‘Then they were obviously close.’
‘Tillman had a gift for standing on his soapbox and rousing his audience. One of my agents heard him on a number of occasions. He was mesmeric, apparently, and dangerously so. Ackley didn’t have the presence or the talent to do that. His expertise was with the written word. If he hadn’t contracted that deadly virus known as Marxism, he’d have made a first-rate journalist. As it was, he pumped out article after article for a small but dedicated readership of converts. Ackley was their arsenal. His magazine provided the group’s ammunition.’
‘At what point did you arrest him?’
‘It was when he began to attract more numbers to the cause. They were mostly the young and the disaffected in society but there were also a few significant scalps, older men with established links to Russia and with deep pockets. Tillman could thrill an audience but Ackley was the one who charmed money out of their pockets. That,’ Breen went on, ‘meant that they had funds to cause mischief. When they started to set off explosions, we pounced on Ackley and took him out of the game.’
‘What was Peter Tillman doing all this time?’
‘Are you married?’
‘Yes, I am.’
‘Try to remember what you were doing immediately after the event.’
‘You’re being facetious.’
‘I’m only stating the obvious.’
‘If you really want to know,’ said Marmion, ‘I was working in the civil service and enjoying a quiet life.’
‘War demolished that luxury. Nobody leads a quiet life now.’
Marmion was unconvinced. ‘I find it hard to believe that Tillman could simply discard his beliefs because he found himself a wife.’
‘You wouldn’t say that if you saw a photograph of her. She’s a beautiful young woman – and she comes from a moneyed family.’
‘He’s supposed to be a Communist, despising private wealth.’
‘Every man has his price, Inspector.’
Breen talked for a few more minutes about David Ackley’s role as the leader of an increasingly active cell then he rose to his feet and opened the door.
‘It was good of you to come,’ he said with unfeigned sarcasm.
Marmion remained in his chair. ‘I haven’t finished yet.’
‘I thought I’d answered all of your questions.’
‘You mean that you fended them off with great skill.’
‘What else do you wish to know, Inspector?’
‘There are lots of things.’
‘Such as?’
‘Where do I find Peter Tillman?’
When the telephone rang at the Dun Cow, the landlord picked up the receiver. He was not pleased when a voice asked to speak to one of his barmaids. He summoned Maisie Rogers with a yell. She entered the back room to be met by a wagging finger.
‘I’ve told you before, Maisie,’ warned the landlord, ‘this is not for private use.’ He handed her the receiver. ‘Tell him not to call again and be quick about it.’
‘I’m sorry, Eric,’ she said. ‘It won’t happen again.’
‘Make sure it doesn’t.’
He walked out of the room, leaving her to wonder who was at the other end of the line. Since Wally Hubbard had no access to a telephone, it couldn’t be him. She spoke tentatively.
‘Hello … it’s Maisie here.’
‘I’ve been asked to pass on a message,’ said Felix Browne.
‘Well, please don’t ring me again on this number. It’s the thing my boss hates most.’ She lowered her voice. ‘Is the message from Wally?’
‘Yes, I found a note waiting for me at the office.’
‘What did it say?’
‘Tell Maisie that I’ll be going away for a while.’
‘Where to?’
‘He’s off to the Isle of Man,’ said Browne. ‘He reckons Ben Croft is there.’
Chief among Wally Hubbard’s many virtues was his perseverance. Once he set his mind on something, he never deviated from it until he’d achieved his objective. Having failed to kill Ben Croft at the first attempt, he escaped from prison in order to try again and, even though he had no idea where the man was, he was certain that he’d catch him one day. His perseverance had finally paid off. As he made his way towards the ferry at Liverpool Docks, he was congratulating himself on his skill in deceiving Reuben Ackley into giving him unwitting assistance. Nothing could stop him now, Hubbard told himself. All that remained was for him to locate and deal with Croft before returning to the mainland.
His confidence was then unexpectedly dented. When he joined the long queue boarding the vessel, he saw a uniformed policeman standing near the gangway and talking to someone. Hubbard recognised him at once as Joe Keedy. In response to what he was being told, the sergeant was looking along the line of bodies in the queue. Hubbard ducked out of sight immediately. If Keedy was aboard, he had to be avoided. A chance meeting between the two would be disastrous. He’d have to take a later ferry. The delay was tiresome but necessary. He’d get to his destination in due course and he’d be forewarned of Keedy’s presence on the island. There was no need for concern. He had everything well in hand.
Marmion was taken aback. When he got to the address given to him by Special Branch, he was told that Peter Tillman was at work in the family business. He did get to meet Tillman’s wife, a striking young woman who spoke about her husband with deep affection and who wondered why the police were interested in him.
‘Peter has put that life behind him,’ she insisted.
‘So I understand.’
‘He has nothing to do with those dreadful people any more.’
Marmion took his leave and asked the driver to take him to Regent Street. The premises owned by A. D. Tillman and Son, Furriers, were impressive. The Russian immigrants had clearly prospered. As he entered the shop, Marmion was met by Peter Tillman himself, now occupying a managerial role and dressed accordingly. Ten or more years older than his wife, he was a handsome man of slender build with prominent cheekbones and dark, wavy hair. His voice had no trace of an accent and he exuded charm.
‘May I help you, sir?’ he asked, solicitously.
‘I’m Inspector Marmion from Scotland Yard,’ said the other, producing his warrant card. ‘Might I have a private word with you, please?’
‘Yes, of course.’
Tillman seemed neither surprised nor upset by his arrival. He conducted the inspector into a well-appointed office at the rear of the building. They sat down opposite each other.
‘I couldn’t help noticing your wedding ring, sir,’ said Tillman. ‘While you’re here, you might like to think about a fur coat for your wife.’
‘Oh, I think about it a lot, sir, and my wife thinks about it even more but fur coats are beyond the reach of my income, I’m afraid.’
‘That’s a pity.’
‘Besides, warmer weather will soon be here.’
‘There’ll be another winter in due course. That’s what drove my parents to leave Russia in the first place – the fear of another winter in Moscow. Do you know how cold it can get there? People can freeze to death. I know that happens here as well but not to the same extent. Moscow can have Arctic temperatures.’
‘Then surely it’s a better place to sell fur coats.’
‘The English are more amenable customers,’ said Tillman with an enigmatic smile. ‘But let’s not waste each other’s time, Inspector. You came to ask about David Ackley, didn’t you?’
‘Yes, I did.’
‘Then let me tell you that I haven’t seen him for months.’
‘Yet you were close friends at one time, I believe.’
‘We were friends and political colleagues.’
‘Did you invite him to your wedding?’
‘I did, as a matter of fact,’ said Tillman, ‘but I never got a reply. I had the impression that David thought I’d betrayed the cause, so to speak. The truth is that I grew out of it when I fell in love with a remarkable woman.’
‘After years of sleeping on floors and speaking at poorly attended meetings in draughty halls, it’s a joy to have basic home comforts again.’
Marmion studied him. During his second visit to Donald Breen, he’d heard a fair amount about Tillman and formed the impression that he’d be a bearded rabble-rouser with manic eyes. In reality, he was cultured, well spoken and fastidious about his appearance. There was no sign of the Communist agitator now.
‘David and I grew apart,’ he explained. ‘For the sake of old times, I wanted him there at the wedding but I’d lost track of him completely. So I sent the invitation to his parents in Oxford in the hope that they’d forward it to him. It may well be that they didn’t. Mr and Mrs Ackley rather disapproved of me,’ he added with a roll of his eyes. ‘They seemed to think that I had horns and a forked tail.’
‘It must have been a big change for you,’ observed Marmion. ‘After years on the margins of society, you’re suddenly leading what seems to be a conventional life. What prompted that change?’
‘You’ve met my wife.’
‘Mrs Tillman would have an effect on any man but there must be more to it than that. Did you see a light on the road to Damascus?’
‘No, Inspector, but I saw my father rushed into hospital after a heart attack. He put years of unremitting commitment into this business. I couldn’t let that go to waste. In spite of what people thought, I was not immune to family values. The call came and I answered it.’
‘That’s very loyal of you, sir.’
‘Do you have children?’
‘Yes, I do. I have a son and a daughter.’
‘Then I’m certain they’d respond to a family emergency as I did.’
‘My situation is irrelevant,’ said Marmion, wincing at the memory of Paul’s disappearance. ‘I’m just interested to know how you were, in effect, reborn.’
Tillman sat back reflectively. ‘I suppose that I got fed up with giving the same speeches and chanting the same slogans year after year. Besides, much of what we advocated was achieved by the revolution in February. Russia has a new provisional government. But,’ he went on, ‘if you want the full truth, officers from Special Branch were breathing down my neck. No disrespect to your colleagues, Inspector, but some of them are ill-bred, bad-mannered thugs. They were just waiting for the opportunity to arrest me.’
‘That’s what they did to Ackley.’
‘Yes, I heard the rumours. I’d have finished up in the same prison.’
‘He was sent to Knockaloe.’
‘Was he? That’s even worse. Why did they release him?’
‘They didn’t, sir. He escaped.’
Tillman smiled nostalgically. ‘David always did have a lot of pluck.’
‘Can you think of anyone who might have wanted to kill him?’
‘I can, Inspector, but I don’t think you’d like my answer.’
‘Try me.’
‘Special Branch.’
‘Not guilty,’ said Marmion.
‘How can you be certain of that?’
‘There are two reasons. The first is the manner of his death. The second is the fact that Special Branch had absolutely no idea where he was.’
‘But you do admit that they carry out assassinations.’
Marmion met his gaze. ‘I have no knowledge of that happening.’
‘Does that mean you’re trained to look the other way?’
‘I find that remark insulting, Mr Tillman.’
‘Then I withdraw it at once,’ said the other, obligingly. ‘But you might care to know that I was given a verbal warning of what would happen to me if I sailed too close to the wind. It was another reason for … becoming respectable again.’
‘Will you be attending David Ackley’s funeral?’
‘I think not.’
‘Why is that?’
‘It’s out of consideration for his parents. They’re bound to blame me for what happened. It’s understandable. I had some fairly lively arguments with David’s father. He’ll never forgive me for some of the things I said. If I turn up at the service, it will only intensify his grief.’
‘That’s very considerate of you.’
‘I don’t want to create scenes any more.’
‘What do you want to do, Mr Tillman?’
‘I already have the perfect wife,’ said the other. ‘We’ll have to start thinking about children soon. That’s my ambition now. I want the perfect family.’
Keedy was grateful for the warning. The message passed on to him by the police at Liverpool Docks had been sent by Claude Chatfield. He’d telephoned the information that Hubbard was aware of Ben Croft’s whereabouts. Keedy’s ears had pricked up. He had another task now. As well as finding Croft, he had to shield him from the man who wanted to murder him. There was no doubting the fact that Hubbard would make for the Isle of Man. He might already be on the ferry that Keedy boarded. As soon as the vessel set sail, therefore, the sergeant conducted a thorough search, even lifting the tarpaulin that covered the lifeboats. Hubbard was nowhere to be seen. Keedy was fearful that the man might have caught an earlier ferry and was already hunting his prey. A chat with another passenger gave him a little reassurance.
‘It will be like finding a needle in a haystack,’ he cautioned.
‘I was told it was a big camp,’ said Keedy.
‘It’s enormous. It just grows and grows. When the Lusitania was sunk, we arrested a huge batch of foreigners. Knockaloe had the best part of 25,000 there.’
‘How do you cope with numbers like that?’
‘We let a lot of internees regulate themselves.’
Short, bald, bull-necked and broad-shouldered, the man was a guard at Knockaloe. When he heard who Keedy was and why he was going to the island, the man couldn’t be more helpful.
‘It can only function properly,’ he said, ‘because it’s broken down into small units. We actually have four camps. Each one has a number and is subdivided into compounds. At the moment, we have twenty-three compounds, shared among the four camps. Every compound can take up to a thousand men and they operate separately.’
‘Slow down,’ said Joe. ‘The numbers are confusing me already.’
‘Each camp has its own kitchens and its own recreation facilities. On top of that,’ said the man, ‘it has its individual hospital with eight doctors and a few dozen German attendants. There’s even an isolation hospital, set apart from the camps so that it can handle contagious diseases and so on.’
‘You make it sound as if these camps are small towns.’
‘That’s exactly what they are, Sergeant. Like a town, they have a wide range of people. Some of them have enough money to buy themselves privileges and even bring in cooks and barbers. We try to respect their religions. Jewish internees, for instance, are allowed to obey their own dietary laws.’
‘What about accommodation?’
‘They sleep in wooden huts. Each one holds thirty men. We place six huts together so you can work out how many that makes. Inside those huts, they can work, play, eat, sleep or just chat to pass the time. There’s a problem with damp,’ admitted the man, ‘but they’re not here on holiday.’
‘How many escapes do you have?’
‘Very few, considering. We’ve had tunnels dug and some poor sods have tried to climb over the fence and cut themselves to pieces. Most of the internees simply don’t have the strength or the courage to break out. In fact, that’s one of the main problems at Knockaloe.’
‘Boredom?’
‘Depression. When you spend all your time looking at the world through an endless expanse of barbed wire, you begin to lose heart. I never worry about escapes, Sergeant. What upsets me are the suicide attempts. There are more of them.’
The moment she came off duty, Alice headed for home. On her arrival, she was hugged by her mother for minutes. When both had dried their e
yes, they sat down in the kitchen.
‘I don’t know what else we can do,’ complained Ellen. ‘We’ve got the police and the Salvation Army looking for Paul but he hasn’t been spotted anywhere. I’m afraid that his body will be found on some waste ground or fished out of a river.’
‘That’s highly unlikely.’
‘He must be in despair, Alice.’
‘If he was thinking about taking his own life, he’d have done it here and not packed all the things that he valued and walked off with them. That means he wants to start afresh elsewhere.’
‘Where – and why?’
‘We may never know.’
‘He must be found eventually.’
‘I doubt that, Mummy. He’s clever enough to keep out of sight and perhaps even lead a new life in a different part of the country. When he sees how difficult that is, Paul may come to realise just how much you did for him.’
‘I do hope so.’
‘We just have to be patient.’
‘That’s easier said than done.’
Ellen got up to put the kettle on the gas cooker. Alice told her about Keedy’s trip to the Isle of Man to make contact with Ben Croft. Her mother sighed.
‘Oh, I do wish these investigations wouldn’t drag on,’ she sighed. ‘They’ve come at the worst possible time. I want Joe and your father to catch that escaped prisoner and to solve the murder at the hostel. Then they can concentrate on finding Paul for me. Until someone does that, I’m being eaten away by anxiety.’
Claude Chatfield was pensive. Interested to hear about Marmion’s second visit to Donald Breen, he was even more pleased to be told about Peter Tillman. Sitting back in his chair, he stroked his chin thoughtfully.
‘Do you know what I believe?’ he asked.
The Enemy Within Page 26
