A Conflict of Interests (17 page)

He went on out through the main gates, got into the Volvo and sat there for some minutes staring blankly through the windshield. Away over to his left, two council workmen were busy shoveling clods of earth into the grave where Karen Whitfield was lying and somehow it seemed to him that it wasn't only her coffin they were burying from sight. Nobody is above the law; he remembered telling Kingman that the night he'd picked him up from Gatwick Airport, and even if Bert was right and he did have a lot to learn, he still happened to believe it was true. He started to reach inside his jacket for the notebook containing the names and addresses of some of the men whom Karen Whitfield had blackmailed, then realized he was only temporizing, because he already knew Ashforth's number.

The cloudburst started as Patterson approached the outskirts of Woodford. It began with a loud thunderclap and a few hesitant raindrops, then the heavens suddenly opened and released a torrent that swamped the windshield wipers and reduced visibility to a few yards. Shifting gears into second, he inched his way into the High Street and turned off into a side road to park the Mini within easy walking distance of the Central Library. In no great hurry, he sat there listening to the newscast on the car radio while waiting for the downpour to ease off. Whitfield was still grabbing the headlines and the inference that he may have known the identity of the man who'd killed his wife was particularly gratifying.

A phone-in followed the news, and some garrulous but largely incoherent man launched into a tirade about the latest unemployment figures. Bored by the sound of the man's voice and inability to express himself, Patterson switched off the radio and lit a small cheroot. Ten minutes later, the rain no longer bucketing down, he got out of the Mini, slipped on a plastic mac and walked back to the main thoroughfare.

Three elderly women, a young mother with a two-year-old boy in a stroller and a lanky teenager whose orange-colored hair was cut like a Mohican were sheltering in the entrance to the Central Library. There were even fewer people inside the building and the girl on the inquiry desk greeted Patterson with a warm smile which suggested she was genuinely pleased to see him. The way she promptly asked if she could be of any assistance also told him that she knew he was a stranger to the district.

"I've only just moved into the neighborhood," Patterson said, before the girl had a chance to ask.

"And you'd like to join the library?"

"That was my first question." He smiled. "The second one is, where do I find a copy of the electoral roll without going to the Town Hall?"

"Right here." The girl crouched down, rummaged under the counter and produced a list printed on foolscap which was almost half an inch thick.

"My word," Patterson murmured, "I hadn't realized there were that many voters in Woodford."

"Yes, it's a pretty big constituency. Of course, that doesn't mean to say this roll is a hundred percent accurate. Some people will have moved away since the return was completed, and you'd be surprised just how many householders either can't be bothered to complete the necessary form or fail to send it in on time."

"I think you've just described one of my neighbors. I was asking him last night when the roll had been made up and he said he couldn't remember filling out the form whenever it was the Town Hall had sent them out."

"Last September," the girl told him. "And he would have received a reminder two months later."

"Really? Well, let's hope he did do something about it." Patterson gently removed the electoral roll from her grasp. "Can I use the reading room to study this?" he asked.

"Yes, of course you can." The girl pointed to her right. "It's the first door on your left," she said.

Patterson thanked her, walked into the reading room, sat down at a vacant table and opened the electoral roll. The streets were arranged in alphabetical order; locating Cherry Tree Road, he ran a finger down the list and saw that the woman living at Number 154, whom he knew as Denise Rousell, was shown as Mrs. O. D. Beaumont. Although he didn't know exactly what they stood for, the capital letters after her surname indicated that she had been awarded some kind of decoration. Intrigued to know what it was, he returned to the main hall, followed the directional signs to the reference section and looked them up in
The Concise Oxford Dictionary
. From a volume entitled
British Decorations, Honours and Awards
, he learned that the Order of the British Empire was conferred upon civilians, government officials and members of the armed services in recognition of especially meritorious service. A footnote tartly added that it was the practice in some government departments to regard the order as a consolation prize to be awarded on retirement to hardworking but less able civil servants who'd been passed over for promotion. While it was difficult to guess a person's age from the sound of a voice on the telephone, Patterson had a shrewd suspicion that Mrs. O. D. Beaumont was numbered among those who'd received an OBE in lieu of a golden handshake.

He wondered just what sort of post Denise Rousell had held when she'd been working for the government. One thing seemed certain; if the KGB was relying on her to evaluate the video tapes and identify the clients, it must have been the kind of sensitive appointment in which she would have rubbed shoulders with a lot of VIPs. He scanned the bookshelves, pulled out a copy of
Whitaker's Almanack
and went through the index. Government and Public Offices looked like a good bet and, turning to page 362, he started with the Ministry of Agriculture, Fisheries and Food, and progressed as far as the Horserace Totalisator Board before he spotted the most likely answer:

The Central Office of Information, Hercules Road; a common service department which produces information and publicity material and supplies publicity services for other government departments which require them.

Although the definition of its responsibilities ran to a full twenty-two-line paragraph, the opening sentence told him all he needed to know. Smiling to himself, Patterson returned the
Almanack
to its shelf space and dipped into his jacket pocket to consult the list of retailers he'd copied from the Yellow Pages before leaving the flat in Linsdale Gardens. The Camera and Cine Shop in Leytonstone was the nearest and it offered a discount on a wide range of goods including the guillotine and splicer he needed to edit the tapes. There was also a Hertz rental agency in the borough, which was another plus.

Caroline Brooke signed the receipt docket, handed it to the messenger, then waited until he'd left the office before she opened the padded envelope and extracted a cassette. It was graded confidential, and there was also a caveat on the red star security label which stated:

THE INFORMATION ON THIS TAPE IS ULTRA SENSITIVE AND IN ACCORDANCE WITH DEPARTMENTAL STANDING ORDER DI5/11 DATED 6 MAY 1976 THE RECIPIENT IS REMINDED THAT HE/SHE IS PERSONALLY RESPONSIBLE FOR ENSURING THE MATERIAL IS NOT REPRODUCED IN ANY FORM WHETHER VISUAL OR AUDIO.

There were other safeguards to be observed when handling ultrasensitive information and, mindful of these, she checked the sashcord window to make sure it was fully closed and locked the door. That done, Caroline opened the bottom drawer of her desk and took out a battery-powered Sony recorder. Adjusting the attached headphones so that they fitted snugly over her ears, she inserted the cassette and depressed the play button.

The tape ran silent for a few seconds, then a well-modulated voice with a slight north country accent said, "This is a recording. Mr. Ashforth is not at home. If you would like to leave a message and your phone number, he will contact you on his return from Birmingham this evening. Please wait for the tone signal before speaking."

There was a long bleep followed by a brief pause, then the caller said, "My name's Coghill. I'm a Detective Inspector with V District of the Metropolitan Police. I have reason to believe you were very friendly with the late Karen Whitfield and that over a number of years you gave her several large sums of money. These payments were in respect of a debt amounting to twelve thousand pounds, a little over half of which was still outstanding at the time of her death. Naturally, we want to know the full details of this business arrangement you had with Mrs. Whitfield. As this is a matter of some urgency, I expect you to phone me this evening without fail. You can reach me on 992-9015."

Coghill had sounded angry throughout and the way he'd slammed the phone down confirmed her impression. Although they had never met, she knew a great deal about him and wasn't surprised that he'd stepped out of line. Other police officers might be prepared to turn a blind eye on Ashforth, but not Coghill; the more people tried to warn him off, the more obstinate he was likely to become. That had been the opinion of the DI5 contact at Scotland Yard, and events had proved him right.

Caroline removed the headphones, buzzed Vaudrey on the office intercom and asked him if he could spare her a few minutes.

"I'm rather busy at the moment," Vaudrey told her. "Unless it's really vital, I'd like to clear my in tray first."

"How long will that take, Nicholas?"

"Do I detect a note of urgency in your voice?" he countered.

"Well, let's just say that I've received a red star package from our eavesdroppers and I'm pretty sure you won't enjoy listening to the replay."

"I see." Vaudrey sighed, then said, "Some people just can't take a hint, can they?"

"I wouldn't have bothered you if I hadn't considered it important," she said tersely.

"Dear me, we are in a tizzy. I'm afraid your Freudian slip is showing, Caroline. I was referring to Coghill."

It seemed to her that she wasn't the only one who'd made a Freudian slip. In the last six months alone, K Desk had added a further seventeen names to the list of hostile intelligence agents and IRA sympathizers whose telephones were being tapped, yet Vaudrey had immediately singled Ashforth out from all the rest. She supposed it could have been an inspired guess, but thought it more likely he'd had prior warning from the head of Surveillance.

"I'm sorry to hear he's been making a nuisance of himself," Vaudrey continued. "However, "I don't think we need lose any sleep over this development."

"You don't want me to do anything about it then?"

"Why should we? It won't take Coghill's superiors long to discover what he's up to and they'll soon put a stop to his nonsense."

"I wonder," she mused.

"You sound doubtful."

"Well, I do have some reservations about their ability to stop him before any damage is done. Coghill is no fool and I get the strong impression he suspects there is a tacit agreement that some of the more influential people who knew Karen Whitfield will not be questioned. I'm sure that's why he gave Ashforth his private phone number."

"I take your point, Caroline."

"In that case, I really think you should hear this tape."

"All in good time," Vaudrey said. "I'll give you a buzz as soon as I'm free. Okay?"

"Yes."

There wasn't anything else she could say. If Vaudrey continued to stall her, she could threaten to go over his head and take the matter up with the director general, but that was very much a last resort. Extracting the cassette, she walked over to the security cabinet, placed the tape on the middle shelf and picked up the top secret file on Patterson. Since Thursday, when it had been opened with a loose minute to Vaudrey, the dossier had now become an inch thick. The latest addition was headed "Common Denominators" and had been an attempt on her part to find a connecting thread between the men Karen Whitfield had blackmailed. In the end, the conclusions she had drawn hardly justified the time and effort that had been spent on the analysis; some men were members of the same London club, others enjoyed similar leisure pursuits, but no overall link had emerged.

However, it was a fact that Ashforth had had several interviews with Raschid al Jalud when he was making a documentary film on the Libyan economy and she wondered if it was worth reminding Nicholas of this. His initials in the top left-hand corner of the paper finally convinced her that she would simply be wasting her breath. Vaudrey knew what was at stake, had done so ever since she'd sent the loose minute at Folio 1 warning him that Jalud would undoubtedly be recalled from London should Coghill ask to interview the Libyan diplomat. What was it she had said in the concluding sentence? — "I therefore strongly recommend that we take such preventative action as is necessary to safeguard our interests." Despite his apparent lack of urgency, she was quite certain that Vaudrey would have remembered that piece of advice and was equally convinced he had already acted on it.

13.

The barmaid was a mature woman in her early forties with a voluptuous if slightly overripe figure. She was wearing a pair of skin-tight black toreador pants and a midnight-blue silk blouse with a ruffled collar and a plunging neckline that revealed an awe-inspiring cleavage. She had dark frizzy hair, a wide generous mouth and a touch of flabbiness under the jaw which before very long would become a double chin. Mace wasn't sure whether her violet-colored pupils were natural or the result of wearing contact lenses, but they were easily her best feature. Like her other plus points, they were something he couldn't help noticing, especially as she seemed determined to give him the full benefit of her obvious charms. Only too aware he was no oil painting, he couldn't think why the barmaid had taken such a shine to him, but it was a fact that, although the pub was now filling up with the lunchtime trade, she always returned to him whenever there was a free moment between serving customers.

"You friend's a bit late, isn't he?" she observed.

"Not by his standards," Mace said. "He's never punctual."

"And it doesn't bother you?" She shook her head. "I must say you're remarkably patient."

"You need to be in my job."

"Oh? And what's that?"

"I'm a police officer — a detective sergeant with V District."