The Shadow of Treason (20 page)

‘Very good, sir,’ came the disembodied reply. ‘What number do you want?’

‘That’s all right, Miss Ingram. I’ll dial the number myself.’

Superintendent Nash was fuming. ‘How did it happen?’ he demanded. ‘How the hell could it happen?’

Inspector Jessett, weary after missing most of his night’s sleep, was rather more phlegmatic. ‘Well, sir,’ he said, ‘it can
happen and it does happen. Paynter’s not the first customer to hang himself in a police cell.’

‘He’s the first man to do it in a Tilfleet police cell!’ Nash
thundered
. ‘The Chief Constable’s blowing his top! He’s demanding an explanation!’

‘In my opinion,’ Jessett ventured, ‘they put cell windows too high. If a man stands on a chair and gets a rope round the bars, once he kicks the chair away he can hang with his feet off the ground. If windows were lower down—’

Nash cut in. ‘Never mind the bloody architecture, man! Paynter didn’t have a rope, did he? Did he? I presume you searched him when you brought him in?’

‘Of course, sir.’

‘And you took away tie, belt, bootlaces and so on.’

‘Paynter wasn’t much of a one for wearing ties, sir. We removed all the rest.’

‘So how did he manage to hang himself?’

‘He used his shirt-sleeves.’

‘His shirt-sleeves?! For God’s sake, how did he do that?’

‘He tore off both sleeves, knotted them together at the end and rolled them up tightly enough to make a ligature.’

‘That’s incredible!’

‘It was very effective, actually. The knot hit his throat when he jumped off the chair, and crushed his Adam’s apple. Speeded things up for him.’

‘Why would he want to kill himself?’

‘I don’t know, sir. I’m sorry he did. I was just starting to get some useful information out of him.’

‘So perhaps it was remorse. He was ashamed of grassing on his mates.’

‘That’s possible, I suppose. He certainly wasn’t too happy. He was having to decide between doing a long spell in jail or shopping a lot of serious villains. He’ll have been scared.’

‘All right, tell me exactly what happened last night. The Chief Constable’s demanding a full report for Scotland Yard. He’s called them in, by the way.’

‘Yes, sir. I heard. Well, I wasn’t here early on. I was in the West End, with Constable Thompson, keeping a suspect under observation.’

‘So who was here?’

‘Sergeant Fairweather was duty officer. He’ll be able to tell you more than I can. Sergeant Monk was in his office, catching up on some paperwork. There were two constables sharing desk duty, and four out on patrol.’

‘I gather you came back here just before midnight. What were you told?’

‘Sergeant Fairweather said Paynter was given his supper at six and then left alone in his cell. He asked for comics, so they gave him the
Daily Mirror
. When Constable Logan went to see him at 10.30, he found him hanging from the bars. He tried
artificial
respiration, but Paynter was already dead.’

‘And no one had looked in on him all evening?’

‘Apparently not, sir. He was in cell three, which is round a corner at the back. A bit out of the way.’

‘You say he was going to be a valuable informant. Why was he put somewhere out of the way?’

‘I don’t know, sir. When I left him in the afternoon, he was in cell one, near the front desk. He was transferred after I left.’

‘Why?’

‘I don’t know. As I said, I wasn’t here. I’d guess one of the constables must have brought in a drunk, or someone especially difficult: a prisoner they had to keep an eye on. I’m sure you’ll get the answer from Sergeant Fairweather.’

‘I certainly hope so. I’ve spoken to you first because you’re the senior man and Paynter was your prisoner. Now I’ll talk to Fairweather. I’ll also need to speak to Sergeant Monk. Where is he?’

‘Not here, sir. Monk rang in this morning, reporting sick, I’m afraid.’

‘Did he indeed? Well, get hold of him fast and tell him to get well bloody fast. Unless he’s at death’s door and has a medical certificate to prove it, I want him here within the hour!’ There
was a knock at the door. ‘Come!’ barked the superintendent, and in came John Taylor, the Tilfleet police doctor, a thin elderly man with a keen sense of drama.

‘You wanted to know my findings as soon as possible,’ he announced.

‘Yes please, Doctor. I was telling Jessett, this is the first suicide we’ve had in Tilfleet, and we want it tidied up quickly.’

‘That would be easy if it were a suicide. But I’m afraid we do have to consider other explanations.’

‘What? You’re not suggesting the fellow hanged himself by accident?’

‘No, I think we can rule that out. But I fear we can’t exclude the possibility of murder.’

‘Murder?’ Nash was incredulous. ‘Murder?! Paynter was a big man, an ex-boxer. You think someone could have strung him up against his will?’

Taylor spoke calmly. ‘They could have done if they’d drugged him first. Knockout drops in his tea, for instance.’

‘That’s preposterous!’

‘Not so,’ said the doctor. ‘I exceeded my brief on this
occasion
, as it’s an unusual case. I decided to analyse the stomach contents. And I found traces of barbiturates.’

‘Barbiturates? Good God!’

‘I’ve informed the coroner, and he’s ordered a post mortem.’

It was a bleak scene as the small group alighted from the train at the end of Southend Pier. The late afternoon was grey and chilly. No naval vessel was alongside at present, so admin and maintenance staff were staying in their quarters as far as possible, avoiding the cold east wind. Already the lights were on in the Marine Research Centre, where they were working late, and those lights stood out brightly against a darkening sky.

As Adam expected, Dr Edith Bird was not pleased at the interruption. But there’d been a phone call from a very high level, commanding her to co-operate, so she received the trio with cool tolerance.

‘I was told to expect you, Mr Hoskins. How can I help?’

Hoskins had already shown his own identity papers, and he now introduced his companions. ‘This is Superintendent Barron of the Metropolitan Police.’ Barron had recently been seconded to the Intelligence Service. Hoskins had added him to the party, and warned him to come armed. ‘And Mr Webber, of course, you know already.’

‘Yes indeed.’ Dr Bird frowned at Adam.

Adam smiled and said, ‘Good afternoon, Dr Bird. Sorry I’m late back.’

‘That was rather an extended tea break you took the other day.’

Adam sighed. ‘Sorry. The service is getting a bit slow in the canteen.’

‘I think we’d all like to know what you’ve been up to.’

‘Well … I’m afraid it’s rather a long story.’

‘And one we don’t have time for now,’ said Hoskins briskly. ‘This is a matter of national security, and it’s very urgent. We need to speak to Mr Leo Newman.’

Newman had been sitting at a bench, warming dark fluid over a Bunsen burner. When the visitors arrived, he placed the test-tube in a rack, left his stool, and stood smiling uncertainly. Now he responded.

‘Hello, I’m Leo Newman. What can I do for you?’

‘That notebook I gave you last week,’ said Adam. ‘We’re hoping it’s here.’

‘Yes,’ said Leo. ‘I’ve been keeping it in my desk.’

Hoskins let out a huge sigh of relief as Newman continued. ‘You were right, it’s all in code. I’ve been amusing myself with it during lunch breaks.’

‘Have you cracked the code?’ Hoskins asked.

‘Oh yes,’ said Newman, somewhat pleased with himself. ‘It’s a fairly simple one. Basically, a matter of using one letter instead of another, the substitute letter changing each time, according to an arithmetical progression.’

‘My word,’ said Hoskins, mildly. ‘As simple as that?’

‘Yes, I’ve been copying it into plain English, doing a little every day. In fact, the job’s almost finished.’

The young man opened a drawer and took out the precious notebook, plus a Marine Research scribbling pad, on which he’d been writing the translation.

‘May I see those?’ Hoskins made no effort to conceal his eagerness.

‘Yes, of course.’ Newman handed them over. ‘Bit
disappointing
, I’m afraid. No secret formula, no dramatic messages. It seems to be mainly lists of names and addresses, all male. They’re grouped under headings, which are the names of British towns – Brighton, Bristol, Hull and so on. That’s what helped me crack the code. But there are a few notes that didn’t mean anything to me.’

Hoskins had been skimming through the pages with
mounting excitement. ‘Well, they could mean a hell of a lot to me! And to this country!’

‘What d’you make of it?’ asked Barron.

‘It’s a breakthrough!’ Hoskins exclaimed. ‘The great big breakthrough we’ve been praying for! All these places have Home Guard units. If Tilfleet’s the command centre for the Red Brigade, they’d have a list of all their rogue members, the ones who are preparing to go into action! And this has to be it!’

‘No wonder those bastards wanted it back!’ said Adam, who continued to feel aches and pains, and was starting to feel a fervent hatred of the plotters.

Hoskins was still effervescing. ‘My God, look at the date – it’s on top of us!’ He paused to look again at the notes, which included timings and what must surely be targets.

‘Are we allowed to know what you’re talking about?’ asked Dr Bird, with a hint of impatience.

‘The little matter of a plot to overthrow the government,’ said Hoskins. ‘No time to say more at the moment. Newman, you say you’ve almost finished decoding. How far is there to go?’

‘About ten pages.’

‘Well, we need to know the lot. Could you explain the code to the rest of us?’

‘I should think so. As I said, it’s not difficult.’

‘Right,’ said Hoskins. ‘Dr Bird, you won’t mind if we use your chairs and table?’ He didn’t wait for an answer. ‘Barron, Webber, Newman, everyone please help. We’ll each take a page at a time. Once Newman’s explained the code, we’ll get on and finish the job.’

Barron scratched his head. ‘Are you sure? Wouldn’t it be easier to take the stuff back to London and have the experts do it?’

‘It would be easier for us, yes,’ said Hoskins. ‘But we can’t delay that long. If we can complete the picture here and now, I can phone my people and start things moving. So it’s time for volunteers – you, you and you!’

‘Give me two pages,’ Dr Bird commanded. ‘I’m in charge here, and I do
The Times
crossword in ten minutes.’

‘Anyone lend me a pencil?’ said Adam.

The sea was getting rougher in the rising wind, as the
motor-boat
smashed and barged its way through the steep grey waves.

Brigden bawled at the engineer, ‘Can’t you go any faster, Henshaw?’

The reply was terse. ‘If she hits these waves any harder, she’ll break her back! And yours too!’

Brigden grunted. He was not a good sailor. But he was aware that, after recent events, security at the pier entrance was massively increased. Fake passes and identity cards, however well forged, wouldn’t get intruders in now. And Straker’s call had made it clear that immediate direct action was essential. So an approach from the sea was the only option.

Brigden knew this was a mission he had to lead himself. He couldn’t let underlings bungle this one. It was infuriating that he had to break cover early. But, he consoled himself, he was due to do so shortly anyway. And if things went smoothly, there’d be no survivors to identify him. He’d be able to go back underground till the big day.

It should have been a short run to Southend Pier from Eastwell Quay, on the Essex marshes, where the Home Guard patrol boat was moored. But the weather had not been kind and the tide was running against them. Brigden’s temper was beginning to fray.

The three men with him were not much enjoying their sea trip either, but they were being well paid for this difficult and probably bloody operation. Brigden was once more employing professional criminals, holding back his Home Guard revolutionaries for the momentous action that was now imminent.

Sid Garrett was there. He’d escaped from the collapsed pavilion just before the police arrived, and was happy to go back into action, being keen to avenge the blow that Adam had
delivered. Brigden had told him to find another experienced villain to complete the raiding party, and he’d enlisted Mick Chase, an occasional partner-in-crime.

Peering through the spray, Brigden noticed that Garrett was holding his revolver in his hand, and he bellowed at him, straining to be heard above the roaring sea. ‘Put that gun away, man! All of you, keep your firearms dry!’

Another ten minutes, and they were approaching the seaward end of the pier, the great structure of timber and rusting iron towering over them like a cliff. Now they could see the metal ladder Henshaw had told them about, attached to one of the huge upright stanchions.

They all knew the plan. A grappling iron thrown from the boat would draw it close enough for three men to get onto the ladder. Henshaw, a Leigh fisherman who knew about boats, would stay aboard, using the engine’s power to prevent the craft being driven against the ironwork. Thus the boat would be ready for a swift getaway. Now Henshaw had it standing a little way off the pier, waiting for a patch of relative calm that would enable him to make the final approach.

Fortunately, the decoding proved easier in practice than it had sounded in description. Hoskins clearly enjoyed the challenge, as did Newman and Edith Bird. Barron tackled the task with quiet efficiency. Only Adam, who’d never been good at maths, was finding it a slow and difficult process.

Leo Newman, having finished his own pages, came to his aid. ‘Let me finish that for you, Adam. You’ve got a few mistakes there. I don’t think anyone’s address would be “3 Statiop Road”.’ He pushed aside the faulty pages Adam had produced, and quickly finished the job for him.

When the communal task was completed, Hoskins collated the pages with immense satisfaction, and put them in a large buff envelope. Then he spoke triumphantly. ‘Thank you, all of you. This result is better than I dared hope. I think we’re just in time to prevent anarchy.’ Dr Bird’s voice was polite but firm. ‘Would
you now kindly find time to tell Newman and myself what on earth is going on?’

‘Sorry, no,’ said Hoskins. ‘I have to call London at once. But my colleagues are at liberty to tell you all they know.’ He moved swiftly to the telephone, which stood on a shelf below the window.

The scientist fixed Adam with a steady look. ‘Well,’ she observed. ‘You heard what your leader said.’

Adam gathered his thoughts and tried to be succinct. ‘Basically, it seems there’s a hostile group within the Home Guard who are planning to seize power in Britain, and turn us into a Communist state, like Soviet Russia.’

Edith Bird was aghast. ‘What?! The Home Guard? The Home Guard?!’

‘It’s true,’ said Barron. ‘Only a small element among them, of course. But it seems they’re being organized by some very cunning people. They have weapons, and they could have enough men to take control of key areas.’

‘And make Britain like Russia?’ Dr Bird’s face expressed a mixture of horror and incredulity. ‘What sort of men would want to do that?’

Hoskins was delivering some swift instructions into the phone. And then the door crashed open, and the three raiders came in, pointing guns.

Adam recognized Garrett. ‘Men like that,’ he replied.

‘All of you, stand against the wall with your hands up!’ shouted Brigden. Then he noticed what Hoskins was doing. ‘You! Put that phone down!’

Hoskins hesitated briefly, and Garrett fired a shot into the ceiling, to show they meant business. Hoskins said, ‘Sorry, Auntie, some guests have arrived,’ and then put the phone down.

Brigden rebuked his man. ‘Wasted shot! From now on, you only shoot to kill!’ He glared at Hoskins and gestured with his revolver. ‘Right. Now join the others against the wall! And quick!’

Hoskins seemed confused and nervous. He took the
handkerchief
from his breast pocket and mopped his brow.

‘Drop that!’ said Brigden. ‘Get your hands up! And back to the wall! Now!’

Hoskins was trembling. He let the handkerchief fall from nervous hands, raised his arms above his head, and went to stand with his back to the wall, choosing his place very
carefully
. The handkerchief fell on the table, covering the buff envelope.

Brigden turned to Garrett. ‘Which one is Webber?’

‘That one!’ said Garrett. ‘That’s the sod who’s given us all the trouble! Bleedin’ toe-rag!’ He walked forward and punched Adam hard in the stomach. ‘I’ve got my razor with me, Webber. So this time you’d better talk!’

‘You heard him,’ said Brigden. ‘Where’s the logbook?’

Was there any point in continuing to deny all knowledge of the notebook’s existence? Adam decided to try one more bluff. ‘What logbook?’ he gasped, still breathless from Garrett’s blow.

And then Brigden saw the blue notebook lying on the table. ‘That logbook!’ he said. He picked it up and looked inside. ‘This is the logbook your friend stole from my desk.’ He put it in the large inside pocket of his waterproof jacket.

So Brigden had very quickly found what he’d come for. But he still needed to know what had been going on, and how much of a threat there was to the big plan. He stared hard at Adam.

‘What the hell did low-life thieves like you and Jefferson want with this logbook?’ he demanded.

Adam couldn’t think of the wisest thing to say. So he said nothing.

Garrett hit him again. ‘Answer the officer!’ he barked.

By now, Adam had worked out that the best thing would be to feign ignorance of the notebook’s contents. It was a long shot, but Brigden and his men might just take the notebook and go. And the decoded version was in the envelope hidden under Hoskins’ handkerchief.

Adam sighed, as if finally forced to tell the truth. ‘I found it
in Jefferson’s room at the Cavendish,’ he said. ‘It seemed to be in some kind of code, so I thought it might be important. I always reckoned Jefferson had some money hidden away, and I thought there might be clues in the notebook.’

‘So what’s it doing here?’ rasped Brigden.

‘I brought it to work, to see if anyone had any ideas.’

‘And had they?’

‘No. It’s all gobbledygook.’

Brigden peered into Adam’s eyes. For a moment, it seemed that he might be deceived. But then, as he looked away, his glance took in the handwritten sheets on the desk – Adam’s flawed pages which Newman had discarded, pages with names and addresses on them.

‘You bloody liar!’ he rasped. ‘You’re not as thick as you look!

You know what this is all about, don’t you? Someone’s been decoding the logbook!’ Brigden scooped up the loose sheets and stuffed them into his pocket. His mind was racing. Straker’s message, passed on through intermediaries, had been urgent but limited: simply that the logbook was at the Research Centre on Southend Pier, that Webber was on his way to retrieve it, and that he must be stopped at all costs. Now Brigden had to consider the implications.

‘Who are all these people?’ he demanded. ‘What are they doing here?’

‘They work here,’ said Adam. ‘We’re all engaged in marine research.’

‘Like hell they are!’ said Garrett. He pointed at Superintendent Barron. ‘That bugger’s a copper! I’ve seen him on the job!’

‘Kindly stop using objectionable language!’ snapped Edith Bird.