by Graham Ison
‘No, sir.’
‘Not even at the club?’
‘No. We leave him to his own devices there — it’s the usual practice. He said that there was no record of a Home Secretary ever being assassinated in a gentlemen’s club.’ Gaffney laughed. ‘What did you say to that?’
‘I said that there wasn’t a record of a Prime Minister being assassinated in the Palace of Westminster … until it happened.’ Selway paused. ‘There’s no great risk, mind you, leaving him on his own … ’ Gaffney raised an eyebrow. ‘Well I suppose there’s always the chance that the ancient club retainer who’s been there for fifty years, will suddenly go raving mad and decide that tonight’s the night he’s going to murder the Home Secretary.’ Selway shrugged. He knew as well as Gaffney, and anybody else who had done the job of protecting VIPs, that you only reduced the risk, never eliminated it. ‘We normally wait in the secretary’s office. We can see the main lobby from there, and there’s always Sid — he’s the hall porter — to keep an eye out for any movement. Usually the upstairs steward will give him a ring to say that the old man’s on the move.’
Gaffney finished writing his notes and looked up. ‘And then you brought him here to see the Commissioner, after the ten o’clock division?’
‘Yes, sir.’
Gaffney leaned back and yawned. ‘What sort of character is he, John?’
Selway thought for a moment or two. ‘Clever … ’ he said eventually, ‘and he would like to be Prime Minister … like a lot of other politicians. In some cases you can see the naked
ambition, but he’s not like that. I reckon he could make it without really trying.’ Selway reached across and stubbed out his cigarette. ‘I remember that there was one occasion when he got bloody shirty about a television programme he did, up at their place in Shropshire. I don’t know if you saw it: some major comment on law and order.’
‘I vaguely recollect something of the sort. Why? What was special about it?’
‘Well when it came out on television, you got some footage of him playing a hard game of tennis with his missus. Then there was the interviewer talking to him beside the tennis court … ’
‘So?’
‘It was taken the other way round.’
‘Other way.’
‘Yeah. The interview was shot first, then they filmed him playing tennis, but when it came out they’d put it the other way round. He was absolutely furious. He was straight on the phone to the public relations people at party HQ, ranting and raving about this “deception” as lie called it; then he found out that it was their idea.’
‘What was the point of that?’
Selway smiled. ‘Apparently it was so that your average punter would see him playing a hard game of tennis and then being interviewed, and would you believe, he wasn’t even out of breath. And him fifty-four years old and all.’ ‘Christ Almighty!’ said Gaffney.
‘Well, sir, that’s the political world for you, and I dare say that most ambitious politicians would have been delighted.’ Gaffney laughed. ‘One other thing, John — actually, there are two other things — but first, how’s he taking it: the death of his wife?’
‘Badly, I think. He’s not a demonstrative sort of bloke — ’ Selway broke off. ‘No, that’s not quite what I mean. He’s well able to disguise his feelings — all politicians can do that to a greater or lesser degree — but you can see occasionally, when no one’s looking, a sort of intense sadness creeping over him, as though he’s regretting not having done more for her when
she was alive.’ He shook his head. ‘God knows he’s nothing to reproach himself for on that score, though.’
‘Thanks, John, that’s all been a great help.’ He stood up. ‘I’ll let you get back now.’
Selway paused at the door. ‘You said there were two things, sir. What was the other?’
‘Ah yes!’ Gaffney grinned. ‘Leave a written statement of all you’ve told me, will you?’
‘I knew there’d be a catch,’ said Selway. ‘I don’t wonder people aren’t keen to help the police.’
Mackinnon hovered in the doorway. ‘You wanted me, sir?’ Gaffney waved a beckoning hand, and finished the sentence he was writing. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Actors!’
‘Actors, sir?’ Mackinnon approached Gaffney’s desk apprehensively, almost stealthily.
‘Elizabeth Lavery — as Elizabeth Fairfax — was living with an actor before she married the Home Secretary.’
‘Yes, sir?’ Mackinnon knew what was coming next.
‘Find him.’
Mackinnon smiled a sickly smile. ‘Is there any more than that, sir?’
Gaffney smiled too. ‘No!’ He relented. ‘We took her address and telephone books from the house,’ he said. ‘She’s almost bound to have the name of her agent there somewhere. Get hold of him, and see what you can find out. If he doesn’t know, he’ll know someone who does, if I know the acting business.’ And Gaffney did know; his ex-wife had been a theatrical agent.
Detective Inspector Henry Findlater was in charge of the Criminal Intelligence Branch surveillance team. He was barely five feet eight inches tall — the statutory minimum, as policemen call it — and with his owl-like spectacles had the appearance of a rather dim-witted and youthful student. He was not dim-witted however; on the contrary, he was very astute, an astute and Calvinistic Scot.
‘Mr Masters is not at home, sir,’ he said to Gaffney. ‘There
is no answer to repeated knockings. Information is that he is in Spain. He was last seen the day before yesterday.’
‘The day of the murder, in other words.’ Findlater nodded. ‘How the hell did you find that out, Henry? I hope you haven’t alerted the neighbourhood.’
Findlater looked pained, and, had it not been for the disparity in rank, would probably have made a caustic remark. ‘Certainly not, sir. I had some market research done.’
‘Market research?’
‘Yes,’ said Findlater. ‘We were conducting a survey into two-car families on this occasion.’ He took off his glasses and wiped them. ‘And that necessitates enquiring about next-door neighbours who are out. So that we can get an accurate survey, you’ll understand.’
Gaffney smiled. ‘Of course.’
‘In short, he was seen the day before yesterday, has not been seen since, and our obo all day has revealed no sign of him either.’ He smiled. ‘I took the liberty, therefore, of speaking to your chaps at the airport, who were able to turn up a report about the departure of Masters — ’
Gaffney sat up sharply. ‘What?’
‘They always report his movements, sir. He’s a main-index villain.’
‘I know that, but why in hell’s name didn’t they let me know? And straight away.’
‘Probably because they didn’t think that you had any interest in anyone as sordid as an SOll main-index man, guv’nor,’ said Tipper drily from the comer of the room. ‘They don’t know you’ve got Masters in the frame, do they?’
Gaffney relaxed, smiling. ‘No, Harry, you’re quite right, they don’t.’ He looked across at Findlater. ‘When did he go, Henry?’
Findlater glanced from Gaffney to Tipper and back to Gaffney. ‘Yesterday afternoon, sir.’ He flicked open his pocket book. ‘Left Heathrow at fifteen-fifty on Iberia Airways flight 617 for Seville.’ He paused. ‘That was the first available flight to Seville after the murder, sir.’
‘Thank you, Henry,’ said Gaffney. ‘Thank you very much
indeed.’ He waited until the door had closed behind the diminutive Inspector and turned his chair to face Tipper. ‘What the hell do we do now, Harry?’
Tipper leaned back in his chair, crossed his legs at the ankles and smiled. ‘There’s not a lot you can do except wait. We haven’t got a shred of evidence; certainly nothing that would warrant extradition.’
‘What d’you suggest then?’
‘I think that we should go and have a chat with Waldo Conway who is in the Scrubs — I’ve checked — and also see what Enr
ico can do to assist.’
Enrico Perez was a Spanish policeman attached to his country’s embassy in London where he occupied some vaguely defined diplomatic post. He spoke faultless English, bought his suits in Savile Row, and was an anglophile. Within five minutes of receiving Gaffney’s telephone call, he had seized a bottle of duty-free Spanish brandy and leaped into a taxi outside his embassy in Belgrave Square.
‘Why are you working late on a Friday, John?’ He opened his arms expansively.
‘Go easy, Enry,’ said Tipper, relieving Perez of the bottle which he was waving about. He always called Enrico ‘Enry’ in exchange for Enrico’s contraction of his name to ‘Arry’.
‘I am working late on a Friday, Enrico, because someone took it into his head to murder the wife of the Home Secretary.’
Perez flopped into an armchair and allowed his arms to fall on either side until his hands were almost touching the floor. ‘Yes, I heard about it. Of course, it was just around the corner from the embassy.’
‘Did you hear anything?’ asked Tipper, foraging in Gaffney’s cupboard for some glasses.
‘You think I am in the embassy at that time of night?’ Perez laughed. ‘It was the Spanish who invented the phrase maitana, you know, Arry.’ He poured a measure of brandy into each of the glasses and slid the bottle across the desk towards Gaffney. ‘Keep it,’ he said. ‘Cheers!’ He raised his
glass, took a sip and stood it on the floor beside his chair. ‘Now, what can I do for you?’
‘We have an interest in a man called Colin Masters, Enrico. He has a villa in Seville — well, actually about thirty kilometres outside Seville — and we want to talk to him in connection with Mrs Lavery’s murder.’
‘Aha!’ said Perez. ‘Extradition?’
‘Not a hope; there’s no evidence.’
Perez laughed and touched his nose. ‘Just this, eh?’
‘As you say, just that,’ said Gaffney. ‘D’you think that you can help?’
Perez felt about on the floor for his brandy and took another sip. ‘You know that he’s there, John?’
‘We know that he left Heathrow on the day following the murder, on an Iberian flight for Seville. It’s almost certain that that’s where he went, but we’d like it confirmed.’
‘Okay!’ Perez withdrew an expensive leather-bound notebook from his pocket, and a gold pencil. ‘What is the address?’ He noted it down at Gaffney’s dictation. ‘I can certainly have someone find out if he’s there, but presumably you don’t want him alerted?’
Gaffney shook his head. ‘Not at the moment. He’s probably unaware of our interest in him, so I don’t want him to feel threatened.’
‘But if he’s committed the murder, he won’t come back. And if there’s no evidence, you can’t extradite him. I suppose that his papers arc in order?’
‘I imagine so. Anyway, you’re in the Common Market now, so that makes it much more difficult.’
Perez shrugged. ‘Sometimes there are ways. He’s not a Basque separatist, is he?’ he asked hopefully, and they all laughed. ‘Okay, John, I’ll do what I can, but beyond confirming that he’s there, and perhaps letting you know if he makes a move, there’s not much more we can do.’
‘Well, even that will be a help, Enrico.’
‘Glad to be of assistance. Now it’s poets’ day, yes? So let’s have some more brandy.’
Chapter Seven
Once a convicted person has been sentenced to a period of imprisonment, he is handed into the custody of the governor of the prison in which he is to be incarcerated. Once this has happened, the police, despite having in all probability arrested the prisoner and assembled most of the evidence which sent him down, cannot just wander into one of Her Majesty’s prisons for a quick chat. There is a form for it; there is a form for most things in the Metropolitan Police. This particular form has to be signed by a senior officer, and is then served by the interviewing officer on the governor, requesting him to produce the named prisoner for interview, unaccompanied by a prison officer.
Despite all that, a prisoner may refuse to be interviewed by the police; that is his right. It is one of an ever-increasing number of rights campaigned for by influential people who usually live in elegant parts of London and who have rarely, if ever, met a villain — much less a victim — in their sheltered little lives. This does not, however, prevent them from pontificating on crime and punishment, as well as on a whole variety of other subjects of which, similarly, they know little or nothing. As far as crime and punishment go, the views of those with a direct responsibility for maintaining law and order, and discipline in prisons, are much more interesting … and valid.
Fortunately for policemen investigating crime with which it is thought that an inmate of a prison may assist, the said inmate is usually curious to know what it is the police want to talk to him about. He is, after all, more aware than most that he is under no obligation to say
anything, but that anything he does say, et cetera, et cetera …
The huge outer doors of Wormwood Scrubs prison closed behind the police car containing Gaffney and Tipper before the equally huge doors in front of them were opened. This cunning airlock system, as it is called, is designed to prevent the escape of prisoners. It doesn’t, of course, as the escape of the spy George Blake from that very prison had proved … but he had cheated by going over the wall.
‘Leave your car over there,’ said the gate officer to Tipper. ‘It’ll be all right — no one’ll nick it.’ He cackled at his own joke, and Tipper grinned a sickly grin; he had heard it every time he had entered a prison.
After the usual amount of in-house administration, telephone calls and elaborate key work, Gaffney and Tipper came face-to-face with Waldo Conway, serving five years for robbery and other related offences, in one of the interview rooms in D Block.
‘This is Mr Gaffney, Waldo,’ said Tipper. ‘He’s all right, he’s from Special Branch.’
Conway relaxed slightly. Whatever it was they wanted to talk to him about, it was unlikely that they wanted to charge him with anything. Conway would be the first to admit — not to the police, of course; he never admitted anything to the police — that he’d pulled some strokes in his life, but nothing in which the Special Branch would be obliged to take any action. Nevertheless, he still retained the foxy expression which was a permanent feature of his countenance. ‘Oh yeah!’ he said.
‘I want to talk to you about Colin Masters, Waldo.’
Conway stood up. ‘Goodbye, Mr Tipper.’
‘Sit down,’ said Tipper, with no trace of a smile. ‘It won’t hurt.’
‘Huh! You don’t know Colin Masters, then.’ Reluctantly he resumed his seat. ‘And I ain’t grassin’,’ he added as an afterthought.
‘Tell me about Seville, Waldo,’ said Tipper. He took a packet of cigarettes out of his pocket and slid it across the table. ‘I suppose you’re short of snout, as usual.’
Conway pocketed the cigarettes without comment, and without a word of thanks. ‘What about Seville?’
‘How many times have you been there?’
‘What makes you think I’ve been at all?’
‘Stop sodding around, Waldo. I know you’ve been there. Now what sort of set-up is it?’
Conway ran a hand round his mouth. ‘I hope this is confidential, Mr Tipper.’
Tipper nodded. ‘Of course it is. You don’t think I’m going to advertise who I’ve been talking to, do you?’
‘It’s a villa that Colin owns. Out of the town about twenty miles, I suppose, on the Cadiz road.’ He pronounced the name of the city as though describing people who carry golf clubs round a course. ‘It’s off the road, as a matter of fact; it’s miles from anywhere.’
‘Yeah? And what’s there?’
‘It’s like I said, just a villa. It’s a smashing place, mind. Big. There’s sort of three sides to it, round the swimming pool.’
‘And what goes down there?’
Conway shrugged. He was very
reluctant to talk about Masters to the police. Masters was a powerful man, physically and in terms of the influence he wielded, and had been known to turn very nasty when someone talked out of turn. ‘Nothing much.’
Tipper also knew of Masters’ reputation, and knew also that Conway would need to be persuaded that he was unlikely to come to any harm as a result of talking to the police. ‘Look, Waldo, it’s not Colin we’re interested in, so much as one of his lady-friends.’
A look of naked fear crossed Conway’s face. He ran his tongue round his lips, then glanced rapidly at each of the detectives in turn before centring once more on Tipper. ‘You’ve got to be bloody joking.’ His voice was a hoarse whisper, and Tipper noticed little beads of sweat on his forehead. ‘I’m saying sod-all about her.’
Tipper was in his element, practising the craft he knew. This political stuff was all very well, but jousting with a villain was
his metier. ‘When I came in this nick this morning,’ said Tipper softly, ‘I handed over a form signed by Mr Gaffney here. That form will find its way to the office, where one of the clerks is a trustie … yes?’ He looked enquiringly at Conway. ‘And in no time at all, my son, the entire prison population is going to know that the Old Bill popped in this morning to have a quiet word with Waldo Conway.’ He smiled nastily. ‘And not any Old Bill, either, but two heavyweights from the Bladder o’ Lard, no less.’
Gaffney, sitting to one side, smiled. It was a long time since he had heard anyone using the rhyming slang for Scotland Yard.
‘I’m not saying anything, Mr Tipper. It’s more than my life’s worth.’
‘To continue, Waldo,’ said Tipper conversationally, as though Conway hadn’t spoken, ‘word will be about that you’ve been very helpful. On the other hand, if you have a little chat with me and my guv’nor, I shall let it be known that you wouldn’t say a word. And I shall start by complaining bitterly to that screw outside that I’ve had a wasted journey; you know what they’re like for a gossip. However, if you see fit not to assist the police in their hour of need, I shall put it about that you spent the morning singing like a corrupt canary.’ He paused to give his statement effect. ‘So if I was you, Waldo, I’d have my money’s-worth.’
