Play With Fire

by William Shaw

  ‘Yes.’ Methodically crossing letters off the list didn’t mean they were necessarily getting closer to the killer. There was something bigger involved; he knew that for certain now. He needed to do something differently; to shake things up, somehow.

  He left the office and drove to St John’s Wood. Florence Caulk’s flat was in a block built in the 1930s. It had the kind of soft-curved, genteel English modernism that dreamed of ocean liners and foreign travel and reminded Breen of Agatha Christie books.

  Local coppers were there with detectives from K Division; they had been knocking on the doors with a description of her car, asking if anybody had seen her leave. Sergeant Hope was sitting on a low wall, smoking a cigarette. ‘Anything?’ Breen asked him.

  Hope looked up and shook his head. ‘Nothing yet. Sorry, mate.’

  Breen walked up to the second floor. The door to Caulk’s flat was wide open. He walked down a small corridor lined with oil paintings, into a bright living room lit by sunshine that poured through the metal windows. It was a disorderly room. An Afghan rug, walls crammed with more art; a sofa covered in huge, gaudy cushions and rich Indian cloth; an African stool next to a cool, Danish wooden floor lamp. Propped against one wall was a large colourful Persian backgammon board. The bed was neatly made with an embroidered eiderdown covering it. Above it, there was a portrait of her, painted when she was much younger. She had been beautiful, he realised. It looked as if it was by someone famous, but he couldn’t put his finger on who. And he had not taken the trouble to find out who she was, or why she was scared.

  TWENTY-THREE

  He left St John’s Wood and drove west. By the time he reached Russell’s house it was after five. The woman who answered was around the same age as he was, tall and thin, dressed plainly but elegantly in a black-and-white-striped dress with a cowl neck, black hair sprayed into place.

  ‘Mrs Russell?’

  ‘And who are you?’ She looked him up and down.

  ‘Detective Sergeant Cathal Breen. I’m here to see your husband.’

  She narrowed her lips. ‘What has he done?’

  Breen looked at her. ‘Why would he have done anything?’

  ‘You’re a policeman. Why are you here then?’

  ‘He’s just helping me with some information about a case,’ said Breen. ‘As a journalist, obviously.’

  She crossed her arms and stood in the doorway, not letting him in. ‘He didn’t tell me anything about it.’ She was beautiful in a haughty, high-cheekboned way.

  ‘It’s a confidential matter,’ said Breen.

  ‘I am his wife.’

  ‘As I said. Confidential. Is Mr Russell in?’

  She considered him a second more, then stood to one side. ‘He is just changing his clothes. He’ll be down presently. Come.’

  Breen stepped inside. It was the kind of house that suggested old money. Ancient oil paintings lined the hallway walls. She led him down into a large living room at the back of the house. On the far side of the room, beyond gold-painted Italian furniture and the baby grand piano, there was a sideboard crammed with decanters and bottles.

  ‘Have you been married long?’ Breen asked.

  ‘Is this small talk? Or is there a reason you want to know about my marriage?’

  Breen heard a voice calling from upstairs. ‘Who is it, darling?’

  ‘He swept me off my feet six years ago,’ she said, her face smileless. ‘What about you? Are you married, officer?’

  ‘Not yet. How did you meet?’

  ‘Darling, do we have guests?’ came the voice again. ‘Who is it?’

  ‘I was supervising at Cambridge. He was my student. Not one of my best, but at the time I thought him witty and resourceful.’

  ‘Have you changed your mind?’

  With no hint of a smile, she said, ‘What is this really about, Detective Sergeant? Has there been a misdemeanour of some sort?’

  Breen didn’t have to answer because Russell was standing at the door. ‘I heard voices,’ he said.

  ‘A policeman,’ said Mrs Russell. ‘Apparently you’re helping him with his enquiries.’

  Breen caught the anxious glance at his wife that Russell made.

  She turned. ‘What’s wrong, darling? You look a little peaky.’

  He was wearing a young man’s shirt, its flowery cloth cut too tight.

  ‘I’ve just come to ask you about that case I contacted you about,’ Breen intervened. ‘You remember? We spoke about it last week.’

  ‘Of course. Yes. Yes. The case.’

  Breen approached him. ‘Is there somewhere private we can talk?’

  ‘Would the policeman like a drink?’ said Mrs Russell. ‘A whisky and soda? Or just a cup of tea, perhaps?’

  Breen followed her. ‘Darling. Sergeant Breen is probably in a hurry. Don’t hound him.’

  ‘No particular hurry,’ said Breen, smiling at her.

  ‘What are you, by the way?’ she asked, frowning. ‘Special Branch?’

  ‘CID.’

  ‘I speak Russian too, if it’s that you need. I translate. I’m better at it than my husband. I taught him it. He has a poor accent though his grammar is actually not that bad.’

  ‘I’m afraid it’s a sensitive situation,’ said Breen. ‘All I can say is your husband’s expertise in Soviet affairs may prove quite useful to us.’

  ‘Affairs?’ she said, eyebrow raised.

  ‘Political affairs, obviously.’

  ‘You chose him as your expert?’

  Ronald Russell poured himself a large whisky. ‘Sergeant. I’ve a study at the back of the house, if you want to talk in private.’

  ‘I’ll let you two men alone, then,’ she said, not moving.

  Breen followed Russell to the study, a small room lined with books, many of which were in Russian. ‘You’ve read all these?’

  ‘A few,’ said Russell. ‘A lot of them were my father-in-law’s.’

  ‘He was Russian?’

  ‘No. Professor of Modern Languages. This used to be his house. The family let us live in it.’

  It made sense. It was a rather grand place for a minor journalist to be living in.

  ‘You’ve made Kate bloody suspicious now,’ he said, ‘coming here like this.’

  ‘Have I?’

  ‘She’s not been well. She sleeps badly. She has to take medication.’

  ‘All your comings and goings in the night, I suppose.’

  ‘You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?’ said Russell.

  ‘I just want to get to the bottom of what was going on.’

  Russell switched the wireless on and turned up the volume, presumably for privacy. It was Radio 3. Some concert from the Royal Albert Hall, music that Breen didn’t recognise. Russell sat at the desk and held out an Embassy Regal. Breen took one; he had smoked four already today, but the cigarette might make him feel more alert.

  ‘There’s no reason to be so superior about this. All men have problems with women. Comes with the territory.’

  Breen raised his hands. ‘I was just making conversation with your wife.’

  Russell poured himself another large whisky. ‘So? Well? What is it you want to talk about?’

  Breen stood, looking at the Cyrillic script of the titles; the dull binding of the Soviet-printed volumes. ‘What did you know about Lena Bobienski that you were not telling me?’ he asked.

  Russell frowned. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘You’re a Soviet expert.’

  ‘Yes. I’m actually not sure what you’re driving at?’

  Breen sat down in a captain’s chair, opposite Russell and asked, ‘So why was she under surveillance from the security services?’

  The effect on Russell was electric. His mouth fell open. ‘She was?’

  ‘You didn’t know?’

  ‘Christ, no.’ Breen looked into his eyes. The shock seemed genuine enough.

  ‘Why do you think they were keeping tabs on her?’

  ‘Jesus.
I don’t know. Were they watching her? She was Polish rather than Russian, of course. How did you find this out?’

  ‘I can’t say.’

  ‘MI6?’

  Breen said nothing.

  ‘Bloody hell. They said she was a Soviet agent? Must have been MI6.’

  ‘It’s entirely possible she was more than just a prostitute. Did you know that?’

  ‘But I swear, I had no idea.’

  ‘Was she interested in what you did for a living?’

  ‘Well, yes. But…’ Russell took a gulp from his glass.

  ‘But?’

  ‘I’m just a bit shocked, that’s all.’

  ‘But you didn’t know?’

  ‘I bet it was MI6. You think they were watching the flat?’

  ‘Would you be concerned if they had been?’

  He lowered his voice. ‘Of course I bloody would. You don’t understand. If any of this gets back to Kate, she’ll divorce me.’

  Breen looked around him. ‘This is her family’s house, not yours.’

  ‘Well, yes. I love her. Obviously. But she’d throw me out.’

  ‘What sort of things did Julie Teenager ask you? Did she talk about your work?’

  He seemed flustered. ‘Not much. I mean, she was just an innocent girl, really, I assumed. I thought she was just interested, that’s all. I find it interesting. I’d expect other people to. I suppose I talked about it a bit. But I talked about my poetry too.’

  ‘You write poetry?’

  ‘I’ve had a couple of collections. What they call “minor volumes”.’ He laughed. ‘Nobody bought them, of course. My wife is a more successful poet than me, as a matter of fact. There are some of her books in here. Would you like one?’

  ‘I’m not very good at poetry.’

  ‘Nor me, apparently.’

  He stood and turned his back to Breen, to scan the shelves behind him, then stopped. ‘So you know someone was watching the flat? It was definitely Julie they were interested in?’

  ‘I’m not sure. It might have been a client of hers.’

  ‘Well it wouldn’t be me.’ He giggled nervously. ‘I mean, I’m not that important, am I?’

  ‘Not really,’ said Breen.

  ‘It’s not funny. Imagine how you’d feel if someone was watching you? It’s… disturbing, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes. It is.’

  Russell’s eyes widened. ‘They’re watching you?’

  ‘Apparently so.’

  ‘Christ. You think they’ve been watching me? What if they followed you?’

  ‘Why would that concern you, Ronald? You’re just a journalist.’

  ‘It’s just not a terribly nice feeling. As you’re aware, I have been indiscreet. Those kind of people use that against you.’

  ‘And do you say that from personal experience?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Did Lena Bobienski ever blackmail you?’

  ‘She asked me to buy a ring. That’s all.’

  Breen looked at Russell fidgeting in his chair. ‘What car do you drive?’

  ‘An Austin. Why?’

  He would have hardly expected him to say a Peugeot, but it was worth asking. Could he have killed Mrs Caulk? It was possible, of course.

  Breen sat for a while, watching him. You could sometimes learn a lot by just observing, saying nothing. His silence certainly unsettled Russell, who picked up a fountain pen and dotted its nib onto the cover of a jotter, which sucked out ink, creating a circular blue stain.

  ‘So tell me,’ said Breen eventually. ‘Were there other prostitutes as well?’

  ‘Why do you need to know this?’

  ‘Because you’re a suspect.’

  ‘I have an alibi. My brother-in-law said you spoke to him.’

  ‘As alibis go, I’ve heard better. You’re a suspect still.’

  ‘Jesus. What do I have to do? There were one or two others, yes,’ Russell answered, watching the blot grow. ‘They hadn’t meant anything. It was sex. But I suppose I fell for Julie. She was different.’

  ‘Why did you need prostitutes?’

  ‘Lovely girl, Kate. Honestly. But she’s frigid, you know. Sort of formal, anyway. Gets headaches. Takes a lot of medicine. Rather old-fashioned, under all that modern clobber. Doesn’t think sex is for fun. I suppose I was frustrated.’

  ‘Having a successful wife?’

  As if on cue, the audience at the Royal Albert Hall burst into applause. The piece of music on the radio had ended. ‘It’s not that,’ said Russell.

  ‘Isn’t it?’

  ‘There’s a whole new world out there. People are shagging all the time. Don’t you feel frustrated by it? The girls today, they’re not all switch-the-lights-out types. I don’t see why we should miss out.’

  ‘What would she say if she found out?’

  ‘She’d bloody kill me, I suppose.’ Russell looked at him anxiously. ‘She doesn’t have to know, does she?’

  ‘I’m going to need a record of your movements over the last week.’

  ‘Oh God. Here we go again. What is it this time?’

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t say.’ There was not yet a time of death for Mrs Caulk; nor had her identity been revealed to the newspapers.

  ‘Well, why don’t you go and ask your pals in the security services. I’m sure they’d bloody know,’ said Russell darkly.

  ‘If you like.’

  ‘Fine.’ Russell reached for a pocket diary.

  ‘Are there many Soviet spies in London?’

  ‘Quite a few. They love it here in the decadent West. The GRU and the KGB. They compete with each other. It’s an oddly capitalist model, don’t you think? Stalin dreamed it up. One distrusts the other and Brezhnev enjoys playing them off against themselves.’

  They went through his diary ticking off times and places. ‘The Soviet embassy is full of them,’ Russell said as he turned a page. ‘And then the trade delegations. And they successfully recruited enough of ours in the past, like Burgess and Maclean and George Blake. And then there are the resident aliens, people like Peter and Helen Kroger. You know, the Portland Spy Ring?’

  It had been a huge scandal, Breen remembered: the discovery of a team of foreign residents who had been stealing Britain’s nuclear secrets for years. When Special Branch had raided their house in Ruislip, they had found it packed with secret radio equipment that the Krogers had been using to transmit information to the Soviets.

  ‘So, yes, there are always spies.’

  ‘What if one was a client of Lena Bobienski’s?’

  ‘You’re not serious?’

  Breen shrugged. ‘It’s possible.’

  ‘You think she might have been killed because of something to do with espionage?’

  ‘I haven’t any idea.’

  ‘Christ. You think it was an assassination of some kind? It might be, of course. How would you ever prove it, anyway?’

  ‘That would be a problem, wouldn’t it?’ said Breen. ‘Of course, it might just have been one of the men who went to her for kicks.’

  Russell winced, closed his diary, stubbed out his cigarette. ‘I love my wife really,’ he said. ‘Please don’t get me wrong. It’s just that she’s not sexy. You know? She’s serious all the time; she acts like she’s so old. I mean. It’s almost the Seventies. Women shouldn’t be that serious, should they?’

  Russell drained his glass and looked at his watch. ‘Want one?’ he said. ‘I’m going to have another.’

  Breen shook his head and stood. ‘

  Walking to the gate he turned and looked back at the house. Mrs Russell was at an upstairs window, watching him.

  Breen turned right at Regent’s Street and drove south. The shops were closed and the pavements looked grubby and grey. A sheet of newspaper hung in the air above the windscreen, caught in an updraught. He slowed, watching it for a second until it drifted over the car, then drove on, not looking behind him to see where it fell. Just before Piccadilly Circus he took a right into
a small turning and parked. Swallow Street was one of those places most people walked past without noticing; one of those leftovers from an older, less orderly city. He got out and pressed his thumb onto a polished brass doorbell to the side of a heavy white door.

  Sybilla’s wasn’t open yet; it was too early still for the nightclubs. A tall, big-handed man wearing a pale green pinny opened the door and peered out into the daylight, then smiled. ‘Paddy,’ he said.

  ‘Hello, Wilco,’ said Breen. ‘Got a minute?’

  The man held the door open wide. ‘Let me switch off the Hoover. Barman just broke half a dozen glasses.’

  Wilco was one of those men whose arms didn’t seem to hang down straight. His chest was too wide for them. At fifty, even in a pinny, he still looked intimidating.

  He led him into the club; it was a small room, a plain dance floor in the middle under a low ceiling, a few expensive glass-fibre chairs around the edge. It looked nothing special. There would have been nothing to it if it hadn’t been owned by a cousin of Lord Rothermere’s, a DJ from Radio 1 and a Beatle.

  ‘Drink?’ said Wilco.

  He had refused one earlier this evening; this time he nodded. It was summer. He was thirsty. ‘Just a half of lager.’

  ‘A half? Don’t be a girl.’ Wilco took off his pinny and folded it. He was an East Ender. Breen had first known him when he had worked in G Division, when Wilco had been vaguely connected to the Krays’ gang. His presence in the club had always suggested to Breen that it wasn’t only celebrities who had backed the nightclub. If these days the Krays were more or less a spent force, London’s cool people liked having them around.

  Wilco leaned over the bar and flipped the tap to pour a pint of Harp for himself and another for Breen.

  ‘Well?’ he said, sitting down, legs wide apart, on a very white, very modern chair. He nodded to a chair opposite.

  ‘How’s business here?’ Breen sat.

  ‘So-so. Tourists mainly, this summer. The pop stars are moving on. This ain’t their thing so much this year. I don’t mind. The tourists spend real money. Fucking pop stars want everything for nothing.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Get to it, Paddy. Haven’t got all day. Open in an hour.’

  ‘I’m looking for a Russian man who comes to places like this. He’s a drinker.’