by Graham Ison
She smiled tolerantly. “I was – Frank wasn’t. Let me explain—” Gaffney let her; she was going to anyway. “I was born only a few hundred yards away from the Hodders’ house. When I started work it was at Mount Browne, the police headquarters in Guildford. That’s where I met Frank. When we got married, he stayed on in Guildford for a bit, then we got posted to Leatherhead – terrible place that, all oneway streets. We’ve only been here a couple of years, and now we’re in the wrong place.”
“You don’t like it here?”
“That’s not what I meant. I mean that this house is in the wrong place – typical that is. There’s hardly anybody living here, so this is where they put the house. Everybody lives down near the Hodders – a mile away – that’s where the police house should be.”
“That’s the police force all over,” said Gaffney. “But you were telling me about the Hodders.” He gently nudged her back on course.
“Oh yes,” she said. “That was quite a to-do. They love a bit of gossip round these places. Well they had plenty to get their teeth into then, I can tell you.”
“I understand that Mrs Hodder, or Julia Simpson as she was then, hadn’t lived here very long?”
“No. I suppose it must have been about a year before – before the excitement, that is. She bought a cottage – Raven Cottage it was, only about a quarter of a mile from where she is now. She’d come from abroad somewhere—” She stopped, thinking. “Africa, I think they said.”
“They?”
She laughed. “The village gossips. You just have to keep your ears open round here, Mr Gaffney, and you hear everything. You’d be surprised what I pick up just going shopping. Particularly now I’m the PC’s wife. They all want to tell me things. They know it’ll all get back to Frank, but it’s not the same as telling him direct – that’d be informing, you see. Funny sort of logic, but they are basically country folk.” She chuckled.
Gaffney shook his head and smiled, recognizing how invaluable Police Constable Bates’s wife must be to him. “Do you know where in Africa she came from, Mrs Bates?”
“No I don’t, but that was enough of a mystery for this lot. I think they were prepared to cast her in the role of scarlet woman as soon as she got here. She’d have been about twenty-five then, I suppose. Good-looking girl – and she still is; have you met her?” Gaffney nodded. “Living in a cottage by herself, and in the summer she’d stroll down to the village shop in very short shorts. Well that was too much for the busy-bodies, I can tell you. You could almost see them tutting away, and whenever the poor girl walked into the shop or the post office, they’d all stop talking and ignore her. I suppose they thought she was after their husbands. Well most of them needn’t have worried. You’ve never seen such a dowdy lot. Mind you I’m rather glad my Frank wasn’t here at the time.” She laughed. “I think he might have taken a shine to her.”
“So how did she come to meet Geoffrey Hodder?”
“Well there are two groups down here, Mr Gaffney. There’s the locals, live here and work here, and there’s what we call the townies – they’re the ones who drive off to Guildford in their big cars and catch the train up to London. Most of them seem to have working wives, too, who go with them. Now they’re a different sort – worldly, you might say, and a girl like Julia Simpson wouldn’t worry them – they’d know how to deal with her. There’s quite a few young wives among them—”
“And don’t they ever wear shorts?” asked Tipper.
“Oh, yes,” said Mrs Bates, “but they’re married. That’s all right. I tell you, Mr Tipper, you’ve got to live here to understand the local culture. Still, won’t be for much longer.”
“You’re on the move then?” asked Gaffney.
“Frank’s promotion’s come through. He’s going to Godalming as sergeant next month.” She was obviously proud of her husband. “That’ll be much better; I prefer living in a town.”
“That’s where Hodder’s first wife lives.”
“Oh yes, I know.”
Gaffney was beginning to think that he’d have saved himself a lot of time if he’d come to see the policeman’s wife first. “Did she have a job – go out to work?” asked Tipper.
“Now that was a bit of a mystery. She never let on. Always said she’d worked for one of those charities out in Africa, and let it go at that, as if she still did – sort of hinted that she worked from home, but never actually said precisely what it was she did.”
The telephone rang at that moment, and she stood up to answer it. “I don’t know where Frank can have got to,” she said, glancing at the clock. She listened for a few seconds and then said; “No, you can drive unaccompanied if you’ve passed the test. If you’re stopped just produce your provisional licence and your certificate of passing the test. You’re welcome.” She replaced the handset and sat down again.
“You sound as though you know as much law as your husband,” said Gaffney.
“Should do,” she said. “I think I tested him on just about every page of Moriarty when he was studying for promotion. Now, where were we?”
“You were telling me about Julia Simpson’s job.”
“Oh yes. That’s all I can tell you, I’m afraid. But you asked how she met Geoffrey Hodder. There’s a couple called Harris – used to live in that big house at the end of the village. You’ve been up there, I take it?”
“Not to their house, no. We saw Mrs Hodder – Julia – this morning.”
“Yes,” she said, “You would have done,” demonstrating again her knowledge of police procedure. “Well the Harrises had a party. Had one every so often. Invited us a couple of times, but Frank always likes to stay at arm’s length. Anyway they invited Julia, and that’s where she met the Hodders. The Hodders were townies, of course – well half and half. Elizabeth used to go up to London until she had children. Then she stayed at home to look after them. The Hodders invited Julia to dinner a couple of times. Probably the worst thing Elizabeth Hodder ever did. Then one afternoon Elizabeth got a phone call telling her exactly where to find her husband. And she did.”
“Any idea who might have made that phone call, Mrs Bates?” asked Gaffney.
“Could have been any one of a dozen bitchy wives, but…”
“But what?”
“Well I’ve got a theory – no proof, mind, just a theory, but I reckon it was Julia Simpson who made that call. Just to speed things up, if you take my meaning. Knowing Geoffrey Hodder, he’d never have asked his wife for a divorce so he could marry Julia. But when Elizabeth found them in bed together, it was her who divorced him. And that was that,” she said with finality.
“You said that the Harrises used to live in the village, Mrs Bates.”
“Yes. They moved about a year ago. Dick Harris’s job took him up to Welwyn I think it was. It was too far to travel every day. I think he tried it, but it was too much.”
“You don’t happen to have their new address, do you?”
“Yes, of course.” Mrs Bates walked through into the office, returning moments later with a piece of paper. “There you are, Mr Gaffney. Phone number’s on there, too.”
Mrs Bates’s husband came walking up the path as they were at the front door. He’d already taken note of their car and had identified it as a police vehicle. He looked at the two visitors.
“Detective Chief Superintendent Gaffney, Metropolitan,” said Gaffney.
“Anything I can do to help, sir?” asked Bates.
Gaffney laughed. “I don’t think so, thank you, Mr Bates. Your wife is a mine of information; very useful to you, I should think. And she makes a good cup of tea.”
Bates laughed. “She does that, sir.”
“Oh,” said Gaffney, pausing at the gate. “Congratulations on your promotion.”
*
“That Hodder woman intrigues me,” said Tipper, pulling into the fast lane of the A3.
“Yes,” said Gaffney. “I noticed that you couldn’t take your eyes off her boobs.”
T
ipper laughed. “Yeah, that too. But she didn’t seem to be too cut up by the demise of her beloved Geoffrey, did she?”
“Difficult to tell. Grief affects different people in different ways.”
“Only if there’s grief there to start with.”
“What are you suggesting?”
“Don’t really know, sir, but there was something. D’you think that Hodder had money? A private income, or investments; that sort of thing?”
“We can certainly find out. I’ll get one of the skippers to do some digging.”
“I don’t understand why she married him,” said Tipper. “He wasn’t exactly my idea of a stud – and she’s a good-looking bird. What was the attraction?”
“Perhaps he was a good performer,” said Gaffney, but looked as though he didn’t really believe it.
“Yeah, maybe. It’s not the sort of question we can ask Mrs Hodder though, is it? Either Mrs Hodder.
Chapter Ten
The outside of the block of flats where Selby lived in Fulham, but which he preferred to call Chelsea, was ordinary. Gaffney knew to the last penny how much Selby earned, at least from his employment as an intelligence officer with MI5; but given that he was unmarried and had budgeted his resources carefully, the decor and the furnishings were not excessive, although the Bang & Olufsen audio equipment would have set him back a few pounds. There was always the possibility that he had a private income – a legitimate one, that is – as a few of these fellows seemed to have. Some, too, were connected with the aristocracy; MI5 seemed to think it a form of water-tight vetting to recruit the kinsmen of the titled, although Gaffney could think of a few peers who had gone astray in their lives.
“We are here,” said Gaffney, having introduced himself and Tipper, “in connection with the death of Geoffrey Hodder.”
Selby did not react. “Rather strange to conduct your enquiries at my home rather than in the office, isn’t it?” he asked. His face wore a supercilious sneer, but Gaffney was to learn that it was a natural and constant expression.
“I conduct my enquiries where and when I see fit, Mr Selby,” said Gaffney curtly. “A suspicious death is not something to be treated lightly.”
“Suspicious? I thought he committed suicide.”
“What makes you think that?”
“Well he wasn’t murdered, was he? And it wasn’t an accident.”
“You seem very sure, Mr Selby. If we were as sure as you are, we wouldn’t be bothering to investigate his death.”
“Well it might have been something to do with his work,” said Selby. “But of course,” he added airily, “You will appreciate that I can’t discuss that.” He waved a dismissive hand.
“Oh, why’s that?” Gaffney realized that he would have to keep himself on a very tight rein; Selby was a man he could easily take a dislike to.
“I’m afraid my profession is covered by the Official Secrets Act. You should know that. It’s a question of need to know.”
“My job’s covered by the same rules,” said Gaffney quietly. “But if it makes you feel any better, read this.” Gaffney handed him the DG’s letter of authority, the same letter he had shown Hodder as a preamble to that interview.
Selby read the letter, then handed it back without saying anything. He looked uncomfortable, but Gaffney could not decide at that stage whether it was because he had something to hide, or was merely the natural reticence of the MI5 officer, many of whom wouldn’t even tell you the color of their toilet rolls for fear of breaching some security regulation.
“I know, of course,” said Gaffney, putting the letter to one side, “That Hodder led the team responsible for the Nikitin, Gesschner and Dickson cases, and that in all three cases the hostile contact evaded capture; in the Dickson case almost at the point when he was to be arrested. I’m also aware, Mr Selby, that you were a member of that team, and were therefore concerned in those investigations – from the MI5 point of view.”
“From every point of view,” said Selby sarcastically. He was one of the very few within the Security Service who resented their having to enlist the aid of the police to effect an arrest.
Gaffney decided that a little taunt would not go amiss, just to remind this objectionable young man that he could get away with so much and no more. “Where were you recruited for the Security Service?” he asked. He knew the answer, but wanted Selby to tell him.
“Cambridge University.”
Gaffney nodded slowly, the trace of a wry smile on his face. “Oh, I see,” he said.
Selby stared malevolently at Gaffney. It was the sort of snide jibe that he had had to contend with from his colleagues ever since joining MI5. The knowing smile, the whispered aside, the sudden burst of laughter and the conversations that stopped when he entered an office, from among those who knew all about the Apostles, that pre-war gang of traitors and homosexuals. Fifty years or more ago, and still Selby had to contend with that legacy, the principle that because he was unmarried and had been to Cambridge, he must be tarred with the same brush. His effete appearance didn’t help, the half-bored, half-sneering expression, the upper-class drawl that he had so carefully nurtured as a youth, and which had now become so much a part of his character that it wouldn’t go away.
The background music stopped. It was only then that Gaffney noticed it; noticed it because it had stopped. Slowly, Selby rose from his armchair, carefully uncoiling himself as though to move quickly might break something. He walked across to the stereo unit, gently removed the compact disc from the little drawer, and put it into its plastic box.
“You’re a music lover?” asked Gaffney.
Selby lifted his head slightly. “Not all music,” he said condescendingly. “That was Monteverdi.”
“Coronation of Poppaea, wasn’t it?” asked Tipper.
Selby’s eyes widened as though he hadn’t heard the comment properly, or that he had imagined it. “Yes,” he said.
“Thought so,” said Tipper. “I prefer his madrigals and motets, personally.” He said it casually as though he was giving an opinion on a heavy metal pop group.
Gaffney shot a sideways glance at his chief inspector, nearly as surprised as Selby had been. But Gaffney knew policemen better, knew the extraordinary flashes of knowledge that the most unlikely of his colleagues displayed from time to time.
Selby paused, uncertain quite what to do next, and his hands moved aimlessly in front of his body as though operating some invisible diabolo. Then he switched off the stereo and sat down again.
“You’re not married.” It was a statement, not a question.
“No,” said Selby flatly. “Is that important?” He spoke defensively, about to make an excuse, then thought better of it.
“Might be.”
“I don’t see how.”
“No, you probably don’t,” said Gaffney, a bite in his voice. Again, he cautioned himself not to lose his temper with this self-cultured aesthete, whose languorous sprawling pose clearly radiated disdain for the two policemen, and sent a signal which said that he was much too clever to be caught out by such people.
“How much did you know about the man known as Dickson?” It was Tipper who spoke, his harsh cockney voice cutting through the comfortable cocoon in which Selby existed, and contrasting sharply with his last comment about Monteverdi.
It clearly jarred him and he sat up slightly. “Er – only what we were told by Geoffrey.”
“Geoffrey?” Tipper knew, but he didn’t like untidiness. Didn’t like the snooty Christian-name world in which Selby operated either.
“Geoffrey Hodder – the team leader.”
“The team leader who was responsible for overseeing this job – and the two before it that went wrong?” It was a ploy of Tipper’s. He knew fine that Gaffney had said all that, but was giving the impression now that he hadn’t heard, or that he wasn’t very bright. In juxtaposition to his comments about Monteverdi, it left Selby wondering what sort of individual he was. And that in Tipper’s book was ver
y useful.
Selby nodded miserably, and Gaffney smiled inwardly. He was glad he’d picked Tipper for this job – he was much too nasty for the Selbys of this world. He glanced at Selby again; he looked as though he was going to cry.
“And what did Hodder tell you?”
“Just that Armitage – Major Armitage – was believed to be passing material from the MOD to a hostile agent.”
“Nationality? Did he mention nationality?”
“No – not in as many words. We all assumed that he was IC – er, Iron Curtain,” he added nervously. He wasn’t sure about Tipper. He looked a bit uncouth, and yet he wasn’t, well not wholly; but above all else, Tipper frightened him. He was unorthodox; not the sort of Special Branch officer he normally had dealings with. And he knew about Special Branch; of course he knew about them. That frightened him too. These were the men who went in where MI5 dare not, secure in the knowledge that they had the full force of the law behind them. There was clearly something not quite right in all this. They’d come here talking about poor Geoffrey’s death, and suddenly they were talking about Nikitin, Gesschner and Dickson.
Abruptly, it came to him; it was a witch-hunt. They were out for blood. They suspected a mole – a traitor. Why else would they deploy a chief superintendent, aided by this nasty chief inspector? He wondered if he should ask for his solicitor, dismissed it immediately; that would make him suspect, tell them that he was panicking inwardly. There was no privilege attached to working for MI5 when the chips were down – not these days. He remembered what had happened to Bettaney, and the shock waves that that had sent through the office. The disbelief; and the comment of one long-service officer who had boasted quite openly that it wouldn’t have happened in the old days, then added, with a glance at Selby, that the service seemed to be recruiting a different breed these days. Selby had taken it personally, reacted too quickly, and said, “Not like Burgess, Maclean and Philby, you mean?” It had been a mistake. Openly smirking, someone had pointed out that admittedly they were Cambridge men, but had been MI6 not MI5.
