THE SUMMER OF 66
Dan Wheatcroft
Copyright © 2020 by Dan Wheatcroft The right of Dan Wheatcroft to be
identified as the author of this work
has been asserted in accordance with
the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved.
This book or any portion thereof may not
be reproduced or used in any manner
whatsoever without the express written
permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the products of
the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Any resemblance to actual persons,
living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
ISBN: 9798667316534
Acknowledgements:
Fabiana: Advice and her love.
Cookie: Proofreading.
Cover: betibup33
Thanks to:
My brother Graeme
and Sid Cole for their insight.
Special thanks to:
Yongsoo Park for permission to use his words.
Bill: Old Bill-nickname for the British Police Bobby: British Police Officer – nickname DG: Director-General
Fitty: British for 'an attractive woman'
GCHQ: Government Communications Headquarters Governor: Met Police speak for Boss Browning 9 milly: 9mm pistol
KGB: Soviet Secret Police
Kip: Sleep
Met: Metropolitan Police (London)
Naafi: Shops for British military
Nick: Police Station
NKVD:Forerunner of the KGB
Obs: Observations or surveillance
OCD: Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder Plod: Nickname for uniformed Police P&SS: Police and Security Services RV: Rendezvous – a meeting
Skipper: Met Police speak for Sergeant SOE: Special Operations Executive
Sunray: Radio speak 'Commander/Leader'
Two bob: Two shilling piece
Two and six: Two shillings and sixpence Wellies: Wellington boots (rubber waterproof boots)
“Do you understand what I have not said
and what you have not heard
in this room that does not exist?”
Yongsoo Park, from the book Boy Genius
1966
The green door across the street bore only the number seven. Gallagher stared at it then glanced down at the piece of paper in his hand that proclaimed '7b'.
Above the adjacent shop, each end of the black-painted sign declared it was number five, between which he learned from the gold script that JD was a gunsmith. He crossed over the cobblestoned roadway to the side entrance of Harrington’s Hardware. No number displayed. Behind him, the windowless brick wall of Farralland painters, decorators, light removals and short-term storage with its barb-wired wall and sturdy metal gates was no help whatsoever.
He was beginning to think he’d been set up. “You’re taking the piss, aren’t you?” he'd told his boss when given the news. With a straight face, the man assured him it wasn’t a joke. Six months with a Home Office statistical unit. “Here’s the address,” he’d said, handing him the bit of paper, torn from a notebook.
1
A closer examination of the door revealed the dim, dirt outline of a lower case b, now plain to see on the finely cracked paint. He checked the ground, no sign of the missing letter. He took one last look at the note in his hand, crushed it and returned it to his pocket then pushed the buzzer. The door clacked and yielded a small gap. He pushed it open and a voice called, “Make sure you push it shut so it clicks then come on up.”
He climbed the steep, bare wood, creaking stairs that carried the compact hallway upwards, the memory of a former central carpet plain to see. At the top, a slim chap greeted him, light ginger short wavy hair, pale complexion with a hint of redness in the cheeks, suit trousers, a tie, shiny black shoes and his shirt sleeves rolled up tight. He introduced himself as ‘Sandy’.
“Are you a jock, Sandy, only I’m not picking up the accent,” Gallagher idly asked, as he followed him down the narrow corridor.
Sandy stopped and turned. “What makes you think I’m Scottish?”
Gallagher felt he’d made a faux pas and replied,
“Nothing, I just wondered, that’s all.”
2
They entered a room to their right, several large desks, each with a phone, wire basket paper trays and a chair. Dark green filing cabinets filled any available space apart from a small Formica topped kitchen table that supported a kettle, various mugs, several teaspoons, a sugar bowl and a bottle of sterilised milk. A dubious-looking tea towel hung from a suction cup on the wall.
“Chaps, this is Gallagher.” Three faces stared back at him from beneath fluorescent lighting.
“What’s your first name?” the fat guy asked him, adding, “My name’s Winston. I don’t like it being shortened.”
Gallagher: “John, but I prefer to be called ‘Gally’.”
They shook hands and the others joined in. “Clive,” the little fella with the receding hairline told him. “Ralph,”
the fifty-year-old bearded pipe smoker offered, blowing a cloud of mildly aromatic smoke into the air.
He was shown his desk, next to a window which provided him with a view of the works yard opposite.
He pointed at the nodding dachshund that guarded his phone but Sandy cut him short.
3
“It belonged to Alf. It was a sort of lucky charm for him.”
Gally released an understanding half-smile, tapped the dog’s head and watched it nod and wobble to and fro. “Retirement?”
“No, he had a heart attack, in that very chair actually.
Follow me. I’ll introduce you to Reg.” Sandy was off again, into the corridor and two doors up. A quick knock and they found its occupant poring over a file at a table next to the window; an ancient, green slimed drainpipe outside added much sought after colour to a bleak, damp stained brick wall.
“Reg is our researcher,” Sandy smiled. “Reg, this is Gallagher, the new boy. I’ll leave you to it. When you’ve finished, bring him back to me. I’ve got some things to issue him before he meets the ‘Old Man’.”
Reg nodded and removed his glasses. “Cup of tea?
I’ve only tea bags I’m afraid. I can’t be arsed to mess about with a tea strainer anymore.”
“Not a problem, I prefer them myself.” He sat at the table. “Why didn’t Sandy ask me for some 4
identification? I know it’s only a stats unit but still, it’s Home Office and I would have thought ...”
“He’ll have watched you on the CCTV. You didn’t see it? The monitor’s behind the door in the office, on the cabinets.” Reg dragged two tea bags out of a Tetley box, dropped them in the mugs then covered them with boiling water. “So, glad to be here?”
“Not really. I don’t know bugger all about stats.”
Reg laughed. “They didn’t tell you? It's probably your boss’s sense of humour, Hansen’s always been a bit dry. Good bloke, mind.”
He was intrigued. “You know my governor?”
Reg stirred both mugs then dumped the teabags in the bin at his feet. “Milk? Sugar?” Gally nodded then shook his head in turn.
Reg smiled. “Yes, of course I do. I've known him for years. He speaks quite highly of you.”
Gally was becoming confused. “You are talking about Superintendent Hansen from Special Branch?”
“Who else?” Reg put a coaster down on the plastic table cover followed by the mug. “Let me ask you a question? You got yourself in a bit of shit didn’t you 5
and thought this was a punishment posting?” Not waiting for a reply he continued, “Bert Hansen did you a favour. You’ll be out of the way of those that don’t wish you well.” He sipped his tea, “Biscuit?” Gally shook his head. Reg carried on. “We’re not just a stats unit. Winston and Ralph take care of most of that stuff but the rest? We do whatever comes along, field work mainly, apart from me, I get all the intel. We’re slightly beyond MI5, or Box as we prefer to call them." He quickly reflected. "Having said that, perhaps more to the side if I’m truthful. Anyway, it matters not from their point of view because there's very few of them know what we're actually about and those that do are ours anyway.”
“So, what you’re telling me is there’s only me, Sandy and Clive operational?”
“Correct. What more do you need? It’s more than sufficient for the everyday stuff and if needed we can always call on the Farralland chaps.”
“The crew across the road? Painters and decorators?”
Reg smiled sagely. “Highly professional painters and decorators, all from the military and handpicked.”
6
“So, you’re telling me this gets dangerous occasionally?”
“Well, Sandy will arrange for you to have a gun and if you're a good lad you might even get some bullets to go with it.” He sipped his tea then opened one of the filing cabinets, slid out a file and sat down with it at the table.
"Now, Gally. You don’t mind me calling you Gally, do you? Bert said you preferred it.” Another sip. “This file is the reason why you’re here. I can give you a brief overview but the detail has to wait until you’ve seen the Old Man.”
7
Sandy beamed at him. “Right! Here's your identification card.” He handed him a small buff coloured business card upon which was written
'Farralland Contractor'. Beneath, it bore the name,
'Andrew Hunter'. A telephone number occupied the reverse. Gally was less than impressed. He'd been expecting to get one with his photo on it. He'd combed his hair specially.
"What name were you given, Sandy?"
"Alex Hunter and Clive's says Adam. Oh, and don't phone the number unless you really need to. You'll get the engaged tone for forty seconds then they'll answer and ask for the 'word of the day' which you'll find posted on the notice board daily, in the main office, top right-hand corner."
"What is it today?"
"Take a look and you'll find out. Follow me!"
They climbed the stairs and entered a storeroom next door to the toilets where Sandy showed him the locker in which he was instructed to keep a suitable travel bag in readiness for any overnight stays they might have to 8
conduct. "We call them our 'ready kit'," Sandy informed him, straight-faced.
"Ingenious title," Gally dryly observed as they turned and left.
Passing the main office, they took the internal security door, descended steep steps and emerged directly into a workshop. A man in his sixties raised his glasses and called from the far side, “Hello, Sandy.
Grab a pew. I’ll be over in a tick.” Gally occupied himself by staring at the dishevelled sofa that looked as if the springs could do with some urgent refreshment.
"Right, young man!” JD of gunsmith fame said, standing close behind Gallagher and startling him. For a man in his sixties, he was remarkably quick and silent on his feet. “Follow me, and I’ll get you sorted out.” He slid behind a short counter and produced a ledger. “Just sign there.” He pointed at an entry.
“Do I know what I’m signing for?” Gally asked him.
“I don’t know. You can read, can’t you?” JD replied.
“What I mean is... shouldn’t I actually be given what I’m signing for first?”
9
JD huffed as he reached up to remove an item from a shelf. “I’ve no idea where you get them from, Sandy. I thought Clive was bad enough. Listen, son. You’re in my store now so you work by my rules. Sign that or you get bugger all.”
Sandy shifted awkwardly from foot to foot.
Gally did as he was told. He’d met this sort before when he’d done his national service. The Quartermaster’s Stores were always a fun-filled day. He remembered they gave him a mug. It had a grey mark on it under the enamel. When he’d mentioned it, they said nothing could be done and it was his to keep. His squad Corporal thought differently and kept giving him punishment duties. As he said, “That’s gopping that is.
You could give people diseases with that.” He’d tried covering the mark with toothpaste but the Corporal wasn’t fooled, more diseases apparently. He took it back to the stores where they said there was nothing wrong with it. He’d pointed out the mark and was told,
“Nope, you signed for it as being in good order. Not our problem now.” In the end, he’d resorted to swiping one from the unguarded locker of a soldier from another 10
squad. Someone else could now stand to attention for an hour outside a windswept guardroom in the rain.
“Revolver, 2 inch, Smith and Wesson,” JD said as he placed the weapon on the counter.
“Haven’t you got a little semi-automatic with more rounds and a couple of magazines? Gally asked.
Looking him up and down, JD replied, “Who do you think you are, son? James Bond?” He wandered over to a cabinet, unlocked it and returned with a box of rounds. He counted out 18, reached down then produced two speedloaders.
“Thirty-eight special, hollow points. More than enough for you, Wyatt Earp. They’re for defence purposes only, by the way.”
Gally checked the weapon and inspected the rounds.
As satisfied as he could be in the circumstances, he looked up just as JD threw him a pancake holster. “Use your own belt, son,” he said with a smile before inspecting the ledger. Happy, he closed it and placed it back under the counter. “Nothing else I can think of.
Oh! Here's a cleaning kit for you, on the house.” He handed over a small opened tin; little wire brush, bit of 11
cloth and a greasy bottle which Gally knew would contain gun oil. “Any questions?”
Gallagher looked thoughtful then waved the speedloaders. “Do I get anything to put these in?”
JD grinned. “Yeah, your pockets. Anything else?”
“There is something I’m just curious about. Who’s minding the shop?”
The gunsmith took a grey hanky from his pocket, blew his nose then yanked his pants up. “No one, my lad. Appointments only.”
“Come on,” Sandy interrupted. “We’ll stow this stuff upstairs before we nip across to the yard for your transport.” Gally gave his ginger colleague a wan smile and followed but couldn’t help wondering what the transport would be and if he’d need to buy himself a set of bike clips.
In the yard, he surveyed the grey Austin A55
Cambridge he’d been allocated. It could have been worse.
“I take it you don’t have anything a bit more sporty then?” he asked Sandy with a straight face.
12
“No, it’s all about keeping a low profile, Gally. I’d have thought you knew that?”
“I’m just winding you up, Ginge. You take it all very seriously, don’t you?”
Sandy forced out a little smile. “Yes, I do and you could do with making the effort to look as if you do as well, Gally. The Old Man isn’t one to suffer fools.” He glanced back at the car then said, “And the name is Sandy.”
Gallagher gave him a frown. “I’m sorry, but it has to be Ginge between you and me, mate. I’m not taking you for a pint and introducing you as ‘And this is my friend, Sandy'.”
Ginge scowled back at him, perplexed but then let out a little laugh. “Oh, I see, that programme, Round the Horne.”
Gally nodded, shielding his eyes as he peered into the car. “Well, at least it’s got a radio. Let’s get the keys, eh, and see what she sounds like?”
After playing around with the gear stick, handbrake and anything else he could think of he turned on the radio and tuned into the Home Service then the Light 13
Programme. "That'll do me," he declared, gunning the engine. "Sounds a bit sedate but it's dryer than a bike."
Stood outside the Old Man’s office, Gallagher brushed his hair with a hand and straightened his tie. A glance at his shoes led him to quickly buff them against the back of his dark grey suit trousers. He tapped the door and stepped in.
“Close the door, Gallagher, and sit down.” The desk was vacant, a black coat, white scarf and a trilby gave the coat stand something to do. The figure that came out from behind the door was reading a file, unlit pipe gripped between his teeth. He waved Gally to the hard-backed chair positioned at a slight angle. The most startling thing about him was he wasn’t old at all. Not a hint of grey that Gallagher could see and, in his estimation, he didn’t look that much older than himself, but that’s where any similarity ended.
He was probably Oxbridge educated, ex-Guards Officer, wealthy family, old in the head. He could've gone on but his thoughts were interrupted
“I know what you’re thinking, Gallagher, the pipe doesn’t fit but I’m trying to give up smoking and 14
sucking on this thing seems to help. Relax, man. I won’t bite unless you fuck up.”
He flicked through the file, chewing the pipe, and then looked up. “Your superior thinks highly of you, Gallagher. He states you have an analytical mind but a tendency to be flippant which some may find amusing whilst those of a certain disposition won’t. Personally, I find that sort of thing tedious and annoying.” He paused, meaningfully. “I think he’s given you far too much leeway at times which may have led to your cockiness and current predicament. Despite your lack of academic qualifications, you did well to make it to Special Branch but your morals are somewhat questionable. I suppose you're going to try and tell me you didn't know she was your Inspector's wife?"
An almost imperceivable smile flitted across Gallagher's lips. "Oh, I knew who she was alright but he's a right nasty little shit if you don't mind me saying so, Sir. Anyway, she was very persistent and in the end, I succumbed. I'm only human after all."
The Old Man gave him a hard stare. "Well, I won't tolerate such behaviour here, Gallagher."
15
"I don't think it'll ever be likely, Sir."
"And by that, you mean what exactly?"
"I'm just sure that no one here is unlucky enough to have such a saucy little mare on their hands, Sir." He produced a benevolent half-smile.
The figure opposite him paused and then seemed to think better of it, glancing down at the file once more.
"I made some further enquiries regarding your national service and your claim when you joined the police that you worked in signals intelligence.”
Gally felt an interruption was in order. “I didn’t tell any lies, Sir.”
The Old Man took the pipe from his mouth. “No, I’ll give you that but you weren’t exactly forthcoming with the truth. It seems the impression you gave was you were more Int than Sigs."
Gally was straight-faced, not a tremor or hint of a facial tick. "I don't know where they got that from, Sir. I never said I was in the Intelligence Corps. I distinctly remember putting the emphasis on the Signals part of the title, Sir."
16
The Old Man glanced at the file. “It says here you held rank in your unit.”
“I did, Sir. I was a Lance Corporal.”
“Yes, for three weeks then they took it back off you because you were late on parade. Twice.”
“Ah, now, they never asked me about that, Sir, and it’s not my fault if people make assumptions.”
He closed the file. “Essentially, Gallagher, you spent the entire time making the tea and enjoying the adoration of any woman in the locality who was foolish enough to leave the house whilst you weren’t fully employed, which appears to have been quite often.
However, you have, I’m told, skills that should be of benefit to this department and, dare I say, the country as a whole. Don’t let that comment swell your head.”
He pointed the pipe at him. “From here on in, you are a deniable resource. If you bring this department to the unwanted attention of anyone, your feet won’t touch the ground. If you get yourself into an embarrassing situation, we don’t know you, the Government won't know you and I don’t think the Police will want to either. Now, be very aware, if you think at any time that 17
spilling the beans will save you I must tell you it won’t, the exact opposite in fact. To be quite frank, we have some very motivated people working just across the road who wouldn’t bat an eyelid if we asked them to make you disappear.” The pipe went back in the mouth.
“Don’t think I won’t make it so, even if you grow on me. Now, go and get yourself a brew, get acquainted with your desk, then pop along and Reg will bring you up to speed. It’s an important case, serious implications, but there’s never been a better time to crack it. With all the attention on the World Cup, it gives us some much-needed leeway.” He attempted an affable smile but for Gally it just made him look sinister.
“Can I ask you a question, Sir?”
“Yes, certainly.”
“Is it too late for me to go back to SB?”
“I’m afraid so, Gallagher. You’re in way too deep already. Close the door behind you.”
18
He jiggled the key in the lock, kicked the bottom of the door and trod on the junk mail before trudging up the narrow stairs. In the kitchen, he draped his jacket over one of the chairs at the Formica-topped table.
Fridge opened, he pushed the cold meats, cheese and eggs from the local delicatessen onto a shelf and closed the door. Methodically, he stacked the spaghetti hoops and baked beans on the counter before shoving a fresh loaf in the bread bin. Loosening his tie, he took a bottle of Double Diamond from the cupboard, flipped the top and poured it into the glass he’d ‘borrowed’ from the pub around the corner.
In the living room, he flicked on the telly, closed the curtains and slid off his shoes. As the TV slithered into life, he took two Len Deighton’s and an Agatha Christie from his bookshelf and placed them beneath the aerial whilst making some adjustments. Instant improvement, not brilliant, but much better. Some days the reception was almost perfect, others almost nonexistent. One of life’s mysteries.
19
The mews was small and quiet. Not a grand place but up and coming. Most people seemed to have the money to at least tart up the outsides and he suspected their interiors were a big improvement on his own. He’d get around to it, given time. At least he’d plugged the leaks in the roof, almost sorted the damp and given it a quick paint job.
He’d bought the place because it was affordable.
‘Bought’ was perhaps not quite right. ‘They’d given him a mortgage’ was much more accurate but it had been cost-effective for two reasons; the state it had been left in and the fact the local underground made frequent, although brief, excursions into fresh air via the deep cutting that bordered his outside wall.
The previous owner had been an aspiring artist but the only thing he’d succeeded in becoming, judging by all the empty bottles left behind, was one of the piss variety. Certainly, if the few canvasses he'd found in what he hoped would become a garage were anything to go by the bloke would have gained more respect telling people he was a comedian.
20
Unfortunately, the garage idea hadn’t yet developed into reality. Gally couldn’t find anywhere to dispose of the decaying remains of an ancient hansom cab and he no longer had the money for a car having overspent on some suits that he hadn’t been able to resist. Well, the suits and a couple of casuals to be exact. He’d viewed it as an investment in his future sexual wellbeing and, to be honest, it had already paid dividends.
For work, he wore stuff considerably cheaper but needed to look reasonable so bought from either a local back street tailor or local menswear. When he wanted or needed a lower profile he ditched the tie and wore stuff from the market; an old casual jacket or, if he suspected a chill in the air, his peacoat. The thing was though, if you hoped to attract the right sort of woman; slightly older, married, bored, no complications or future expectations, the right look was essential. That sort of woman knew what they wanted and the fact he lived in a mews always seemed to impress them as well, so he stretched himself and went to Anthony Sinclair, the man who’d made Bond’s suits for Goldfinger. When 21
wearing one of those there was only one place to go when he felt lucky; the West End.
Anyway, the area was decent enough not to disappoint the infrequent visitor and subtle use of table lamps tended to distract from close inspection of his decorating and, as a bonus, the neighbours were reasonable people. They didn’t ask him any awkward questions, so he reciprocated. There was an actor living at the entrance end, nice sort of chap, specialised in playing TV baddies but having spoken to him on several occasions Gally suspected if he ever met a real East End gangster he’d be wishing he’d worn his brown corduroys.
With another swig of beer, he wandered into the bedroom deciding he’d definitely have a night in then get up early and have a bath in the morning. It’d been a long day, a lot to think about but not now, all he needed tonight was some fairly mindless light entertainment.
Back in the kitchen, dressing gown and slippers, he stared into the fridge, then a couple of cupboards, reminding himself he needed to get wine to replace the two bottles he usually kept for ‘entertaining’ purposes.
22
Normally, it would be a Vesta packet curry night but he couldn’t be arsed pushing the boat out so resorted to a stalwart from his Army days. Egg banjos. Fried eggs on buttered bread smothered in ketchup. Foolproof.
With a plate of three, he settled down with another beer for a bit of Adam Adamant followed by Petula Clark, then he’d go to bed with a book.
23
He spent Friday poring over the file he’d discussed with Reg. Five men all working on a cryptology and communications project had, in the past two years, seemingly committed suicide. The Government had played it down on every occasion revealing only that each man worked on unclassified, unconnected projects.
The first three had been coroner confirmed, the last two were more recent and hadn’t got that far although the Police were of the opinion that despite there being no suicide notes there could be no other explanation.
What Her Majesty’s Government hadn’t wanted to reveal was that each man had a pivotal role in a developmental programme. The first death set it back at least nine months, the next two, in close succession, a year. It seemed, every time it got back on track and looked like progressing further, someone decided to top themselves.
Whilst the newspapers bought the coincidence, MI5
had their chief suspects as being East German agents.
Direct involvement from the Russians, if caught out, could cause immense diplomatic implications that no 24
one wanted to think about. On the other hand, the East Germans, known for their 'react first think later'
mentality, were almost a deniable resource. If the shit hit the fan, then diplomatically, the Russians could claim they'd had no knowledge and pledge to rein the East Germans back in – a few heads would appear to roll and everyone would be happy.
Many countries and alliances didn't recognise East Germany, or even the DDR as it was formally called, and the UK was one of them. As a result, neither country had an embassy in the other's territory.
However, it had been established there were three East Germans working from the Polish Embassy. They were under 24-hour surveillance but all of them appeared to be doing bugger all other than walking around London and taking occasional sightseeing trips into various parts of the Home Counties.
He trawled through the Police files; statements, photographs of the scene, post-mortem pics and reports.
Three down and two to go. A mug of tea appeared in front of him. "Thanks."
25
"Careful, it might still be hot." Reg sat down and opened a club biscuit.
Gallagher looked up. "When did they first think things were not quite as they seemed?"
Reg munched away. " They didn't. We were asked to come up with the statistical chances of the initial three all dying as they had. Oddly enough, given the scope of the programme and the diverse sources of input, the answer is 'not as unusual as you might first think' but I asked for the post-mortem report and photographs and that's when I saw the giveaway little pinprick on their legs or in one case his buttock. The pathologists picked it up as well, mind, but the tests for the usual drugs came up negative in all but one case. They flagged it as a point of mild interest and it was there to be read if you bothered to do so. We fed the info back and it seems the Stasi have form for using some type of currently untraceable slow-release drug that brings on mood swings, anxiety and depression. All of them have displayed those symptoms to one extent or another."
Reg popped the last bit of biscuit in his mouth and wiped his hands on his trousers.
26
"Wouldn't that be something they'd be more likely to administer over a period of time, the mood swing thing?
It strikes me if they injected him with something it would be to make him compliant, therefore more immediate."
Reg adjusted his glasses. "Yes, you're right, of course. It makes sense. We don't know how they managed to administer the other stuff but it was probably dropped in a drink or their food so it could have happened anywhere. It'll be completely tasteless, naturally. Wanstead, the third one, we know was full of LSD when he went off Beachy Head cliffs."
"Are the post-mortem reports and pics for him and the other chap, Eddlestone, in their envelopes?" Gally sipped his brew.
"Yes and no. We haven't got the full pathologist's report and post-mortem photos for Eddlestone yet."
"Who's getting all this stuff for you anyway? Who's your Police Liaison?"
"Your Boss, Bert Hansen."
"I'll speak to him; ask him if he can chase it up. You know, Reg, I can't help wondering if some of these East 27
Germans aren't maybe just there as a distraction but I've only read the summaries. Are the typed surveillance logs in here somewhere?"
Reg smiled. "They're at the back in that tatty envelope. I haven't had a chance to go through them all myself yet."
"Why are we looking into this? Surely Box are more than capable."
Reg gave him a pleasant smile. "They're accountable, Gally. We're not. What I mean is, we're a Stats Unit. We're accountable for the stats; nothing else."
"What did the Old Man mean by 'with all the attention on the World Cup it gives us some much-needed leeway'?
"Surely you can work that one out by yourself but just to keep you straight I'll put it this way. Diplomatic incidents of this nature are more likely to disappear into the ether during a time when journalists and the public are distracted by other matters. If, for some reason, any of the participants should end up, shall we say, permanently indisposed then it's easier to hide."
28
"Are you telling me that Farralland can just bury people in the woods?"
"If they have to then, yes, but they have access to an appropriate facility so, usually, they just scatter them in a river." He saw the reaction. "Or the woods. It's a fact of life, son."
Gally sat back, sipping his tea. "Well, that's heartening to know, Reg." He glanced at his wrist.
"Blimey, time flies. I'll have to start making a move, places to go."
"What you got planned for your evening, by the way, just out of interest?"
"Well, I'm feeling lucky tonight so I thought I might head up West and sample some of the nightlife if you know what I mean."
Reg nodded. He had an inkling. "Listen, to change the subject, I've read your file." A pause. "I just thought I'd let you know."
Gallagher eyed him with suspicion. "Who else has been nosing through it?"
"No one, son. The Old Man thought I should, seeing as we'll be working so closely together. He thought I 29
might be able to keep a fatherly eye on you, what with you not having one with the war and all that."
Gally frowned." And what's going to happen when I want to chat with my Mum. Are you going to dress up for that one, Reg, because by all accounts she was a good looking woman and it would be nice if you made the effort? Personally, I don't remember her you see, but my Gran told me."
Reg stood up and took his mug to the small sink in the corner and began rinsing it. "I didn't mean any harm, lad." He grabbed the tea towel. "Why don't you come out with me? I'm off to a club tonight."
Gally laughed, "Well, bugger me, this could be interesting. What club is that, Reg? You won't be wearing a raincoat I hope?"
Reg chuckled. "Chance would be a fine thing. No, the Philately club down the Nag's Head."
"The Phila... I can't even say the word. You're going to a pub to study butterflies?"
"Nah! That's Lepidopterology."
"I thought that was a study of leopards?"
30
It was Reg's turn to laugh out loud. "Now, I know you're not that stupid!"
Gally beamed back at him. "I must be. I was too dim to go to a Grammar School. I only just made it to Secondary Modern."
Reg wagged a finger at him. "You're forgetting I've read your file. You weren't too thick, you were just too lazy and wanted to stay with your mates."
"Well, be that as it may, I'll have to decline your kind invitation on this occasion." He paused. "I know tomorrow's a Saturday but, you likely to be available in the afternoon?"
"You want to plough through some more of the file?"
Gally nodded. "If you don't mind?"
Reg scribbled something down then tore it from the page and handed it to him. "Give me a call when you've surfaced."
31
16th July
She smiled at him from the doorway and gave him a little wave, clutch bag still in hand. He sat and listened to her clip-clopping carefully down the stairs. At the window, he watched her walk along the mews towards the main street then picked up the plates and cutlery, rinsing them in the sink.
She wasn't his usual type. A couple of years younger than him, he'd noticed her and smiled back. After a while, she'd joined him at the bar then took him to a nearby jazz club; cellar deep and death defyingly smoky. Four people played all the right notes in the wrong order whilst a fifth seemed to be making it up as he went along.
He suggested somewhere slightly less toxic but tactfully agreed the music was wonderful. He preferred Sinatra and Munro but now was not the time to be partisan. Well, one thing led to another. She was down from Oxford, an intelligent girl doing a DPhil, looking for a bit of intellectual 'rough'. How could he say no?
32
Anyway, the morning hadn't been wasted. His other visitors were usually gone by 6 am, if not before. But she'd stayed and was still game so he thought he'd treat her to beans on toast as a breakfast reward.
He turned the immersion heater on, took his suit onto the flat roof, hanging it to air from the washing line and rang Reg. A saunter down to the newsagent's for a paper followed by a bath, shave and listen to the news then he headed into the office.
33
After a brew, and Reg filling him in on a great night at the stamp club, they divided up the transcripts and sat there quietly reading, the silence only broken by an almost hourly, "another cuppa?" and "club or digestive?"
The hours trickled away, interrupted now and then by a visit to the toilets on the next floor up which served as a welcome leg stretcher as well.
Eventually, Gallagher sat back with a sigh. "Mind-numbing stuff this, Reg, but I'm now fairly convinced that two of these guys are simply there as a distraction. I mean, this chap they reckon is really Harald Radler?
Well, if the surveillance is as good as it should be, he appears to be the only one doing anything different. A lot of aimless wandering around all over the place like the others but..."
Reg looked up from the paperwork. "Yeah? What have you got?"
Gallagher rubbed his chin. "Well, he's the only one posting stuff."
34
"I know, Gally. It was on the summary and they checked it out. They managed to intercept it and he's sending stamps to some stamp enthusiast or dealer out in the Cotswolds somewhere. If I remember rightly, they're the sort of thing somebody new to it would be interested in. Same with the others he sent. They sealed them up again and reposted. I tend to agree with their stamp 'expert' who believes the bloke receiving them is making up compilations to sell as starter packs, probably at local markets and the like. Afterwards, they found out he'd placed an advert in The Times asking people to send him European stamps, particularly any from the Eastern Block. We think Radler's seen it and responded. He's got kids himself apparently, that's if the identification is correct."
"How did they identify what he'd posted?"
"The surveillance photos. You couldn't miss it. Big brown envelope."
"What countries were the stamps from, Reg?" His colleague flicked through the paperwork in response.
"Hang on." A few moments silence then, "According to this, the first one contained a selection of Polish 35
stamps, the second mainly from Czechoslovakia and the third and fourth Romanian and some French."
"But nothing from East Germany?"
"No."
"So, he's being kind but keeping his cover?
Interesting. It makes me think he's playing a game." He paused. "You know, he doesn't appear to have a strict timetable or place for when he posts his letters although they all seem to be in the same general area. He's travelled out of town from time to time but I can't see that he's ever posted anything whilst doing so. There's a clue there, Reg, but I can't work out what it is at the moment." He pondered a while then said, "Never mind, it'll come. Incidentally, how are MI5 intercepting the stuff? GPO Investigations?"
Reg nodded. "Once they knew what they were looking for. Normally, as you know, they'd photograph what they found, reseal it and send it on its way but in this case our colleagues received the originals to check them for microdots and the like."
"Right, well, pass us that pen and notebook, the big one, will you? I need to make some notes I can read at 36
home. Oh, and is it possible you can get me everything known about Radler and the other two?"
Hours later, Gallagher sat rubbing his head with his hands. "I've got a blinding headache. I need to think about this overnight. Won't your missus be waiting for you, Reg?"
"She's waiting but not in this life, Gally. She died five years ago."
"I'm so sorry, Reg. I'm an idiot. I just assumed..."
Reg patted him on the shoulder as he stood up to take the mugs to the sink. "Don't worry about it, son.
We had thirty happy years. Maybe I should have told you."
Gally checked his watch. "I didn't realise what the time was and you've sat there patiently putting up with me, saying bugger all. Let's call it a day."
Reg dried the mugs and placed them back by the kettle. "Do you want to do the same tomorrow? It's just I've got a meeting with the astronomy boys at half twelve so, if you did, I'll have to give you my keys or meet you in the morning to let you in. You just pull the 37
doors to when you leave." He placed a plastic tumbler of water on the table and a box of aspirin.
Gally smiled at him, took two tablets and half the water. "That's a kind offer but I couldn't disturb you further. A day off for both of us, I think. I've got some personal admin to occupy me if I can manage to stop thinking this one through."
38
He'd missed the match but watched the highlights.
England won 2-0 against Mexico. Though not an ardent football fan he had to admit the first goal had been a superb strike from Bobby Charlton. He woke at six, still on the settee, the telly flickering static before he turned it off and crawled into bed for a few more hours.
Back up at eleven, he ate his cornflakes deep in thought then took a quick wash, donned some casuals and headed for the launderette with a bag of washing, a book and a pocketful of change. Returning home only to deposit his clean and folded laundry, he grabbed the car keys and took a tour of the areas Radler had posted his letters in, box by box, making notes on the crib sheets in his hand.
In a little 'private members' club he sometimes frequented, he had a couple of pints and joined a conversation simply to distract himself from more serious thought then he eventually went home to pore over his notes and the tourist map he'd bought.
Spreading it out over his kitchen table, he methodically read through the locations then placed a felt tip mark to 39
indicate the position of each post box followed by meticulously studying the posting and collection times.
Monday, early start, and Reg greeted him with the inevitable mug of tea and an unexpected Jammie Dodger before informing him he'd spoken to Bert Hansen whilst at the astronomy club. "He said he'd chase it up, the post-mortem and photos for Eddlestone." In turn, Gallagher, whilst surprised at his old boss's interests, spoke of his post box enquiries.
"Do you know what I think? I think these letters with the stamps in them are simply a diversion. I think, when he posts some of them he's 'double tapping', posting another letter hidden by the other."
Reg interrupted. "But GPO Investigations are intercepting?"
Gally smiled. "I know, but only those letters he's posting to the bloke in the Cotswolds which, if you ask me, he's made quite obvious, big brown envelope and all that. A change of style on a letter addressed to somewhere else might go undetected but I think Radler has assumed we'd do what they'd do; snaffle the entire contents of the post box and go through the lot."
40
He paused and watched Reg's face which showed he needed more so he gave it to him. "Look, we've both read his file. He's a clever operator. I reckon he'll know Box pay special attention to new arrivals, it's what the Stasi will do I'm pretty certain, fools if they don't, but he probably can't afford the luxury of a waiting game. I don't think the timing of their arrival and the current sporting events are coincidental. They're already on a timer but I reckon they don't have to find a target because they already have one picked out. Let's face it, his own people call him der Zauberer which not only means magician or wizard, as his file says, but it also means conjurer."
Reg gave him a quizzical look. Gally continued. "I looked it up in my German to English dictionary and we know what conjurer's do, they use sleight of hand.
Anyway, I think he knows damn well they'll be monitored and I think he's doing exactly what I'd do, appear to be doing something verifiably innocent whilst using it to cover an illicit contact. It's not so much dead letterboxes, Reg, it's red letterboxes." He paused to see 41
if what he'd said had sunk in. He saw the slight confusion.
"Look, Reg, like a dead letterbox needs someone to collect its contents a red one needs someone to do the same. Who does that? I think his contact is a postman and I'll tell you why. I've been through all the times and locations. I even spoke to my postie this morning."
Gallagher unfolded his tourist map and began pointing at the felt tip dots. "He tells me all the boxes in this area go to a sorting office up here and the others go to this one over there."
He dragged his notes over. "All these timings are only minutes or so before a collection." He jabbed the map. "The ones here have been posted no more than ten minutes before a collection while these, the larger in number, are only posted with minutes to spare. In all these cases, Radler's been walking around with his letter in his jacket for an hour or so without posting it. Look, the surveillance log has him in this street forty-five minutes before he posts it and I know there's a post box there because I checked. Why didn't he use it? Because it's not one of the agreed boxes is my bet."
42
His finger stabbed the felt tip marks. "These other boxes you can see are less in number and they're the ones where he's been posting ten minutes before a collection. Why? I think it's because they aren't on the postie's normal round, they feed the other sorting office.
I think the ten minutes are so their postman contact can get to the boxes before the regular guy. Now, he'd need keys to those boxes and he wouldn't have them unless he worked, or had worked, in the sorting office for the area. I think our man has either worked on that round at one time or has somehow acquired a set. Why do they do it this way? Because the postman pockets the incriminating mail and the rest goes back to the sorting office where the GPO intercept for Box."
Reg looked up at him. "Ok, seems feasible but what about the days the letters are being posted? They seem a bit random?"
Gally grinned. "They only seem that way. My best guess is this particular postman is part-time. I think, when we find him, those days will mirror the days he works. And, I'm hoping he shouldn't be too hard to identify. I wouldn't have thought so anyway."
43
Reg gave a newly informed nod. "It does make sense especially since I was told this morning the surveillance on our stamp dealer pans out. The man's as dull as ditchwater and all the letters and the stamp collections being sent are clean. But you're right, Gally, it shouldn't be too difficult to identify our postman though you realise what we're talking about here?"
"More sleepers?"
"That's right. He's got to be passing this stuff on to someone else because these deaths would need more than one person to carry them out, don't you think?"
"My thoughts exactly, Reg."
Gallagher picked up the mugs and took them to the sink as he continued. "Now, our friends are going to have to maintain the impression of the existing surveillance whilst targeting the new guy to see who he's passing the information on to. If they don't, I think the likes of our Herr Radler will be quick to suspect a change in the gameplay and then we'll lose the benefit of everything we've got up to now. So, Box need to keep a team on him, end the obs on the stamp man and, when we find out who he is, transfer it to our postman."
44
Reg joined him and dried the mugs with the tea towel. "Why withdraw the team on the stamp man?
Shouldn't we give it a few more days, at least?"
Gally shook his head. "No. I think he'll be well aware of the ‘eyes on’. What catches my attention is Radler making his envelope so obvious, even allowing himself to be seen carrying it. He's the Conjurer, don't forget. I need to see what they've got up their sleeves.
They expect to be watched, they've encouraged it and with it being 'routine' I think routine attitudes will be in play. In a small village, the surveillance will be easy to spot, especially if you're looking for it. We need to make them feel safe and then put some hard to spot people in, this mob across the road are perfect."
The kettle boiled. Reg looked at him. "Cuppa and a Jammie Dodger?"
Gally smiled, "Yeah, why not? We'll have this then I've to go downstairs for range practice, so Sandy tells me." He sat down at the table. "Reg? Get Box to pull their surveillance on our stamp dealer, today, the sooner the better."
45
He loaded up with semi wadcutters and admired the small range facility in the cellar. "Nice place you've got here."
JD ignored him. "Right, when you're ready, react to the targets and don't forget to reload. It's going to be an eighteen round practice, three targets appearing each time. You'll be given eight seconds between each exposure to reload. Are you ready?"
He checked the two speedloaders in his right-hand jacket pocket, adjusted himself then nodded. "Ready."
JD stood back. "Watch and shoot! Watch and shoot!"
Sandy and Clive stood by the table near the entrance drinking tea. At the end of the practice, Gally and JD
inspected the targets. "Not bad, young man. Let's go back and do it once more. Try to shave a bit of time off your reloads."
"It's not easy getting them out of my pocket, you know."
"Never said it was, son. Never said it was." JD had no time for 'lame' excuses.
46
When he'd finished, Gally, with a wave of the gun, asked, "Am I supposed to clean it down here?"
JD, already lining Sandy up for his practice, looked back and replied, "You've got your own cleaning kit so fuck off back to your office, there's a good lad."
A surreptitious smile played across Gally's lips. Yep, definitely ex-Army, the sort of bloke who, when you attempted to hand a weapon back to the armoury, could repeatedly find invisible bits down the barrel and send you back to clean it all over again. He nodded to Clive who simply raised his eyebrows and shrugged an apology. Gally left to the sounds of, "Watch and shoot!
Watch and shoot!"
Back in the office, he sat at his desk stuffing the little wire brush down the barrel repeatedly. Their conversation about the World Cup had run dry so he thought he'd give it a go.
"What's the score with the Old Man? Simple pen pusher or what?"
Winston sat at his desk eating digestives dunked in a large mug. "Don't knock pen-pushing. It's an honourable profession."
47
Ralph blew out a cloud of smoke, got up and closed the door after a quick check of the corridor. "He used to be operational, part of a network behind the curtain that went tits up. He was lucky to get out, some didn't." He looked at Winston, who confirmed, "Yeah, that's what we heard. Only happened a few years ago as well, apparently."
Gally dragged the measured piece of cloth through the weapon and held it up to the light as he peered into the barrel. Satisfied, he closed the chamber and put the gun and cleaning kit in his drawer, turning the key.
"Why's he called the Old Man? He doesn't look much older than me."
Ralph smiled. "It just became a habit that kind of stuck. When I first came here the previous director was an old man, wasn't he Winston? "
"Yeah, a right crusty miserable old sod," Winston chipped in.
Gally tapped the dachshund on the head with his pen. "That may be, but his mother probably loved him."
The dog nodded sagely. "So things were so bad this chap's an improvement?"
48
Ralph sucked on his pipe. "He's ok, when you get to know him better, not that we know him that well, but you know what I mean."
Gally did. "Just out of interest, what am I supposed to do, stats-wise, if there's a rush on and you two need some help? I think that's what Sandy told me, we're expected to weigh in."
Winston fished bits of a wayward biscuit out of his mug with a teaspoon ensuring nothing was wasted.
"You just find the files we need and we do the rest."
"What if you get overwhelmed?"
Ralph answered, "Seldom happens, does it, Winston?
But if it does we just make it all up. Not many people read this stuff and those that do don't understand it anyway." Yet another plume of smoke joined the ceiling.
A tap at the door which then opened. It was Reg.
"Gally, the Old Man wants to see us, now."
They stood as he read the interim report. Gallagher inspected the office. No personal pictures, just a portrait of the Queen over drab Government wallpaper and a good quality carpet, meant to last for years, which it 49
had. A closed, connecting, solid door led to another room, probably the 'secret files' room, he thought.
The sudden voice brought him back. "What you are telling me is that only one of these Stasi agents is being productive, this Radler fellow, and you believe Box aren't getting any results because they're looking in the wrong direction?" Gallagher nodded compliantly.
"You also believe that his contact is one of the postmen. Radler's posting two as if they are one and the active letters are probably discernible to his postman by size, colour or simply the address. Have we identified the postman and initiated surveillance?"
Reg answered. "GPO Investigations have just been on. They think they've identified him, Sir. I've already had our contact at Box introduce the information into their process and they've just confirmed they've pulled their observations on the Cotswolds stamp dealer and it'll be transferred to our postie."
The Old Man took off his glasses. "Well done, Reg, but are we satisfied we haven't got a Stasi team entering the country pretending to be West German football fans?"
50
It was Gally's turn. "We have considered that, Sir, and we can't rule it out for obvious reasons but I think this has always been about sleepers. I don't think they flew a team here before for the other deaths, much too cumbersome, so why do it now? No, I think it's all about deep-cover agents."
"And you believe there's another death on the way?"
"I do, Sir. Either they're getting ready to extract them or they're preparing to target someone else. Who though is another matter? Reg is working on that, aren't you, Reg?" He turned to give him a glance.
Reg nodded. "I am, Sir. Clive's going to give me a hand."
The Old Man looked up at Gally. "And what will you be doing? Something useful, I hope?"
. "Well, Sandy and I will be keeping an eye on our stamp dealer in the Cotswolds, Sir. Now the surveillance on him has been pulled, it won't take him long to notice. I'm hoping he'll reveal his true self somewhere along the way."
He was rewarded with a smile and a brusque, "Then why are you still here, Gallagher?"
51