The Home Secretary Will See You Now

by Graham Ison

  Roscoe’s snitch had told him that Cody was in a production at the Galaxy Theatre which the backers hoped might expand into a glittering Broadway extravaganza. The chorus

  -six men and six girls — could easily be expanded into a vast troupe of dancers that would not have disgraced the late Florenz Ziegfeld, said the producer hopefully: a view, sadly, not shared by the critics.

  ‘Paul Cody?’

  ‘Sure thing.’ Cody smiled and showed his best profile. He obviously thought that Roscoe looked like an agent: a theatrical agent that is, not a federal agent.

  ‘Name’s Roscoe, Mr Cody. I’m with the FBI here in New York.’

  The smile vanished. ‘Look, I’m due back on in about ten — ’

  ‘Sure,’ said Roscoe. ‘It can wait.’

  Twenty minutes later, Cody reappeared. ‘What’s this about?’ he asked.

  ‘Is there some place we can talk? D’you want to go into your dressing room, Mr Cody?’

  Cody laughed savagely. ‘You gotta be joking, mister. There is one dressing room here and we all use it … guys and dolls,’ he said. ‘I guess this is it.’ He raised his arms to embrace the whole backstage area.

  Roscoe shrugged and moved to what seemed a less public comer. ‘What d’you know about a woman called Elizabeth Fairfax, Mr Cody?’

  ‘Hell, man, what d’you want to talk about her for?’

  ‘She’s dead, Mr Cody.’

  ‘Well, I’m real sorry to hear that. Real sorry. But what in hell’s it got to do with me, huh?’

  ‘Seems she was murdered.’

  Cody shook his head. ‘I’ve not been in England for more than five years. It ain’t nothing to do with me. When was this, anyhow?’

  Roscoe flicked open his notebook. ‘Nearly three weeks back, I guess.’

  ‘Yeah, sure. Well, for the past three weeks I been hoofing it every night — twice on Saturdays — and there’s about four hundred people a night who can testify to that.’ He jerked a thumb in the direction of the auditorium.

  ‘Okay, okay.’ Roscoe held up his hands and smiled. ‘No one said you had anything to do with it, but Scotland Yard turned up your name. Seems you and she got on pretty' good, way back?’

  Cody looked down and kicked absently at a loose rope; then he tried to put his hands in his pockets, but realised that there weren’t any in the costume he was wearing. ‘Yeah, we did, until she cleared off and married this old guy.’

  ‘Old guy?’

  ‘Sure. About twenty years older. Some smart-ass attorney. He was a senator, too; whatever they call their guys in the Parliament over there.’

  ‘What did you do then?’

  ‘We split.’

  ‘That come as a surprise … her marrying this guy?’

  ‘You’d better believe it. We were in bed one morning when she told me.’ He shook his head as though he still couldn’t believe it. ‘And we’d been screwing not two minutes back. I asked her why, and she said he could give her everything she wanted … and that was it.’

  ‘She’d not mentioned this guy before?’

  ‘Yeah, sure. Like I said, he was an attorney. There was some piece in a newspaper column, about six months before that, that said she’d slept with some guy — a producer on TV, I think — just so’s she could get a part. I remember that — ’ ‘Why?’

  Cody looked incredulous. ‘Why? For Christ’s sake! Wouldn’t you remember if the broad you was living with was in the newspapers for having slept with some other guy?’

  ‘And had she?’

  ‘Sure thing. We had one hell of a row about it. She came across with some crap about it wasn’t for her, it was for me — ’

  ‘For you?’

  ‘Yeah. She reckoned she did it to get a part for me. Load of goddam crap.’

  ‘So what happened? She sue the newspaper?’

  ‘Damn right she did. That’s when she met this attorney. The next thing she’s going to marry the guy. So we had another fight, right there in the bedroom. She was shouting and screaming, stamping about the place stark naked, waving her arms about. Our arguments were always like that, real Sarah Bernhardt stuff, like she’d rehearsed every goddam word ten times over … ’

  A long-legged brunette in a brief costume and fish-net tights walked through backstage. ‘Hi, honey,’ she said to Cody, and winked at Roscoe; he noticed she had a hole in her tights.

  Cody sat down on one of two crates. He pointed at the other. ‘Want to sit down?’

  ‘You get into a lot of arguments?’ Roscoe’s eyes narrowed, and he wondered — just briefly — whether Cody could have made a transatlantic trip; but then policemen were like that.

  Cody nodded. ‘Sure. Every time she made it with another guY — ’

  ‘Happen often?’

  ‘Two or three times.’

  ‘Why didn’t you throw her out?’

  Cody laughed bitterly. ‘It was her apartment. I’d got no

  place to go. Never had any money; I was out of work most of the time.’

  ‘But she wasn’t?’

  Cody stared at Roscoe and shook his head. ‘In this business a broad’s got certain biological advantages over a guy. All the guys she went for had got money or power. Everything had to be for her. I remember one guy: I think he was a lord. He was in that smart-ass army outfit that spends all its time marching round London in fancy dress: the Guards? She pointed him out to me one day along that big street that goes up to Buckingham Palace. Big fur hat and a red coat; dab of rouge on each cheek and he’d have looked like the Chocolate Soldier. They all looked the same to me; I don’t know how she knew it was him.’

  ‘Name?’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘What was his name … this lord?’

  ‘Jeez, I don’t know; she never said.’

  ‘When d’you see her last?’

  ‘The day we split. I’d had it. I came back Stateside. And here I am.’ He waved his hand around the backstage area. ‘Great, huh?’

  Roscoe snapped his notebook shut and stood up. ‘Thanks for your time, Mr Cody.’

  ‘You’re welcome.’ Cody stood up too. ‘If you’re looking for a motive,’ he added, ‘I guess she carried on sleeping around even after she married that old guy.’

  ‘You the director here?’

  ‘So who wants to know?’

  Roscoe flicked open the leather wallet containing his badge. ‘FBI,’ he said.

  ‘So?’

  ‘Cody, Paul Cody … ’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘Says he’s been here every night for the past three weeks.’ ‘You bet your goddam ass he has.’

  ‘Couldn’t have gone to England then?’

  The director laughed cynically. ‘That guy don’t even have the bus fare home; he walks. There’s no way he could go any place.’

  Jose Galeciras knew exactly where Masters’ villa was; had he not been there several times before? But never with the Teniente who now sat in the front seat of the Land Rover, constantly smoothing his kid-leather gloves, and complaining repeatedly about the dust cloud which the vehicle made on the loose earthen track.

  ‘It is over there, is it not?’

  ‘No, senor, it is a little further yet.’

  Galeciras kept driving with a grim determination. He did not need this dandy to tell him his job. But the Teniente was up to something. For one thing he had chosen not to explain to Galeciras or his partner why he needed a pickaxe and extra shovels placed in the Land Rover. He shrugged and stopped worrying. No doubt all would be made clear in due course.

  They stopped outside Masters’ now-deserted villa. The Teniente got out and stretched and then looked round, nodding. ‘Come,’ he said, and opened the gate. Galeciras grabbed the two carbines and issued an instruction to his partner to bring the shovels and the pickaxe. By the time they had caught up with the Teniente, he was standing at the edge of the pool looking down at the mirror-like blue water. After some moments he turned abruptly. ‘We are looking for a body,
’ he announced, as if regretting that he had to impart this piece of information to his two subordinates, but he could see no way of setting them the task without telling them what it was.

  ‘A body, senor?’

  ‘That is what I said,’ replied the Teniente curtly.

  ‘The body of who, senor? Senor Masters?’

  ‘No, not Serior Masters. The body of a man … another man.’

  ‘You know where it is hidden, senor?’

  ‘Of course not, dolt. That is why you arc here … to look for it.’ He cast his gaze beyond the pool to the grass, made

  brown by the hot Spanish sun. Slowly he shook his head. ‘I think not,’ he said to himself. A body buried there would disturb the grass and would be easily found. He flicked his leg with his gloves. ‘Here, I think.’ He nodded as if to confirm his own thoughts on the matter. ‘Yes, here I think.’ He pointed at the flagstones surrounding the pool. ‘Start there.’ He pointed.

  Galeciras was horrified. It was a hot, dry day — hot even for a Spaniard — and it was three o’clock in the afternoon. It was almost contrary to Galeciras’ religion to work at such a time. He shrugged. ‘What exactly do you want us to do, senor?’ he asked.

  ‘Take up the flagstones.’

  ‘All of them, senor?’ Galeciras could not keep the shocked tone out of his voice.

  For the first time the Tenicnte smiled. ‘No,’ he said, ‘not all of them. Just as many as it needs to find a body.’

  Galeciras was not a very good policeman, and he would never have qualified as a detective, but he had a great instinct for avoiding hard work, particularly manual labour; his wife would happily have testified to that. He walked across to the part of the patio that was furthest from the villa and looked closely at the stones. Most were cemented into place, but several were surrounded only by earth that had been pushed into the cracks between them.

  ‘What are you doing, Galeciras?’

  ‘I think that this would be a good place to start, Serior Teniente.’

  ‘Oh! Why is that?’ The Teniente walked across to where Galeciras was standing and looked closely where the policeman pointed.

  ‘See senor, there is no cement in those cracks there.’ Galeciras felt quite pleased with himself. In favour with the Teniente … perhaps, and less hard work … maybe.

  ‘Very well, try it. Here, you too.’ The Teniente flicked his fingers at Galeciras’ partner.

  Reluctantly the other policeman walked across, carrying the two shovels. He placed the tips on the ground and leaned on the handles.

  ‘Don’t stand there, man, get on with it.’ The Teniente looked first at the sun and then at his watch.

  Galeciras took one of the shovels and forced its tip into the crack between two of the large slabs, leaning heavily on the handle to lever it out of place. Then he and his partner manhandled it and pulled it to one side, revealing the flattened earth beneath.

  ‘Dig!’ said the Teniente impatiently.

  There was now no alternative, and, with a sigh, Galeciras bent his back to the ridiculous task of digging up Senor Masters’ patio. After five minutes of intensive digging in the soft earth he stood up.

  ‘Why are you stopping?’ asked the Teniente.

  ‘There is something here, senor.’

  The Teniente moved closer and stared down into the hole. A large parcel wrapped in polythene sheeting and tied securely with rope had been revealed by Galeciras’ exertions. ‘Excellent. Get it out.’

  That was easier to say than to do, but after several minutes’ work, which included moving two other flagstones and digging some more, Galeciras and his partner eventually dragged the large plastic package clear.

  The Teniente stood back. ‘Open it,’ he ordered. ‘But carefully, it may be evidence.’

  Galeciras smirked at that and watched as his partner withdrew his official-issue knife from his pocket, cut the rope and slit open the parcel. The body of the man which it had contained was now released from the confines of both the plastic wrappings and the ropes which bound it, and spread itself like a living thing, one hand slapping against a flagstone, its twisted grin staring up, sightless, at the searing sun.

  ‘Good.’ The Teniente9s face remained impassive but he withdrew a few feet. ‘Break into the house and find a telephone,’ he said.

  ‘But we have a radio — ’

  ‘Dolt. Do you want to tell everyone that we have found a body?’

  ? ? ?

  The substance of the telephone call to the local headquarters of the Guardia Civil was passed immediately to Madrid and produced an electric effect. The Teniente was told curtly to do nothing but stand guard over Masters’ villa and make sure that no unauthorised person interfered with anything. The Teniente tried to explain that he had found the body and that he should therefore conduct the inquiry. It was, after all, in the area for which he had responsibility.

  He replaced the receiver firmly. ‘It would not have happened when El Caudillo was alive,’ he muttered darkly.

  ‘What is that, senor?’

  ‘Go and guard the gate,’ said the Teniente.

  Chapter Fifteen

  ‘We’ve got to have more than the word of some tuppenny-ha’penny tow-rag like Rogers before we can nick Farrell,’ said Tommy Fox. ‘Otherwise he’d laugh us out of court. What’s more, with the team of mouthpieces he’s got, he’d have a go for damages for wrongful arrest and false imprisonment as well.’ He sucked through his teeth at the unfairness of the world.

  ‘How do we get the evidence?’ asked Gaffney. ‘Always assuming there’s any to be had. It might just be a malicious tale put about to discredit Farrell.’

  ‘I thought of that,’ said Fox, ‘and I showed Rogers some pictures. He picked out Farrell as the bloke who gave him the job and paid him.’ He shook his head. ‘It’s unbelievable that the man could be so bloody stupid.’

  ‘Probably thought he was being clever. And perhaps he is. What have we got? Charlie Rogers! A petty villain, with form as long as your arm, fingers Farrell, a millionaire, and comes up with some bloody rubbish about being commissioned to turn over Colin Masters’ drum because he’s supposed to have a packet of cocaine that belongs to him.’ Gaffney looked across the office at Fox with a half-smile on his face. ‘Well, do you believe it?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Fox sullenly, ‘but only because I want to.’

  ‘I’ve checked with Fraud Squad to see if he’s into any takeovers or the like, that would make it worthwhile putting round a story like that to discredit him, but there’s nothing. At least, they’ve heard nothing. I can’t see any point in anyone making that tale up just for the hell of it; it’s too risky.’ He glanced across at Tipper. ‘What d’you reckon, Harry?’

  ‘I agree with you, sir. Apart from anything else, Rogers was well-rattled after he’d come up with Farrell’s name. I think he knew he was a big fish, and I think he knew he was into drugs. And let’s face it: drug dealers are known to have long memories and short tempers. If anyone puts out the dirt on them, he’ll get topped … and the same goes for anyone who bilks them.’

  ‘That’s given me an idea,’ said Fox. ‘I think I’ll go and have a chat with Mr Farrell, informally as you might say. Fancy coming to listen, John?’

  Tommy Fox did it all properly. He telephoned Bernard Farrell and made an appointment. When asked what it was about, he explained that the Home Secretary, no less, had mentioned Mr Farrell’s name in connection with released prisoners. Fox then went on to say that he would very much like to speak to Mr Farrell about a specific released prisoner, but did not explain that the released prisoner he had in mind was Mr Farrell himself, or that that event — if Fox had his way — would not occur for some years.

  ‘Gentlemen, do come and sit down. It’s always nice to welcome representatives of the police force … ’ He indicated a circle of leather armchairs near to a huge window. ‘I was saying to the Home Secretary over dinner only the other day that 1 don’t know how you fellows cope these days;
crime rising all the time, everywhere you look.’ He shook his head and then suddenly concentrated his gaze on Gaffney. ‘Ah! We’ve met before, surely … ?’ He was evidently disconcerted at Gaffney’s reappearance, but probably less so than he would have been had Tipper been there too.

  ‘Yes indeed, Mr Farrell,’ said Gaffney with a smile.

  Farrell forced a smile also. ‘Of course. You came to see me about the Home Secretary’s wife.’ He laughed nervously. ‘And now you want to talk to me about released prisoners.’ ‘Yes,’ said Fox, crossing his legs and relaxing. ‘Or more accurately, about one released prisoner in particular.’

  ‘Oh?’ Farrell looked at each of the policemen in turn before looking once more at Fox. ‘Is this something I should

  know about?’ he asked. ‘I mean, this charity I was proposing is a general thing … ’ He coughed: a dry, nervous cough. ‘But, of course, if this is one man who needs special help, I’m sure that … ’

  Fox smiled and nodded. ‘Oh yes, he needs help. You might be interested in his name, Mr Farrell. It’s Colin Masters.’

  There was just the slightest tightening of Farrell’s fingers on the arms of his chair, otherwise there was no reaction. ‘I don’t know why that name should interest me; I’ve never heard of the man.’

  ‘That’s strange,’ said Fox. ‘He seems to know you. In fact, he claims to have done business with you in the past.’

  Farrell furrowed his brow. ‘Masters, Masters,’ he said, slowly repeating the name. He shrugged. ‘So many names, so many people I do business with; it’s not easy to remember. I have to admit that I can’t recall the name.’ He nodded, although there was nothing to agree with.

  ‘He’s also claiming to have broken into your house, Mr Farrell.’ Fox smiled pleasantly.

  Farrell looked suitably mystified; it was very convincing. ‘I know nothing about my house being broken into.’ He shot out a hand in Gaffney’s direction. ‘I told this gentleman last time he was here: my house has not been broken into.’ He laid great emphasis on the last few words. ‘I can understand your difficulty, gentlemen, but I can only suggest that this criminal … what was his name? Masters, you say? I can only suggest that he must have made a mistake.’ He spread his hands in a gesture of apparent hopelessness. 4I am more than willing to help the police, God knows that, but what more can I say?’ He contrived a thoughtful expression. ‘Did he say which house he broke into? Did he for example tel! you the name of it, or describe it?’