The Home Secretary Will See You Now (Gaffney and Tipper Mysteries Book 3)

by Graham Ison

  Gaffney took the hint and stood up. ‘Thank you for your time, sir. I’m sorry to have to say, however, that I may have to trouble you again.’

  Lavery stood up too, and walked to the door with Gaffney. ‘Of course, of course. It’s absolutely essential that this creature is brought to book; I’m sure I don’t have to emphasise that. It’s not only for my sake, but for the very reputation of law enforcement as a whole. If it can be seen that someone can escape with murdering the Home Secretary’s wife, there is no hope … ’

  Chapter Ten

  ‘I always like coming here,’ said Tommy Fox, looking admiringly round Gaffney’s office. ‘It’s so quiet and peaceful.’

  ‘It’s because we don’t panic like the Flying Squad,’ said Gaffney with a straight face. ‘Why don’t you sit down and tell me what’s on your mind?’

  ‘You’re very kind, doctor,’ said Fox, and relaxed into one of Gaffney’s armchairs, carefully pulling the cloth of his trousers over his knees to prevent it bagging. Today he was wearing a dark grey suit with just the hint of a pin-stripe running through it, a pink tie and a matching handkerchief that cascaded out of his top pocket. ‘I understand that you took my advice and had a little chat with friend Conway in the Scrubs; you and that scoundrel Tipper.’

  Gaffney nodded. ‘That’s right.’

  Fox examined his fingernails with care. ‘Thought so, because Waldo Conway inexplicably fell down a staircase on Sunday morning whereby both his legs got broken.’ ‘Inexplicably?’

  ‘Yes. Strange, isn’t it? Even Waldo can’t explain it. I suppose that being in stir you get careless; don’t have to think for yourself, you see. Shame that. On his way to church, too.’

  ‘Waldo — going to church?’

  ‘Mmm!’ Fox nodded seriously. ‘He’s on the parole kick.’ ‘Oh?’

  ‘Oh yes. He got five years for armed robbery, right? So the minute he arrives in the nick he makes a bee-line for the prison chaplain, confesses all, promises he’s a reformed character, and how sorry he is, and can the reverend help him find

  God. All that bit. Now, if he can keep that up for … ’ Fox broke off and looked at the ceiling, calculating, ‘ … twenty months, then he’s up the Parole Board with a bloody good reference. Bingo! Out he comes and gets at it again.’

  ‘What makes you so certain that his falling down stairs had anything to do with Harry Tipper and me paying him a visit?’

  ‘Stands to reason. Your arrival in the nick was no secret, neither was the identity of the prisoner you went to see.’ ‘You’re not suggesting that Masters could have got to hear of it that quickly, surely? He’s in Spain. We only went to the nick on Saturday — the day before this unfortunate accident.’ ‘No. They’re not that clever. But Conway spoke to the law, didn’t he? That was enough. Anyhow, d’you know for sure that Masters is in Spain?’

  ‘Yes, we got the local Old Bill to check for us. What’s more he flew over there the day following the murder of Elizabeth Lavery.’

  Fox took a slim cigarette case from his inside pocket and slowly tapped a cigarette on it. ‘What have you got to connect Masters with that job?’ He held the cigarette up in the air. ‘D’you mind?’

  Gaffney shook his head. ‘A snippet of information, and something that Conway told me.’

  ‘About Masters?’ Fox’s eyes narrowed. ‘Anything to interest me?’

  ‘Not really. You wouldn’t believe it anyway. I’m not sure I do.’

  ‘Well, that could account for him getting his legs done.’ ‘But no one could have known that, and he wouldn’t have told anyone,’ said Gaffney. ‘Is he in solitary now?’

  Fox laughed. ‘You’d better believe it. He’s tucked up in the prison hospital with his legs dangling from the ceiling. They said he was comfortable — whatever that means. But if he’s been talking to you about Masters and the Lavery murder, I should think he’s in grave danger of getting topped himself — when he gets better. Unless what he told you was a load of cobblers.’

  Ill

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Well, he could have told you a load of bloody fanny, just so’s you’d go away thinking you’d got something. Then he could tell Masters what he’d done. Probably get a pat on the back.’

  ‘That’s what I suggested to Harry Tipper might have been the case, but how d’you account for the great staircase tragedy?’

  ‘Over-zealousness by locally employed personnel, or … ’ Fox drew the word out pensively. ‘Or they may have thought he was talking about something else.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Such as a heavy screwing on Tuesday night last week.’ ‘The night that Mrs Lavery was strangled?’

  Fox nodded slowly. ‘Yes. Up Boreham Wood way, damn them. Another mile or two and they’d have been on Hertfordshire’s patch.’

  ‘Why should they have thought that Conway knew anything about that? He’s been inside too long.’

  ‘Because my information is that it’s down to Masters. Conway runs with Masters, and just because lie’s banged up for a while doesn’t cut him off from the outside world. You know that, and I know that.’

  ‘What was taken?’

  ‘That’s the strange thing, John. It’s not been reported to police.’

  Gaffney pursed his lips. ‘Then how d’you know it happened?’

  Fox looked offended. ‘John, please. I haven’t spent twenty-five years cultivating snouts for nothing, you know.’

  Gaffney spread his hands and smiled. ‘But why wouldn’t it get reported? What was it, anyway?’

  ‘Big house,’ said Fox shortly. ‘As for why it wasn’t reported, well there could be several reasons.’

  ‘Like?’

  ‘Like the loser doesn’t want police to know what was stolen. Or he wasn’t insured, so there’s no point — bit lame that, I must admit. But I suspect that the real reason is that

  the loser is himself a villain, so he doesn’t want the law sniffing around his drum … and he intends to take retribution in his own inimitable way — and that could be very nasty indeed.’ Fox grinned horribly.

  ‘And what do your snouts tell you about it?’

  ‘I was afraid you’d ask me that. The word is that the house belongs to a villain called Bemie Farrell.’

  ‘Perhaps he’s been away. Will report it when he gets back from the South of France … or wherever.’

  Fox shook his head. ‘Fle’s discovered it all right. For the very simple reason that this was one of the most sophisticated jobs that’s been pulled for a long time. This little team obviously knew what they were about; they were in and out like a dose of salts. And they fixed the alarms which are wired into the Yard. But more to the point, word is that they put surveillance on the man so that they knew exactly where he and his missus were the whole time they were out of the house.’ He sniffed. ‘Went up West by all accounts. But there was a little team following them complete with bloody radios, if you please.’ He chuckled. ‘Murdo McGregor reckons he’s going to recruit them for his surveillance team if he ever finds out who they are.’

  ‘Seems all you’re short of are the names.’

  ‘I’ve got those, too.’

  ‘What are you waiting for, then?’ asked Gaffney.

  ‘A complainant,’ said Fox. ‘If Farrell denies having been broken into — and he will — I’m going to get precisely nowhere.’

  ‘What sort of villain is this Farrell?’

  ‘Villain?’ Fox looked startled.

  ‘You said he was a villain … ’

  ‘My dear chap,’ said Fox with mock severity, ‘’tis but a rumour.’

  Gaffney laughed. ‘Come on, Tommy, or do I have to go traipsing down to Murdo McGregor again?’

  Fox smiled. ‘He’s got no form at all, but he’s bloody entitled to have. Everything points to him being well at it. He’s got fingers in several pies in the West End. Like

  night-clubs, strip-joints, call-girls — escort agencies, he calls them — and a few minicab operations.
Oh, and I think he’s taken a recent interest in betting shops. But it’s all beautifully wrapped up — legit; he’s got several companies that neatly mask his operation. We’ve had a go at him, so have the Fraud Squad, and the Inland Revenue. All drawn a blank.’ ‘Another Masters, then?’

  Fox scoffed. ‘No way. He’s a bloody sight shrewder, this finger.’ He laughed humourlessly. ‘His latest bit of nose-thumbing is his charity work — ’

  ‘Charity!’

  ‘Yes, saucy bastard. He’s trying to get all manner of persons of probity interested in some scheme he’s got for the welfare and rehabilitation of ex-prisoners. Could be enlightened self-interest, I suppose … or it will be if I catch him.’ He sniffed. ‘As a matter of fact, we had to warn the Commissioner off recently. Farrell invited him to dinner to discuss his plans, cheeky sod. Murdo McGregor had a word in the Commissioner’s shell-like and he went sick.’

  ‘All very interesting, Tommy, and frustrating, too, but what has it got to do with my job?’

  ‘Like I said, the whole thing was organised by Colin Masters, who promptly took it on the toes out to his gaff in Spain the very next day, so you tell me. Where did that come from, incidentally?’

  ‘From Special Branch at Heathrow.’

  ‘The saucy sod. Cool as you like. What are you going to do now?’

  ‘He’s got a place in Wimbledon,’ said Gaffney. Fox nodded. ‘I was thinking of getting a brief and giving it a spin. What d’you think? Or will that upset your job?’

  Fox shrugged. ‘There’s bugger-all to upset, but it might do your job a load of harm.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Well,’ said Fox. ‘As I see it, Masters is sitting out there in Seville, waiting to see if the heat’s on. He’ll hang about for a couple of weeks, I should think, and if it’s all quiet, he’ll come back.’

  ‘But if Farrell is not going to report it to police, he’s got no worries, surely?’

  ‘Not about us, no. He’s probably waiting to see how Farrell will react.’

  ‘But Farrell will go and get him in Spain if he wants him, won’t he?’

  Fox shook his head. ‘They don’t like working off their own patch, these bastards. No, Farrell will wait till he gets back here to sort him out, but Masters is waiting to see if Farrell has sussed him out.’

  ‘Well, if you know, he’ll know — Farrell, I mean … ’

  Fox shrugged. ‘They haven’t got much imagination, these villains.’

  ‘I think I’d better put you in the picture, Tommy,’ said Gaffney slowly. ‘Conway told me that Masters was having it off with Elizabeth Lavery.’

  Fox’s expression did not change one bit from the permanently cynical blandness that seemed a part of him. ‘And you believe that crap?’

  ‘There is some collateral.’ Gaffney told him about the gold waist-chain and Lavery’s story of his wife’s visits to Spain, supposedly to advise on the making of a film.

  Fox pouted. ‘I still can’t see Conway telling you all that, not if it’s true. It’d be more than his neck’s worth. Not that it’s worth much anyway,’ he added. ‘But if you go down to Wimbledon and turn his drum over, and he gets wind of it, he’ll never come back; unless you’ve got enough to extradite him.’

  Gaffney shook his head. ‘Not a bloody thing; he even paid for the gold chain. And if this story about him screwing Lavery’s wife is true, that’s no motive for topping her. What’s the point?’

  Fox gently tapped the arm of the chair with the flat of his hand. ‘Unless the two are connected … ’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘If the murder of Elizabeth Lavery and the screwing of this drum at Borcham Wood — on the same night, don’t forget — are linked together in some way.’

  Gaffney smoothed his hair with the palm of his hand. ‘That’s all I bloody well need,’ he said. ‘Coincidences like that!’

  ‘It’s Miss Diver,’ she said in answer to Gaffney’s query. He needn’t have asked really; it was fairly obvious in her case. She had probably been quite attractive as a young woman, but decades of dedicated and largely unrewarding labour in the shadow of the great seemed not only to have deprived her of her looks, but also to have removed any sparkle of humour she may once have possessed.

  ‘The Home Secretary suggested that you may be able to help us with regard to the late Mrs Lavery’s trips abroad, Miss Diver.’

  ‘Oh, did he now? Well, I don’t know about that.’ She was haughty: a strange mixture of defensiveness against any form of attack on her Member of Parliament, and an implication that she enjoyed a professional familiarity with him that was denied to others. ‘What exactly was it you wanted to know?’ Gaffney got the impression that when Miss Diver said ‘exactly’, she meant it. The immaculately tidy desk, the row of box files on the shelf behind her as regimented as guardsmen, the books descending in size order from the large Erskine May to the tiny Vachcr’s, all testified to her efficiency; all as carefully arranged as her faultlessly coiffured grey hair.

  ‘I am interested in discovering when Mrs Lavery went to Spain.’ There was no doubt in Gaffney’s mind that he would have to mollify this hostile woman; if she didn’t co-operate, there was no other way he was going to get the information he needed. There was certainly no power in law to secure a search warrant for execution within the precincts of the Palace of Westminster, and he did not care to contemplate the reaction of the Serjeant-at-Arms to a request that he be allowed to search the Home Secretary’s office at the House.

  ‘This is Mrs Elizabeth Lavery, I presume?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, it is.’ Gaffney detected a preference for the first wife.

  ‘I see.’ She sniffed and unlocked a drawer in her desk.

  Gaffney knew instinctively that she would not have to rummage; that she could have found, blindfolded, the book she wanted. ‘Now then, let me see … yes, here we are. She went to Spain on four occasions.’ She looked at him directly. ‘I suppose you want the dates?’

  ‘That would be most helpful, Miss Diver.’

  She drew a pad towards her and picked up her fountain-pen. Gaffney noted that the cap unscrewed; the pen must have been years old, and doubtless as well cared for as everything else around her. She handed him the piece of paper. ‘Those are the dates of which I have a record,’ she said. ‘There may have been other occasions when she didn’t seek my assistance, of course.’ The expression on her face implied that such a course of action would have been extremely foolhardy.

  ‘Thank you.’ Gaffney folded the paper into his pocket book. ‘As a matter of interest, Miss Diver, were all those trips made to Seville?’

  ‘Do you mean did she actually go?’

  Gaffney knew he should have made that clearer. ‘No, I meant were the bookings to Seville, or did she have you book to anywhere else?’

  ‘All the Spanish ones were to Seville from Heathrow, yes.’ Gaffney frowned. ‘You made bookings for her to go elsewhere, did you?’

  ‘Only two; both to the South of France.’ She gazed at him levelly.

  ‘Were they before or after the Spanish trips?’

  ‘Both of them before.’

  ‘Do you happen to know, Miss Diver, if they were all in connection with her filming assignments?’

  ‘I really have no idea. I can tell you that they most certainly were not for official business, because she said that she would pay for the tickets. The Secretary of State is most particular about expenses. If it’s government, the bill goes to the Home Office; if it’s party, it goes to the constituency; but if it’s a private affair cither the Home Secretary pays or his wife does.’ She hesitated. ‘His late wife did, I should have said.’ For the first time she smiled; Gaffney

  assumed it was a form of nervousness, to excuse one of her rare slips.

  ‘You’ve been most helpful, Miss Diver,’ said Gaffney, standing up. He glanced round the office. ‘I must compliment you on how well organised you are.’ She inclined her head slightly. ‘You must have been Mr Lavery’
s secretary for a long time.’

  ‘Since he became a Member.’

  ‘Oh really? I thought that he had a secretary called Shirley at one time.’

  ‘She was a temporary assistant,’ said Miss Diver frostily. ‘She was not at all satisfactory and left.’

  ‘I see,’ said Gaffney. Secretaries at the House not infrequently became second wives to MPs. He wasn’t sure whether Miss Diver was opposed to this in principle, or whether she was piqued at never having been asked.

  ‘Good day,’ said Miss Diver.

  Pete Roscoe flicked down the switch of his intercom. ‘Yeah?’

  ‘OSI USAF on the line, Mr Roscoe,’ said his secretary.

  ‘Thanks, honey, put them through.’ He picked up the receiver. ‘Roscoe.’ It had been two weeks previously that Roscoe, the minute he had received the call from Daly in London, had contacted the Office of Special Investigations of the US Air Force in an attempt to get further details of the man Paul Cody that Scotland Yard were so anxious to trace. Roscoe was the Special Agent-in-Charge of the New York FBI office, and Daly had suggested that he handle the inquiry personally.

  ‘Pete, it’s Sam Delaney.’

  ‘Hi, Sam.’

  ‘We traced Cody’s birth for you, but it’s not going to help much. He was born at the USAF hospital at Prestwick in Scotland: 1951, April 17, son of Jackson Cody and his wife Martha, bom Levenson. Sergeant Cody did a double tour and was repatriated Stateside in 1958 and took honourable discharge. I’ve gotten an address in Kansas City. After that — zilch.’

  Roscoe jotted down the address, knowing that, thirty years on, his chances of tracing Paul Cody that way was an impossibility. He swore softly and then flicked down the switch of the intercom again. ‘Get me Frank Robinson at the Kansas City office, will you honey?’

  It was still dark, and snowing hard, when the car drew into the driveway of Masters’ house in Wimbledon early on the Wednesday morning. In order to keep the visit as secret as possible, Tipper had driven the car, and, as well as John Gaffney, Tommy Fox had come along for the ride ‘just to have a poke about’, but had obligingly brought his locks expert with him. Normally, of course, they wouldn’t have worried too much about damage caused in the execution of a search warrant — which Tipper had obtained from the Bow Street magistrate the previous afternoon — but they did not want to leave any trace of their entry.