Orders from Berlin (21 page)

It was pure luck that he ran into Albert as the ex-chief of MI6 came hurrying up Broadway that evening, and it didn’t take him long to put two and two together and realize that Thorn must have taken Albert the decoded message. Albert had been Thorn’s mentor, and if anyone was going to know the identity of the mysterious German C who’d signed the message, then it was going to be Albert. And it was pretty obvious from the old man’s excitement that he’d worked out the answer. C was Heydrich, and once that information got out, finding the Gestapo chief’s agent in England would become a national priority. Seaforth couldn’t let that happen.

‘I have to see Alec Thorn. It’s extremely important,’ Albert declared in the doorway of HQ, making it sound like an order, as if he were still in charge.

‘He’s been called away out of London for the night. He’ll be back tomorrow,’ Seaforth lied. ‘Is it something I can help you with?’

‘You? No, of course not. Just tell Alec I need to see him urgently. You can do that much, can’t you?’

Seaforth nodded, amused by the old man’s rudeness. There was nothing more to say, so he walked away round the corner and watched Albert jumping anxiously from one foot to another at the bus stop, until he finally gave up and went into the Tube station, where Seaforth followed him down onto the westbound Circle Line platform. In retrospect, Seaforth realized that much the best solution would have been to push Albert under the train when it came in or, better still, to throw him in the river when he stopped on Chelsea Bridge on his way home and stood gazing down into the water, lost in some kind of old man’s daydream. That would have saved a lot of trouble, but Seaforth had wanted to find out what Albert knew, so he’d followed him back to Battersea and forced him up the stairs of his apartment building at gunpoint. It was against the law to carry a concealed weapon, but it w
as a law that Seaforth broke every
day. He had no intention of being taken alive if Thorn and his friends ever caught up with him.

‘You! All the time it was you!’ Seaforth remembered how Albert had seemed more interested in his discovery of Seaforth’s treachery than frightened of what Seaforth was going to do to him. He was courageous – Seaforth would at least say that for the old fool.

‘Yes, me. Sorry to disappoint you. And now I’m going to need you to tell me everything you know about that radio message,’ Seaforth said politely as he released the safety catch on his gun.

‘What radio message?’

‘You know what I’m talking about. Thorn brought it here, didn’t he – earlier today, to ask your opinion about what it meant? Come on, there’s no point in denying it.’

But Albert hadn’t tried to. He went quiet instead, refusing to answer any of Seaforth’s questions, watching mutely but intently while Seaforth threatened him with the gun and started to lose his temper, sweeping the papers off the desk onto the floor in angry frustration. And then suddenly, without warning, he made a run for it, dashing out through the door and slamming it shut behind him.

He’d been surprisingly quick on his feet and had got as far as the outside landing before Seaforth caught up with him and started hurting him properly, pulling his arm behind his back and pushing him up against the iron balustrade. But still he refused to talk, preferring to fight, until he finally went tumbling over the barrier and fell head over heels to his death with an unholy scream. He hit the ground right at the feet of his daughter, whom Seaforth could dimly see below, looking up at him out of the shadows at the foot of the staircase.

It had been a mess, which could so easily have turned into a total disaster. But instead Seaforth’s luck had held. There hadn’t been enough light on the landing for Ava to get a good look at him, and two days later he just happened to be the ranking officer on duty at HQ when Quaid, the police inspector in charge of the murder case, rang up to ask about the dead man’s connection to 59 Broadway.

‘Do you know an Albert Morrison?’ the inspector asked after introducing himself. ‘He’s the subject of a murder inquiry I’m conducting.’

‘Yes, he used to work here,’ Seaforth admitted. He had no choice not to. ‘But he retired several years ago,’ he added quickly.

‘We’ve found out that he took a taxi from his flat in Battersea over to St James’s Park on the day of his death. It seems reasonable to assume he was coming to visit your office.’

‘I don’t know anything about that.’

‘Yes, my assistant, Detective Trave, was at your office yesterday and was told that there was no record of any visit. I’m just following up to see if you can shed any light on why Mr Morrison should have gone there. That’s all.’

‘I’m afraid not,’ Seaforth said. And that might have been the end of the conversation, except that there was something in the inspector’s tone that Seaforth had picked up on – a sense that Quaid was just going through the motions, almost as if he were looking for a way to cross 59 Broadway off his list of leads.

‘Can I speak to you confidentially?’ Seaforth asked, testing the waters.

‘Yes, of course.’

‘Thank you. Well, it may help you to know that this office is a top-secret department of the War Office, and I think that I can speak on behalf of the Minister when I say that we would appreciate anything you can do to keep us out of your inquiry, unless it’s absolutely necessary, of course. You obviously have experience in these matters, and I’m sure I can count on your discretion.’

‘You can rely on me,’ Quaid said enthusiastically, responding immediately to the appeal to his vanity. ‘Between ourselves, I already have a prime suspect – the victim’s son-in-law. He had the motive and the opportunity, and he’s a bad penny if ever I’ve seen one. I don’t see this as being one of our more difficult cases, to be honest with you.’

Quaid had been on his side from that moment on. His over-zealous young assistant, Detective Trave, had continued to be a nuisance, following Seaforth to his meeting with Ava at the Lyons Corner House, but even that had turned out be a lucky break. Seaforth had rung up Quaid to complain, and it was during that conversation that the inspector had mentioned the cuff link the police had found outside Albert’s flat, the one Seaforth had lost in the struggle. And the information had come just in time for Seaforth to bring its twin over to Battersea today and plant it in Bertram’s desk, ready for Ava to find.

Trave had tried to follow him today too, but it had been child’s play to give him the slip, and he’d decided not to complain again to Quaid. As far as he was aware, he had done nothing to inspire Trave’s dogged pursuit, and he hoped that lying low would put an end to Trave’s interest in him. Quaid would certainly not want more time wasted on a case that had already been solved.

All that remained now was to watch the final act of the drama that he’d set in motion. Seaforth looked to his right and saw the dapper, rotund figure of Bertram Brive coming into view. There was a jauntiness in his step that made Seaforth think Bertram had got what he wanted down at the Probate Office. It was strange to watch him strutting up the road, blissfully ignorant of the fate that awaited him, moments away, inside his flat. He stopped in front of his building, took out his key, and opened the door. And two minutes later came back out in handcuffs.

Trave sat in the office he shared with Quaid at Scotland Yard and waited for the inspector to return, expecting the worst. Now that it was too late, he bitterly regretted going back to Broadway again. He’d been a fool to think he could track Seaforth without being seen. The man had eyes in the back of his head.

Trave had been careful this time, remembering the lessons he’d learnt at the police training school and trying not to repeat the mistakes he’d made the day before. From the moment he’d followed Seaforth into the Underground station, he’d kept himself at maximum distance from his target, staying close to other travellers and waiting patiently at the top of each set of escalators and at the turning of every passage until Seaforth had disappeared from view, and only then hurrying forward until he had caught sight of him again. And there had been no sign that Seaforth knew he was being followed. He’d walked at a brisk pace, turning left and right without a backward glance until he’d finally come to a halt halfway down the westbound platform and stood waiting for the train, examining a government information poster on the opposite wall with apparent rapt attention.

Suddenly there’d been a whistle and a rush of wheels as the train rolled into the station, and Seaforth had got in. He’d looked as if he had no idea he was being followed. Trave had waited until the last moment and then jumped aboard a carriage two away. The air-operated doors had closed and the train moved off, and there on the platform was Seaforth, standing just where he’d been before, watching with a smile as Trave was borne away into the tunnel heading for Victoria.

Trave had never stood a chance; he realized that now. Seaforth had eyes in the back of his head because he was a spy, just like everyone else who worked in 59 Broadway. There was no other explanation. But Trave knew that the knowledge wasn’t going to do him any good. Seaforth held all the cards. He’d wasted no time complaining to Quaid the day before, so why would he not do the same today? And Trave knew what would happen then – he’d be transferred out of Scotland Yard and he’d never have any more dealings with this case ever again, or any case at all, for that matter, if Quaid had anything to do with it.

Trave had been pacing the office backwards and forwards like a prisoner in his cell as he reflected on his position, and now he banged his head against the door in frustration. But there was nobody to take any notice, just the clock on the wall ticking away the minutes until Quaid’s return. With a sigh and a sore head, Trave sat down and began to work his way through the backlog of paperwork that had been building up on his desk over the last few days. It had always been the part of his job that he least enjoyed – he hadn’t worked hard to become a detective in order to turn himself into some kind of glorified postal clerk. He wanted to be out in the field pursuing leads, not sitting here immured in some faraway corner of Scotland Yard writing up reports and listing evidence exhibits. But he’d better get used to it, he thought bitterly. He’d be lucky to be doing even that once Quaid had finished with him.

The inspector arrived back on the stroke of twelve. And he was not alone – he had Bertram Brive in tow, squirming in the grip of a burly uniformed policeman with bright red cheeks and small mean eyes. His name was Twining, a
nd he had a reputation at the Yard for doing whate
ver Quaid told him to do, no questions asked.

‘Book him in, Constable,’ Quaid ordered, speaking to Twining. ‘Make sure he hasn’t got any hypodermic needles hidden up his sleeves.’

‘This is an outrage. I want my solicitor—,’ Brive began indignantly.

‘What? The same one you used to cook up old Morrison’s will?’ asked Quaid with a grin, cutting him off. ‘Don’t worry – you’ll have your chance to tell us what you’ve been up to in a little while, but Constable Twining here is going to process you first. We need to do everything properly, you know. I’m sure you wouldn’t want it any other way, now, would you, Doctor?

‘Soften him up a little too. That never did any harm,’ said Quaid, turning to Trave with a wink once Brive had been dragged away, his protests still dimly audible from the other end of the corridor. ‘A good morning’s work if I say so myself,’ he said expansively, sitting back with a sigh of satisfaction in the expensive swivel chair that he’d had installed behind his desk and stretching out his legs. ‘Case cracked and should be case closed by the end of the afternoon once we’ve got our confession. And then I’ll buy you a drink to celebrate. They keep a good Islay malt whisky for me under the counter at the King’s Head over the road, a nice chaser for a pint of their London ale.’

‘What happened?’ asked Trave, feeling more than a little disoriented. He’d been expecting summary dismissal from his boss, not an invitation to a party.

‘Ava, the victim’s daughter, gave us the break. Full credit to her – the bastard’s been trying to dispatch her too, from what I can gather. She searched her husband’s desk this morning after he’d gone out and found the cuff link that matched the one we recovered from off the landing outside Morrison’s flat.’

Quaid said nothing about Seaforth’s role in facilitating the search. He knew that Bertram would be less likely to confess if he could claim the evidence had been planted, so it wasn’t information that he intended to disclose to the doctor when he interviewed him. And if Trave didn’t know what had happened, then there would be no risk of him blurting it out to Bertram.

‘And the cuff link’s not all we’ve got, either,’ Quaid went on happily. ‘I went through Brive’s desk myself while we were waiting for him to come back, and guess what – he’s being blackmailed.’

‘Blackmailed! For what?’

‘Sex. That’s what it’s usually about, isn’t it? Turns out he’s homosexual and someone somewhere’s got photographs to prove it. Look, here’s one that the blackmailer sent him with his first demand – standard stuff, but not very pleasant,’ said Quaid, handing Trave a photograph that he’d extracted from one of the evidence bags he’d deposited on his desk when he came in. It was a grainy picture no bigger than a snapshot, but there was no mistaking Brive, naked apart from a sheet pulled hastily across his lower body. He was lying next to a younger man on an unmade bed in what looked like a cheap hotel room somewhere. The shock and terror on Brive’s face were palpable. The flash photograph had obviously been taken at the moment of discovery.

‘He knew he’d be ruined if it came out, and so he’s been paying the blackmailer off for over a year,’ Quaid continued. ‘Borrowing money right, left, and centre to do it, but then recently whoever it is has got a bit more greedy, just like they always do. Result was our doctor friend couldn’t come up with the money, and not just that, he started defaulting on interest payments on the debts he’d already run up. So his creditors started to call in their loans, which must have scared him quite a bit because he’s in hock to some pretty unpleasant people, south London sharks of the worst kind. Anyway, the whole house of cards was just about to come tumbling down when Albert Morrison conveniently broke his neck, since when Brive’s been able to use the promise of his inheritance to stabilize his debts and get the blackmailer off his back. Everything’s here. All the dates match up,’ said Quaid, tapping the evidence bags. ‘All we need now is his confession.’