by Graham Ison
‘What are you talking about, you bastard?’ Farrell was clearly getting angry.
‘I do love it when thieves fall out,’ said Fox in an aside to Gaffney. He was obviously enjoying himself.
‘What I’m talking about is you sending your thugs down to see Liz Lavery and bloody well topping her, that’s what I’m talking about, Mr Big Shot.’ Masters’ voice had risen and it was fairly obvious to the listeners that he had gone beyond playing the part for which the police had briefed him; he now actually believed that that was what had happened. Fox and Gaffney had had an open mind until then, but were prepared to attribute the murder of the Home Secretary’s wife to one or the other of the two main actors in the drugsmuggling business. ‘You couldn’t wait, could you? You go in, heavy-handed, and because you can’t find it, and she doesn’t know what you’re talking about, you have her fixed so she won’t be able to give evidence against you.’
There was a lengthy pause before Farrell replied in very restrained tones. ‘They told me I shouldn’t get involved with scum like you, Masters, and they were right. I don’t know if that’s the way you conduct your business — going around murdering people — but it isn’t mine. You don’t kill the goose that lays the golden egg. If anyone killed that girl, it was you; that’s the sort of thing you hoodlums do. Anyway, that’s your problem, for your conscience; I’ve come for my package.’
‘Your package?’ Masters had remembered what the police had told him to say.
‘The cocaine.’
There was an audible slap as Masters hurled the package on to the table.
Fox walked swiftly through the communicating door, flanked by the two detective sergeants who had remained with him and Gaffney. ‘Mr Farrell — ’
Farrell assessed the situation in a moment. He had already put the packet of cocaine into his overcoat pocket, and had his hand on the doorknob. He recognised the Flying Squad chief and wrenched the door open. Immediately outside, standing shoulder to shoulder, were the other two DSs from the Flying Squad; Farrell could not avoid cannoning into them.
‘Now, now, sir,’ said one of the sergeants benevolently. ‘That’s what we used to call assault on police in the bad old days.’
Farrell turned to face Fox, and looking over the detective’s shoulder, said: ‘You bastard, Masters.’
Fox tutted gently. ‘D’you know, Mr Farrell, just for one moment there, I thought you were running away.’ He paused, and then: ‘Bernard Farrell, I am arresting you for the unlawful possession of a quantity of cocaine. Anything you say will be given in evidence, and I must warn you that other charges may follow.’ Farrell said nothing and Fox turned to the two sergeants. ‘You may remove Mr Farrell to the comfort and convenience of West End Central police station,’ he said. ‘I shall be down later to charge him.’ To the other two sergeants he said: ‘And friend Masters here can be taken back to Paddington. I don’t want these two tapping out messages to each other on the radiators.’
‘That never did work,’ said Masters sullenly. ‘You’ve been reading too many detective stories.’
‘Discounting Earl Barclay, sir,’ said Claire Wentworth with a grin, ‘there was only one peer of the realm that we came across.’ She thumbed through a list of names. ‘There was a telephone number that was found in the small leather diary in Mrs Lavery’s handbag. It was just a number — no name — but
we traced it back to a private line into an office somewhere. It went out to a Lord Slade.’
‘Lord Slade?’
‘Yes.’ The word was drawled out.
‘This is Detective Chief Superintendent Gaffney of New Scotland Yard, Lord Slade.’
‘Yes.’
‘I should like to come and see you in connection with a matter I’m investigating.’
There was a light laugh from the other end. ‘You’re not from the Fraud Squad I hope.’
‘No, sir; Special Branch.’
‘Oh, I see. When did you have in mind, Chief Superintendent?’
‘Now?’
‘I am rather busy at the moment. Look, could you make it this evening, by any chance? I live in London.’
‘Will Lady Slade be there?’
‘Yes, of course. Why d’you ask? Is it something to do with her?’
‘I am investigating the death of Mrs Dudley Lavery, Lord Slade.’
‘Ah!’ He paused. ‘In that case, perhaps we should make it at my club — say lunch-time?’
‘Will you come this way, sir? His lordship is waiting for you in the withdrawing room.’ The steward led Gaffney into a large room and across to a small table in the window. ‘Your guest, m’lord,’ he murmured.
Lord Slade was of medium height — a bit small for a Guards officer, Gaffney thought — and levered himself out of the deep leather armchair with difficulty. ‘Mr Gaffney? How d’you do? I’m Roger Slade.’ He shook hands and waved towards the other chair. ‘Do sit down.’ He nodded to another steward. ‘Will you have a drink?’ he asked Gaffney.
‘Just a Perrier water, if I may.’
‘Of course,’ murmured Slade. He turned to the steward.
‘And I’ll have a brandy and soda.’ He faced Gaffney again. ‘Well now,’ he said as they sat down, ‘what d’you want to talk about?’
‘Mrs Lavery.’
‘Yes, of course. What an awful business.’ He looked at the centre of the table, and then looked up again, smiling. ‘I suppose you’ll want me to account for my movements on the night in question?’ He paused. ‘Which I can, of course.’ ‘Why should I want you to do that?’
Slade looked momentarily nonplussed. ‘Well, er — isn’t that the sort of thing you chaps ask?’
‘Only if we suspect someone,’ said Gaffney, smiling. ‘Should I suspect you?’
‘Well, I … ’ Slade paused to sign the chit for the steward, and to sip his brandy and soda. ‘I suppose I thought that … I mean, because we were having an affair.’ He leaned forward confidentially. ‘We can be adult about this, can’t we, Mr Gaffney?’
Gaffney reached forward and took a sip of his Perrier water. ‘I didn’t know that,’ he said.
‘Oh!’ Slade had the good grace to smile. ‘What you might call a bit of an own goal, I suppose.’
‘But now you’ve mentioned it, perhaps you should tell me about it.’
‘Yes, but, if you didn’t know, why have you come to see me?’
‘Because I have been told that you knew her before her marriage to Dudley Lavery.’
‘Good God! How on earth did you know that?’
‘Let’s just say that I do know.’
Slade shook his head. ‘Well, I must say,’ he murmured, but then didn’t say anything for a moment or two. ‘That was years ago,’ he said eventually, ‘when I was in the army.’ ‘So I gather,’ said Gaffney.
‘It was some party I went to — you know the sort of thing — when you’ve … ’ He broke off. ‘Perhaps you don’t know,’ he said vaguely. ‘But when the battalion was on public duties they tended to live the high life, you know. Probably
still do’ He spoke as though he were a retired general, but Gaffney knew from the entry in Who’s Who that Slade was not yet forty. ‘I’ve no idea where she came from. One of our ensigns seemed to know an awful lot of actresses and showgirls — that sort of thing — and he brought a crowd along to this thrash.’
‘And that’s the first time you saw her?’
‘Yes. I have to admit that the whole business was a bit hazy. Champagne was flowing, and … ’ He broke off as if unsure how to describe what had happened next. ‘I woke up next morning in someone’s flat … in bed … with her. I suppose I’d, well, you know … ’
Gaffney nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I think I do.’ He was rapidly coming to the conclusion that Lord Slade was a pompous arse.
‘It was a Saturday morning, I seem to remember. We showered and eventually … ’ He chuckled. ‘Eventually we went out for a champagne breakfast … about lunch-time.' ‘And you continued to sec h
er?’
‘Only a couple of times, or so. Until the battalion went to Germany.’
‘I see. Did you meet — or did she mention — someone called Cody, Paul Cody?’ Gaffney was not much interested in whether Slade knew him or not, but it was part of his ploy to encourage him to talk. It was surprising what came out of mundane chatter.
‘Oh yes. Liz lived with him.’
‘I see. And that didn’t concern you?’
Slade smiled. ‘Why should it? She said their relationship was purely platonic.’
Gaffney smiled. ‘And you believed her?’
‘No!’ Slade laughed. ‘Guards officers are always painted as being rather stupid, but they’re not, you know.’
‘But you didn’t care anyway?’
‘No, not really. As I said, I only saw her a few times and then we folded our tents and disappeared into the night.’
‘To Germany?’
Slade nodded. ‘Exactly so. Actually, she brought him up
to see the change at Buck House one morning. At least, I presume it was him. This chap was standing beside her and she waved. In The Mall, it was.’ He picked up his glass again. ‘I didn’t wave back, of course,’ he said seriously.
Gaffney thought he was joking. ‘No. I imagine they discourage that sort of thing.’
‘Oh yes. Absolutely.’ Slade did not smile.
‘How did you meet her again, then?’
‘We’d finished our tour in Germany and came back to Windsor. More public duties,’ he added with a sigh. ‘And I was walking down the High Street one morning and I saw her name on a sign outside the theatre there. I forget now what she was in — Lady Windermere's Fan, I think. Never did like Sheridan — ’
‘It was Oscar Wilde,’ said Gaffney quietly.
‘What? Oh yes, quite probably. Anyway, I went to see it, just for old times’ sake as you might say. After the show I went round to the stage door and took her for a drink.’
‘She was staying in Windsor presumably?’
‘Yes, in some awful theatrical diggings.’ Slade slipped a gold cigarette case out of his pocket, and opened it. ‘Do you?’ Gaffney shook his head. ‘No thanks.’
Slade tapped the tip of the cigarette slowly and reflectively on the case. ‘We spent the night in a hotel,’ he said. ‘In fact we spent the remaining four nights in a hotel … until she went back to London.’
‘Was she still with Cody at that time?’
‘Don’t know. Didn’t ask.’
‘And then?’
‘And then we went to Northern Ireland. The battalion, that is.’ He smiled briefly. ‘It was while I was there that I read in the paper of her marriage to Lavery. I thought, well, that’s the end of that. Then I thought: jolly good luck to you, girl.’ He grinned. ‘Did pretty well for herself. Mind you, the outcome was tragic.’
‘What d’you mean by that?’ Gaffney spoke sharply.
Slade hesitated briefly. ‘Well, she might still be alive if she hadn’t married him, mightn’t she?’
‘Are you saying, Lord Slade, that her death is in some way attributable to her marriage … or her husband?’
Slade pondered on that for a while and finally lit the cigarette with which he had been playing for some moments. ‘Not really. It’s just that if her life had taken a different course, she may not have been killed. Fate, I suppose.’ Gaffney remained silent, compelling Slade to continue. ‘She and Lavery were very remote from each other, you know.’
‘Really?’
‘Oh yes. He neglected her terribly.’ He looked round as if afraid of being overheard in the near-empty room, and lowered his voice. ‘Sexually, I mean.’ He breathed in deeply, as though purging himself of some awful memory. ‘But then he was twenty years older than she.’ He paused. ‘It seemed to me that his only interest in her was her value to him as a decorative consort. I don’t think there was any emotional attachment at all. She was just a part of his collection really: like the car, the chauffeur, his suits, and the high office he held; all designed to impress. And mark my words, he’ll replace her now he’s lost her, just as he would his car if it had got smashed up. His only problem would be how quickly lie could do it. One always got this awful impression that if Liz had run off and left him on a day he was dining at the Palace, his real worry would have been having no one to go with. I know all that sounds pretty damning and that sort of thing, but quite frankly that was the impression I got from what Liz said.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘Damned shame.’
‘By this time you had renewed your affair with her, I presume?’
Slade looked ill at ease. ‘Sounds awful in the circumstances, doesn’t it?’
‘How did that start again?’
‘I’d resigned my commission by then; had enough of guard-changes and Trooping the Colour.’ He smiled. ‘I bumped into her in a restaurant. She was lunching with her husband. I wouldn’t have said anything, of course, but as I passed their table she said “Hallo, stranger” — something
like that — and insisted on introducing me to Lavery. Frankly I didn’t much care for him; bit of a cold fish, and much older than Liz. Well, I said that, didn’t I: twenty years older. Had the damned audacity to ask which side of the House I sat on.’ He shook his head. ‘As if there could have been any doubt. Anyhow, when Lavery went out for a pee, she sent the waiter over with a note — I was lunching with a business friend — with her telephone number on it, and something like “Ring me — with caution”.’ He laughed at the memory. ‘Well, a nod is as good as a wink, as they say … ’
‘So you got in touch with her?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Were you married by then?’
‘I’d got married about six months before, yes.’ He said it in matter-of-fact tones, as though it were an irrelevancy. ‘You saw her fairly regularly after that, I take it?’
‘Yes.’ He paused. ‘But it was over when she died.’
‘When did you last see her?’
Slade thought about that. ‘I don’t know, offhand. About six weeks ago, perhaps.’
‘What happened … to end the affair? I presume that something did?’
‘She asked me if I’d marry her.’ He laughed. ‘Well, I pointed out that I was married already … and so was she.’ ‘What did she say to that?’
‘“Get a divorce” is what she said. “If you will, I will.” She made it sound like a nursery game; and quite honestly, I think she thought it was that easy.’
‘But you refused?’
‘Certainly I did. When you’ve as much money as I have, a divorce settlement can cost you a fortune.’ He smiled wryly as if expecting sympathy, and Gaffney thought what an unscrupulous bastard he was. And an illogical one.
‘She presumably saw no problem in getting a divorce from Lavery?’
‘On the contrary, she said that he wouldn’t give her one.’ ‘Well then — ’
‘She said that she was quite prepared to be named.’
‘I take it you didn’t think much of that?’
‘Frankly no. I said that I didn’t want to be involved in a divorce case with the wife of the Home Secretary. I should think that that really would have ruined my standing.’
And that, thought Gaffney, would have served you bloody well right. ‘What did she say to that?’
‘She said that in that case she would commit adultery with someone else and make sure it got out.’
‘Was she joking?’
‘I hoped she was, but I really think she was serious.’
‘And that was the last time you saw her?’
‘Yes, it was. It was starting to get a bit tedious. I don’t mind a simple affair — a bit of fun on the side, as you might say -- but women are funny things; they always want to complicate it. They fall in love; all that nonsense.’
Gaffney couldn’t imagine anyone falling in love with this insufferable, noble prat opposite him, but, as his lordship had said, women are funny things. ‘Perhaps,’ he said slowly, ‘it migh
t be as well if you told me where you were on the night she was murdered.’
‘Oh, I say,’ said Slade. ‘I really was only joking. You can’t possibly believe that I had anything to do with it. I mean to say, I don’t mind sharing a bed with someone else’s wife, but I do rather draw the line at killing her.’ He laughed nervously.
‘Well, in that case, you’ve nothing to worry about, have you?’
Slade looked unhappy. Eventually he spoke: ‘I was with another woman,’ he said.
That came as no surprise to Gaffney. ‘Who?’ he asked coldly.
‘D’you mean you’ll go and see her?’
‘Yes, I do.’
‘Oh God!’ He ran a hand through his hair. ‘You will be discreet, won’t you?’ he asked after some time.
Gaffney smiled. ‘Of course,’ he said.
? ? ?
The next morning, Gaffney walked through the incident room and into his own office in a mood of deep depression. Tommy Fox, in high humour, had charged Farrell with several offences in connection with the smuggling of drugs and he and his team were now, with the aid of the Drugs Squad, pursuing further enquiries with vigour, as they are apt to say in police circles.
‘You’re not looking desperately happy with life, sir,’ said Harry Tipper, putting his head round the door of Gaffney’s office.
Gaffney laughed a short, cynical laugh. ‘It’s a blow-out, Harry. Come and sit down.’ He stared moodily at the centre of his blotter. ‘Mr Fox has arrested Farrell — got him bang to rights — and he’ll either charge Masters or use him for the prosecution; that depends on the Crown Prosecution Service. Unfortunately, there’s not a shred of evidence that would support a charge of murder against either of them, and, of the two, I fancied Bernie Farrell.’ He sighed deeply and nodded towards the papers that Tipper was carrying. ‘What have you got there, Harry? Anything interesting.’
Tipper riffled through the file he was balancing on his knees. ‘They’ve traced the cab-driver, sir.’
‘What cab-driver?’ asked Gaffney in a tired voice.
‘The one that one of the Cutler’s Mews residents claimed she heard … the night of the murder.’
Gaffney looked surprised. ‘Any good?’
Tipper handed over a couple of pages. ‘That’s his statement. Wisley took it last night.’
