The Lucifer Network

by Geoffrey Archer

  Julie looked down at her hands. ‘There was a second letter from my father,’ she admitted softly.

  ‘We gathered that. What did it say?’

  Julie swallowed. Her throat was as dry as a bone. Reluctantly she told them. ‘It said that if he were to die suddenly, then Simon Foster of MI6 would probably be to blame.’

  Denise Corby sighed with exasperation. ‘And you believed him? Despite knowing what a liar he was?’

  Julie turned her face away. She felt wretched and looked towards the door, anywhere to avoid them seeing into her soul. There was no factual justification for doing what she’d done. She’d known it all along. She’d co-operated with the press to impress her father. To make the wretched man love her, wherever he was now.

  ‘Did he give you money when you saw him in Vienna?’ Corby asked, going for the kill.

  Startled, Julie nodded. ‘A little. It made him feel good to be generous.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘A few hundred.’

  ‘Pounds?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘More like a thousand?’

  ‘Possibly.’

  ‘He gave you money whenever he saw you?’

  ‘Not every time, but usually. It was his way of making up for not being around when I was a child.’

  ‘And with you working in a health service laboratory, you wouldn’t be paid much . . .’

  ‘Not a lot,’ she agreed.

  ‘So getting cash from your dad was something you came to rely on,’ Corby suggested.

  ‘Look I don’t know what you’re getting at, but the money was to help support Liam,’ Julie floundered. She looked up at the ceiling, a single lamp burning in the middle of it, protected by a metal grille.

  ‘But you were grateful for the cash. Probably felt you owed him something for his generosity. Felt that one way to repay him was by giving voice to his lies and fantasies through the media.’

  ‘I don’t know that they’re lies,’ Julie whispered, wretchedly.

  ‘Well you should do, Miss Jackman,’ Corby said harshly. ‘One final question. What did you and he talk about when he was last back in England? Smuggling nuclear weapons?’

  ‘Of course not. We spoke about him wanting to come home. Life in Africa was beginning to frighten him.’

  Corby let her eyebrows float up in an exaggerated expression of derision.

  ‘Really? And what was he scared of, pray?’

  ‘Of being robbed, mostly,’ Julie answered, not realising the hole she was digging. ‘He said whites were being killed for the cash in their pockets and for their cars . . .’

  They let her words hang in the air, waiting for it to sink in.

  Death by robbery. Not by conspiracy. Not through the agency of one Simon Foster. Julie felt as small as a flea.

  ‘I think I’d like to go now,’ she whispered, staring down at her hands.

  ‘And hang yourself, I shouldn’t be surprised,’ Corby snapped. ‘You do realise that your slanderous allegations have destroyed the livelihood of a perfectly decent businessman?’

  ‘He’s not a businessman,’ Julie retorted. ‘He’s one of you lot.’

  Denise Corby folded her arms and raised a sceptical eyebrow.

  Steph could see that the girl was on the verge of breaking down and took pity on her. ‘The officers who brought you in can take you back to the West End, if you like,’ she offered gently.

  ‘I . . . I’d rather walk,’ Julie sniffed.

  ‘As you wish.’

  As she stood up, Denise Corby thrust a business card at her. ‘In case you’ve lost the last one I gave you. If you remember anything else about Vienna, do yourself a favour and give me a ring.’

  Julie nodded. When she reached the door she half turned.

  ‘Would you do something for me, Ms Corby?’

  ‘I’ll try.’

  ‘Tell Simon Foster I’m sorry.’

  She left the room.

  ‘That’ll be a huge comfort,’ Corby spluttered when she’d gone.

  ‘A silly little girl,’ Steph declared, her comment tainted with personal venom. ‘And quite out of her depth.’

  ‘But with the power to inflict enormous damage,’ Corby added, getting to her feet. ‘Thanks for your support, Chief Inspector. At this point in time it seems we don’t have a case.’

  ‘No, but congratulations. I don’t think she’ll be talking to the papers any more.’

  Denise Corby smiled.

  ‘Probably not. Unfortunately the harm is already done.’

  Steph itched to ask about Sam’s fate but didn’t dare. Her friendship with him was private and she wanted to keep it that way. ‘Would you like me to run Julie’s story past Professor Norton, just to see it stands up?’ she checked.

  ‘Yes, please. It’d be mad not to.’ Denise Corby held out her hand. ‘Now I think I’d better get out of your hair and leave you to concentrate on nailing the Southall bomber.’

  Stephanie grimaced. ‘We’re painfully short of leads there. Nothing from the usual neo-Nazi sources. Hoping like crazy that there’s something on the surveillance videos. Sharp eyes and a bit of luck is what we’ll need if we’re to catch this little runt before he strikes again.’

  ‘Hope you get your break. And if you do, pass the luck our way. We’ve got a man on our books who could do with some.’

  11

  Scotland

  SAM HEADED UP the Glasgow road, fortified by a bacon sandwich consumed on the ferry back to the mainland. There was a little under an hour to go before his appointment with Ted Salmon, the man who’d served on HMS Retribution with his father. This morning his priority was to try to prove the innocence of a long-dead sailor. In the days to come, it was his own name he would have to clear.

  He turned left onto the Erskine suspension bridge that arched across the Clyde, driving like an automaton. He wanted to complete his business in Scotland and get back to London to fight his corner with his bosses. Waddell had been unavailable when he’d rung from the ferry and had yet to respond to the message he’d left. The distancing process had already begun, it seemed.

  On the north bank of the Clyde, the road wound west through Dumbarton, following the line of the Firth. After a few miles a sign proclaimed the outskirts of Helensburgh, ‘Birthplace of John Logie Baird, the inventor of television’. The town was at the mouth of the Gare Loch down which HMS Retribution used to pass on her way to the Atlantic from Faslane. To the right of the road, soulless, grey estates erupted like fungus from the hillside, built cheaply to house the workforce needed when the Navy located its new nuclear deterrent in Scotland thirty years ago.

  Beyond these purpose-built slums lay the old Victorian town, an elegant resort of wide streets and weathered stone, whose sea front was dominated by a funfair, a swimming pool and a car park. Sam pulled in. He would need directions to find the address where Ted Salmon lived.

  He got out and crossed the promenade to the shops opposite. Amongst them was a café. The decoration inside was eclectic: Edwardian brass, sixties kilims on the walls, and in a corner beneath garish computer game posters, two PCs with a board attached saying ‘Internet connection £2.50 per half hour.’

  ‘Get much call for that here?’ Sam asked the shaven-headed young man behind the counter. He had a small gold ring through one nostril of his bulbous nose.

  ‘Weekends mostly. Students out from Glasgow. What can I get you?’

  ‘A cup of tea, please.’

  ‘Assam, Darjeeling or Earl Grey?’

  ‘PG Tips if you have it.’

  Without batting an eyelid the man produced a box from beneath the counter.

  Sam took his mug to a table by the window and looked out towards the sea. He watched the sky darken and let a shower pass before finishing his drink and asking the café owner for directions.

  Back in his car, he headed away from the sea, into a grid of streets lined by grassy verges and hawthorn trees. Bungalows gave way to comfortable mansions which became
grander as the road climbed the hill. He turned right into a side street and found Ted Salmon’s home easily, a grey stone cottage in a pretty garden, separated from its neighbours by high laurel hedges.

  When he rang the bell, it chimed somewhere far back in the recesses of the house. The front door was metal-framed with dappled glass. Through it he heard the sound of someone tidying things in the kitchen. He waited, but when no one came he pressed the bell again. It took a third attempt before he saw movement behind the glass and the door was opened.

  ‘Yes?’

  Sad, grey eyes were set in a lined face crowned with untidy white hair. The man was fiddling with a hearing aid, trying to settle it in his ear.

  ‘Ted Salmon?’ Sam asked.

  ‘Why, yes.’ The eyes widened as if recognising someone from the past. ‘You must be Trevor Packer’s boy.’

  ‘That’s right. The name’s Sam.’

  ‘Bless us! You’re the spitting image.’

  Salmon was a small man who spoke with a south of England accent that could have been Devon.

  ‘Come on in. Last time I saw you was at your father’s funeral. You were in short trousers.’

  ‘Well, yes. I suppose I would have been.’

  ‘Not much fun, funerals, are they?’ They were standing squeezed together in the small hall, Salmon peering intently up at his visitor.

  ‘One of the worst days of my life,’ Sam confirmed.

  ‘Cremated my wife last week.’ Ted Salmon said it matter-of-factly, but couldn’t disguise the downturn at the corners of his mouth.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ said Sam. ‘This isn’t the best time to call, then.’

  ‘That’s all right. It’s nice to have company. Come on in to the front room.’ He led the way. ‘I’m afraid I’ve reached the stage of life where too many of the people I’ve known have gone. Shouldn’t complain, I s’pose. Lucky to have known them. And meself, I’ve had a good life.’ He turned to face Sam, extending his hands in an awkward gesture of welcome. ‘Can I make you a cup of tea? I was just about to have one.’

  ‘Well . . . that’d be great. Thanks.’

  ‘NATO standard?’

  ‘Without sugar, thanks.’

  Salmon urged him to take a seat then disappeared to the kitchen. The sitting room felt curiously unlived-in. Lace antimacassars on the chair backs, a glass-fronted cupboard full of plaques from the ships the former CPO had served in and a collection of family photos in silver frames.

  ‘Was it sudden with your wife, Mr Salmon?’ Sam asked sympathetically. He’d stood up as the old man re-entered the room with a tray and two mugs.

  ‘Kidney disease. Been shaky for years. Two weeks ago she never woke up one morning. Good way to go, I suppose.’

  ‘How are you managing?’

  ‘Oh not so bad. I’ve got a son and a daughter who live nearby. And I keep myself busy with the garden.’

  ‘I could see that. It’s immaculate.’

  ‘Tidy, certainly. You learn to be as a submariner.’ His brow furrowed as he tried to recall something. ‘You had a sister, didn’t you?’

  ‘That’s right. She’s married with two daughters.’

  ‘And your mum?’

  ‘Died five years ago.’

  ‘Did she really?’ His eyes widened as if wondering whether everyone he’d ever known would be dead before him.

  ‘I wanted to ask you about my father, Mr Salmon,’ Sam began, not wanting to stay longer than he had to.

  ‘So they said on the phone.’

  ‘How well did you know him?’

  ‘Pretty well, pretty well. We’d done a lot of postings together. The first was on HMS Andrew. Remember her?’

  ‘My father probably mentioned the name, but I’ve forgotten.’

  ‘Last submarine in the Royal Navy to have a deck gun. And the first to snort her way across the Atlantic – submerged all the way. That was back in ’53. Your dad and I were on board for that one. She was a famous boat, the Andrew.’

  ‘And you served together again on Retribution.’

  ‘And on a couple of other boats in between. What’re you after? Researching his life story?’

  ‘Sort of. Things have been happening that made me realise I never really knew him.’

  Salmon shrugged. ‘Not surprising. You was only eleven when he died.’

  ‘I knew him as a dad, but not as a man, you could say.’ Sam let his words sink in. ‘Can I be blunt?’

  ‘Course you can. Blunt as you like. Not easy to shock a Navy man.’

  Sam took a deep breath. ‘I’m trying to find out whether my father betrayed his country, Mr Salmon.’

  The old sailor spilt his tea on his trousers. ‘Blimey!’ He put the mug down and took a handkerchief from his pocket to mop himself up. ‘That’s a question and a half. What’s brought this on?’

  ‘An allegation’s been made that he passed secret material to the Russians while he served on HMS Retribution.’

  Salmon gaped in astonishment.

  ‘Never! I can’t believe that. We was all in it together. Trev wouldn’t have put his mates’ lives at risk. Who’s been telling you this nonsense?’

  ‘The Russians.’

  Salmon was flabbergasted. ‘The Russians say he spied for them?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The old man puffed out his cheeks. ‘I’m stunned. Don’t know what to say. If it’s true, then I never had a clue. But I can’t believe it.’

  ‘How much did you know about his life outside the submarine service?’ Sam asked.

  ‘Oh . . . some,’ he replied warily. ‘You know. You chat a bit when you’re away on patrol.’

  ‘Did he seem short of money?’

  ‘No more than the rest of us.’

  ‘Did he talk to you about his girlfriends?’

  Salmon lifted one eyebrow. Then he puffed out his cheeks. ‘Oh you knows about that, does you?’

  ‘My mother used to slag him off for womanising.’

  Salmon gave a wry smile. ‘He was the sort of bloke we all used to envy. Know what I mean?’

  ‘Not entirely.’

  Salmon looked uncomfortable. ‘Don’t think I should be saying this. Sort of speaking ill of the dead, like. And you being his son and all.’

  ‘Please be frank, Mr Salmon. Totally frank. There’s a very big issue at play here and I need to know the truth about him.’

  Salmon blinked. ‘Yes, well . . . What I meant by us envying him was that he was the type who could spot a woman in a crowd of strangers, point her out to his mates and tell ’em he was going to have her.’ He looked up to check Sam was coping with his bluntness.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Well, sure enough he always did have her. I felt sorry for your ma, of course,’ he added quickly. ‘She put up with a lot.’

  ‘So she always said.’

  Salmon’s eyes twinkled suddenly. ‘I’ll tell you a story, Sam. Now this is really telling tales out of school, but if you’re after the whole works . . .’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘When we was on Retribution your dad made a point of never telling your mum when he expected to be home. I mean the patrol dates were secret anyway, but the point was that Trev wanted a week ashore with some girl or other before he went home to his marital duties, if you know what I mean. Well, one patrol, which had been a particularly arduous one, the Jimmy – the First Lieutenant – he sent off a signal when we was approaching home waters asking that all the wives be told we’d be coming alongside in a couple of days’ time. Thought it’d be nice for the blokes to have their loved ones standing on the shore waving as they came in, see? Well . . . When your dad hears about it he goes potty. Threatens to nut the Jimmy. For two days he’s wetting hisself in case his local popsie gets wind of the boat coming in and turns up to welcome him too. Turned out all right in the end, mind, because your mum was such a hard case she wouldn’t dream of trekking up to Scotland to see the boat in.’

  ‘And the girlfriend was there?’


  ‘Don’t remember. I had my own fish to fry, if you know what I mean.’ At the thought of his recent loss, the sparkle faded from his eyes.

  ‘D’you remember the name of my father’s girl?’

  Salmon sucked his teeth. ‘There was a few of them over the years, you know. Some of them was . . .’ He wrinkled his nose. ‘Well . . . pretty rough, to be honest with you. Wasn’t always too choosy, your dad.’

  Sam swallowed. Another slash to the canvas of his icon. ‘Remember any names?’

  Salmon looked blank, then slowly shook his head. ‘It’s nearly thirty years,’ he murmured. Then he looked up again. ‘That spying business – you serious about that?’

  ‘Yes, unfortunately. The GRU had his name on their books.’

  Salmon pushed fingers through his crown of white hair and whistled. ‘You think you know someone and then all of a sudden . . .’ He shook his head in dismay.

  This was getting nowhere. In the meantime Sam’s own fate was being chewed over down in London, without any input from him.

  ‘Were there any other mates of his who knew him better than you?’ Sam asked, desperate not to leave Scotland empty-handed.

  ‘Possibly. Possibly. But I can’t think of one. And a couple of them are dead anyway.’

  ‘Tell me something else,’ Sam asked. ‘What sort of secrets would my father have had access to?’

  Salmon pursed his lips. ‘Well, to be honest, most of the chiefs on board wouldn’t have had a lot to tell the Russkies. I was on tactical systems and I certainly didn’t. The secret stuff was all inside the boxes. But your dad now, he was chief signaller. Knew the codes, the signals routines. All the arrangements as to how we’d get our instructions if it came to nuclear war and we had to fire the missiles.’

  ‘The perfect man for the Russians to target,’ said Sam sombrely.

  ‘Well, yes.’

  ‘But you never had a clue?’

  ‘Not a one. On board, your dad was straight down the middle. No side to him. One of us.’

  Sam decided he would get nothing more from Salmon. ‘Well, thanks for your time,’ he said, putting down the mug and getting to his feet.

  ‘Off so soon?’ Salmon sounded disappointed.