But I was wrong, completely, utterly and absolutely wrong.
‘Do I know you?’ the author enquired heavily.
Patrick cleared his throat and when he spoke it was hesitantly with a mid-West American accent. ‘I just wanted to apologize to you, Mr Hamlyn. I mean, for the other day. When you – you thought I was tailing you, kinda lurking around. But I wasn’t. I don’t do things like that. Folks from where I come from know how important privacy is to important people like yourself.’
Hamlyn’s face sort of cracked into an expression that had every possibility of being a smile. ‘That’s all right. I have to say though that when I first saw you I did imagine you might be after my wallet. That was before I learned that you were Miss Langley’s – er – friend.’ Here he looked right through me. ‘Is that all you wanted to say?’
‘Gee, y-y-yes,’ Patrick stammered. He turned and hurried away. I had no choice but to follow.
‘Remind me to lift his wallet before he goes,’ Patrick said under his breath, handing me a glass of wine.
‘Well, you already have in a way and that was quite the right thing to do,’ I soothed, giving him one from the same tray while really, really needing to give Alice’s/Claudia’s smirking face a good smack.
‘Damn the man – but I was hoping he’d come out of his shell a bit. We might have learned something.’
‘I don’t think we would have done. Just call it damage control.’
‘But did he swallow it?’ Patrick persisted. ‘Be honest.’
I gave it thought. ‘No, possibly not.’
We spent a fruitless evening. Hamlyn and the female went from sight so either ate at a nearby restaurant or in their room. Patrick slipped back into his role of escort to medium famous novelist, chatted to all and sundry, applauded the speeches, even a closing one from the interminable and impenetrable Norwegian author and we finally got to bed at just after one a.m.
‘Look, I don’t expect every moment of your time working for me to be loaded with incredible breakthroughs and mass arrests,’ Commander Michael Greenway said after Patrick had voiced his general disappointment in the results of our mission.
Greenway is head of the small team of which we are peripheral members. As we work directly for him and are not part of day-to-day enquiries we rely on him, or his assistant, Andrew Bayley, to give us the latest findings and it is vital that nothing we do interferes with the team’s investigations. This means that we are on first-name friendly terms with them but hardly ever confer unless it is during a general meeting. This is just as well and I am sure a deliberate move on SOCA’s hierarchy’s part, who are no doubt worried that some of Patrick’s MI5-style methods of working might prove dangerously catching.
‘I’m actually very interested in what you did discover,’ the commander continued. ‘To re-cap, you saw Hamlyn going on board a boat belonging to Daniel Coates, a wanted mobster – he’s left Cannes, by the way, and they’re watching out for him in St Tropez – who gave him money, or at least said he did, a large amount of which was in Hamlyn’s room safe. I think we can gold plate that even though it might not stick in court. Coates also revealed that Hamlyn bragged to him that he was associated with a man who lives a whiter-than-white life in Richmond. That has to be Hereward Trent. Hamlyn’s been seen at his house. That’s real evidence. The woman, Barton-Jones . . . are you sure it was her?’
‘Around ninety-nine per cent sure,’ Patrick answered.
‘But as she called herself Alice when talking to Ingrid, and others, she must have been travelling incognito. Why?’
‘Perhaps because she has a husband. I seem to remember reading it in a newspaper article in connection with her being investigated for expenses irregularities. He’s something in the City.’ Then, to me: ‘Did she mention him that evening?’
I shook my head, loving him to bits for not adding: ‘You got stoned.’
Greenway said, ‘Coates came up with quite a lot, didn’t he? Even if we factor in the possibility of Hamlyn being all mouth and not much substance he did tell him that Trent, or rather someone we must assume is him, has a drug-running business and associated money laundering schemes, which I’m inclined to believe.’
‘I think we still have to treat any information from Coates as potentially iffy,’ I cautioned.
This Greenway acknowledged.
‘What does Trent do legally for a living? Do we know that?’ I asked.
Patrick said, ‘He’s boss of a small chain of car dealers, mostly located in the wealthy London boroughs. Top-of-the-range stuff.’
‘I find it a bit of a tall story that the stealth boat was all part of the Trent empire and had been sent into port to put the frighteners on Coates,’ Greenway commented. ‘And Coates did say that he didn’t think Hamlyn was sober.’
‘Well, the boat was there,’ Patrick said. ‘And left, shortly before Ingrid went on his catamaran. But, as you say, Hamlyn could have made that up in order to put extra pressure on Coates to give him the money.’
‘Or some money, as he corrected himself,’ I added. ‘A rather obvious lie. It must have been, as was first suggested by you, Mike, a debt for services rendered sometime in the past.’
‘And Miss Smythe appears to have paid the price for her public spiritedness,’ Greenway mused. ‘God, how I hate these bloody mobsters.’
London was warm with bright sunshine, a contrast to central France which, when we had flown over the country very early that morning, had been white with overnight frost. The commander had met us at a little bistro around the corner from SOCA’s HQ, saying that he was desperate to get out of the office.
He went on: ‘The Met were delighted to hand over everything in connection with the Rosemary Smythe case and let us handle it as now there’s a strong link to organized crime. They’ve absolutely nothing on Hereward Trent, not even points on his licence for driving offences, but of course Records is much more useful when it comes to Hamlyn and Coates. The pair of you need to acclimatize yourselves with all that info and then read the letters that Miss Smythe wrote to us over a period of several months before you do anything else. Then we’ll have another get-together. But keep me right in the picture.’
We decided to work from home. Other than a hard copy of the Met’s file – the case had been handled by a DI Branscombe – which Greenway had arranged to be printed off for us, plus handing over the keys to Miss Smythe’s house, all the information and things we needed could be gleaned from various password-protected police websites. Patrick also has access to most MI5 files, hardly any of which, needless to say, were relevant or, for that matter, available on the internet. Provided one has clearance they may be viewed at appropriate establishments. This being likely to take far too long – he was keen to discover what, if anything, was known about Trent by the security services – Patrick suggested, before we headed west, we pay a visit to a man who, with regard to what can loosely be described as national security is known by insiders as the keeper of all grapevines. That was if he was free to see us.
Colonel Richard Daws, 14th Earl of Hartwood – although he does not use his title for everyday matters – at one time Patrick’s boss at D12, the department we used to work for in MI5, had been one of the chief advisers when SOCA was first set up. He still works one or two days a week in this capacity and when in London stays at a small apartment he has retained in Whitehall. As it happened he was neither there nor in his office on the top floor of the SOCA building but on his way to give evidence at a parliamentary committee meeting. If we cared to meet him at his club afterwards . . .
‘If he’s successfully chewed up the committee he might treat us to lunch,’ Patrick said, having also relayed to me Daws’s rather open-ended final remark.
As I am married to one I did not need to be told that senior army officers, both serving and retired, tend to loathe politicians of all hues. I also knew that the club in question was quite close to the Houses of Parliament, being situated just off Smith Square, and was glad the
pair of us had decided to dress fairly formally for travelling as we were reporting to HQ.
We had a fifteen-minute wait for Daws in a tiny visitors’ lounge at the club before he breezed in. I could not say that I had ever seen him breeze before and could only assume that he had had a very satisfactory morning. He looked hardly any older, his once-fair hair now grey but still with a tendency to flop over his forehead so he had to scoop it back with one hand – a lifetime’s gesture.
‘Good, you made it,’ was all he said to begin with, giving us a swift appraising glance while shaking our hands.
We followed him up a wide, deeply-carpeted staircase to a broad landing where he buttonholed one of the stewards.
‘Anywhere quiet where we can talk, Edwards?’
‘There’s no one in the Lord Nelson Bar at the moment, sir.’
We went in and sat down. Daws ordered drinks from the same steward who was discreetly hovering and there was a little silence. I reminded myself that this man, who emerged from early retirement at his family seat, Hartwood Castle, to take up his part-time post, has in the past treated Patrick very harshly, even to the extent of having had him ‘tested’ by a group of Royal Marines to see if he was fit, both mentally and physically, for the job being offered to him by D12. Strictly speaking he had not been but as the Marines caught up with him at my cottage on Dartmoor he had had very minor reinforcements: a poker and me. After a short but bloody war in the barn we had sent them on their way with one broken wrist, a couple of broken noses and several split lips.
Patrick and I have been married twice, the newly published author finally ridding herself of the insufferably superior and arrogant man her husband had become after one last, huge row. The divorce papers had come through when he was serving with Special Forces just before an accident with a hand grenade had resulted in him sustaining severe injuries. Eventually, the lower part of his right leg had had to be amputated and he is now active thanks to a man-made substitute with a tiny internal computer and lithium batteries that cost roughly the same as a medium-sized family car.
I have never been able to walk past an abandoned kitten or a dog with a thorn in its paw and when this man I had divorced not all that long ago had turned up on my doorstep, limping badly and still very weak in those early days before the pins in his right leg had failed, I had found the situation quite unbearable. He told me that he had been ordered to find a female working partner as, initially, much of the job would involve watching people at social occasions and official thinking was that lone men were conspicuous. With that in mind he admitted he had turned to the only woman with whom he could guarantee to get on well with in public – we always had. Far more importantly, I discovered later, was the need to find someone who would not want to sleep with him, all confidence regarding that having been lost due to his injuries.
Still dizzy with excitement from the set-to in the barn I had hardly hesitated and accepted his offer, telling myself I would probably scoop a lot of material for my next novel – and hey, who the hell wants to write romance when crime and spying now grew on trees?
After my rose-tinted glasses had fallen off it had been very difficult: Patrick frosty, in a lot of pain, even more so after the battering the Marines had given him and wondering if I could be trusted for, after all, this was the person who had thrown his classical guitar down the stairs during that last row, smashing it. I had subsequently felt very guilty about that, apologized the following morning and offered to buy him a new one. Not necessary, he had informed me, he had already done so and the original had only been a cheap one he had bought in a charity shop to learn on. Slowly, the magic that had been in our early relationship returned and, not long afterwards, we threw the sleeping together problem out of the window.
But for some of this trauma, especially causing Patrick extra suffering, I still blamed Daws.
There was some polite conversation about our family – seemingly he had kept abreast of everything about us, even the birth of Mark – and I reciprocated with questions about the castle garden as I know growing roses is practically an all-consuming hobby of his. He then invited us to have lunch with him, which we accepted.
‘Quite soon you’ll be working for the National Crime Agency,’ Daws went on to say. ‘As you probably know, SOCA’s being swept up in its creation. There’ll be a lot more power for you.’
‘And as a result of that a lot more aggro from cops in the Forces,’ Patrick commented.
‘Shouldn’t be. Tact, that’s all it takes.’
Using commendable tact, Patrick said, ‘And you, sir? What do you think?’
‘It’ll probably work. That’s if they don’t mess around with it again in another four or five years. Working on anything interesting? Is that what you wanted to see me about?’
‘Hereward Trent,’ Patrick said quietly.
When engaged in socializing and working undercover, the latter of which I understand he still does sometimes, Daws utilizes the persona of a genial old duffer and that was what we had mostly seen up until now. Underneath, the real man, that part of him that I distrust, if not dislike, is like polished steel. We got a glimpse of this now.
‘Never heard of him.’
Patrick merely smiled politely.
‘No,’ Daws said with an air of finality. ‘What do you have on him?’
‘His neighbour’s been murdered. She wrote to us several times to tell us that she’d been watching him and visitors to his house and in her opinion he was a criminal. I don’t yet have the full details of what she said as we’ve only just come back from France and it happened while we were away.’
‘And?’
‘Ingrid spoke to a wanted man in Cannes, Daniel Coates, who said that someone who lives in a big house in Richmond living an outwardly respectable life is heavily involved in serious crime. That’s almost certainly Trent.’
‘Evidence?’
‘Information courtesy of Clement Hamlyn, a crime writer.’
‘I think I’ve heard of him. Yes, suspect kind of fellow, been to prison – a fact he seems to think warrants admiration.’
‘That’s him. Hamlyn went to France under cover of attending a literary festival that finished last night. There’s very strong evidence to suggest that the real reason for his trip was to get money that he reckoned Coates owed him. Ingrid spoke to Coates, who said Hamlyn shot his mouth off. There was a stealth boat moored next to Coates’ catamaran that Hamlyn said was part of the mobster’s empire and there to intimidate him into paying up. That may or may not be true but as you must be aware, these craft have been used for drug-running.’
Daws nodded slowly. ‘This is now your case?’
‘As of an hour or so ago but we were already monitoring Hamlyn. The Met’s given everything they have on the neighbour’s murder to Commander Greenway.’
‘I told Greenway it would take fifteen years off his life, employing you two.’
‘I do believe he mentioned that to us, sir.’
‘I’ll see what I can find out about this Trent character.’
We lunched, talking of past cases, the protagonists – some of which Daws was keen to update us on – and more general matters.
As we were parting Daws spoke softly. ‘You sailed a bit close to the wind with that last job.’
‘I know,’ was all Patrick said.
‘It was them or you.’
‘Yes.’
‘If you’d left to get help and the police had arrived shortly afterwards, before those other mobsters turned up, there would have been a bloodbath – theirs.’
‘Yes.’
‘If the gang had succeeded in killing you there would have been the same result.’
‘That’s right.’
‘I happen to know you’re feeling guilty about it.’ When he got no response Daws continued: ‘A gurkha has recently been awarded the Conspicuous Gallantry Cross for taking on thirty Taliban single-handed in Afghanistan and killing or wounding the lot. You’re hard-wired to be
a soldier, nothing’s going to change that, and you took on over thirty mobsters, who in my view were drugs- and drink-soaked vermin, single-handed, most of whom were arrested shortly afterwards and a few killed or wounded. I wanted you for the job for that very reason. Get over it, Patrick!’
When we were outside on the pavement Patrick said pensively, ‘Leopard, non-changing spots, for the use of?’
I gave him a hug. ‘Some leopard.’
Obviously, we could not arrive at home after an absence, unpack work-related impedimenta and just get on with it. For one thing there was a deluge of delighted young people demanding our attention, parents to hear all the latest news and gossip from, a nanny to give one of the presents – perfume – to, baby Mark to cuddle, not to mention checking that George, Patrick’s horse and Fudge, Katie’s pony, kept at livery, were well. The two kittens: Pirate, called after her predecessor, and Patch, her brother, had put themselves right at the head of the queue by having to be lifted down from the lower branch of a tree growing over the drive where they had been precariously teetering.
Finally, and of course reluctantly, we started work shortly after breakfast the following day. Patrick hates sitting reading files and I knew he would much rather be parked somewhere in the vicinity of Clement Hamlyn’s house, watching him, but that was not an option until we had more information.
We started with the letters to SOCA from Miss Smythe. The first dated back almost a year. At first, she related in her neat hand, there had been events that although in her opinion were serious they were not the kind of thing with which she would normally bother a national crime organization. Her neighbours’ visitors had been firing an air pistol in their garden, supposedly at a target but also at birds and someone’s cat which had been hit and seriously injured.
Stealth Page 5
