by William Shaw
‘But you knew who his sources were?’
‘It was Russell’s job to keep his ear to the ground. Go to parties. Hang around with foreign visitors, embassy staff and so on. See what the talk is. For a long time he was hopeless at it. I thought I’d have to let him go. But recently he seems to have developed more of an instinct for this kind of thing.’
‘And he was writing about Gerald Brooke and the Krogers? Anything in particular?’
‘I haven’t got time for this, I’m afraid, officer. I’m due in an editorial meeting.’
‘Can I see what he’s written? On the Kroger case. Is that possible?’
The editor stared at Breen for a minute, then screamed, ‘Dylis! Show this gentleman the cuttings file. Will that be all?’
The woman in brown returned without a word, went to one of the vacant desks and started poking into the piles of paper, within no time pulling out a bulging green suspension folder.
‘I have a meeting with the Americans about the Kennedy trouble,’ said the editor. ‘Send Mr Breen downstairs when he is finished. Make sure he leaves.’
‘This is the file on the Krogers.’ Finding no available space on the desk, Breen opened the folder on his lap and started to leaf through the cuttings. Each had been pasted onto a sheet of paper on which there was a small date stamp and, occasionally, additional notes.
They were not all by Russell, ‘Early access to Brook denied’ was by ‘Our Diplomatic Correspondent’. ‘Moscow trial closed to West’ was by a man who was based in that city. Most were just by ‘A Sunday Times Reporter’ or ‘Our Own Correspondent’.
‘How do I know which ones are by Russell?’
‘I expect that’s the one you’re looking for,’ she said, pulling a single sheet from the pile.
‘This one?’ Breen looked at the clipping. The article was titled: ‘How big a fry is Gerald Brooke?’
‘Yes. That was Russell.’ She made a face.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘It’s not for me to say, but I don’t think we should have ever published that.’
‘Why?’ Breen read it.
Last year, Harold Wilson returned from his trip to Moscow empty-handed. He had been hoping to secure the release of imprisoned lecturer Gerald Brooke, in exchange for the notorious members of the Portland Spy Ring, Peter and Helen Kroger. However, the Foreign Office have consistently scoffed at the suggestion that Brooke himself is a genuine spy and thus a fair exchange for the Krogers. But examination of the trail record printed in Russian seems to confirm that the Soviet court trying Brooke could have pinned espionage charges on him and made them stick. Sources in Moscow suggest that evidence found on Brooke at the time of his arrest included the kind of sophisticated paraphernalia of modern-day espionage, including transmitters and coded materials.
Breen looked up. It was just as Sand had said.
‘Finish it,’ said the woman.
However inconvenient it is, the question must be asked: was Gerald Brooke simply an ideologue who blundered in the arms of the KGB, or something altogether more embarrassing? If he had been a spy, the Foreign Office would, of course, deny it.
‘I have never liked Ronald Russell,’ she said. ‘The piece was either an unconscionable attempt at controversy or something worse.’
‘An attempt to deliberately put misinformation out there?’
‘What do you think?’
Ronald Russell; Lyagushin; Lena Bobienski.
‘Who spoke to Russell when he called in sick this morning?’
‘I did. It wasn’t this morning, it was yesterday. Hurt his leg.’
‘Hurt his leg?’
‘A gardening accident, apparently, at the weekend. He called in this morning. Said the wound became infected.’
‘You’re sure it was his leg?’
‘Absolutely. I hope it drops off. What is this about, Sergeant?’
His leg. Where Helen had got him with her pencil. He had been an idiot, chasing after the Russian; it had been Russell all along. Blood thumping in his ears, Breen stood, picked up a phone and dialled.
‘You need to dial 9 for an outside line,’ she said.
He dialled again.
‘Put me through to Mint.’
‘Is that Paddy Breen?’
‘Just put me through to Mint.’
Mint came on the phone, voice low. ‘What is it?’
‘Can you get a car?’
‘Why?’
‘I need help.’
After the call he stood. The woman said, ‘I’m afraid you can’t have that file. It’s the newspaper’s property.’
Breen ignored her, folding it and putting it into his pocket.
‘Has he done something wrong?’ she said.
‘Yes,’ he said simply. ‘I think he has.’
‘Well, I am not the least bit surprised.’
He strode towards the door. ‘Don’t I get a thank you?’ she said. And he waited outside Clerkenwell Road, by the Rolls-Royce, until to the sound of angry horns, the Mini arrived, cutting across the traffic to where he was stood.
THIRTY-EIGHT
‘But how would she have known where he lives?’ demanded Mint, from the passenger seat.
‘She looked at my notebooks.’
The rush-hour traffic was thick and the roads jammed. The bus drivers were on strike, which meant the streets were full of cars and taxis.
‘You let her look at them?’
‘She used to be a copper.’
Mint said, ‘Yes, but…’
At the junction with Southampton Row, a lorry had spilled planks onto the road. A traffic policeman was attempting to direct vehicles around the timber while horns honked everywhere.
‘Give me a hand, will you, mate?’ he called to the Mini, as Breen finally edged the car into a gap between the fallen pieces of wood and a bus.
‘Sorry. Can’t stop,’ Breen shouted back.
The copper swore at him, but Breen wasn’t listening. He sped down towards Theobald’s Road to where the traffic slowed again.
‘So let me get this straight. You think she’s gone there already?’ Mint peered ahead, trying to see what was holding them up this time. ‘But he tried to kill her. Why would she…? Shouldn’t we call the police? She could be in trouble.’
‘We are the police,’ said Breen.
‘No, but… Can’t we just get in touch with the local coppers?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘Trust me. Please.’ Breen didn’t want to say it, but if Helen was there…
She hadn’t told him what she was doing. If she’d known when she saw the ring, then whatever she was planning to do was something she’d meant to keep from him.
He didn’t say any more, but Mint’s attention was already distracted. Close to the museum, a group of barefoot hippies, dressed in orange, were banging drums and chanting on the pavement, dancing. A crowd had gathered to watch them.
Breen noticed Mint watching the dancers, fascinated and appalled.
‘Hare Krishnas,’ said Breen. ‘Worried about the competition?’
Breen leaned on the horn, disrupting the chant, and they lurched forward towards Oxford Street.
‘Delta Mike Six,’ the radio crackled. ‘Come in.’
‘Shall I answer it?’ asked Mint.
‘Why not?’
‘Delta Mike Six. DI Creamer requests your presence at HQ.’
Breen hesitated. ‘I can do this alone, if you need to go. Just let me have the car.’
‘Delta Mike Six? Can you hear me, over?’
Mint leaned forward and deliberately turned the receiver’s volume down.
It was late afternoon by the time they made it to Shepherd’s Bush. They parked outside the house, and Breen peered through the gate.
‘You think she’s in there?’
‘Only one way to find out. You stay in the car.’
‘No. I should come with you.’
‘Please.’
‘Why? What are you going to do?’
Breen looked at the house, immaculately white in a row of Georgian facades. He put his hand on the door handle. ‘Just stay in the car, will you? Make sure nobody comes in or out.’
A task to keep him out of the way, for at least as long as it took to discover what Helen had done.
It seemed like a long walk to the front door. He rang the bell, then knocked at the door, but no one came. A hollyhock bent drunkenly away from the wall, its flowers pale and its leaves riddled with infection.
He held down the bell button again, but still no one opened the door. If she had not come here, where was she? And where were Russell and his wife? He was about to turn and head back to the car when he thought he heard a noise inside the house.
Squatting down, he pushed open the letter box and peered through. The hallway was empty, quiet.
He knocked this time, loudly, then tugged on the door. ‘Helen,’ he called, then stepped back.
The house was silent. On either side of the door were large Georgian sash windows. At a guess, the one on the left looked in poorer condition, paint flaking from the sash bars, and putty showing on the panes. Beneath the sill was a small rose bed. He stepped into it, thorns pricking at his legs, and tried the window. Locked, obviously. Pulling out his keys he jumped onto the ledge and, holding on with one hand, forced a key into the space between the sashes and sawed it back and forwards until it moved easily, then wiggled it towards the lock. Every movement seemed to take an age.
The key gave him little leverage, but it was all he had. Luckily the lock shifted. As soon as it was pushed back far enough he dropped back down onto the bed and forced his fingers under the bottom of the frame. It slid upwards.
He looked inside. It was a dining room, shelves along one wall filled with bright, modern Danish crockery. He looked back. Mint was hidden behind the garden wall. Breen pulled himself onto the ledge and tumbled into the empty room.
The door beyond was open.
He tiptoed out of the dining room and into the hallway he had just been looking at. It was then he noticed the light blue coat, hanging on the stand at the back of the passageway.
It was Russell who had killed Haas; not some spook.
His heart thumped. So if Helen had come here she had put herself into extreme danger.
And then, from upstairs came the sound of water. Someone was running a bath. Then there were footsteps.
Urgently, Breen pressed himself back against the wall, in an effort to stay out of sight, but as he did so he caught an oil painting which swung noisily on its hook. Sweating, he wondered if the front door was locked; could he make a run for it to Mint’s car?
But, incredibly, nobody had heard him. Surely they must have? The footsteps continued. A door closed. The water carried on running.
He breathed. Placing one foot at the bottom of the dark wood stairs, he began to shift his weight slowly onto the step.
And sensed something move behind him.
He swung round.
Helen stood there, dressed ridiculously in Elfie’s fluorescent pantsuit, one finger in front of the lips on her bruised face.
THIRTY-NINE
He smiled.
She took the finger off her lips and beckoned him back into the dining room.
‘What the hell…?’
‘Shh.’
‘You saw the ring. You realised it was him. Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘That doesn’t matter now.’
‘You found his address in my notebook?’
They were whispering now, in the living room. ‘Sorry,’ she said.
Helen: pregnant, bruised, wearing bright, stupid clothes that were too big for her. And she looked great. ‘I don’t care.’ He stood at the door and peered out into the hallway. ‘Is he upstairs? We should call the police. We need to get him taken into custody.’
Helen hung back.
‘They won’t let it come to trial, though,’ said Helen. ‘You said it yourself. MI6 don’t want it out in the open.’
He looked back at her. ‘It doesn’t mean it doesn’t have to come to trial,’ said Breen. ‘If we work with them, they could try him in camera. With reporting restrictions. They won’t let him get away with all this.’
‘You sure?’ she said.
‘Well… of course. Yes.’
She sat down heavily in a dining chair, looking exhausted.
‘Where were you, all this time?’
‘I got here a couple of hours ago. I wanted to speak to Mrs Russell. To tell her the truth about her husband. I knew what it was, you see. It was him who attacked me, wasn’t it? And I was the lucky one. I got away.’
‘That was stupid,’ he said. ‘Dangerous.’
‘He was at work. Or supposed to be. It was fine.’
‘But he’s here, isn’t he?’
‘Upstairs. With Kathryn.’
‘Kathryn?’
‘Mrs Russell. She was in when I called. I thought I was going to have to convince her, but the moment she saw me, she believed me. It was like she must have known about him all along. I told her all about the attack and how I’d stabbed his leg. She knew for sure then. He’d told her it was a gardening accident.’
‘So why didn’t you call the police?’
‘Because he came back unexpectedly. About an hour ago. When Kathryn heard the key in the door she told me to go and hide. That she’d deal with it. That’s where I’ve been… downstairs in the cellar, waiting for her to give the all-clear.’
‘He wasn’t at work,’ said Breen. ‘He killed Haas. I saw him do it.’
‘Oh,’ said Helen. ‘He’s a monster.’
‘He’s been trying to get rid of anyone who can connect him to killing Lena Bobienski, including you.’
Breen heard footsteps again, this time on the staircase. Looking around fast, he picked up a bronze statuette of a woman with a dog – Diana the Huntress – and held it high.
But the steps didn’t come this way. A gentle knocking sound, then: ‘Helen? You can come out now. It’s safe.’
Breen relaxed. Helen pushed past him and out into the hallway again.
‘Oh,’ said Mrs Russell, seeing Breen following her. ‘It’s you. What are you doing here?’
‘I was trying to find Helen. And then I realised she would be here.’
‘You know, then?’
‘Yes.’
‘Have you come to take my husband away?’
Breen nodded.
‘I understand,’ she said.
‘You know what he’s done?’ said Breen.
‘Thing is,’ said Mrs Russell, ‘I knew it was true, the moment this young woman said it. I think I knew, the moment you came here that first time. I’ve known it all along.’
‘What was true?’ asked Breen, cautiously.
‘He was never really that interested in me, sexually, my husband.’ She stood in the hallway, immaculately turned out; make-up neat, wearing another plain chic dress. ‘I really thought it was because he was frightened of my intellect. Or maybe my money and background. It took me a while to realise that it was because I was much too old for him.’
‘Where is Mr Russell?’ said Breen.
‘He’s upstairs. I gave him a drink when he got in. He seemed upset about something, so he didn’t mind having one. And another. He’ll be no bother at all, I promise. Would you like a drink, either of you? It’s been such an odd day.’
‘No.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘I’m fine.’
‘He tried interfering with my niece, once. We sort of hushed it up, of course.’
‘Your niece?’
‘She was eleven at the time. We didn’t believe her. He said she was making it all up, being a dramatic little girl. And naturally, we tended to believe him, because she was hysterical. I’m so sorry.’ She raised her hand to her mouth. ‘Poor girl. You only realise what you’ve done later, don’t you? I wonder how much else I was turning a blind eye to.’
/>
‘All this can be evidence if we get him to trial again.’
‘You really think it’s possible?’ asked Helen.
‘Of course it is.’
Helen looked unconvinced.
‘I need to take him,’ said Breen. ‘I have a car outside.’
‘And then everything will come out?’ said Mrs Russell.
They both looked at her. The public would blame her, of course. Mrs Russell paused. She seemed to be considering something. ‘You said you need evidence,’ she said.
‘Why?’
‘There is something you might be interested in. Come with me upstairs.’
‘But isn’t your husband upstairs?’
‘He’ll be drunk by now. Don’t worry about him. He will have passed out.’
Breen looked at Helen, concerned. A murderer upstairs was one thing; an inebriated one was another.
‘Maybe you should go outside,’ said Breen. ‘Constable Mint is in the car.’
‘I’ll be OK,’ Helen said.
Mrs Russell led the way up the stairs, past a half-landing. ‘Excuse me a minute,’ she said. ‘I just need to turn off the bath. It’ll overflow.’
‘Where is he?’
‘He’s in my bedroom.’
‘Where?’
‘Please don’t go in there. You might wake him.’ They were on a long landing with several doorways leading off it. It could have been any of the doors, but her eyes gave it away, darting towards a plain door with a white porcelain handle ahead of him.
Breen was becoming suspicious. ‘I need to see him.’
‘Why? He’s not going anywhere.’
‘Show me,’ he insisted.
She seemed to hesitate again, so Breen moved to the door.
‘He’s not dressed,’ she said.
Breen pushed it open. Ronald Russell was there, as she said he would be. He was naked, save for a pair of white underpants, lying back on a pink flowery eiderdown, mouth open, chest rising and falling. He was a hairy man; his legs seemed too small for his thick frame. There was a large gauze bandage on the side of his right leg, where Helen must have stabbed him.
On the bedside table was a cut-glass tumbler of whisky, still with several inches in it. A dribble of moisture ran from his lips to his chin and dampened the pillow he was lying on.
