The Angel of Whitehall

by Lewis Hastings

  “I do. But you told me you have been to the mortuary, there’s the start. How many West African nationals turn up at mortuaries in London every week?”

  “More than you might realise, actually.”

  “How often are they linked to each other?”

  “Fair point. Anything else that might help?”

  “Adaeze told me there were twelve like her. I think there are now ten. Time is against us – trust those you would want stood behind you with a knife. See you soon.”

  “I’m not liking the sound of this Jack.”

  “Me neither.”

  Within a minute, an analyst had run the name through the Police National Computer and got a basic driving licence record back. No convictions. It provided her home address and details about her car.

  “Get a Kent unit around to her address right away, please.”

  The attending unit found her car, carried out some house to house enquiries, standard stuff, then reported back to the Metropolitan Police Control Room.

  “Thank you.” Roberts cleared the line then rang Cade.

  “Not been seen for a few days Jack. Nothing new there, kept herself to herself, nice lady, no pets, blah blah, usual neighbourly stuff.”

  “Thanks mate. For now, she’s missing. Can we get an alert on PNC and check the border?”

  “Consider it done. I expect a thorough briefing. I can be there in…” He checked his orange-strapped watch. “…thirty.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Whitehall, London

  The two older gentlemen met without shaking hands and began to walk. Their journey had started at the Gurkha Memorial, in the heart of the military quarter of the City of London.

  Across the road the imposing grey stone façade of the Ministry of Defence Headquarters stood sentinel, watching, as it had done since the war. If passers-by did not realise, they were in an area heavily connected to the British military they were either blind, or lost. Or both.

  The grey-coated men walked on a fine day along Horseguards Avenue towards the Thames, turning left into Whitehall Gardens, one of many places in a city, that on the surface at least, was pristine.

  They walked in the shadow of the William Tyndale statue.

  The man who had translated the bible into English ignored them as they kept moving at a brisk pace, beneath the flourishing canopy of green leaves and among the bustle of traffic passing to and fro, along the Victoria Embankment. It provided shelter from the breeze and prying eyes and listening ears.

  The first man, the older of the two spoke first. Up until that moment, not a word had been said.

  “Good to see you, James.”

  “You too, sir. You are looking well.” The younger man was in his seventies. Silver-haired and an ex-major in the British Army and still able to walk at a pace that said he had people to see, places to go.

  “Liar. I look bloody awful.” The older man, a retired brigadier, had the same bearing, but was noticeably slower. At one time he could have picked the younger man up, thrown him on his back and run a mile. But he was in his eighties, and just the mere thought of such stupidity made him breathless.

  “I’ve not got long.”

  “You mean today or generally, sir?”

  “I mean both. The quack gave me six months, we both know that’s one of their time-honoured lies. And that was three months ago. At this rate, I’ll be lucky to see Christmas. Therefore, I’m handing the battle colours to you. You’re the younger man now. Round up the team and find him, before he spills the bloody beans.”

  “You seriously expect a bunch of decrepit ex-soldiers to hunt down an equally dilapidated sailor in a country of this size? Before he does what? Goes to the press? Tells the police? Stands on a soapbox at Speakers’ Corner and rants to anyone that will listen?”

  “No. I do not expect him to tell all in Hyde Park. I expect him to do something that brings us all to our knees. I don’t know about you, but I value my reputation, dead or alive.”

  “Agreed. And what if we don’t find him?”

  “Cat and mouse. Whichever way works. Just find the treacherous bastard and hang him out to dry. You and the others are still young enough to spend the rest of your days in prison. Do I make myself clear?”

  The conversation took place over the space of fifty metres between Tyndale and Baronet Frere, the famous colonial administrator. Both men were important figures in British history and both swore to keep secret the conversation they had just been privy to.

  “As you wish, sir. I take it the rules of engagement haven’t changed?”

  “No. And they won’t until this is done.”

  “And we can still cash in favours?”

  “It would be rude not to. It’s time for us to part. And by the way, there is no such thing as an ex-soldier. Good luck.” He handed an ivory-coloured envelope over without looking at the recipient.

  “You too, sir. On all counts.” He nodded curtly.

  They reached the end of the gardens, one turned left, back towards the Ministry building where despite his age he still had an office, the older man turned right, climbed a staircase and began to walk slowly along the Golden Jubilee Bridge, one of a pair that flanked the Hungerford rail bridge.

  The old bridge had spanned the Thames for a hundred and seventy years; originally a footbridge, it had carried trains into Charing Cross for most of its recent life. In 1845, shortly after it had opened to the public, a well-dressed businessman walked to the halfway point and climbed the rails, dropping into the river, never to be seen again.

  Brigadier Edward Reddington, British Army, shoes shined, trousers pressed to within an inch of their lives, tie knotted in a double Windsor, waited, hovered, as if taking in the views, then when he was satisfied that no one that mattered was looking he too rolled himself over the railings and into the river, landing in the shadows, darkly dressed. The only person who thought they had seen it happen. A lady on the inbound train to Charing Cross dismissed it immediately, then rang the police an hour later.

  The younger man in the jeans, cross trainers and black Gore-Tex jacket carried on walking over the bridge and south of the river. He was soon just another pedestrian in a metropolitan city full of them.

  He had been seconds, feet away from carrying out the task to the letter. Swift, silent and seamless. As if it had been rehearsed to death.

  As he had approached the old man he hesitated for a split second. And then he was gone. He had done his job for him and in doing so had saved a great deal of time and looking over shoulders, erasing footage and worrying about witnesses.

  It needed to look good.

  Frankly, it couldn’t have looked better.

  It seemed that even among the military there were echelons of power that existed beyond the rank structure. The old guard and the new.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Roberts arrived at the hotel, made his way to the room, tapped lightly and waited for the door to open.

  He hugged O’Shea, shook Cade’s hand and waited as Denby struggled to stand.

  “It’s OK sir, please stay seated.”

  “I’ll bloody well stand before a senior officer if it’s the death of me.” He pushed himself up and wavered slightly before saluting.

  “That’s very kind, but I suspect our ranks are equal, and you outweigh me in the experience stakes at least a hundred to one. Pleasure to meet you.”

  “Is it Jason? Really? I suspect if Jack has told you anything you are already beginning to wonder just what lies ahead?”

  “Well, to be honest Tom, I’m not really sure what I can do to help. I have to ask you, are we looking at a crime? Here in London?”

  Denby lowered himself into his now-favoured chair. His body appeared to sag into the red, wrinkled leather. He sighed, looked out at the river, at the people milling around, and then spoke.

  “DCI Roberts, I am partially responsible for one of the greatest crimes to have ever been committed in this beautiful city. Am I the guilty party?
Possibly. Were there others? Absolutely. And a good few of those men are still alive – and their descendants are carrying their guilt into the new generation. You need to find them before they find me. Satisfied?”

  “Honestly? I still don’t know what the crime is.”

  “Bringing hordes of smiling, happy Africans to England, to put them to work, and if they were unwilling to dispose of them.”

  “We are talking about after the war? When times were tough?”

  “Don’t bloody patronise me DCI Roberts, you are not too big for a clip around the ear. Yes, I’m talking about after the war, and onwards, up until today. Jack tells me you’ve seen a girl in the mortuary? A West African? That she had scars on her body?”

  Roberts looked sideways at Cade. ‘Really? You told him that?’

  He replied, looking straight at the old man. “I did, Tom. But she is probably one of many foreign nationals that end up dead in this city with no back story.”

  “Fair enough. But how many have had their insides ripped out?” He had his attention now.

  “Or bear the marks of a tribe from Guinea? Or…”

  “Have a more recent mark of a padlock on their back, between their shoulder blades?” Roberts needed the upper hand, if only for a moment.

  “You saw it?” The revelation almost appeared to sustain Denby. “I’m not imagining it?”

  “I did. I have no idea what it was. We photographed it actually. Hang on.” He fished for his iPhone, scrolled through, found the image.

  Denby’s shaking hand took the phone. “Clever technology. Do you have one of her face?”

  He scrolled again, allowing Denby to hold on to the phone.

  “I don’ recognise her, but she’ll be one of them.”

  Roberts had a puzzled look. “One of whom exactly?”

  “One of the twelve. The remaining legacy of the past. Twelve mothers, twelve daughters, all of whom were expected to produce more children and thus add to the pool, but dilute their past, reducing their footprint until what remained was just a larger group of ex-African people, families, blended races, merging and becoming a part of the local society. Their past completely forgotten, and willing to forget everything in exchange for a new life. But they were told there was a cut-off date, when the only line of support would be ended.”

  “Look. Forgive me. It’s been a long week. Try as I might I have no idea what you are on about, either of you.” Roberts looked at Denby, then Cade, then O’Shea. “Do you get it?”

  “No boss. Not yet, but let’s just be patient. Yeah?” O’Shea knew Roberts well enough to be candid and as his most senior analyst he trusted her with his life.

  “Right, sit down, pin them back and I’ll begin – and this is the last time. It’s like trying to plait fog.” The former sailor cleared his throat and stood, leaning against the wall. Steadied himself then spoke.

  “Imagine you are a leader, a figurehead of the British government. It’s a long time now since the end of the Second World War, things are starting to improve, people are happier, but there is a glut, a gap in employee numbers and with national military service coming to an end in the early sixties a gap in the military ranks too. The problem was the people of the day were a little, how shall I put this, lacking in interest and some were best described as racist?”

  The audience of three just sat and listened.

  “They wanted the new workforce but didn’t want to promote them. It was beyond contentious, if indeed anyone had the courage to contest it. Now, here comes the clever part. As I was nearing the end of my time with the navy and moving into the Ministry of Defence, a smart man realised there was money to be made in exchanging weapons for minerals – and by that I don’t just mean Bauxite – which was valuable – I mean diamonds.” He beamed, just remembering the size of a few of the most prized gems was enough to take him back to a country that he had grown very fond of.

  “Conflict diamonds?” Roberts was keen to learn, having so recently had his bloodied hands on one.

  “Call them what you like. Each person that found themselves on that ship, bound for a better life, was a courier, cut apart and stuffed with the damned things. They got one each to keep them quiet. Quite why I’ll never know because most would have come here for nothing. It was as if the government wanted to distance itself completely by paying them off in a currency that half of them could never cash in. Those youngsters that made it to Britain soon found themselves in rudimentary operating theatres at docksides on the east coast. A few survived. The youngest, twelve of them, had been marked with a padlock. I don’t know why I chose that particular symbol. It just seemed right at the time.”

  “You carved those marks into the victims?” O’Shea was clearly horrified.

  “They were willing travellers, Carrie. I did what I did for them, not me. They were not considered victims. I had a plan you see. They looked up to me, saw me as a brother, or a father figure. One young girl said I was an angel.”

  “She wished you were dead, more like. Come on Tom, how can you sit here and try to convince us you were innocent?”

  “But that’s it lass. I’m not. Not for a second. And I no longer have the time to stew in my own guilt. But I am the only one who isn’t actually truly guilty – the rest, those that survived this long – the ones who haven’t topped themselves, the Operation Griffin members. They are the truly guilty ones. Not me. I just acted on orders.”

  Cade listened. Didn’t say a word.

  “I knew so much. I threatened to tell all. In the eighties it was. I was more aware back then. I started collecting intelligence and storing it away.” His expression changed. “That’s when I should have told someone. ‘Should’ is a marvellous word in hindsight, don’t you think? I should have done what I want to do right now…”

  “Which is?” Cade knew he had to intervene. It was his decision that had led his teammates to be onboard, or at the very least, interested.

  “Which is the problem, Jack. I was diagnosed with early dementia back in the eighties.” He shook his head, had he told them this already?

  “Yes, it was. The eighties. Anyway, we made the last run in the Stanafjord – she was a bonny old girl, so strong, last I heard she was towed down the Thames before heading to India for scrap.”

  “And…?” Cade was leaning forward, willing him on.

  “And what?”

  “And you were telling us about the Stanafjord, Tom. The ship in which you brought all those people to Britain, all those years ago.” He looked at him, nodding encouragement.

  “Yes, I’m talking about the Stanafjord.” He was trying not to display his frustration.

  Roberts had seen enough. “Jack I really need to go.”

  “No lad, wait, please. I remember now. It wasn’t the Stanafjord. She went to India.” He paused. “It was the Albatross!” He almost shouted it. A revelation in his own mind, a vault finally opened to the past.

  “She was an equally beautiful ship. And do you know what?”

  The three looked back at him, hoping he’d remember.

  He clicked his fingers. “We parked her up downstream. Just left her there. I can’t remember where though.” Weight almost lifted.

  “OK, so now we are saying that the Albatross is a thing, a ship, not a he or a she or a they.” Roberts was smiling again. “All we need now, Tom is the rest of the story. Then we can have a nice cup of Rosie Lee and a cake.”

  “Would there be jam tarts? Apricot?”

  “Thomas my son, if you can remember why the hell us three mugs are sat on the edge of your king-sized luxury bed, in a four hundred quid a night hotel in central London, gnawing at our fingernails, I’ll buy you a bloody dozen.”

  “Well, there’s no need to swear lad.”

  Roberts looked at O’Shea, who in turn looked at Cade, who was now pacing. All they could do was smile and wait.

  “So why is the Albatross or whatever she is called these days so relevant?”

  “Well, I guess she
’s still down the river somewhere, now that I stop to think about it. You people are very good for my memory.”

  “Anything else that we could do to help untap it, whilst you are mining this rich seam of gold?” Cade knew he was pushing it.

  Roberts, a man in a hurry at the best of times, shrugged his shoulders at Denby and said, “Tom old son, respectfully, it looks like your recollection of what allegedly happened, back then, has somewhat gone to the wall.”

  Denby grinned, the little boy in the old man’s body. “Gone to the wall. Defeated, in spite of his efforts.”

  O’Shea leant across and held his hand. Looking at the old warrior, she could only imagine what he had been like as a young and spirited sailor. His mind was failing, but his eyes still sparkled.

  Roberts turned to Cade.

  “Jack, you got a minute? Outside?” He left the room. Cade followed.

  “Thoughts?”

  “Jack, mate, I have no idea what you have got us involved in here – the only link I can see so far is a dead girl in the morgue and for the life of me I can’t see a link between her and him other than some homemade tattoo on her back. I need names, you know that. I need evidence. Bloody hell, a scrap of evidence would be good. Can you imagine me taking this to the Commander? So far, all I have are the dubious ramblings of an ex-sailor. Who, let me remind you, could die before we even start to unravel this particular canister of worms.”

  “Look, Jason, I’ve invested my own money into this. It’s cost you nothing so far, possibly a dozen jam tarts, other than that let’s call it my own private investigation.”

  “OK, your call. But if there is the slightest shred of evidence…”

  “I’ll call you. You’ll be the second to know.”

  With Cade and Roberts outside the room, talking in hushed tones Denby found himself alone with O’Shea. He was deep in thought.

  “You’re a bright girl, Carrie.”

  “Why thank you, Tom. That’s very…”

  He cut her off. “The point I’m making lassie is I think you have the courage to believe what I’m saying, yet at the same time wonder if I’ve completely lost the plot. Am I right? Be honest now…”