‘Come!’
Stratton entered DCI Machin’s office with a heavy heart. What had he done now? He’d charged Wallace as instructed, and received a mouthful of abuse. He hadn’t asked Sir Neville any more awkward questions, but then again he was no nearer to identifying the body in the church. Presumably, he thought, it’s just going to be a run-of-the-mill bollocking to keep me in line until Lamb gets back. All the same, he could have done without it.
Machin looked, if possible, even more uncomfortable than the last time Stratton had seen him. ‘You’re to report immediately to Colonel Forbes-James at Dolphin Square.’
Stratton thought afterwards that he wouldn’t have been any more astonished if Machin had jumped up and kissed him. As it was, he just managed to splutter, ‘Yes, sir,’ before collecting himself enough to add, ‘May I ask why, sir?’
‘You’ll be informed when you get there. DI Jones has been told to deal with anything that comes up in your absence.’ Jones was going to love that; Stratton made a mental note to apologise to him the first chance he got. ‘There’s a car outside.’
‘A car?’ echoed Stratton.
‘Yes,’ said Machin impatiently. ‘You’d better look sharp. Don’t want to keep them waiting.
Descending the steps, Stratton was surprised to see a FANY driver with stout calves who looked like a compressed (and consequently far less attractive) version of Policewoman Gaines, holding open the rear door of a dark Bentley. ‘Good morning, sir.’ She saluted smartly. ‘Legge-Brock, sir. I’m to take you to Dolphin Square.’
The big car looked, felt and smelled more luxurious than anything
Stratton had ever been in before. He stopped wondering what the hell was going on, in order to enjoy the feeling of riding in such a magnificent vehicle. He’d never been able to afford to run a car, much less one like this, but … perhaps I should learn to drive, he thought. Maybe, when the war was over – provided, of course that they weren’t bombed to buggery and annihilated as a nation and all the rest of the stuff that didn’t bear thinking about. But he might rather enjoy driving – certainly Stumpy-Leggy, or whatever her name was, was doing a grand job. Perhaps he and Donald could club together and get a small car. Easing himself back on the expensive leather, he closed his eyes and sniffed appreciatively.
A few minutes later, the car came to a halt outside the entrance to Dolphin Square. Stumpy leapt out of her seat, opened the rear door, and let him out, saluting again. ‘Flat 19, sir,’ she said. ‘Nelson House. Second block on your left, sir.’
‘Thank you,’ said Stratton.
A different glacial blonde beauty (was there a factory somewhere?) answered the door and ushered him into Colonel Forbes-James’s office. Stratton, who had been expecting boarded up fireplaces, khaki-drab and military precision, was relieved to see a room with a distinctly civilian air, which was almost as chaotic as his and Jones’s office. He’d expected to be kept waiting again, but Forbes-James was seated behind his desk, and actually looked at him, as opposed to just waving a hand in his general direction. He had a round, slightly squashed-looking face, with large bright eyes, and no neck to speak of, and his general appearance was neat – no, thought Stratton, not neat, dapper. That was the word.
‘Thank you for coming at such short notice, Inspector. Do have a seat – if you can find one, that is. Bloody awful mess in here.’ Forbes-James put a cigarette in his mouth and, bending his head, started peering under various piles of paper. Stratton, who had sat down after removing a stack of documents from the nearest chair, got up again to offer him a light.
‘Thank you. Have one yourself – there’s a box on the mantelpiece. Tea?’
‘If it’s no trouble, sir.’
‘Of course not.’ Forbes-James went to the door and gave instructions to the telephonist outside. A few minutes later, after a bit
of general stuff about Great Marlborough Street – he seemed to know all about the bombing of West End Central – the woman called Diana, looking every bit as lovely, haughty and unassailable as Stratton remembered, came in with a tray. She was introduced as Mrs Calthrop (married then, but not, he thought, to the man she’d left Sir Neville’s flat to have lunch with, which was interesting). As she leant over to hand him his tea, Stratton caught a whiff of scent, an expensive smell like the car. He expected her to leave the room after that but, to his surprise, she cleared some files from one end of the sofa and sat down.
‘Well,’ said Forbes-James, ‘now we’re all here, I’d better fill you in. This is, of course, of a highly confidential nature, and covered by the Official Secrets Act, so it is not to be repeated. Your boss at Great Marlborough Street has been told that he is handing you over for such time as we need you, and you are not, until further notice, to discuss your work with him or anyone else. Is that clear?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Good. The situation is this …’
Stratton listened with mounting astonishment as he was given a rundown of Diana Calthrop’s infiltration of the Right Club, the decoding of the message she’d found in Sir Neville’s flat, and the involvement of Walter Wymark in purloining encrypted telegrams from the American Embassy. ‘Wymark’s a cipher clerk,’ said Forbes-James. ‘That’s more important than it sounds – he’s one of those responsible for coding and de-coding sensitive material as it enters and leaves the Embassy. We’ve got some background on him somewhere.’ He rooted around on his desk for a few seconds before gesturing to Diana to come and sift through the muddle for the relevant information. ‘We think he’s motivated by isolationist sympathies. It’s possible that he might have been working for the Soviets, but we shan’t know until we’ve had a chance to question him. According to what we’ve learnt, he hates Communists – which may or may not be true – and he hates Jews. To be honest, we’re not entirely sure how he received security clearance. There might have been some influence from elsewhere, but …’ Forbes-James shrugged. ‘These things happen sometimes. The American Embassy has agreed to waive his diplomatic immunity, and we’re planning to arrest him at his flat this evening. You will be present. Any documents we may find will, of course, be confiscated and examined.
Now …’ he proffered the folder that Diana had handed to him. ‘Is that clear?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Stratton, taking the notes. On top of the pile was a photograph of a well-built, fair man, with the sort of heroic, athletic stance (head up, shoulders back, keen-eyed stare and so forth) that Stratton associated with pictures of sportsmen on cigarette cards.
‘That’s him,’ said Forbes-James. ‘Any questions?’
‘Why me, sir? Why not Special Branch?’
‘I suspect you already have some idea of the answer to that.’
‘I assume that it’s to do with Sir Neville Apse, sir.’
‘Precisely. Diana,’ said Forbes-James, turning to Mrs Calthrop, who had resumed her place on the sofa, ‘perhaps you should leave us.’
‘Yes, sir.’ As she stood up, smoothing her skirt, and left, Stratton took a surreptitious look at her legs and decided that she could definitely give Betty Grable a run for her money. ‘I thought,’ said Forbes-James, as the door closed, ‘that it would be easier if Mrs Calthrop were not present.
‘Yes, sir. Thank you.’
‘I’ve had some information about your activities from Scotland Yard – who, as you probably know, are none too happy – but I’d like to hear it from the horse’s mouth.’
Stratton swallowed. He had the distinct sensation of waters closing over his head. We’re on the same side, he told himself. His Majesty’s government, the common good … But the power of men like Forbes-James was more far-reaching than that of his superiors, especially now that, like an idiot, he’d blundered into something far beyond his ken. He tried to combat visions of arranged accidents (shot in mistake for German spy, run over by car in blackout) with the fact that he’d done nothing wrong – or rather, nothing really wrong, not in the grand scheme of things. But that, of course, might not be good enough – knowledge might be power, but it was also bloody dangerous. Was what he’d discovered about to blow up in his face?
As if reading his mind, Forbes-James leant forward and said, ‘You can trust me, you know. We understand you’ve been doing some digging on your own account, and we thought we might as well put you to good use.’
Stratton had half a mind to ask who ‘we’ were, but decided it
would be pointless. Here, ‘we’ meant people in power, who could do things – people more commonly known to him and his ilk as ‘they’. Still, no suggestion of any kind of threat – yet.
‘So,’ said Forbes-James, ‘tell me what’s been going on.
‘Well, sir,’ said Stratton, ‘I don’t know if you’ve ever heard of a film actress called Mabel Morgan …’
Forbes-James listened attentively while he talked. When Stratton had finished, he said, ‘I see. And that’s everything, is it?’
‘Yes, sir. I gave the deed box containing the films to DCI Machin, at his request.’
‘Mmm. And you didn’t recognise the dancing partner?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Neither did we, unfortunately.’
‘You mean you’ve seen the films?’ asked Stratton in surprise. ‘I mean, sir, they haven’t been destroyed?’
Forbes-James shook his head. ‘We’re holding onto them,’ he said, ‘for the moment, at least. Does anyone, besides DCI Machin and your brother-in-law, Donald …’
‘Kerr, sir.’
‘ … Donald Kerr, know of their existence?’
‘My wife, sir. Or rather, she knows that we were watching some of Miss Morgan’s films, but she has no idea what they were.’
‘And Mr Kerr, what does he know?’
‘Nothing, sir. I didn’t mention Sir Neville’s name.’
‘Can you write down Mr Kerr’s address for me – his home and his business.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Stratton jotted down the details in his notebook and tore out the page to hand to Forbes-James.
‘It’s just a background check, you understand. We shan’t be questioning him – unless it’s necessary, of course.’
‘It won’t be, sir.’
‘That’s good. What about the man who gave you the box?’
‘Constable Ballard, sir. He has no idea what was in it. I broke the padlock myself, at home. He knew I’d been making some enquiries, and he thought it might be of use.’
‘Well, that all seems pretty straightforward. We’ll need copies of all your notes – Mrs Calthrop can see to that while we have a spot of lunch. There’s a little place near here that’s not bad at all.’
Stratton, having marked the relevant pages of his notebook for Diana’s attention, accompanied Forbes-James to the restaurant. Uneasy in the unfamiliar surroundings, which were a good deal smarter than he was used to, with a waiter whose French accent would have put Maurice Chevalier to shame, he chose Dover Sole as being the simplest (and most recognisable) item on the menu. It turned out to be very good, although it would have been a lot nicer if he had been eating it with Jenny, and not Forbes-James who was gently but persistently questioning him about his background, family and work. He said little about Johnny other than that he’d been rejected for the services and was a bit of a tearaway, and hoped he’d delivered this information in the same matter-of-fact tone as everything else. Forbes-James paid close attention, occasionally prompting him with questions. The man must have a formidable memory, Stratton thought, because he hadn’t taken a single note – unless, of course, he was equipped with some sort of listening device. Stratton had never heard of such a thing – rooms could be wired, of course, and telephones, but he’d never heard of anything small enough to be carried by a person.
Alone in the Gents, he took a moment to compose himself. Of course Forbes-James didn’t have a listening device. Such things did not exist. All this cloak-and-dagger stuff was making him neurotic and, in any case, someone must surely have looked into his background a bit before they’d summoned him over? He couldn’t pretend he wasn’t excited about the prospect of the raid on the American chap’s home, but all the same … One step out of line, and they’d have his balls in the wringer before you could say Jack Robinson, and then he could say goodbye to his career all right. Watch it, chum, he told himself. Just bloody watch out.