The Falklands Intercept (8 page)

He was bluffing like mad. But it was enough. It was a tiny flash – almost
unnoticeable
– there just for a moment in Livesey's body language. He had stiffened like a
shooting
dog waiting to retrieve a pheasant. Livesey did care. He obviously liked good suits. Who did not except for wealthy politicians trying to look poorer than they really were? His rooms were beautifully decorated and filled with lovely things, watercolours on the wall and porcelain figures on the bookshelves, which were a conscious effort to display good taste. It was expensive stuff and somehow Jacot doubted that it had been
inherited
. Being a senior Cambridge don was certainly comfortable and could make you money, particularly in the scientific or computer spheres. Soon Livesey would almost certainly be knighted. It came with the job. But the momentary stiffening of the body had come a
split second after the word “peerage”. Lady Nevinson had certainly arranged for a couple of deserving spooks to be elevated to the House of Lords. Livesey probably knew this.

Napoleon was right enough. Men were interested in baubles – but for soldiers they were there for a reason – they encouraged bravery. For civilians it was different – some of the more humble medals meant a lot and were awarded for years of hard work or
dedication
. But at the more senior levels it was Buggins turn. And the awarding of peerages was little more than a form of spiritual corruption. Otherwise perfectly normal and
honourable
people seemed to lose the plot at the thought of ermine and gilt and calling themselves Lord something or other. Anyway, he had Livesey hooked.

‘I am operating under her orders. Do you want to speak to her? I can get her on a secure phone now.' Jacot took his red iPhone from his pocket and made to look as though he was about to get through to her.

‘No, no. Not necessary. Give her my compliments when you return to London. Of course I will prepare another sample. You can have it tomorrow. Have a glass of sherry.'

‘Yes, Professor. Thank you.'

Jacot took a long sip. Trekking around Cambridge trying to solve a murder was proving tough on the liver. They both moved to the window to admire the view. It was like peering out of the Doge's Palace or the Taj Mahal. There was a slight companionable feeling in the air, as if a deal had been done. Jacot had no idea what kind of a sample was required for exotic toxicology tests but he decided not to ask lest the spell of a possible peerage was broken.

‘I'll have the sample sent over to St James' tomorrow.'

‘No, thanks. I will pick it up from here.'

‘But that would be most irregular and the refrigerated box will be bar coded.'

Jacot was relieved – at least the sample, whatever it was, would be in a refrigerated box. He would go back to London immediately after picking it up and seek instructions from her ladyship. He hoped she would approve. But for now he must continue in costume and character as it were.

‘No bar code, please professor. It will be a matter entirely between you and Lady Nevinson – and just between the two of you. Not the Home Office or the American Embassy. Please do not discuss the matter outside this room or with anyone other than Lady Nevinson herself.'

‘Of course, of course.' Livesey quivered with secret satisfaction. ‘I'll let you know when it is ready and will probably have the final results of the tests we can do here.'

Jacot was getting used to the Cambridge train. This time he had not been summoned but had returned to London at his own volition to update Lady Nevinson. He had never liked the term National Security Adviser – the Cabinet Office was not the White House after all. But it looked good on the brass plaque on Lady Nevinson's door inside the Number 10 complex. He knocked and went in. She smiled and motioned for him to sit on the leather sofa and pour himself a cup of coffee. She was talking on the telephone,
apparently
to the prime minister.

‘He's young enough to be my son,' she commented, putting the phone down and joining him on the sofa.

‘Surely not', volunteered Jacot.

‘There is no need for your bogus guardee gallantry.' She laughed though and her eyes shone.

Nevinson was unusual in that she was not exalted by her closeness to the centre of power. Jacot had never seen this before. Even civil servants privately deeply opposed politically to a particular government or policy usually enjoyed working in or close to Downing Street and found it difficult to disagree in person with the prime minister of the day. Nevinson's attitude wasn't just unusual it was invaluable. But he wondered how long the prime minister would tolerate her concealed disdain. Like all politicians he was acutely conscious of the attitude of those he felt were not fully onside. The charismatic always agonized about those impervious to their charisma.

She didn't actually think very much of the current incumbent, if her asides and small talk were anything to judge her opinions by. From time to time though he did appear to win her stern approval. The usual chippy reasons for not liking him were entirely absent from her horizon. Private wealth and a good education were in her view good things in a professional politician. But she worried about his judgment – not political judgment – but what she called “wisdom”. She just could not see or accept that a man in his early forties, with little experience outside politics, could make good decisions. The
consequences
were that she often acted on her own initiative – using her work title which everyone knew from watching the American television series about the White House,
West Wing
, was an important and powerful one – to look into areas which really were not her responsibility and to bypass established systems.

To be fair to her, she was scrupulous in maintaining a good relationship with the prime minister, as was her duty. She even learned a little about modern music and
football
, which the prime minister was keen on in order not to appear stuffy and old-
fashioned
. What irked her was having to send all intelligence papers to the deputy prime
minister
as well. She had started with good intentions but Jacot wondered how much
actually
got through. There were a thousand ‘Yes, Minister' type reasons why the distribution of such documents should be restricted. Her views on him were unprintable but
colourful
. One of the many good things about working for an educated and civilised woman
was that she never swore. Jacot didn't mind swearing and had enjoyed the vivid and fruity language used in the army, particularly when things went wrong. But in the end it was over-reliant for effect on the all-purpose epithet that sometimes smothered the joke. Lady Nevinson's language was cleaner but the humour darker and more savage. Her
descriptions
of the deputy prime minister's incompetence and vanity were elegant mini-
Haikus
of disdain and abuse. Jacot had secretly started noting the best ones down on the pads of pale cream Joint Intelligence Committee writing paper on which he wrote his notes. The “Haiku” file was kept in his safe under a suitably extreme “Top Secret” classification. Perhaps one day, thirty or forty years hence, he might be able to publish a selection.

The deputy prime minister's staff seemed always to be in pursuit of various
documents
which they felt their boss should have seen. They became very worked up one day when they somehow discovered that the Palace had received the Queen's copy a day before their man got his. Lady Nevinson was at her most gracious when she explained that intelligence documents of this type had always been sent to the Queen first. She pointed out that if the unfortunate staffer were to cast his eye over the distribution list at the back of every Joint Intelligence Committee paper published since the Queen's Accession in February 1952 he would see the same formula – “Copy Number One – HM The Queen.”

The Queen had been reading Joint Intelligence Committee papers for sixty years,
possibly
longer. One rather hoped that she might make up for the callowness and
inexperience
of her current and recent ministers. Although a monarchist at heart and by
principle
, part of the current allure of the monarchy for Jacot and many others was that it answered that age-old question – “Who guards the guardians?” Or as Lady Nevinson sometimes liked to put it “Where the hell are the grown ups?”

In a way not perhaps obvious to the elected and professional politicians the monarch, or certainly this Queen, really did command the loyalty of the armed forces – every last man. Formal real power lay of course in Downing Street with the prime minister who, like the centurion in Chapter Eight of St Matthew's Gospel, actually decided who went where and did what. But God forbid, if push ever came to shove in some political
nightmare
scenario, the army and the other armed services would act or refrain to act on the Queen's orders and no one else's.

It was an odd situation. Jacot was slightly wary of Lady Nevinson but it was part of his military training to obey orders. He wondered if increasingly she was out to do her own thing. He briefly took her through further developments in Cambridge. She listened intently. ‘Lady Nevinson, the problem is essentially a locked room mystery.' Jacot looked eager and rather pleased.

She sighed. ‘Jacot, now is not the time for one of your know-all performances. Intelligence work is not like appearing on University Challenge. I like to think I am a
reasonably
educated Englishwoman. On a damp holiday last year in the Lake District I watched just about every episode of Agatha Christie's Poirot and Miss Marple. I
therefore 
regard myself as an expert in detective fiction. And, if it helps, partying wasn't the only thing Gilles Navarre and I got up to in Saigon and afterwards. He was and is a fan of the Maigret books. Can't say they especially enthused me but I was young and I faked it. Gilles was obsessed with “the psychological angle” of these books. He would expound on them for hours. Still, better than an existentialist or a man obsessed with football. So in a way I am an expert in French detective novels too. I have spent many hours inside that little flat in the Rue Richard Lenoire.'

‘You are interested after all', enthused Jacot. ‘Not sure Maigret ever solved locked room stuff. In the meantime just one recommendation for you. My personal favourite is an American called Jacques Futrelle. He wrote perhaps the greatest locked room mystery of all time,
The Problem of Cell 13
, in which his detective manages to escape from a hermetically sealed cell.'

‘Well, OK can you get me a copy – might be fun to read on the beach.'

‘You are most gracious. But in a way I was being deadly serious. In detective fiction there are about twenty or so ways in which a locked room or something similar can apparently be breached. For instance, take a yacht found at sea with no one on board. The Marie Celeste problem, if you like. How do we explain it?'

Jacot beamed like a schoolboy. Nevinson looked bored but she was prepared to indulge her sidekick. Very often he was on to something.

‘Do tell, Colonel.'

‘The yacht's cook had poisoned everybody on board and then thrown their bodies into the sea', he continued. ‘Unfortunately, he was seen doing so by the yacht owner's ever-faithful baboon who consequently strangled him in revenge and tipped the body into the sea. It then hid in a secret place above a wardrobe.'

Lady Nevinson tried to look interested.

‘The least interesting stuff is about secret passages and revolving drinks cabinets allowing the murderer access. Useful if you live in a medieval castle or one of those manor houses with priest holes. Even here in Downing Street we have underground passages. The prime minister can access COBRA without having to come to the surface. I think he can even make his way to the command centre in the MOD without having to emerge in the street. Annoyingly, he cannot walk to the House of Commons underground. Something of an oversight. The Old War Office also has them. Profumo as Secretary of State for War is said to have smuggled his mistresses in by one for secret assignations in his office. There are some quite good stories in which fiendish devices are activated once the victim is safely behind his locked doors and windows. What about this: the bed on which the victim slept was hooked from outside with a strong fishing line and moved so that it faced a different direction? The victim was then woken by a very strong light being shone directly into his eyes, and, thinking that he was moving towards the bathroom to switch off the light, stepped through an open balcony window to his death. But if you read enough of this stuff gradually you begin to understand the best
techniques
.
Bereaved baboons are amusing but hardly serious. We are not looking for a bereaved baboon. The best stories, the ones which seem most real are those where the victim is actually killed before entering the hermetically sealed room.'

Nevinson was suddenly alert. ‘Go on.'

‘Well, we know Verney was alive after the feast and we know he was alive when he went to bed and sufficiently
compos mentis
to bolt his inner door and slide a small chock under it. The rooms in the older parts of some Cambridge colleges have an outer door with a key to lock it and an inner door with a bolt. It's just like that unfortunate Russian Litvinenko. He was alive when he left the
Yo Sushi
restaurant on Piccadilly. But he had been done for. The polonium had been administered in his food and he died in agony two weeks later. The murder to all intents and purposes had been carried out. There is no antidote to radiation poisoning. The body can handle a little but not very much.'

‘But there was no radioactivity in Verney's room,' said Nevinson. ‘The police are on to Russian dirty trick techniques. And it doesn't look as though Litvinenko's murderers cared about covering their tracks, unlike whoever did this. The West End was lit up like a Christmas tree with radiation. And Jacot, the authorities are confident that there are no poisons either.'

Jacot went on, ‘But the real interest from our point of view lies in the basic truth behind all the plots and stories. They are always disappointing. Once we see how the murder has been carried out we always feel slightly disappointed. It never turns out to be as clever as we thought. Like a magician's trick, once we know the technique we can see how simple it was to pull off.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘It's something simple. Very simple. Staring us in the face stuff but we can't see it.'

‘So, in summary, Colonel, you have come up with very little. But just to make sure you have acquired a part of the late General Verney which is in that ludicrous little box; what an Australian would call an “Esky”. And you have acquired the specimen illegally and off the record by suggesting to a Cambridge professor that I might at some point be in a position to get him a knighthood.'

‘Possibly even a peerage. But yes, that's about it Lady Nevinson.'

‘Who would want a peerage these days Jacot? I received mine a couple of years before the hereditaries were ejected in 1998. I was proud of it: a reward for my distinguished service and an opportunity to serve my country in the future at the highest level. But once most of the hereditaries went the heart seemed to go out of it. The House used to have the civilized custom that when you were breakfasting or lunching on your own you sat at a general table. Some London clubs do this I understand. And you take the next available seat. A kind of pot luck with a bit of speed dating thrown in…'

Jacot giggled. ‘You would not have been at home in a Foot Guards' Mess Lady Nevinson. At breakfast the places are laid with an extra space in between and if you don't want to speak to anyone you wear your hat.'

‘A bearskin, surely not!' exclaimed Nevinson in mock horror and continued ‘I was able to sit next to all kinds of people. There was a hereditary who was a dentist. Another I remember who was a bookie. And many who had had distinguished careers in the
military
– not as generals but as fighting soldiers in the last war and the various campaigns since. Plenty of spooks too. But now they are all political apparatchiks of one sort or another. An awful crew. Simply awful.' For a moment she looked deeply depressed. But then she rallied. ‘Well done anyway Jacot. It is for these difficult events that I keep you on my establishment. Let's hope this professor Livesey keeps his mouth shut. I am sure I can wangle him a knighthood if necessary so don't worry.' She smiled.

‘Take me through why exactly you did it though?' She leaned back into her leather chair and waited for Jacot's explanation.

‘Most of the people I talked to, including both a hard-headed provincial policeman who has seen it all, and the military police's brightest detective, think Verney died of natural causes. Even the Regius Professor of Pathology, er, our new best friend, has his money was on it being a natural death. Apparently, it does happen even though Verney appeared to be in good health for a man of his age. The routine toxicology tests have proved negative. No radioactivity or anything like that present, as you said. Just a couple more very exotic poison tests to go and then that's it. Both the Home Office, and very kindly, the FBI will take care of those but everyone expects them to prove negative.