Corridors of Death

by Ruth Dudley Edwards

  ‘Did Parkinson know it was Sir Nicholas who was responsible for his condition?’

  ‘He can’t have known specifically, but he must have guessed a lot of it. He certainly must have smarted under some of the deft criticisms Sir Nicholas used to make of his work whenever he got the chance—often in memoranda circulated to half a dozen people. He never mentioned him by name, of course. Just made snide references—expressing concern that nothing had been done in this area or that, or surprise at the misjudgement displayed in a draft policy document. Sir Nicholas was very clever,’ Amiss sighed. ‘I bet The Times obituary says he had a first-rate mind.’

  ‘Well, time to draw stumps. I’m taking my third-rate mind home to bed before you tell me that Sir Nicholas was about to have the entire leadership of the TUC arraigned for treason. I don’t suppose even you can have a lot more to tell me tomorrow, but in line with our bargain, I’ll be here about the same time tomorrow night to fill you in on my day’s doings. Here, I’ll pay that. Least I can do.’

  ‘If you see me in the department tomorrow, don’t for God’s sake call me Robert.’

  ‘I’ll call you “sir”. Nobody ever called me a high flyer.’

  Tuesday Morning

  Chapter Six

  Milton’s wife was still asleep when he left at 7.30 the following morning, after five hours’ fitful sleep. He doubted if he was to have much conversation with her during the rest of the investigation. Stupid of policemen to marry women they like, he thought dejectedly. The ideal policeman (like the ideal Cabinet Minister, apparently) should be married to a wife so repellent that he would never feel the yearning for some private life. Ann wasn’t repellent. Worse, she had a job which took her abroad frequently—she was even now sleeping off jet-lag—and they could go for whole weeks without exchanging much more than written messages of household instructions. He found himself immersed in an increasingly frequent reverie, in which, surrounded by happy, healthy children, he pruned roses, raised exotic vegetables, savoured the smell of baking from the rambling Tudor homestead. There were several routes out of this daydream: his hatred of gardening was exceeded only by Ann’s abomination of housekeeping and the terror they both felt of boredom. This time he snapped out of it by recalling the last time he had spent more than ten minutes in the company of a gang of happy, healthy children. Boxing Day. He shuddered.

  Boredom certainly wasn’t likely to be the problem today, though tiredness might prevent him from savouring to the full the lunacies of this case. It was another parallel with a Cabinet Minister’s life that when a policeman needed to be at his most alert, with his judgement unimpaired, he was almost certain to have his senses blunted by fatigue.

  It took the walk through St James’s Park to exercise its usual magic and raise his spirits. That walk was one of the reasons why he so rarely used his official car. He found himself happily kicking the crisp leaves that lay on the path and looked around guiltily to check that no one had seen a sober-looking citizen, suddenly forgetting that his fortieth birthday was only a few years off, reverting to the habits of his youth. His eyes met those of an older man in a Crombie overcoat similarly engaged, and the conspiratorial smiles they exchanged augmented his sudden and irrational optimism.

  By the time he got to the Yard he was sorting out the confused impressions of the previous day and, soon after, he was able to exude confidence in his interview with his Chief Superintendent and the Assistant Commissioner. The latter was clearly worried that he might come under pressure to put a more senior officer on the case, but Milton’s emphasis on the need for tact and sensitivity in handling the Top People involved confirmed him in the job. For the time being, anyway. The only available Chief Superintendent had made his reputation as the terror of the East End gangs, and his tactics of bellowed questions and half-veiled threats, assuming that every witness he saw was a thief and a liar, were not perhaps quite what was needed for interrogating senior politicians and captains of industry.

  Milton escaped to his office, relieved that he had avoided close questioning on developments in the case, and reached for the newspapers. The coverage was worse than he had feared. Only The Times and the Financial Times had thought the news of another adverse monthly trade balance sufficiently dramatic to shunt Sir Nicholas’s death to the second lead story. Every single newspaper had cottoned on to the fact that the tight security in operation for the IGGY meeting made it a virtual certainty that the murderer had been among those attending it. The journalists were almost crooning over the list of those being interviewed by the police and the photographs of the most prominent IGGY attenders had all been chosen to convince the public that the country was run by thugs and psychopaths. His own photograph, snatched outside Embankment Tower, made him look like a startled mental defective—an image with which his reported comments were in keeping. On the discovery that The Times had indeed awarded Sir Nicholas a first-rate mind and no faults other than a somewhat acerbic wit, Milton gagged and passed on to a list of appointments the conscientious Romford had arranged for the day on his behalf. (The first four coincided with Amiss’s three and a half suspects-with-a-motive.)

  Nixon, Wells and Parkinson were co-dwellers in the Department of Conservation’s building and were all scheduled for morning visits. Stafford could manage 2.30, and had decently offered to come to the Yard. The Plastics Extrusion Workers’ leader, Alfred Shaw, had said he would be in his West End office at 4.00. There seemed little point just yet in hurrying to see the other three possibles, since no one had yet come up with any evidence that they had had any dealings with Sir Nicholas worth the name. Certainly none of them looked like a random killer. Shaw, Monday’s interviews had revealed, had at least come across the Permanent Secretary at a few meetings. Milton supposed that he should see the wife and son soon to see if they had any insights into other possible motives, but that could be postponed until the chief suspects had been interviewed at greater length. More to talk to the family about, that way.

  He slipped out a side door of the Yard at 9.15 for the brief walk to the department. Although preoccupied with his tactics for the morning, he found himself scrutinizing the passers-by with a view to spotting civil servants. It was all a myth about bowler hats, he realized. Their only badges of office were their brief-cases, black, with EIIR stamped on the flap. It took a few minutes of observation for him to spot that there were two classes of brief-case. The one most commonly to be seen was a limp plastic affair which clearly stamped its owner as one of the humble majority. The more exclusive kind, while much the same shape and size, was made of leather, and bulged with matters more weighty than the office-worker’s proverbial sandwiches. It was rather reminiscent of the neat way in which the Chinese, to denote differences of rank while maintaining an appearance of equality, dispensed Mao-suits of rough worsted to the peasantry and of fine wool to the cadres. Apart from the brief-cases, he would have been hard put to it to see any pattern of difference between civil servants and the rest of the hurrying masses. More suits, perhaps, and those suits a little more tending towards the conservative and shabby than those of the business executives (who carried their sandwiches in slimline attaché-cases).

  Milton entered the departmental building in a press of men. He must remember to ask Amiss where all the women were. Wasn’t the civil service supposed to have been in the fore-front of the drive for sexual equality? On presenting his credentials to a security guard he was instructed to wait in the reception area, which offered him a collection of abstruse journals on recycling which did little to distract him from his thoughts about Harvey Nixon. Within a couple of minutes he was being led into a lift by an engaging young woman, surprisingly clad in jeans. Presumably this denoted her lowly position, or was he giving the status game too much weight now? The lift stayed empty, although there appeared to be several dozen people waiting for one, and she explained that it was exclusively for the use of those who dwelt on the top floor, where ministers and s
enior officials clustered together. Milton was fighting hard not to have his perceptions blurred by confused memories of all the Orwellian anti-utopias read in his late adolescence. Was the Yard more or less sinister for the uniforms seen in its corridors? Was a private lift a substitute for epaulettes and lanyards? He was led through an enormous office full of youngsters beavering away with files, staplers and an enormous photocopier, and into the inner sanctum. Milton had just enough time to observe the extreme comfort in which these ministers were housed, when he came face to face with the unfortunate Secretary of State.

  My God, he thought, as Nixon produced a polite welcome and waved him to a noble leather armchair. Does he always look like this, or is this a testimony to Sir Nicholas’s efforts over the past few days? How did I miss those lines of exhaustion yesterday? And isn’t his hand shaking. Play yourself in gradually, Milton.

  He spent the first ten minutes on respectful apologies for taking up time, conventional expressions of regret about this sad business and routine checking of Nixon’s statement of the previous day. By then he felt that Nixon should have grasped that he was not dealing with a barbarian. Time to come to the crunch.

  ‘It would be very helpful, sir, if you could give me your personal assessment of Sir Nicholas. It is necessary for me, you see, to get some idea of his personality if I am to come to any conclusions about why he might have been murdered.’

  ‘Certainly, Superintendent. I worked closely with poor Sir Nicholas for almost two years, and I can say sincerely that he was a man of ability, integrity and industry. I am at a complete loss to understand why anyone would have killed him, unless of course some subversive organization wanted to embarrass the government at this critical time.’

  Milton looked at him wonderingly. It would be South African agents next if he didn’t get a grip on the proceedings.

  ‘No, sir. I fear that idea is too far-fetched to be considered seriously at this stage, although I assure you that we are of course checking the backgrounds of everyone who was in Embankment Tower at that time. I regret that at present we must concentrate our attention chiefly on those who were at the …’ Milton found the word IGGY on the tip of his tongue and cursed Amiss … ‘Industry and Government Group meeting, and had the opportunity to kill Sir Nicholas.’ And that, as you all too clearly realize, includes you, sir.

  Nixon seemed to sag slightly, but he replied quietly, ‘Yes, of course, Superintendent. I understand that you must do your job.’

  ‘Can you please tell me more about your relationship with Sir Nicholas? For instance, did you like him personally?’

  ‘Well, Superintendent, our relationship was necessarily formal, but I liked him well enough as a colleague.’

  I cannot afford, thought Milton, to let him get away with this sort of crap any longer. He leant forward and said with a slight edge to his voice. ‘Come, sir. I know we shouldn’t speak ill of the dead and all that, but I know enough of what happened at yesterday’s meeting to realize that Jesus Christ couldn’t have liked Sir Nicholas if he had pulled that stunt on Him.’

  Chapter Seven

  He thought for a moment that Nixon was going to bluster. He sat up, squared his shoulders and looked angrily at Milton. Their eyes stayed locked for a few moments, and Milton almost hated himself for enjoying it. He didn’t speak. The politician rose from his armchair and crossed the office for the cigarette box on his desk.

  ‘Which of my loyal staff told you about that?’ This with his back turned—and in a tone which strove to conceal his bitterness. Listening intently as he was, Milton felt for the first time that he’d detected a faint Lowlands lilt.

  ‘I pieced it together from various sources,’ he replied mendaciously.

  ‘You couldn’t have found out what he did except from one of my civil servants.’

  ‘Sorry, sir? I was referring to the fact that Sir Nicholas left you in the lurch for ten minutes at a time when you needed him badly. That could not have escaped anyone present. Was there something more?’

  ‘Oh, that,’ said Nixon with relief, turning back. ‘I’m sure there was a very good reason. He must have had urgent business elsewhere.’ He sat down again.

  ‘Look, sir, you’ve already indicated that there was more to it than that. I shall find out what it was if I have to interrogate every civil servant in the building. I have the deepest sympathy for the position in which you find yourself, but you are only going to make it worse if you don’t tell me the truth about your relationship with the dead man. There must be dozens of people who know. It would come better from you.’

  Face to face, Milton could see the politician at work. He was calculating his chances from every angle. After a few moments he spoke.

  ‘Sir Nicholas was the most vicious bastard I have ever come across in thirty years in a profession which regards loyalty as weakness and decency as wetness.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ said Milton. Thank you very much indeed. You’re a nice bloke and I hope you didn’t do it. ‘Tell me all about it.’

  Nixon told him all about it, with a fluency which made Milton wonder at the standards of an organization that rated a man like this an incompetent. He seemed to forget whom he was talking to, and Milton remembered how lonely his life must be. A minister could legitimately complain to his colleagues about incompetence or obstructiveness in his Permanent Secretary, but he would make himself a laughing-stock if he complained that he was being made a fool of. With an obvious sense of relief at getting it off his chest at last, Nixon recounted a saga of endless petty humiliations. He told of the way in which Sir Nicholas made it clear, with raised eyebrow, sneer and expression of polite incredulity, that he believed his minister to be lacking in intellect, education, judgement and even political skill. ‘I had no experience of office,’ said Nixon miserably. ‘He had thirty years’ knowledge of how to play the system and was far cleverer than I was. He never did a single thing I could justifiably make a complaint about.’

  Milton lost sight for a moment of his main objective in his sympathy for this poor devil. ‘But surely, sir, his colleagues must have known what was going on.’

  ‘Oh, most of it happened when there were just the two of us there. Or was done so subtly that they couldn’t have been sure. The odd Deputy Secretary or Private Secretary might have had an inkling, but there was nothing they could have done about it, even if they’d been prepared to rock the boat. Personal malice or careerism would have been suspected. Sir Nicholas always took care to appear helpful in public or on paper.’

  ‘Until yesterday.’

  ‘Until yesterday. I really believe he must have gone mad. He didn’t bother to cover his tracks. It wasn’t, of course, just a matter of his leaving the room at a critical time. He set me up for a personal humiliation that could well cost me my job in the next reshuffle. “Poor chap can’t cope,” they’ll be saying.’

  Nixon went on to tell Milton of the events which had led up to the IGGY débâcle. His Private Secretary, thought Milton wryly, was obviously plugged as efficiently into the network as was Amiss. Nixon knew the whole story.

  ‘You didn’t know all this until you came back here yesterday afternoon and made enquiries?’

  ‘No, but I was pretty sure that he was responsible at least for the speech which I was given to deliver. An ego like his could never resist putting something of itself into a draft speech, even in those circumstances. Beautifully done, of course, rubbish though it was. And when the threatened attack from the TUC which had ostensibly necessitated my presence didn’t materialize, I had no doubt about who had invented it. I’ve been honest with you, Superintendent. I had every reason to kill the swine yesterday morning. I also had the opportunity, apparently. But I didn’t do it. Oddly enough I was almost grateful to him for bringing the whole business to a head. He had given me a reasonable chance of being able to nail him at last, and he had made me realize once a
nd for all that I was happier as an M.P. than as a minister and the sooner I returned to the back-benches the better.’

  ‘I am extremely grateful to you, sir. I assure you that I shan’t abuse your confidence.’

  Nixon got to his feet and held out his hand. ‘I apologize for being so evasive at the beginning, Superintendent. Answering straight questions doesn’t come easily to a politician.’

  As Milton closed the door behind him he caught himself wishing that he had Nixon as a constituency M.P. rather than the smooth, intensely able, totally inhuman rising star who presently graced the position. He doubted if he would feel the same way about the man he was to meet next.

  Chapter Eight

  That Milton was already late for his appointment with Wells was made clear to him by the way in which he was greeted by one of the two minions inhabiting Wells’s modest outer office. The girl seemed slightly agitated and fussed about how busy the minister was. But isn’t he called a PUSS? thought Milton, confused again. Then he realized that this would hardly be a respectful term of verbal address. Equally, you could hardly go about calling people ‘Parliamentary Under-Secretary of State’ if you ever wanted to get any business done. Presumably ‘minister’ was a catch-all title of respect for any politician holding even the most lowly of offices in the government. He was grateful he could stick to ‘sir’.

  The girl had said that Wells was in the middle of an important phone call. Her insistence that it couldn’t be interrupted was so intense that it seemed that the fate of the government must rest on its successful conclusion. Milton wondered if she were an idiot, but, while he waited, his close observation showed her colleague to bear equal signs of strain. In view of what Amiss had told him, he guessed that their master’s self-importance and ambition made him a nightmare to work for.