Madrigal for Charlie Muffin

by Brian Freemantle

  Charlie listened to Willoughby’s London number being dialled and was conscious of the concern in the underwriter’s voice when he came on the line. The embarrassment that Charlie felt at their earlier contact wasn’t there any more.

  ‘How bad is it?’ demanded Willoughby.

  ‘Bad,’ said Charlie. He gave a swift but complete account and when he finished Willoughby said, ‘There’s obviously a thief on the ambassador’s staff.’

  ‘Not obviously,’ said Charlie. ‘But possibly.’

  ‘You warned Billington of an approach?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Charlie. ‘He’s not keen.’

  ‘On recovering everything intact!’

  ‘He’s worried that any personal involvement would compromise him,’ said Charlie. ‘He’s talking about a settlement.’

  ‘That wouldn’t be easy,’ said Willoughby.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean two million pounds.’

  He was going with Alice through the looking-glass and the room was getting smaller again. ‘Didn’t you spread the cover?’ said Charlie wearily. Just like Hong Kong and the liner fire.

  ‘No.’

  ‘I didn’t think gambling and insurance went hand in hand,’ said Charlie.

  ‘I needed liquidity,’ said Willoughby. ‘Whoever would have thought Billington’s stuff could be stolen?’

  ‘Whoever took it,’ said Charlie unhelpfully.

  ‘What about obviation of policy if there isn’t a sell-back?’ said Willoughby.

  ‘Not a chance.’ Charlie would not give the man false hope. ‘I confirmed every item on the list twenty-four hours before it was taken. And there hadn’t been the slightest alteration to the protection as it’s described. You’re one hundred and one per cent liable.’

  ‘Thanks a million.’

  ‘Two million,’ corrected Charlie.

  ‘Is there any point in my coming out?’

  Charlie glanced towards the closet where Clarissa’s clothes were tight-packed. ‘I don’t think so,’ he said. ‘Not yet.’

  ‘You’ve managed difficult things before.’

  ‘Not like this,’ said Charlie. He needed all the luck he could get.

  In London Willoughby looked across the room towards the safe in which the observation reports were locked. He wouldn’t use them, he decided. He’d wait for another occasion to trap Clarissa. And knowing her it wouldn’t take long.

  Henry Jackson was already waiting when Wilson and Naire-Hamilton entered the suite that had been established as a communal briefing room.

  ‘An up-to-date summary,’ demanded Wilson crisply.

  ‘We let Walsingham go out to the villa as instructed,’ said Jackson. ‘He got back to the embassy about an hour ago. We’ve spoken by telephone. He says the police believe there was inside help. From our own observation we identified police being moved in to watch the villa staff and put a cover on all embassy personnel with frequent access.’

  ‘What about the embassy?’

  ‘Not the panic that I’d hoped for. And I’ve had our people making a bloody nuisance of themselves to Walsingham and Semingford.’

  ‘What’s the security like?’ asked Naire-Hamilton.

  ‘Walsingham gave me a tour,’ said Jackson. ‘Seemed tight enough.’

  ‘You advised the embassy of my arrival?’ said Wilson.

  ‘Half an hour ago.’

  ‘Let’s see if I can shake the trees,’ said Wilson.

  17

  Clarissa sensed Charlie’s mood. She didn’t speak in the lift, but outside the hotel on the Via Sistina she looped both hands through his arm and hugged against him. Charlie glanced towards the Spanish Steps and isolated the unmarked police car with its boot-mounted aerial. He moved off in the opposite direction.

  ‘Why are we walking?’ she said.

  ‘Good for us,’ said Charlie. When the moment had come in the hotel room he’d ducked it, like a bloody fool. It wasn’t going to get any easier.

  She pulled closer to him but didn’t say anything.

  The Via Sistina is a street of small shops, none very fashionable, but Charlie went through the charade of stopping and staring and quickly identified the man following them in the reflection of a boutique window. He was small, in a double-breasted suit and a wide-brimmed hat, which was identifiable and made him an amateur at surveillance.

  For positive confirmation Charlie crossed suddenly near the road junction by the theatre, as if he wanted to check the programme. The man darted after them. Clarissa was curious but said nothing.

  With all the determination of the committed sightseer, which is what he wanted to appear in the subsequent reports to Moro, Charlie set a course for the Trevi fountain, the nearest landmark he could think of. There was the usual throng of tourists around the base of the monument when they arrived in the square. Clarissa immediately demanded a coin.

  ‘To make a wish work you’ve got to stand with your back to the fountain,’ Charlie said.

  She did as she was instructed, closed her eyes and tossed the coin awkwardly over her head. Quickly glancing sideways Charlie saw the blue-suited man at the side parapet where the horse-drawn carriages were parked waiting for tourist fares.

  ‘Now you,’ said Clarissa.

  ‘Can’t afford it,’ said Charlie. Irritated with himself, he took her arm, guiding her through the crowd up to the higher balustrade. As they walked, Charlie saw one of the carriage horses start to urinate in a sudden, steaming burst, and from the way the policeman jumped Charlie guessed he hadn’t been able to get his feet out of the way in time.

  There was a small café, with three tables wedged onto the pavement, but they were all occupied. It was cramped in the dark interior and smelled of yesterday’s garlic. Charlie ordered cognac with his coffee but predictably Clarissa refused alcohol. They sat unspeaking until the drinks were served and then Clarissa said, ‘Why not say it?’

  ‘I don’t want you to stay.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘You could be in Menton by tonight.’

  ‘I don’t want to go to Menton.’

  ‘I’m working.’

  ‘And I’m in the way.’

  Charlie swirled the liquor around the tiny balloon glass. ‘Something isn’t right,’ he said.

  ‘What do you mean.’

  ‘The robbery isn’t right. I don’t know what it is….’

  ‘You aren’t making sense.’

  ‘Nothing makes sense at the moment.’

  ‘I still don’t see why I can’t stay with you.’

  ‘I don’t think it’s safe.’

  ‘That sounds dramatic’

  ‘We were followed here. By the police.’

  Clarissa stared wildly around the café. ‘Good Lord!’

  ‘What happens if they check with Rupert in London?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Of course you bloody know.’

  ‘Don’t shout.’

  ‘I’m sorry. Just go. Please.’

  ‘Slam, bam, thank you, ma’am?’

  ‘Your rules.’

  ‘You played.’

  ‘And now the game is over?’

  ‘It isn’t just that, is it?’ She put her hand on his arm.

  Charlie could not hold the stare from the clear blue eyes.

  ‘Unless we’re sensible this is going to end up a real mess,’ he said.

  ‘So what?’

  ‘I don’t want it. For Rupert. Or for you.’

  ‘So what are you going to do?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘You ran away after America.’

  ‘Yes.’ There was no doubt he had a talent for it.

  ‘Don’t run away this time.’

  ‘I’d like you to leave,’ he said doggedly.

  Clarissa sighed. ‘I’m disappointed, Charlie.’

  ‘I didn’t make any promises.’

  ‘It wasn’t promises I wanted.’

  ‘What then?’

&nbs
p; She considered an answer and then appeared to change her mind. ‘Don’t come back to the hotel with me,’ she said.

  ‘All right.’

  ‘See you in London,’ she said and Charlie knew she meant it. He said nothing.

  He followed her as far as the café door. As she walked away, Charlie watched men’s heads turn and he felt pride, not jealousy. The blue-suited detective shifted and then relaxed again against the balustrade overlooking the fountain. Charlie saw someone else move away from the crowd. It could have been coincidence, because there was a constant flow of people along the approach roads, but he didn’t think it was. The man was wearing a grey suit and Charlie had the feeling he had seen him before.

  The meal began in frigid silence, like all the others. After a few moments Semingford pushed his plate away, food untouched.

  ‘Something wrong?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What then?’ Ann Semingford was an angular, sharp-featured woman who had responded to her husband’s neglect by neglecting herself. The smock dress was the one she had been wearing for most of the week and her hair hung lankly around a face that was shiny without make-up.

  ‘I’m not hungry.’

  ‘Love!’

  ‘I want to talk.’

  ‘That’ll make a change.’

  ‘I want a divorce, Ann.’

  She stopped eating. ‘The moment of truth!’ she said, striking a pose.

  ‘Don’t be stupid.’

  ‘Isn’t it you who’s being stupid?’

  ‘What’s the point of either of us bothering?’

  ‘You know how I feel about divorce.’

  ‘That’s hypocritical, in the circumstances. Do you want me just to walk out?’

  ‘I don’t think you’d do that, Richard. It would hardly help your career, would it?’

  ‘Bugger my career.’

  ‘Since when?’

  ‘It isn’t important any more.’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘Finding a way to be with Jane.’

  18

  Sir Alistair Wilson entered the embassy through the main entrance off the Via Settembre, identified himself at the reception area and signed in. Walsingham appeared within minutes, hurrying across the marble vestibule. He was heavier jowled than he appeared in the personnel photographs, with the beginning of a paunch corseted by the waistcoat of a brown-checked suit.

  ‘Sir Alistair Wilson?’ said Walsingham tentatively.

  Wilson extended his hand. Walsingham’s response was wet-palmed.

  ‘I’ve told the ambassador you were coming,’ he said eagerly.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Wilson. The security officer appeared more nervous than Wilson would have expected.

  ‘He said to let him know if you wanted to see him.’ Walsingham hesitated and added, ‘Actually he was surprised you hadn’t approached him.’

  ‘Is there an office we can go to?’ said Wilson.

  The abruptness seemed to unsettle Walsingham even further. He hesitated and then said, ‘Certainly.’

  Wilson walked in silence along the echoing corridor, conscious of the occasional look of curiosity from people they passed. It had clearly been a minor palace in the past and Wilson admired the gracious marble and panelling. Walsingham’s office was on the second floor, at the rear of the building, overlooking the Via Cernaia. Wilson noted the soldierly tidiness about everything.

  ‘I was in the middle of preparing the report when I heard you were coming,’ said Walsingham.

  ‘About what?’

  ‘The robbery, of course. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?’

  The man was very much on edge. Wilson didn’t think Walsingham would have made a good interrogator: which was probably why he’d been passed over twice for promotion. ‘No,’ he said.

  ‘I thought Mr Jackson was supervising the Summit arrangements?’

  ‘He is.’

  Walsingham smiled feebly. ‘I’m afraid I don’t understand.’

  ‘Did you know your wife was a member of the Communist party in Australia?’ said Wilson sharply.

  Walsingham made an indeterminate sound, somewhere between a laugh and a grunt of disbelief. ‘Of course I knew.’

  ‘It’s not on the antecedent records. Or in the personnel file.’

  ‘It was when she was at school, for God’s sake! Imagined herself in love with some student and joined because he did, to be in the same place. The membership ended when the romance did. She thought they were a lot of bloody fools, rushing about with banners protesting about the Vietnam war.’

  ‘It wasn’t recorded.’

  ‘Because neither of us thought anything about it. I belonged to the Scouts but I didn’t record that.’

  ‘You were an officer cadet, too. You put that down.’

  ‘Because it was relevant to my going into the army and not directly joining the diplomatic service.’

  ‘Who decided to leave it out, you or she?’

  ‘I can’t remember.’

  ‘Try.’

  Walsingham’s hand was at his face, as if the skin irritated. ‘I really can’t remember. It was not a conscious decision, something we discussed.’

  ‘But it was,’ said Wilson. ‘She told you about it in the first place.’

  ‘Not about belonging to some daft organization. It was one of those honesty things; admitting all the previous romances, so we would start married life without any secrets. It was the student she told me about: the party membership was incidental. Didn’t you do that sort of thing with your wife?’

  ‘No,’ said Wilson coldly.

  ‘Surely you haven’t come all the way from London to ask me about something as unimportant as that!’ said Walsingham. The nervousness had melted into outrage.

  ‘Perhaps it isn’t unimportant.’

  ‘Ask my wife.’

  ‘Why don’t we?’

  Walsingham’s fifth-floor apartment was situated near the river, in an old building without a lift. The staircase spiralled around the walls, creating an open central tunnel down which it was possible to look from the top to the bottom. They climbed in hostile silence. Walsingham had asked to telephone, but Wilson forbade it, not wanting to permit the woman any preparation.

  ‘Here we are.’ There was the sound of a radio playing inside the apartment.

  Taking immediate control, Wilson pushed Walsingham aside and knocked. Jill Walsingham was a plump, sagging woman. Flesh bulged beneath her jeans and she wasn’t wearing a bra: the T-shirt strained with the effort. She had a roller crimped on either side of her head, so that she appeared to be wearing some odd sort of hat, and her face was clear of make-up. There was a brief frown of surprise. Then she smiled and said, ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ said Walsingham.

  She stood back to let them enter. It was a large apartment, with a view of the Tiber from an outside balcony. The drapes were velvet and reached the floor, which was thickly carpeted. The furniture was heavy but the room was big enough to allow it; Wilson noted that the couch and chairs were antique. The oil paintings either side of the fireplace were School of Tintoretto and the mantlepiece clock was eighteenth century. French, guessed Wilson. He thought the apartment was remarkably tasteful for a woman who looked like Jill Walsingham did at eleven thirty in the morning, and then guessed it was furnished. She crossed to a sideboard and turned off the radio. It was intrusive in the surroundings, an elaborate machine of dials and level meters and extension speakers.

  They stood uncertainly in the centre of the room. Wilson said, ‘I’d like to see you alone please, Mrs Walsingham.’

  The woman looked to her husband. ‘What’s this about?’

  ‘He’s the director.’

  ‘Alone please,’ repeated Wilson.

  ‘Why?’ she said defiantly. The Australian accent was pronounced.

  ‘I have some questions I’d like to ask you.’

  ‘What about?’

  Wilson looked pointedly at Wa
lsingham, waiting for him to leave the room.

  ‘Could we refuse?’ she said.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘What would happen if we did?’

  ‘I’d suspend your husband from the embassy immediately and have you both taken back to London to answer the questions there.’

  ‘What questions?’

  Walsingham broke the impasse. ‘I’m going to get myself a drink in the kitchen,’ he said.

  His wife’s attitude softened almost immediately the door closed after him. ‘What’s he done?’ she said.

  ‘Has he done anything?’

  ‘For Christ’s sake!’ she protested. ‘When are you going to talk in a straight line?’

  ‘From May 1969 until August of the same year you were a member of the Australian Communist party,’ said Wilson.

  She looked at him blank-faced.

  ‘You were a member of the Communist party.’

  ‘So what?’

  ‘So your husband is a member of an intelligence department and there’s no reference to your involvement on any records.’

  ‘Because it wasn’t a bloody involvement.’ Her voice was a mixture of exasperation and incredulity.

  ‘What was it then?’

  ‘I was living with this fellow who thought the world was going the wrong way and wanted to get it right; he even had a beard, like Jesus. I was writing out posters saying Nixon and Kissinger were warmongers and he was screwing the girl who printed the newsletter…. In the cupboard where they kept the paper.’

  ‘So you stopped?’

  ‘Of course I stopped,’ she said. ‘Like I stopped believing that you catch a dose by sitting on dirty toilet seats.’

  Wilson recognized the attempt to embarrass him was her way of fighting back. ‘So there was no reason why it shouldn’t have been listed on your husband’s records?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why wasn’t it?’

  ‘How the hell do I know?’

  ‘One of you does.’

  She threw her arms out and her breasts wobbled, jelly-like. ‘Ask him.’

  ‘I did. He said he couldn’t remember whether it was you or he who decided not to mention it.’