“So, what can I do for you, Don?”
“I need a trace on three numbers in the Cambridge area.”
“Authorized?” asked the deputy chief constable.
“No, but it might well lead to an arrest on your patch,” said Donald.
“That, and the fact that it’s you who’s asking, is good enough for me.”
Donald read out the three numbers, and Leeke asked him to hang on for a moment. While we waited, Donald told me, “All they have to do is press a few buttons in the control room, and the numbers will appear on a screen in front of him. Things have changed since I first joined the force. In those days we had to let our legs do the walking.”
The deputy chief constable’s voice came back on the line. “Right, the first number’s come up; 640737 is a Wing Commander Danvers-Smith. He’s the only person registered as living in the house.” He read out an address in Great Shelford, which he explained was just to the south of Cambridge. Jenny wrote the details down.
“Number 767 is a Professor and Mrs. Balcescu, also living in Great Shelford, and 787 is Dame Julia Renaud, the opera singer. She lives in Grantchester. We know her quite well. She’s hardly ever at home, because of her concert commitments all over the world. Her house has been burgled three times in the last year, always when she was abroad.”
“Thank you,” said Donald. “You’ve been most helpful.”
“Anything you want to tell me?” asked the deputy chief constable, sounding hopeful.
“Not at the moment,” replied Donald. “But as soon as I’ve finished my investigation, I promise you’ll be the first person to be informed.”
“Fair enough,” came back the reply, and the line went dead.
“Right,” Donald said, turning his attention back to us. “We leave for Cambridge in a couple of hours. That will give us enough time to pack, and for Jenny to book us into a hotel near the city center. We’ll meet back here at”—he checked his watch—“six o’clock.” He walked out of the room without uttering another word. I remember thinking that my father would have got along well with him.
Just over two hours later, Jenny was driving us at a steady sixty-nine miles per hour down the Al.
“Now the boring part of detective work begins,” said Donald. “Intense research, followed by hours of surveillance. I think we can safely ignore Dame Julia. Jenny, you get to work on the wing commander. I want details of his career from the day he left school to the day he retired. First thing tomorrow you can begin by contacting RAF College Cranwell, and asking for details of his service record. I’ll take the professor, and make a start in the university library.”
“What do I do?” I asked.
“For the time being, Mr. Cooper, you keep yourself well out of sight. It’s just possible that the wing commander or the professor might lead us to Alexander, so we don’t need you trampling over any suspects and frightening them off.”
I reluctantly agreed.
Later that night I settled into a suite at the Garden House Hotel—a more refined sort of prison—but despite feather pillows and a comfortable mattress, I was quite unable to sleep. I rose early the next morning and spent most of the day watching endless updates on Sky News, episodes of various Australian soaps, and a “Film of the Week” every two hours. But my mind was continually switching between RAF Cranwell and the university library.
When we met in Donald’s room that evening, he and Jenny confirmed that their initial research suggested that both men were who they purported to be.
“I was sure one of them would turn out to be Jeremy,” I said, unable to hide my disappointment.
“It would be nice if it was always that easy, Mr. Cooper,” said Donald. “But it doesn’t mean that one of them won’t lead us to Jeremy.” He turned to Jenny. “First, let’s go over what you found out about the wing commander.”
“Wing Commander Danvers-Smith, DFC, graduated from Cranwell in 1938, served with Number Two Squadron at Binbrook in Lincolnshire during the Second World War, and flew several missions over Germany and occupied France. He was awarded the DFC for gallantry in 1943. He was grounded in 1958 and became an instructor at RAF Cottesmore in Gloucestershire. His final posting was as deputy commanding officer at RAF Locking in Somerset. He retired in 1977, when he and his wife moved back to Great Shelford, where he had grown up.”
“Why’s he living on his own now?” asked Donald.
“Wife died three years ago. He has two children, Sam and Pamela, both married, but neither living in the area. They visit him occasionally.”
I wanted to ask Jenny how she had been able to find out so much information about the wing commander in such a short time, but said nothing, as I was more interested in hearing what the Don had discovered about Professor Balcescu.
Donald picked up a pile of notes that had been lying on the floor by his feet. “So, let me tell you the results of my research into a very distinguished professor,” he began. “Professor Balcescu escaped from Romania in 1989, after Ceauescu had had him placed under house arrest. He was smuggled out of the country by a group of dissident students, via Bulgaria and then on into Greece. His escape was well documented in the newspapers at the time. He applied for asylum in England, and was offered a teaching post at Gonville and Caius College, Cambridge, and three years later the chair of Eastern European Studies. He advises the government on Romanian matters, and has written a scholarly book on the subject. Last year he was awarded a CBE in the Queen’s Birthday Honours.”
“How could either of these men possibly know Rosemary?” I asked. “Williams must have made a mistake when he wrote down the number.”
“Williams doesn’t make mistakes, Mr. Cooper,” said the Don. “Otherwise I wouldn’t have employed him. Your wife dialed one of those numbers, and we’re just going to have to find out which one. This time we’ll need your assistance.”
I mumbled an apology but remained unconvinced.
Hackett nodded curtly, and turned back to Jenny. “How long will it take us to get to the wing commander’s home?”
“About fifteen minutes, sir. He lives in a cottage in Great Shelford, just south of Cambridge.”
“Right, we’ll start with him. I’ll see you both in the lobby at five o’clock tomorrow morning.”
I slept fitfully again that night, now convinced that we were embarked on a wild-goose chase. But at least I was going to be allowed to join them the following day, instead of being confined to my room and yet more Australian soaps.
I didn’t need my 4:30 alarm call—I was already showering when the phone went. A few minutes after five, the three of us walked out of the hotel, trying not to look as if we were hoping to leave without paying our bill. It was a chilly morning, and I shivered as I climbed into the back of the car.
Jenny drove us out of the city and onto the London road. After a mile or so she turned left and took us into a charming little village with neat, well-kept houses on either side of the road. We passed a garden center on the left and drove another half mile, then Jenny suddenly swung the car round and reversed into a rest area. She switched off the engine and pointed to a small house with an RAF-blue door. “That’s where he lives,” she said. “Number forty-seven.” Donald focused a tiny pair of binoculars on the house.
Some early-morning risers were already leaving their homes, cars heading toward the station for the first commuter train to London. The paperboy turned out to be an old lady who pushed her heavily laden bicycle slowly around the village, dropping off her deliveries. The milkman was next, clattering along in his electric van—two pints here, a pint there, the occasional half-dozen eggs or container of orange juice left on front doorsteps. Lights began to flick on all over the village. “The wing commander has had one pint of redtop milk and a copy of The Daily Telegraph delivered to his front door,” said Donald.
People had emerged from the houses on either side of Number 47 before a light appeared in an upstairs room of the wing commander’s home. Once that light had be
en switched on, Donald sat bolt upright, his eyes never leaving the house.
I became bored, and dozed off in the back at some point. When I woke up, I hoped we might at least be allowed a break for breakfast, but such mundane considerations didn’t seem to worry the two professionals in the front. They continued to concentrate on any movement that took place around Number 47, and hardly exchanged a word.
At 10:19 a thin, elderly man, dressed in a Harris Tweed jacket and gray flannels, emerged from Number 47 and marched briskly down the path. All I could see at that distance was a huge, bushy white mustache. It looked almost as if his whole body had been designed around it. Donald kept the glasses trained on him.
“Ever seen him before?” he asked, passing the binoculars back to me.
I focused the glasses on the wing commander and studied him carefully. “Never,” I said as he came to a halt by the side of a battered old Austin Allegro. “How could anyone forget that mustache?”
“It certainly wasn’t grown last week,” said Donald, as Danvers-Smith eased his car out onto the main road.
Jenny cursed. “I thought that if he used his car, the odds would be on him heading into Cambridge.” She deftly performed a three-point turn and accelerated quickly after the wing commander. Within a few minutes she was only a couple of cars behind him.
Danvers-Smith was not proving to be the sort of fellow who habitually broke the speed limit. “His days as a test pilot are obviously long behind him,” Donald said, as we trailed the Allegro at a safe distance into the next village. About half a mile later he pulled into a petrol station.
“Stay with him,” said Donald. Jenny followed the Allegro into the forecourt and came to a halt at the pump directly behind Danvers-Smith.
“Keep your head down, Mr. Cooper,” said the Don, opening his door. “We don’t want him seeing you.”
“What are you going to do?” I asked, peering between the front seats.
“Risk an old con’s trick,” Donald replied.
He stepped out of the front seat, walked around to the back of the car, and unscrewed the gas cap just as the wing commander slipped the nozzle of a gas pump into the tank of his Allegro. Donald began slowly topping up our already full tank, then suddenly turned to face the old man.
“Wing Commander Danvers-Smith?” he asked in a plummy voice.
The wing commander looked up immediately, and a puzzled expression came over his weather-beaten face.
“Baker, sir,” said Donald. “Flight Lieutenant Baker. You lectured me at RAF Locking. Vulcans, if I remember.”
“Bloody good memory, Baker. Good show,” said Danvers-Smith. “Delighted to see you, old chap,” he said, taking the nozzle out of his car and replacing it in the pump. “What are you up to nowadays?”
Jenny stifled a laugh.
“Work for BA, sir. Grounded after I failed my eye test. Bloody desk job, I’m afraid, but it was the only offer I got.”
“Bad luck, old chap,” said the wing commander, as they headed off toward the pay booth, and out of earshot.
When they came back a few minutes later, they were chattering away like old chums, and the wing commander actually had his arm round Donald’s shoulder.
When they reached his car they shook hands, and I heard Donald say “Goodbye, sir,” before Danvers-Smith climbed into his Allegro. The old airman pulled out of the forecourt and headed back toward his home. Donald got in next to Jenny and pulled the passenger door closed.
“I’m afraid he won’t lead us to Alexander,” the Don said with a sigh. “Danvers-Smith is the genuine article—misses his wife, doesn’t see his children enough, and feels a bit lonely. Even asked if I’d like to drop in for a bite of lunch.”
“Why didn’t you accept?” I asked.
Donald paused. “I would have, but when I mentioned that I was from Leeds, he told me he’d only been there once in his life, to watch a test match. No, that man has never heard of Rosemary Cooper or Jeremy Alexander—I’d bet my pension on it. So, now it’s the turn of the professor. Let’s head back toward Cambridge, Jenny. And drive slowly. I don’t want to catch up with the wing commander, or we’ll all end up having to join him for lunch.”
Jenny swung the car across the road and into the far lane, then headed back toward the city. After a couple of miles Donald told her to pull into the side of the road just past a sign announcing the Shelford Rugby Club.
“The professor and his wife live behind that hedge,” Donald said, pointing across the road. “Settle back, Mr. Cooper. This might take some time.”
At 12:30 Jenny went off to get some fish and chips from the village. I devoured them hungrily. By 3:00 I was bored stiff again, and was beginning to wonder just how long Donald would hang around before we were allowed to return to the hotel. I remembered Happy Days would be on at 6:30.
“We’ll sit here all night, if necessary,” Donald said, as if he were reading my thoughts. “Forty-nine hours is my record without sleep. What’s yours, Jenny?” he asked, never taking his eyes off the house.
“Thirty-one, sir,” she replied.
“Then this may be your chance to break that record,” he said. A moment later, a woman in a white BMW nosed out of the driveway leading to the house and stopped at the edge of the sidewalk. She paused, looked both ways, then turned across the road and swung right, in the direction of Cambridge. As she passed us, I caught a glimpse of a blond with a pretty face.
“I’ve seen her before,” I blurted out.
“Follow her, Jenny,” Donald said sharply. “But keep your distance.” He turned around to face me.
“Where have you seen her?” he asked, passing over the binoculars.
“I can’t remember,” I said, trying to focus on the back of a mop of fair, curly hair.
“Think, man. Think. It’s our best chance yet,” said Donald, trying not to sound as if he was cross-examining an old jailbird.
I knew I had come across that face somewhere, though I felt certain we had never met. I had to rack my brains, because it was at least five years since I had seen any woman I recognized, let alone one that striking. But my mind remained blank.
“Keep on thinking,” said the Don, “while I try to find out something a little more simple. And Jenny—don’t get too close to her. Never forget she’s got a rearview mirror. Mr. Cooper may not remember her, but she may remember him.”
Donald picked up the car phone and jabbed in ten numbers. “Let’s pray he doesn’t realize I’ve retired,” he mumbled.
“DVLA Swansea. How can I help you?”
“Sergeant Crann, please,” said Donald.
“I’ll put you through.”
“Dave Crann.”
“Donald Hackett.”
“Good afternoon, Chief Superintendent. How can I help you?”
“White BMW—K273 SCE,” said Donald, staring at the car in front of him.
“Hold on please, sir, I won’t be a moment.”
Donald kept his eye fixed on the BMW while he waited. It was about thirty yards ahead of us, and heading toward a green light. Jenny accelerated to make sure she wouldn’t get trapped if the lights changed, and as she shot through an amber light, Sergeant Crann came back on the line.
“We’ve identified the car, sir,” he said. “Registered owner Mrs. Susan Balcescu, the Kendalls, High Street, Great Shelford, Cambridge. One endorsement for speeding in a built-up area, 1991, a thirty-pound fine. Otherwise nothing known.”
“Thank you, Sergeant. That’s most helpful.”
“My pleasure, sir.”
“Why should Rosemary want to contact the Balcescus?” Donald said as he clipped the phone back into place. “And is she contacting just one of them, or both?” Neither of us attempted to answer.
“I think it’s time to let her go,” he said a moment later. “I need to check out several more leads before we risk coming face to face with either of them. Let’s head back to the hotel and consider our next move.”
“I know it’s onl
y a coincidence,” I ventured, “but when I knew him, Jeremy had a white BMW.”
“F173 BZK,” said Jenny. “I remember it from the file.” Donald swung around. “Some people can’t give up smoking, you know, others drinking. But with some, it’s a particular make of car,” he said. “Although a lot of people must drive white BMWs,” he muttered almost to himself.
Once we were back in Donald’s room, he began checking through the file he had put together on Professor Balcescu. The Times report of his escape from Romania, he told us, was the most detailed.
Professor Balcescu first came to prominence while still a student at the University of Bucharest, where he called for the overthrow of the elected government. The authorities seemed relieved when he was offered a place at Oxford, and must have hoped that they had seen the last of him. But he returned to Bucharest University three years later, taking up the position of tutor in politics. The following year he led a student revolt in support of Nicolae Ceauescu, and after he became president, Balcescu was rewarded with a cabinet post, as Minister of Education. But he soon became disillusioned with the Ceauescu regime, and within eighteen months he had resigned and returned to the university as a humble tutor. Three years later he was offered the Chair of Politics and Economics.
Professor Balcescu’s growing disillusionment with the government finally turned to anger, and in 1986 he began writing a series of pamphlets denouncing Ceauescu and his puppet regime. A few weeks after a particularly vitriolic attack on the establishment, he was dismissed from his post at the university, and later placed under house arrest. A group of Oxford historians wrote a letter of protest to The Times but nothing more was heard of the great scholar for several years. Then, late in 1989, he was smuggled out of Romania by a group of students, finally reaching Britain via Bulgaria and Greece.
Cambridge won the battle of the universities to tempt him with a teaching job, and he became a fellow of Gonville and Caius in September 1990. In November 1991, after the retirement of Sir Halford McKay, Balcescu took over the Chair of Eastern European Studies.
Collected Short Stories Page 50
