Albatross (6 page)

‘What better way of stopping me from finding him?' Davina countered. ‘You gave him the report, Colin. He had to do something about it.'

‘I gave it to him because he recruited me and I trusted him. I still do. You know whom I suspect, and always have.'

‘I know,' Davina answered. ‘James White. I'd like it to be him, Colin. Nothing would give me greater satisfaction than to nail him. But I don't believe it. It's too obvious, too easy. It could be John. That's what I'm scared of finding out.'

‘Charlie wanted you to ring back,' he said. ‘I forgot to mention it. Stop worrying. I'll make an excuse if you don't want to go.'

Davina hesitated. ‘No,' she said after a moment. ‘We'll go. It would look odd if we didn't. I'll ring tomorrow.'

‘Do you have anything to report to Humphrey? He'll meet at Mansfield Street tomorrow if you want to see him.'

Again she hesitated. ‘No, I don't think so. I don't think I'll tell him any more at this stage. I want to show Harrington your report. And I've made up my mind, Colin love; I'm not going to say anything to Humphrey about
that.
'

‘Why not?' He was surprised by her vehemence.

‘Because he doesn't know I kept a copy,' she said quietly. ‘I've made up my mind to something else.'

‘God help us,' he said. ‘What is it now?'

‘If I'm going to do this properly, I've got to do it alone. I won't be making any more reports to Humphrey. From now on, he's a prime suspect. No less than John or the brigadier himself.'

‘Humphrey?'

Grant looked up from his paperwork. ‘Yes, John? What can I do for you?'

John Kidson ignored the unwelcoming expression on the bony face. Christ, he said to himself, advancing into the office, he looks more like bloody Robespierre every minute … and then he tried to remember who noticed the resemblance and pinned the nickname to Grant that followed him everywhere in other men's laughter. SGI. The Sea-Green Incorruptible. The whey-faced fanatic who slaughtered thousands during the French Revolution.… He couldn't remember who the originator was, but it was a cruel and accurate piece of mockery. And Humphrey Grant would know about it. He knew everything that went on in the building. Kidson settled into a chair. ‘I know you're busy, but so am I, Humphrey. I'm not taking any hints; I want to talk to you.'

The pen was lowered and the papers set aside; Grant made a little humph of irritation. ‘What about? I
am
very busy as it happens.'

‘The Chief took me out to lunch a couple of weeks ago.'

‘That's unlike him,' Grant said. ‘He never spends money on any of us. What was behind it?'

‘That's exactly what I've been asking myself ever since,' Kidson answered. ‘He said he was due for retirement this year.'

Grant nodded slightly. ‘So he is. That doesn't mean anything.'

‘He talked about a successor,' Kidson said. There wasn't a flicker on the face of the man opposite him, but imperceptibly his body hunched and leaned a little forward in anticipation. ‘He mentioned you, Humphrey. He asked me what I thought about it.'

‘That was very underhand,' Grant said suddenly. ‘How could you possibly give an unbiased answer? You could be in line yourself, John. Age isn't exactly on my side compared to you.'

‘It wasn't a genuine inquiry,' Kidson said quietly. ‘It was followed up by a suggestion that rocked me on my heels, I don't mind telling you! He said he was thinking of Davina.'

Grant's head shot up. ‘A woman? What absolute nonsense! She'd never be appointed.' Two spots of colour flared on his cheekbones. He didn't like women; his ambition to succeed James White was acknowledged but never discussed. Now, he exposed it in a burst of real fury. Kidson had never seen him so angry in all the years they had worked together. He actually got up from his desk and paced up and down. ‘Davina? For the top job? My God, what a bloody cheek that man has even to mention such a possibility! I've worked for most of my life in the Service, I've given up everything for it. If I'm passed over now, John, for Davina Graham or anyone else, I'm resigning the same day!'

‘Hold on a minute,' John Kidson said. ‘I don't think he was serious. I think it was a ploy, to test my reaction.'

Humphrey glared down at him. ‘I hope he doesn't try and use it on me,' he said.

‘He wanted to pump me about Davina,' Kidson went on. ‘Then it turned out he knew everything about her himself; where she was working, who her boss was – he was trying to prise something out of me, but I'm damned if I know what … he kept saying what a waste it was for her to be in advertising. Said the same thing about marrying Colin Lomax. Such a pity, such a waste.'

‘He is thinking of her then.' Humphrey had sat down again. ‘He meant what he said in the first place.'

‘She's left for good,' Kidson reminded him. ‘He knows that. He was hoping to pick up something from me about her that he didn't know. The more I think about it, the more it bothers me. That's why I thought I'd talk it over with you. You haven't been approached, have you?'

Grant shook his head. ‘No. No, far from it. The subject of his retirement is never mentioned. I don't let myself speculate because I know he'll never give up, till he actually has to.'

‘I didn't mean about the job,' Kidson reminded him. ‘I meant has he asked you about Davina at all?'

‘Why should he? We had no contact outside the office. You're her brother-in-law. It's quite different.'

‘You haven't seen her at all since she left?'

‘She left when she and Lomax got back from Mexico,' Grant snapped. ‘I went down to the parents' house to try and talk her into coming back. She refused point blank. Lomax was given a few months to live; all she wanted was to look after him. Of course I haven't seen her since.' His angular shoulders went up and down in an impatient shrug. ‘I can't get over the Chief going behind my back and talking to you,' he muttered. ‘I wouldn't have believed he'd do a thing like that.'

‘There's something fishy about her job,' Kidson said quietly. There was silence for a moment; he thought Grant hadn't heard what he said. ‘Charlie rang up once or twice and yesterday she phoned again. She got the same answer. Davina wasn't there. Nobody knew where she was. I tried myself late yesterday. She wasn't in the office, and I got the impression the woman on the line wasn't expecting her to be.'

Slowly Humphrey focused on him. Lomax was right. He would have to speak to Tony Walden that morning. Whoever took Davina's calls had to be pulled into line. ‘I don't see that matters,' he said flatly. ‘What she does is her own business. You're her brother-in-law,' he repeated. ‘Why don't you ask her yourself?'

‘They're having dinner with us next week,' Kidson said. ‘I think I'll do just that, Humphrey.'

Grant permitted himself a thin smile. ‘Don't tell me your famous antennae are up, John – not about Davina, surely?'

‘As a matter of fact,' Kidson answered slowly, ‘they are. And so are the Chief's. He's made a very important point at that lunch. Of all the jobs in the world, advertising is the one she'd like least. He said she'd find it tame. And so she would. But she'd also find it phoney. No amount of money would make her stick that. That's what's wrong with it. She just wouldn't choose that sort of job.…'

‘When people turn their backs on the Service, they change,' Grant said. ‘We've both seen it happen. They lose their ethics; money becomes important. You may find that's what's happened to your sister-in-law.'

‘If she's turned into that sort of person,' Kidson said as he got up, ‘she wouldn't be living with Colin Lomax. Don't forget him.'

‘Oh, I don't,' Humphrey murmured. ‘Maybe you have a point, John. Let me know if you find out anything interesting, won't you?'

‘Of course,' Kidson said at the door. ‘That's why I came to see you.'

Grant sat still for some minutes after he had left. Then he picked up his pen and twirled it round between his finger and thumb. It wasn't going well. Kidson and the Chief were asking questions. It was damnable luck that she and John should be related; it gave him the chance to keep her in view. Davina as White's successor. He had to swallow, because the bile of rage rose up into his throat. Rage and betrayal. Kidson hadn't taken it seriously. But Grant did. The job was his, when it came vacant. It had to be his. He could head off Kidson; he could and would beat off any other contender, though there were a number in the Ministry of Defence and the Home Office who could qualify. But never in a nightmare could he have imagined that the post would be offered to a woman. And to a woman who might appeal to another woman in the top political position. He felt hot with anger. And he had set Davina on the hunt for the biggest quarry since Philby and his protector Blunt. If she succeeded, her stature would match that of any man in the running. He would never ever be able to go to James White's office and see Davina Graham behind that desk.

Stephen Wood had been a prison visitor for seven years. He started visiting at Pentonville, the recidivist prison in the East End of London, after taking a degree in sociology at Exeter University. He had a well-paid job in the Department of the Environment; his wife was a primary school teacher and they had an eight-year-old son. Wood was a cheerful, extrovert personality, apt to crack hearty jokes with the prison staff, and unshockable where the inmates were concerned. He was practical and kind, but quite without sentiment. He had applied to join the visitors to Wormwood Scrubs when he and his family moved nearby. He was allotted to Peter Harrington after two years; the governor and staff considered Wood an admirable type, and Harrington was ready to welcome anyone who linked him with the outside world.

The two men seemed to get on well. Stephen lent Harrington books on carpentry, which was his own hobby, and he had a beneficial effect on Harrington, who started taking an interest in prison facilities and joined the handicrafts class.

It was nearly a month since Wood had come to see him. A note to the authorities explained that he had been on sick leave with a virus infection. When he came he was welcomed by the warder on duty like an old friend.

‘Hello, sir! Nice to see you again – heard you weren't too well.'

‘I'm fine,' Wood grinned at him. ‘Sorry I've missed out. How are my two chaps?' There was a second man he visited in the top-security section. He had been convicted of armed robbery and murder. His mentality was that of a nine-year-old delinquent.

‘They're well enough,' the officer replied. ‘Who do you want to see first?'

‘Harrington, I think,' Wood answered. ‘I've brought him a couple of books,' he added.

‘That's all right, sir.' The officer unlocked the door and Wood went in. Peter Harrington got up and they shook hands.

‘I'm sorry I haven't been to see you. Did you get my message?'

‘Yes. Are you better now? A virus is a bloody nuisance; you can't treat them, can you?'

‘No,' Wood said, sitting down. ‘Antibiotics don't make a blind bit of difference. You just have to sweat it out. Literally.' He laughed and Harrington joined in. Outside the prison officer heard the voices and didn't linger. He wondered what the visitors found to say to some of the men in his wing. With the exception of the traitor Harrington, they were all violent dangerous criminals, and two of the most infamous gangsters known in London for twenty years were held there against attempted rescue. He went down the long corridor, his footsteps echoing, and reflected that it was only ten minutes before he went off duty.

After an hour, Stephen looked at his watch and got up. ‘I can leave you a packet,' he said, and Harrington thanked him for the cigarettes. ‘Hope you like the books.' Harrington picked them up and opened the first one. ‘It won the Booker prize,' Stephen explained. ‘It's a marvellous novel.'

‘It's certainly long enough,' Peter murmured. ‘But I've got plenty of time.'

‘That's no way to talk,' the young man chided him. ‘Look on the bright side; the other one's just a nonsense – one of those thrillers you race through in an evening.'

Harrington opened the paperback and turned a few pages. ‘I've read it, thanks.'

‘Never mind; I'll bring you something else when I come next week. Goodbye, and see you on Tuesday.' There was a bell to call the prison officer. After a couple of minutes the cell door was opened and he went out.

It was the relief officer. They chatted for a moment. ‘I'd better go and see Fredericks now,' Stephen Wood said. ‘How's he been behaving?'

‘Not too bad,' the officer answered. ‘He'll be glad to see you; still doesn't mix much at recreation. He's a withdrawn type. You'd never know what's brewing inside him. I'll hang about outside for a bit, if you don't mind. Just to be sure he's not in one of his moods.'

It was 7.30 when Stephen Wood left the prison. He took the tube home, and on the short two-stop journey, he opened the rejected paperback and read the message scribbled on a scrap of paper hidden inside. It was brief. ‘I've been approached. Request instructions.' He got off at his station and walked briskly home to his supper with his wife and son.

‘Davina? Come in a minute, will you?' Tony Walden buzzed through to the communicating office. She opened the door and he welcomed her with his big smile. ‘I haven't seen you for a couple of days,' he said. ‘Not since our lunch.'

‘I meant to say thank you,' she said. ‘It was very nice, I enjoyed it. I've been running around the last day or two, and when I was here, you weren't in your office.'

‘Sit down for a minute,' Walden said. ‘I've had a flea in the ear from our friend Humphrey.'