The Home Secretary Will See You Now

by Graham Ison

  ‘Difficult to say at the moment, sir. As soon as possible, is the best I can do.’

  Lavery nodded and walked through the doorway, allowing himself to be ushered quickly into the back of his car by Tony Lisle, his protection officer. Within seconds, the car was pulling out of Cutler’s Mews, the traffic held up for it by a PC, and illuminated by the sudden floodlights of a television crew which had just arrived; they had missed the early evening news, but were making sure of the later one.

  The landlord of the Sofia Arms just nodded when Mackinnon produced his warrant card; he was accustomed to regular visits from the Old Bill in his part of the world. ‘Ernie Drake? Yeah, I know Ernie Drake. What’s he been up to, poor old bugger?’

  ‘Was he in here last night?’

  ‘No, not last night. Unusual that.’ The landlord wiped the section of the bar he was leaning on, and dropped the cloth out of sight. ‘What’s your pleasure, gents?’ He was a firm believer in keeping on the right side of the law.

  They each settled for a pint of bitter. ‘Are you sure about that?’ asked Mackinnon.

  ‘Absolutely, guv’nor. It’s because he’s so bloody predictable. Seven o’clock every night he comes through them doors, orders a pint of Guinness and sits there’ — he pointed to a chair in the corner, near the dartboard — ‘and just stares into space. About quarter past nine he has another pint and goes back to the corner again, and he’ll just sit there then until eleven o’clock.’

  ‘You mean he just has the two drinks?’

  ‘He might have a third, if someone takes pity on him and buys him one — bought him one myself occasionally — otherwise it’s just the two,’ said the landlord. ‘I don’t mind; he doesn’t do any harm to anyone. Most of the regulars in here know what happened and they feel sorry for him. He’s not all there, I don’t reckon, but he wouldn’t do no one any harm.’ He paused. ‘What’s he been up to then?’

  ‘He’s missing from home,’ said Mackinnon.

  It was gone seven o’clock by the time Gaffney and Tipper got back to Scotland Yard, and Gaffney was ready to cave in. ‘I’ll just have a quick look through the messages, Harry, and then I’m going to call it a day.’

  Mackinnon tapped on the open door and waited until Gaffney looked up.

  ‘Yes, Ian, what is it?’

  ‘I went to see Ernest Drake, sir … ’

  ‘Drake? Who’s Drake?’ It was nigh-on ten hours since Gaffney had handed Mackinnon the file on Drake, and he was beginning to slow up.

  ‘The bloke who writes to the Home Secretary, threatening to kill him.’

  Gaffney nodded. ‘Yes, what about him?’

  Mackinnon advanced towards Gaffney’s desk. ‘He’s disappeared, sir. He’s always in his local boozer from about seven until chucking-out time. Didn’t show last night, and he’s not been seen since.’

  Gaffney sat down and signalled Mackinnon to do the same. ‘Harry!’ Tipper looked up from the file he was examining. ‘You’d better listen to this.’ He turned back to Mackinnon. ‘Go on, Ian.’

  Mackinnon outlined what he had learned — little though it was — and finished by telling Gaffney about the press-cuttings. ‘I brought those away with me, sir,’ he said, and placed the envelope on the desk in front of his chief superintendent.

  ‘Mmm!’ Gaffney leaned back in his chair and gazed reflectively at Tipper, a half-smile on his face. ‘Well, Harry, what d’you reckon? It can’t be that easy, can it?’

  Tipper grinned. ‘It’s too bloody easy, guv’nor. There’s got to be a catch somewhere. Bloke writes threatening letters to the Home Secretary on account of he thinks that Lavery’s responsible for his wife’s death. The night Mrs Lavery’s murdered, Drake does a runner … ’ He shook his head.

  ‘So what do we do? Nothing?’ said Gaffney with a smile.

  Tipper laughed and stood up. ‘You know we can’t do nothing, sir, you’re just winding me up. We circulate Ernest

  Drake to all forces and to all ports, and when we find him we talk to him about the murder of Mrs Lavery. And what’s more to the point, it’s just possible that it’s down to him.’ ‘It’s more than just possible, Harry.’ Gaffney ran a hand through his hair. ‘See that it gets done, will you?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Tipper, and turning to Mackinnon, said: ‘You heard the guv’nor. Get cracking.’

  Mackinnon looked at Tipper, his face expressionless. ‘Yes, sir,’ he said.

  Gaffney waited until the door had closed behind Mackinnon before speaking again. ‘All in all, Harry, it’s been a pretty frustrating day,’ he said. ‘We’ve got precisely nowhere.’

  ‘Not entirely, sir. The thing that interested me was that chain.’

  ‘The theatre prop, you mean?’

  Tipper nodded. ‘Except that it wasn’t a theatre prop.’ He put his hand in his jacket pocket and withdrew the chain, examining it briefly before laying it on the desk in front of Gaffney. ‘I took the liberty of taking possession of it after the Home Secretary had left. It’s gold. I reckon about two grandsworth. There’s a hallmark on the reverse of the medallion, and another on the clip.’

  Gaffney whistled. ‘Two thousand. And Lavery said he hadn’t seen it before.’

  ‘Which begs the question: who gave it to her?’

  ‘He may have seen it before, Harry. He’s still in shock, don’t forget. On the other hand, I wouldn’t have thought that he’d ever have forgotten seeing her with that round her neck.’

  ‘I don’t think it’s meant to be worn round the neck,’ said Tipper. ‘Unless I’m mistaken, it’s a waist chain, and it’s worn next to the skin.’

  Gaffney smiled. ‘Gift from an admirer, then?’

  ‘More likely from a close friend,’ said Tipper. ‘One who’d want to admire it in place.’

  Gaffney examined the medallion. It was about two inches in diameter, and parts of the gold had been cut away to leave two intertwined letters in a circle. ‘I don’t know what that

  means,’ he said. ‘The letters M and C.’ He looked thoughtful. ‘Could be someone’s initials — not hers certainly — or Roman numerals for nine hundred or eleven hundred, I suppose.’

  Tipper laughed. ‘If it had been M and S, I might have been able to help you, guv. I reckon it’s the initials of the bloke who gave it to her.’

  ‘Or woman,’ said Gaffney with a smile.

  Tipper shook his head slowly. ‘Don’t want another job like that one,’ he said. He was thinking of the Penny Lambert case that he and Gaffney had been involved in some years previously.

  Gaffney leaned back in his chair and lit a cigar. Then he gazed reflectively through the smoke. ‘I think we need to know where that came from,’ he said. ‘Get hold of DI Wisley — he’s a fairly discreet sort of bloke — get him to do the rounds of the better end of the trade and see if he can get a trace on it. But tell him to go easy, and tell him not to breathe a word about the connection with Elizabeth Lavery, or it’ll be all over the Press in no time at all.’

  Tipper leaned over and took the chain. ‘Recovered stolen property which we’re anxious to restore to the rightful owner,’ he said.

  Gaffney scoffed. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘and that might be nearer the truth than we know.’

  Gaffney was in his office by 8.30. He had eventually got home to Richmond at a quarter to nine the previous evening, and offset the emptiness of his flat by downing two large Scotches. It was at times like that that he tended to pity himself, and to recall with regret that his wife Vanessa — or ex-wife as she now was — would not be coming back.

  Claire Wentworth was in the office before he even had his coat off. ‘Results are coming in, sir, but there’s only one you might want to know about.’

  ‘Yes?’ Gaffney put his overcoat on a hanger and put it into his office wardrobe.

  ‘D’you remember the Commons order-paper found under the bed, sir?’

  ‘What, that week-old thing?’ Gaffney sat down at his desk and pulled out his packet of cigars.

&
nbsp; ‘Yes, sir. It had a telephone number scrawled on it.’

  ‘Yeah. What about it?’

  ‘The phone number goes out to Mr Walter Croft; he’s an MP.’

  ‘Hardly surprising,’ said Gaffney. ‘Okay, Claire, thanks. Leave me a note of it, and I’ll have a chat with him. Put it down as an action for me.’ He grinned up at her. ‘And keep nagging me about it, because I’m sure to forget.’

  She smiled. ‘And the DAC would like a word with you, sir.’

  Gaffney glanced up at the clock over the door. ‘Is he in already?’

  ‘Been here a good half-hour, sir.’

  Gaffney quickly drank his coffee, put his cigars back in his pocket, and walked down the corridor to the DAC’s big comer office.

  Logan was sitting in an armchair reading The Times. ‘Help yourself to coffee, John, and come and tell me how you’re getting on.’

  ‘I’ve just had coffee, sir, thank you, and the answer to your question is not very well.’

  Logan laughed and folded the newspaper. ‘How much are the Anti-Terrorist Branch helping?’

  ‘As much as they can, sir. They’re masterminding all the scientific stuff, fingerprints, photographs; all that sort of thing, but not much of it’s helping right now. The simple fact is that someone entered Number Seven Cutler’s Mews the night before last, either by invitation or stealth, and strangled Elizabeth Lavery. Beyond that we don’t know a great deal.’

  ‘Is the Home Secretary being helpful?’

  ‘Co-operative, sir, but not very helpful. Not that that’s his fault; what he doesn’t know, he can’t tell us. We went through the place last night — took over an hour; much bigger than it looks from the outside — and he eventually came to the conclusion that nothing had been stolen.’ Gaffney paused in thought for a second or two. ‘Funnily enough, having said

  that, he actually found something he claimed not to have seen before.’

  ‘Oh?’ Logan frowned.

  ‘A gold waist chain — at least that’s what we think it is — that Harry Tipper reckons must be worth about two thousand pounds.’

  ‘And Lavery hadn’t seen it before?’

  ‘No, sir, so he says.’

  Logan smiled. ‘A gentleman friend?’

  ‘Possibly. And frankly I wouldn’t be surprised. She was a good-looking girl, and twenty years younger than her husband. There’s a lot of temptation about for a woman like her … ’

  ‘What are you doing about it?’

  ‘I’ve set Wisley to find out where it came from — discreetly, of course — which shouldn’t be too difficult; it has a distinctive medallion on it with what looks like someone’s initials.’ Gaffney paused for a moment to separate what he had been saying from his next piece of information. ‘There’s also a man called Drake — Ernest Drake — who is an habitual writer of threatening letters to Lavery.’

  Logan looked doubtful. ‘Not the only one though, surely?’ ‘No, sir, but this one’s different. Blames Lavery for the suicide of Mrs Drake while on remand for unlawful killing, and he’s gone missing from his flat in Streatham. In fact, he went missing just before the estimated time of the murder, and hasn’t been seen since.’

  Logan smiled, but he didn’t bother to ask Gaffney what he had done about it: he knew. He stood up and walked across to his desk. ‘That’s the number that Lavery called the night before last,’ he said, tearing a page off his scribbling pad. ‘It’s the chap he stayed with. Said he was a close friend. Might be worth having a chat with him. He could shed some light on Mrs Lavery’s activities. If there’s anything out of the ordinary that is.’

  Before retiring from the Metropolitan Police three years ago, Fred Hutchings had specialised in the sort of burglaries that

  resulted in the theft of valuable jewellery. Although only a detective inspector, he had developed an expertise that caused detectives throughout the country — and even from abroad — to consult him on a regular basis whenever they wanted to know anything about specialist jewel robbers. Even after taking up his present post as chief security officer with a bullion firm in the City of London, he continued to advise his former colleagues, a situation to which his new employers had no objection; it was a useful two-way flow of intelligence.

  Hutchings examined the chain briefly before taking out a jeweller’s glass and peered closely at the hallmarks. Then he leaned back in his chair. ‘Nice piece of work, that,’ he said, ‘very nice indeed.’ He scribbled a name and address on a piece of paper and pushed it across the desk to Francis Wisley. ‘And that’s who made it,’ he said. He paused. ‘And it’ll cost you a pint,’ he added with a smile.

  It was one of the better-known firms of West End jewellers; discreetly opulent and clearly patronised by those to whom quality was the only criterion. There was a quietness about it when Wisley entered that reminded him of a Harley Street waiting room.

  ‘May I assist you, sir?’

  ‘I’m a police officer,’ said Wislcy. ‘May I see the manager, please.’

  ‘One moment, sir.’ The assistant sniffed slightly and turned away.

  The manager was tall, grey-haired, and probably in his late fifties. ‘Perhaps you’d like to come into my office,’ he said.

  Wisley hoped that it was an acknowledgement of the sensitivity of his enquiry rather than a dread of having policemen sullying the atmosphere of his expensive shop. ‘Thank you.’ He followed the stately figure, feeling as though he had become part of a procession.

  The manager gave the chain a cursory examination and nodded. ‘Oh yes,’ he said, ‘I remember this piece. We made it about … ’ He pondered briefly. ‘Seven or eight months ago, I should think. Is there a problem, Inspector?’

  ‘It’s the proceeds of a robbery,’ said Wisley blandly. ‘We’re anxious to restore it to its rightful owner.’

  The manager took out a glass and examined the maker’s mark before turning to a large ledger that rested on top of a safe. Quickly he skimmed through the pages until he found the corresponding reference. ‘Yes,’ he said thoughtfully, ‘we made it for a Mr Colin Masters. He has an address in Wimbledon. Here, I’ll jot it down for you.’

  ‘What kept you?’ Gaffney smiled as he spoke.

  ‘The fog, sir,’ said DI Wisley, and grinned. Secretly he was pleased with himself at having solved Gaffney’s enquiry so quickly.

  ‘Well, who is he, this Masters bloke?’

  Wisley looked smug. ‘I spoke to the collator at Wimbledon, sir, and he says that he’s got a bit of form — way back — and that he’s an SOll Main-Index man.’

  Gaffney looked up sharply. ‘You’re joking,’ he said. It was rhetorical; he knew fine that Wislcy was not. ‘Christ, that’s all wc need.’

  ‘That’s a print-out of his CRO microfiche,’ said Wislcy helpfully. He passed a buff folder across the desk. ‘Only one: robbery with violence, about seventeen years ago.’

  Gaffney skimmed through it and handed it back. ‘Well done, Francis. You can book that into the Incident Room, not that I think we’ll need it again.’

  Chapter Five

  ‘I thought you’d be beating a path to my door.’ Commander Murdo McGregor dropped a match into the ashtray and brushed pipe ash from his waistcoat. ‘And I think you’ll be wanting to talk to me about a certain Main-Index man called Colin Masters.’

  Gaffney smiled. ‘Now, how did you know that, sir?’

  McGregor had been in charge of the Yard’s Criminal Intelligence Branch for four years and it was doubtful whether any criminal of substance could move in London without his knowledge. Some of the criminals in whom he took an interest did not have previous convictions for crime, but in most cases that was not for want of trying, and although knowledge was not always evidence, it often went a long way towards helping.

  ‘Well now,’ said McGregor, ‘you Special Branch chaps aren’t the only ones to know about intelligence-gathering, you know. My man at Wimbledon — ’

  ‘Your man?’

  McGregor nodde
d. ‘Collators work for SOI 1 Branch, John, or had you forgotten? The moment someone takes an interest in one of my collection, I get to hear about it. As soon as your man Wislcy put the phone down, the message came through.’ McGregor smiled knowingly. ‘What’s your interest, John?’

  Gaffney outlined what he knew so far, explaining the apparent connection between the murder of Elizabeth Lavery, the gold chain, and now Masters.

  ‘Interesting,’ said McGregor mildly; he was not a man given to demonstrative reactions. ‘It sounds as though Mr Masters is overreaching himself somewhat. D’you reckon he

  was having it off with the Home Secretary’s wife, then?’ Gaffney shrugged. ‘Looks very much like it. It doesn’t really matter, of course. The fact that there is an association of some sort could provide us with a lead.’

  McGregor nodded. ‘Actress, did you say she was?’

  ‘Yes, sir. At least up until her marriage to Lavcry.’ McGregor laid his pipe gently in the ashtray and chuckled. ‘Shady lot, the acting profession,’ he said.

  ‘What sort of villain is Masters?’ asked Gaffney.

  By way of an answer, McGregor stood up and walked across to his safe. ‘Seeing it’s you, John, you can have a look,’ he said, laying a thickish docket on the desk in front of Gaffney. ‘He’s a lucky man. He’s only got one previous to talk of, and that was seventeen years ago: armed robbery and he got a handful at the Bailey.’ He picked up his pipe again and looked around for his matches. ‘That was before they went soft; probably get a pound out of the poor box today.’

  ‘But he’s gone straight since then?’ Gaffney smiled.

  ‘Aye, and pigs might fly. As a matter of fact we thought we had him about a year back,’ said McGregor. He pointed with his pipe stem. ‘It’s on there: conspiracy to rob, GBH, breathing — all that — but the bastard managed to duck out of it.’

  Gaffney looked up from the file. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘and I’ve just seen who his brief was.’

  ‘Oh?’