The Shadow of Treason (19 page)

‘Never mind that,’ said Hoskins briskly. ‘Where is this logbook now?’

‘It’s in code, as I said. Code-breaking is a hobby of one of my colleagues on Southend Pier. When I went to work that day, I took it with me and left it with him. I imagine he’s still got it.’

‘Did you tell the thugs that?’

‘Of course not. I didn’t want them going after Leo.’

‘Thank God for that. But it doesn’t mean the Red Brigade won’t go sniffing round your Marine Research place. When they didn’t find the book at the Cavendish, and it wasn’t on you when they searched you, they might start thinking about your workplace. We’d better get there pretty damn quick.’

‘We?’

‘You can save us time by leading us to the right place and the right man. And you’ll get him on our side straightaway, without a lot of explanations.’ Hoskins smiled. ‘I take it you’d rather be getting fresh air on Southend Pier than sitting in a police cell while an inspector tots up the number of offences he can charge you with. Including several unsolved local burglaries.’

‘You’re right,’ said Adam. ‘I’ll come with you.’

‘Tell me more about this afternoon’s unpleasantness. They asked you about the logbook, right? What else?’

‘They thought Jefferson and I were partners. They were trying to find out what we’d been up to, and how much we knew. As I didn’t know anything, I wasn’t much help.’

‘Did they offer you any inducement to make you talk?’

‘Only that, if I did, they might refrain from cutting me up with a razor.’

‘Nothing more?’

Adam pondered. ‘Oh yes. They said they might even let me go in a few days, when it didn’t matter any more.’

‘What? Say that again!’

Adam repeated the words.

‘My God!’ Hoskins punched the palm of his left hand with his right fist. ‘The bloody thing must be imminent! I thought we had more time to work it out but we haven’t! We’ll have to act at once!’

‘What’ll you do?’

‘As soon as we get to Fenchurch Street, you find us a cab. I’ll ring the office and have them issue a general alert.’

‘So you’re going to trust me not to run away?’

‘Yes. I hope I’ve said enough to get your support. And remember, you’re going to need our help. Also, you wouldn’t get very far – you’ve no money.’

Adam sighed. ‘You forgot to mention, I’m too knackered to run anywhere.’

‘I’ll tell my people to have a fast car ready to take us to Southend. This logbook might crack it for us.’

‘If Leo’s decoded it.’

‘We’ll pray on the way down there. If not, of course, we’ve got experts who’ll do it, but that would mean delay. Who’s in charge at Marine Research?’

‘A dragon called Edith Bird, Dr Edith Bird. Very tough. Leo and I reckon she wears Harris-tweed knickers. She won’t welcome the intrusion.’

‘Right. I’ll get High Command to ring in advance and straighten her out. And, just in case the Red Brigade get the same idea at the same time, we’ll take a bobby along with us, with a gun.’

‘You’ve got a gun yourself.’

‘Never use it, dear boy. I can’t stand the noise.’

‘I got a bit emotional the other night,’ said Vic Dudley. ‘It’s true. I got emotional. See, I’d been in the pub, and what I heard made me emotional. When I got home, I took the wife in my arms, I said, “Darling, I’m so proud of you.” The fag dropped out of her mouth, she said, “Proud of me?” I said, “Yes, proud of you. I was in the pub just now, and our milkman was bragging to his mates. He said he’d made love to every housewife in this street. Had ’em all. Except one!” She said, “That’ll be that snooty cow at number thirty-two.”’

Maggie laughed. Jane smiled and said, ‘But you’re not married.’

‘Of course not,’ said Vic. ‘This isn’t real life. It’s a new gag for the act.’

‘Yes, but people are supposed to believe you while you’re telling it, aren’t they? And they know you haven’t got a wife. It said so in that piece they did about you in the
Radio Times
.’

‘It’s a convention,’ said Vic. ‘All comics make jokes about their wives and mothers-in-law. Even if they’re not married. And some of them never will be.’

‘All right,’ said Jane. ‘But somehow it doesn’t ring true. A lot of your other jokes are about being a bachelor and chasing girls. It’s contradictory.’

Vic wrinkled his brow and paused for thought. ‘Well, yeah, I see what you mean. Perhaps I shouldn’t do both kinds of gag in the same routine.’

‘Sorry,’ said Jane. ‘I didn’t mean to cause a problem.’

‘No, no, it’s OK, I think you’re on to something.’ Vic pondered a moment, and then found the solution. ‘I know. I’ll tell it about someone else. Yeah, that’s it. Ta.’ He left the girls’ dressing room, talking to himself as he went. ‘Funny thing happened to a mate of mine the other night. He dropped into the pub….’

The closing door shut off the rest.

Maggie chuckled. ‘You’ve got him worried now.’

Jane protested. ‘I didn’t intend to. I was trying to be helpful.’

The girls were relaxing between shows. At least, Maggie was. Jane was on edge, wondering what was happening down in Essex. Vic’s jokes and the subsequent debate had been a welcome diversion. Now she started fretting again.

She began to apply fresh lipstick to lips she’d fixed five minutes ago. Almost immediately, she dropped the lipstick. She reached down to scrabble for it on the floor, and then knocked her head on the dressing table as she straightened up, causing various items to fall over and roll about.

‘Blimey!’ said Maggie. ‘You’re as jumpy as a kangaroo on heat!’ At one time she’d had an Australian boyfriend.

‘Sorry,’ said Jane. ‘I just wish I knew how Adam’s getting on.’

‘Calm down, love. I told you, he’ll be all right. Let’s have the wireless on. We might catch
Music While You Work
. Get some nice tunes.’

Maggie was proud of her radio, one of Alfie’s gifts from the good days. It was a genuine portable that didn’t have to be plugged in. And it didn’t need big glass batteries either: just small packs, like you used for a torch. Sadly,
Music While You Work
had finished and Bruce Belfrage had already launched into a news bulletin.

‘… later, British troops forced their way into the town of Bedrun and took up new positions,’ he announced.

‘I wish they’d do that in my bedroom,’ said Maggie.

Bruce Belfrage gave a tiny professional pause, and his voice subtly changed gear, as he proceeded to the next item. ‘Another German V2 rocket, aimed at London, has fallen short. The latest missile has landed in playing fields at Chalksea in Essex.’

‘Oh God!’ cried Jane.

The newsreader continued, unperturbed. ‘Full details have not yet emerged but it seems a sports pavilion was demolished by the blast. It’s thought the building was unoccupied, and so far there are no reports of any casualties.’

Jane grasped the radio and brought it close to her ear, as if to squeeze out further information. But Bruce Belfrage had already
moved smoothly on. ‘The Ministry of Food today announced minor alterations to the meat ration. The proportion that must be taken in corned beef is to be adjusted in the case of—’

Jane switched it off and turned to Maggie in panic. ‘Chalksea! That’s where Adam was going this afternoon!’

‘Ouch!’ said Maggie. ‘Still, I don’t suppose he was playing football. Anyway, the man said there were no casualties.’

‘“So far,” he said. What does that mean?’

‘You can bet it means there aren’t any,’ Maggie reassured her. ‘Only they have to check everywhere, in case there was an old tramp sleeping under a bush or something. Don’t worry, pet.’

‘That’s easy to say. But I am worried. My throat’s gone dry.’

‘You’d better have a drink then,’ said Maggie.

There was a glass on the shelf in front of them, with a little water in it. It stood in front of a notice which declared ‘No alcohol in dressing rooms.’ Maggie opened her drawer, took out a perfume bottle, and poured gin into the water glass. She handed it to Jane with a cheerful smile. ‘I’ve been keeping this for an emergency.’

‘Thanks,’ said Jane. She drank a mouthful and instantly started coughing.

There was a knock at the door, and Andy Gooch popped his head round. ‘Jane, Bert’s got a phone call for you. Have you got time to take it?’

Jane leaped to her feet. ‘I’ve got to take it. Maggie, will you cover for me?’

‘It’s all right,’ said Maggie. ‘You’ve got five minutes. And don’t worry about the drink. I’ll finish it for you.’

Jane said ‘Thanks, Andy’ as she brushed past him and raced down the stairs, with no idea what she was hoping for. If Adam had been killed, it would take them a long time to identify him. And there’d be nothing to make them get in touch with Jane Hart at the Windmill. So it couldn’t be bad news. Could it? Perhaps he’d been injured and was sending a message.

Her heart was pounding as she reached the stage door, where Bert sat, solid and unconcerned. In fact, he seemed slightly disapproving. ‘I think it’s your young man,’ he said, as he
handed her the receiver. ‘Make it quick. VD don’t like boyfriends ringing up on this line.’

Jane gasped ‘Hello’ into the mouthpiece. And then relief flooded over her, as the voice at the other end said, ‘Jane, it’s Adam.’

‘Adam, thank God! Are you all right?’

‘Of course I’m all right. Why wouldn’t I be?’

‘We just heard about the bomb at Chalksea!’

‘Bomb? Oh yes, the bomb. Bit of luck, that. Saved my life.’

‘Saved your life? What are you talking about?’

‘No time to explain. Big news. We think we know what’s going on.’

‘What? Who’s “we”?’

‘Me and this chap from British Intelligence. Jane, I seem to be back on the right side of the law!’

‘Wow! How did that happen?’

‘I’ll tell you when I get back. I’m ringing to say I may be out late tonight. There’s a fast car waiting to take us down to Southend Pier.’

‘You’re going to the pier? Last time, you nearly got killed!’

‘Not this time, darling. This time I’ve got help. I don’t know what time I’ll be back at Vic’s place. But I will be.’

A bell rang, to call the cast onstage for the start of the next show.

‘I’ll have to go.’

‘Me too. Listen, Jane, be careful. We’re up against some bad people. And there’s more of them than we thought. Stay close to Vic. And wish me luck.’

The director of Joint Services Liaison had lunched well and lingered over his brandy until 3.15. so when he returned to his office, he should have been in a mellow mood. But he wasn’t. Indigestion was troubling him again. He was irritable, and felt the need to stir things up.

As he sat down heavily in his chair, he was wondering which department he could pester, in order to gain a little vicarious excitement. Then he remembered a point made by his secretary: some sections were late with their financial estimates. He
opened the folder she had placed on his desk that morning and aggressively studied the top sheet. Then he pressed a switch and spoke into the intercom. ‘Miss Ingram?’

The reply was swift. ‘Yes, sir?’

‘Get me James Hoskins in National Security, C Department.’

‘Very good, sir.’

While he waited, the Whitehall mandarin mopped
perspiration
from his brow. The five-minute walk from his club had been a mistake. His doctor’s instructions to take more exercise were foolish and misguided. He reached down for the briefcase that was leaning against the leg of his desk.

It was the large leather sort, reinforced with steel and provided with a combination lock, as issued to senior civil servants for carrying confidential documents. He flipped the briefcase open: the lock hadn’t been used for years. He groped around among the contents: various crumpled papers, cigarette packets and a copy of
The Times
. Then he found what he was seeking – a miniature bottle of expensive brandy. He brought it out, broke the seal, removed the cap, put the bottle to his lips, and took a hefty gulp.

Miss Ingram’s voice came through the intercom. ‘Mr Hoskins is out, sir. But I have Mr Faraday on the line.’

‘Faraday? Who’s he?’

‘He’s an executive in Mr Hoskins’ department.’

‘All right. Put him through on Phone A.’

The next voice he heard was young, slightly nervous, and eager to please. It was a voice that knew the director was an important man.

‘Nigel Faraday here, sir. C Department. Can I help you?’

‘I wanted Hoskins. Where is he?’

‘He’s on his way to Southend, sir. Something urgent came up.’

A memory stirred at the back of Straker’s mind. ‘Southend?’

Faraday’s voice grew enthusiastic, as he saw a chance to impress a member of senior management. ‘That’s right, sir. There’s good news. We’ve apprehended a man Mr Hoskins has been wanting to question. Adam Webber.’

Suddenly, the director was fully alert and tingling.

‘Webber? You’ve caught Webber?’

‘Yes. Except that’s not his real name. But it’s the chap the police have been looking for. Mr Hoskins arrested him this afternoon.’

‘But the man’s a common criminal! This should be a police matter. Why is Mr Hoskins involved?’

‘Apparently Webber has information about a big security threat that Mr Hoskins has been investigating. Mr Hoskins is taking him down to Southend to pursue his enquiries. It seems there’s evidence there they need to look for.’

Now the beads of sweat were back on Straker’s forehead. ‘Let me get this straight. Hoskins has taken Webber into custody. But instead of handing him over to the police, he’s taken him down to Southend?’

‘To the pier, that’s right, sir. I understand Webber used to work there. I believe they’re hoping to find some sort of
notebook
or something.’

‘And they’ve already left?’

‘Yes, sir. Ten minutes ago.’

Straker let out a deep breath. ‘I see. Well, have Hoskins send me a full report.’ Then he remembered. ‘And tell him he’s late with his estimates.’

With that, the director put down the receiver, took the
handkerchief
from his breast pocket to wipe his moist hands, and pressed the intercom switch.

‘I have to make a top-security call,’ he said. ‘Scramble Phone A.’