by Graham Ison
Logan nodded. “I can see you’re clutching at straws, John, and that’s not a criticism; it’s a bloody tough job. Still, you can only do your best.”
Gaffney laughed. “Yes. An early arrest is expected, as they say – but not by me.”
“Well get your warrants, John, and see if they bring anything; and if you want them for anyone else, let me know,” said the DAC, cutting the end of a cigar.
*
To save time, Gaffney took the applications across to Queen Anne’s Gate himself, having first ascertained that the Home Secretary was there; it had to be his signature and no one else’s.
“If you care to wait, Mr Gaffney,” said the tall youthful-looking assistant secretary, “I’ll see if the Secretary of State will sign them now. There is, I gather, some urgency?”
“Yes,” said Gaffney.
A few moments later, the assistant secretary reappeared. “The Secretary of State would like a few words with you,” he said.
Gaffney stood up. “Something wrong?”
“No, I don’t think so.” The civil servant smiled. “Follow me.”
The Home Secretary smiled benignly as he stood up. “Mr Gaffney,” he said, “I thought I’d take the opportunity of getting you to brief me on your progress so far, as you were here. You do have the time, do you?”
“Indeed, sir, yes.”
“Good, good. It’ll take them a few moments to prepare the warrants anyway. Come and sit down.” The Home Secretary walked round his huge desk and indicated an armchair. “Coffee – would you like coffee?”
“Thank you, sir, yes.” Gaffney lowered himself into the deep chair while the minister gave instructions to his secretary on the intercom.
“You will be aware that I instructed the Director-General to seek your assistance in this matter—” Gaffney nodded. “—but I understand that there has been an unexpected turn of events…”
“Yes,” said Gaffney. “The death of Hodder. There is no doubt that it was suicide. What is not clear at this stage is the reason. The most obvious one is guilty conscience, I suppose—”
“Or a realization that he held the responsibility, even though he was not instrumental in its cause, perhaps?”
Gaffney looked doubtful. “I think that is taking vicarious responsibility to extremes, sir. He could just have resigned.”
The Home Secretary smiled a tight smile. “Yes, I know all about vicarious responsibility,” he said. “Maybe you’re right. However, you want warrants for the five remaining members of the late Geoffrey Hodder’s team?”
“Yes, sir. I’ve interviewed each of them, and they have little to say.”
“You mean they’re deliberately withholding information?”
“I don’t know – perhaps. On the other hand they may know nothing. The one thing that does come through is that Hodder appears to have told them very little about the latest operation. It’s almost as if he feared a leak – suspected one of them maybe, but didn’t know which one.”
The secretary came in, carrying a tray of coffee, and beneath her arm, a folder. Awkwardly, she put down the tray, and handed the folder to the Home Secretary. “You’re waiting for these, I understand, Home Secretary.”
The Home Secretary nodded. “Thank you, yes. Just put them on the desk, will you?” He gestured to Gaffney to help himself to coffee, as the door closed behind the secretary.
“Well,” continued the minister, “I hope that the warrants will give you a break.”
“So do I, sir. Incidentally, I have not released the fact that Hodder committed suicide. I’m letting everyone think that he might have been murdered. It may just provoke them into saying something that they wouldn’t otherwise have done.”
“I see.” The Home Secretary looked blandly towards the big windows. “I think that that is something I ought not to know.” He smiled. “I’m rather surprised that I’ve not had a question about it yet. No doubt it will come. Still, that’s not your problem, Mr Gaffney, is it?”
“Fortunately no, sir.”
“It needn’t worry you, either. I seem to spend half my working day protecting the Metropolitan Police.” He put down his cup and saucer, and walked across to his desk. Taking out a gold fountain pen, he signed the warrants.
*
“Miss Farrell, you said, when I last saw you, that your abortive affair with Geoffrey Hodder was over when you met him and his wife in Harrods one Saturday morning.”
She gazed levelly at Gaffney, her eyes containing a trace of hostility. “Did I?”
“Yes, you did. You said how embarrassing it had been, and then went on to recount the conversation – a rather trivial one, I recall – that you had had with them.”
“Yes, I remember.”
“But, Miss Farrell, I have a witness who claims to have seen you going to the theater with him a week or two later.” Gaffney sat back and waited to see what reaction that would bring.
She took some time in lighting a cigarette, then dropped her lighter into her handbag before replying. “What of it?”
“Is it true?”
“Yes, but why do you talk of a witness? You make it sound as though I’ve committed a crime.”
“Miss Farrell,” said Gaffney patiently. “I am investigating the death of Geoffrey Hodder. I am also looking into the reasons why three recent cases in which he was involved appear to have gone wrong. At the moment, I am getting nowhere. Consequently, anything that might assist me has to be investigated.”
“And you think that my having an affair with Geoffrey might be relevant?”
“I don’t know, but I am always a little suspicious when I find that people are not telling me the truth. I am not concerned with morals; it doesn’t matter to me whether you had an affair with your boss or not, but if you’re hiding something I want to know why.”
Suddenly she looked forlorn and vulnerable and tears started to well up in her brown eyes. “I’m sorry,” she said, searching her handbag for a tissue. “Yes, it’s true.” She dabbed her eyes. “It’s something I’m not proud of.” She sniffed and took a deep breath. “I’m thirty-two and unmarried. And suddenly Geoffrey wanted me. It was the first time in my life that anyone had ever wanted me. Of course I had an affair with him.”
“So you didn’t throw him out of your flat when you said you did?”
“Oh yes I did. But then I met his wife, on that Saturday, and I thought to myself, well, if he prefers me to her, I must have something.”
“So what happened next?”
“I apologized to him. I know that sounds a silly thing to have done, because it wasn’t my fault; I didn’t have anything to apologize for, but Geoffrey was the sort of man who somehow had that effect on people. And I knew it at the time, but I just couldn’t help myself.” She put away her tissue. “I suppose you think I’m very stupid.” Gaffney did, but he didn’t say so. “Geoffrey was in his office and I just went in and said that I was sorry about having been so short with him and that I didn’t really mean it.”
“And what did he say?”
“He just smiled and said it was his fault and he shouldn’t have been so blunt. Then he suggested a reconciliation dinner that evening. Afterwards we went to my flat…”
“And you made love?”
She looked down at the floor. “Yes,” She spoke in a barely audible whisper. She looked up, and Gaffney saw that the tears had started to run down her face again. “I loved him,” she said. “He made me feel alive. He encouraged me to dress more fashionably.” She half smiled at the memory. “Dowdy old me.”
“And how long did this go on?”
She waited some time before answering. “Until he died,” she said finally.
“Did he ever mention marriage?”
“Yes, but only in a negative way. He said it was out of the question. He couldn’t leave his wife. He’d done it before and if he did it again, the service might consider him to be unreliable.”
“And you believed him?” To Gaffney, this seemed
the ploy of a typical male wanting the best of both worlds.
“I made myself believe it. If I couldn’t have marriage, my relationship with Geoffrey was the next best thing.”
“So the women who rang up, but never left a name, that was all untrue was it?”
“There were other women; I’m sure of that.”
“So you mean that he wasn’t only deceiving his wife, but you too?”
“Yes, but I didn’t mind. I couldn’t very well, could I?” She smiled defensively. “I’m not a raving beauty, and that was a marvelous interlude. But now it’s over,” she said pensively, “and I’m destined to become an old maid.”
Gaffney thought that that was probably true, and felt like telling her to go out and buy something sexy to wear, leave a button undone on her blouse and use some lipstick, but it was none of his business; he was trying to find if there was a leak. And that was all.
*
“I don’t know about her,” said Tipper when they got back to the Yard.
“What don’t you know about her?” asked Gaffney.
“The Director-General didn’t mention Hodder’s secretary; that was your idea to interview her, sir. The point about her is that she was in the right place to know just about everything that was going on. Hodder took great care not to tell members of his team about the operation, but dowdy Miss Farrell, with her sympathy-evoking tears, she knew the bloody lot. That’s the trouble with secretaries – they’re invisible; no one thinks of them. The DG didn’t mention her, nor Hodder or Carfax or any of the team.”
“What are you suggesting, Harry?”
“Well it’s only a theory, but theories are all we seem to have at the moment. Supposing she’s having it off with someone else—”
“Here we go,” murmured Gaffney.
“No seriously, guv’nor. It’s happened before. Firstly, she was reluctant to tell us that she’d been having it off with Hodder.”
“That’s understandable, I suppose.”
“It is if she’s also shacking up with someone from say, the Russian Embassy at the same time, or another Dickson-like character, and feeding him all the information she’s picking up in the office.”
“We can go on like this forever,” said Gaffney.
“And don’t forget what Julia Hodder said about her being done up to the nines when she saw her out with her old man,” continued Tipper, refusing to be dissuaded from his idea. “Perfect. Poor mouse-like, dowdy Miss Farrell in the office, but all tarted up when she’s out with her fancy man.”
“Okay, Harry,” said Gaffney wearily. “Just suppose for a moment that you’re right; how are you going to prove it?”
“Surveillance?”
“Maybe, but even if you’re right, she’s going to be very careful now. She knows, as does everyone else, that the police are taking an interest in the missing three contacts. No one but a fool would carry on; they’re going to wait until the heat’s off. So I don’t think that surveillance is the answer. On the other hand…”
“On the other hand what?”
“We could let Claire Wentworth have a talk to her, woman to woman. She might get a cough out of her.”
Tipper looked doubtful; he had no great faith in women detectives. “Worth a try, I suppose,” he said reluctantly. “But if she doesn’t get anything, it’ll put our Miss Farrell on the alert, and then we’ll never get anything. Perhaps we ought to have a few more words with the five on the team. See what they knew about her. After all, they must all know Hodder’s secretary.” He chuckled. “Some might know her better than others.”
*
It was about ten days before the next interesting irregularity occurred. In addition to all the other duties he had taken on or had put upon him, Harry Tipper was also responsible for examining the transcripts of the interceptions which were now in place on the mail and the telephones of the five remaining members of Geoffrey Hodder’s team.
He wandered into Gaffney’s office, reading a file. “I think we’ve got something here, sir.”
“’Bout time we got something, Harry. What is it?”
“This bloke Hughes – Patrick Hughes. Makes regular calls to a number in Hounslow. Goes out to a Miss Barbara Rigby, who lives at—” He thumbed through the sheaf of papers in his hand. “Got it: lives at 27 Paradise Court, Essex Road, Hounslow.”
“And?”
“And is a twenty-five year old air stewardess based on Heathrow. And she’s single!” An evil smile appeared on Tipper’s face as he sat down in one of Gaffney’s easy chairs. “Reading between the lines, he would appear to pay her a visit about twice a week, but rings her even more often than that. He also rings his wife from the office to explain that he’s going to be detained on the job.”
“Fine turn of phrase this fellow’s got,” said Gaffney.
Tipper grinned again. “She works regular hours because she’s on short-haul hops.”
“Sounds like it. But I’ll bet The Office – as they’re so fond of calling it – doesn’t know anything about that.”
“It’s a bit like juries on buggery cases,” said Tipper, thoughtfully. “One half don’t believe it – the other half are doing it.”
“Yes, well you’d know about things like that, wouldn’t you, Harry?”
“Are you going to put it to him, guv’nor?”
Gaffney shook his head. “Not until we know a bit more about her. Speak to our blokes at the airport – see if they’ve got a contact in the airline she works for. Then confirm that he’s having it off with this bird—” Tipper was about to say something, but Gaffney forestalled him. “You know what I mean, Harry – no need to peer through the bedroom window.”
“Bedroom,” murmured Tipper. “How old-fashioned.”
“Then,” continued Gaffney, ignoring Tipper’s asides, “we’ll go and see the lady. After all, it might be perfectly innocent.” Tipper looked sceptical. “The girl might be his sister, living under an assumed name,” added Gaffney with a grin.
“Well if the conversations are anything to go by, we can do him for incest,” said Tipper.
Gaffney shook his head. “What an awful mind you’ve got, Harry. There could be something in it, but I suspect not. The sooner we get that out of the way the better.”
“Leave it to me, guv’nor,” said Tipper, “I’ll get someone to do it.”
*
The surveillance confirmed it. On at least two occasions in a week, Patrick Hughes made the journey to Hounslow, letting himself into Barbara Rigby’s flat with his own key. Each time, he stayed for about an hour, and then went straight home.
Gaffney decided that he would interview the girl, and left a member of the surveillance team in position so that he could be certain that she was at home when he and Tipper called. That, he thought, would be better than telephoning her to make an appointment, and thus alerting her to the fact that the police were taking an interest in her.
They parked a short distance from Paradise Court and walked the rest of the way, Gaffney pausing only to dismiss the officer who had been keeping the flat under observation; he was fairly sure that no more fruitful information would be forthcoming from his continued presence.
The girl who answered the door was of medium height and slightly overweight in an attractive sort of way; chubby, but nicely rounded, as though she were constantly wrestling with the latest diet – and losing. But as Tipper later observed, she bulged in all the right places.
“Miss Barbara Rigby?”
She looked apprehensively at the two tall men. “Yes.”
“We’re police officers, Miss Rigby.” Gaffney produced his warrant card and held it up for her inspection. She glanced at it cursorily, but made no move to open the door wider. “I wonder if we may come in?”
She still looked a little doubtful, but stepped back and opened the door. “I’m afraid the flat’s in a bit of mess,” she said, “but I’ve only just got back from Venice.”
Thanks to a helpful security officer at t
he airline she worked for, Gaffney knew that. “Holiday?” he asked innocently.
“Oh no.” she shook her head. “It wasn’t a holiday. I work for an airline. I’m a stewardess.” She collected up some newspapers and magazines that were scattered about on the chairs and put them on top of a pile of records on a small table near the window. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I never seem to get time to tidy up.” She flicked a lock of blonde hair out of her eyes, and rather breathlessly invited them to sit down. “Is it about the car?”
“The car?”
“Yes. Whenever I get mixed up with the police, it always seems to be something to do with my car.” She wrinkled her nose. “I’m afraid I’m forever getting parking tickets.” She looked coy. “And I’ve been stopped twice for speeding. I never seem to leave enough time to get to work, and working for an airline they tend to go without you if you’re not there.”
“No, Miss Rigby,” said Gaffney, “it’s not about your car. I understand that Mr Patrick Hughes is a friend of yours?”
She looked alarmed. “What’s happened? Is he all right?”
Gaffney smiled. “As far as I know, yes.”
“Oh,” she said, “You quite worried me for a moment. I thought he’d had an accident or something.” She fanned her face with her hand and laughed. “He’s more than a friend – he’s my fiance.”
“Oh, I see.” It was only with difficulty that Gaffney kept his astonishment from showing.
She glanced briefly at Tipper and then looked at Gaffney again. “Is that so strange? A lot of people get married, you know.” She laughed demurely.
“And when are you getting married?”
“We haven’t fixed a date yet, but it won’t be long. But why are you asking these questions?”
Gaffney hesitated. “Mr Hughes is in what is called sensitive employment, Miss Rigby—”
“Oh, the civil service, you mean?”
“—and he has to be positively vetted.”
“Sounds like something you have done to a cat,” she said. Then she giggled. “Oh, I do hope not,” she added.
