I was there at fifteen minutes past two – and left at fifteen minutes past three. In that time I had been given my instructions by Saraband Two, and also had been forced into buying an African parrot for the knockdown price of ten pounds. Its vocabulary was knock-down too; limited but forceful. I gave it to Miggs on my way home.
The pet shop had two dirty bow-fronted windows, and inside it was as dark as a cave and smelt like a kennel. The doorbell rang as I went in and closed the door behind me.
A raucous voice screamed, ‘Shut it! Bloody shut it!’
I said into the gloom, ‘If you use your eyes you’ll see I’ve shut it.’
‘Sad thing! Bloody sad thing!’ the voice screamed.
I saw then that the owner was a parrot in a large and tarnished cage hanging just inside the door. In a tall, wire-framed enclosure that ran down the middle of the shop five or six dozen small tropical birds huddled together in groups, swopping chirping, nostalgic memories of their homelands. Bags of hound meal, fish and bird food were stacked on the floor and dusty shelves. Dog leads and collars, rubber bones and poodle jackets hung from the ceiling. On either side of the door at the back of the shop were cages with long-haired rabbits and short-haired guinea pigs. In a long glass tank a shoal of goldfish moved slowly round and round in an endless gavotte.
The parrot yelled, ‘Get that hair cut! Get that bloody hair cut!’
For want of company, I said, ‘I like it this way.’
For answer it blew me a raspberry. At this moment a man about three foot six high, bald as an egg, with a badly coloured shell, shuffled out of the gloom to one corner of the far end of the shop, and blinked at me through steel-framed glasses. He wore a green baize apron of the kind that went out with butlers’ pantries, a wool cap, khaki-coloured, that went out with the First World War, and a collarless shirt that had once been white. He could have been any age from seventy up.
He squinted at me, and then at the parrot, and said, ‘Dirty-mouthed little sod, ain’t he?’
‘Company to have around, though.’
‘Come off an Esso oil tanker. Second cook ’ad ’im. Been all over the world, ’e ’as, and talks like it.’
The parrot, knowing he held the centre of the stage, said sadly, ‘Nellie… Bloody Nellie…’
‘Are you Mr Ankers?’ I asked.
‘Unhappily, yes.’ He had a gulping kind of voice, as though he were holding back a sob all the time.
‘I’m Carver. You left a message with a friend of mine.’
‘Ah, yes. In that case you won’t want to be bothered with small stuff like Zebra finches or black-headed mannikins, will you. Not even a Spreo starling or a Shama. Right?’
‘Right.’
‘No. The one for you is Alfred there. Genuine African, five years Esso-cook trained, live to be a ’undred. Company for yer old age. Gentle in ’is ways, too. Only bites when ’ungry. Fifteen pounds knock-down price.’
‘I don’t want a parrot. You know what I want. I’m Carver.’
‘I know you don’t want a parrot, but you got to ’ave one or you don’t get through that back door. I ’as to ’ave my perks, don’t I?’
‘Do you? I’m here by invitation.’
‘Makes no odds.’ He switched from a sob to a sigh, shook his head, and went on, ‘It’s an understandin’ I ’ave with ’em. Got into trouble, I did, years ago with ’em. ’Ad a ’old over me since and used me. Used me cruel. But I said that’s all right – just so long as I get me cut off that kind of visitor. So don’t ask any that won’t act straight and upcoming about buying. Fifteen pounds. Last a lifetime. Give all your friends a good belly laugh.’
‘I should buy a parrot when I don’t want one? Just to get through a door to see someone I don’t want to see?’
‘That’s the long and short of it, mate. Anyway, what’s wrong? You taken against Alfred?’
I looked at Alfred. He pulled the skin down over one eye in the lewdest leer I’ve ever seen.
‘I think he’s charming. You take a cheque?’
‘Cash.’
‘You guarantee if he bites I don’t get psittacosis?’
‘If he bites it’ll be bleedin’ painful – that’s all I guarantee.’
I handed him two fivers.
‘Fifteen,’ he said.
‘Ten is what you get. You’ve led me enough of a dance.’
For a moment his eyes came up to me, the glance shrewd, calculating and a little unsettling – and at that moment it wasn’t taking much to unsettle me. Then he shrugged his shoulders.
‘All right. Bloody soft-hearted I am. Through the door, up the stairs, first door on the right.’ He put a hand on my arm. ‘Listen, you look a spunky kind. Cheeky, sort of. Don’t try nuffin’. Saraband’s very high up, and they got ways. Nasty ways if you come the old acid. I know.’
‘Thanks.’
I made for the door.
From behind me Alfred shouted, ‘So long, old cock!’
‘Don’t worry,’ I called, ‘I’ll be back – I hope.’
I went up a stairway lit by one bulb. The wall on my left was covered with graffiti which normally I would have spent some time over. All I got was one gem – The Pope is the secret head of the Mafia.
Two flights up, a radio was going full blast. Clear above it a voice yelled, ‘Charlie! Bloody Charlie – where are you?’ It could have been another parrot.
I found the first door on the right, adjusted my tie nervously, took a deep breath and went in without knocking.
The room was neat and tidy; just two chairs and a kitchen table. Anyone could keep a room like that shipshape. There was a window that looked out to a blank wall three feet away. Sitting behind the table was a grey-haired woman who must have been in her sixties. She wore a neat blue suit and a tan-coloured blouse and there was a small blue hat on the table in front of her. She had one of those healthy, wise, happy faces that belong to favourite aunts, and on one hand I saw a nice dress ring, blue-enamel set with a cluster of pearls. Her earrings matched the ring. A wealthy favourite aunt who didn’t neglect her looks and spent freely on clothes. She gave me a charming smile and put her cigarette down on the ashtray in front of her.
‘Mr Carver?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do please sit down – and get over your surprise.’
I sat down on the other chair and began to get over my surprise.
‘Did that horrible Ankers make you buy something?’ Her voice was strictly Cheltenham and Girton and stands-the-clock-still-at-ten-to-three-and-will-there-be-honey-or-something-for-tea. Maybe, I thought, I am dreaming and back to the age of fourteen and she’s going to take me out to a matinee of The Sound of Music, and then tea at Fortnum’s afterwards.
‘A parrot,’ I said. ‘Called Alfred. Ten pounds.’
‘He’s incorrigible. If you wish we’ll refund the money. Were glad to always… that is, with our more indigent callers.’
‘Don’t bother. I’ll send the parrot to Mr V. E. Semichastny. Its language should be useful in brushing up the idiomatic English of his KGB boys.’
‘And girls.’ She gave a clear tinkle of laughter – bright, and even a little coquettish, the way aunts are with favourite, and fast-growing nephews. Damn it, I was beginning to like her. To keep things in perspective, I deliberately thought of poor old strangled London-Scottish tie, and of Wilkins. My frown showed.
Full of understanding, she said, ‘Now the surprise is over and you want to get down to business?’
‘That’s why I’m here. For instructions. Though personally I can’t see why one of your Embassy people from Kensington Palace Gardens couldn’t have gone straight to Sutcliffe with whatever proposition you have to make.’
‘No? It’s simple. If anything goes wrong we wish to be able to say truthfully that there has been no official contact at any state department level. And anyway, most successful diplomatic matters are usually initiated by an unofficial, private approach.’
‘Since when was kidnapping classified as a diplomatic move?’
‘Since, I suppose, Mr Carver, Helen of Troy’s time – or well before, no doubt. Do I detect a note of antagonism in your voice?’
‘I’m trying to get it there. I think this whole business stinks.’
‘Naturally. But that’s another argument. However, let me assure you that as long as you do as you are told, no harm will come to your secretary. You have a deep feeling of affection and loyalty to her. That’s nice to find these days—’
‘And very convenient for you.’
‘Naturally. One must make the most of the means at one’s disposal. Do smoke if you wish.’
I lit a cigarette. As I did so she reached down to the side of her chair and brought up a blue suede handbag and opened it. She pulled out an envelope and slid it across to me. I saw that it was unsealed.
‘Are these the instructions?’
‘Those are the terms of the settlement which we wish to make with your Mr Sutcliffe.’
‘He’s not my Mr Sutcliffe. I like people who find they can only function if they have hearts.’
She smiled, and nodded indulgently.
‘You can read them at your leisure. Of course, you won’t show them to anyone else except Mr Sutcliffe. I’d like you to deliver them within the next twenty-four hours.’
‘And when I see him – how much am I supposed to know? I mean about Duchêne and the other people involved? He’s quite capable of putting me under the lights and beating the facts out of me. I might have to tell him about this place and you.’
‘Yes, I understand that. I suggest you tell him all you know. There’s no need for deceit – and Mr Sutcliffe well understands the conventions which have to be observed. He is not going to do anything that will put William Dawson in jeopardy. This affair has now gone far above any cloak-and-dagger level. I rely not only on your good sense, but on that of Mr Sutcliffe as well. And believe me, Mr Carver, we have made a close study of both of you.’
‘Anybody who thinks he understands Sutcliffe is in for a shock. For instance, from what I tell him he might pick you up and make you say where Dawson is being held.’
‘It would be a waste of his time, because I don’t know where Dawson is – yet.’
‘I’ll bet.’
She gave a graceful little shrug of her shoulders and stood up. ‘You’re from Devon, aren’t you?’
‘Yes.’ I was on my feet for a lady, a nephew well aunt-trained. ‘Honiton.’
‘Ah, yes – that’s where they make that lovely lace. Daddy used to take us to Devon for holidays when we were young. Torquay. They were wonderful days.’
‘Aren’t they now?’
She gave me almost a roguish look. ‘Oh, yes, indeed.’
I moved to the door to open it for her. ‘How did it go?’ I asked. ‘Cheltenham? Girton? Nice upper-class family?’
‘Yes.’
‘And how the jump from there to the KGB?’
‘It was a personal matter – and a painful one at first.’
‘But not now?’
‘No. I thoroughly enjoy it.’
‘Even though you go round carrying a spray gas gun in your handbag?’
She laughed. ‘You have quick eyes, Mr Carver. Yes, even though I do that. After all, you might have turned out to be an unpleasant customer.’
‘I might still.’
She looked hard at me then, and something was touched off within which wasn’t often allowed to show in her face, but for a moment it was there, and it was something I’d seen before in Sutcliffe and Manston, something that gave one the feeling of standing naked, half-dead with fatigue, looking down into some greeny-blue ice gorge which just offered coldness while you fought off vertigo, and death when it overcame you… They all came from the same mould.
I opened the door for her and as she moved the look was gone. She gave me a charming, polite inclination of the head so that I almost put my hand out to thank her for a pleasant time.
She said, ‘If you wish, you can stay up here and read the contents of the envelope. No one will disturb you.’
‘Thank you.’
She went and I closed the door on her. I stuffed the envelope in my pocket, gave her three minutes and then went out myself. In the shop I collected Alfred. Outside the shop I picked up a taxi. As usual I got a talkative driver.
‘Where to, sailor boy?’
He got more than he bargained for because Alfred took my side and suddenly began to scream at the top of his voice, ‘Bloody! Bloody! Bloody! Bloody!’
He kept it up at intervals all the way to Miggs’s place. Happily Miggs was out, so I left Alfred for him with a note. As I went out, shutting the door behind me, I heard Alfred scream, ‘Shut that door. Shut that bloody door!’
I went weakly to the tube station. Alfred and Saraband Two and Ankers in one afternoon were proving that I didn’t have the stamina I thought I had. And, to cap it all, there was Sutcliffe to come. The cup of life was fairly brimming over with dirty water.
It was half past four. I kicked off my shoes and flopped on the bed with Saraband Two’s letter in my hand. I stared at the ceiling, knowing that I didn’t want to open the letter, knowing that I wished now that I had never got myself and Wilkins involved in this, knowing that this time I had really gone too far – and couldn’t now avoid going farther, right out of the daylight into the jungle gloom and menace of Sutcliffe’s world. Frankly, Sutcliffe frightened me. Manston I could take. But Sutcliffe, no.
The plaster that had fallen off the ceiling had left a lath-striped patch the shape of Australia. That’s where I should be, I thought. Somewhere in the outback, safe. But not even that would be far enough away.
I stacked the pillows up, propped myself against them, lit a cigarette, and opened the letter. It was typed on foolscap sheets of paper, watermarked Abermill Bond. Made in Gt Britain. And it read:
For the attention of Robert Cledwyn Sutcliffe, OBE, MC
(Well, that was something. I’d never known his second name. The bastard was Welsh. Not that all Welsh are bastards. And he was an OBE. I could think of lots of other orders he merited, none of them likely to appeal to his vanity because, of course, he was vain. It was the odd quality that supported his ruthlessness, efficiency, and labyrinthian thinking. Military Cross too. Well, he could bring that out for an airing on St David’s day and parade it around Whitehall with a leek stuck in his hat. Shut up, I told myself. You’re only going on at him because you’re scared stiff of him.)
I read on:
1. The bearer of this communication is well known to you. He will explain his participation in this matter, and that he is acting under duress.
2. It is requested that you bring the following information and suggestions to the attention of the Prime Minister and First Lord of the Treasury, The Rt Hon James Freemantle Dawson, OBE, MP.
3. The Prime Minister already knows that his son, William Freemantle Dawson, has been kidnapped. This was done, purely for monetary gain, by two private individuals. These individuals have now sold out their interest in this operation to another party, who now wishes to open negotiations for the return of William Dawson, subject to suitable exchange arrangements being concluded. These will not, of course, involve any financial payments.
4. At the moment the Prime Minister’s son is in good health, being well cared for, and allowed reasonable facilities for exercise and recreation. It is hoped that no cause will be given for this state of affairs to be changed.
5. At the moment the following individuals, of special interest to the party who has now taken over the care and custody of William Dawson, are held in one or other of Her Majesty’s prisons.
(a) Henry Houghton, Admiralty clerk. 15-year sentence. 1961.
(b) William Vassall, Admiralty clerk. 18-year sentence. 1962.
(c) Frank Bossard, guided missile researcher, 21-year sentence.
(d) Peter Kroger, bookseller, 20-year sentence, 1961.
(e) Helen Kroger, wife of above, 20-year sentence, 1961.
6. The safe return of William Dawson is proposed on the basis of the following conditions:
(a) Any exchange would include the automatic return of Gerald Brooke, British subject, now held in the labour camp at Mordva since his removal from the Lubyanka prison, Moscow.
(b) Any exchange must, from your side, include two of the persons listed under para 5 above, one of whom must be one of the Krogers.
7. In order to maintain security, and avoid damaging publicity for either side, it is essential that the Prime Minister’s personal interest in this matter be kept strictly secret and that no leakage should ever be allowed of the fact that his son was kidnapped.
Further, to avoid public agitation over the exchange of one of the Krogers, it is suggested that a well-authenticated cover be arranged to show the Kroger chosen had died in prison. A guarantee is given that this cover will be strictly honoured by the party of this side. In this manner the only public announcement necessary, and an acceptable one to the world press, will be a straightforward exchange of Gerald Brooke and whichever individual is chosen from para 5 above in addition to the Kroger selected. This open and public exchange can be arranged along similar lines to that of the Greville Wynn-Gordon Lonsdale affair of 1964.
8. A reply to this proposition can be made through the bearer of this communication. Or, if it is considered politic that he should have no further part in this proceeding, then an advertisement should be inserted in the Personal Column of The Times to read: ‘Saraband Two: Come Home’ – followed by a telephone number. The party of this side will establish bona fides when answering by announcing himself as Mr Wakefield.
(That gave me a dry laugh. Wakefield was the prison in which Peter Kroger was being held.)
9. In the event of these exchange proposals being rejected out of hand, the party of this side – on receipt of such positive refusal – will allow a grace period of ten days before the regrettable elimination of William Freemantle Dawson. On the other hand, in the event of agreement being reached for an exchange, it is stipulated that all arrangements shall be completed for the necessary handovers within thirty days of final agreement of details.
And that was it. And I was sweating. Lots of side-issues had occurred to me as I read it through – and they were all unpleasant so far as Wilkins and myself were concerned. And Sutcliffe! He’d go up in smoke. The party of this side had him on toast… unless the Prime Minister was prepared to sacrifice his son. Well, he might be a tough cookie as a politician – how else can you be one unless you are? – but, as a father, he would feel the same as any other father. Why, just to get Wilkins back I would have handed over the whole of MI6 and the CIA if I could.
I rolled off the bed and stuffed the letter into my pocket. It was still early but a drink was essential.
Before I could get a drink the telephone rang. It was a telegram for me from Letta. She was going to be in Paris the next week and looking forward to a happy reunion. The telegram gave the address of the apartment where she would be staying, and finished ‘Love from Lilith too’.
I went gloomily to the decanter. I couldn’t see happy reunions being part of my lot for a while.
I was putting soda in the whisky when there was a knock at the flat door. I finished the soda job, took a deep swig, and then went to the door and jerked it open with a touch of bad temper, the kind that comes from having that little-boy-lost feeling and knowing that all the world is against you.
Standing outside was Jane Judd, looking full of the joys of spring, dark-haired, dark-eyed, wearing a black tailor-made and a daffodil-yellow blouse.
‘What the hell do you want?’
‘To see you – even if you are going to be damned bad-tempered about it.’
She moved past me into the room. She moved nicely and dispensed a passing whiff of perfume, but neither did anything for me.
‘How did you know I was back?’
‘I rang your office.’
‘All right – let’s have it.’
‘I want to know what your cable about belly scars was all about.’
I picked up the whisky glass and gave her a pugnacious, Churchillian scowl over the top.
‘Has anybody been asking you questions about Freeman?’
‘No. Like who? What are you so bad-tempered about?’
‘I’ve just been elected patsy of the year.’
‘Good. You shouldn’t have any difficulty holding the title for quite a while. Why the cable?’
‘Because your precious Martin Freeman – whatever he was or is up to – tried to fake his death. As usual it was a pretty poor effort. So no need for tears. You’re not a widow – yet. When did you hear from him?’
‘How do you know I’ve heard from him?’
‘Inspired guess. Also, you’ve got an inquiring mind. You’re trying to figure him out. You want to know what he’s up to. You want to know what you might be getting into. You’re uncertain. You don’t want trouble. You just want marriage and security. You’ve got my sympathy and come to think of it – I’ll add a little good advice. Get unmarried and forget him.’
As I finished speaking I reached out and took the long, slim, black patent handbag from under her arm. She made a move but I waved her back.
I opened the bag. Inside was a coloured picture postcard. There was other stuff as well, but I didn’t bother with that. It was dated the day I had left the Villa La Sunata. It had a Bizerta postmark, and showed a nice view of a mountain called the Jebel Something-or-Other. It was addressed to her at the Mountjoy Hotel and an unsigned message read: ‘From July 1, book one week Doré Hotel, Barcelona. Will contact you there.’
‘How do you know it’s from Freeman?’ I asked.
‘I know his handwriting.’
‘My advice to you is to ignore it. It’s a pretty ordinary hotel, anyway. No bridal suite. Not even a restaurant of its own.’
‘God, you are in a mood.’
‘I am. You sure no one’s been asking you questions about him?’
‘Absolutely.’
I handed her back the bag but kept the postcard.
‘What are you going to do with that?’
‘Burn it,’ I said, and got out my lighter.
‘But it’s mine!’
‘You can remember it July 1, one week, Doré Hotel, Barcelona. Take my advice, don’t go.’
I lit the edge of the card and carried it to the fireplace. I dropped it in and watched it flame away. One thing I was pretty certain about was that Saraband Two and company were never going to let Freeman reach Barcelona. Or Pelegrina reach wherever he wanted to reach.
They might be jollied along for a while: but in the end they would be eliminated. No publicity, no leaks… these were the essentials of the exchange deal. The professionals involved had to be trusted, but outsiders were unnecessary risks. That’s why I was scared stiff for Wilkins – and myself.
Janes eyes came back from the fireplace to me. From the look on her face there was no doubt now that she knew she was in something big. ‘It’s as serious as all that?’ she asked.
‘More than that. I suggest you forget all about Freeman.’
She began to move to the door, then paused and looked back at me. ‘You’re involved, too?’
‘A little – but on the right side. By the way, if he does get in touch with you again, let me know. But come here. Don’t use the phone.’
She nodded and went out, no longer full of the joys of spring. I was sorry for her, but I couldn’t waste much time on it. The best I could do for her was not to tell her the truth.
I went to the phone and dialled a Covent Garden number. It wasn’t listed in the directory, but it was a number I was never likely to forget. A voice at the other end said, ‘Yes?’
‘Carver here.’
‘Yes?’
‘I’ve got to see him. Urgently, importantly, and vitally.’
‘Tell me where you can be reached in the next six hours.’
I gave my phone number and the number of Gloriana Stankowski’s flat.
I had a bath and changed, drank two more whiskies and then walked down to the corner of the street to the Embankment and got a taxi. Any other time going to have dinner with Gloriana would have been a pleasure that would have driven all gloom from my mind. Tonight gloom was four lengths ahead of pleasure and going well on its second wind.
Gloriana opened the door to me herself, gave me a neat little kiss on the side of the cheek which surprised me, explained that the Scots maid was out – her evening at the cinema – ushered me through the narrow hall and settled me under one of the porcelain lemon trees in the sitting room, and quickly had a large drink in my hand, all with the charming expertise of a hostess anxious to please a favourite guest. I wondered what favour she was going to ask me. It wasn’t a big one, and it came almost at once.
She settled on the monster divan across the way from me, wearing a crushed-raspberry silk blouse and dark, Victoria-plum-coloured trousers, stuck an elegant finger in a large glass of gin and Campari and twiddled the ice cubes around so that they chinked musically against the fine crystal. Three block-busting drinks like that, I thought, and she would be flat on her back – and I too gloomy to take advantage of it. Her hair was spun red-gold and her lips were as pretty and knowing as a Cupid’s. There was a little dimple on her chin. I took a good pull at the whisky. It was strong and it hit me, as drink always does when the mind is unsettled. Maybe, I thought, she’d been playing cards with some Cupid for kisses and won the coral of his lips, the rose of his cheek, and the crystal of his brow. ‘O Love! has she done this to thee? What shall, alas! become of me?’ Maudlin, too – that’s how drink takes the enfeebled spirit.
She said, ‘You look scared to death.’
I said, ‘I am.’
She said, ‘Tell me what is all this secret service crap?’
‘Tell me,’ I said, ‘what anyone has said to you.’
‘The man I know in the Treasury has told me that any communication I get from Martin must be passed on to him, and that I am to inform him of anyone who comes asking questions about him. Including you. What the hell has that bloody brother of mine been up to?’
‘That’s no way to speak of the dead.’
‘Dead?’ She laughed, a silvery sound that rivalled the ice music against her crystal glass. ‘Martin’s kind don’t die. They go on into their nineties, still making a nuisance of themselves.’
‘Sure?’
‘Dead men don’t repay a ten-thousand-pound theft in notes, delivered anonymously in a brown-paper parcel.’
‘You told the Treasury boy this?’
‘Yes. But he won’t tell me anything, except to forget Martin for quite a while. That’s why I asked you here – surely you can tell me something? If you don’t you don’t get any damned dinner; oysters and a beautiful salmon trout and a bottle of Montrachet between us. Come on, give. One thing I can’t stand is mysteries. Certainly not the kind you stupid men cook up between you. What’s that bastard Martin up to?’
‘I don’t know. He tried to fake his own death in Tripoli. Don’t ask me why. Anyway, he’s paid you back the money he took and, as I said, if you get in touch with this dusky number’ – I got up, went and sat by her and took out one of La Piroletta’s business cards – ‘you can buy the python bracelet back. She bought it off Martin for two thousand quid. You’ll have to make your own price with her.’ I wrote the Paris address of Letta on the card and handed it to her. ‘She’s going to be in Paris next week.’
‘Why should I have to pay anything?’
‘Because La Piroletta is that kind.’
‘Was she kind to you too?’
‘I’m giving a strictly professional report.’
‘Then tell me what all the mystery about my brother is.’
‘If I knew—’
‘You know—’
‘I still wouldn’t tell.’
‘Go to hell.’
‘I’m halfway there. Any messages?’
‘Yes. When you meet my old man tell him he didn’t beat Martin hard or often enough.’
‘Does this mean I don’t get dinner?’
‘It depends on whether I can manage three dozen oysters by myself.’
‘I’ll have another drink while you’re making up your mind.’
I leant over and kissed her gently on the coral pink lips, briefly, and wondered if they were soft with promise or disinterest. Then I went over to the bar.
My back to her, I said, ‘Has your only contact with the authorities been this guy in the Treasury?’
There was a little pause, and she said, ‘Yes.’
I said, ‘I’ll send my account in to you tomorrow – if I live that long.’
She said, ‘You’ll live. You’ve got the same survival factor that Martin has. What have you told this Jane Judd?’
I turned, fat drink in hand. ‘To forget him. Approve?’
She nodded.
At that moment the telephone rang. I reached out for it, looked at her, and said, ‘Permesso?’
She nodded.
I picked up the receiver.
A voice at the other end said, ‘Mr Carver?’
‘Yes.’
‘Mr Rex Carver?’
‘You don’t have to be so formal, you know it bloody is.’
‘Report here immediately.’
‘Can’t I finish my drink?’
There was a click at the other end.
I looked at Gloriana and she looked at me.
‘The dark clouds might’, I said, ‘have rolled away and it could have turned out to be a wonderful evening. As it is, you’re stuck with three dozen oysters and a bottle of Montrachet.’
‘Where are you going?’
‘To the Inquisitors. To the dark shrine of Security. To the devildom of men without hearts. Into the crêpe-festooned shadows of the underworld, where all is cold and bleak and there is a human sacrifice every hour on the hour.’
‘You’re tight, love.’ She sounded genuinely sympathetic.
‘I know. But the moment their door closes on me, the cold inside will shrivel every particle of alcoholic warmth from my blood, every soft and comforting whisky fume from my brain.’
She giggled, stood up, and came and took the glass from me. ‘Don’t have that. You don’t need it. Certainly not for yourself. You’re not even worried about yourself. I know you well enough by now. Who is it? Who is it you’re really worried about?’
‘Certainly not your bloody brother.’
‘That’s good, because he wouldn’t be damned well worth it.’
I took the glass from her and drained it.
‘Don’t worry,’ I said. ‘It could be my last.’
She took the empty glass from me, put it down, and then reached her arms around me and gave me a hug.
‘You’re nice,’ she said, and kissed me, good and hard and lovingly. Then, releasing me, she added, ‘But too damned dramatic.’
‘We can only be what we are, only do what we have to do, only end as it is foreordained.’
‘Crap. And if you get away before midnight come back.’
She kissed me again and then I tore myself away and stumbled out into the night.
I got the taxi to drop me on the corner by Moss Bros, and then walked through into Covent Garden. Having a taxi right up to the door would have been lèse-majesté and bad security. Anyway, one had to approach as a penitent on foot; barefoot, if the weather was right. The door to Robert Cledwyn Sutcliffe’s flat looked like the entrance to some seedy publisher’s offices.
I rang the bell and after an interval Hackett, his manservant, opened it. Before he did so I knew that he would have checked me over the monitoring system from inside.
‘Hullo there, Mr Carver,’ he said cheerfully. In itself a bad sign.
‘Hullo there, Hackett, old cock,’ I said, following him in.
He turned from shutting the door, and said, ‘You’ve been drinking.’ It was a statement, not a question.
‘Yes, I bin drinking, Hackett. What you bin doing? Getting the torture chamber ready?’
Hackett shook his head. ‘We’re in that kind of mood, are we, Mr Carver? I don’t think he’ll like it. He’s been off his food for three weeks.’
‘Good. Let’s hope he keeps it up and starves to death.’
‘Oh dear, Mr Carver, I would advise you to take a brace.’
‘Give me a stiff one, neat, before I go up then. Who’s with him?’
‘Mr Manston and Mr Perkins.’
‘The unholy trinity.’
He winked and nodded me up the stairs on my own. I took a three seconds’ brace outside the door, knocked, and walked in.
The only light in the room came from the brackets over his half a dozen paintings. They were always modern and were always different each time I came. Facing me on the far wall was a red-and-blue Francis Bacon job of a nude man who looked the way I felt, all twisted up. To one side of it stood Manston; tall, well-built, in evening dress, a red carnation in his buttonhole, his face tanned and giving me a mild smile. He looked disgustingly healthy. Perkins, in a stiff Donegal tweed suit, had his great bulk collapsed into a leather armchair. He had a fat cigar in his mouth, jutted his chin at me like the prow of a cruiser in welcome, and reached an arm about five feet long out to a side-table to retrieve his glass.
Sutcliffe was sitting in another armchair, a plump, dumpy man, face big and bland like a Buddha’s. A blue smoking jacket was rumpled up over his shoulders and his small legs were thrust out for his tiny feet to rest on a footstool. He looked at me with calm, cool, grey eyes that had behind them over fifty years’ experience of not being fooled or ever indulging in the stupidity of being warm-hearted. He went on looking. Nobody said a word. I shuffled my feet and looked at the sideboard. There was a lot of bracing material there. In the past they’d indulged me with the odd glass of Glenlivet – when they had wanted me to feel at home. There were no signs of real welcome now.
I said, ‘It’s pretty cold in here for the time of the year.’ I pulled Saraband Two’s letter from my pocket.
‘We’re in no mood for any of your low-level social chat,’ said Sutcliffe. He said it quietly, but each word had a vibrant core of ferocity.
‘Well, here’s something on a very high level for you to get your teeth into.’
I handed him the letter. He looked at the letter, and then at me, pursed his plump lips in a prissy little movement and then said, ‘God help you, Carver, if you’re up to any of your old tricks.’
‘I’m as pure as driven snow. And driven is the word. Read this after you’ve read that.’ I handed over Wilkins’ letter. I glanced at Manston. ‘You’re reasonably fond of me. Don’t I get a drink?’
Perkins said, ‘Just be content with breathing.’
Sutcliffe sunk his head into his shoulders and began to read. I watched his face. It showed no emotion whatever. It wouldn’t. He had been training it that way for over fifty years.
Tired of Perkins and Manston, I stared at one of the modern paintings beyond Sutcliffe. The canvas was covered with irregular coloured squares and triangles, and in the top right-hand corner was the word Hommes and in the diagonally opposite corner the word Femmes. I didn’t try to work it out. I was just content to be a bloody-minded Philistine.
Sutcliffe read through the two epistles, held the various sheets up to the light, squinted at them, fingered their texture and then read them all through again. This done, he said to no one in particular, ‘Get Hackett up.’
Perkins reached out a long left arm and thumbed a bell push in the wall. Ten seconds later Hackett came in without knocking.
‘Sir?’
Sutcliffe swung his head round slowly and gave Hackett a smile. ‘Take Mr Carver down to the waiting room and make him comfortable.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And see that he doesn’t panic.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Hackett came over to me. An automatic had suddenly sprouted out of his right hand. With his left he ran expertly over my jacket and trousers.
‘Nothing lethal,’ I said. ‘Except a nail-file in my ticket pocket.’
Hackett led me out and shut the door.
‘They must be cross with you, Mr Carver. Never sent you down to the waiting room before, have they?’
‘No.’
But I knew all about the waiting room from hearsay. Personally I would have been glad to leave it that way.
We went down into the basement. Hackett unlocked a green baize door at the end of a little corridor and waved me in. He did it with the automatic, so I had to obey.
The door closed behind me and I was alone. It was a big room without windows. The floor was tiled, plain white tiles. The walls were sound-proofed, leather panels covering whatever they had used for insulation. When you touched the stuff it gave gently. In a recess at the far end of the room was a bunk, screwed to floor and wall. At its foot a little washbasin was set in the wall. Behind a plastic curtain in the right-hand wall was a recessed toilet. A plain wooden table and a kitchen chair stood in the middle of the room. Set in the ceiling behind an iron grille was a light. Above the doorway almost at ceiling height was a row of small portholes, some glass-covered and some covered with perforated brass discs. From one of them now was coming the gentle hiss of air being forced into the room. Looking up at it, I caught the blast of hot draught funnelling down at me. As I stood there the noise of the hissing increased.
I went over to the bunk and sat down on the low pile of folded army blankets. I’ve lived in some odd rooms in my time, most of them crumby hotel rooms, and generally managed to make myself comfortable. In this room I knew I was never going to be comfortable. Nothing would ever make it sing for me – and why should it? The purpose of this room was to make people sing loud and clear if they had any sins or deceits to be purged.
Within five minutes the temperature had gone up to tropical level and I had my jacket off and my collar loosened. Within the next ten it went down to freezing point so that I had the blankets huddled round me and my breath hanging in cold clouds before my face. This hot and cold sequence went on for about an hour. It was nothing serious. It was just annoying. But I knew that it was no more than a mild foretaste of unpleasantness to come unless I decided to behave myself. They needn’t have bothered. Within reasonable limits I had already decided to behave myself. Like Martin Freeman, I had a high survival factor and meant to protect myself.
From a loudspeaker in one of the portholes over the door Sutcliffe’s voice suddenly came out cold and clear into the room.
‘We’ll be down later, Carver. Don’t rely on any sentiment about the help you’ve given us in the past – almost outweighed, of course, by the trouble you’ve given us too. You don’t come out of that room alive until we have the last scrap of truth out of you about this business. Think about it and prepare yourself for confession.’
I said, ‘Can you hear me?’
He said, ‘Yes. Why?’
‘Because in that case I won’t speak my deepest thoughts about you out loud. I’ll just be polite and say, “Drop dead, you stinking bastard!”’
I heard someone laugh. It could have been Perkins or Manston. It certainly wasn’t Sutcliffe.