slowly now that the pork pie had arrived. Ignoring the knife and fork, he broke the crust from the meat. “Chesfield would do anything for Clarke.”

“Anything?”

Julien looked up. “Do I detect a sinister innuendo there, Mr Bulman?”

“Straight question, sir. What’s your definition of ‘anything’?”

“I’m not being drawn on that one. You know very well what I meant.”

“I see. You’re telling me not to read too much into it?”

“I’m doing no such thing. It’s an expression, no more. One you have undoubtedly used yourself without literal meaning. Chesfield doted on Clarke. I have said so. Whether that feeling continued after graduation I have absolutely no idea.”

“Would idolised be too strong a word?”

“That would be a fair description. I’ve seen it often enough over the years. It usually levels out with the stricken party later wondering what on earth he ever saw in his hero. I’m simply making the point that there is nothing unusual in that sort of thing.”

“Except that Chesfield comes across as a lonely, rather unpopular figure in whom only one person was willing to show real interest.”

“He was not unpopular, and he was not harassed in any way that I can recall. I would be inclined to say that most students were indifferent to him. His father had a lot of money but that was not apparent with the son.”

Bulman expressed surprise. “His father seems to be very concerned for his son’s reputation now.”

Julien smiled cynically. “For his son’s reputation or for his own, Mr Bulman?”

* * *

Having received a signal, Bulman met Scott at Heathrow Airport and drove him back to London.

“Fancy a cup of tea in my office?” asked Bulman as he pulled onto the M4.

“I never enter any nick voluntarily.”

“The tea’s not much good either,” said Bulman. He drove expertly, without effort. “So how did you get on?”

“Interesting bloke, Stacey. I should think his background could fill at least one fat book. He put out a check on me.”

Bulman smiled. “How d’you know?”

“I was listening at his study door while he thought I was in the shower. It’ll come to you. Your name was mentioned.”

“Well, it was bound to be, wasn’t it? I’m the only one in the force with any bloody brains. I’ll deal with it when it crops up. We don’t want the Americans treading all over the place or they might bump into the Russians and cotton on.”

“Cotton on to what?”

Bulman told Scott what he had learned at Oxford the previous day. “Something or nothing, but at least it gives a new slant. Tell me what happened over there.”

Scott told him, then asked, “Why didn’t we go to this woman Jeanette Renore first off? She knows more about Clarke’s birth than anyone.”

Bulman was aggrieved. He slowed down as they hit the heavy traffic at Uxbridge. “Stacey assumed we know it all. We don’t. You’d better go and see Clarke’s grandmother.”

“You’re mad. It will get straight back to Clarke.”

“Maybe that won’t be a bad thing. All we can do is stir.”

“We?”

Bulman ignored the challenge. “Fuller is dead.”

“What? Fuller? Do you mean Soames?”

“I mean Fuller.” Bulman kept his eyes on the road, his visual concentration total. “It seems that Fuller pushed Soames once too often and Soames picked up some scissors in the tailor’s shop and plunged them straight into him. He died on the operating table. Soames has been charged.”

Scott sank back. He had paled. “God,” he said quietly, “I’ve done that. They should charge me.”

“Don’t talk balls. They already hated each other’s guts. You planted a seed to stir. A good one, but that was no excuse to murder. Normal people don’t react like that. Fuller was always looking for an excuse, any excuse to get back at Soames. He wouldn’t have killed him though; he was all piss and wind. Anyway, your seed hadn’t grown any more. Fuller must have known that if Soames had done the dirt he would have heard about it before now.”

“It wouldn’t have happened but for me. That’s a fact, George.” Scott stared ahead, seeing little of the traffic chaos now surrounding them.

“You shook the carpet from under a pair of first-class bastards who deserved each other. Soames could have coped with Fuller’s threats had he not been guilty of murder. That’s what made him burst; fear of what Fuller might say. The screws were beginning to notice. Soames topped Fuller to cover another murder.” When Scott remained silent, he added, “I don’t know how to cope with a bloody villain who has scruples. It’s not right. Now snap out of it and look on the bright side.”

“I don’t see one.”

“Soames is tucked away from the others. Murder charge. It’s possible that he wanted to be removed from the likes of Naylor and Brooks. Maybe Naylor was putting pressure on him or Brooks was putting pressure on both. Soames had lost contact with Victor Anthony, who is still missing, and Fuller was making bubbling noises round his ears. There will be witnesses to Fuller’s threats. Soames didn’t panic; he would have thought it out. When he’s found guilty of murder or manslaughter he’ll be moved.”

Bulman tapped Scott’s leg. “Naylor will be sweating now. Soames going up for murder might find an argument for asking the other one to be taken into consideration. He’ll get life anyway. What can he lose? If he does decide to talk he’ll have to finger Naylor.” He chuckled. “We might get a Red implicated yet. Never know your luck.”

But Scott sat there feeling that he had started it all. Whatever Bulman said it would not have happened if he had not seen Fuller and fed him lies, whatever the justification.

“For Christ’s sake, if it makes you feel any better send a wreath and go to his bloody funeral. I’m not losing sleep over the violent bugger. Killing is part of their nature. If it was part of yours you wouldn’t be sitting there feeling sorry for yourself. They’re beginning to run. That’s what I wanted from the beginning.”

Scott bit as Bulman had intended. “You? You’ve only just come into it.”

“Don’t give me that. Who do you think set Fairfax onto you? I thought the Chesfield business stank from the beginning. I needed you, and at that stage I knew you wouldn’t give me house room. Do you think I could have pulled off what you did at Hull? They wouldn’t have given me the time of day up there.”

“Are you saying Fairfax isn’t abroad?”

“The last I heard he was on Moor Park Golf Course trying to improve his handicap.”

“You bastard. You bloody rotten bastard. You stinking piece of fuzz. Old Bill . . . I’ll fix you . . .”

Bulman slipped out of lane. “That’s better. That’s the Spider I remember so well. Don’t choke on your tonsils, lad.” He closed his ears to Scott’s continuing curses.

* * *

Kransouski put Maggie on a loose lead. The women designated to watch her had strict instructions not to follow if Scott was with her, and if at any time Maggie gave signs of suspicion, they were to drop right back and give up until later.

All Kransouski wanted to do was monitor Maggie’s day-to-day movements to see what pattern they made, to judge how often she was alone and where, and how long she spent at the apartment without Scott. He especially needed to know if there were particular days when Scott was late back from the office.

Scott’s one weakness was Maggie, and Kransouski, with the foresight of an old campaigner, and the deep need for revenge, wanted to be ready to pounce. He was prepared to torture her, and if it became necessary to kill her, he would do that too. Scott was a difficult man to handle and Kransouski would manage in any way he could.

He did not see his preparation as being beyond his brief. His job was to have Scott watched and that had become impossible to do effectively — his report had stated as much. In the back of his mind was the need to protect his own safety. He had not liked the open way he had entered the country; General Rogov well knew that he was known here no matter how long he had been away. If everything went well, he would survive, but if it did not, then it would be his head offered on a plate to cover up for Gorkin and his men. And there would be no trade-in if he survived to be imprisoned. Kransouski had no doubt of that; he would have used the same tactic himself.

Because his movements were channelled as a trade delegate, he could not penetrate the underlying puzzle. Scott, the prison, Detective Superintendent Bulman, the dead man Chesfield and Nicolai Gorkin. He lacked the facilities and knowledge of the real issue which Gorkin enjoyed. Kransouski had never felt so shackled. But if it became necessary to take Maggie Parsons, he was confident that truth would come out in a flood.

* * *

Bulman was forced to pay the price for deceiving Scott into operating with him. As much as Scott hated flying, he preferred to do that rather than face an elderly and probably ailing lady, about her highly successful grandson whom she reputedly worshipped. It was left to Bulman to tackle her, something which he at least could do officially.

Scott left London in rain and the plane plunged through a dense layer of cumulonimbus, the thunder cloud pressured above it. If he could have stepped out he would have, but he remained locked with the other passengers in a propelled cylinder that was being tossed around the skies.

The plane rode above the cloud as far as the Alpes Maritime, and suddenly there was no cloud at all. Sunlight cascaded off mountain tops into valleys, and ahead stretched the incredible blue of the Mediterranean. They came in low over the sea to land at Nice Airport.

Scott took a cab to the Clinique d’Azur which lay on the upper slopes above the quaint, clustered old harbour town of Villefranche just three miles away.

As the taxi climbed, he had a better view of the sea and the yachts; their calming effect made him realise just how screwed up he was. He could handle villains and one-time shadowy people like Stacey without too many qualms, but this was different; now he felt he was about to intrude into someone’s life.

The sea sank below him, and rich, sub-tropical foliage thickened with the increasing height, drooping over the retaining walls to encumber lush trees. The taxi turned into a drive and wound upwards, gravel warning of its approach.

The Clinique d’Azur unfolded like a holed sheet, white and seemingly full of arches. Potted plants, full of colour, lined the long, pillared terrace and as Scott climbed out of the taxi with his grip, the silence which enveloped him was almost physical. If peace were a criterion for cure, then it could be found here. He paid off the driver as a nurse approached him, dazzling in white uniform, stockings and shoes. Scott hoped it was not so white in heaven, where momentarily he almost believed himself to be.

He understood the smile but not the smooth flow of French. “I’m sorry, love. I’m English. I telephoned from London.”

The nurse nevertheless answered in French but indicated that he follow her. He felt out of place in the hushed atmosphere of the large, pink-washed foyer. There was no hospital atmosphere about the place, but he supposed that was really what it was, no matter how elite.

He waited by a long reception desk that gave the illusion of being in a hotel with its tourist brochures and racks, displaying maps and coloured postcards. The receptionist gave him a quick smile while the nurse went off to fetch someone else, her low rubber heels silent on the Italian tiled floor.

Scott came to terms with his feelings and began to take a more professional interest in the clinic. A child could break in, he thought. He could see no wards, no signs pointing to X-ray facilities and operating theatres and presumed they were all housed in the huge extension that he had glimpsed at the back as the taxi had come in. There were two offices marked private, and Scott noticed a doctor walk past with a stethoscope dangling from his pocket, the only medical instrument he was to see.

A sturdy, middle-aged woman came bustling through the opaque glass doors at the rear of the foyer. She smiled warmly at him, hands in the pockets of her white coat.

“M’sieur Scott?”

“Yes. Was it you I spoke to on the telephone?”

“No. But your inquiry was passed to me. Because I speak English,” she added, smiling again.

“Better English than mine. I’m sorry I don’t speak French.”

“Shall we sit over there?” She led the way to an iron table with cane chairs around it. As she passed him, he noticed the blue name-strip pinned to her coat lapel, and the inscription DR. M. BELIME. They sat down and she asked, “What exactly is it you want, Mr Scott?” Her eyes remained impartial.

“I explained on the telephone. I would like to see Jeanette Renore. Just for a few minutes.”

“I understand that your telephone call was made only to ascertain whether Madame Renore was here.”

“And that I would like to see her.”

“That information was not passed on to me.” She gazed coolly at him. “If you asked to see Madame Renore and someone here approved, they should not have done. Madame Renore sees only her son and even then she does not recognise him. She is very ill.”

Scott had not expected it to be so bad. “Are you saying that I can’t see her?”

“Are you a relative?”

“I’m a friend of a friend. I merely wanted to ask her a couple of questions. I don’t think what I have to ask would upset her. It’s about something of which she should be very proud.”

“About her resistance days? Are you a journalist?”

“I could pretend to be one but I’m not. Something happened during the war, something very much to her credit, which she knows about more than anybody else. Her knowledge could unlock a door for someone else, someone she would undoubtedly want to help, and but for her, would be dead.”

Dr Belime appeared to relax a little. “She was awarded the Legion of Honour for what she did during the war. But any mention of that time could have a disastrous effect on her. If she were to understand what was being said at all.”

“I’m told that she speaks excellent English.”

“That is not what I meant. Her mind is — numb. She has shut out the world. She is happy looking at and tending the garden. Her sight is good, her hearing adequate. But she suffered a trauma some time ago and there is no sign yet of recovery. In her strange way she is happy as she is. She wants no intrusion. I think she deserves her peace, however limited that might be. Don’t you?”

“Of course. But how can you know I’d destroy that peace? I might even help her. It could be the jolt she needs.” Scott spoke persuasively, but without convincing himself.

“Because I am her doctor, Mr Scott. You must respect my judgement.”

Scott shrugged in defeat. “I do, of course. Although doctors can be wrong.”

“Are you a psychologist?”

“You know I’m not. Your English is too good for me to try to trick you.”

Dr Belime smiled and Scott realised he had struck the right note.

“Couldn’t I just see her?”

“Will you promise not to speak to her?”

“I’ll only speak to her if you permit me.”

“You did not specifically ask to see Madame Renore, did you? You perhaps thought you would be refused?”

“Maybe.” Scott stood up, leaning forward to catch the doctor’s arm as the chair toppled back when she rose.

“You are a strange mixture, Mr Scott. I’m sorry I cannot be more helpful. But the patient must come first.”

“I understand. It’s a pity because a couple of days ago I stayed with a very dear friend of hers, an American general called Stacey in New York. He knew her well during the war. It was his idea that I called. I suppose I can’t even tell her that?”

Dr Belime hesitated as if the high rank presented another dimension. “They were real friends?”

“They were both in Amiens prison when the R.A.F. bombed it in 1944. They both escaped.” Observing the measure of the doctor’s indecision Scott added, “Couldn’t I just offer his love to her? In your presence?”

Dr Belime gazed thoughtfully at Scott. “You are a determined man. And persuasive too. Perhaps passing on someone’s love will do no harm.” She took Scott by the arm. “Don’t misconstrue this as a mark of affection. I just don’t want you to leave my side.” He left his grip by the reception desk and she took him through the opaque glass doors into a stark, white corridor with a blank door at its end. They went through this door into brilliant sunshine.

Low buildings spread laterally ahead and beyond the buildings, gardens spread upwards in a series of terraces with two lots of stone steps picking their way haphazardly through the blooms and multi-coloured shrubs. At the end of the central building, almost opposite where they were standing, was a wide, concreted path which wound upwards in a design that took the slopes more gradually than the steps. At intervals terraced areas had been built with benches where patients could rest, and the concrete path was plenty wide enough for wheelchairs to pass.

Now Scott could see the patients. Some were fully dressed, others in dressing gowns. Of all ages, they sat or walked through the grounds enjoying the warm weather.

“If ever I’m sick and can afford it, this is where I’ll come,” he said with feeling.

“Those on the higher ground have a wonderful view of the whole coastline. And that is where I’m taking you.”

Scott reversed position and took the doctor’s arm as they mounted the right-hand set of steps. There was an iron rail on one side and a rope one on the other.

Jeanette Renore sat in a wheelchair facing the sea with her tired eyes screwed against the lowering sun. As the light pierced the foliage it formed broken shards across her sagging face. She was alone and gave no sign that she had heard anyone approach. Her thin hands lay motionless on each arm of the chair.

Indicating that Scott should stay back, Dr Belime approached openly. “It’s Marie, Jeanette. It will be too cold for you as soon as the sun slips behind the hills. How are you?”

A wrinkled hand came up to cover the eyes from the sun and the head tilted slightly to get a better view of the doctor, but there was no verbal response.

“I’ve brought someone to see you. He has a message from an old friend of yours.” Dr Belime signalled Scott forward, who became aware of Jeanette’s eyes switching slowly to him. And when he saw the eyes he thought they were dead. It seemed to him that Jeanette stared without seeing but that could not be so. There was an almost total lifelessness about her and yet the hand, the head, the eyes had all moved. But it was as if their power were running down.

He stepped towards her, and glanced at the doctor who, after hesitating, gave an almost imperceptible nod. “I was in New York,” he said, “and I met Lorne Stacey. When he knew I was coming to France he insisted that I dropped in to give you his love.”

Jeanette’s eyes flickered at the mention of Stacey’s name. She stared at Scott more acutely, but still said nothing. It was difficult for him to reconcile this wreck of a woman with a heroine who had received France’s highest accolades. Something terrible must have happened to reduce her to this. The nurses had done their best, combed her hair, added a little cosmetic — but there was nothing from Jeanette herself.

The old woman’s response had interested the doctor, but Scott kept his word and added nothing. Dr Belime glanced over to him, but he stood unsure of what to do.

Afterwards Scott would swear that the doctor had nodded.

“I came from London to see you. While I’m here is it possible to talk to you about Walter Clarke?”

At first there was no reaction at all. Jeanette’s hand still shaded her eyes, which were gazing steadily at Scott. Then her expression changed, at first slowly. She half rose from her chair and froze. Her eyes suddenly glared and her mouth opened to let out a terrible scream that rose above the terraces to scatter the birds in a great burst of flapping wings. And then she collapsed back into the wheelchair and her head sagged forward, arms dropping to her sides, all energy spent.

Chapter Eleven

Dr Belime dashed forward, shooting Scott a withering look and called out in rapid French as she reached her patient.

Scott stood rooted to the spot. Nobody could have expected so dramatic a reaction, including the good doctor who was now frantically waving Scott away. He could not simply leave the scene; if he had caused Jeanette’s collapse then he wanted to know what would happen to her.

A nurse came running up the steps with a tray and a syringe and Scott saw the doctor shining a torch in Jeanette’s eyes. He went slowly down the steps, sick at heart and wondering what other little surprises he might perform that could affect people so much. He told himself that had he believed there was the slightest risk of Jeanette reacting as she had he would not have mentioned Walter Clarke.

Two nurses dashed past him carrying a stretcher between them. He reached the buildings and noticed patients and staff were staring belligerently at him. Scott felt wretched, yet beneath his misery was the repeating query of why? Somehow he had to find out.

The two nurses descended with Jeanette strapped to the stretcher, followed by an anxious and bustling Dr Belime. Scott tagged on, a little distance behind, into the rear buildings, down a long corridor with private wards off each side, until Jeanette was hustled into one of them. Scott did not enter the room but looked through the circular glass window to see Jeanette put to bed and Dr Belime take her pulse. He assumed that Jeanette was still alive.

He wandered back to the reception foyer to await news. His grip was still by the counter. Pacing up and down, Scott was watched by a concerned receptionist who had heard the scream; everyone had heard it.

After a while he moved over to the iron table and sat to stare out of the window, trying to imagine what had made Jeanette scream as if she were in the last throes of mortal agony.

The sun sank and the subtle hidden lights of the foyer came on before Dr Belime came back. She crossed to the reception desk then caught sight of him. “I would have thought you’d have gone by now, Mr Scott.” Her voice was cold and accusing.

He came towards her. “You know there was no way I could have expected that to happen. You didn’t yourself.”

“Just the same, you had better go. The damage is done.”

“The damage was already done. I triggered what was already there. What happened to her in the first place?”

Dr Belime took Scott out of earshot of the receptionist and stopped by his grip, staring down at it. Her face was strained. “I don’t intend to discuss a patient with you. Please go.”

“I’ll go when I know how she is.”

“She’s quieter. I’ve put her to sleep. But I cannot possibly say at this stage how she will react later. We have to wait. That’s all I can say. And you must not see her again. This time the shock could kill her.”

Scott picked up his grip. “You did give a sign for me to go ahead, you know. Don’t make me the scapegoat.”

Dr Belime’s shoulders sagged and her brows rose in a gesture of acquiescence. “There is no scapegoat. But what you said devastated her. God knows what her mental condition is now or will become.”

“But she will be all right?” Scott persisted.

“I don’t know. Her heart is weak. Mr Scott, there is nothing to stop you telephoning as often as you like. We will report her condition, I promise.”

“Okay. Give her my . . . No, better not.” Scott turned to the door. Behind him he heard the quick, soft tread of Dr Belime hurrying away.

He walked down the winding drive, rhododendrons and yuccas brushing his suit as he kept to the edge. His grip was heavy and the slope acute, and it was difficult to see though he could still distinguish the sea from the shore with lights increasingly pinpricking both. It was so tranquil, yet the scream still filled his ears. A car came crunching up the drive and Scott moved into the shrubbery, blinded by its lights.

For a while he could not see at all but when he continued down the slope he gradually picked out swaying mast top lights. Out in the harbour a cruise ship was strung with coloured bulbs.

Scott found a top-floor room in a small pension on the higher ground at the back of town. He showered and changed. In the small dining room he ate dinner without enthusiasm and wished that Maggie was with him. She could be practical when necessary and right now he wanted the comfort of her, and of her advice. He realised he was feeling a little sorry for himself, but that was because he was floundering emotionally. His feeling of concern was much stronger for Jeanette Renore. Even without the scream, the fact of a very brave woman having been reduced to near catatonia deeply moved him.

After the meal he trod the cobbles of the charming harbour town and went down to the quay. It was fresh now, to him an ideal temperature but, to others taking in the pleasantness of the late evening, perhaps too chilly. For a while he watched the boats rocking against their moorings and listened to the gentle lapping of the sea. He looked at his watch; it was far too early for what he wanted to do and he did not want to pass the time drinking. He would need his reflexes unimpaired.

Scott returned to his room, opened the old-fashioned window and gazed down into complete darkness. But he had taken stock the moment he arrived and knew what was down there. He went over to his narrow bed, lay down with feet overhanging the end, and dozed for several minutes, hands clasped behind his head. When he had rested he tried to analyse his feelings. He was nervous, not merely keyed-up and could not recall feeling like this before an operation, however important.

At half past midnight he changed into his tracksuit, sprayed his hands and fingers with a protective coating of ‘New Skin’ and opened the window again. He eased himself onto the sill, already doubtful that his muscles would stand the strain after so long. He reached for the rain stack at the side, gripped it and pulled hard to test its strength; thankfully it was the old-fashioned variety, and built to last.

Scott swung over, pulling himself one-handed at first with the intention of grabbing the stack with both hands and easing his feet down the wall to the ground. His heart leapt as he found himself slipping at speed, his hands burning with the friction. It took an immense effort to stop the slide and then to cling grimly to the stack, with knees and feet locking on to it.

The strain was enormous, but Scott hung on grimly knowing that the drop could kill him. After a while his panting eased and he began to descend carefully, canvas shoes gripping the brickwork, hands round the stack. His muscles creaked. The pain was crucifying.

He reached the ground and steadied himself against the wall, racked with self-disgust, aches and pains. He could have gone out by the front door but wanted everyone to believe that he was still in his room. His hands burned and as he studied them for blisters, Scott noticed that the protective coating had come off. Confidence battered, he moved off over the cobbles.

Villefranche is full of narrow alleys and winding streets, and so he had no difficulty in keeping out of sight. Scott reached the main street, traffic much reduced now, and chose his moment to lope across to the other side. After following the road line for a while, high banks rising above him, he found the street that led to the clinic. It was pitch black up here, the climb steep. Scattered lights from villas spread up the terraces and the silence was almost complete.

Scott took his time. When a car came speeding down he had plenty of warning to step into the shrubs while the headlights swept out to sea like searchlights. Then he continued cautiously until he found the driveway.

He stepped off the gravel drive into the shrubs. It meant mounting the terraces one by one but it was safer and quieter than approaching the clinic directly. When he reached the building, he crouched for some time. It was mainly in darkness but here and there dimmed lights showed and ahead of him the reception area glowed prettily with subdued and hidden lights. He moved round to the back of the building, still keeping off the gravel.

When Scott reached the rear wards into which Jeanette Renore had been carried, pale blue night-lights shone gently through some of the windows. He slipped through a door which had no security lock and closed it quietly behind him.

Confidence returned. He went along the corridor with private rooms on either side. The glow of the blue night-lights reflected eerily on some of the round observation windows, but others were in darkness. A dimmed bulb glowed at each end of the corridor.

Scott could hear footsteps approaching from the other end of the corridor, a sound so muted that most people would have missed it. He chose a room without a night-light, opened one of the double doors, and quietly stepped inside. Behind him he heard the sound of shallow regular breathing and remained quite still, staying by the door.

The footsteps stopped before they reached him. A door opened and Scott waited. A minute or two later he heard the footsteps start up again; a nurse was peering through each observation window in turn. As he drew back, he heard the footsteps go past, surmising that only the dimly lit rooms drew attention. The footsteps were fading now and Scott waited two minutes before stepping out.

Jeanette Renore’s room had a night-light. Scott peered through and prayed that he would not disturb her. He pushed the door gently and stepped in.

At each side of the bed stood a small cupboard. On top of the one nearest to him was a telephone and a glass of water. Jeanette lay on her back and at first Scott thought her eyes were open and staring, but it was a reflection of the blue light upon her lids. Her arms were inside the sheets and her mouth was slightly open; she was breathing heavily. As he stepped nearer he noticed her eyelids flutter, and she began to murmur and move restlessly. She was probably having a nightmare, Scott thought unhappily.

Dropping to his hands and knees Scott crawled forward towards the bed. The drawer of the cupboard stuck when he tried to open it and the cupboard rattled. He stopped at once, anxiously watching the pale face on the pillows. Jeanette’s lips were moving.

Scott steadied the cupboard with one hand and firmly eased the drawer out with the other. Inside was a book whose title he could not read and which, judging by its pristine appearance, had never been opened. Removing it quietly he held it by the covers and let the pages hang down. Nothing fell out. He replaced it and opened the cupboard door to find only the medical apparatus of the bedridden.

He crept round to the other side of the bed. In the drawer he found a small case, which he opened. A medal lay in its recess and Scott sat back on his heels. If an award for gallantry was so near to hand, always there to jog the memory, then it could not be the war itself, or her valiant part in it, that had triggered her distress. So how did Walter Clarke fit in now? He stared at the medal and then at the twitching face of the heroine who had won it. From what he knew of her past, Jeanette Renore had withstood severe torture during the war; she had seen killings, and she herself had killed. But none of this could have had any serious effect on her with the medal always here to remind her. He closed the box and carefully put it back. He had found something relating to her past but it was not what he wanted.

He had just closed the drawer when the door opened. There was just enough time to drop flat at the side of the bed, where he lay sweating with anxiety. Someone was in the room moving at the other side of the bed and Scott heard a metallic rattling, possibly an instrument tray. Perhaps the nurse had seen something of Jeanette’s distress and had returned with medication. When Scott peered under the bed he saw white shoes and stockings.

The sheets were adjusted and the nurse walked to the foot of the bed. Scott remained still. Something clicked and he belatedly identified the sound as being the clipboard with the medical data being put back on its hook.

A door opened. With horror Scott realised that it was the slatted door of the built-in wardrobe which was directly behind him. Hangers were moved along a rail and then stopped. The door closed. There was complete silence and Scott imagined the nurse standing and staring at his back. But suddenly he heard footsteps again, and then the room door opened and closed.

Scott restrained the immediate impulse to move. When he finally did, it was to roll gently onto his back. He raised his head cautiously to check that the nurse had definitely gone and glimpsed at Jeanette who seemed to be sleeping peacefully now.

The job was not done — he desperately needed something far more informative than a gallantry award. He moved towards the wardrobe and opened its doors.

There were few clothes there; at least they proved that Jeanette was sometimes well enough to wear them. Scott went through every pocket and, from old habit, felt along the hems and the lapels. But he found nothing. Underwear and blouses were in one of a line of drawers; so were handkerchiefs and other personal items. A handbag was in one of the drawers, but it was empty; even money and feminine items like cosmetics and perfume had been removed. There was nothing, not even a letter or postcard, as if nobody cared any more. Or that she wanted to lose all identity for reasons of her own.

Scott looked back at the bed. There was nothing he could do to help her. He pushed the door, peered out and left.

Not wishing to be trapped in the confines of the clinic, he retraced his steps through the building. Reaching the front again, he had a little more difficulty with the main lock before slipping into the foyer.

Although dimmed, there was adequate light and here it was a rose-coloured glow, almost like the light in a photographer’s dark room. He unlocked the nearest office marked ‘private’. Inside was one large desk, and comfortable chairs scattered around the room. A Menez bronze of a pelican with a fish in its mouth stood as a centre piece on a low marble table. He tore his mind away from the superb sculpturing, quickly assessing that he would not find what he wanted in here — the room was too formal, and too ostentatious.

An intercommunicating door was unlocked. This would be it, he thought, as he walked into a more utilitarian office with three desks, two typewriters, and a stack of filing cabinets. Ten minutes later the sum total of the gain from his risky break-in was the address of Jeanette Renore in Paris. There had been figures on the file which he could not interpret but he guessed that they represented the payment for her expensive sojourn in the clinic, probably settled regularly by a banker’s order. So Jeanette Renore was not poor.

* * *

The house was in Hampshire with a trout stream bubbling through part of the grounds. It was said that Capability Brown had planned the extensive estate with its lake and gentle slopes and judging by the resulting beauty Bulman thought the claim could well be true.

Martha Clarke took him out onto the huge terrace at the rear of the house in spite of the blustering and biting gale. Dried brown leaves crackled as the wind scattered them, but still Bulman could appreciate the vista of rolling lawns which was totally enhanced by the magnificence of the trees, even though most of the leaves had fallen.

They sat in a recess of the east wing by the side of an extensive rectangle of a fish pool. Waterlilies spread out in huge leaves under which multi-coloured fish were lurking.

“Are you interested in fish, Mr Bulman?” Martha Clarke had caught the direction of his fleeting glance.

“Oh, very,” he said. “Colourful creatures.”

Martha smiled. “You don’t have to humour me. They are new to you, aren’t they?”

“When you put it like that, ma’am, I suppose they are. A long way removed from the one goldfish I kept in a bowl as a kid.”

“That’s a cruel way of keeping them, my dear.”

“It was all my parents could afford. I’d watch it for hours.” Bulman was amazed at the sharpness of Walter Clarke’s grandmother. For a woman in her eighties Martha Clarke’s mind and sight were incredibly clear. Age was given away by her appearance but even that had a regality he could only admire. She came from a section of society he often despised, but it would be difficult to despise this woman.

Martha’s posture was superb. Her clear eyes commanded, and yet Bulman sensed that she was a woman who led by example rather than position. He could not help but like her. She wore an old topcoat against the wind but even that hung on her like a couturier’s garment. Her white hair was gathered in a bun at the back, but despite this and her sometimes severe expression, there was an air about her that was essentially feminine.

“If you look carefully,” she said, “you will see a variety of koi, shubunkin, comets, and black moors, chocolate orandas, and redcaps among the fantails. All beautiful specimens.”

At first Bulman thought she was listing the varieties of specimen plants in the garden, before realising that the names were species of fish. “Beautiful,” he agreed.

“Yes they are. I hope you have not come here to harm my grandson. If you have, you can expect no help from me and every obstruction.”

Bulman guessed that Martha Clarke could be very obstructive indeed if she were so minded. “It’s a routine line of inquiry, ma’am. We’re following up the background of all Gordon Chesfield’s known friends. He’s the man who died recently. Your grandson is just one of many. We’re eliminating them one by one.”

“I remember that young man. I met him several times, but he lacked Walter’s qualities. A dreadful business. He must have been so desperately unhappy to do such a thing to himself.”

“Nobody really knows why Gordon Chesfield killed himself. Checking on his past and on those who knew him is a painstaking business. But it has to be done if we are to uncover the reason.”

“I thought that was straightforward. The lad simply could not face the trauma of prison life nor come to terms with what he had done.”

Bulman felt himself to be under close scrutiny. “We are not satisfied that Chesfield killed himself for those reasons. And some of his friends are of the same opinion. So, we dig deeper and try to discover if there is some connection with one of his friends or acquaintances that might somehow have led to such a tragedy. We are not trying to implicate anyone but merely intend to find a clue to help unravel an intriguing mystery.”

“I can’t see how I can possibly help you.”

“All I want is a little background to your grandson.”

“Then you should get it from him, Mr Bulman.”

“I should think he’s seen enough of policemen and he certainly won’t want any more traipsing after him round the House of Commons. Anyway, he’s a very busy man. We simply have to finish our inquiries some other way.”

Martha peered down at the pool. There was a flash of red and blue as her reflection scared a fish. “Don’t take me for an idiot, Mr Bulman. I may be old but I’m not stupid yet.”

“No, ma’am. I wouldn’t try to fool you.”

“Tell me, what kind of trouble is young Walter in?”

Bulman knew that this was crunch time. He could blow it or succeed. “He’s in no trouble with us. But, like it or not, he was once a very close friend of Chesfield. I just wondered if there is some sort of link that could help us.”

“Do you think that Walter might be in trouble?”

Bulman shook his head slowly. “With respect, Mrs Clarke, you’ve twice mooted the possibility. Your thoughts appear to lean more in that direction than mine.”

“Mr Bulman, you’re trying to be too clever. Please state precisely what you believe or I must ask you to leave — which will be a pity; I don’t get much in the way of interesting company these days.”

“I’m sorry you feel that way. I just need to know if there’s the possibility of anything in Walter Clarke’s background that could remotely throw any light on Gordon Chesfield’s death. Bits and pieces, ma’am, from any source.” While he spoke, Bulman couldn’t help wondering why the old lady was being so defensive of her grandson.

As if reading his mind Martha Clarke said, “I don’t want him hurt in any way. You must be aware of the circumstances of his birth. He not only lost his mother but discovered the tragic, horrible way in which she was killed. That has affected him badly. He’s had a great deal to put up with and I don’t want the press resurrecting the past.”

“That couldn’t hurt him, could it? He would get everyone’s sympathy if that happened.”

“He does not want or need sympathy, Mr Bulman. He’s left all that behind him. He’s made a success of his life through his own efforts and does not want his life disturbed by the past. He is totally honest — and I mean by anyone’s standards.”

“You’re very fond of him, ma’am. Did your husband feel the same way?”

Martha eyed Bulman coldly. “What have you heard?”

“I heard that your husband did not like or accept him.”

Martha sighed. “That is true. My husband lived by his own values, and I admired him for that but he would be considered hopelessly old-fashioned now. He did not like the fact, and could never accept it, that Walter was born out of wedlock. That was the attitude of his times.”

“I can understand if he had not accepted the mother. But the child had no say in the matter. Couldn’t he accept that premise?”

“He was unrelenting. We argued about it but he would not compromise his principles, not even for me.”

“Yet Walter was brought up here.”

“Yes, at my insistence. I could not desert a child, particularly when my son loved his son, who, after all, was a love child.”

Bulman knew the tide had turned. In spite of Martha’s instinctive protection of Walter, he felt that she wanted to talk about him.

Carefully, Bulman continued, “Was that the only reason your husband did not like Walter?”

The old eyes flashed. “What precisely do you mean?”

“Did your husband acknowledge the child as your son’s?”

“That was never in doubt. The heritage was unquestionable. My husband not only accepted that heritage, but it was one of the issues that made him so obdurate. If he could have disproved that branch of the family tree he would gleefully have done so. God knows, he tried hard enough. But I did understand and even respected his feelings.”

Bulman said cautiously, “Did any of this have any effect on Walter’s feelings? I mean, if your husband made his thoughts so clear couldn’t that have undermined Walter somewhat? It couldn’t have been very pleasant to be rejected by his grandfather.”

Martha suddenly snapped from a reverie. “What can that possibly have to do with Gordon Chesfield’s unfortunate death?”

Bulman appeared to be embarrassed. “I’m sorry. I overstepped the line between useful inquiry and personal interest. It is such a fascinating story. I really am sorry, ma’am.”

“Young Walter was sufficiently strong to cope. Of course he was hurt but he had his father and me to rely on. And in spite of his attitude, his grandfather did show some charity on occasion. He used to take his grandson on long walks. They both loved the countryside.”

And fed him with what? mused Bulman, who now believed he would get no more. The truth always seemed to be just out of reach. He accepted that Martha was not lying; it was not in her character although she might if she thought it would help Walter. But there was a barrier she would not cross and Bulman knew there was something about the relationship between her husband and young Walter Clarke that would remain locked away. It lay with Walter to fill in that blank, but Bulman could not see him being very forthcoming. He rose and held out his hand to help Martha to her feet.

* * *

Denise pulled into the side of the track, steering the car into the tall hedgerow. He climbed out and walked slowly up the slight incline, the hedgerows blocking his view. He passed wheel tracks to his left and remained on the main track for some minutes. He did not hurry but when the barn roofs came into view he stood still to listen for any sound. All he could pick up was the far-distant clatter of a tractor. He continued to walk.

The farm was run down, derelict almost. An open, corrugated-roofed barn faced him, and beyond it two smaller barns with holed roofs. Some distance beyond them was the cottage. There were clothes flapping on a line. Denise approached the building cautiously, always making sure that there was a barn between himself and the cottage. As he drew nearer, he made his approach more obvious to the man who was working alone at a small smelting plant in one corner of the main barn.

Denise called out softly, “Nabih. I got your message.”

The slightly-built Algerian turned in surprise and waved. “It was good of you to act so quickly.”

“I just happened to be in Paris. You were lucky.” Denise felt the heat from the brick-cased furnace as he approached. On top of the furnace was a large iron cauldron with a lip and moulding trays at its side. Above was a rough pulley attachment fixed to a beam which Nabih used to tilt the cauldron when he wanted to pour. The whole apparatus was crude but functional.

“What’s in it?” asked Denise pointing to the cauldron as he drew level with the Algerian. The brown eyes smiled. “Lead.”

“Lead? Why?”

“There’s always a demand for lead. It’s in short supply.”

“So how do you get so much?”

“Old roofs. Churches. Demolition jobs. People want it for all sorts of reasons. Even as a casing for fall-out shelters. It blocks the radiation. I melt it down to mould into manageable blocks.”

Denise nodded understandingly. “You’re always up to something. What’s your problem, Nabih?”

The Algerian peered into the steaming cauldron and wiped his small hands on the apron. “Money. I made a bad investment.”

“A man with your talents should never be short. And I paid you well.”

“I know. It’s only temporary. I need a loan for about three months. I’ll pay it back, of course.”

“How much?”

“A hundred thousand francs should cover it.”

Denise whistled. “That’s an awful lot, and it’s not living money. How have you got into such debt?”

Nabih smiled sheepishly. “As I said, I invested badly.”

“Gambled, you mean.”

Nabih shrugged. “That amount is petty cash to you. I’m not asking for extra. Really. I will pay it back.”

Denise made up his mind quickly. Nabih had spoken carelessly. If the Algerian knew that a hundred thousand francs was petty cash to him, then he probably knew who Denise really was. It was dangerous knowledge to have.

“Where’s your wife?” asked Denise.

Nabih looked surprised. “In the cottage. She knows better than to interrupt me when I’m working. Will you help me?”

“Of course.” Denise dipped a hand inside his jacket, drew out a gun and smashed the barrel across Nabih’s forehead. The Algerian fell heavily and lay huddled where he had collapsed on the floor.

Denise pulled Nabih up, held him awkwardly and rammed his injured forehead against the rim of the cauldron. It was important to leave a suggestion of what had happened with blood and skin traces. He then heaved Nabih, head first, into the molten lead, the legs hanging outside the cauldron as it tilted. A huge judder like an immense electric shock ran through Nabih’s body, and then it was still. A few moments later an air bubble painfully pierced the surface of the lead.

Denise used a handkerchief to pull a chair to the cauldron. He angled it against Nabih’s legs and then pulled the rope forward to drop the loose end in the lead. It would appear that Nabih had stood on the chair to pull the rope and had lost balance. Perhaps the cauldron had been difficult to tilt.

Making sure that he could not be seen from the cottage, Denise went back to his car, coldly reflecting that he should have dealt with Nabih a long time ago. Once in the car he drove swiftly back to Paris.

* * *

Willie Scott took an Air France flight from Nice to Paris, found a second-class hotel in the Rue de Caumartin, and booked a room for the night. Once he had dropped off his grip, Scott wasted no time. He studied a tourist plan of Paris in the hotel lobby and saw that it was a good distance from the Opera district, where he now stood, to the Avenue Hoche near the Arc de Triomphe.

The last time he had used the Metro, Scott had finished up at the wrong station, so he decided to walk. For a man whose sense of direction was finely tuned while self-propelled, those same senses always seemed to desert him when he placed himself in the hands of others. It was what he called the loner syndrome.

He headed north up the narrow stretch of the Rue de Caumartin. It was late evening, the light was poor, but direction was instinctive to him. The tail end of the rush hour traffic made itself heard around him and Scott found himself enjoying the frenetic bustle and energy. At the top of the Caumartin he turned left into the long stretch of the busy Boulevard Haussmann. It was almost like walking down Oxford Street.

No journey like this was wasted with Scott. He observed as he went; turn-offs, pedestrian density, traffic build-up, shops, office blocks and the depth of doorways; buildings that could be climbed without aid. And as he recorded this information, he recognised that even if his muscles were not in trim his mind had completely adjusted. He was back in business.

There was no hurry and he kept to his natural stride. He did a check on being followed as a matter of routine and was satisfied that he was on his own. When he reached the junction of the Boulevard Haussmann and the Avenue de Friedland he took the right-hand fork into the Rue du Faubourg. At the Avenue Hoche he turned left and halted round the corner.

Scott stood with his back to the wall. He tried to control the sensation, but the old urge was back. This was burglar land. Not quite as plush as the Avenue Foch which lay the other side of the Place Charles de Gaulle, but plush enough. He fought back the temptation, surprised that it should still be so powerful, and pondered on the objets d’art and paintings that lay behind some of these walls; Fabergé, Monet, Cezanne and others. He could feel them around him, oblivious to the movement of hurrying people, and speeding cars.

He broke his reverie and continued on, turning left and then right until he arrived at his destination. Before him stood a splendid old building which had been converted into luxury apartments. There was more than one entrance of double shatter-proof glass doors with huge bronze handles. The block was too big for voice-box security to be of any use, but there would inevitably be a concierge.

Scott stood on a lower step, his back to the doors, and glanced over his shoulder. He located the inquiry desk to the right of two elevators. A uniformed porter stood behind the short counter. And the porter would well know that Jeanette Renore was not at home.

It was a long time before the porter’s attention was taken by a man and woman. As he consulted a timetable, Scott ran lightly up the remaining steps and opened a door just sufficiently to slip through. He headed away from the desk to the stairs to the left of the elevators, making no sound as he crossed the lobby. Once on the stairs without having raised a shout from the porter, he knew he was clear.

It was a hard climb to the eighth floor, and he took it slowly, resting now and then. He reached the floor and followed the arrows pointing to the section he wanted. Number 806 was no different from the other doors he had passed. They all had spyholes in them, and they were all made of waxed pine.

He roamed the floor and found the metal exit door to the fire escape; it was locked by a bar that could not be manipulated from the outside but was easy enough to open from within. He went through and mounted stone steps that led to another door which gave access to a flat, low-walled roof. There were two sets of fire ladders looping over the wall to the rear of the building.

Scott examined the roof area thoroughly to find it divided up, each section corresponding to the wing of the building underneath. He peered over the edge from various vantage points. The streets looked very narrow from up here, the traffic unnaturally slow-moving. When he was satisfied he returned to the eighth floor, locking up as he went. He stopped outside Number 806 and examined the two locks. Both were burglar locks but he doubted that there was an alarm as he could detect no external trace of one.

Scott rang the bell; he had to make sure the apartment was empty. Suddenly the nape of his neck prickled and he knew that he was being watched through the spyhole although he had heard nothing move inside. He stood there innocently and after a time rang again.

Had he not been tuned up he might have missed the faint sound of a door chain being removed. Moments later the door opened and Scott stood face to face with Claude Denise.

Chapter Twelve

Scott sized up the Frenchman instantly: he had met too many hard cases not to be able to recognise one now. This one was good-looking, seemingly fit, and almost as tall as Scott himself, but there was something about the eyes and mouth, an over-assuredness that jarred on Scott at once. It made him briefly wonder what the Frenchman was thinking of him.

It was a strange and protracted encounter, with both men appraising each other in unspoken suspicion.

“Oui?” The inquiry was casual.

“That’s about all the French I know,” Scott replied in English. “Do you speak English?”

Suspicion hardened in Denise’s eyes. “What would you do if I didn’t?”

“Ah! Thank God for that. Good English too. I’d use sign language, mate.” Scott was smiling good-naturedly.

Before he could continue, Denise asked, “And what would your sign language demand of me?”

“Are you Mr Maurice?”

“Maurice? No.”

“I didn’t think you were. I would expect him to be older. Anyway, is he in?”

“There’s no Mr Maurice here. You have the wrong place.”

Scott pulled out the slip of paper with the address on it. He stepped back to check the door number. “This is Number 806, isn’t it? And this is 58 to 68 Rue du . . .” he stumbled over the address and then passed the slip to Denise.

Denise stared at the slip then at Scott. “This is the correct address, but there’s no name on it. Are you sure the name is right?” He was studying Scott with far more interest now.

“I don’t need a note of the name. That’s the one thing that can’t be wrong. He’s an antique dealer. Specialises in small enamel boxes. Has a personal collection that has never seen the light of day. I understand he has the best collection of Fabergé and Battersea around. Does that ring a bell?”

“None. Shouldn’t you go to his shop?”

“This sort of bloke doesn’t have a shop. He’s a dealer’s dealer and his stock is small.”

“I don’t know the name. I can’t help you. Where did you get the address?”

“A mate of mine in London. A dealer.”

Denise eyed Scott’s clothes down to his shoes. “You collect these boxes? They are costly, no?”

“Bloody costly. No, I don’t collect them. But I know a lot about them. I buy for a wealthy client.” Scott’s gaze slipped over Denise’s shoulder, but the Frenchman was too well positioned for him to obtain a good view and the door was anyway only half open. “I’m sorry to have troubled you,” he said and turned away.

Denise said, “Check with the hall porter. Maybe the number should be 608 or something.” And then as Scott was halfway to the elevators he called, “Are you a cockney?”

Scott turned. “Everyone says that except a cockney. No, but I’m a Londoner.”

“Have a drink before you go. I can practise my English.”

“Your English doesn’t need any practice. Everyone here seems to speak it better than me. Look, I must find this character Maurice; a quick one?”

It was a rich person’s apartment as Scott had expected it to be. And it was masculine. Nowhere could he see evidence of Jeanette Renore. The leather armchairs and settees, the glass-topped tables, the free-standing ashbowls; all this showed a masculine taste. The window drapes were expensive but too dark and plain. Scott noted the type of window and ran his gaze along the latches.

Denise waved his visitor to a seat and crossed to an ostentatious glass-backed bar. “Whisky? Beer? Or something French?”

“I’ve led a sheltered life; whisky will do fine, thanks. A little water, no ice.”

“Ah, the ice; an American habit.”

“Kills the taste of the scotch. When were you last in England? You speak English too well not to have spent some time there.”

Denise was behind the bar pouring the drinks. “I’m often there.”

Denise brought the whisky over with a drinks mat. He returned to the bar to fetch his own and took it to a small, modern escritoire. He sat down behind it, facing Scott and rummaged around until he found an address book. “No Maurice, I’m afraid,” he said after flicking through the pages. “Thought there might be one in here but there’s not. A votre santé.” He raised his glass and sat back.

Scott steeled himself; although he could not see inside it, Denise had left the desk drawer open, and if the apartment were anything to go by, he was meticulously tidy. Scott tried to dismiss his suspicion but with characters like the Frenchman it was best to be careful. What was in the drawer that he could possibly want near to hand?

“Cheers,” Scott said a little late. “Good scotch. If you’re not Mr Maurice, who are you?”

“My name is Paul Dumanier. I’m in the wine business, which is one reason why I visit Britain so often. You’re drinking more of the stuff over there these days.”

“Not me,” smiled Scott. “Britain grew great on beer and beef, though the beef is now beyond a lot of people.”

“But you personally must do well as an agent for what will be very expensive objets d’art?”

“When I can find it. Most of the stuff is in America now.” It was obvious that the Frenchman had invited him in to find out more about him, and Scott wondered why. He came back to pondering about the open drawer. The man who said he was Paul Dumanier reminded him of a psychopath he once knew; completely rational, likeable even, until he killed. Why did Dumanier want to know about him?

They talked on and Scott recognised that both were fencing expertly. Had Dumanier been inside? It was a fleeting thought but it communicated. If he had a gun in the drawer it meant that he did not trust Scott but wanted to squeeze what he could from him.

Scott finished his drink and stood up. “I enjoyed that. Thanks a lot.”

“Won’t you have another?” Denise had a hand below desk level.

“No time. Nice pad you have here.” He had almost said drum and, if he had, he believed that the other would well have understood the criminal slang. “The wine business must be booming.”

Denise rose but remained behind the desk.

“Business is okay. I hope you find your man.”

An atmosphere had sprung up between them as if neither believed a word the other said. They were still fencing. It had become uncomfortable. Denise was edgy, his gaze darting and puzzled.

Scott reached the door unhurriedly. “See you. Next time you’re in London pop into the Duke of York in Dean Street after six. I’m often there.”

“I’ll do that.”

Scott took the elevator down and realised that the Frenchman had not even bothered to ask his name. He felt uneasy about the encounter. The man meant nothing to him but he was living at the address listed as Jeanette Renore’s. He supposed it had been slightly unrealistic to expect the apartment to remain empty.

He reached the lobby and crossed to the porter. He produced his slip and said, “I was given this address for a Mr Maurice and discover it is the wrong one.” He spoke slowly in English.

The porter picked up the gist, looked at the slip and shook his head. “Il n’y a personne de ce nom ici, m’sieur. Not here. Maurice, no.”

Scott looked disappointed and gave his thanks as he turned to leave the building.

Ten minutes later Denise rang down to ask the porter if Scott had called to check on a Mr Maurice. They were both fencing to the end.

* * *

Kransouski was worried by Scott’s absence. Even though it was now easier to keep an eye on Maggie, Kransouski hated being kept in the dark about anything. He felt like marching into the Soviet Embassy and wringing the truth from Gorkin. In that man’s position he would have handled everything quite differently, and with infinitely more flair. He wondered how Gorkin had ever been appointed as London resident in the first place.

One of the women watching Maggie had reported another tail. Obviously, someone else was keeping an eye on her but in a more overt way. Kransouski could only surmise that Maggie had been given a bodyguard.

He was now concerned that his small female band, operating as they were under the noses of the police, might be picked up for soliciting. They were instructed to be doubly careful. Yet the development pleased him. If Maggie were being guarded, then Scott and the detective Bulman must consider that she must know something worth protecting. With luck he might wind this up under Gorkin’s nose. And it would be satisfying to give this information to Gorkin and watch him squirm.

* * *

Willie Scott went to Orly Airport the next morning. He wasn’t booked onto a flight but expected no difficulty in getting a seat. Approaching the reservation counter Scott stopped in his tracks and backed away. He had been about to join the same short queue as Paul Dumanier. He did not think the Frenchman had seen him but he hung around the entrance just to make sure. When he saw Dumanier check in his luggage he went outside and caught a cab back to town.

Scott returned to the hotel and rebooked his room. Between lunch and dinner he rested and at ten p.m. took a cab to the Avenue Hoche and paid it off near the Royal Monceau Hotel. This time he did a thorough casing of the apartment block. It was a good time with the streets far from empty. The rear of the building was much quieter as it backed onto a quiet alley. To try the fire escapes with people still around was out of the question and the rear tradesmen’s entrances were closed, all solidly locked. In the back of his mind was the possibility of Dumanier returning the same day.

He went back to the main doors he had used before and crossed to the desk. A different porter was on duty and Scott changed his tack quickly. Between them they surmounted the language problem and he told the porter that he had been looking for a Mr Maurice the previous evening and had been told that nobody by that name was in the building. The porter confirmed this to be so.

Was there a similar name? The porter checked his list. No. The best he could come up with was Mortier and that was not very likely.

“Mortier? Which apartment?”

“Two fifty. In the next wing.”

“I suppose it’s worth a try. Peut-être . . .” Scott managed.

He offered his thanks and went straight to the next wing. As he crossed the lobby to the elevator he called out to the porter, “M’sieur Mortier. Deux cent . . .” The porter nodded and Scott entered the elevator and pressed the button for the eighth floor, certain that the porter could not see the indicators from his position behind the counter.

He climbed out at the eighth, located the fire door and went up onto the roof which he crossed to climb over the parapet to the other wing. Below him was Dumanier’s apartment.

Scott had ruled out trying the front door. There was a limit to the equipment he could bring from England, especially with metal detectors at the airport, and the locks on the door were too professional for scratch treatment. And there was also the risk of a neighbour approaching. He grasped the rails of one of the fire escapes and climbed over.

These old, slabbed buildings were a gift for a man with Scott’s scaling techniques; they offered shallow ledges at various heights like the rings round a Georgian decanter and natural footholds where the stonework had crumbled. He used one of the ledges to climb along though it was not at an ideal level. With feet splayed wide he had a complete foothold, and the strain was limited. He pressed against the wall, hands above him obtaining fingertip grip on the stone slabs.

Suddenly Scott suffered an attack of nerves though he could still look down without danger of vertigo. He edged along making sure he did not lean back knowing that the fall would be fatal if he slipped.

He reached the area of Dumanier’s line of drawing room windows and stretched up to grab the stone sill, finding sufficient purchase to risk leaning back to line up the run of the windows. He moved on a little more, checked, and was satisfied.

He tested a toe hold on the slab above the ledge, took his weight on his hands and levered himself up. He went up one more slab and could now rest his forearms along the sill.

Adjusting his balance, Scott pushed at the window he had selected. He felt it give slightly and knew that he had chosen the right one. With his right arm remaining on the sill, his toes tucked into the crevice below, he started to push hard at the window with the flat of his hand. He repeated the pressure on the narrow framework and kept a regular motion going until the frame began to vibrate.

He could see the catch through the glass. With constant rhythmic pressure on the frame, the lever began to move, taking the line of least resistance. When it swung just clear of the catch, he obtained a fingernail grip under the frame and pulled the window gently towards him. When there was a sufficient gap he put his hand through and opened the window wide. Scott adjusted his position and pulled himself into the room, breathless and aching but satisfied. He turned the screw on the lower bar to hold the window in position and stop it banging.

Using a pencil torch sparingly he crossed the room, entered the hall and checked the front door locks. They could not be opened without a key but the fact that the chain was off confirmed that Dumanier had not returned. Scott checked every room to make sure the place was empty.

The apartment was larger than he had imagined, with two double bedrooms, each en suite, a fair-sized dining room, and a study equipped with a typewriter, word processor and small copier. The well-fitted kitchen held a row of le Creuset pans hanging from a long shelf.

Satisfied, Scott went back into the living room, pulled the cord of the heavy drapes and switched on the lights. He went first to the escritoire. All the drawers were locked but he had little difficulty in opening them, knowing that he could take his time. He discovered he had been right about the gun; a 9 mm Beretta lay to one side of the centre drawer. He examined it, took out the magazine and pulled back the breech. A round flew out. The magazine was full, with the safety catch in the ‘off’ position. A highly dangerous weapon ready for instant use. He carefully put it back as he had found it.

His lack of French was a handicap, but he could at least recognise the name Jeanette Renore. He searched systematically, replacing all papers as he found them and came across two small, delightful pieces of modern jewellery which he nearly pocketed. Apart from anything else they suggested that Dumanier entertained women here.

In the bathrooms he noticed female toiletries, and on the bedroom dressing tables, expensive perfumes and cosmetics. There were women’s clothes hanging in one of the built-in wardrobes, but not in the room where Dumanier hung his clothes. He wondered if the women’s clothes belonged to Jeanette Renore?

At the back of the main bedroom wardrobe Scott found a wall safe. He pushed the clothes along the rail and switched on the interior lights. It was an old-fashioned tumble-lock safe but heavy and solid. Without a key he would need explosive to blow the lock out.

He cursed himself for being so ill-prepared, but he was not on his own patch and had not anyway travelled to France expecting to break into a Parisian apartment. He turned the handle on the off chance and the door swung open. The lock had already been blown, and the safe was empty.

Scott examined it closely. Even with the closet lights on it was not easy to see the back of the wardrobe. He shone his torch on to the front of the safe door, closely examining both the door, and then the lock itself. He was certain that the metal plate over the keyhole had been blown off and later fixed back on; it was still buckled but had probably been partially flattened out with a hammer. The lock was a shambles, the spring in pieces, the bolt shattered and loose by the ruptured tumbler. The whole unit needed pulling out and replacing and Scott could now clearly see the buckling around the bolt.

It had been an expert job; Scott would have done the same himself. A rubber sheath filled with plastic explosive had been kneaded through the keyhole, then a detonator inserted, wax applied to seal off the explosive, wire attached from detonator to a light and the light switch flicked to trigger the explosive. Scott was impressed that just the right amount of explosive had been used.

But why would Dumanier blow his own safe? And yet Scott discounted the idea of Dumanier having been burgled and the safe left as it was. He closed the safe, rearranged the clothes and slid the wardrobe doors across.

After a room-to-room search, looking in places a layman would probably ignore, Scott found nothing that referred to Jeanette Renore nor indeed anything that bore the name of Paul Dumanier.

He went into the kitchen, old memories stirring. He searched the bread bin, pushed a skewer into a half loaf of bread, then opened the washing machine and tumble dryer. He found items in both.

He removed one small bundle of index cards from each, some covered in handwriting, some typewritten, all in German. A name, often difficult to read, was at the top left hand of each card which was numbered with a signature at the foot of the reverse side of each, and a faded photograph attached to the top right-hand side. Amongst them were more identifiable items; identity tags. Scott himself had once worn the same type.

He took the whole lot into the study. The large room was really an office with its desk and typewriter pushed to one side of it. The word processor and the copier rested on purpose-built metal cabinets. He had already searched this room thoroughly and had found leaflets and price lists on wine to confirm what Dumanier had claimed to do. Ignoring all this paperwork, Scott now went to plug in the copier, a small, modern ‘chip’ variety which he was used to operating.

While the machine was warming up, he found paper cassettes in the cabinet beneath, and he clipped one on. When it was ready, he photocopied every card and identity tag, arranging them in rows to fit the A4 space. He switched off, put the cassette back, pulled the plug out and wound the wire, placing the coil where it had been before. He took the original cards and tags back to the kitchen and placed precisely the same ones in their respective machines.

As hiding places went, these were an old-fashioned concept, but they were a villain’s hiding place. Scott felt that the cards might have been hidden there for some time. Perhaps their importance had waned or Dumanier would have put them in a safer place. Scott made sure that the copies were secure inside his shirt and decided he could learn no more here. He had not even established that Jeanette Renore had ever lived or even stayed here.

He switched off the lights, opened the drapes, and went back to the window. Climbing out was easy. When he closed the window he gave the frame one big thump and the catch partially fell back. It kept the window closed; it was enough. He was relieved when he reached the fire escape.

* * *

When George Bulman asked for an appointment with Walter Clarke, the Minister of State for Foreign Affairs suggested the House of Commons. There was a solidness about the place that Clarke felt he needed. They went out onto the terrace for more privacy. It was chilly and the seats were slightly damp which discouraged most M.P.s from lingering there, although a few of them were leaning on the parapet watching the motion of the grey river.

Clarke led the way down to the most secluded end and opened the conversation. “I gather it’s about Gordon Chesfield. I thought that unfortunate affair was buried with poor Gordon. Do you realise how many times the police have seen me?”

“You and many others, sir.” Bulman was dutifully apologetic. “I’m sorry, sir. There are still one or two things that are puzzling. I don’t think we’ll ever find the answers, but I’ve been asked to try. Did you meet with Chesfield shortly before his crime?”

Clarke struck the table flat-handed and said, “I’ve been asked that so often that it’s beginning to annoy me. No.”

Bulman appeared uncomfortable. “Another friend of yours said that you did.”

“Oh? Who, exactly?”

“There were several of you. A cocktail party at your place about six weeks before the crime.”

“Yes, I remember that. What’s that got to do with anything?”

“Bear with me, sir. You did say that you had not met him.”

Clarke frowned. “Let’s get this straight, Mr Bulman. You said ‘shortly before’. To me that means a day or two. You also said, ‘meet him’. I don’t consider a party means meeting anyone in any purposeful way. I hardly spoke to him and when I did, we just exchanged trivia. I often give parties. But I would not describe any of them as occasions for meeting people in a way that could be of any possible help to you.” He shot Bulman an angry glance. “You’re not suggesting I withheld information?”

“Of course not. But if you forgot one thing you could possibly have forgotten another.”

“Mr Bulman, I did not forget.” Clarke held up a hand. “Look, I know you have your job to do. But the party was meaningless. It can add nothing to your inquiries unless that is, you want to add a few risqué jokes to your repertoire.” He smiled wryly. “It did not enter my head to mention a party at which Gordon Chesfield was only one of many guests. We’ve seen very little of each other over the past years; I only invited him for old times’ sake.”

Bulman sighed. “Well, thanks for telling me. It would have helped had I known before if only to prevent harassing you. I agree that the party adds nothing to the cause of his murder.”

“His murder?”

“I don’t think he committed suicide. I know that was the coroner’s verdict, but I don’t believe it myself.”

Clarke gripped the edge of the table. “In prison?”

“It’s happened before. And it will happen again.”

“Why?”

Bulman smiled disarmingly.

“The answer to that could be the clue to everything else. Frankly, I haven’t the slightest idea. I’m sorry to have wasted your time, sir.” Bulman stood up and watched a pleasure boat steam past a pair of barges. “Must be cold out there for sightseeing.”

“Why did you go to see my grandmother, Mr Bulman?”

“I’m sorry she told you.”

“She was bound to. What made you disturb an old lady?”

Head down, Bulman wandered over to the parapet. He turned slowly, leaned back, hands on the stone.

Clarke came towards him, glancing up the terrace to ensure they were out of earshot. Bulman raised his head to meet Clarke’s accusing gaze.

“Well, sir,” he said heavily, “I just felt that you would not want to talk about the painful circumstances of your background.”

“What have the circumstances of my background to do with you? Or anyone else?”

“Nothing in the ordinary way. I’ve been looking into the backgrounds of anyone who knew Chesfield reasonably well. Like it or not I still want to know why he engineered a murder and was later himself murdered. You have no especial priority in my inquiries, but they have to be made, sir.”

“They should have been made to me, not to an old lady. It’s unforgivable.”

“I was trying to protect your feelings, sir. And, I might add, save your time.”

“Yet you’re here again, still not satisfied. Did you think I’d unwittingly contradict my grandmother?”

“No, sir. I think you are reading too much into it.”

“Perhaps. But I don’t care for the way you work, Mr Bulman. I’ve had enough. I’ve nothing further to tell you except that if you try something like that again, I shall ask the Home Secretary to have a word with the Commissioner of Police.”

Bulman pushed himself away from the wall. “Perhaps you should, sir. I’m sure he’ll give it full attention. Good day.” He walked away, watched by Clarke until he had disappeared through the door.

Clarke took up the position by the parapet that Bulman had vacated. His problems were multiplying. That morning he had received a copy of an article from a little-known provincial French newspaper casting a query over a British M.P. No name was mentioned and the short article was obscure as to intent: but to Clarke the purpose was all too clear. If a larger newspaper picked up the story the probing would certainly begin. The article had come through the post with a typed English translation to make sure that Clarke did not miss the point. At the foot of the translation was a postscript: “That’s for passing useless papers. The next time your name will go in, together with a detailed exposé.”

Well, he had taken a calculated risk. And so had the blackmailer who had clearly not panicked. There were no further demands but Clarke knew that these would soon come from the man who called himself Dumain — a cruel, but obviously deliberate twist by using his mother’s name. Yet he was no longer even sure it had been. He had finally been forced into a corner from which he could see no way out.

He wondered what Bulman had extracted from his grandmother who thankfully was unaware of his present pressures. He recalled the walks his grandfather had forced him on and the subtle yet constant undermining of his confidence. The old man had not wanted him in the family; he had known that from early on. But nobody had been aware of the way the old boy had worked on him at every opportunity.

At first, when he was very young, much of it had passed him by, except the obvious dislike his grandfather bore for him. But as he grew older the insinuations and comments made deeper marks until he had finally run to his father in an attempt to quell his fears and unhappiness. He had been too young to anticipate the result. His father found the memories too painful and did not want to be reminded that Paulette had been shot dead. Nor did he want to be reminded that nobody had made the effort to get her to a safe place and at least try to save her life as they had her baby’s.

His father’s reassurances were too brief for Clarke but he was never to ask for clarification again. The doubts about his mother had perhaps always been in his mind — after all he had never known her — but they were cruelly exploited by the grandfather until the reluctant explanation from his father began to fade from Walter Clarke’s young mind. He considered more often than not that Paulette Dumain had not been his mother at all. In adulthood he could look back and see the irreparable damage a wicked and cunning old man had done to him, but the scars remained, and his father had died prematurely, so denying him any last hope of sorting out his doubts.

Whatever happened now, Walter Clarke could not quell the uncertainties which had been so assiduously implanted in him. He knew that his grandfather had looked into his background, and that after the event the evil attacks on his receptive mind had grown stronger. Given present developments, it now seemed that the old man had been right in the substance of his tauntings, and it even made some sense of his own father’s reticence. The horror of it terrified him. Even his grandfather had never gone so far. Yet he could remember lying in bed weeping, unable to sleep, with only his grandmother to turn to. But her comfort had been from love for him, a powerful tonic but not one that could provide the answers he needed. If his mind was disturbed as a child, then on the issue of his birthright it had now become completely scrambled.

Walter Clarke turned to watch the river, the turgid current a physical reminder of his own inner turmoil. He left the wall and slowly walked back to the doors of the terrace. He resolved to do what he always had done when pursued by his private demons; he would lose himself in his work. It was the only way he could carry on. He smiled bitterly to himself; friends and colleagues believed his drive to be born of ambition. If only they knew that its power source was desperation.

Chapter Thirteen

When Scott reached home Maggie clung to him as if he had been away at war. She had been worried; for him and for herself, yet still she refused to stay with her parents.

Over a delayed dinner she sparkled, and he let her talk, knowing that it was her way of unwinding. She’d had her hair done and her eyes were bright, her features animated. “I’m rabbiting on, aren’t I?” she said at last.

“Like a favourite record, love. Keep going.”

“You talk while I catch up on the eating.”

He looked at her plate. “You’ve managed to do both. The sweet and sour was great.”

She asked seriously, “Do I look normal?”

He laughed. “How d’you mean?”

“Well, I think I’m being followed by a woman. She crops up now and then and gives me strange looks.”

“Butch?”

“I think so. Plainly dressed.”

“Has she attempted any contact?”

“No. She must be admiring me from afar. It could be just coincidence. You know how it is; you notice someone once and from then on you keep bumping into them.”

“That’s probably it. Keep an eye on it though.” He was worried. Women used as watchdogs?

Bulman called an hour later and Scott produced his photocopies.

“All in German except the identity tags. Can you sort them out?”

“How did you break in?”

“I didn’t say I did.”

Bulman raised his eyebrows in surprise.

“That’s the trouble with you coppers. You watch too many cop programmes on T.V. You see these blokes with block and tackle and gadgets that stick on walls and beating alarms that wouldn’t fool a kid. Where do they put all this stuff? In a car? And how do they fool the police, with all their powers of stop and search? You know the Old Bill has damn all to do at night but stop the isolated car. Keeps him awake.”

“Then how did you manage before?”

“I carried a cranium saw in my jacket lapel. And sometimes an umbrella to shake out and catch the ceiling rubble as I cut. I never carried anything I couldn’t manage on a bicycle.” Scott smiled. “I’m telling you in front of Maggie because she knows it’s over.”

Maggie made no comment and went into the kitchen. She leaned against the door with eyes closed. The men had been making light of it but she knew better; there were undertows in this affair that none of them really understood and they could gush out to swamp them.

Scott said, “I think she’s being followed. By women.”

“Women? Who’d think of that? Kransouski? Keep away from you but keep an eye on Maggie? You know what that means?”

“Yes. I’m worried sick but I can’t budge her.”

“I can’t spare any more men than I’ve provided, Spider. Upstairs won’t wear it.”

Scott shrugged it off for the moment. “Can you do a run down on Dumanier with Interpol?”

Bulman made a note. He put the photocopies in a pocket.

“What about Clarke?” asked Scott.

“He’s an enigma, a bit of a crypto man. There’s something there even if it’s not connected with the case. There’s so much funny business about his past that I’m beginning to wonder if he is who he purports to be.”

“Jesus. A ringer?”

“I dunno. It won’t be easy to prod. He’s already threatened me with the Home Secretary, and if I can’t produce something to justify my interest then he can sink me. I can’t continue an official investigation without a very sound foundation.”

Bulman was sitting like a benign Buddha, his expression relaxed, his thoughts hidden. Scott tensed up. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“You’ve already done a couple of useful break-ins.”

Scott felt the chill down his back. “Are you asking me to case Walter Clarke’s place? You must be mad. If I was caught I’d be back inside and this time they’d throw away the key.”

“You’re too good to be caught.”

“How come I’ve done so much time then?”

Bulman waved a hand. “That was always after the event. You were never caught on a job. Were you?”

Scott did not answer. He did not like the warnings flashing through his mind. “Are you setting me up again?”

“I didn’t set you up before. What good would it do?”

“Anything to save a high-ranking politician from exposure. If he’s being blackmailed and has threatened you with the Home Secretary, we’re treading hot coals. What chance would I stand?”

“I can make it easier for you. Arrange a few diversions and turn a few blind eyes.”

“I don’t like the feel of it.”

Bulman waited. His timing was excellent. “But you’ll do it?”

Scott was about to agree when he saw a white-faced Maggie standing in the kitchen doorway. “No,” he said quickly.

Catching Scott’s gaze, Bulman turned round. Maggie was scared at what she had heard but she was also furious; her hand crept down to cover her womb. Bulman felt as if he had been caught with his hand in the till. And he might have let the matter drop had it not been for the chance discovery of a charred body by two schoolboys the previous day. The pathologists were working on the few remains that could be transported from the Surrey chalk pit where the body had been discovered and although it was still too early, the belief was that Victor Anthony had been found. The Russians were playing for high and long-term stakes and were eliminating the evidence as they advanced. It was as well that neither Maggie nor Scott knew the grotesque way in which Anthony had died.

* * *

Bill Hahn studied the signal. He took it over to the window as if the morning light coming in from a dull, rain-splattered Grosvenor Square could enlighten him further. The name of Willie Scott tantalised him. Somewhere, sometime, he had heard it before.

Hahn had been stationed in London for four years and had belonged to the service for almost thirty. In a way he had been put out to seed. He would progress no further than being head of London station but he was well satisfied with that. He liked England and the English despite the fact that he spent a lot of his time foraging in their backyards. He crossed to the desk and pressed the buzzer. When his secretary came in he asked her for all the information she could find on Willie Scott.

When he received the relevant file, he sat down and went through it, reading detail only when necessary. He continued studying the papers between telephone calls and coffee. After an hour he laid the file down and pressed a switch on the intercom.

A pugnacious man came in, his aggressiveness lightened by eyes that seemed perpetually to smile. He carried himself as if he were about to throw a punch with no malice behind it. Of medium height, he was about ten years younger than Hahn who said,

“Sit down, Hank.” And then, “Willie Scott?”

Hank Miller’s face underwent a series of changes.

“What exactly are you asking?”

“Anything you can tell me.”

Miller noted the file on the desk and said, “I guess you’ve got it all there. I’m afraid he made monkeys out of us. A long time ago, though.”

Hahn resisted a smile. “But you still remember?”

“You don’t forget that sort of guy. He had a lot of luck. And a lot of talent.” Miller pointed to the file. “In there it will tell you that he was a cat burglar. The anomaly was that Scott was the kind of burglar you could safely leave your house keys with — if he liked and respected you.” Miller grinned ruefully with recollection. “I was working with Joe Harvey at that time. Joe has left the service now, but he’d bear me out.”

“What sort of work did they give to him?”

“You mean the S.I.S.? Political. They could trust him. His word was his bond. He was also a natural patsy; they would try to use him and then make sure he took whatever rap was going. That way nobody was embarrassed and someone took the can to satisfy everyone else. Neat.”

Hahn tapped the file. “But he didn’t take the can, did he?”

“That’s where the luck came in, although he made some of it.”

“Well, it’s not the first time ex-cons have been used in this way. How far up the tree does his political use go?”

“All the way. I don’t know all his case histories, of course, only the one I was working on, but that was top level, someone close to the Prime Minister.”

“So if I tell you that this same Willie Scott flew to New York to see General Stacey who has some background details about the birth of the present British Minister of State for Foreign Affairs, you’d read something into it?”

“I’d read a helluva lot into it. I don’t think Scott’s been used for years. Not that I’ve heard about. Walter Clarke? Jeeze. We’d better start looking over our shoulders. Warn Washington, clamp down on exchanges. Think of Burgess, Maclean and Philby all together and then double it.”

“Don’t jump the gun, Hank. We’ve taken precautions. There’s something else. A detective called George Bulman, who seems to fit into no identifiable police pattern, has been helpful on occasion. The old quid pro quo. Another deceptive guy. He doesn’t look or act like a cop. Most of his enemies feel sorry for him until the cuffs go on. Anyway, General Stacey, on behalf of the ‘Company’, asked him for information about Willie Scott.” Hahn sat back, watching Miller closely. “You know Bulman?”

“I know him personally. Whisky-swigging enigma who should be on the stage. And he can’t be calibrated, I’ve tried. He’d make Dean Martin look teetotal even on an off day. Hollow legs. He’s a crafty devil.”

“Who does he actually work for?”

“He works for George Bulman. He’s good, and some of his colleagues hate him for it.”

“But he’s helped us?”

“Sure. Still does, if it suits him. Nothing for nothing with George.”

“That’s what he came up with on Scott. Nothing. All he has passed on is that Scott is an ex-thief who was once used by M.I.5 about a decade ago. Using Scott was apparently a grave mistake. Scott is unstable and unpredictable and has disappeared from all known scenes. Exit. Forget him.”

“George Bulman might say that genuinely. From what I recall they hated each other’s guts for reasons I can only guess at. You wouldn’t expect Scott to like a cop.”

“People sometimes change.”

Miller made no comment, wondering exactly where the conversation was leading.

“So you believe the message Bulman sent back?” pressed Hahn.

“I didn’t say that. You’re talking about two very cagey guys. Bulman mentioned that Scott had been used in the past. That’s true.”

“Come on, Hank. He’d realise that we’d know that much. Something stinks here. If Bulman is holding out I want to know why. And if for some reason Walter Clarke is a risk, I want to know that too. Dammit he’s in foreign affairs and liaises with our people all the time. I want you to look into this. Use all the resources you need.”

“Just how far do you want me to go? I might have to tread on toes. It could damage the special relationship between us and Britain. It could even end up like a magnified international Watergate with my neck on the block.”

“What’s the matter? Are you scared of this guy Scott? I’ll tell you what you do; you make subtle inquiries with S.I.S. about Walter Clarke. Tell them we’ve received some disinformation and don’t rate it but thought they might like to know. No detail. That should get them off their butts and stir things nicely. Naturally you would expect to be in on any spin-offs. Or have I got to do it myself?”

“No, no.” Miller held up his hands in surrender. “I’ll deal with it. Just look after my wife and kids when the shit hits the fan.”

* * *

“If it’s at all possible, I’d like to go to Washington with you, sir.”

The Foreign Secretary peered up at Clarke and adjusted his spectacles. It was rare for his subordinate to call him sir or to be so formal; they had always had a good working relationship.

“I need you here, Walter, while I’m away. What’s the matter?”

“I want the break. I just feel I must get away from London for a bit.”

The Foreign Secretary pushed some papers aside. He was vaguely amused, eyes owlish behind the lens. “You don’t have to go to Washington for that. Just leave town and keep in touch with the ministry. Wouldn’t that do?”

Clarke had known it would be difficult. “The Washington trip offers advantages to me. And I would like to get out of the country for a while.”

The Foreign Secretary smiled. “Are you in trouble? Too many late nights and too many women? I thought you were going steady with young Susie what’s her name. Got one tucked away over there have you? Oh, Walter.”

“I wish I could explain. Just now I feel the pressure and need a break. It wouldn’t disrupt anything would it?” Clarke knew it was dangerous to admit pressure, implying as it did that he might not be up to the job.

However, the Foreign Secretary still took the request lightly.

“It would spend more of the tax-payers’ money. Besides, I’m always being accused of taking an entourage wherever I go.”

“I’ll pay my own fare.” Clarke could feel himself handling it badly.

The Foreign Secretary took off his spectacles and laid down his pen. “What’s up, Walter? What’s the problem?”

“I suppose it would sound trite if I say that it’s personal.”

“In your position a personal issue is something of a luxury. You’re entitled to your privacy, dear boy, but if that encroaches on your work I am obliged to ask you why.”

“It’s really nothing to do with work, although it would seem that I’m asking for time off from it. That’s not true, though, because I would expect to work in Washington.”

“As you haven’t really told me a thing, I suggest you might have been studying my style too closely. There are times, Walter, when a political answer is not the right one. Look, if it’s something you’d rather not talk about, why don’t you simply push off to the continent for a few days?”

Because the trip must appear to be officially sanctioned or Dumain will see the obvious ploy of playing for time, and that is the one thing Dumain would not concede. An official trip abroad was different. It would provide a little more breathing space.

Clarke said, “All right, there is someone there I want to see.”

“As badly as that?” And then, casually, “No security problems are there?”

Clarke was blank faced, then, as he allowed it to slowly dawn on him for his Minister’s sake, he expostulated, “Good Lord, nothing like that. My emotional wires are crossed. It will be quite simple to untangle them and Washington would give me the opportunity. That’s all, sir.”

“You should get married, you know. Steadies you down. Better image.”

If ever he found his true heritage he might. Meanwhile he wanted nobody to intrude into fears which must be conquered alone. And he worked too hard for marriage. “Remaining single didn’t hurt Ted’s image. He finished up as P.M.”

“Indeed. But he kept a respectable profile. You seem to be becoming rather visibly involved on too many fronts.”

“Lloyd George, then.” Clarke managed a laugh with his quip.

So did the Foreign Secretary. “Don’t try a Lloyd George on us, Walter. News travels too fast and wide these days. Give me a day to think it over.”

* * *

Bulman gripped the receiver tightly as Scott came on the other end. “Spider, I thought you should know, I’ve had to take the watchdogs off Maggie.”

“What? Leave her exposed? You can’t do that.”

Bulman felt wretched. “It’s not my idea. I argued for you, but was told in no uncertain terms that we need the men elsewhere. There’s nothing I can do. I’m sorry.”

“Thanks very much. You know she’s in danger.”

“Then get it through to her. Send her away for a bit.”

“Whose idea was it?”

Bulman dared not tell him. “I’m not the bloody commissioner. I have to do what I’m told.”

“Since when?”

Bulman heard the click as Scott hung up abruptly. He glared at the receiver, and dialled another number. “Well, sir, I’ve told him.”

“Good. We need to hasten things along.”

“You know that Kransouski made a balls of it when he went for Scott before, so you’re putting Maggie on the line and making it easy — for them. Scott will go berserk all right, and he’ll dig and if he runs to form he’ll produce. But he may not get Maggie back and you know it . . .”

Bulman put the receiver down slowly; his chief had already hung up.

* * *

Clarke glanced at the slip he had obtained through Tony Marchant and pressed out the number. A woman answered, she had a cultured voice and well-modulated. “Is Mr Scott there, please?”

“He’s at the office. Who’s calling?”

Clarke hung up a little breathlessly. He was not at all sure that he was doing the right thing, but he could see no other course open to him. He had to admit that he was now operating from a desperate position. The French article had shaken him. True it was just amateurish innuendo published in a sheet nobody with sense would take seriously, but it showed a determination in Dumain to carry out his threat.

Clarke was at his wits’ end. Who could he ask to help? Which friend could be trusted to that extent? He knew what they would say. Go to the police. And that was the last thing he could do: it would be the beginning of the public airing of his problems.

When he faced this possibility, Clarke reasoned that he might just as well fight his blackmailer to the last. That way he could live with some faint hope; the alternative offered none at all. And now he was about to try a compromise and he would have to tread carefully. But he could not cope alone anymore. He needed help and he had no recognisable aid to hand except, perhaps, this one last and highly desperate measure.

He felt worse now than during the nights he had spent alone as a child thinking and, with his imaginative flair, always believing the worst; crying, longing for someone in whom to confide, someone who would really understand. And now his nightmares were on the verge of coming true and they were far worse in reality than they had ever been in the dead of night when as a child he had cried out in his sleep.

He shook off the black reverie but it was becoming more difficult to do. His meeting earlier that morning with the Foreign Secretary had almost been a giveaway. A child would have lied better. Friends would soon notice that he was not himself — if they had not done so already. He picked up the receiver again and pressed out the numbers.

Again a woman answered; her voice cheerful with a pronounced southern accent. He asked for Scott and refused to give his own name.

Scott accepted the call. Clarke said, “Mr Scott, have you your own line? I don’t want to discuss what I have to say through a switchboard.”

“Who are you?” Scott had the terrible feeling that he already knew.

Clarke did not give an answer and instead said, “If you’ll give me your direct number I’ll ring you straight back and tell you.”

“I can ring you if you prefer.”

“Oh, no. May I have your number?”

Clarke jotted the number down, depressed the telephone bar and immediately called Scott on his single line.

“Scott.”

“I’d like to meet you. There’s something I want to discuss.”

“I still don’t know who you are.”

“If I tell you, do I have your word that you’ll keep it to yourself?”

“Sure. But how do you know my word is worth a monkey’s?”

“Because I’ve done my homework, Mr Scott. Your word?”

“Okay, you have it.”

“My name is Walter Clarke. I’d like to see you some time this evening if that’s possible.”

“Walter Clarke? The M.P.?” Scott felt it necessary to go through the motions of surprise. “You can meet me here after hours. Say six-thirty?”

“I’d rather not. Can you . . .”

“A restaurant then? Any choice you like provided it’s your call.” Scott was deliberately forcing Clarke into his first decision.

“I was about to say that my face is fairly well known. Television is a double-edged sword. I’d rather not be recognised. I suggest . . .”

“You mean you don’t want to be seen with me?” Scott interrupted.

“That’s perfectly true, but it has nothing to do with being with you. I’m quite sure that is a pleasure I will enjoy. I live in Sloane Square. I can send a taxi out to bring you here a little later than the time you suggest. The House is likely to sit latish. Say nine o’clock?”

“That’s a bit late. I have responsibilities of my own.”

“If they are in the form of the delightful lady I spoke to when I rang your flat then I envy you. I really can’t make it earlier. I do realise that the request is mine but an earlier time would be terribly difficult for me.”

“All right. I hope you won’t be wasting my time. I’ll get my own cab. If you’re in the directory I’ll look you up. Nine o’clock, your place.”

* * *

In his office, Scott kept his hand on the receiver and gazed at the opposite wall, idly thinking that it needed repainting. He could not believe that Walter Clarke had rung him; he had refused Bulman’s request to break in and now the opportunity was being presented to him. Keeping his word would be no problem. He would not even tell Maggie and certainly not Bulman.

Later, it was not easy to explain to Maggie that he had to go out. He always told her where he was going. He left her worried and unhappy because she knew he was keeping something from her. All he allowed himself to say was that he was meeting someone, not a woman, and would do nothing illegal.

Outside his block he took the opportunity of checking whether the place was still being watched and found it clear. Maggie had not seen the woman again and there was no likely tail that Scott could pick out in the darkness. But since Bulman had removed his men, Scott had been deeply concerned.

He walked to the main street and waved down a cab, still feeling terrible about leaving Maggie alone. But the temptation to meet Clarke was too strong.

Clarke’s apartment was on an entry phone, his name and apartment number in a metal frame by the box. Scott rang, announced himself, pushed the door as the buzzer went and entered the building to take the elevator to the third floor. Clarke’s door was ajar. Scott called through the gap.

“Come in.”

Scott stepped into the hallway and closed the door behind him. The simple, standard lock surprised him.

The drawing room reminded him slightly of the one in Paris. It was of a similar size but the furniture was all in much better taste. Modern style mixed with older, interesting pieces.

Clarke was standing, waiting for him with a drink in his hand. He was a little shorter than Scott had expected but possessed a sportsman’s shoulders, and his features were strong though the dark hair was already beginning to grey.

“What will you drink, Mr Scott? It’s good of you to come.”

“Whisky, please. Equal water, chilled if you’ve got it. No ice.”

Clarke turned to a drinks tray, putting his own glass down. “I don’t mean to be impertinent, but you look anything but a burglar.”

“I’m not.”

“I’m sorry. Of course. That was presumptuous of me.” Clarke crossed the floor with a generous drink. “Do sit down. It doesn’t matter where.”

Scott sank into sprung leather; he could smell the faint tang of polish on it. “Cheers.” He sipped his drink; it was potent. He said, “If I drink this too fast I’ll miss what you have to say.”

“It’s too strong? Would you like a sandwich or something to sop it up?” Clarke asked, rather too anxiously.

“Don’t worry. I’ll take it slowly.”

Clarke sat down, drained his glass then placed it on a side table. “I won’t beat about the bush, but before I say anything important may I ask just one more favour? I don’t want our conversation to be related beyond these walls. Your word will be good enough.”

Scott tensed suddenly. He could imagine the heart-searching Clarke must have endured before arranging a meeting like this. “If it involves violence or breaking the law I don’t want to know.”

“Nothing like that. I am aware that you have been called in to investigate the death of Gordon Chesfield. He was a friend of mine. I know that in certain circles you are very highly rated. And I’m sure you won’t be surprised to hear that I’ve discreetly used what avenues there are to do a check on you. Otherwise, you would not be here. If this sounds underhand it is only because I had to be sure of you as the person to approach. I can promise you that anything I have to tell will not repulse you or make demands on your conscience.”

Scott noticed the way Clarke’s fingers were gripping at the arms of his chair. “Then you have my word. You don’t have to worry about me, drunk or sober.”

Clarke showed obvious relief. “I’m being blackmailed, Mr Scott, and I don’t know which way to turn. And I must find the blackmailer before he ruins me. It’s my only chance.”

“I take it that you cannot reveal the nature of the blackmail otherwise you’d have gone straight to the police?”

“Precisely. I have done nothing of which I am ashamed. And there is nothing in my life to warrant any form of blackmail. It’s important to me that you know I’m not concealing some crime or indiscretion. Which must leave you very puzzled, but it’s true. I am open to blackmail through no fault of my own. That again is the truth. Will you please help me? I have nobody else to turn to and I can back you financially for whatever you need to do.”

Chapter Fourteen

“I believe you were the last to leave the party, sir.”

“Who told you that, Detective Superintendent? It’s a malicious, unfounded lie.” ‘Happy’ Harrison was quietly laughing. “I’m never the last to leave any party. And if I am, I wouldn’t remember; I’d be carried out. Well, laid out to rest. What’s the point of all this?”

“A load of rubbish, sir,” replied Bulman easily. “It’s finished so far as I’m concerned. But those above me with more brains than common sense, insist that I interview each person present at that party to discover whether anyone can recall when Mr Chesfield left.”

“It was stag. No women. Disappointing really, but the drink was good. Always is at Wally’s.”

“Wally’s?”

“Walter Clarke. Sound fellow. Good host. I don’t think I was the last to leave. I seem to remember seeing a pair of legs overhanging the arm of a chair as I left the room.”

Bulman could see why Harrison was called ‘Happy’. The man refused to take life seriously, but it went deeper than that. His wife had died of a brain haemorrhage two days after their wedding. It had taken Harrison nine months to recover in a nursing home and he had never faced life seriously since. More tragically, his cynicism was all that carried him through. Bulman knew this and realised that Harrison was the one most likely to talk, simply because nothing mattered to him.

“Anyway,” Harrison continued, “why the hell is this being raised again? We’ve all been through it. You can read our statements. Might be fun.”

“I’ve told you why, sir. Someone upstairs isn’t satisfied. Waste of time, but please humour me, sir.”

“You don’t look the type who needs it. Look, it’s midday, opening time. Would you like a drink? Or don’t you drink on duty?”

“I drink at any time, sir, on the premise that a policeman is always on duty, and if he weren’t allowed to drink during it then we’d all be on the wagon. A large scotch, if you don’t mind, sir. These routine jobs are thirst-making.”

Harrison widened his smile. “I like your style. Life stinks so why not enjoy the best parts. Here you are. Never let me be accused of being mean with drinks. Can’t stand mean drinks.”

“Nor can I, sir. Cheers.” Bulman turned to the window. “Not a bad view.”

“If you say so. I must admit I’ve seen it in every hue, and when the outlines are fuzzed it’s quite splendid. Chesfield was not the last to leave, if that’s what you need to know. I’ve already said so.”

“That’s what I thought. It was a waste of time checking.”

“But he might have gone back later.”

“What?” Bulman turned his head sharply.

“I’m not saying he did. But he might have done. If I wasn’t the last to leave I was certainly close to it. Chesfield’s Daimler was still parked up the street and I believe he was in it.”

Bulman stepped away from the window. Both men were standing, as some men prefer to do when drinking. “Was this in your original statement, sir?”

“Come, Mr Bulman. You must have read it before calling here.” Harrison gazed thoughtfully at his drink, his face suddenly flabby in repose, eyeballs pink-tinged with the angry red capillaries of an alcoholic. “There are many reasons why that bit is not included.” Harrison gazed round as if looking for a suitable chair, but he remained standing.

“In the first place the original inquiry came as a total surprise. And I still don’t think Chesfield’s presence at the party had the remotest connection with what the poor fellow did soon afterwards. Seeing the car had not fully registered at the time. I couldn’t say on oath that it was his, or even that someone was in it. But with you chaps calling, asking a lot of silly bloody questions, the old brain begins to tick over and bits and pieces come to mind.”

“Have you reported this since?”

“I couldn’t see the point. As I’ve said, I can’t be absolutely sure. You know how it is. When I first thought I saw the car it was just a fleeting impression; I didn’t give it a second thought. We were all well over the limit. He might have been sleeping it off. Anything. In my drunken state I could even have imagined it. But afterwards, the more I thought about it, the more I believed that it was his car with him inside. But you know, Daimler Sovereigns aren’t uncommon in Wally Clarke’s manor.”

“But you think it was his car?”

“Yes.”

“Why are you telling me now if you weren’t prepared to report it before?”

“That’s a good question. There are policemen and policemen. Some produce a notebook and ask questions with the monotony and about all the imagination of a litany being recited in church. Others drink my whisky with great appreciation, give the impression that what they say is a lot of balls but in fact are deeply, deeply interested behind all that calculated indifference. Anyway, I like the way you hold a glass. But I still wouldn’t have gone out of my way to report it, and it still might be total rubbish born of a euphoric alcoholism.”

“Now you’re sorry you mentioned it?”

“Not a bit. It won’t make a ha’peth of difference.”

But it could, thought Bulman, it could.

* * *

Kransouski studied the signal. He decoded it a second time to make sure that he had got it right. It was the first direct communiqué he had received from General Rogov since leaving Bucharest. It had been routed through the Polish Embassy in a code that Rogov had supplied and was a priority ‘for his eyes only’.

His elation was quelled by a secondary feeling of extreme caution. He read it through yet again, left the Polish Embassy, and headed for its Soviet counterpart, his long legs striding out with uncharacteristic speed. He could not wait to see Gorkin’s face. The signal was in his pocket though it should have been burned before leaving but Kransouski wanted no misunderstanding; he could destroy it under Gorkin’s nose. He swung his umbrella like an off-duty guards officer.

When he entered Gorkin’s office he could tell that his rival already knew. Hostility flared across the desk at Kransouski, who could now revel in it.

“When are you leaving, comrade?” Kransouski had difficulty in keeping the satisfaction from his voice.

“I’m catching tomorrow’s plane. I wish you luck.”

Kransouski laid his umbrella provocatively along the desktop.

“It cannot be pleasant to be recalled.”

“You should know,” Gorkin replied with venom.

“My instructions are to take over from receipt of the signal.” Kransouski’s needling was remorseless. “So move aside, comrade, let me get the feel of my chair.”

Gorkin swallowed audibly and left the desk. “The drawers are already cleared. I did not want carrion picking over the pieces.”

“Sit down, dear fellow.” Kransouski pointed to the visitor’s chair. “We have a lot to get through between now and your flight tomorrow.”

“It won’t take long.” Gorkin sat down. His sullenness showed but there remained an underlying doggedness about his manner.

“If it won’t take long then it’s worse than I thought. You must have been a total failure here. I want the complete details of all networks and projects; everything there is to know that came under your unfortunate auspices.”

“You won’t get them, comrade. My instructions are clear. You are taking over in one respect only. You have not been appointed as my long-term replacement but only as a stopgap for one job. All other responsibilities will remain under my subordinate here until someone is officially nominated to take over from me. Meanwhile you can use this office, and only the resources which I will outline before I depart.”

“Who is your subordinate here?” Kransouski snapped in response to Gorkin’s high-handedness.

“That is classified information. You do not need to know. The Second Commercial Secretary will act as intermediary for anything you might need to action. If you look under the empty file in front of you, you will see my explicit instructions received last night.” Gorkin was striking back effectively and with the satisfaction Kransouski had enjoyed only moments ago.

Kransouski read Gorkin’s directive which had also come from Rogov. While he read, Gorkin went on,

“You are project director. Just one project.”

Kransouski waved the signal. “One project which you failed to complete. One project so important and yet so badly handled that you have been recalled.”

“General Rogov refuses to acknowledge the problems I have faced. We have had to kill twice in order to protect a potential mole who could become the most important of all time.”

“Potential mole?”

“You sound like Rogov. If we had not severed the two links our man would be exposed by now, and the opportunity wasted.”

“I repeat, potential mole?”

“He’s not under our direct control. Another person has convinced us that he can handle this man. He has provided limited proof. It’s a matter of patience. Nothing new.”

“You’ve killed twice for something you haven’t got? Something in the hands of another party? Someone you haven’t traced? No wonder you’ve been recalled.”

“Don’t trade on it, comrade. Your seat may not have time to get warm. Both killings were justified; they have left our interests intact. In spite of your sneers you’d have done the same. Indeed, having studied something of your record you would most probably have left a death trail of much larger proportions.”

Kransouski inclined his head. This show of ill feeling was a luxury he could not afford. He wanted as much as he could get from Gorkin, and to antagonise him too much might result in important and deliberate omissions which could send Kransouski on the same route back to Moscow. “Who can be so important?”

“Walter Clarke. Minister of State for Foreign Affairs. Highly tipped as future Foreign Secretary and, at his present rate of progress, eventually Prime Minister.”

“I apologise, comrade.” It was time to be contrite. “I had no idea it was so important.”

Gorkin appeared somewhat mollified. “We can’t rush it. We were contacted some months ago by a man who is in a position to blackmail Clarke and men like Clarke do not give in easily. He was probably being hooked long before we were approached, it takes time with such a man, but he’s wriggling now and there are only two ways he can eventually go: retire at the height of an extremely promising career, which will bring its own barrage of questions and could even bring down the government, or succumb to blackmail. And when that happens I’ve no doubt that he will believe that he can control his output, and eventually dispose of his blackmailer, but it will be an act of final desperation. Once begun he’s in for life. There will be no way back.”

“But he hasn’t yet begun?” asked Kransouski tentatively.

“Yes, he has. He passed over some out-of-date defence papers. They are useless. He’s still wriggling, you see, but it was a positive step. We are very near.”

Kransouski whistled quietly. “I don’t like the idea of someone else holding the strings. He approached us for money, presumably? What’s to stop him selling to anybody?”

“Nothing. But once we have the first genuine leak from Clarke, via this intermediary, we will then hold the power to blackmail Clarke direct.”

“The intermediary wouldn’t like that. He would expose Clarke for whatever it is he holds over him.”

“He would not know. We can still pay him for what Clarke gives him. The thing is we would have direct control, push Clarke for information that we wanted. We would always express our satisfaction to the blackmailer, whatever rubbish he might hand over.”

“And meanwhile track him down and discover what this precious hold is?”

“We’re already doing that. It’s not easy in a foreign country and it’s too hot to pass freely among our network of British friends. He’s cunning. He boasted to us that he provided Clarke with a dupe; someone Clarke would believe was his blackmailer and who would be easy to find. He claims that man was Duncan Seddon who was murdered by a man hired by Gordon Chesfield, a friend of Clarke’s. There was always a risk that Chesfield might break down and talk. If that had happened we would have lost Clarke forever.”

Kransouski reflected that he was right about Gorkin’s recall; the man should have been found. There were still so many unknowns in this operation and that worried him. “Have we any idea of what this man has on Clarke?”

“None. We’ve been through Clarke’s background. We’ve checked with our positive vetting man in M.I.5 who himself is in some danger at present; we might have to whip him out. But there’s nothing. He’s had plenty of women, committed the odd indiscretion, but that’s all, and it’s not enough for blackmail.”

“It’s all very odd, isn’t it? Obviously something is being missed.”

“I think the answer lies somewhere in his birth.”

“His birth? How?”

Gorkin related the story as he knew it and added, “It all checks out. There’s nothing additional we can find. Walter Clarke is no saint, but nor is he a fool and he’s a strong character. We just don’t know the answer.”

“We would if you had found his blackmailer.”

“That’s true. But as I’ve pointed out, if the blackmail is successful, which I believe it’s about to become, then the reason will no longer matter.”

But it will, comrade, it will, Kransouski reflected. It was vital to know the hold the blackmailer had over Clarke, for it worked. It was a pity he had been unable to do a deal with Scott, who could have used his underworld contacts to winkle out this elusive figure. Perhaps that was still possible. Kransouski smiled for the first time since entering the office which was now his.

* * *

“I’ve no change on me, Spider. Get ’em in, will you?” Bulman had forced his way to the bar and having found a gap was putting on an act of searching his pockets for money.

“One large scotch, please, love,” Scott called to the overworked barmaid.

“Aren’t you drinking, Spider?” Bulman asked in surprise.

“No, I’m not, you mean bastard.”

“Do you realise how little a copper earns?” Bulman was genuinely put out.

“If he’s anything like you he earns damn well. I don’t know what he’s paid, if that’s what you mean.”

“Don’t be like that, Spider. I really have lost . . . ah, I’ve found it. I was sweating there for a bit.” He called across the bar, “Make that one large and one single, love. Mine’s the large.”

“I don’t drink singles, George.”

“Oh, all right. Two doubles, love. Sorry he’s messing you about.”

“How is it,” asked Scott reasonably, “that you’ve not done time?”

They fought their way out of the crush to the bottle-glass window where there was slightly more room.

“Talking of time,” observed Bulman, peering over his glass, “that’s exactly what you’ll be doing if you go on acting behind my back.”

Scott raised his glass. “What are you on about?”

“A visit to our Wally is what I’m on about. Your visit.”

Scott stiffened. In quite a different voice he asked, “Have you had me tailed?”

“Without you knowing? Impossible — unless you’ve lost your touch.”

“So what’s this rubbish you’re talking?”

“When we’ve finished these I think we’d better go across to the square and talk. It’s too crowded here.”

They crossed to Trafalgar Square and walked over to the balustrade opposite the National Gallery. The square and the fountains were in full view and the area was surprisingly full for a chill day.

“We weren’t watching you, old cocker, but Clarke.”

There was no way Bulman’s men could have seen him enter Clarke’s actual apartment so Scott said, “You’re talking bull.”

“I thought you’d say that.” Bulman reached into an inside pocket. “One of those special cameras. Infra-red or something. Looks like you.”

Scott took the snap from him. “Could be anyone.” He handed it back.

“There was also the personal description.” Bulman put the photograph away.

“From your men?”

“Trained coppers. Observers, Spider, old son.”

“What the hell would I be doing there?”

“That’s what I asked myself. Oh, I almost forgot the voice.” Bulman pulled out a miniature recorder. “Hold it up to the ear, the volume’s not strong. One of those directional mikes. Very good they are.”

Scott switched it on and listened closely. He switched off and handed it back. “It could be anyone’s voice. Any Londoner.”

“But this one announced himself as Scott to the entry phone.”

“I thought it was Trott. Sounded like Trott. Not me.”

“Swore you to secrecy, did he? Your loyalty is to me, Spider, old son.”

“My loyalty to you finished when you left Maggie hanging.”

Bulman started to rub his hands together as he gazed down into the square while his companion shivered in the cold and damp. With the traffic grinding past behind them, the two men appeared no different from the tourists being used as pigeon perches below. Close by, two children were watching a pavement artist retouch chalk portraits that an earlier rainfall had partially erased. The scene was so normal.

“You’re gonna get yourself killed,” said Bulman in a flat voice, as if he were talking about the weather. “I know all about your code of conduct, but this is different.”

“Why?”

“Whatever your commitment to Clarke, he’s placed you in a position of no return. He must have admitted something to you or you wouldn’t be so bloody reticent. This man is fighting for his whole future, Spider. He hasn’t called in the police to help him, which means he doesn’t want the police to know what he’s up against. And that implies that his problems must be very serious indeed. If you get him off whatever hook he’s on, where does that leave you?”

“You’ve cracked, George.”

“You know I’m right. You finish up by knowing what the blackmailer knows and that makes you equally expendable. You’ll go the same way. Think about it, Spider.”

“What’s this about blackmail?”

“It’s all that’s left. If the police find out that’s one thing; they have massed backing and he can’t knock off the whole force. But if you find out on your own, that’s your lot, mate.”

“Are you saying that he is really capable of killing?”

Bulman gave Scott a sideways glance. “As it’s your life we’re talking about I feel bound to say that I think he’s already had very effective practice.”

“Are you serious?”

“I’ve spoken to him recently. Officially. And I’ve spoken to his friends. I mean it.”

“Then you know more than I do. It’s you who’s not sharing information.”

“I’ve nothing more to go on than a growing conviction which I can’t even voice to my superiors. You see, I trust you, Spider.”

“You’ve every reason. Don’t press me on this, George. You won’t get anything out of me.”

“You’re being a fool. If you can’t consider yourself, think of Maggie.”

“I think of her all the time. You didn’t. I can’t see her as a problem to Clarke in any way. Our aims are the same, yours and mine, so drop it.”

Bulman struck the balustrade. “I can’t understand you. You’ve always survived before now by sensing danger. You’ve lost your edge.” He looked up at the sky in exasperation and was momentarily distracted by the flight of a grey pigeon. “Nicolai Gorkin has been recalled to Moscow.”

“Who the hell’s he?”

“He’s in Kransouski’s old position. And Kransouski has taken over again. I could be castrated for telling you that. And you can be damn sure that Kransouski will take the easy, more brutal way. For God’s sake use your nous, Spider.”

“Why would I help Clarke, assuming that he needs it, of course?”

“Because you’re a sucker for a sob story. And your involvement might well lead you to what we’re after anyway. The crunch is what happens then.”

Scott turned round to face the National Gallery. “You say you trust me. Fine. But if I were to blab to you now, you’d never be able to trust me again, would you? But thanks for the warning, George. It’s where I always finish up, isn’t it?”

Bulman’s warning had not been necessary: from the moment Scott had agreed to listen to Walter Clarke he had realised the trap he had walked into. But sometimes it was the only way to get anywhere. The knowledge did not stop the back of his neck from prickling and that sensation had been there when facing Clarke, too.

Bulman made one last attempt. “I haven’t told you we found Victor Anthony. The guy who acted as Mervin Soames’ contact and paymaster. The pathologist is still not certain how he died but he did manage a positive I.D. — remarkable considering he had only bits of charred remains to poke about in. Of course, he might have been burned to death but that would have been noisy.” Bulman turned his head to see Scott’s reaction. “That’s how you could finish up, Spider. Burned to ashes in a chalk pit.”

“Thanks, George.”

“It’s true. Duncan Seddon killed by Bert Smith who was set up by Gordon Chesfield. Chesfield was probably killed by Naylor. Fuller killed by Soames. And to cap the gruesome catalogue, Victor Anthony killed by the Russians to protect their involvement. There may be others we don’t know about. The maverick in this violent pack is probably an unknown blackmailer and the power that motivates the whole shemozzle is most likely Walter Clarke. Well, at least we’ve got that far. The big question is who will be considered the next danger to whatever it is they’re trying to cover? Who’s next for topping?”

* * *

For two nerve-racking days Kransouski thought he had lost contact with the blackmailer for good. All he could see was a death trail that led nowhere. Once he knew that he was in charge of just one project, and surely the most important one, he knew why Rogov had appointed him. He was being given a second chance but with a pistol at his head. Rogov had decided that the run-up to success had been amply handled by Gorkin but that matters now needed speeding up and Kransouski, with his streak of ruthlessness, was the man to do just that. Rogov had smoothed his way, but Kransouski knew that if he failed him now, it would not be Bucharest he would return to.

His detachment from the Polish trade delegation had been openly managed; most of the group had already returned to Poland so the cover was already breaking up, and so was his transfer to the Soviet Embassy as a temporary help in the trade section.

For three days the same two-line death announcement had appeared in the Daily Telegraph without response. This worried Kransouski considerably until Claude Denise took up the call late on the third, and last possible, day. Kransouski’s man, passed on by Gorkin, had been instructed that a face-to-face meeting was imperative. When Denise made the call he refused a confrontation, whereupon his contact gave another number to be rung the following day for Denise to speak to someone in a more senior position.

The Frenchman was disgruntled. He was still smarting from his partial failure to deliver the goods, but was reasonably satisfied with the article he had paid a gutter journalist to publish in France. Clarke should be malleable by now but why were the Russians being so awkward? Denise had no choice but to speak to someone higher up the organisation, but still it irritated. There was always something cropping up, though he consoled himself that with so many factors involved it was perhaps inevitable. And waiting should make success that much more satisfying.

Kransouski had refused to be housed in the Soviet staff quarters as it would be too easy for M.I.5 to keep an eye on him there. His present address would naturally be known to the British but the main reason for staying on there was the ease with which he could leave undetected. His apartment block consisted of three buildings joined together so effectively there were three entrances and three back exits. He could also use the side windows where there was a gap between the block of three and the next dwelling, as well as more ingenious escape ruses.

In actual fact he left openly with a colleague who had his car parked outside the building. The usual non-valid C.D. plates were up and the vehicle was easy for anyone to follow. The time was six p.m., the height of the rush hour.

The traffic crawled along, almost bumper to bumper and the pace was interminably slow. In Regent Street, in an impossible snarl-up, Kransouski climbed out, skipped through the traffic and mingled with the crowds, walked fast towards Oxford Circus. Before reaching it he turned left and weaved through busy side streets heading west. He was lucky. A cab pulled in to disgorge a passenger and Kransouski’s umbrella shot up like a royal command.

He resented having to go through this rigmarole, especially as he wasn’t even certain that M.I.5 were following him. But it was policy to assume that they were. He could afford no mistakes; his head was on the block for the last time.

At Trafalgar Square there was more congestion. Kransouski paid off the cab, crossed Cockspur Street and headed towards St James’s. Walking down the wide stretch of the Mall, he could clearly make out the broadening lights of Buckingham Palace but he did not dally, his stride increasing as he neared the Park.

It was by no means deserted. The many paths through St James’s Park, beautiful even in darkness, were full of office workers taking short cuts to bus stops and underground stations. Dodging the commuters Kransouski went deep into the interior, crossed the bridge to the other side of the lake then, starting from the St James’s Palace end, began to count the benches on the left-hand side.

He stopped at the third bench and sat down. At this time all the benches were empty and passers-by were in too much of a hurry to notice him. The seat was damp and he adjusted his raincoat. It was wet and cold and dusk; an ideal time for a meet.

It was another twenty minutes before Denise arrived. He had been standing under a nearby tree and had seen Kransouski approach. For the next fifteen minutes he spent his time trying to determine whether Kransouski had brought help but there were no loiterers in evidence. Beyond the lake and the weeping willows the dimmed headlights of the Mall traffic reflected off the wet road surface.

Denise’s feet were chilled by the wet grass but caution was his byword. Usually he avoided meetings like this but when he had rung the second number, the Russian, presumably the one waiting for him on the bench, had been adamant. No meet, no deal. Peddle your wares elsewhere. The game is over. Denise was not used to this sort of treatment. In the beginning they had leant over backwards to be nice to him and had always been careful not to offend him. This man, however, had been assertive from the moment he had answered the phone. Denise had almost hung up but had quickly realised that such a hasty move would simply have left him floundering.

Denise came up behind Kransouski, trying to get a good view of him. He was within two feet when Kransouski said without turning his head, “You’d better sit down. You’ll find the seat slightly less damp than the grass.”

Denise came round the bench and sat quite close to Kransouski, with one arm along the back of the seat. “You are James?”

“I am. Who are you?”

“Harry. That’s not the name I used before.”

“If we’re to do business, it’s the one you’ll use from now on.”

“The other man was careful. He used a code sequence. I don’t like your lack of security.”

Kransouski laughed. “I’m James, you’re Harry. That’s all we need. What else do you want? A buttonhole? A copy of yesterday’s Times folded upside down under the right armpit? Harry, you are under new management. And don’t bother to approach anyone else. The Americans have a close ear to British affairs anyway, the Chinese still don’t know what they want and haven’t any money; small, arrogant states like the Libyans would pay you much more only to dispose of you once they tired of the game. Only we are reliable. And we look after our own.”

“I don’t need your protection.”

“One day you might. It will do you no harm to know that it is there. You are French?”

“Knowing that won’t help you. Why have you insisted that we meet like this?”

“Because we were getting nowhere. In future we will tell you what we require; you just make sure your man delivers.” While Kransouski talked, he took stock of Denise. The man was wearing a wig, and a false, heavy moustache. He was also bristling with anger. Denise did not like this arrogant and condescending Russian who was so sure of himself and made him feel inferior. “I don’t need your money. I don’t need anybody’s. Don’t talk to me like that again.”

“Oh, come now, don’t be so touchy, Harry. This is business but so far it’s lacked a business attitude. I talked of protection. You might be surprised to learn that we’ve already protected you, taken grave risks on your behalf and what we now want are results.”

Denise snarled in anger. “What risks you’ve taken were only to protect yourselves. You want what I have to offer and you protected my source. But let me tell you, James, what happened to Duncan Seddon will happen to you if I have any more of your bullshit. I could blast a hole in you now.”

Kransouski glanced down and saw the tip of a silencer through the opening of Denise’s coat. He had suspected from the outset that a gun was trained on him, but he had learned something about the man since they had started talking. Harry was evidently free of money problems, and his actions were undoubtedly motivated by the desire for power, or some personal, twisted satisfaction in manipulating, which made him highly dangerous and probably unstable. The gun and the anger showed too clearly the violence in the man: even so it was not yet time to be conciliatory. Quite firmly Kransouski said, “I’ve faced a gun many times, Harry. It does not intimidate me. Shoot if you want to. There are plenty of witnesses. Even with a silencer someone will hear at so close a range. Your wig and your moustache won’t protect you for long.” Kransouski smiled and leaned forward to indicate that if he were shot he would fall onto the path and so attract maximum attention.

After a few moments’ silence he continued, in a more friendly tone, “Let’s face it, if you kill me, you will have the enormous and unrelenting weight of the whole K.G.B. after you. We cannot allow that sort of thing to go unpunished. Even if Scotland Yard got to you first I think you realise that a prison would not stand in our way.”

“I’ve killed before.” Denise spoke less emotionally now. He had to regain control.

“I do not doubt it,” Kransouski replied pleasantly. “Nor your efficiency. But you have never killed one of us. There is no country where you could hide safely should I become your next victim. Why waste your life running? Now let’s get down to what really matters.” Kransouski was careful not to sound patronising. The Frenchman was easily riled yet beneath his fiery temper Kransouski detected a hard and calculating intelligence. He would not easily sabotage his own efforts, but neither could his sympathy be won by appealing to a political allegiance. For, as far as he could tell, this man was not a political animal — there was no suggestion of political rapport. It was an unusual case. It was time to be open.

“Walter Clarke is a marvellous find and I am sure that you can do with him all that you have claimed. I know it takes time. It often does. Clarke is a strong man so your work so far must have been exceedingly thorough to have made him produce what he has.”

“He tricked me. I have made him suffer for that and next time I ask, he will deliver.”

Kransouski avoided the temptation to ask the Frenchman to expand on his claim. Instead he went on to say exactly what he wanted him to do now. “There’s a full cabinet meeting in three days’ time. Instruct him to provide the details of that meeting. Once he has given you that there will be no further problem.”

“He’s not in the cabinet. That will come later.”

“I realise that. We don’t want him to endanger his position. But he is very close to cabinet ministers and it shouldn’t be difficult for him to pass on details of any foreign policy discussions. He’ll be told most of it anyway. We’re not asking him to steal the minutes but we do need a strong hook to start with.”

Denise was thoughtful. He resented Kransouski’s demands, yet when he thought it through he realised that however self-assured the Russian might be, without control of Clarke he could achieve nothing. “This could have been agreed over the telephone,” he said as a face-saver.

“Perhaps. But now we’ve met, I am fully confident that you can produce the goods. You are a positive man. The telephone does not show that sort of detail. Also, you have met me. I think we understand one another. Payment will be prompt, I assure you.”

Denise was peering into the distance as he stood up. His hand was still on the gun.

Kransouski smiled. “Don’t worry. I would not have been so stupid as to bring support with me. This matter is between you and me. But before you go, have you heard of a man called Scott?”

“Scott? No. Why?”

“He’s poking around.”

“What does he look like?”

Kransouski gave a very accurate description. Denise went cold. He quickly pushed the safety catch on the gun. “Has he a London accent?”

Kransouski caught the concern. “Yes. Why? Have you met him?”

“I met a man of that description in France. Quite recently.”

“Is that where you live?”

“That’s not important. He was looking for someone else. An antique dealer.”

“Scott has a great eye for objets d’art. He knows as much as many dealers, and more than some.”

“Give me more detail.”

Kransouski related some of Scott’s mannerisms; the slow grin, the self-effacing manner, and minor details such as the wideness of the eyes, the cleanliness of his nails and their large half moons. And as he searched his memory he became more certain that Harry had met Scott. Now he knew where Scott had gone when he had disappeared for a few days.

“Is this man a problem?” asked Denise.

“He’s far more dangerous than the police as he’s not bound by their regulations and is answerable only to himself. He often operates outside the law with the tacit blessing of those who cannot.”

“What would be his interest? Money?”

“Not always. Have you run into him in London?”

“No. He can’t know where I am here.”

“But he found you in France.” Kransouski could not accept the possibility of the meeting being an accident. Scott was further ahead of the game than he had believed.

Denise noticed that Kransouski was shaken, despite his show of outward calm. And, he too, was rattled. Suspicious of the tall stranger almost from the outset he had nevertheless allowed himself to be taken in. “It might have been easier for him in France. Nobody knows where I am here.”

Kransouski recovered a little. He now knew what to do. “You might already have considered the need to change your London address. You don’t want Scott on your trail.”

“Moving is no problem. Are you afraid of this man?”

Kransouski smiled wryly. “I respect Scott. I wouldn’t underestimate him.”

“If I see him, I’ll kill him.”

“It will come to that. But first we need to know what he knows. Meanwhile there’s another way. I said we look after our own. Is there a telephone number which will raise you immediately?”

“You know the answer is no.”

Kransouski knew that he would have to leave it at that: Harry had recovered some initiative and Scott must be dealt with before he could allow any further developments with Clarke.

Chapter Fifteen

“I’m not pleading any more, love. I’m ordering you. Tell your boss your mother is ill. You’ve got to leave here now. I’ll drive you to the station and put you on the train.”

Maggie sat on the edge of the bed. Scott was scared for her. She knew it was largely intuitive with him; it was no use her asking him why, but she could not help saying, “This started out as a favour to find out if Gordon Chesfield was murdered. How can it have reached the stage where you want to pack me off?”

Scott sat beside her and put an arm round her shoulders. “It’s the way it goes, isn’t it? Do this for me, love. I’ll help you pack.”

“I can’t go tonight. It’s not playing the game. I’ll go to the office in the morning, deal with the urgent work and be back for lunch.” Maggie was close to tears. It was not going away that distressed her but all that it implied. “I’m letting people down by doing this.”

“I know, but they’ll cope.” He kissed her on the cheek. “You’d better ring your mother now.”

Maggie reached for the bedside phone, her face drawn. “Oh, Willie, when will it stop?” She forced back tears. “I thought we were finished with all this. Now look at us.”

He held her close. He could not remember feeling so bad. If he could have safely opted out then he would have done so, but it was never that simple. There was no way he could convince others that he had retired from the game.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “God, I’m sorry. You look after that nipper of ours while you’re away.”

* * *

George Bulman telephoned Scott the next morning just after Maggie had left their apartment for work. “Thought you might still be there. The rest of the world is already working. The photocopies turned out to be dossiers of allied prisoners of war held in Amiens prison in 1944.”

“They’d be the dossiers General Stacey told me about. And the identity tags. Do they help us?”

“The Sûreté are checking them now. We don’t know how many are still alive. Give Stacey a call tonight and ask him if the dossiers on Paulette Dumain and Jeanette Renore had been among the ones he took out.”

“He’s not likely to remember after so long.”

“He might; he was a trained field man.”

“What about the tags?”

“American, British, French, one Dutch. They don’t add a thing as yet.”

“So we’ve got to wait on the French police.”

“They won’t sit on it. I have a friend in the Sûreté who’d make Sherlock Holmes look like an advert for pipe tobacco. I’m worried about Maggie, Spider.”

“She’s leaving after lunch. I’ll see her onto the train myself. Anything else?”

“One or two of these dossiers were starred on the reverse side. Just a little inked-in asterisk beside the name of the interrogator which is something else the Sûreté are running down. I had a word with one of the retired S.I.S. boys . . .”

“You mean Fairfax,” Scott cut in.

“He seems to think that those who carried that mark were collaborators. Others were deliberate plants among the prisoners. A lot of that went on. Some will still be around and they would not be very happy if they knew the dossiers existed.”

“Maybe they already know. This bloke Dumanier may be blackmailing them; those with money anyway.”

“You got the impression he doesn’t need the money.”

Scott shrugged. “Maybe that’s how he got it in the first place.”

“Has the similarity struck you?” asked Bulman thoughtfully, between the names of Dumanier and Dumain? They sound different in the pronunciation but on paper they’re close.”

But Scott wasn’t going to speculate on the coincidence. At last he said, somewhat apologetically, “By the way, you can forget about any approach you think I’ve made to Walter Clarke.”

“You thought it over and you turned him down?” Bulman sounded relieved.

“I’m saying no more.”

“If you have turned him down then he’s not going to like the possibility of you mentioning his unfortunate circumstances to anyone else.”

“He needn’t worry.”

“But he will. Sometimes you’re unbelievably naïve, Spider.”

“Maybe it’s just an impression I give.”

“Just remember that he might be fighting for his entire future. His life. If we’re right he’s not going to be fussy about what happens to you or anyone else who might pose a threat to him.”

* * *

“What have you come up with?” asked Hahn.

“May I sit down?”

“Sure. You must be feeling your age as well as looking it.”

Hank Miller ignored the barb. He sank wearily into a chair. “I haven’t had a lot of time. I feel as if the referee is giving me the odd clout while he’s behind me. Both M.I.5 and M.I.6 have stone-walled; they feign total ignorance. Scott is a private citizen. Both services have told me in no uncertain terms that he does not work for them, and they have no control over him. They’ve no idea what he’s up to.”

“You believe them?”

“Perhaps the first two claims. But it’s difficult to swallow that they’ve no idea what he’s up to. They expressed no interest when I mentioned that he’d flown over to see General Stacey.”

“None at all?”

“You know how it is with those plum-in-mouth types. ‘Really? How odd? Nothing to do with us, old boy.’ Bull. I discovered one thing, though, but you might already know. Nicolai Gorkin has gone back to Moscow. Officially, he has been recalled and Kransouski has stepped into his place; whether temporarily or permanently I don’t know. Kransouski was here with a Polish trade delegation but he’s an old K.G.B. man. Very experienced. On the face of it, it’s bona fide.”

“Yes, I know all that,” admitted Hahn.

“Did you know that Scott and Kransouski are old antagonists?”

“Yep.”

“Then I’m wasting my goddamn time.”

“So far. Why don’t you have a word with Scott?”

Miller started to laugh. “Sure. He’ll love that.”

“Cut it out, Hank. I want to know what’s going on. What do you think you’re here for?”

“To spy on my friends. Unless we can put a tail on Scott we’ll get nowhere, and we’re dealing with a man who can lose a tail in his sleep.”

“What about putting one on Kransouski? Or Walter Clarke? Or Detective Superintendent George Bulman? Wouldn’t you think they’re all heading the same way?”

* * *

Claude Denise caught the first flight to Paris and went straight to his apartment off the Avenue Hoche. He wasted no time in checking his desk. He had an acute eye for detail and believed he would know if anything had been moved even slightly. But it was this fastidiousness that Scott had noticed.

However, Denise was quick to notice that one window handle was not quite in position. Instead of pulling it down the rest of the way he opened the window and looked down into the street. It was difficult to believe that anyone could get in that way. Even so he did not think that he would have left the handle halfway closed: he always checked everything before going away. He closed the window.

The carpets revealed no marks. Everything was in position. He examined his study thoroughly: even checking the position of the plugs of the word processor and the photocopier. Then he went into the kitchen and checked the washing machine and the tumble dryer. Everything was in correct order, though Denise could not possibly remember the precise position of the dossiers. They appeared not to have been disturbed.

He returned to the study and pulled out the paper cassettes from the cabinet. Again, it was almost impossible to judge whether or not any of the paper had been used.

Denise sat down in the lounge opposite the offending window catch; it had been the only minute tell-tale sign and he could not be sure whether it meant anything. He quickly thought through his position: there was nothing in the apartment to incriminate him but the possibility of someone being on his trail was another matter altogether. The dossiers would raise eyebrows though there was no reason why he should not have them. And those that really mattered were in a safe place.

He went over to the telephone trolley and dialled the Clinique d’Azur in Villefranche. “This is Jean Renore. Connect me with Dr Belime, please.”

He heard the announcement go out over the speakers and assumed that the doctor was somewhere in the grounds. He waited impatiently.

“M’sieur Renore?”

“Ah, doctor. I will not be able to get down for a while. How is Madame Renore?” Denise immediately noticed the momentary hesitation before the woman replied.

“She’s as well as can be expected, m’sieur.”

That wasn’t the answer he had received last time. “Is there something wrong?” Again, there was a slight and uncomfortable pause.

“She had a slight turn for the worse but she is slowly getting back to normal again.”

“Normal?”

“Normal for her, m’sieur. There is no fundamental change.”

“I’ll call you before I come down, but it might not be for a week or two. Oh, by the way, has she had any other visitors?” The inquiry was casually made, and Denise knew what the answer would be.

“She had one visitor a few days ago. A friend of someone who knew her a long time ago.”

“That would have been nice for her. She doesn’t often have a woman friend calling. Not these days.”

“It was a man.”

“Oh? Did he give a name?”

“An Englishman named Scott. He did not stay long.”

“An Englishman? Did he talk to her?”

“You know Madame Renore cannot talk, m’sieur. It is unlikely that she ever will.”

“I just thought he might have cheered her up. I think I know the man. Rather tall?”

“Yes.”

It was clear that Dr Belime did not want to talk about it, and there was no point in pressing the matter. Denise thanked her and hung up. My God, the Russian was right: Scott had tracked him. His ego was badly jolted.

Denise caught an afternoon plane back to London, went straight to his apartment and packed. He took the gun from under the floorboards with the two magazines and tidied the room before he left. The rent had been paid in advance and there were still two weeks to run; the landlord would have no complaint.

* * *

The message that Maggie Parsons was leaving at lunchtime to visit her sick mother was relayed to Kransouski by mid-morning. One of the typists in the United Nations London headquarters had telephoned her contact who had passed the message on. It gave Kransouski little time to move, and he hated rush jobs.

He checked back to discover the time Maggie was likely to leave, then made his arrangements. At twelve o’clock Maggie received the message that Willie Scott would send a mini cab to pick her up just before one. On the way back the driver had been instructed to stop at an off-licence so that she could buy a bottle of the best champagne they had to bring with her.

The message warmed Maggie. The champagne touch was typical of Willie, she thought. He must be pushed or he would have bought it himself and kept it as a surprise. Nevertheless, she was puzzled that Willie himself had not telephoned. For an explanation she rang through to the switchboard operator who had taken the message.

Willie Scott had arranged for the mini-cab company to make the call because he would be out of town most of the morning. The driver who had phoned had confided to the operator that he should have made the call much earlier but had been delayed on another job and would have his work cut out to get there in time. If he told Maggie this, she might have given him a flea in his ear. The operator had agreed to pass on the message because ‘he sounded so harassed and upset’.

Still doing what Scott would have wanted her to do she rang home. There was no reply. Maggie then rang his office to be told by Charlie Hewitt that Scott was not in. So, he had been called out somewhere. She still had clearing up to do, a mass of work in a short space of time, and she had yet to hand over. There was no time to do further checks, and in any event, there was nothing really to make her suspicious.

By one o’clock she was in a flurry. She gazed around the office, grabbed her coat and bag and went down in the elevator to the odd good wish that her mother would get better.

There was the usual lunchtime snarl-up. A driver of an old red Ford Escort was arguing with a traffic warden and looking towards the building at the same time. He saw Maggie hesitate and called out, “Are you Miss Parsons?” When she acknowledged, he said, “Climb in,” and then to the warden, “I told you; my fare. Have a heart, love.” But the warden defiantly slipped a ticket on his windscreen.

“Sorry about this, miss,” the driver said to Maggie as he opened the door for her. “It’s been one of those days. Everything’s gone wrong.” He smiled wearily. “But you got my message okay or you wouldn’t be here.”

As Maggie climbed in she said, “We’ve got to stop at an off-licence on the way.”

“I know, miss. I’ve had strict instructions on that.” He closed the door and climbed in the driver’s seat. As he pulled out, Maggie noticed the glass screen behind the driver. It struck her as strange in a mini-cab. Taxis were different and she would expect one. Nor was there a sliding panel to enable her to talk to the driver.

She felt uneasy. It was a sharp, sickening reaction that struck her in an instant, and deepened as she took further stock. She could see through the windows; the traffic, pedestrians, buildings. They were all there, but the definition was somehow poor. Not quite fuzzed, but rather as if the glass needed wiping. She called to the driver but got no response. Then through her fear she began to feel ridiculous. What would she say to him?

And then Maggie noticed that there was no lever to open the doors and nothing with which to lower the windows. The internal handles had been replaced by steel plates. She began to panic and hammered on the glass partition. The driver did not look round. Really scared now, Maggie began to scream and strike at the nearside window.

She was frustrated at seeing people so close, some even gazing at the car as they waited to cross the street. And yet they seemed not to notice her fists frantically hammering, nor her frightened face pressed close to the glass. Suddenly Maggie felt sick as she grasped the truth: the windows were one-way glass and she couldn’t be seen. She was trapped.

* * *

By half past twelve Scott was certain that something was wrong. Bulman would not keep him waiting this long. Up to that time he had not been too worried about Maggie; he had left a note for her. There would still be time to have a late lunch and a little celebration before seeing her off on the train.

Scott parked his old Jaguar outside the tall brick pillars of the Clarkes’ estate. The massive, wrought-iron, crested gates were closed. It would be easy enough to open them and to drive in, but it might take time to convince old Mrs Clarke that he must use her telephone for an emergency. There were many reasons, apart from the old lady’s probable awkwardness, why he did not want to do this. He did not want Walter Clarke to find out that he was here. And he might destroy whatever Bulman had in mind for this visit.

Scott paced the narrow country lane outside the gates, angry now at Bulman’s non-arrival. The property was totally isolated but the village was only two miles up the road. It would be quicker to telephone from there. He checked his watch; the meeting was supposed to have been at twelve and a forty-five minute wait was long enough. He must ring Maggie and tell her that he would be slightly late.

He climbed in his car, and on the five-minute drive to the village, went over in his mind the catalogue of that morning’s events. His summons to the Clarke estate had been rather sudden. The telephone had rung soon after he had reached his office.

“Mr Scott?”

“Yes.”

“Ah, glad I caught you, sir. This is Detective Sergeant Haldean. I work for Mr Bulman. I’ve a message from him to ask me to call you as soon as I got in. Can you meet him at the Clarkes’ place at twelve, midday?”

“Which Clarkes’ place?”

“Sorry, sir. The country house. Outside the gates.”

“Why didn’t he ask me when he rang earlier?”

“You’ve got me there, sir. I don’t know where he is at the moment but he left a scrawled message which has taken me time to decipher. If you know his handwriting you’ll know what I mean, sir.”

“Where are you phoning from?”

“Scotland Yard, sir. Oh, and if you do meet him will you please ask him to contact me? I’ve got several messages and one or two are urgent. I’ll be here all morning so you can tell him to use the quick way.”

“What does that mean?”

Haldean chuckled. “It’s a joke between us. He has a direct line, sir. If he’s out and I’m in, I answer it but if I’m not here they won’t rupture themselves next door to answer this phone. They swear they never hear it but we can hear theirs. Otherwise calls for him should be routed through the Yard switchboard so they can pass it through next door.”

“What’s the direct-line number?”

“Oh, Mr Bulman knows it, sir. If he doesn’t by now he never will.”

“I might need it.”

“I don’t think I should give it to you, sir. It’s ex-directory.”

“I’ll explain to him. Just give it, sergeant.”

There was silence and then, with obvious reluctance, Haldean called the number out.

Five minutes later Scott rang the number back.

“Mr Bulman’s office.” It was Haldean’s voice.

“Just checking,” Scott said drily and hung up. He then rang Scotland Yard’s main number. “Have you a Detective Sergeant Haldean up there?” He waited while the name was checked, and confirmation came back. “Does he work with Detective Superintendent Bulman?”

“Who are you, sir?”

Scott gave his name, address and telephone number, thinking that if they pressed the computer button his name would come up with his form and cause them some consternation.

“Yes, he does, sir.”

And now Scott drove at speed to locate a telephone. There was a kiosk outside the village post office-cum-general store. He went inside, exchanged some notes for a pile of silver, entered the box where a saddled horse was tied to the railings next to it, and dialled his own number. When there was no reply, his breathing quickened and he began to fear the worst.

Then Scott rang the number Haldean had given him. Again, there was no reply. He dialled the normal Scotland Yard number and asked for Detective Sergeant Haldean.

“D.S. Haldean.”

As soon as Scott heard the voice he realised he had been conned. “This is Willie Scott, sergeant. Just in case you’ve changed your voice, you didn’t call me earlier this morning by any chance?”

“No, sir. Mr Bulman’s been trying to get you. He’s right here. I’ll pass you over.”

On the way back to London Scott drove in a cold fury. He was contained, but his steering was a little jerky and every once in a while, his stomach churned as he thought about Maggie. For the first time in his life, he had to rely on George Bulman as a friend. They had worked together on this and had shown concern for each other. The gap between the present and the years they had spent as bitter enemies had healed many wounds and changed many attitudes between them. Undoubtedly, they had both mellowed in that time but even working with Bulman and the proximity that entailed had not convinced Scott that he could trust him.

And now he had to put his complete trust in Bulman. Recalling their telephone conversation, Scott began to feel slightly better. Bulman’s concern for Maggie over the phone had been no act.

“Spider,” he had said heavily, “leave it with me. Get off the bloody line and get back here quick and don’t worry about speeding tickets.” He had hung up before Scott could reply.

Scott’s driving had become almost automatic; his mind was elsewhere. He wanted to weep at his own failure. He blamed himself for falling into a trap, then blamed the life of honesty he had led over the past years which had worked to blunt his sharpness. His nose had let him down when his instincts were most needed. A police siren started wailing somewhere behind and he increased his speed.

Chapter Sixteen

George Bulman had the number Scott had given him checked out. It came as no surprise to find that it belonged to an empty apartment in Victoria. A further check revealed that the owner was actually abroad with his wife and was not due back for another week. He was not on Special Branch or M.I.5 files but was, almost certainly, a fellow traveller. His use was finished and there was no point in taking it further.

In the meantime, Bulman arranged with the Serious Crime Squad to raid the premises off Kensington High Street where Kransouski still lived. Because of the spread of the buildings, with its three entrances and rear exits, he needed a good number of men, some of whom would have to be armed. Less than an hour after Scott’s telephone call, the police squads arrived. The buildings were sealed off back and front and uniformed police were called in to keep the gathering crowds back.

During the raid, Scott arrived at Scotland Yard. For the first time in his life he entered a police headquarters voluntarily. When he asked for George Bulman it was discovered that he was out, and the sergeant would give no further details.

“This is a kidnapping,” he yelled. “Where is he?”

“I’ve no doubt he’s acting in your best interests, sir.” The unflappability forced Scott to rage, “For Christ’s sake. Where is he?” And then it dawned on him that George Bulman would not want him around while he operated. He ran from the huge building, climbed into his car, pulled out amidst a blare of horns and drove to Kensington.

He ran into traffic problems on the approaches to Kensington High Street. The police had hastily erected diversion barriers and were directing the traffic away from the area. He was tempted to step out and leave the car where it was but the traffic was already in a state of chaos. He took a diversion, could find no parking slots and was forced to use somebody else’s ticketed space. He left the car and ran back.

When he neared Kransouski’s place it was clear what was happening. The street had been sealed off and emptied of people. Police and patrol cars were in position, and as Scott fought his way through the crowd he could see the mass of activity around the houses. Men and women who were clearly residents were arguing with police outside the house; some were gesticulating wildly.

Scott was anxious to get through the police barrier but he realised that Bulman wouldn’t thank him for it. He was clearly doing his best and all Scott could do was to wait. Oh, Maggie, he thought. Maggie, Maggie. Kransouski was the type to register screams on a decibel scale to see how many phons he could obtain. It was best not to dwell on it. All he could do was to hope.

It was almost two hours later when an untidy, dejected Bulman came into sight. “GEORGE!” Scott screamed and waved his arms as he struggled to get nearer to the barrier.

At first Bulman seemed not to notice then he spoke to a uniformed policeman who hurried up and helped Scott through the cordon.

“She’s not there,” said Bulman as soon as Scott was within earshot. “I don’t think she ever was. We’ve torn the place apart, every room, every cupboard, every basement and boiler room. He knew what he was doing, the bastard.” Bulman gave an instruction to his men to wrap it up. Patrol cars started to move off. The barricade was partially dismantled, and some of the crowd, sensing police disappointment, began to drift away.

“What now?” asked Scott. He felt sorry for Bulman who would be answerable for what he had done.

“There are men out searching ‘safe houses’. Those known to us anyway. Kransouski himself is not here. But it was him; it couldn’t be anyone else. He has both the motive and know-how.” When he saw Scott’s misery he added, “It’s back to leg work, and routine; the solid, patient stuff.”

“Can’t you pull Kransouski in?”

Bulman shook his head. “He’s got diplomatic status. You and I know he did it but there’s no way we could convince anyone else. It wouldn’t surprise me if you receive a ransom demand to convince everybody it’s for money.”

“I’ve got no money. It wouldn’t hold up.”

“The wrong people have been snatched before, Spider. Kransouski will probably cover it up, but maybe he’s not even worried.” Bulman gazed around at his disappearing men. He ignored shouts and fist-shaking from two of the inhabitants of the building who were standing on the steps. “Where’s the nearest pub? God, I need a drink.”

They walked together towards a dismantled barrier and stepped through the thinning crowd.

“I suppose it’s all bloody cocktail glasses around here,” Bulman moaned, but the comment was a cover for his intense disappointment.

They found a pub and Bulman bought large whiskies without thinking. When they’d settled at a corner table, Bulman observed, “All he wants is a hold over you, and with Maggie he has it. It’s the bloke who’s putting the screws on Wally boy he really wants. It seems to me that K is dealing through another party, and he won’t like that. He’ll find out who and why, dispose of him, and take over.” Gazing mournfully at the floor, he went on, “Having taken the extreme step of snatching Maggie I have to say that puts you both in a very difficult position. It’s the big one he’s after, Spider. I know you’re depressed enough, but you must face it.”

“I know the form. There’s no way I’ll accept it as inevitable. If he’s taken over then he knows as much as his predecessor. For him to have done this, I must have stepped nearer to the blackmailer than I realised. And Kransouski must know it.”

“If I know K he’ll have met him already.”

“If he’s dealing with the bloke I met in Paris, Kransouski wouldn’t risk a tail on him. The whole thing could blow up. But I’m not working for the Russians and any inquiry the blackmailer might make would show that I hate their guts. I’m Kransouski’s best bet. It’s got to be the Paris bloke.”

“Okay, I’ll get onto that too.”

“If you find him, don’t pull him in. Let me know.”

Bulman said hopelessly, “I’ve got nothing to pull him in for. Clarke won’t help us. And he’s not likely to confess.” Bulman laid a hand on Scott’s arm. “I’ll do everything possible for Maggie. Nationwide. I’ll keep you in touch.”

“Can you let me know quickly how it was pulled off? They must have conned Maggie somehow.”

“It’ll probably be on my desk now. I’ll get back there and pull the whips out.”

* * *

It seemed that the stairs had been widened somehow. The colour of the walls had been lightened and watercolours of British birds were at head height all the way up to the landing to illustrate the interest Rex Reisen had in nature. At the top, two of Reisen’s men, neither of whom Scott recognised, searched him apologetically as if their boss had warned them to show him respect.

The waiting room had been improved; leather armchairs arranged neatly with a long glass-topped, brass-framed table in the middle. On it lay copies of the Financial Times, Country Life and The Tatler. Scott remembered the paper but the two magazines were a later refinement. At any other time he would have smiled at the cheek; Reisen’s type of investment would not be found in the pages of the Financial Times.

He tried to keep his mind detached from Maggie but it was almost impossible. There were no windows in the room, and he suddenly found it claustrophobic. He was reminded of being in a prison cell which he realised was ridiculous in the midst of this opulence. He could feel the sponginess of the pile beneath his feet. Scott began to think about the kidnapping again. So far nobody had heard anything. There had been no contact of any kind and Kransouski would well know the psychological benefits of silence; it made those who were waiting squirm.

After a five-minute wait, Scott was shown into Reisen’s office: again the decor had been changed, in this case to a terrible, predominantly pink, floral arrangement. A good oil painting of the Queen was behind a huge leather-topped desk. The bright green carpet was top quality but the general effect was just as tasteless as Scott remembered from his last visit some years ago.

The light from the window gave the small, pinch-faced man an ironic halo which clung close to his cropped head. The dark eyes were shining and friendly but could change, Scott knew, in a second to something more chilling. Reisen was not a great deal bigger than a jockey; he smiled to show a new set of sparkling white dentures and held out his hand in welcome.

As Scott took the hand and accepted the real warmth of the welcome, he noticed that the rumours about the Union Jack having been switched from a chrome to a silver stand were false; the new pole looked like solid gold and it would not be nine carat.

“Take a pew, Spider, old mate. I can’t believe it’s true.” Reisen waved a cigar almost as long as his face; he hated cigars but believed they created an image. Scott noticed the flower boxes on the outside of the windowsill where Reisen used to keep his second set of accountancy books.

“You haven’t aged, Spider, old cocker,” Reisen continued. “How do you do it?”

“Silicone job and a hair piece,” Scott joked in return.

Reisen laughed, only half understanding. They chatted about old times and Scott bore with it because he needed Reisen’s help, and this sharp crook always presented himself as one of the boys. When Scott raised the matter of the new men who had formed his welcoming committee, Reisen thought back and recalled that the two Scott would have remembered had both died: but did not say how.

At last Reisen came to the point, “What’s the problem? You back in the game?”

“Not the creeping game,” Scott replied carefully. And then he lied, “I’ve had to keep straight over the years for reasons you’ll well understand, Rex. Not easy.”

“You were the best, Spider. Shocking waste of talent.” He glanced at the flag. “But we all have to make sacrifices for the old country, eh! I even pay my taxes now.” Which meant that he paid some. “Come on, Spider, what’s gone wrong?”

“They’ve got Maggie.”

“Your Maggie?” Reisen blew out a cloud of cigar smoke. “Who’s effing got her?”

“The Russians. They’re holding her against me.”

Reisen sank back in the wing chair. “They’ve got your Maggie? The rotten bastards shouldn’t be allowed in the country. What d’you want? The bloody Embassy burned down? We can take care of Old Bill, son.”

At any other time, Scott would have had difficulty in not laughing, he knew that Reisen meant exactly what he said. This man had always solved his problems by using extreme methods. His policy with any problem he could not understand or cope with was to remove it; and the problem usually took the form of another person. “That won’t bring Maggie back, Rex. I want her. We can deal with them later.”

“Do you know who actually snatched her?”

“A character called Kransouski. He’s venom.”

“Kran . . . wasn’t he the bastard . . . ?”

“The same one.”

“He’s still here? He should have been kicked out.”

“He did go but he’s crawled back. Behind this caper they’re out to undermine a member of Her Majesty’s Government.”

“High up?”

“Dangerously high.”

Reisen drew on his cigar and eyed Scott disconcertingly. “It’s like your past life shooting before your eyes. Shit. I’ll fix Kran-what’s-his-name if you tell me where he is.”

“He’ll have taken safeguards. And I must make sure I can get Maggie back first.” Reisen did not like his suggestions being shot down, however reasonably, so Scott added, “I agree with everything you’ve said. I feel as deeply as you do, Rex. I’d like to burn the bloody place down as well. But first we get Maggie back.”

“Can this bloke Kransouski be persuaded?”

“Maybe. If it comes to it. Is Knocker Roberts still around?”

“Knocker? You two were inside together, weren’t you? He’s still with me. But he’s slowed down, Spider. You remember that mashed-up side of his face that looked as if it was filled with wire wool? He had a grafting operation on it. I reckon it’s made it a bloody sight worse, but there you are. He’s still strong though, a bull.”

“Give him my regards.”

“He always had a soft spot for you. Didn’t you help him in stir once?”

Scott agreed. Roberts was a psychopath, but he had once saved Scott’s life. “What we want is the word spread around.” Scott pulled an envelope from his pocket. “There are a dozen recent shots of Maggie there. It would help if you can run some off. Pass them around to the boys, newsstands, cab drivers; you’ve got outlets all over the place. The fuzz have learned that Maggie was driven off in an old red Ford Escort. She was seen by a colleague and a traffic warden who had slapped a ticket on the windscreen. There’s the number of the car. It’s a start. They’ve either burned it out or it’s tucked away in a garage somewhere. Not necessarily in the smoke.”

“I’ve got provincial contacts.” Reisen took out a photograph. “Lovely girl. Never knew what she saw in you.” And then, icily, “What are the fuzz doing in this? We don’t want them in the way.”

“It was inevitable. Without them I wouldn’t have the car detail. In the envelope is also a description of the driver, for what it’s worth. There’s one more thing, Rex.” Scott sat back wondering how Reisen would take what he next had to say. “I’ve no money to pay for all this.”

Reisen’s expression changed almost imperceptibly. The dark eyes were still bright but were now hard. A long time ago Scott had likened Reisen to a gun with a too finely-balanced trigger; a jerk could make it explode. It was never possible to know which way Reisen might jump, but the fact remained that, discounting the police, he was the only man who had the facilities to organise a search in depth: in many ways his resources were far better than the official ones. He could reach dark corners the police would hesitate to tread. And his net could be cast wide. “Is Fairfax in this?” he asked reasonably. The smoke from the cigar was like a piece of string hanging above the ash.

“He’s in there somewhere. But because Maggie is personal to me, I can only get police backing. He won’t finance a deal with you while the police are operating the same search. I’m here because we go way back and because I’ve more faith in you than anyone else.” Scott pointed to the flag. “Maggie or not, that’s what it’s all about. With her back safely, and the pressure off me, I can finish the job.”

“Okay, Spider, old cock. We’ll sort out the cost later.”

Scott felt immense relief. Reisen would move fast. As an act of homage and one that he knew would please Reisen, Scott stood up and touched the flag.

Reisen nodded his approval. “Eighteen carat,” he said sombrely.

* * *

They met as they had met before, in the darkness of St James’s Park with home-goers providing a moving screen.

Denise came straight to the point. “I want to know where Scott lives. I want him out of the way for good.”

“So do I,” replied Kransouski easily. “I’m trying hard to locate him, but I’m quite content to let you finish the job if that’s what you want. Otherwise we’ll do it ourselves.”

“I can’t understand why you haven’t found him.”

“It’s not so easy for us here. Some of us are watched. Of course, there are ways and means of avoiding this, but it does cramp us at times. We are working on it through friends.”

“You had better not try to locate me through friends.”

Kransouski glanced down to see if Harry had brought the gun with him again. He could see nothing, but it was best to assume that he had. “It’s not the same thing. Scott can be a danger to our arrangement. We’ve got to find him and I am fully aware that if we tried to find you our deal would be dead. Neither of us wants that to happen.” Kransouski clasped both hands on the handle of his umbrella and continued, “I think we’ve reached a rapport, you and I. I know you’re suspicious — I would be in your position, too. It’s all a matter of priorities. I’d be a hypocrite if I claimed to have no interest in knowing where you are. Of course I’d like to know. But I’d be an absolute fool if I upset you to the extent that you took your wares elsewhere. I need what you have, and I agree to your terms. That is established but needed repeating. I might also add that if I am stupid enough to lose you through some folly of my own, then I am accountable to Moscow. They don’t suffer fools gladly there either. I think we understand one another.”

Denise said nothing so Kransouski added, “Keep your suspicions, Harry. It is healthy. I can swear that I have nobody trying to find you and if somebody disobeyed my orders he would not be seen again. That’s how seriously I take our relationship.”

“Okay. But I shall be on the lookout.”

“I trust you will be.”

“Won’t Scott be in the telephone directory?”

“Along with hundreds of others. He varies his first name and I’m not even sure that Scott is his real name. The directory won’t help you.”

“Where does he work?”

Kransouski smiled. “He used to work on the wealthiest homes. Don’t worry too much about him. I’m sure that he won’t know your London base. There’s no reason why he should find you. I’m certain that we will get to him first.”

Scott had his ways and an incentive far greater than the power that Harry seemed to thrive on. It was vital that Harry did not know that Scott was to be pressured into finding him.

* * *

Bulman was using his direct line with the switchboard phones to his ears when the door crashed open. As soon as he saw the lanky figure of Deputy Commissioner Sims, he knew that he was in trouble. With hands still holding the telephones he gave a warning glance to Detective Sergeant Haldean whose desk was against the wall. Sims was breathing fire, his eyes blazing with anger. Haldean rose and discreetly squeezed his way past the uniformed figure of the Deputy Commissioner to leave the office, closing the door quietly behind him. It was rarely that he felt sorry for George Bulman, but he did now.

Sims signalled frantically for Bulman to put down the telephones but he shrugged helplessly and continued to talk into them in turn. It would make no difference what he did now. When he replaced the receivers after a few moments, he could see that the delay had done nothing for Sims’ fury. Bulman sat back and waited for the blast.

“My God, you’ve overstepped the mark on occasion, Bulman, but this time you’ve blown it. Clear your desk, you’re suspended as from now.”

“I’m entitled to know why, sir.”

“Why?” Sims could hardly contain himself. “You raid diplomatic quarters with the heavy mob and you ask why? God, man, you didn’t even consult anyone.”

“They’re not diplomatic quarters.”

“Don’t split hairs with me. They may not be registered but that block of three houses contains only diplomats. Nobody else. They’re bawling their heads off down there. The Commissioner has already had a personal visit from the Soviet Ambassador and Moscow is screaming for retaliation. There’s hell to pay over this and we haven’t a leg to stand on. How dare you make a decision like that on your own? And you’ve involved the Serious Crime Squad. God, we’re going to have trouble.”

“The Squad are not involved. They took my word that the premises had no diplomatic immunity, even if some of the residents did. The rest are fringe agents and semi-diplomatic staff whom the Soviets don’t really need except to keep us occupied. Kransouski snatched a girl and he’s holding her somewhere. I had to move fast. I’d do it again.”

“You won’t get the chance. When the P.M. hears about it, your feet won’t touch the ground, so get out before the balloon really goes up. You’ve asked for this.”

“Sure. So did the girl I’ve no doubt. Why don’t we lick their shoes? Or better still, print an apology?”

“Don’t make it worse for yourself, Bulman. I’ll get someone in here to take over.”

“With respect, sir, you will find that beyond your brief.” But Bulman knew that he would get no official backing from Sir Lewis Hope for what he had done.

“Have the press got this story?”

“How can a raid like that escape media attention? It’ll be splashed over every sheet. Girl missing, Soviet premises raided. And I’ll tell you something else; if the Russians could put a clamp on our press, they’d do it right now. They don’t want it publicised. They’ll play merry hell behind the scenes but that is all. They’re bloody guilty.”

“You mean to say you haven’t requested a D notice?”

“No, sir, I have not. If you want censorship you see to it.”

“Out, Bulman, now.” Sims reached for a telephone. “I just hope it’s not too late.”

Bulman grabbed his coat from the hook behind the door.

“Your sense of concern over the girl touches me deeply, sir. Still, as long as we keep those Soviet bastards happy that’s all that matters.”

Sims demanded a number through the switchboard, then screamed at Bulman again. “You self-opinionated fool. You don’t even know they took her. You’re probably as right about that as about the cock-up of the raid you organised. Out, damn you. And stay out.”

“Suspended on full pay I take it, sir?” said Bulman and slammed the door as he left. He had taken only a few paces down the corridor when he turned back and opened the door again. Sims was issuing urgent instructions for a D notice. When he put down the phone, Bulman said sweetly, “Just one more thing, sir. While the Russians are rupturing their vocal cords and the Home Secretary has made profuse apologies before the P.M. sends him to the Tower, you won’t forget to mention the high-powered radio equipment and the codes we unearthed, will you, sir?” He closed the door quickly before Sims had a heart attack. Haldean appeared in the corridor. As Bulman went past him he clapped the sergeant on the shoulder. Neither man spoke.

Chapter Seventeen

On the day of the raid, Walter Clarke left for Washington with the Foreign Secretary and his entourage. He was withdrawn and had great difficulty in raising a smile for the press at the organised photo-call before boarding the 747 at Heathrow.

Clarke was more worried than he had ever been. The man who called himself Dumain had telephoned the previous night demanding a report on the next cabinet meeting, and Clarke knew that this time there was no way he could hedge. He could either produce the information or face exposure: Dumain would not allow him to prevaricate any longer. The running was over. Even if Clarke reported the whole affair to the Foreign Secretary, and through him to the Prime Minister, it was not a course for survival. And a thwarted Dumain would publish anyway. The final trap had been set.

There only remained a few days stay of execution — caused by his unannounced visit to Washington, and by the fact that the next cabinet meeting would take place in the absence of the Foreign Secretary and himself. There was no way he could avoid obtaining details of the meeting after that and, if he tried, the worst would happen. Clarke took nothing but whisky and black coffee on the seven-hour journey over the Atlantic. His future as he had envisaged it, was finished.

* * *

Denise read the short newspaper reports of Clarke’s departure to make sure he had been told the truth. He foresaw something of what might happen next, and decided to follow his instincts; Clarke’s destruction was what really mattered. He had not been completely taken in by the Russian, accepting that his new contact was too professional to do anything obvious, but knowing he would try just the same. The Russian needed to possess the influence Denise wielded over Clarke and would inevitably attempt to obtain it. But the Russians were merely tools. Once Clarke was passing significant information which would be turned over to the Russians, Denise would then betray the fact to those who mattered and Clarke’s destruction would be complete.

It was as though his blood were overheated. He had not felt this excited since he had killed his half-sister and the Algerian. It felt good to demoralise someone, get them on their knees begging for mercy, but it was never the same as total destruction. It was satisfying to make an intelligent mind suffer, but the adrenalin rose that much more quickly when he could actually see the life being squeezed from someone.

What had made Clarke more of a challenge, was this silent defiance: he had not begged for mercy, nor had he offered easy substitutes such as money. From the beginning Clarke had accepted what Denise had provided and had tried to fight his way from the corner in which he had been trapped. And yet the ultimate result had been obvious to both men. Clarke had failed to find a miracle, and Denise now knew that the final stage was to hand. The exhilaration was almost unbearable.

Denise could not sleep nor could he keep still. Everything was poised as he had planned. It had taken longer than he had hoped but that would only make it better on the day. Meanwhile he did not believe that Scott could not be found; the Russian had been too obtuse about him. He would kill Scott while Clarke was away.

* * *

Scott gazed at Bulman unsure of his own feelings. Everything was going wrong. His anguish over Maggie was partially muted by his concern for Bulman. “Suspended?” he repeated. “For trying to find a kidnapped woman?”

Bulman studied the bottle of whisky which Scott had placed, with a glass, on a table beside his chair. The bottle remained unopened as if Bulman needed to prove that in a crisis he could do without the stuff. He shrugged. “It was the way I did it; bringing the police into disrepute. People like Sims get hysterical when it comes to rocking the diplomatic boat. They’re not all like him. But we didn’t find Maggie and that made the difference.”

“Did you expect trouble over the raid?”

Bulman again looked at the bottle but his arms remained stretched along the chair. “I don’t suppose I thought about it. Anyway the Embassy has claimed that Kransouski had been in his office before and after Maggie disappeared. All day, in fact. I told Sims and I’m telling you, I’d do it all again.”

“For Maggie?”

Bulman appeared embarrassed. His craggy face turned away as if he could not face Scott, but he replied, “I owed you.”

“That was ages ago.”

“Maybe. And maybe too, if I’d have got my way, then, you’d have still been tucked away inside.”

Scott did not know what to say. He was deeply touched and it affected him the more because the feeling came so much as a surprise. “Thanks, George. But you’re out of a job.”

“It’s all under control. It was on the move long before Sims showed his face. The wheels are turning and I’ve got friends who’ll keep me posted. Don’t worry. I can operate on suspension. It’s better in a way. I’m not tied down with other jobs.”

“I’ve had a word with some friends, too.”

“I thought you might. I don’t want to know.”

“And Walter Clarke left for the States today. Are your men still watching his place?”

“Not while he’s away, but anyway Sims would have stopped that as a first priority. Keeping tabs on a minister? He wants to make Commissioner, God forbid.”

“Then I’m breaking in tonight. It will help keep my mind off Maggie and maybe I’ll find something to give us the lead we need.”

* * *

Scott went to a West End florist and bought two dozen assorted roses together with a blank greetings card. He called a cab and asked for Walter Clarke’s apartment block. There were two women listed on the name plate beside the entry phones. He rang the bell of the first one, but there was no reply.

It was mid-afternoon. Scott preferred to work in darkness, but without a front-door key he was forced to operate in daylight to gain entry to the building. He tried the second name and received a response.

“Mrs Walker?”

“Miss Walker, yes.”

“I have a bunch of flowers for you. Interflora.”

“Flowers? Who from?”

“I don’t know, ma’am. The card is sealed.”

“Bring them up.”

The buzzer went and Scott headed for an elevator. He got out at the second floor and rang the bell of Miss Walker’s apartment, keeping the roses in front of his face.

Miss Walker called out, “Leave them in front of the door, please.”

Scott did not blame her. Flowers were an old entry trick and he preferred that she did not open the door anyway. He left the roses outside, turning while he bent down so that she would miss his face through the spyhole as he straightened. Quickly, he ran up the stairs to Walter Clarke’s apartment. He opened Clarke’s door with one of his skeleton keys, stepped inside, and quietly closed the door behind him.

His first priority was to make sure the rooms were empty. Clarke was bound to have a cleaner, but generally speaking, domestics worked a morning shift. He then looked for an alternative means of exit and found a precarious one through the bathroom window which had a drainpipe running down the outside wall.

Clarke had been careful: there were no ministerial or government papers to be found anywhere. Indeed, it would be difficult for anyone without prior knowledge to guess Walter Clarke’s occupation had it not been for the two copies of Hansard lying open on the coffee table.

Scott searched minutely, taking his time as he had done in Dumanier’s flat. After the first hour the ground-floor buzzer rang. He waited, heart pounding. The ring was repeated, and was prolonged this time: someone either did not know that Clarke was away, or was trying to establish that the apartment was empty. Scott peered down through a gap in the drawing room’s net curtains but the angle was wrong. After a while he continued with his search.

Some time later the telephone rang. It pealed out as if it would never stop; one minute can be an eternity. Scott knew the techniques — obvious but effective. He believed that whoever had rung the bell had also telephoned. As a precaution he wedged a chair under the front-door handle; it would give him time to get out the other way if someone tried entry through the door.

At five o’clock he sat down at the kitchen bar to think over the problem. For all his thoroughness, he had unearthed very little: a bunch of keys at the back of a bureau drawer didn’t really amount to a very promising haul, though one of them might belong to a safety deposit box.

As Scott sat pondering he allowed his thoughts to drift back to his own past, and wondered whether he had forgotten too much. But when freedom is at stake, the lessons remain even if response to them has been slowed. Scott felt he had broken through the rust layers; he was now operating as he used to do; calmly, methodically and still with considerable expertise.

He had ample time to kill as he had no intention of leaving before it was dark and possibly not even until long after the rush hour was over. He wanted the occupants to settle down for the evening, either out or in, before leaving. He did not want to be remembered by anyone in this building. He briefly thought of Miss Walker trying to work out the identity of her secret admirer, allowed himself a brief smile, and then started work again.

It took him only four minutes to find the safe behind a ladder bookcase. There was no need to move the case and by taking out one shelf-ful of books he was able to see the safe quite clearly. He laid the books down carefully on the carpet.

The space between the shelves measured about a foot, the width of the bookcase twice that much. The safe door was about ten inches square and would, Scott estimated, open comfortably within the shelf space.

It was awkward operating through the shelf gap and difficult to get an ear close enough to the door. Scott went back to the kitchen and found a tall lemonade glass. He pulled out a plasticine wad from his jacket pocket, kneaded it round the open rim of the glass and then pressed it into the safe near the dial. The glass acted as a crude stethoscope; the sound blocked in by the seal. He started to work at the combination lock, listening for the tumblers.

It was slow, tedious and patient work. Even with the glass suctioning on the safe door, it had to be kept in place and became irritatingly tiring. When the telephone rang again Scott jumped, his concentration ruined, and he started again. There was now a pattern to the telephone calls which had become hourly, on the half hour. They were making Scott uneasy.

The safe took much longer to open than he had expected and the light was fading. He did not want to pull the drapes until it was really dark, but in preparation he had already padded a bath towel along the bottom edge of the front door.

The depth of the safe was no more than the width — about ten inches — and some papers had been folded over in order to get them in. Before touching anything, he memorised the position of the contents and then took them out layer by layer and spread them, top to bottom on a low table nearby.

Luckily, the very first document was the one Scott was after. It was a dossier, similar to those he had found in the Paris apartment, with an English translation attached. Underneath it, there were letters written in German and French, all with translations, as well as a document of commendation signed by Hitler. A press cutting from a French newspaper or magazine completed the bundle, and again, a typewritten translation was attached. Scott started with the dossier.

He was not sure at what time he rose to pull the drapes and to switch on the lights. He did not even glance at his watch. Time had suddenly become unimportant as the content of what he was reading made its riveting impact on him. Long before he finished Scott had become desperately sorry for Walter Clarke. It was all there in front of him, the whole sorry tale.

One by one Scott read every item. Each document, letter or article was a photocopy and Scott guessed that they had been done on the machine he had used in Paris.

There was no such convenience here. Clarke’s study was small and cramped without even a typewriter. Scott got down to the job of making notes. The general data was easy enough to remember, but names and certain sections were too important to trust to memory.

It was past nine o’clock before he had finished and he was late to realise that the telephone calls had stopped. Scott placed all the papers back in the safe, locked it, and put the books back in order.

He went round the rooms to check that everything was as it should be, and decided to wait until half past nine before leaving. So he rang Rex Reisen, Maggie again uppermost in his mind.

Reisen was not in his office but someone answered, and when Scott gave his name, quickly passed on the number of one of Reisen’s clubs. Scott rang again and was put through.

“Where’ve you been? I’ve been trying to get you,” Reisen shouted down the telephone.

“You must have something.” Scott was almost afraid to speak.

“I don’t sit on my arse doing sod all. We traced the car. As soon as you mentioned it, I had an idea who’d have pulled that stunt. Freddie Bannen. Red Freddie. Sometimes called ‘the Banner’. Runs a mini-cab company, and a lot else. Has messenger motorcycles and can produce drivers with crowd-control experience. They were used during the Brixton riots, directing the rioters away from Old Bill. Walkie-talkies, the lot. Probably had a hand in those up north as well. Right bastard. Anyway, the car has been used before for a snatch to raise money but not for some time. Registration plates don’t mean a thing; he has a stack of plates from old bangers. Are you listening, Spider?”

Scott found he was trembling. All he could say was, “Go on, Rex.”

“We didn’t waste time looking for the car at first. It turns out it’s in the sticks now anyway. Tucked well out of sight. The fuzz won’t find it. We went straight for Freddie. We gave him the old witches’ treatment by putting Knocker onto him. If he survived he was guilty and if he croaked he was innocent. You know the score.” Reisen laughed at his own crude joke but Scott kept silent. He was desperate to know what had happened to Maggie, but realised that first he had to endure the lead up that Reisen so obviously enjoyed. His gesture, as helpful to Scott as it appeared to be, was also the reinforcement of his own image which from time to time he felt needed a boost.

“Anyway,” Reisen went on. “Red Fred survived. Just about. Nothing wrong with him that a decent orthopaedic can’t fix.” He laughed again. “I hope the poor sod is a paid-up member of BUPA.”

“And Maggie?” Scott ventured nervously.

“Oh, yeah. Well, Freddie took her out of town and she was then handed over to a couple of goons out in the sticks who took her off in another car.”

“He doesn’t know where?”

“Right now he doesn’t know his own name. And don’t feel sorry for the bastard because what he’s just had was overdue. Besides, it gave Knocker some well-needed practice. But there was nothing more left in him, Spider. What he had, we wrung out’ve him.”

So far, no further. Scott felt the huge disappointment grow. He could not complain. He said, “Surely the cops know about this character Freddie.”

“Oh, sure. They’ve had him in and out over the years. But this time he had gone to earth and they didn’t know where to look. We have better black hole connections, old son. We eat three Shredded Wheat. It took no time at all to find the stirring bastard.”

In spite of Freddie’s obviously critical condition, Scott felt obliged to say, “Thanks, Rex.” And then, “What happens now?”

“How far do you want to go, cocker? We’ve gone halfway, Kransouski is the bloke who knows. Do you want him lifted or not?”

“That won’t be so easy to do.”

“Old Bill watching him?”

“Bound to be.”

“If this is for Queen and country, can’t you fix it? Get ’em to miss a duty or two? Won’t take us long to do the job if the coppers are looking the other way.”

Scott was silent for too long.

“Do you want it done or not?” demanded Reisen.

“I don’t want what happened to Bannen to happen to him.”

“Don’t be so bloody fussy. Okay, I’ll tell Knocker to use one hand, but if you want your Maggie back that’s the way it’s gotta be. Now do we, or don’t we?”

“Do it,” said Scott. “Just one thing. I’ll have to talk to — I’ll have to fix it. I’ll ring you later tonight or early tomorrow.”

“Done. See you, boy.”

Scott put down the telephone. He felt weak. The only way he could justify himself was by thinking of Maggie, and what she was now going through. She would be terrified and Kransouski was well trained in terror. He had to convince Bulman first and, suspended or not, Bulman was still a copper.

Scott made sure he had his notes, switched off the lights and pulled back the drapes. He stood in the darkened room for a while, then he went into the hall. He looked through the spyhole before opening the door, then took the elevator to the ground floor and let himself out.

It was that time of night when the dinner crowds had broken up and had gone on to pubs or clubs, and the theatre crowds had yet to turn out. Scott walked to South Kensington underground station to catch the Circle line. He was still lost in thought. The flat without Maggie would be unbearable with all her things around him. Everything there would remind him of her. Being half crazed with worry was something he could partially shut out, particularly while he worked, but the flat would suggest her actual presence and he considered whether he should go back or not. He needed to see Bulman anyway.

He was also worried about Reisen. When that man thought he was flying the flag he could go berserk, and would expect to get away with any excess, believing he possessed a kind of national immunity. And yet Reisen was right: the police would not solve this one. Apart from any other reasons they would be treading eggshells, working with one hand tied behind their backs.

As he sat in the near-empty tube train, totally immersed in his thoughts, Scott felt an unmistakable pinprick of warning. It came out of nothing; a spark that flared in the gloom of his mind. But suddenly he sensed that he was being followed, and that this was different from other times because with it came a sense of danger. Slowly he looked up and stared round the carriage.

Chapter Eighteen

There were plenty of empty seats. A group of youths at one end of the long coach were looking for trouble, shouting and swinging from the roof straps. Scott scanned his way down the opposite side of the coach, and across the gap to the other compartment.

Weary eyes suggested late nights at the office. A couple of tarty teenage girls ogled him suggestively and he felt pity for them. One or two elderly people stared at the adverts opposite them. There was a central core of nondescript types, both men and women. Scott’s gaze switched to his own side of the coach and, through the glass, he saw the shoes at the far end.

The legs stuck out or he might have missed them. He had last seen the handmade pair of shoes in Paris. The man’s face was behind a newspaper but just above it Scott saw the top of his head. The hair was the wrong colour, but he was not put off by this: Scott himself had worn wigs often enough. He now moved his feet noisily as if to stand up and immediately the paper was lowered, and hard bright eyes glanced towards him.

Scott rose and moved down the coach to sit next to the man with the newspaper which had shot up again to screen the face. One of the man’s elbows was on the arm rest and Scott deliberately pushed it off to make way for himself. There was no response; the paper remained where it was. It was then that Scott was sure. He put out a hand and deliberately pulled down the paper.

“Well, well,” Scott said. “Paul Dumanier. You won’t have forgotten that you gave me a drink at your place in Paris. How’s things?”

The hard eyes tried to stun Scott into silence. “You have made a mistake.” The paper came halfway up again. “That is not my name.”

“Well, I don’t suppose it is. Dumain perhaps? I found that one in Clarke’s flat. Or isn’t it that either?”

Denise kept his voice down, aware that one or two people were staring. “I do not know you and you’re beginning to make yourself objectionable.” Denise’s jaw was clamped, the muscles protruding at the joints. He was blazing angry.

Scott leaned across and touched his arm. “Come on, Paul. The wig is bloody awful, the cheek pads are crucifying you and the moustache doesn’t match the hair. The only thing that’s normal is the gun in the shoulder holster. Right-handed, I notice. But you wouldn’t shoot me now, would you? On a tube train?” Scott briefly gazed about him. “Too many passengers for one magazine to knock off. You’ll have to wait until we’re outside.”

Scott’s jibing tactics had completely unsettled the Frenchman. The hands holding the newspaper were bunched, the paper screwed into them. Scott continued, “Why did you keep ringing at Clarke’s place? Did you see me go in? Take a chance of flushing me out? Oh, by the way, I change at Paddington. It’s the nearest I can get on this line. You want to tag along? I’ll return your drink at my place.”

Denise made sure the newspaper covered his face from the other passengers. He turned his head, eyes hard with fury and hate. “I’m going to kill you, Scott.”

“Aren’t I trying to help you do it? So Kransouski told you my name, did he?”

“Who?”

“Ah! So you don’t even know who you’re dealing with. Uses a code name does he? Tom, Dick or Harry? He’d keep one of those for you. Too common for him. Tall, aristocratic? Looks as if he’s served in the British Coldstream Guards? I see I’m right. Watch him, Paul. He’s a treacherous bastard. Right now he’s using me to find you but if he’d have tagged along he’d have got us both.”

Half-turned in his seat, Scott was watching Denise closely. The Frenchman had lost some colour and did not know how to deal with the situation. He could not kill Scott in front of so many witnesses; he would have to wait. Yet he had learned something from their conversation, and other doubts had also been confirmed. When he turned to face the Englishman he spat out his malice, willing Scott to back down. But he had been taken aback by the confidence of Scott’s approach and his flippant, almost humorous manner. He began to wonder if perhaps Scott himself were armed, as both hands were now in his pockets.

“I accept your offer of a drink,” Denise said at last.

“Good, old mate. For reasons I can’t explain now it won’t be possible to knock me off in my own pad. Just take my word for it. We’ll have a chat. I mean, you must be worried sick about what I might have found at Clarke’s place. Don’t worry. I won’t tell Kransouski. Do you want me to spell that for you, by the way?”

While Scott had been talking he had been taking note of the stations. The train had stopped twice since he had joined Denise so the approaching station had to be Bayswater. As the train slowed and the platform began to slide past, Scott said, “Next one. Paddington.” But Denise was trying to keep behind his paper shield again.

The doors slid open. Denise steeled himself as he had done at each stop but Scott was relaxed, feet out and crossed. Suddenly Scott scooped his feet under Denise’s and kicked them up. Denise fell back in his seat, newspaper flying as Scott rose quickly and stepped over the Frenchman’s straddled legs. In three long strides he was at the doors as they closed. He just managed to get his hand through the gap to pull one door back and worm his way out. He released the door just before Denise reached it.

Denise was mouthing through the door and scratching at the glass, but Scott was now running for the exit. When he reached the street, he found the nearest doorway and sank back into it waiting until he was certain that the Frenchman was still on the train. Only then did the tension ease. It had taken a lot out of him to put on his uncaring act.

He rang Bulman from his apartment. It was by now half past ten and Bulman had gone to bed early after the tensions of the last two days. But he made no protest, dressed quickly and went round to Scott. It was Bulman who found the note on the mat behind Scott’s front door. Willie himself had missed it in his relief to get home and in his need to get in touch with Bulman.

The sealed envelope contained two typed words in the middle of a single folded sheet of notepaper. ‘AN EXCHANGE’. That was all.

“Posted in Croydon,” observed Bulman. “He wouldn’t risk a hand delivery. Nothing incriminating. We know what he means and that’s all that matters. It won’t trace back to K and Sims won’t dare bring him in anyway, with all the political furore.”

“Kransouski could almost have had an exchange tonight,” said Scott bitterly. “I met Dumanier, or Dumain or whatever his real name is.”

They sat down and Scott noticed the edge of pyjamas under Bulman’s trousers. He quickly told him what had happened and afterwards said, “I toyed with the idea of grabbing a cab to Paddington and picking up his trail from there. But I wouldn’t have made it and besides, there’s never a taxi when you need one. And he might have caught the next train back to Bayswater.”

“Spider, I’d move out of here. He knows you’ve been to Clarke’s, and he’ll want you dead quick. He’s only to look up the telephone directory.”

“The flat is in Maggie’s name. So is the telephone number.”

“Does he know about her?”

Scott shrugged. “Hard to say. In any event I’ve got to draw him to me or go out and find him. We both know the form.”

“The only difference is he carries a gun and you don’t. He’ll go flat out for a kill, Spider.”

“By then you’ll have the detail too so he’ll have to kill you as well. He can’t kill the whole bloody police force.”

“The whole bloody police force aren’t going to be told. If it’s really dicey about Clarke I’ve got to be sure of my facts before I tell anyone. So what did you find?”

“It’s grim,” replied Scott pulling out his notes, “and terribly sad; an impossible situation for Clarke. I now understand why he didn’t report the matter and decided to approach me as a last resort — he was really desperate to do that, you know.” Scott riffled through his notes and got them in order.

“It boils down to this,” he said. “Paulette Dumain was not Clarke’s mother. Nor was Captain Clarke his father. There was a baby all right but whether the child survived or died I don’t know. Walter Clarke is Jeanette Renore’s son. She gave birth prematurely five months after Paulette Dumain. Jeanette was a brave woman, there is absolutely no doubt of that, but her award for valour was ironic. She was a traitor, had been almost from the start of her resistance work. A good many resistance fighters in Amiens prison were there because of her treachery. To make it look good she had to join them in jail; but there was another more personal reason.

“For some time Jeanette had been the mistress of a man called Werner Hochricht. Hochricht was the Gestapo’s second-in-command in the area and operated to a large extent from the prison. He was known as the Butcher. He tortured many of Jeanette’s colleagues — to death, sometimes. And he left the others useless, maimed both in mind and body. His final death list is impossible to estimate but it must have been phenomenal.

“Jeanette was kept well away from the torture chambers so that she would not hear the horrific screams of her lover’s victims. Paulette Dumain, who was herself a true patriot, a real daughter of France, kept her company. The two were friends but Paulette had no idea to the last that Jeanette was a traitorous bitch. Presumably all prisoners were taken from their cells and tortured individually so it would be no problem for Jeanette to simulate pain and agony after having had a passionate interval with Hochricht.

“In fact, both women had been in prison for no more than four months but the finger must have been pointing at Jeanette before that, which tells us almost certainly why she was brought in. She was invaluable to the Nazis and managed to escape with others during the R.A.F. bombing raid on the prison. That would have been ideal for her. Heroic escape and back among the true resistance. If she was ever picked up, there would be no problem.

“We’ll never find out who put a bullet through Paulette’s heart. It might well have been a merciful killing, but the dossiers and the I.D. tags General Stacey lifted were almost certainly taken by Jeanette. Her own was amongst them and it had the special asterisk to indicate the status of collaborator. But she had more than that attached to the card. In Hochricht’s own handwriting was her real dossier, her anti-resistance activities, her acts of ‘bravery’ and the date of the baby’s conception according to a German army doctor. She was pregnant for three months before the bombing. Hochricht would have wanted to get her out before it showed, as she conceived in prison.”

During Scott’s narrative Bulman had remained absolutely still. He had not expected anything as far-reaching as this. “So Walter Clarke is the illegitimate son of a Nazi mass murderer, and a traitor who sent many of her colleagues to their deaths, but who holds the highest French decoration for valour. Have I got it right?”

“According to what I’ve read, that’s it. Could you live with it in his position?”

Bulman shook his head slowly. “It’s not his fault. But fingers will point. People will say the evil must show itself through the genes. If he had the pluck to stick it out, the first harsh political decision, the first sign of no compromise, and it would all start up again. He’s in an impossible position. He would be under pressure from most of his colleagues to resign for the sake of party and country. In that order. Yet it’s worse than that. If this gets out it will be worldwide. The French will expose Jeanette: a Nazi collaborator rotting away in a Riviera clinic. Relatives of the victims of her treachery and Hochricht’s sadism will start banging the dustbin lids. There might even be a show of sympathy for Clarke, but it would not last long. Sooner or later the suggestion would come that he knew and tried to keep it dark. Poor bugger.”

“His only hope lies in no-one finding out. Dumain would have to be silenced and the original documents destroyed.”

“Would you like to take that responsibility?”

Scott was silent. He stood up and paced the room.

Bulman said carefully, “It can never work. Not ever. He’s finished. And before you feel too sorry for him bear in mind that his friend Chesfield was murdered.”

“Because of him?”

Bulman clasped his hands behind his head and gazed at Scott. “I’ve thought a lot about it. Particularly since being thrown on the scrap heap. I discovered that Clarke threw a party and it seems that Chesfield went back when it was over. My guess is that in the early days of blackmail, Dumain hired Duncan Seddon to dummy for him in such an obvious way that Clarke would soon track him down. At that stage Dumain would want to know how far Clarke would go and he must have had a shock when he found out. Clarke spins a yarn to his old mate Chesfield, who, we are told, loved the man. Chesfield acts for him, hires Bert Smith and Seddon is killed. Perhaps Clarke himself didn’t think it would go so far. Maybe he simply wanted to scare the man he believed to be his blackmailer. He certainly underestimated Chesfield’s devotion to him and what he was prepared to do, and Chesfield died because of him. An unnecessary murder, since from what I learned about Chesfield showed that there was no chance of him betraying Clarke. Clarke might even have believed in the suicide. For a time, anyway.”

Scott stopped pacing and looked down at Bulman. “We’ve found the blackmail motive and we know who’s doing it. Whatever happens Dumain must be stopped and the stuff destroyed before Kransouski gets to it. At least give Clarke the opportunity to resign with dignity. He’s bright enough to start a new career.”

“What’s the hard evidence of all this, Spider?”

Scott handed over the batch of notes. “You can go through these, but I’ll tell you about the stuff I couldn’t bring. There’s Jeanette’s complete dossier, detailing her real and cover-up activities, with evidence of the baby’s conception. There is a delayed birth certificate in the name of Walter Clarke dated three months after the actual birth of Paulette’s baby. A neat subterfuge, you could say, over the two births: there are letters between her and Hochricht showing that she had a son at that time. But there is no birth certificate for Jeanette’s child, nor mention of its later existence. My feeling is that Paulette’s baby died or was even later killed when the opportunity to do a switch occurred. Jeanette lived on a remote farm with her mother who died a few years after the war. The letters are conclusive of parenthood, and of the association which is, of course, authenticated in Hochricht’s own dossier on Jeanette.

“Then there are old post-war press cuttings detailing Hochricht’s massive crimes. None of them mention his death and he might still be alive. If he is he’ll be tucked away somewhere in South America. Judging by the letters, which are handwritten, some in German, some in French, but all with typed English translations attached, there is no way Jeanette could have later married Hochricht. He was on the run after the war anyway, and the passion had probably lost steam. But she would have to explain her baby away some time and she found a way of covering up. Everyone knew she was looking after Paulette Dumain’s child. She secluded herself for long enough to get away with it. If both children had lived there would have been no more than five months between the two. Given the difficulties of the times and the post-war years, late development of ‘Paulette’s’ baby could then be explained. It’s all there.”

Bulman joined Scott by the window. “You know, the seed of uncertainty was already in Clarke’s mind. His bloody grandfather worked on him right from the beginning and never let up about the illegitimacy until he died. I don’t think it was based on real doubt; the old boy was a malicious and unfeeling bastard. All Dumain had to do was substantiate a conviction already there.”

“I’d like to get the original documents,” mused Scott, almost to himself.

Bulman glanced at Scott suspiciously. “To destroy?”

“To get Inky Peel to have a look at them.”

Bulman looked thoughtful. He said, “I’ll have to report all this. I can’t sit on it.”

“You have only my word and my notes. I know you believe me, but will your bosses? I’m an ex-con and Sims won’t listen.”

“Sims is my boss only on matters of police discipline. Why do you want to hang on?”

“To give Walter Clarke a break. He doesn’t seem to have had any so far.”

“All right. I’ve enough reason for hanging on, but it can’t be for long. You must face up to the fact that if Dumain thinks you’ve found out, he’ll expect it to become official, and that will nullify his blackmail. He won’t like that, Spider. He’ll come gunning perhaps even without waiting to find out. I can’t give you protection; I’m out in the cold. And so are you, mate. Dumain will salvage something, even if it’s only revenge.”

“I know,” said Scott. “One thing more before you go. Have you anyone tailing Kransouski?”

“I did have but I can’t tell you if he still has one.”

“If he has, can you pull them off for a bit?”

Bulman looked troubled. “Jesus. Don’t tell me. I’ll see what I can fix.”

* * *

“I want Kransouski.”

The Russian operator explained that Comrade Kransouski would not be in until ten-thirty that morning.

“You get in touch with him and tell him I want to speak to him now.” Denise almost shouted the last word.

The operator, who had been struggling with his own English, could nevertheless make out the angry breathlessness down the receiver. He would have hung up but there was an authoritative insistence about this caller. “Who is calling, please?”

“Tell him it’s Harry. And inform him that I’ll phone back in exactly one hour.”

Tom, Dick or Harry, Scott had said; Denise’s fury increased as he remembered the quip made at his expense. From now on he would take instructions from no-one.

When he telephoned back one hour later, he announced himself as Harry and demanded to speak to Kransouski.

“This is madness,” Kransouski complained. “Get off the line and give me a number where I can ring you.”

“You talk to me now or . . .”

“Or nothing. Calm down and give me a number. I’ll ring you in a matter of minutes.” The fact that Denise had obtained his name was enough to cause Kransouski to start worrying. Something had gone drastically wrong but he could not discuss it on the Embassy telephones; he always feared the worst where M.I.5 and official lines were concerned. He left the Embassy, taking his umbrella with him, and marched quickly up to Kensington High Street.

Two of Reisen’s men were standing at the corner of ‘Millionaires’ Row’ and identified him from the description Scott had passed to Reisen. They looked at each other, as if not really believing their luck. They had already learned that Kransouski had arrived at the Embassy by car, although they had been advised that he liked to walk: perhaps he knew that he was in possible danger. Yet here he was out in the open, swinging his brolly, and seemingly impervious to anyone around him as though he had the problems of the world on his mind.

The two men had been additionally lucky in being so close at hand. Armed police, who protected the Embassies down the ‘Row’, had a nasty habit of summoning ‘beat’ colleagues on their radios when they spotted loiterers. Consequently, the surveillance had been carried out from across the street, and even then, they had to change men frequently and carefully. Access to a window was needed for men using binoculars and Reisen was working on that, too.

One of the men immediately crossed the busy street and signalled to a van with its rear doors open, apparently waiting to be off-loaded. The vehicle had been there since early morning and arrangements had been made for the parking space to be kept free that evening and the following morning. The kidnap had been meticulously planned; Reisen realised from the outset that it would be better for Kransouski to be taken nearer his residence than the Embassy. And it appeared that the moment had now arisen.

The van driver closed the doors and climbed into the cab. One man followed directly behind Kransouski, all the while keeping his distance. The morning crowds were out; and conditions seemed ideal for tailing. As an added bonus, Kransouski seemed to be totally preoccupied.

When Kransouski entered the nearest telephone kiosk, his immediate tail believed that the Russian was setting some sort of trap. It was never this easy. The van driver was frantically signalled, and he pulled out, trying to find a break in the traffic in order to chance a U-turn.

Kransouski entered the kiosk, laid some coins out on top of the box and dialled the number Harry had given him. Meanwhile, Reisen’s man approached and turned his back to the kiosk, as if waiting his turn to use it.

Denise was waiting to answer. “Kransouski?”

“How did you know my name?”

“I met Scott. He broke into Clarke’s place. I followed him from there but I lost him later in the underground network.”

Thank God, reflected Kransouski. “It’s too dangerous to use my name openly. I’m James and don’t forget it.”

“You’re anything I like to call you. Do you realise that Scott could blow everything?”

“You don’t know what he’s like. If Scott found anything he won’t go running to officialdom unless he’s sure. He’s not a friend of the law. And the policeman he was working with has been suspended. But I agree it is desirable to know what he has found out.”

“Desirable? He’s got to be stopped now. Don’t you realise that everything could be ruined?”

“Of course I do. But losing your head will just make it worse. I hold the means to prevent Scott from saying anything at all, whatever it is he knows. And I’ll attend to it as soon as you are off the line.”

“You attend to what you like, but I want Scott’s address. Either you give it to me now or the whole deal is off.”

Kransouski thought quickly. Harry was verging on the hysterical. He would have to give the address. And he would have to keep Scott alive until he had what he wanted from him. If Scott had the full story Maggie could be used to extract it from him. And consequently, finding this Frenchman had to lose immediate priority.

“I’ll release what I have to the press,” threatened Denise viciously. That was another problem to be solved. Kransouski realised that he would have to come out in the open with Scott and do a quick deal. “I’m looking through my address book,” he complained. “Hang on.” Kransouski pulled out a small diary and flipped the pages near the receiver so that Harry would hear. He did not need a note of Scott’s address. “Here it is.” He called the address out slowly and then started to repeat it, but halfway through Denise slammed his phone down.

Kransouski replaced the receiver. Harry was mad and Scott must be warned. It was an ironic decision to make, but Kransouski felt that while he held Maggie, Scott would respond favourably. He flicked to the telephone numbers at the back of the diary, and began to check the coins on top of the box when the door was pulled open and a tough, but quite well-dressed man asked aggrievedly, “You going to be long, mate? There’s a queue ’ere.” He thumbed to another figure behind him.

“Just one more call,” Kransouski apologised. “A short one.”

“You’ve made your last call, mate. Pick up your change.”

The tone was still amiable, but the man’s expression had changed. Kransouski stared down at the long blade of the knife and then up at the bleak, challenging eyes. The box was cramped even with the door half open. The man outside conveniently covered the door gap.

“What do you think you’re doing? I’m a Soviet diplomat.”

“And I’m Flash ’Arry. I know who you are, sport. Now be sensible. I’ve very strict instructions about you and I do what I’m told. Any trouble from you and you’ll get this blade straight in your guts or up your kidneys depending on which way you’re facing. My mate here has a gun so one of us is going to get you. Right?”

“But you’ve made a mistake. I can’t be the man you want.”

“If you’re not, it will soon be cleared up, old son, so don’t fret. We’ll return you right here. Soviet diplomat, did you say? What’s that?”

“Russian.” Kransouski was putting on an act of fear but his mind was working fast.

“Russian. You bastards cause enough trouble so don’t rile me anymore. There’s a blue van right outside this box. Just get in the back and be a good diplomat. Okay? I would enjoy pig-sticking you, so don’t tempt me.”

A change in Kransouski’s eyes must have warned the man. Without knowing what, he sensed that something was about to happen. With his free hand he thumped Kransouski under the ribs. Kransouski gasped but the blow had been partially softened by his top coat. The knife came up under Kransouski’s chin to straighten him and the fist went in again.

The man held on to Kransouski as he doubled forward; he called out, “Charlie, the poor bugger’s been taken ill, let’s get him back home.”

The two men bundled Kransouski across the pavement to the stares of passers-by, but they kept up the banter and made sympathetic noises even as they pushed Kransouski into the back of the waiting van. Kransouski was recovering fast. He fell on his knees and decided to try the break, but when he turned a gun with a silencer was staring at him, and above it, a crude face that bade him try. The first man went back to the kiosk to collect the umbrella and the loose change lying on top of the box, before climbing into the back with the others. It had all been so unbelievably easy.

Chapter Nineteen

Hank Miller did not report to Bill Hahn until just before lunch. He expected trouble, for the message had been classified as urgent.

Hahn looked up. “I’ll buy you lunch,” he said. “Where do you usually go?”

Lunch on Hahn? Miller reasoned that he was being sent back to the States and Hahn was trying to soften the blow. In which case a condemned man was entitled to a last request. “I’ll go wherever you usually go.” Hahn considered himself a gourmet; let him dig deep, reflected Miller.

“Okay. Have you seen Scott yet?”

“No, but I intend to today. I had to fly to Scotland. There was some trouble on Polaris. I’m just back.”

“Of course. Well, forget Scott. And Walter Clarke. Forget the whole thing.”

“Why, what’s happened?”

“Put it all out of your mind. It’s dead.”

“What about Washington? Clarke is out there now.”

“I understand it’s under control.”

“Whose control? The Company’s or the Firm’s?”

Hahn hesitated. “We’re not involved, so you won’t get a memo on it. Come on, I’ll buy you the best lunch in town.”

“You trying to buy me off with a lunch?” asked Miller good-humouredly. “I’d drop it for nothing.”

“No,” said Hahn as he reached the door. “I’m trying to educate your taste buds. It’ll be down to expenses.”

So now it won’t taste the same, Miller reflected as he followed Hahn out of the door.

* * *

Scott rang Reisen at his office. “Is Knocker free, Rex?”

“What do you want him for?”

“To watch my back for a day or two.”

“So they’re after you? Well, let me put it this way. A certain gent offered himself up this morning. He pulled the net round himself and Knocker is interviewing him right now. Do you want me to take him off?”

Scott’s pulse raced. “You’ve got Kransouski? Christ. No, keep Knocker there.”

“The guy’s resisting. He’s had some practice so it might take a little time. I’ve told Knocker to leave some pieces for you, so that’s slowing the process down a bit. Where will you be?”

“Here, at home.” He wanted to thank Reisen but the sudden image of Knocker Roberts with Kransouski made the words stick in his throat. He hung up, at once relieved that Reisen had managed to snatch Kransouski and worried sick at the outcome. But if it meant getting Maggie back at Kransouski’s expense, he had no qualms. He had seen Kransouski operate. And Knocker Roberts, too.

George Bulman called at lunchtime, bringing fish and chips for them both. “I’ll bung them in the oven, Spider, they’re getting cold.” He took them into the kitchen and turned the oven on. Scott handed him some plates.

When they were back in the drawing room, Scott produced a bottle of Scotch and half-filled the glasses.

Bulman raised his brows. “Something to celebrate?”

“Kransouski’s disappeared. The way I heard it he gave himself up.”

Bulman spluttered over his drink. “I haven’t heard a thing.” Bulman reached for the telephone. He punched out the numbers with his back to Scott and the exchange was so low-key and mumbled that Scott could only catch the odd word. “It’s not news yet,” Bulman said when he had finished.

“You sure?”

“My source is sound. Maybe they don’t know he’s missing. So, you’re waiting for him to talk?”

“Someone is and the sooner the better.”

“Well, that certainly sounds promising.” But the unspoken reservation queried what had happened to Maggie in the interim. Kransouski had probably left precise instructions on what should be done to her should he disappear or come to some harm, and Bulman could see that Scott was worried sick.

“I can’t raise a thing about Dumain — or Dumanier. I’ve been on to my Sûreté pal in Paris, but he needs dabs, of course.”

“If Dumain calls here I’ll get them for you.”

“If he calls here, you get out bloody quick. By the way, I hope Kransouski doesn’t croak. He’s not a young man. We’ll all be inside if that happens.”

“It worries me, too, but if that’s what it costs to get Maggie back, I won’t worry for too long.”

“You’re expecting Dumain, aren’t you?”

“In his position I’d be out looking. He’ll find me.”

“You want me to hang around?” Bulman grinned wryly. “I’ve got time on my hands.”

“You’re in enough trouble. Don’t worry.”

“I do worry, Spider. Because for once you’re not coming clean. That man is dangerous. He’s handled Kransouski and he’s got Walter Clarke climbing the wall. Nicolai Gorkin was sent back to Moscow because he could not track him down. He’s kept out of reach and he’s playing a very peculiar game. Don’t underestimate him, Spider.”

“I know what sort of bastard he is.”

“Yeah. Well, knowing and handling are two different things.”

* * *

After Bulman had left, Scott went up to the roof and tested the fixing of the drainage stack running past his bathroom window. It was solid and the brackets were well-secured. He tried the stack further down by kneeling on the sill of his bathroom window, though it was hardly the best time to try; the streets were busy and anyone who happened to look up might see him. He then took the elevator down to the boiler room and collected a coil of rope which he kept with his bicycle.

Back in the flat he removed all the window locks but left the retaining bars which governed how far the window could be opened.

Scott had to wait for darkness before he could take his next step, surmising that Dumain would not risk visiting him in daylight. With the lights out he climbed from the bathroom window to the drainage stack, knee-gripped it, then tied the rope firmly to the nearest bracket above the window, making two loops for footholds. He fashioned a pulley arrangement so that he could vary the length of the rope, and brought the two ends back with him to dangle over the bathroom windowsill. He then took all windows off the catch so that a push would open any one of them. He pulled the curtains across and switched on the drawing room and kitchen lights.

He went round the apartment to ensure that he had gone as far as he could with preparations, then made himself a sandwich and coffee and took them into the hall and squatted behind the door. Scott was back to doing one of the things he did best: waiting.

The evening stretched out into night. Sometimes he would rise, always silently, and stretch arms and legs. He had taken the cup and plate back to the kitchen and had put them in the dishwasher but had left both drawing room and kitchen doors wide open so that he did not at any time lose eye contact with the front door.

At eleven o’clock Scott was still waiting and had fallen into a state of mental blackout. He closed his mind to everything except sound. Thirty minutes later he put out all the lights as he would normally do and at midnight he was still there, shifting position now and then but never carelessly. At no time did he think of ending the vigil: he would not consider doing that until after the period of deepest sleep, which occurs at about four a.m., and he would stay for at least another half hour after that.

Two o’clock passed without him showing signs of impatience. Any fidgeting he did was done noiselessly to ease his circulation. That nothing had happened did not surprise him. But at half past two he heard the first sounds and immediately became fully alert. There was the faintest scratching around the lock.

He hurried to the bathroom, opened the window wide, climbed on the sill, slipped his feet in the loops, leaned out letting the rope take the strain on the stack, reached out to close the window then removed his feet from the sill and swung over. The bracket and the stack took his weight. He pulled on the rope and rose above window level. Then he wound the rope round the bracket to stay in position.

Scott was not comfortable but was ready for quite a long wait.

* * *

Denise opened the front door expertly. He gently pushed it but the chain stopped it going any further. So, Scott was in. Sliding bolt-cutters through the gap he cut the chain, waiting anxiously for a reaction from the tinkle of the links as it fell apart. He put the cutters back in his belt under his jacket and took out his Colt: the silencer had already been screwed into place. Slowly he pushed the door right back against the wall where Scott had been sitting. The closed drawing room door faced him and Denise shut the front door quietly.

He opened the drawing room door, standing to one side as he pushed it back and produced a pencil torch, avoiding the area of two other doors he was able to pick out without its beam. The room was empty as he expected it to be. After searching the bedroom, he continued on to the kitchen, the bathroom and the small dining room. The apartment was deserted — so how had the front-door chain been fitted into place?

Denise felt a nervous prickle at the back of his neck. He went back to the bedroom, looked under the bed, and inside the built-in wardrobe; there was nowhere else to hide. He stood in the middle of the room, pivoting and swinging his gun. Scott just had to be here.

Denise felt a faint draught and thought he saw a curtain move. Then he distinctly heard a rattle behind it although the curtains were not floor length and there was nowhere behind them to hide. Nevertheless he carefully lifted the left-hand corner: there was less than six inches between the curtain and the window. He noticed that the windows were unlocked — that had obviously caused the rattling. He now felt uneasy and extremely edgy, ready to fire at anything. He checked the windows in every room and found that every one of them was not opened on its bar but simply left unlocked.

Denise knew he had been tricked, but he could not understand how. His skin was crawling. He had moved expertly, found every hiding place, and yet discovered no-one. He examined the windows again. Why were the locks missing? He could see where they had been screwed to the wooden frames. True, he was five floors up and security was not such a problem, but Scott was a burglar, and he would know better. The retaining bars could keep the windows closed but they could be easily opened just the same. If Scott had served time, perhaps he could not tolerate the feeling of being locked in.

Denise went round the windows in turn, pushing them open, and looking out and down, sideways and up. He then reasoned that Scott had somehow left by one of the windows. In which case he might be waiting outside ready to shoot Denise as he left. It was a psychological disadvantage; Denise could not conceive that Scott would not be armed in such a situation.

He had never experienced fear himself but had often seen and enjoyed it in others. Even now he did not feel afraid but nevertheless his degree of unease was something new. He locked the front door, then moved a chair to back onto the far drawing room wall which faced the hall door, sat down and decided to wait. The drawing room windows were in view and he was level with the bedroom and kitchen doors. Scott had to materialise some time.

* * *

Scott had meanwhile flattened himself against the wall on the far side of the stack, knowing that, in the pitch black he could not be seen. He had no idea how long the search would be but he tried to imagine himself in the Frenchman’s position; he would be puzzled but would he finally leave or wait? Scott decided to move when it became increasingly difficult to remain as he was, his arms and legs now aching.

* * *

Using the rope as a pendulum he pushed himself away from the stack and swung over to the sill. He levered the window open very slowly, ready to swing back at the first warning. Crouching in the gap of the open window, he noticed that the door had been closed. Keeping a firm grip on the rope he stepped onto the carpeted floor. He pulled out a clasp knife and reached back to cut a good length off the rope. He undid the foot loop and then weighted the end of the rope by tying a large knot.

Scott well knew why the door had been closed and guessed that the others were closed too. Opening doors could make noise and produce draughts. But it did indicate that someone was waiting.

Knowing that his life depended on it, Scott knelt at the door and depressed the handle. As a matter of old habit, he always made sure that handles and hinges did not squeak. On hands and knees, he crawled through the bedroom to satisfy himself that it was empty. The door which led to the drawing room was designed to open towards him and was located on the wall facing the hall door. He did not know that Denise had his back to the same wall. At the other end of that wall was the kitchen door.

Scott depressed the handle a fraction at a time and when it was fully down he held it there. Maintaining his grip, he half-flattened himself and pulled the door slowly inwards. When there was sufficient gap he slowly released the handle and made sure it went back all the way. Now he flattened himself fully and inched forward. With his head round the doorway, he took stock.

Night sight had never been a problem; he had always thrived at night and could now see quite clearly. The Frenchman’s head was down as if he were asleep but Scott knew that he would not be. The gun, unfortunately for Scott, was held between the knees so that it was not clearly visible. It was necessary to get the gun up.

Scott withdrew into the bedroom. A coin would have served his purpose but he had emptied his pockets of anything that might clink or rattle. On a dressing chest was a glass pot containing some cufflinks he never wore. He delicately picked out a stud and went back to the door, where he knelt just out of sight.

It was so utterly silent in the apartment that even the movement of the stud through the air might be heard. Scott waited until the Frenchman moved his position slightly, then threw the stud at the hall door. It struck the frame lightly, but it was enough; in the deep silence it sounded like a pistol shot.

Denise rose as though jerked forward. The Colt came up and two shots went straight through the hall door. Realising that he had acted too swiftly, Denise was on his feet and racing for the door as Scott rose and swished the rope over like a bolas, the weight of the knot encircling the rope round the Frenchman’s wrist. Scott pulled hard and Denise snarled as he lost balance on his way across the room. The gun went off twice more, plaster cascaded down, and wood splinters flew off from a ricochet.

With Denise unbalanced, the gun wrist held with tourniquet tightness, Scott kicked the Frenchman’s legs from beneath him and as he fell, held on grimly to the rope which he wrenched again. Denise screamed out and Scott hammered his heel onto the gun wrist until the fingers opened and the gun fell free.

Denise reared when Scott picked up the gun and struck him back-handed with the barrel. As Denise fell back, Scott cracked his jaw again and the Frenchman arched. Scott wasted no time. Keeping the gun in his hand he unwound the rope, turned the unconscious man onto his face and rapidly tied his wrists behind his back. There was enough free rope to cut off and use to tie the ankles.

Scott sat back on his heels. He was panting but relieved. From the outset he had known that to stand any chance, he would have to get this man very quickly. He went back to the bathroom, climbed onto the sill, fetched the second branch rope with the remaining foothold, anchored it and went back for the unconscious captive. He tied the rope round his bound feet and hoisted him onto the sill. He needed more rope, so he went into the kitchen and cut a length from an ordinary ball of thick string which he looped loosely round the man’s neck. He tested the rope then pushed him out of the window. The body dropped slightly, and swung sideways, but before he crashed against the rain stack, Scott checked him with the attached string, pulled him towards the window and fastened the truss. Denise now hung upside down at an angle, his head at window level.

Scott waited for him to come round. It took longer than he had anticipated and happened in stages. Denise struggled at first, but as he gradually realised that he was not only tied but suspended above an empty street, he quietened and tried to get sight of Scott.

“Don’t raise your voice or I’ll drop you,” Scott warned convincingly.

At the threat Dumain immediately became still. He was now fully conscious and undoubtedly aware of his horrific predicament. As he watched his captive for further movement, Scott realised that under the bravado, Dumain was terrified. Was he scared of heights? Scott had seen those quickly forming sweat beads before.

Scott said evenly, “Listen carefully, you sadistic bastard. Get it into your head that I believe all blackmailers should die in agony. The drop will break every stinking bone in your body and what’s more, there’ll be plenty of time to reflect on it on the way down. You hear me? I want to know all about you: your real name, where you’re from, who you’re dealing with, and where you’re hiding the original dossiers and letters. Start talking now.”

“You’re wasting your time. You won’t drop me. And you won’t kill me.”

Scott raised the gun, steadied his hands against the sill, aimed and fired. The bullet struck the rope which jerked to send Denise spinning. Scott steadied the movement down by using the string. Denise was almost whimpering from fright. For the first time in his life he was on the receiving end of terror.

Scott said, “There’s a lot of crap on films about single shots severing a rope. There’s too much give in a rope, too little flat surface. But you can chip away at them. Weaken them. Even in darkness, it’s easy at this range. I can see where I’ve cut some strands. Bring your head up and see for yourself.”

“You bastard.” But Denise’s voice was shaking uncontrollably.

“I’ve checked the magazine. There are four rounds left. More than enough.” He raised the gun again. “It’s up to you, old son. You give me a run down or you’ll be scrambled on the street.”

* * *

Walter Clarke went to his hotel room. His head was aching and had been for the last two days. He was due to return to England with the others the next day and he was dreading it. He had won time from Dumain but had come up with nothing to help himself. His days in Washington had been busy and had helped to keep his mind off what awaited him in London. The evenings had been fully occupied, dinner at the White House the first night, a reciprocal at the British Embassy the next. Both occasions had been late, and each time he had drunk more than he should. Once he was back in his own room, the nightmare always returned.

The Foreign Secretary had again remarked that Clarke seemed tense, and to appease him he went to an Embassy doctor. The visit did not diminish his problem but at least he was able to obtain sleeping tablets. He now found that he could not get through the night without them and even then ugly reality would penetrate the drugged sleep so that he would struggle awake sweating, compelled to take another pill to help quell the terror.

As he undressed now, Clarke could see in the wardrobe mirror that the strain was taking its toll. He looked haggard and old. He really did not know what to do. He climbed into his pyjamas and got into bed leaving one side-lamp on. He was too afraid to sleep and reached across to the bedside table for water and for the sleeping pills. He already felt dehydrated from the quantity of spirits he had consumed that evening. He took two pills and swallowed most of the iced water to quench his thirst. He sat up and waited for drowsiness to overcome him. Sleep eventually came but his face and hands twitched as dread crept into oblivion with him.

His terror drifted into a lighter fantasy. He dreamed that two men had come into the room. He could only see fuzzed images with several outlines like auras round them but knew they were men because of their voices. They moved very quietly so as not to awaken him. Clarke supposed they had come to pull up the sheet he had forced down the bed through restlessness. He thought he heard one of them murmur, “He’s half done the job for us.”

What job? Why half done? Clarke momentarily tried to pierce the drug that had claimed his mind. He must be hallucinating, yet somehow he found relief in it and he stopped struggling against sleep. Then he felt something cold being pushed into his mouth; that wasn’t so good. And something soft was smothering him. He tried to struggle, but then a grenade burst inside his head, and he would not need the sleeping pills anymore.

Clarke was found mid-morning with a pillow over his face. Under the pillow was a Saturday Night Special still clutched in his hand which had fallen away from the ugly mess of his mouth. Underneath the jagged cavity at the back of his head the bed was a bloodied mess. It was this, mainly, that had made the room-maid scream and scream moments after she had removed the pillow from his face.

* * *

“You want me to go in with you?” Knocker Roberts sat beside Scott in the car.

“Perhaps you’d better. Kransouski might have lied.” Scott glanced at the granite face of Roberts and agreed with Reisen; the operation on Roberts’ face had done nothing for him. Time had eroded an already rough skin to make it appear harder and meaner than Scott recalled. His very appearance would scare most people and Roberts was at least twice as tough as he looked.

The street was ordinary, the house small and screened by well-matured shrubs and trees. The two men walked down the short drive to the front door. Roberts pulled out a gun.

Scott said, “If you use that the whole neighbourhood will call the fuzz.”

Roberts was disgusted. “I don’t need it. But as you say, that Russian bastard might have lied to gain some time. I’ll finish him if he has.”

Scott rang the bell. Nobody came and he rang again. Roberts stepped back, ready to kick the door down. Scott said, “Hold it. I can open that window.” He sprung the catch and climbed through, very warily. The room was sparsely furnished, small and empty. He carefully entered the hall and let Roberts in.

They searched the downstairs between them. It was deserted but the back door was unlocked.

“Scarpered,” suggested Roberts. “Didn’t like the look of us.”

It was possible. According to Kransouski, Maggie was in the care of a woman. Checks were frequently made by telephone. The Russian had also given assurances that Maggie had not yet been touched; that would have come later had Scott failed to unearth Denise and his blackmail material.

They found Maggie tied to a bed upstairs. The windows were shuttered to dull any calls for help but she was, in any event, gagged. She cried in relief as they untied her. Knocker Roberts even had the good grace to leave the room when she and Scott fiercely embraced. Roberts could not help wondering why it never happened to him and a momentary sadness crept into the brittle eyes.

On the way back to London, Roberts, who was driving, asked what he should do with the Russian. “Shall I dump him on the Embassy steps?”

“The police would have you. Wait until night and you can drop him at an address I’ll give you.” With trepidation Scott asked, “Can he walk?”

“I don’t know, Spider. He hasn’t had a chance to try. You want to see him? He’s holed up in Camden.”

Scott had seen the results of Knocker Roberts’ work long ago and the memory was still with him. He glanced at Maggie whose head was cradled on his shoulder. Now and again she shuddered as she held onto him like a terrified kitten. He had no regrets about Kransouski, but actually seeing the results of Knocker’s intervention was a different matter altogether. “No thanks,” he said finally. “You tidy him up.” Which would not be easy.

* * *

“How long can you keep him without charging him?”

Bulman looked wisely at Scott and said, “Sometimes I can’t believe your naïvety. Particularly with your background. We’ve nothing to hold him on and we can’t prove blackmail with Walter Clarke gone.”

“All I want is a little time.”

“The original documents are due from Paris some time today. There was a technical problem with the safety deposit people but the Sûreté have acted like lightning over this. Once we knew he was Jeanette Renore’s son, everything slotted into place over there. Jeanette had a married cousin by the name of Jacqueline Denise who could not have children of her own. To avoid the possibility of incriminating speculation, an adoption for the baby was arranged long before it was born. They were turbulent, chaotic days and by then the allied invasion had started. Law and order was at a minimum. The cousin registered the baby as her own.

“Years later Denise found out that his ‘mother’ was infertile. He probably wrung the truth of the adoption from her and from that moment he went looking for his real mother. It couldn’t have been easy, Jeanette had married a few years after the war and had drifted south. The marriage was a failure, and the husband pushed off after a couple of years, but Jeanette had a daughter by him.

“It seemed that Denise was hell bent on wrecking the family to which he rightly belonged. He certainly managed that. He killed his half-sister and from that point Jeanette went rapidly downhill: Denise himself was put away in a criminal asylum for some years.”

“Do I get the time or not?” Scott demanded.

Maggie came in with a tray of coffee. Bulman gave her close scrutiny, but beyond being unusually quiet she appeared none the worse for her experience. He reflected that the same could not be said of Kransouski who had been stretchered back to Moscow with, strangely, no complaints from the Soviets. Scott pecked Maggie on the cheek as she bent over to place the tray. They were happy because there had been no need to put the wedding back.

“Of course you get the time. Denise is tucked away in a very special prison. When he gets out, he’ll be in no position to beef.”

“My fear is that he’ll release his guff to the press just for spite. At least let Clarke stay dead.”

“We can’t stop Denise. All we can do is to send him back to France.”

“What about trying to kill me?”

“You want to press charges?”

Scott shook his head. “I’ll tell you one thing, though. Denise may have sung like a canary once he lost his bottle but I don’t think he told it all. I think he told me just enough for me to pull him back into the room.”

* * *

Later that day Scott obtained special dispensation to take the original blackmail documents to Lennie Peel at Wandsworth prison. By the strange influence of the still-suspended George Bulman, Peel was given a cell of his own in the overcrowded prison while he examined the documents. It was strange, too, that George Bulman did not insist on calling in a handwriting expert, however technically qualified. Bulman knew, as Scott did, that there was no greater expert than a master forger.

Two days later Lennie Peel gave his verdict and George Bulman invited Maggie, Scott, and Sir Stuart Halliman to dinner. Sir Stuart made his excuses not to attend but he arranged champagne for them and sent Maggie a superb orchid. Bulman destroyed his image of meanness by taking them to the Mirabelle, a restaurant well above his income level, frequented by millionaires and those in high society. Scott couldn’t help wondering who was paying. They waited for coffee before entering into the subject of Clarke in depth.

“How many of the letters were forged?” asked Bulman.

“About half. The dossier is genuine, and the hand notes are certainly Hochricht’s when compared with the genuine letter. The forgeries are top quality, but it is these that give the damning information about Clarke’s parentage. It’s strong stuff. Very convincing.”

All three were silent and it was Maggie who eventually spoke. “So Walter Clarke was Paulette Dumain’s son. How dreadful. He — need not have died.”

Scott laid a hand over hers. “It’s not so simple.” He glanced at Bulman who took his cue.

“Maggie,” said Bulman heavily, “there are points about this that we’ll never know for certain. Denise has all the answers but he’s confusing fact with fiction. He’s mad. We’ve had a trick cyclist onto him, and I personally think what happened was this:

“We don’t know what went on between Jeanette and Denise when he eventually caught up with her. He obviously unearthed the dossiers and letters. Why Jeanette kept her own dossier is difficult to understand. The others could have been useful to the Nazis had the war continued, and perhaps she kept hers initially as insurance against uninformed German capture. She probably hid them all. The letters are more understandable; most women cherish their love letters. She may have forgotten about them as life returned to normal or she may have kept hers as some secret and highly personal penance. The forgeries that Denise later arranged to have done cleverly followed the same vein as the originals but slanted away from the truth.

“When Denise got digging, he didn’t stop until he had dug all the way. There was no safe hiding place from him. He probably killed his half-sister because she found out something of what he was up to. All his plans were suspended while he was in the asylum, but he had plenty of time to build up an intense hatred for the child who had been cossetted for almost two years by Jeanette, who had kicked her own son out soon after he was born.

“After his eventual release he would have wanted to trace Walter Clarke and enact a revenge. But the years of incarceration had provided him with cunning and there was the plain matter of survival. He was brilliant, in his way. From nothing he built up a highly successful wine business in the Rhone Valley. It took time but his need for revenge never waned. But at least, he had the money to search for Walter Clarke.”

While Bulman sipped his coffee Scott reflected on the wreck of the woman he had visited in France. “Jeanette must have known what her son intended to do. That must have been when her real trauma began. She had no defence he could not destroy and that probably sent her over the edge. Denise had looked up his Nazi father’s history because he sent press cuttings to Clarke. The irony is that she probably looked after young Walter Clarke because the resistance boys who had rescued her knew the baby was Paulette’s and it would look good for Jeanette with what she had to hide. And later, Denise would have been living evidence against her had she kept him.”

The mood round the table was solemn until Bulman said cheerfully, “I think you should know that my Sûreté pal told me that an Algerian master forger was found dead with his head buried in molten lead. It was about the time when you met Denise over there, Willie.”

Maggie shivered. “I can’t stop thinking of Walter Clarke. The poor man blew his brains out for nothing.” While Maggie was speaking, Scott was watching Bulman’s reaction very closely, and was perturbed by the lack of it.

“Not quite for nothing, Maggie,” replied Bulman. “He used his friend Gordon Chesfield who died for him after Seddon was murdered and Bert Smith was put away for life.”

Avoiding Scott’s gaze, Bulman added, “Denise craved a birthright, and when he found it he wished to God he never had. He probably gets satisfaction from seeing his mother slowly rot away in a clinic. I’ll have to let him go. He can’t get the stuff published because I can now tell him which letters he’s had forged. We’ll keep all the originals. They’ll deal with him over there.”

“In the same way that we dealt with Walter Clarke?” asked Scott softly.

Maggie suddenly kept quiet. She knew what it meant when he looked like that, and with utter dismay realised that he was right. She felt cold.

“Willie, what are you on about?” asked Bulman blandly.

“You know what I’m on about.”

Bulman called the waiter for more coffee. “You’re a suspicious bugger. Sorry, Maggie. Walter Clarke started to die the day he met his grandfather. He drove himself through life trying to run from the doubts that man had planted. Clarke and Denise. It happened to them both in different ways. C’est la guerre.”

THE END

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Also by Kenneth Royce

SPIDER SCOTT THRILLERS

Book 1: THE XYY MAN

Book 2: THE CONCRETE BOOT

Book 3: THE MINIATURES FRAME

Book 4: SPIDER UNDERGROUND

Book 5: TRAP SPIDER

Book 6: THE CRYPTO MAN

Book 7: THE MOSLEY RECEIPT

Discover The Next Book In The Series

THE MOSLEY RECEIPT

UK www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B0DM2HZH8G

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Retired detective Tom Moody is found dead in his home, drowned in his bathtub. His death is ruled an accident, but his daughter isn’t convinced — Moody was skittish and acting out of character a few weeks before his death.

Determined to uncover the truth, Moody’s daughter asks Spider for help. He reluctantly agrees and enlists the help of his old nemesis turned ally, DS Bulman.

Navigating the lies and secrets of this case soon proves dangerous when they discover Moody didn’t just slip in the bath . . . he was silenced.

Moody wasn’t retired, he was working closely with MI5. His recent investigation exposed secrets that cost him his life and may soon endanger others around him.

Can Spider and Bulman hunt down the killer and risk everything to uncover the truth?

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Glossary of English Usage for US Readers

A & E: accident and emergency department in a hospital

Aggro: violent behaviour, aggression

Air raid: attack in which bombs are dropped from aircraft on ground targets

Allotment: a plot of land rented by an individual for growing fruit, vegetables or flowers

Anorak: nerd (it also means a waterproof jacket)

Artex: textured plaster finish for walls and ceilings

A levels: exams taken between 16 and 18

Auld Reekie: Edinburgh

Au pair: live-in childcare helper, often a young woman

Barm: bread roll

Barney: argument

Beaker: glass or cup for holding liquids

Beemer: BMW car or motorcycle

Benefits: social security

Bent: corrupt

Bin: wastebasket (noun), or throw in rubbish (verb)

Biscuit: cookie

Blackpool Lights: gaudy illuminations in a seaside town

Bloke: guy

Blow: cocaine

Blower: telephone

Blues and twos: emergency vehicles

Bob: money, e.g. ‘That must have cost a few bob.’

Bobby: policeman

Broadsheet: quality newspaper (New York Times would be a US example)

Brown bread: rhyming slang for dead

Bun: small cake

Bunk: escape, e.g. ‘do a bunk’

Burger bar: hamburger fast-food restaurant

Buy-to-let: buying a house/apartment to rent it out for profit

Charity shop: thrift store

Carrier bag: plastic bag from supermarket

Care home: an institution where old people are cared for

Car park: parking lot

CBeebies: kids’ TV

Chat-up: flirt, trying to pick up someone with witty banter or compliments

Chemist: pharmacy

Chinwag: conversation

Chippie: fast-food place selling chips, battered fish and other fried food

Chips: French fries but thicker

CID: Criminal Investigation Department

Civvy Street: civilian life (as opposed to army)

Clock: punch (in an altercation) or register

Cock-up: mess up, make a mistake

Cockney: a native of East London

Common: an area of park land or lower class

Comprehensive school (comp.): a public (re state-run) high school

Cop hold of: grab

Copper: police officer

Coverall: coveralls, or boiler suit

CPS: Crown Prosecution Service, who decide whether police cases go forward

Childminder: someone paid to look after children

Council: local government

Dan Dare: hero from Eagle comic

DC: detective constable

Deck: one of the landings on a floor of a tower block

Deck: hit (verb)

Desperate Dan: very strong comic book character

DI: detective inspector

Digestive biscuit: plain cookie

Digs: student lodgings

Do a runner: disappear

Do one: go away

Doc Martens: heavy boots with an air-cushioned sole, also DMs, Docs

Donkey’s years: long time

Drum: house

DS: detective sergeant

ED: emergency department of a hospital

Eagle: children’s comic, marketed at boys

Early dart: to leave work early

Eggy soldiers: strips of toast with a boiled, runny egg

Enforcer: police battering ram

Estate: public/social housing estate (similar to housing projects)

Estate agent: realtor

Falklands War: war between Britain and Argentina in 1982

Fag: cigarette

Father Christmas: Santa Claus

Filth: police (insulting)

Forces: army, navy and air force

FMO: force medical officer

Fried slice: fried bread

Fuzz: police

Garda: Irish police

GCSEs: exams taken between age 14 and 16, replaced O levels in 1988

Gendarmerie: French national police force

Geordie: from Newcastle

Garden centre: a business where plants and gardening equipment are sold

Gob: mouth, can also mean phlegm or spit

GP: general practitioner, a doctor based in the community

Graft: hard work

Gran: grandmother

Hancock: Tony Hancock, English comedian popular in 1950s

Hard nut: tough person

HGV: heavy goods vehicle, truck

HOLMES: UK police computer system used during investigation of major incidents

Home: care home for elderly or sick people

Hoover: vacuum cleaner

I’ll be blowed: expression of surprise

In care: refers to a child taken away from their family by the social services

Inne: isn’t he

Interpol: international police organisation

Iron Lady: Margaret Thatcher, applied to any strong woman

ITU: intensive therapy unit in hospital

Jane/John Doe: a person whose identity is unknown/anonymous

JCB: a manufacturer of construction machinery, like mechanical excavators

Jerry-built: badly made

Jungle: nickname given to migrant camp near Calais

Lad: young man

Lass: young woman

Lift: elevator

Lord Lucan: famous British aristocrat who allegedly killed his children’s nanny and disappeared in 1974 and was never found

Lorry: truck

Lovely jubbly: said when someone is pleased

Luftwaffe: German air force

M&S: Marks and Spencer, a food and clothes shop

Miss Marple: detective in a series of books by Agatha Christie, often used to imply a busybody, especially of older women

MOD: Ministry of Defence

Mobile phone: cell phone

MP: Member of Parliament, politician representing an area

MRSA: A strain of antibiotic-resistant bacteria

Myra Hindley: famous British serial killer

Naff: tacky/corny, not cool

Naff all: none

National Service: compulsory military service, in the UK ended in 60s

Net curtains: a type of semi-transparent lace curtain

NHS: National Health Service, public health service of the UK

Nick: police station (as verb: to arrest)

Nowt: nothing

Nutter: insane person, can be used affectionately

Nursery: a place which grows plants, shrubs and trees for sale (often wholesale)

O levels: exams taken between age 14 and 16 until 1988 (replaced by GCSEs)

Old bag: old woman (insulting)

Old Bill: police

OTT: over the top

Owt: anything

Pants: noun: underwear, adjective: bad/rubbish/terrible

Para: paratrooper

Pay-as-you-go: a cell phone on which you pay for calls in advance

PC: police constable

Pear-shaped: gone wrong

Petrol: gasoline

Pictures: movie

Pillbox: a concrete building, partly underground, used as an outpost defence

Pillock: fool

Pips: police insignia indicating rank

Piss off: an exclamation meaning go away (rude), can also mean annoy

Pissing down: raining

Playing field: sports field

Pleb: ordinary person (often insulting)

Portakabin: portable building used as temporary office etc.

Post: mail

Planning Department: the local authority department that issues licences to build and develop property

PNC: police national computer

PSNI: Police Service of Northern Ireland

Prat: idiot, can be used affectionately

Premier League: top English soccer division

Proms: annual concerts held at the Albert Hall

Public analyst: scientists who perform chemical analysis for public protection purposes

RAF: Royal Air Force

Rag: newspaper

Ram-raiding: robbery where a vehicle is rammed through a shop window

Randy: horny

Recce: reconnaissance

Red Adair: famous oil well firefighter

Resus: resuscitation room

Right state: messy

Ring: telephone (verb)

Roadworks: repairs done to roads

Rozzers: police

RSPB: Royal Society for the Protection of Birds

RTC: road traffic collision

RV: rendezvous point

Royal Engineers: British army corps dealing with military engineering, etc.

Rugger: rugby (posh American football)

Sarge: sergeant

SCO19: Specialist Crime and Operations Specialist Firearms Command

Scrote: low life

Section: to have someone committed to a mental hospital under UK mental health laws

Semi: semi-detached house, a house with another house joined to it on one side only

Shedload: a large amount

Shop: store

Shout the odds: talk in a loud bossy way

Sickie: day off work pretending to be ill

Sixth-form college: where students study A levels

SIO: senior investigating officer

Skell: a homeless person, aka ‘tramp’ (insulting)

Skip: a large open container used for building waste

Slapper: used to label somebody as overtly sexual, typically a younger woman, aka ‘skank’ (insulting)

Smackhead: heroin addict (insulting)

Snout: police informer

SOCO: scene-of-crime officer

Sod: an annoying person

Sort: to do or make

Solicitor: lawyer

Sparky: electrician

Spook: spy

Spuds: potatoes

Squaddie: a soldier of low rank

Stunner: beautiful woman

Super: superintendent (police rank)

Surveyor: someone who examines land and buildings professionally

Sweeting: endearment, like sweetheart

Tabloid: newspaper, typically known for a sensationalist style of journalism

Tea: dinner (Northern English)

Tea towel: drying cloth

Till: cash register

Tip: a mess, e.g. ‘This room is a tip’, or a local garbage dump

Tipsy: a bit drunk

Top oneself: commit suicide

Torch: flashlight

Tutor: university teacher

Tower block: tall building containing apartments (usually social housing)

Twoc: steal a car, often just for joyriding (taking without owner’s consent)

Upmarket: affluent or fancy

Wacky baccy: cannabis

Wally: silly person (can be used affectionately)

War Cry: Salvation Army magazine

Wash: the washing machine

Water board: company supplying water to an area

White van man: typical working-class man who drives a small truck

WI: Women’s Institute, organization of women in the UK for social/cultural activity

Widow’s weeds: black clothes worn by a widow in mourning

Wilco: will comply, i.e. ‘yes’

Wrinklies: old people

Yellowbelly: native of Lincolnshire (not to be confused with yellow-belly, meaning a coward)

Yob: a rude or aggressive youth or person

Yorkie: type of chocolate bar