by Graham Ison
The traffic division PC made short work of entering Penelope Lambert’s car, and waited while Markham had what he called a poke about inside. The only thing he found that was likely to be of any interest was a diary in the glove compartment.
‘Funny place to keep a diary,’ he said.
‘Funny things, women,’ said Tipper with feeling, and turning to the traffic officer, said, ‘Put a wheel on that and get it down to the nick, will you? It’s to be preserved for fingerprints.’
*
Most of the fingerprints found in Penelope Lambert’s flat, and all of those in her car, proved, not surprisingly, to be hers. After a comparison with the impressions taken by the gendarmerie from the girl’s body — and a few uncomplimentary remarks about their quality — the Yard’s fingerprint officers had eventually agreed, with the customary reluctance of experts to commit themselves, that they were identical.
Mrs Mason had been persuaded to provide a set of her fingerprints for elimination purposes, and they proved that the ballet mistress in the flat downstairs had done more than just look into the flat on occasions to make sure that everything was all right. She had taken a great interest in her neighbour’s affairs, and had clearly let her curiosity get the better of her when confronted with the secretaire, the wardrobe, and the drawers of the dressing-table. Tipper determined not to mention it to her — at least not immediately; there might be an occasion when it would come in useful.
But there were other prints too. Tipper and Markham automatically, and with typical policemen’s cynicism, assumed that they belonged to men friends. Mrs Mason however, was unable to confirm that this was the case, merely repeating what she had told Markham, that occasionally Mrs Lambert had talked of going out to dinner ‘somewhere nice’, but without elaborating upon the company in which she had done so. Mrs Mason also reiterated that she wasn’t one to pry into her neighbour’s affairs.
‘Did Mrs Lambert say anything about leaving her job?’ Tipper had asked, during the course of the interview. One of the gratuitous pieces of information that the Department of Health and Social Security had furnished was the fact that Penelope Lambert had left the employ of the Foreign and Commonwealth Office on the twenty-second of August — the day upon which Mrs Mason said she had gone on holiday — a mere three days before her body had been found, washed up on a Brittany beach.
It was all a little too neat for Tipper. ‘Make an appointment for us to see the security officer at the Foreign Office, Charlie, will you — probably an ex-copper in that job, which’ll be handy.’
The official they saw was not a retired policeman, but a career Foreign Office man, and he was very helpful. He produced Mrs Lambert’s file and drew Tipper’s attention to the fact that the last few folios dealt with her resignation.
‘Do you think her death may have had anything to do with the fact that she was employed here at F and CO?’ he asked.
‘Your guess is as good as mine,’ said Tipper. ‘But I must admit that the thought had crossed my mind. D’you think that I might borrow her letter of resignation?’
‘Most certainly — provided you give me a receipt for it, and perhaps I could take a photocopy first, just in case we need to refer to it.’
‘It might seem a bit late in the day,’ said Tipper, producing a plastic sleeve from his brief-case, ‘but may I put the letter in this before you handle it any more?’
The security officer looked slightly puzzled. ‘Of course,’ he said, a half-smile on his face, ‘but why?’
‘I want to have it examined for fingerprints.’
‘What, on paper? I didn’t realise that you could take fingerprints off paper.’
‘Good,’ said Tipper smiling. ‘The fewer people who know, the better. Incidentally, I should be grateful if you didn’t mention my visit to anyone here, or the reason for it.’
‘Your secret’s safe with me, Chief Inspector. There is nothing different about the Foreign Office, you know. Regrettably we have the same number of thieves, habitués of men’s toilets, and people who lose important documents as most other departments in Whitehall seem to have.’ He stood up, extending a hand. ‘If there is anything else I can do to assist, don’t hesitate to get in touch.’
*
A senior fingerprint officer came to see Harry Tipper. He laid Penelope Lambert’s letter of resignation on the Detective Chief Inspector’s desk. ‘I don’t know what you’re going to make of this, Harry,’ he said. ‘But there are about five different sets of marks on that, but not one of them belongs to Penelope Lambert.’
‘You’ve got that look about you that says you’ve got something else up your sleeve.’
The fingerprint officer smiled. ‘One of the sets on the letter matches one of the unidentified sets we found in her flat.’
‘Thanks,’ said Tipper cynically.
*
The flying time from Gatwick to St Jacques Airport in Rennes was about two hours. Tipper had persuaded his commander that a liaison visit to the Gendarmerie Nationale was essential. Colin Finch had agreed.
The aircraft stopped and Tipper and Markham descended the steps to be met by Captain Jules Courbet in uniform. That was a surprise; in England criminal investigation was always carried out by officers in plain clothes. They were to learn, however, that in France a gendarme has authority to carry out enquiries only if he is clothed in the livery of the Republic.
‘Mr Tipper, yes?’ Courbet extended a hand.
‘Yes, but Harry’s the name.’
‘Good — and this?’ He gestured towards Markham.
‘Charlie Markham — my Detective Sergeant.’
‘So — Charlie. Welcome to France.’
They drove the forty-odd miles to St Brouille in a gendarmerie Citroën with its blue light lazily revolving, but with no other indication of urgency. Courbet insisted that, as a preamble, they have lunch and a couple of bottles of good French wine just to get them in the right mood for the afternoon’s work.
They settled, finally, in Courbet’s office at St Brouille, and he outlined what they had done so far.
‘We are aware of the identification, Harry, and we are most grateful for that. It seems that the girl Mrs Lambert — was on holiday here, but we have been unable to trace yet where she was staying.’ He paused in thought. ‘Assuming, of course, that she was staying in St Brouille. You must realise, naturally, that this is a popular part of France for holidaymakers — we have thousands every year. Givry here, my Chef …’ He indicated the Maréchal des Logis-Chef with a wave of the hand. ‘He has worked very hard, making enquiries at hotels, at gîtes, and at logis in and around the area in an effort to discover whether such a woman was here. We have made enquiries all over, but to no avail. Even camping sites, but nothing. Until we can discover where she was, enquiries about anyone who may have been with her are impossible.’
‘There is a complication, Jules.’ Tipper pronounced his name as though he was describing precious stones. ‘Mrs Lambert worked for our Foreign Office. We are wondering whether that made any difference — whether it complicates matters at all. It is possible, I suppose, that it had something to do with her death.’
Courbet shrugged his shoulders. ‘It is possible, yes. But what I do not know.’
Tipper and Markham returned to London reinforced by some good wine, the certain knowledge that policemen of all nations get on well together, but very little else.
‘I think,’ said Tipper, ‘that we must start at the Foreign Office. And I reckon that the bloke she worked for is not a bad place to start.’
Chapter Three
‘Mr Mallory will see you now.’ The tall girl with the plummy accent clearly regarded policemen as rather strange — the sort of persons one did not normally see in the rarefied atmosphere of the Foreign Office in Whitehall.
Mallory was smooth. Immaculately dressed, he exuded a charm that was effortless — part of being a diplomat. ‘Chief Inspector,’ he said, rising from his desk and walking towards Tipper with
his hand outstretched. ‘Come in — do take a seat.’ He nodded towards Markham. ‘Sergeant,’ he said, in little more than a murmur, instantly recognising him as Tipper’s subordinate and letting him know that he knew.
He conducted the two policemen to a small circle of easy chairs in one corner of his large office — what he called his conference area — and lowered himself gracefully into one of them. ‘What can I do to help you?’
‘Mrs Penelope Lambert’s death,’ said Tipper without preamble.
‘I saw it in the newspapers — a tragedy.’ Mallory sat with one elbow over the back of his chair, absently playing with his signet ring. ‘She was drowned, I understand? On holiday.’
‘On holiday, Mr Mallory — why do you say that?’
Mallory appeared slightly disconcerted. ‘Well, surely …?’
‘I believe that Mrs Lambert had resigned her post here — as your secretary.’
‘Yes indeed, about, oh — five weeks ago, I suppose it must have been.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t quite understand …’
‘Why did she resign, Mr Mallory?’
‘I’m afraid I don’t know.’
‘Did she not say? In my experience, a secretary is usually fairly open with the man she works for. Did she not put forward any reason?’
‘No, she didn’t. I presumed that she had something else to go to.’
‘Sudden was it?’ Tipper knew that she had asked to be allowed to resign without the usual period of notice from his chat with the security chief.
‘Well I suppose it was, but young women are often unpredictable, aren’t they? I have to admit, Chief Inspector, that I didn’t really put it to her. Incidentally, may I ask why the police are taking such an interest in Mrs Lambert’s death? Surely it was a straightforward accidental drowning — albeit a tragedy?’
Tipper smiled disarmingly. ‘In a sense, Mr Mallory, we are acting as agents for the French police. They are conducting the enquiry into her death. I suppose other police forces — other judicial systems — have different ways of doing things. The fact that she had worked here until quite recently might have led them to think that there could be international ramifications.’ He met Mallory’s gaze. ‘But being in the Foreign Office, I suppose you’d know that better than me?’
‘Quite so, Chief Inspector. Of course.’
‘How long had she been your secretary?’
Mallory looked across his office, beyond the two policemen. ‘Two years — perhaps slightly longer.’
‘What can you tell me about her — Mrs Lambert the person?’
‘In what way?’ Mallory clearly wasn’t going to be an easy man to interview.
‘Something about her background might help.’
‘Divorced — but you probably know that already.’
Tipper nodded, and Mallory continued. ‘Apparently she and her husband had a child six or seven years ago, and the child died — an accident I believe. That, I gather, is what started the break-up of the marriage. There were mutual recriminations — arguments about the apportionment of blame — that sort of thing. Anyway, they split up and finally divorced. There was no one else as far as I know.’
‘I understand that she had only recently moved to Wimbledon?’
‘So I believe. She lived in Hampton Wick before that, but she was always complaining about the trains. I think she moved so that she would be near the Underground. Much easier for the office.’
‘You seem to know quite a lot about your late secretary, Mr Mallory.’
Mallory smiled condescendingly. ‘I always take an interest in my staff, Chief Inspector. It’s part of good management, I always think.’
‘And yet you have no idea why she resigned, or what she intended to do?’
Mallory looked sharply at Tipper. ‘No — no idea at all.’ Tipper remained passive, willing the man opposite him to continue. ‘It was all rather sudden,’ said Mallory eventually. ‘She just put her notice in one morning, and that was that. She even asked if the usual period of notice could be dispensed with.’
‘Strange,’ said Tipper. ‘Just like that.’
‘As you say, Chief Inspector — just like that. But then women do some strange things at times, don’t you find? Are you married?’
‘Yes,’ said Tipper. ‘And you?’
‘Oh yes, very much so.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Well, gentlemen, unless there is anything else — I do have an appointment with the Minister.’
‘Thank you, Mr Mallory. I think that’s all — for the time being.’ Mallory looked vaguely disconcerted at that. ‘Oh, there’s just one other thing,’ said Tipper, as he reached the door. ‘Did Mrs Lambert hand her notice to you?’
‘Er, no.’ Mallory put a hand to his face and gently massaged the temple with his middle finger. ‘As I recall, she handed it straight to the Establishments people. She mentioned it to me, naturally, but almost in passing. I thought it a bit strange.’
*
‘Well?’ Tipper looked at Charlie Markham, relaxed in an armchair on the other side of the office.
‘Nasty piece of work. Don’t fancy him at all, sir.’
Tipper parted the slats of the Venetian blind and stared down into Broadway, sixteen floors below. He continued talking with his back towards Markham. ‘How old d’you reckon he was, Charlie?’
‘About forty-six — forty-seven perhaps. Find out, easily enough, I suppose. Why? Does he interest you, guv’nor?’
Tipper turned from the window. ‘Yes, Charlie, he does. It wouldn’t surprise me to find that he was having an affair with the gorgeous Mrs Lambert.’
‘But what about the set of fingerprints on her letter of resignation that C3 also found in her flat? Surely the owner of those is a better bet?’
‘Might be his, Charlie.’
‘But he didn’t handle that letter — it went straight to the Establishments people.’
‘So he said, Charlie, so he said.’
Markham nodded slowly. ‘As you say, sir, so he said.’
‘Devote a little attention to him. See what you can find out about him. Where he lives — what his wife’s like, all that sort of thing. And above all does anyone know if he was having it off with Penelope. But be careful how you go. I don’t want him to think we’re taking an interest. And that place …’ He waved in the direction of the Foreign Office on the other side of St James’s Park. ‘That place is a hotbed of gossip and rumour, I should think. You’ll probably learn a lot, but it could easily get back to him, and I don’t want him alerted, just in case.’
*
Charlie Markham was a good detective. He knew that any attempt on his part to penetrate the bastion of the Foreign and Commonwealth Office was doomed to fail, particularly as it was, by its very nature, a security-conscious organisation. But Charlie Markham also knew women. And he decided to make a play for the girl who now occupied the late Mrs Lambert’s chair as Mallory’s new secretary. Plummy and refined she might be, but Charlie’s South London approach had won over similar girls on two or three occasions in the past — and when he wasn’t really trying. Apart from anything else, he knew damned well that her curiosity would get the better of her, either way, by which he meant that if Mallory had told her why the police had called, she would be curious, and if he hadn’t told her, she’d be even more inquisitive.
The trouble with the Foreign Office is that it is a sprawling rabbit warren of a place with several entrances. It was four or five days before Markham sighted the girl leaving by the King Charles Street exit.
‘How funny,’ said Markham, spreading his arms expansively.
For a moment the girl looked perplexed; she knew the face but wasn’t sure why. Then it registered. ‘Oh, you’re the policeman who came to see Mr Mallory.’
‘Absolutely right,’ said Markham. ‘And I was just coming to see you, but here you are sloping off home. You finish early.’ He made it sound like an accusation and glanced at his watch. ‘Only a quarter to five
— what a wicked waste of the taxpayers’ money.’
She smiled coyly; Markham’s bluffness was a bit overwhelming, but he was relying on it. ‘These class birds like a bit of rough,’ he had said many times before.
‘Er look, I suppose …’ Markham contrived to look momentarily indecisive. ‘I was hoping to pop in for a quick word, but …’
‘I shall be in the office tomorrow morning,’ she said helpfully.
‘Ah, but I shan’t — up at the Bailey all day.’ He paused again. ‘Look, how about a quick drink, unless your husband’s waiting for his dinner?’
‘I’m not married, but …’ She looked doubtful.
‘I don’t want to take you out of your way,’ said Charlie. ‘Or are you going home to wash your hair?’ He laughed as he said it and the girl joined in.
He steered her to a corner table in one of Whitehall’s pubs. ‘What is your pleasure, marm?’ he asked with staged gallantry.
‘Could I have a gin-and-tonic, please?’
‘You most certainly may.’
He put her drink on the table and set down his own Scotch. ‘I’m Charlie Markham, in case you’ve forgotten,’ he said, ‘but I don’t know your name.’ Hurriedly he added, in an exaggerated whisper, ‘but don’t shout it or they’ll think I’ve just picked you up.’
She laughed, ‘Well you have, haven’t you. I’m Kate McLaren.’
He extended a hand, taking hers. ‘Pleased to meet you Kate.’
She sipped at her drink, and put it back on the table. ‘Well?’ She raised her eyebrows.
He offered her a cigarette, but she declined. ‘Do you mind if I do?’
‘No, but it’s very bad for you.’
‘I know,’ said Markham, ‘and I’ve had all the lectures.’ He stretched his legs out straight and took a mouthful of Scotch. ‘I was wondering,’ he said. ‘How well did you know Penelope Lambert?’
‘Not at all.’
‘Oh!’
‘Did you expect me to, then?’
