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Armed with a list Reg had handed them at midday, Sandy and Gallagher pulled onto the kerb in Netheravon and looked up at the sign. 'Broadhurst Motors'.
"C'mon. Let's see if they've still got it," Gally said as he opened the door.
On the front lot, they wandered through the cars on display and it didn't take long to find. Humber Hawk, two-tone grey. Technically, the firm was just outside the search area but one of the local uniformed officers had admired it, then, when he mentioned his intention to buy it to his colleagues back at the nick, they pointed out the crime circulation requesting sightings and possible location.
"Hello there! Can I assist you at all? That's a lovely car that one. Not much on the clock, one previous lady owner."
They turned to see a man in his thirties, hint of desperation to his eyes, wife, three kids, mortgage and all the hallmarks, less the spiv moustache, of a car salesman going through a lean patch.
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Gally flashed his warrant card. "Detective Inspector Gallagher, Swindon CID." He waved vacantly at Sandy.
"This is my Detective Constable. Is the boss around, we'd like to speak to him?"
He scuttled off. A few moments later he re-emerged and zoomed in on a young couple admiring a mini.
Several minutes later a short man, stocky build, clean-shaven, liked a pint, wearing a slightly crumpled business suit came out and greeted them.
"Hello, Officers! How can I help you? Sorry for the delay, I was on the phone; the wife, you know what they're like." He smiled and extended his hand. "You're interested in the Hawk, I believe? Is there a problem?"
Gally shook his head. "Not really, we're looking for one like this that would have had damage to the front nearside wing. This looks quite tidy. Have you repaired it?" he asked.
"No. I've only just bought it in. The nearside wing has been replaced and resprayed, though."
"How can you tell?"
"Tricks of the trade, besides, if you check beneath the wing it's clean. Check the other one, it's obvious it's 165
been there much, much longer. Good job though, don't you think?"
They had to admit they did.
"Who did you buy it off?"
"Another trader."
"Is that usual?"
"Happens all the time. Especially if it's a repair job.
Locals might know the car, go blabbing around. It's easier to sell it on to another dealer at a discount rather than have it sat there for months and months and generally speaking, the punters won't notice as long as the car's structurally sound. That's why I don't feel the need to mention its entire history. One lady driver is truth enough, although it would appear that maybe she wasn't that careful."
"Who did you get it from?"
"Cherney's in Marlborough. I've dealt with him before. Met him through the Rotary Club. Decent bloke." He hesitated. "Any problem me selling it? I was looking for the quick sale that's why I've not loaded much on the price I paid."
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Gally looked at Sandy who shrugged his shoulders and said, "Not a problem as far as I can see."
"Nor me," Gally replied. "Yeah, you can flog it."
The man grinned. "Just as well, here's my punter now. If you'll excuse me, I must go and sort him out.
Glad I could be of help."
They sat in Gally's car, still on the pavement, and thumbed through the list. 'Cherney Motors' was there.
Marlborough. Thirty minutes north. Sandy opened the thermos flask and poured them a coffee.
"It's already sugared," he said as he passed it over after a sip. "Any chance I can at least be a Detective Sergeant next time?"
Gally laughed. "And there was I going to let you be the Inspector but if you don't fancy it." He tutted. "Fear of public speaking is a terrible thing."
"No, no, I'll do it."
"You're too late now, Ginge, you've spoiled my surprise."
A knock on the window. Gally wound it down. It was the car dealer.
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"I just wanted to say thanks very much. My punter thought you were interested in the Hawk and wants to pay another fifty on top to make sure he gets it. Present for his wife's birthday. It's not often you get a good result from meeting a couple of coppers."
At Cherney’s, Gally relented and Sandy took the lead. Mike the mechanic told them the boss wasn't there and wouldn't be back that afternoon. As he spoke, they watched one of the other mechanics spraying a Hillman Imp on the far side.
Mike noticed. "Just an accident repair. Hit and run.
Seems a popular thing to do these days," he volunteered then added, "Don't want you thinking we just tart stuff up to sell on. There are some quality cars on the forecourt but the bread and butter for us lot back here are the accident repairs and the vehicle testing." He threw the oily rag he'd wiped his hands on into the bin.
"Yeah, the Humber Hawk? Course I remember it.
We've not long got rid of it. What do you want to know?"
Sandy explained.
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Mike was thoughtful. "The repairs? Well, we replaced and resprayed the front wing and sorted a little bit of damage to the front nearside passenger door.
Mister Cherney had only bought it a couple of weeks before then someone smacked it and drove off."
"Was it on the premises when it got hit," Sandy asked him.
"No, Mister Cherney often borrows the cars and takes them for a test drive. Usually brings them back after a couple of days. He parked the Hawk up overnight in Swindon, he said. Him and his wife went to one of these fancy do's, the masons or the rotary club it sounded like, and during the night someone hit it and drove off. He said he'd reported it to Swindon police."
Briefly, Gally and Sandy's eyes met then Sandy said,
"Well, we'll look that up and if we have to speak further we'll pop back tomorrow afternoon. You said he'd be here between midday and five, I think?" Mike nodded.
As they walked off, Gallagher turned and called,
"I'm looking for a maroon Farina, for myself like. Do you ever get them in?"
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Mike held his hands open in apology. "You should have come down here last week. We sold one on Saturday. Good condition as well. Sorry! Give me your number and I’ll call you if one comes in."
Gally waved him off with a grin. "No, don't bother.
I'll pop in every now and then and see what you've got."
At the first telephone box they saw, they phoned in and spoke to Reg. He'd make some enquiries: any report to Swindon regarding the allegation of hit and run and whether or not there'd been a Masonic or Rotarians function there on the relevant dates.
170
Seven o'clock, he made his excuses and returned home for a shower and change of clothes, curry night at the Gate of India as a little treat. As he drove up the mews, he saw her leaving her friend's house and pulled up alongside. She gave him a big smile. It looked genuine.
"Hello, Clare. I phoned you this morning, at the Ministry. I hope you don't mind. They couldn't find you so I left a message. Did you get it?"
Unperturbed, she answered, "Oh, I took the day off and went shopping with my mum."
"How is your, mum? Fine, I hope. Let's not leave your dad out either. Is he ok?"
Her face straightened. "My dad died some years ago."
"I'm so sorry, I had no idea. What happened, if you don't mind me asking?"
"It's not your fault. I never told you. He was sent to Malaya and the communists shot him."
"Army man was he?"
"Sort of."
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He didn't say anything, leaving a space in the conversation for her to fill. She did.
"He survived the war and then... well, things happen."
"Did he do anything interesting in the war? I mean, more interesting than stacking boxes like my dad?"
A hint of a smile returned. "I don't know. He never really spoke of it. My mum once mentioned he'd been in Yugoslavia at some time. What was your message, anyway?"
"Oh, I just wanted to let you know I wouldn't be around for a while. I've got some insurance jobs to do in the far North so it'll mean staying over, could be as long as two weeks."
"I'll get that message when I go back tomorrow." She leaned in and kissed his cheek. "I'll try not to miss you too much," she grinned.
"Can I drop you anywhere?"
"That's kind, Gally, but I've some food shopping to do and then my mum is going to pick me up here at half-past." She opened her handbag and briefly scribbled on the little notebook she took out, tearing the 172
page from its spines and handing it to him. "Why don't you give me a call when you get back. Maybe we could go to the pictures. There's a film called 'The Wrong Box' I'd like to see if it's still on."
He pushed the note into his jacket top pocket. "Well, I'll leave you to it then. Look after yourself, Clare, and I'll call you, as soon as I'm back." He watched her disappear around the corner. At the end of the main street, he u-turned and parked up with a view of the mews entrance then checked his watch – 'quarter past'.
Eventually, he checked again – 'ten to'. She never came back.
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28th July
They spent the day checking out the scrap yards, going through the books in the guise of the local CID.
Clive followed up some enquiries with the council regarding lock-up garages. Phoning in, they gave Reg an estimated return time and learned they'd be sleeping in house for the foreseeable future. The good news was Winston had lent them a portable telly and Ralph had made them his allegedly famous beef curry and rice with more than enough for second helpings. The evening promised so much; the third-place play-off between Portugal and the Soviet Union with a serious possibility of a ring stinging visit to the toilets the next day.
The game itself wasn't particularly spectacular but the meal was. Tastily spicy and the addition of desiccated coconut, peanuts, finely chopped tomatoes and pineapple slices from an assortment of little white porcelain bowls helped to tone it down nicely.
Not long after kick-off, a Russian defender inexplicably handled the ball in his own penalty area in 174
a situation that offered no real immediate danger. Gally could only guess at his reason for doing so, perhaps the effort of jumping for the header had left him light-headed and wondering what to do next, maybe he was a Portuguese sleeper, but in any event, it was twelve minutes gone and Eusébio converted the opportunity to a goal then, in his usual gentlemanly fashion, commiserated with the Russian keeper.
At half time, the score was 1-1, the Russians taking advantage of a state of confusion on the Portuguese line by one of them simply sticking his toe out. The second half's highlight occurred with two minutes to go, a nice
'one two' between heads left Torres free to flash the ball in the back of the Russian net. Portugal's game.
As they watched the dissection of the match by the BBC pundits, Gally complimented Ralph on his cookery skills.
"Wartime service, Gally," he replied. "They made me a cook. I've prepared meals under gunfire, mate. I was cooking breakfast just behind Sword Beach only a couple of hours after they landed."
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"Well, that explains it." Gally gave him his impressed face. "I know what that could be like. I've drunk tea under gunfire."
Ralph took the plates over to the sink. "Where was that? Malaya?"
"No, Ralph. It was down the ranges. They sent me to work them target frames and paste up all the holes. Still, those bullets were whizzing only feet above my head.
Well, maybe yards."
Ralph put the plug in and ran the tap. "Fuck off, Gally!"
Winston got up and grabbed a tea towel. "Do you like dancing, Gally?"
"I can't say that I do in all honesty, mate. Why?"
"It’s just me and the wife go to a dance club, like on
'come dancing'. I never thought I'd like it but it's great fun. You should give it a go."
Gallagher stroked his chin as if seriously considering the matter. "It's a nice offer but no, I'll give it a miss.
I've never had someone threaten me and thought, 'If only I could foxtrot my way out of this one'. Is there still tea in the pot?"
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He helped himself and sat back down. "Did you do national service, Winston?"
The big man threw him a glance as he dried a large pan. "No, I turned up but they said I was too fat and to go away and lose some weight."
"So what did you do?"
"I didn't lose any weight and they eventually stopped bothering me."
Gally wished he'd thought of that one. "Ginge, did you go anywhere interesting when you did national service?"
Sandy had hoped Gally would have got bored or tired by now.
He blushed."No, not unless you count Catterick and before you ask, I was Pay Corps."
Gally tried to stifle a smile and almost succeeded.
"Ahh, well, that explains why you're in charge of the expenses then, Ginge. What about you, Clive? What did you do when they called you up?"
"I didn't. I was at University so they deferred me but then I volunteered anyway, signed on for five years and 177
went into the RAF Police, P and SS, counter intelligence. Spent most of that time in Cyprus."
Gallagher was up and fiddling with the little TV
aerial in a pointless attempt to improve the signal. "And that's what brought you here, eventually? It's strange, no one ever tried to poach me."
Sandy couldn't resist. "That's because you have to do more than make the tea, Gally."
"Oh, I did a lot more than making tea, Ginge." He gave him a knowing grin.
With the plates, pans and cutlery washed and dried, Ralph and Winston bade them goodnight and Reg went to his office to put his camp bed up. The rest tidied up what was left and carried out their personal admin.
Clive blew up his lilo, Sandy laid down some crumb rubber underlay and Gally simply threw his sleeping bag on the floor by his desk.
"What's that you've got, Ginge?" he enquired.
Sandy looked up. "Oh, it's just some new underlay they had downstairs. The Farralland lads use it so I thought I'd give it a go." He spread his bag out on top.
"Where did you get the lilo, Clive?"
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"Why didn't you mention it to me?"
"You weren't here when I bought it last year."
"Is Reg coming back?"
"No, he's bedded down in his office with a cup of tea and his book."
Gally looked around the room for something he could use as a pillow. Finding nothing, he rolled his jacket up. "Where's the Old Man then? I thought we were all kipping here."
Sandy chuckled. "Did you really believe he would be? He'll be at his club. It suits us because at least we can relax and, anyway, what he learns there, from his various conversations, is as valuable to us as Reg's intel gatherings. He'll be back in the morning, so don't forget, it's an early start to get showers in and stow everything away."
Gally took out his little Pye radio and plugged in the earpiece. Sandy admired it. "That's a dinky little thing you've got there."
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Gallagher smiled and replied, "Have I let something escape from my Y fronts again." The other two laughed then Clive offered, "Can you get much on that?"
"We are talking about the radio now, aren't we, Clive?" Gally responded.
He blushed slightly, "Of course. Why can you never be serious for long?"
"Life's too short, Clive. I can be serious but I think there's something wrong with my face. I had a Skipper in the Met once. I was trying to tell him something serious, something I wasn't happy with and all he could do was fall about laughing his head off. When he'd worn himself out, and I persisted, he coughed he thought I'd been joking."
"Can you get Radio Luxembourg or any of those pirate radio stations?" Sandy threw in from the far corner of the room.
"Yes, I can and I do listen to them now and then but tonight it's going to be 'book at bedtime' 'the shipping forecast' then Radio Moscow."
"What's the attraction for Radio Moscow?" Clive asked.
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"I just like to get an alternative view of things. It's good to listen to the American Forces Network news then see what the Russians say. I have to admit though, there is this bird who reads the news when she can wrestle the mike off the others. I quite fancy her, simply on the sound of her voice."
Sandy called over, "She's probably eighteen stone and drives her tank to work."
Gally laughed. "That has occurred to me. Probably why I held back with the marriage proposal."
Clive turned over in his bag. "Turn the lights off, Gally."
He looked up for the nearest switch. "Where's all the light switches gone?"
"By the door, where they've always been," Sandy mumbled from the depths.
Wishing he hadn't thrown his sleeping bag so far from the lights, the word 'bollocks' was briefly in Gally's head before he decided he should buy a torch or maybe sign one out.
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29th July
The news the Old Man brought back from his club was interesting. Radler told his interrogators he'd entered the country with the assistance of the Polish Embassy simply to do some sightseeing. He couldn't do it under his own details, he wouldn't be allowed in, and so his Polish contacts had seen no harm in providing the means for an old friend on a purely cultural visit. A simple mistake but it was understandable, he claimed.
As for the stamps, all he'd done was answer an advert in the Times because he wanted to be helpful. He had a small collection himself that he no longer required and saw nothing wrong with what he'd done.
He'd only sent four or five letters in total and he was sure they already knew they were all genuine. He didn't know any British postmen but he often spoke to his own back home. Hans was a nice chap who didn't collect stamps. He collected bottle tops. Radler thought he was possibly a hoarder.
He'd never met or spoken to the stamp man and the only old man with a dog he knew sold matches in the 182
Altstadt in Leipzig. His name was Jürgen and his dog was called Dottie, a lovely little thing. Did they like dogs? They should because it was a sign of a nice person. Yes, he had been foolish but he'd always wanted to see Big Ben before he died and didn't think anyone would mind so much.
The stamp man was knackered. They found blank passports in a tin box under the floorboards in the back room and, most significantly, equipment for producing microdots in his study. Usually, he returned it to the cellar after use which would have allowed him to claim it must have been there when he rented the house but he was caught with his trousers down, literally, when they jiggled their way silently through his front lock and kicked the toilet door in.
The old bloke claimed he didn't know the contents of the letters he was leaving behind the cistern in the gents. He'd been approached by a nice, well-spoken lady and was paid £20 for every letter he received and then left at the cafe. The money arrived through the post and he'd used some to pay the cost of saving his beloved Leonard's life, some more on a little holiday for 183
the both of them in Weston-super-Mare and put the rest in his post office savings. He didn't remember ever joining anyone's communist party and was fairly certain he would remember such a thing. He had thought about joining the Labour Party once though. Did they have to tell the taxman?
Box made further enquiries which revealed he was right about not joining the Communists in the thirties, or any other decade for that matter. It was someone else with a confusingly very similar name.
The postman didn't know who was leaving the letters and he didn't know their contents. He freely admitted posting them on to the old bloke but had never met or spoken with him. Faced with charges relating to Post Office offences and the Official Secrets Act, he agreed to co-operate when the sentencing consequences were explained to him in graphic detail. In return for the dropping of the espionage charges, he named his handler, a 'diplomat' from the Russian Embassy. An early expulsion was anticipated.
"Well, there you have it." The Old Man passed his gaze over them. "It's a sort of result but it still doesn't 184
take us to our end of line targets. I just thought I'd update you."
Reg stood up. "I think I might have something, Sir.
The boys went out on the ground yesterday. A lot of leg work but they sorted out the scrap yards and any iffy lock-ups the County lads had identified. Sandy and Gally got a bit of a result the day before from the motor dealers and repairers. They believe they found the Humber Hawk used to take Reddington off the road.
They've traced it back to a firm called Cherney Motors and from the enquiries I've made, it seems it's run by a John Cherney and he's had it for six years." He picked up a sheet of paper and put his glasses on. "It was formerly Dillon's Motors and he's thirty-three years of age. His wife's name is Helen. She's thirty-five and a solicitor for the local county force. A member of the Rotary Club and the Masons, he's very well thought of but a 'bit of a socialist' according to some. Keen hikers, they like to travel and honeymooned in Italy when they married in fifty-seven." He looked up. "The thing is his parents were naturalised citizens who came here in 185
twenty-five. The family name used to be Chernikoff. It's all in the report I just put on your desk, Sir."
Sandy put his hand up. "May I ask a question, Sir?
What's happened with the Farralland boys' obs on the redhead? Is she doing anything interesting?"
Reg waved the papers in his hand. "Good point, Sandy. I was going to get to that. Yes and no is the short answer. She’s seeing someone at the moment and they tell me it's a local uniformed bobby. I tend to suspect it may be the one Gally had visit her. I haven't had their written report as yet, just what they've told me on the phone. As for our surveillance on Marion Ward, which I know will be your next question, she's not been having any meetings, surreptitious or otherwise with anyone apart from her solicitor."
Gallagher raised his hand. "What's the name of the solicitors?"
Reg thumbed through his notes. "Crantwell Evans."
All eyes were back on Gally. He shrugged his shoulders. "I don't know. Maybe let's have a look at them?"
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The Old Man: "Why do you want us to look at them?
They're a firm of solicitors. Do you think they're a team of assassins who somehow cajoled Ward into becoming a client? I mean, if they had, she could be long dead by now, surely?"
Gally wasn't discouraged. "Well, are they actually her solicitors, as in family ones or is she just visiting them for a particular purpose? We don't know. I'm only bringing it up because I've just thought on. Her colleagues at the project said she'd started wearing makeup." He leaned forward to glance across the front of Sandy. "What was it they said, Clive?"
"Not that you would notice."
"That's right! Not that you would notice. It wasn't
'not that anyone' would notice. It was 'not that you', meaning a man, would notice but they noticed, her female colleagues. What if her 'outside interest' was or still is a woman? It could be one of these solicitors or perhaps someone they have working for them? Surely, it's worth checking out?"
The Old Man considered the proposal. "I see where you're coming from, Gallagher. Reg? Extend enquiries 187
and find out exactly who and what this firm is about.
Clive, give Reg a hand plus I want to know a bit more about Missus Cherney’s work for the local force." He pointed at the other two. "In the meantime, let's get hold of the Farralland team doing Ward's surveillance. Get yourselves an RV and speak to them face to face today, I want everything they've seen and done." He made for the door but turned. "Do we know where in Italy they honeymooned, Reg?"
"Brindisi, Sir. It's in the heel."
The Old Man smiled, "I know where it is, Reg.
Perfect. Ferry to Corfu, short trip from the right place and you're in Albania. In Fifty-seven? The Russians and Albanians were still co-operating. Pull out all the stops, Reg. Speak to our contact at SIS. Track our honeymooners down, if you can. I'll be in my office reading your reports."
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"What's the panic, Gally?" Billy asked as he sat down in the little side street cafe.
"No panic, Billy. We're just extremely keen to get a better view of what's been happening with our subject."
He glanced up as the waitress hovered over them.
"Three mugs of tea please, with milk."
"I'll bring the milk over and you put your own in.
Sugar's on the table on the other side of the menu," she replied in a monotone. Gally noticed the rings on her third finger left hand and concluded it had to be her large chest and not her charisma that had attracted her husband.
"What do you want to know exactly?" Billy asked.
Sandy answered. "Anything, in any order you want to tell us and we'll pick the bits out of it."
They talked over some admin matters until the teas arrived. Billy, helping himself to the milk and sugar, stirred his mug and let a noise of satisfaction escape as he took his first mouthful. "I know her personality could do with a ray of sunshine but they do decent scoff in here and the tea is lovely." He rested his mug on the 189
table. "Right, down to business. We've got a hide in the woods opposite the project entrance. We see her come and we see her go. We follow her here and we follow her there. She's not security-minded, takes the same route to and from work and to the shops. There's a window cleaner, calls once a week. We saw him Tuesday but one of the lads got chatting to him in the street. An old fella, not long to retirement he tells us.
Anyway, she keeps pretty much to herself so far but it's still early days. We have seen her briefly talking to a neighbour. Oh, and then there's the solicitors. That was Wednesday."
Gally idly inspected the condiments as he listened.
"Has she had any visitors at all?"
"Last night, about half five. A woman. Mobile hairdresser. Stayed about two hours."
"How d'yer know she's a hairdresser?"
"She had a little sign in the window of her car. I had Stan do a walk past. I've got the details here." He foraged around in his pockets and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper. "The name's Wendy and there's a phone 190
number." He handed it over. Gally stuffed it in his jacket.
"What did she look like?"
"Looked quite fit from the back. Long blonde hair."
"I thought you said she was only there for two hours.
Nobody see her face?"
"She was. We just never saw her come out."
"Then how do you know she did?"
"Because we saw her car drive off and it was definitely not Ward if that's what you're thinking because we saw her putting the milk bottles out."
"How could you miss her coming out?"
"Gally, when you need to piss in a bottle it's best to make sure your dick's in the right place before you start.
My guy just took his eyes off the plot for a couple of seconds. I haven't got a lot of resources to throw at this and there's a night shift as well. I've already had to reduce the people I've got keeping an eye on the redhead."
"We've not got a full team on her?" It was Sandy.
"No, mate. I've got her covered either end of the street on two shifts. Her house backs on to others so, 191
seeing as this Ward woman was put to me as the priority, I cut the pack accordingly." He stared back at them. "Is there a problem with that?" he said with meaning.
Gally and Sandy glanced at each other and replied together, "No!" Sandy adding, "Of course not, not a problem at all." They sipped their teas in silence before the conversation drifted onto the football and the coming final. Apparently, the day shift weren't too happy about missing it but Sandy pointed out there was always the highlights. Billy didn't look impressed.
As they left, Gally remembered something he'd meant to ask. "What make of car did the hairdresser use? It wasn't a Morris Minor was it?"
Billy shook his head. "No, mate. A red mini."
"Oh, right. Well, we'll bugger off then and go see your lads at the redhead's."
***
"The thing is, Mick, we know you're on the bones of your arse with this one but is there any way she could leave the house without you knowing?"192
Mick thought about it briefly. "She could use the gardens backing onto hers. We can't get an eyeball on that. There's no walkway or alley we can contain but she'd have to know the people there surely? Otherwise, we've got it boxed off."
"Is there a red mini in the street?" Sandy asked.
"Her street? No. The street at the back? I'd have to ask the lads."
Gally: "Could you do that now, Mick?"
He picked up the radio, "Mick to Dazzler?"
"Dazzler."
"Mick – Anyone seen a red mini in the street?"
"Dazzler – Not this one but speak to Tich. He mentioned something the other night."
"Mick – Roger. Out."
He turned to Gally. "I'll have to get back to you. Tich is on the night shift."
Gally nodded. "Ok, but make it as soon as you can.
Oh and ask him if there were any signs in the window."
"Like what, exactly?"
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"Just a sheet of paper with handwriting on it. It should say something about mobile hairdressing if he got close enough."
"Ok, I'll ask him."
Sandy raised a finger. "Just one more thing. I believe you've seen our redhead in the company of a young copper?"
"Yeah, we've seen him at hers in his uniform and they've met up a few times, local pub that sort of thing.
He seems quite enamoured but then again who wouldn't be. She's a real fitty after all."
They went back to the office where it was time to type up their reports. Both two-finger typists, it took a while.
The phone on Gally's desk rang. "Home Office Statistical Unit."
"Hello, Gally, it's Danny from across the road.
Mick's been on and says he's confirmed with Tich.
There is a red mini that parks up in the next street at number fifteen. Chaucer Street is the name of the road.
The woman that drives it is dark-haired, bit on the 194
plump side. Tich went back for a second look 'cause he likes a bigger girl."
Gally smirked. "Thanks, Danny, get back onto Mick and tell him we need the registration number then try and speak to Billy when he makes a contact call. See if they made a note of the number of the red mini they saw. I forgot to ask him earlier. Cheers, mate."
He sat back in his chair eyeing the phone then went to his jacket on the stand and retrieved the piece of paper Billy had given him. He dialled the number. If it was answered he'd bullshit and then say he'd got the wrong number. Unobtainable. As he'd suspected.
In Reg's office, he sat and had a cup of tea whilst he read the info sheet. "So, our redhead's called Joanna Dalton. It fits somehow, although I was always hopeful it might be Wanda." He noticed his colleague's vague stare. "The name just added to her allure in my little fantasies, Reg," he explained before reading on. "Lived at the address for six years. Thirty years of age.
Previous occupation: hairdresser. Current occupation: receptionist. Where's that at, Reg?"
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"A solicitors and before you ask it's not Crantwell Evans."
"Where'd you find that out, by the way?"
"Taxman. I'm still working on her and Helen Cherney and Crantwell and Evans. I'll let you know as soon as I can, if that's ok with you?"
"Where's Clive at the moment?"
"I sent him out to do some leg work at the solicitors with a cover story of needing to get some estimates for his bedridden aged mother's last will and testament."
"Very inventive, Reg, or were you also interested in an estimate for yourself? Can I have your envelope collection?"
Reg chuckled. "You'll have what you're given.
Incidentally, I didn't tell you before because it doesn't really change things but Cherney did report the damage to the Humber to Swindon police and there was a Masonic Ladies Night on that evening which they attended. I checked with local taxis, no joy on any trips from and to their address or nearby. Of course, it doesn’t mean the car was ever there in the first place.
They probably used one of his other motors for that."
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On the High Street used by the BBC for an adaptation of a Dickens novel, Crantwell Evans had charmingly small premises. Popular for both their expertise and personalities, they'd been the first choice of many for the past twenty years. They'd never lacked work but now their popularity was becoming their potential downfall. Mr Crantwell, the senior partner, had recently succumbed to life and departed from it.
Mr Evans, a Welshman as his name suggested, knew he was in trouble. There was half-finished work all over the place but the legal network in the area was such that no one took glee in his predicament and though he was a proud man he was also pragmatic enough to realise he couldn't mend this situation on his own.
Each day, his colleagues in the profession would pop in and wade through the piles of folders that Mr Crantwell had gathered on his office tables, chairs and even the floor. Mondays it was Mr Crilley from Bent, Porter and Crilley. Tuesdays, young Mr Symington, from Halshaw and Halshaw and so it went on.
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The problem they had was Wednesday. No one could spare the time for a Wednesday. That's why Dafydd Evans jumped at the chance when the local constabulary solicitor volunteered to give him a helping hand.
She could only do Wednesdays though. Was it a problem? Certainly not, perfect in fact. Best not to mention it to anyone, she'd said, because if the Chief Constable found out she could get into trouble. Despite his assertion of a friendship with the big man that could overcome any such matter he agreed to say nothing for her sake. She'd sort out the outstanding last wills and testaments, additions and revisions.
There was light at the end of the tunnel but it began to dim when his receptionist found herself to be pregnant and decided she needed a shorter working week and Wednesdays was the day she chose.
Luckily, Mrs Cherney, his new helper, knew of an excellent new receptionist that had started working at Cartwell, Foster and Markey. A very competent girl who she felt sure would be willing and they still had the experienced Mrs Shorewood so perhaps if he asked old 198
Mr Cartwell if he would loan her out to him one day a week, for payment, the matter could be resolved. It was done.
199
Their original scheme had been to insert
‘themselves’ into Marion Ward’s life through flattery and lust – the aim simply to obtain whatever information they could to identify the most valuable target.
Their hairdresser manoeuvred herself into a conversation in a supermarket aisle then used a few compliments: lovely skin, beautiful eyes but the hair wasn't being shown off to best advantage, that sort of thing. They knew her preference; their insider had told them that. Being a lonely, sidelined genius was taking its toll and she was receptive. The offer of some free hairdressing at home was gratefully accepted. It didn't happen all at once, of course, but within a few weeks, she was ready and willing.
The changes were subtle and she loved it. The feeling of someone else's hands caressing her scalp, running their fingers through her hair was intoxicating, as was the wine they'd brought with them. It was inevitable. One afternoon, they slept together and it was wonderful. It had been eight years since the last time 200
and to say she was ready for it was probably an understatement. But they knew that.
When they discovered Marion was the genius they were searching for, the plan changed to obtaining copies of the house keys and who better than the hairdresser. Although she was no killer, she had few scruples beyond being a dedicated Socialist and she enjoyed her job, especially the sex. Picking their time, her colleagues would make their entry and stage the scene. It wasn't perfect and it relied upon Marion being induced into deep depression. The subterfuge needed her to have ingested their Stasi drug and to have done so for long enough for her to have displayed, to her colleagues or neighbours, odd behaviour verging on paranoia. It wasn’t their master plan; it was the one they’d been given.
The problem was Marion Ward was obsessive about what she ate and drank and who prepared it. She couldn’t even be tempted by the treasures of the tea lady’s cart. She had to prepare what she consumed herself which made opportunities for administering the mood-altering drug impractical.
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Luckily, however, she'd also developed a recent sense of her own mortality and had spoken about making a will.
With Helen Cherney already working for Crantwell Evans, a genuine act of kindness, they saw the opportunity for some improvisation. When the receptionist problem raised its head it was the perfect time to introduce her colleague into the mix and thereafter manipulate the situation to their advantage.
Thus, Marion’s lover made a firm recommendation of a superb solicitor she'd met at her temporary place of work, one who specialised in last wills and testaments.
Not actually the truth, but Helen was competent enough to get away with it and they knew Marion would never have time to notice.
202
He'd finished his report. Leaving it on the Old Man's desk, he slumped down in his chair and watched his dachshund wobble its head. He tapped it again. Then again. Deep in thought, something was troubling him.
He got up and dragged the original paperwork from its filing cabinet in the Intel office. Too busy to look up, Reg just let him do it. Back at his desk, Gallagher began reading: addresses, employment records, education, known sexualities, the deceased's colleagues' statements and any comments they made. He read everything this time. When Sandy wandered back into the office he grabbed him and trundled him down to the briefing room.
"I think this thing is bigger than we first thought so sit down and I'll tell you why."
He wiped the previous information off the wall map's transparent cover and marked it up, referring to his notes in the folder. When he'd finished, he chalked the names on the board.
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"Right. Breckenridge, Pollock, Wanstead, Thomas, and Eddlestone." He stabbed each one with the chalk as he said them. "These are the five we started with."
He drew a line through one of them. "Let's scrub Eddlestone because I'm certain he's not part of this. His mate Copeland thinks he's got away with it but he's in for a nasty surprise shortly. So, we're left with the four of them. Now, whilst they all worked for the project, Breckenridge and Pollock both lived not that far from Edinburgh. They both commuted to the project on occasions but never at the same time. They did most of what they needed to do from Edinburgh University facilities and Pollock was once a student of Marion Ward."
He went back to the map. "Breckenridge was found hanging from a tree in woodland near his home. Pollock was found splattered on the roadway underneath the Forth rail bridge on the Edinburgh side having apparently jumped. Pollock and the third death, Wanstead, happened in close proximity time-wise but five hundred miles apart." He waited to see the light in Sandy's head come on. It didn't.
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"Look, our suspects are based around Marlborough.
Thomas lived and died in the same area. Ok, so Wanstead was found at the bottom of Beachy Head full of LSD but that's only about a hundred and fifty miles from Marlborough. Edinburgh's about three hundred and eighty." Sandy's light bulb flickered. "But why take Wanstead all that way anyway?"
"They didn't. He was already there. He was homosexual. He hid it from his colleagues or thought he did, but I've just read something from one of them that tells me he was in the habit, now and then, of going to Brighton. It's got a fairly active community, bars and clubs if you know where to look. They followed him down there."
Sandy's head rose in a moment of clarity. "And you're saying what, exactly? You think there's more than one team in this?"
Gally put the chalk on the easel and wiped his hands together. "I do. I think they had one team working in Scotland and this one down here. I think there might even be a third team and I can't be certain there isn't a fourth still sleeping the year away."
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He sat down opposite Sandy. "My only reasoning for a third team or at least another sleeper in the Brighton area is I don't know if our Mister Cherney would be up for acting as bait down there. It would need someone with certain charms and I'm not sure he's the sort to be willing. I could be wrong.
"In the meantime, I think the original team will have been extricated by now. Commercial flight to somewhere like Helsinki, I should think, train or direct flight then to Leningrad or Moscow. They’d know the longer they remained here the more chance they had of getting noticed and hoiked off the street by Box. The Cherneys, if they are our team, will probably be ready to leave shortly too."
Sandy thought on the matter. "That means you think they're going to make a move pretty soon?"
Gally nodded. "Tomorrow would be a great day for it. The World Cup final? There'll be no one on the streets to see them come and go."
206
The Old Man crossed his arms, "You make a persuasive argument, Gallagher. The problem is that, at the moment, we're not completely sure the Cherneys are who we're after, and in any event we haven't got any firm evidence with which to convict them. That's what I would prefer to be able to do, if we can get them." The pipe came out of the pocket then he continued.
"If we remove Ward from the game board tonight or tomorrow, probably all we'll end up with is circumstantial possession of a syringe together with a long, tedious but ultimately plausible explanation. I want to get them red-handed and I don't want to jump the gun. We don't even know if it'll happen tomorrow."
He waved the pipe around, vaguely. "We should set her place up with some 'technical' but that'll take time if it's not to be seen and I'd much rather she has no knowledge of what we're doing. If she's blissfully unaware there’s less chance of cats escaping bags and all that.” He sucked on the pipe. “Of course we need to protect her but we also need to catch them in the act and the timing is literally a matter of life and death." He fell 207
silent for a moment in more thought. "The runaway sleepers? We'll get Box to check the manifests, all ports and airports to Scandinavia, shortest routes to the Soviets. They'll have wanted to keep it simple and quick." He nodded appreciation and left them with, "I’ll be in my office. Show me a plan that gives us time to put in the relevant 'technical' equipment, protects our subject and allows us to disrupt any attempts until we're in a better position to control the situation."
They drank tea in the main room, occasionally tossing an idea into the air to see if the other caught it.
Once or twice something was but then, in the detail, it slipped through their fingers.
Winston sat quaffing a large bottle of cream soda.
He wiped his mouth and said, "Can I just mention something?" He belched then carried on. "Why don't you close her street down and just say there's a gas leak."
From his desk, Sandy threw another ball of paper into the bin in the far corner. "That’s not a bad idea, Winston, but you can smell gas so how do we conjure 208
up that?" He anticipated Winston’s reply. "No, we can't rupture a gas main, if that's what you're thinking."
Winston was undeterred. "No, of course not. A mate of mine works for the Gas Board and he says they have canisters they let off to simulate the real thing, when they're doing training stuff."
Glances were exchanged in a ‘light bulb’ moment.
Sandy sat up in his chair. "Do you know? I think you might have something there."
Gally butted in. "We could block both ends of the street off. Now, we'll need SB to quickly arrange some uniformed bodies to do that. We get the Gas board to spray some of their training gas around, the residents get told to stay inside, windows closed and the gas boys dig a hole, anywhere will do."
Sandy picked up on the idea. "Yeah, and we can have a couple of Farralland lads disguised as coppers or workmen and you, me and Clive can alternate ends whilst we ID them if they turn up at the roadblocks. The thing is we'll need the Old Man to pull a few strings to get it up and running but as he doesn't want them arrested just yet, what happens next time?"
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Gally shrugged. "At the moment, it's beyond me, so I reckon we get a bite to eat and think about that later.
Who knows? It might have all changed when we come back. Fancy a Wimpy, Ginge? I'll pay if you're short of cash. Do you want anything, Winston?"
He shook his head and waved something wrapped in foil. "I'm fine, thanks."
By the time they got back, Clive had returned and was ensconced with Reg.
"Hello, Clive. Reg mentioned you were on your way back so we got you a king-size Wimpy and a cheeseburger. He said you'd told him you hadn't eaten and he reckoned these would be ok." Gally fished them from the paper bag and put them on the table.
Clive looked up. "Thanks, chaps. I'm starving actually. What did you have?"
Sandy put the kettle on. "We pushed the boat out and had a sit-down meal. I had the Shanty brunch and Gally the Wimpy grill. It was good, went down well with a cheeky 7UP."
Gally threw the bag in the bin. "We'll just have a brew and a chat with Winston and let you have your 210
burgers in peace, give us the update when you’re finished."
Twenty minutes later, as Winston gathered his things to leave, Clive and Reg wandered into the room.
Winston gave them all a wave. "Have fun, boys, and I hope you get a chance to see the match. Doesn't sound as if you will though. Hopefully, on Monday we'll be champions of the world. Ta-ta."
Reg was first off. "The Old Man's on his way back in, by the way. Just thought I’d warn you. Oh, and I signed you and Sandy a camp bed out. It's on my signature, so for pity's sake don't damage them. I don't fancy an earful from Arthur downstairs; Sandy knows what a pain he can be."
After thanking him, Gallagher said, "What can you tell us, Clive? We might have a plan but we're not sure it's got a happy ending."
He'd done the rounds, Pinker and Twentyman solicitors in Chippenham had been first and there he spoke to the receptionist, Joanna, a redhead with beautiful green eyes. A solicitor would be available very shortly she'd told him and then insisted on making 211
him a cup of tea in the meantime. She was so nice he didn't feel he could refuse. The preamble with Joanna had proven quite useful. She had a very pleasant, amusing manner and told him in confidence she had a new boyfriend who was a policeman. As far as Clive was concerned, she clearly wasn't the material a spy or an assassin should be made of, so he’d discounted her from the proceedings. All in all, a productive visit, apart from having to spend 15 minutes bullshitting the suave and over interested Mr Pinker.
Next, he'd gone to Crantwell Evans. The receptionist had been nice and when she'd got up to take a file to Mr Evans he could see she was pregnant. Coming up to six months Clive thought. No, Mr Evans couldn't see him today and the solicitor who should have been there had phoned in to say he couldn't make it, a personal crisis of some sort, she hadn't really been listening. If he came back on Wednesday, there was a female solicitor who specialised in wills but she, the receptionist, wouldn't be there because it was her day off. He wasn't to worry though because Wendy the temp would sort him out 212
and he'd like her she was sure; she had lovely long blonde hair.
"What type of car has the temp got?" Gally asked.
Clive gave him a little flash of incredulity. "And how was I supposed to work that into the conversation. Ooh, Wendy hey, what sort of car does she drive, is it red and is this the registration number? The woman hasn't met her in person; they've only spoken on the phone."
Gally countered, grinning, "So how does she know she's got 'lovely long blonde hair' then clever clogs?"
Clive laughed. "Because Evans, the solicitor, happened to mention it to her when she got back into work. It seems he's very keen on blondes, smarty pants."
Gally still wasn't happy. "Well, I'm still not having it.
I mean, a blonde called Wendy? I’ve never met a Wendy who was blonde. Nah, picture it? It's not right.
Something's false there. Either it's the name or the hair.
Maybe both. Anyway, talking registration numbers, I had the one Billy supplied checked out. It's false and off an Anglia, current owner says they sold it to a dealer in Salisbury, ages ago. The local lads are looking into it 213
for us but it'll take a while for the answer to come back and it would’ve been handy to know what she’s using now."
Clive couldn’t help looking a little smug. "If you'd waited for me to finish, Gally, I would have told you I found the firm the temp came from; Cartwell, Foster and Markey. I thought I’d give it a go as it was only another twenty miles. I sat outside for an hour until just before closing when she came out, obviously on the way home. She got the bus from the stop opposite so I was in and gave the older receptionist a tale about my wife wanting a home hairdresser and I'd heard there was one currently working there, a blonde girl. Anyway, it seems the older one isn't too enamoured with her. She gave me her address and phone number no problem and commented she wouldn't be at all surprised if she didn't have any qualifications for that job either but as she was only the receptionist what did she know."
Sandy cut in. "And have we checked this out as yet?"
Clive smiled. "Yes, I have. I drove past the address.
No red mini. I wasn't sure what to do next but then came up with the idea of knocking on a few doors and 214
saying I'd found a purse in the street belonging to a slim blonde whose first name was Wendy. At the second house to answer, the young man there told me the only Wendy Saunders he knew lived at number 47 but she could never be described as slim and he wasn't keen on the thought of her in a mini skirt. The address and details are false. The phone number just rings out."
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She slid through the front door, closing it behind her.
Taking the scarf from around her neck she hung it, and her jacket, on the ornate coat stand with its integral mirror and picked up her handbag again.
She found him sitting over a glass of chilled wine at the kitchen table, deep in thought. He looked up, gave a weak smile and filled her glass.
"What are you thinking, sweetheart?" she said as she placed her bag on the table, took the drink he offered and sat down.
"Oh, nothing much. Did you sort out everything at your end?"
She sipped the wine. "Mmmm, I needed that. Yes, I told them we're taking a short holiday in France, the Loire, and we'll be back in a week. What about you?
Did you get the passports?"
"No." He topped his glass up. "They've arrested
‘Smolensk’. It's all over the village. They didn't try to disguise it either. I'm not sure if that's a good or a bad thing. If they didn't hide it maybe they don't know about us. Naturally, I couldn't get the passports done. It's just 216
as well I didn't do it yesterday; if he'd collected them from the cafe they would've had the photos so maybe it's a blessing. I'll keep them anyway in case they're needed later."
She lit a cigarette and pulled the ashtray a bit closer.
"And the flights?"
"I've had to book them in our own names. I couldn't get anything for Sunday so it has to be Monday now.
It's done and we can still do this tomorrow, it's the best time, there'll be no one around, then we just collect our things and stay at the safe house in London. Monday afternoon we'll be sipping champagne in Stockholm. I booked the Berns. It’s expensive, but why not?"
She blew smoke towards the ceiling and smiled.
"Yes, why not." She leant over and touched his hand.
"Stop worrying. Everything will be alright. I've told her we'll be there around four. I kept it vague, said I had another client to see. She was fine about it. I'll take the lead with her. The first opportunity, I'll use the syringe, so be ready to restrict her movement. It should be quick, I've increased the dosage." Exhaled smoke headed rapidly for the kitchen door then decided to give up.
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"And then we hang her from the banisters." She smiled again.
"What if we can't find anything suitable? I know you said she uses scarves but what if we can't find them?"
He pulled a cigarette from the packet and lit up.
She shook her head as she inhaled. "It'll be fine. I'll know where to look and anyway, I bought an inexpensive little scarf that will do the trick if disaster strikes. It'll be a breeze, as long as no one intervenes."
He got up, leaving his cigarette in the ashtray, "I need something a bit stronger," then wandered into the living room returning with a scotch and soda.
"Which reminds me, the visitors Mike mentioned the other day? I spoke to an Inspector I know from the Freemasons. He doesn't work in Swindon but knows a couple of people who do. They say there's no Inspector Gallagher working for their CID as far as they know though there is a Sergeant Carragher who deals with vehicle crime. They reckon maybe Mike misheard the name."
He sucked on the cigarette then stubbed it out and downed the whisky in one. "My contact said 218
Carragher's off with the flu at the moment so that might be why he never came back.” He raised his empty glass.
“I'm having another."
She shook her head in resignation as he walked away. "I'll start tea in a moment, so make the most of it."
When he sat back down, she said, "Well, the description is vaguely similar to the man who passed us that day. Everything about him said ‘Police’ to me but we've not seen anything unusual and we have been very careful. I'm fairly certain no one's been watching us.
We'll see what happens tomorrow. If we get there a bit early we can have a little tour just to check the place out." She finished her drink, stood up and refreshed the glass. "Right, I'll pop that lasagne in the oven and do a quick salad."
As she made her way to the fridge, he said, "Helen, you know I love you, don't you?"
She returned, stroked his head then bent down and kissed him.
"I know, and I love you too, very much."
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He looked up. "Everything will be ok, won't it? Or should we just go now?"
She laughed. "What? And ruin it all. You silly boy.
It'll be fine. It's everything we believe in and everything we've worked for all these years."
She gently stroked his head again, held him to her and said, dreamily, "We'll both be 'Heroes of the Soviet Union' and they'll make you a Lieutenant Colonel at least. I can see you in your uniform already. You'll look so handsome and I'll be so proud of you."
220
They spent the evening in the briefing room watching surveillance films Box had taken whilst trailing the other two East Germans: Karl-Heinz Gast and Werner Kasner. The Old Man had insisted on some fresh eyes on the matter, the request emanating from the Director Security Service.
Screen set up, Reg manning the little projector, they sat through two hours of tedious footage, parts of which were repeated several times when someone wanted a closer look at some aspect or other. Not much was happening at all, mainly various cultural sites and several visits to parks and gardens. The locations were shown before each clip, black screen, white writing, a bit like an old silent film.
It all seemed fairly innocent until Gallagher, who'd sat pensively for the last ten minutes, asked Reg to run it back to several clips of Karl-Heinz Gast in Queens Park, Swindon. They watched it again, then again.
Gally stood up and went to the screen. "Stop it here, Reg. Look. There's the lake and Gast. Look at the trees and look at the benches in the background. Take special 221
notice of this shrub, here." The silhouette of his finger and arm pointed the way. "Right, run it on, Reg. Stop!"
He changed position to the opposite side of the screen. "There's Gast and, behind him, there's a woman sat on the bench. It’s too far away to make out who she is but watch what she does next. Her handbag is on the floor and as she leans forward to pick it up, see where her other hand is." He nodded and the film moved on then stopped. Reg had got the gist.
Gally looked at Sandy and Clive. "What did she do?"
Clive answered. "Her right hand went onto the edge of the bench, sort of like she was holding it."
"Correct. Now, shortly we'll see Gast sit down on a bench, the angle's different but the background features, the trees and that shrub in particular, tell us it's the same bench. Look what Gast does."
The film ran on. From a distance they saw the East German sit down on the bench, leaning back looking as if he was admiring the view. Then he sat forward with his elbows on his knees before dropping his hands to his sides, holding onto the front slats of the bench. He looked at his watch, stood up, put his hands in his jacket 222
pockets and pulled out a packet of cigarettes and a lighter. Lighting up, he walks away.
Gally stared at the other two. "What did he just do?"
Sandy spoke up this time. "He just collected something, from under the bench."
Gally: "Yep. Something that was left there by the woman we saw earlier. I'd bet that woman was either one of our tea ladies or Reddington's mistress. I may be fixated on tea ladies but the more I've thought about it, not only are they almost invisible but it's the perfect way to introduce a tasteless depressant into someone's system. But to be honest, I think this is probably our mistress. She's too well dressed for a tea lady unless they've got some trendy ones working for them."
Reg cut in."I forgot to mention. From Box, they checked out the tea lady with the boyfriend. Both seem genuine. I'll chase them up over the others."
Gally nodded and added. "There's a clip earlier of Kasner getting on a bus. Obviously, they can't follow him with a cine camera but they probably managed to get someone on there with him. What did he do? Where did he sit? Who did he sit next to? See if they can find 223
out if anyone from the project made a trip to London on the same day? Cleaners and tea ladies are still my favourites. It's easier for them to take the time off because the others will take up any slack, unwritten code between the working class and all that."
The Old Man entered the room. "How's it going gentlemen?" They stood up and updated him.
He turned to Reg, "Get on to that tonight, speak to the night man." He sucked on his pipe thoughtfully.
"Shame we didn't pick this up before we let them wander off out of the country. Opportunity lost but never mind, we can always expel some other unfortunate. Of course, they'll tit for tat us but if we're lucky we’ll be able to use the attaché nearest to retirement and the last person in." He suddenly seemed to remember why he was there.
"Ah, yes, just wanted to bring you all up to date. Box has identified the Edinburgh team. They left on a scheduled flight to Helsinki just after they dropped Pollock off the Forth Rail Bridge. The Finns confirm they visited the Soviet Embassy there then took a train ride across the border to Leningrad. Oh, and the 224
Brighton connection is going well. There's to be an arrest shortly. As for your plan? Very innovative. Make sure you brief our friends across the road tonight. Iron out any issues. I'll be speaking with Sir Martin shortly."
He sucked the pipe again then took it out and pointed it at them. "Right then. Well done, chaps. I'll be off now. Enjoy the rest of your evening." He glanced at Reg. "You know where I'll be."
225
30th July
The Old Man spoke with the Director, Security Service, who in turn spoke with the Home Secretary who spoke to the local Chief Constable. A new readiness exercise had been called. He had the honour of being the first to implement it. It was all about how well the Gas Board and the Police could work together in the event of a 'fifth column' enemy strike on utilities.
Of course, so as not to frighten the public they would be told it was a simple gas leak. His staff should be told the same, the public were more likely to co-operate if they had no idea it was simply an exercise. Naturally, there would be Home Office ‘monitoring staff’ there to evaluate the response and the secrecy.
The day of the World Cup final found them blocking Marion Ward's street off. The Gas Board erected a red and white striped little tent in the road then set to work with a jack hammer. A couple of uniformed police strolled up and down, knocking on doors, telling the residents to keep everything closed and to stay inside.
Either end of the street was blocked by hastily erected 226
barriers and signs. Marked police cars added to the scene, blue lights lazily rotating.
Outside Marion Ward's house, a large blue van with
'Gas Board' written on the sides was parking up. In the back, unseen, the Farralland men turned the 'tap' on the canister and allowed it to feed the rubber hose that disappeared through the floor and vented out beneath.
Wearing a blue overall and a flat cap, Gallagher knocked on Marion's door. A uniformed policeman stood behind him.
"Hello, Miss. My name's Timpson. I'm from the Gas Board. I'm terribly sorry but we're going to have to ask you if there's a neighbour you could stay with today.
There's a gas leak and we've had to close the road down so we can try and locate it but at the moment it seems to originate from the close vicinity of your house. Being as you appear to be right on top of it we need to get you away from here and to a place of relative safety."
The bobby, an older chap, cut in. "That's right, Miss Ward. I couldn't smell anything myself at the top of the street but I just got a whiff of it as we walked up your garden path."
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Recognition crossed her face. "Oh, hello, Constable Parker. Well, if that's the case have I just got time to get some things? How long is this going to take, only I have a solicitor coming around this afternoon to formalise some papers?"
Gally shook his head. "I really can't say. We're expecting to be here all day and the police have strict instructions not to let anyone into the street. Perhaps you could phone them and reschedule?"
She tutted and shook her head. "Not possible. I'm afraid. She phoned me from her home and I didn't think to get her number."
Gally looked suitably sympathetic. "I should think they'll call you back when they can't get through. Now, when you go to your friends you'll have to leave the house open or give me the keys because we need to do some tests inside but no need to worry as we'll have a uniformed constable with us at all times."
Her nearest neighbour's house sat in a large garden similar to Marion's, with mature shrubs and trees that shielded both houses from any casual observation. After leaving her there, Constable Parker was called to the 228
opposite end of the street. Within minutes of his departure, two technicians in gas board overalls carried equipment boxes into the house accompanied by Dave T wearing police uniform whilst Mick set up a stripey tent on the gravelled drive. Everything in the street was played out in slow time, heads were shaken and consternation acted out whilst neighbours supplied cups of tea and plates of biscuits.
Just before three o'clock, under the twin towers of Wembley Stadium, England and West Germany took to the field in front of a crowd of almost 97,000. After a scrappy start, it took the Germans just twelve minutes to take the lead following a giveaway header from Wilson to Haller who collected it well and stabbed the ball into the back of the net. It took six minutes for England to equalise. Moore, taking a free-kick, looked up and saw Hurst unattended. The long ball was weighted perfectly for him to run onto and nod into the goal.
Half time brought a call from the checkpoint. There was a brown Ford Zephyr, two on board. The female said she was a solicitor who'd come to see a client over some important papers. Informed about the gas leak 229
they left but five minutes later they were at the other barrier, same thing, same result.
The final resumed and with an almost prophetic twelve minutes to full time which mirrored the Germans taking the lead, Hurst's shot was hurriedly cleared by Höttges straight into the path of the advancing Martin Peters who slammed it home. England clutched tightly to the 2-1 lead until, with less than a minute left, a German free-kick incited a failed clearance leaving the ball to fall to Held whose shot skidded off the back of his fellow countryman, Schnellinger, wrong-footing the England defence and Weber made it 2-2. Extra time was called.
The interval showed both teams were fatigued but the England manager, Ramsey, employed some psychology when he insisted his team get to their feet whilst the Germans remained down.
One hundred and one minutes played, Ball collects a long pass from midfield then centres from the right.
Hurst receives and turns just outside the six-yard box lashing it towards goal as the centrifugal forces take him to the ground. The ball hits the underneath of the 230
bar, appears to hit the line and bounces out. Hunt, the England player nearest the ball, throws his arms up in triumph, Weber heads it clear. The referee isn't sure but the linesman, believing it bounced back out from the top of the net before hitting the line, says it’s a goal.
The West Germans remonstrate but it changes nothing.
The second half of extra time is almost over. One minute twenty seconds to play, the English crowd are desperately whistling, hoping to influence the referee.
The Germans make a last-ditch attack, thirty seconds of play left, a long ball centred into the English penalty box. Bobby Moore is there to chest it down and lazily one-two it with a mate before looking up to see Hurst unmarked in the German half. His superb long ball finds his West Ham United team mate and Hurst runs as fast as his tired legs can manage. From the English half, Overath digs deep and makes a tremendous effort to catch him and almost does but as the England player enters the penalty box he unleashes a shot that sails into the back of the net. The British commentator lets out a remark that becomes legend: "some people are on the 231
pitch, they think it's all over. It is now!" The Jules Rimet trophy trembled in anticipation.
Within minutes, in the married quarter area of a barracks near Edinburgh, two excited young English boys danced and yelled on the communal grass to the stony silence of their Scottish neighbours.
Meanwhile, the ‘circus’ in Marion Ward’s road dissolved around six leaving the false Gas Board van in the street to monitor levels, so the residents were told.
In reality, its occupants were monitoring the technicals and providing close support, should it be necessary.
They made tea and a meal on an army issue portable stove on the pavement. No one noticed.
The rest of the team dissipated into the surrounding area, the military types seeing to themselves whilst Clive, Sandy and Gally hit the nearest chip shop five miles away then found a nice secluded track that would take all three cars; precautions just in case the Cherneys decided on an unannounced return.
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The next morning, while England sleepily celebrated and the rest of the United Kingdom went about just another normal Sunday, they left the track behind and headed for the nearest town. A small place, it had a selection of two cafes only one of which was open.
They each ordered tea and a cooked breakfast then took it in turns to use the sink in the toilets to freshen up.
Marion Ward, oblivious to the official subterfuge going on around her, was just grateful her solicitor would be arriving soon to finalise her will. It was Wendy who'd suggested it and, whilst she'd shied away from the idea previously, she knew that being alone in the world and not having made arrangements meant the Government would take her 'estate'. Working for them was one thing, subsidising them was a whole different matter.
Wendy was something else. There was attraction, fun and wonderful sex. She'd let desire rule her head but, being who she was, these things were few and far between.
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Marion was socially awkward, and she knew it, but longed for someone with whom she could naturally fall into conversation. Besides her work, her only other interest was her garden and its flowers and shrubs. She knew their Latin and common names by heart and all the trees she'd planted had people names. There was Bertie, Howard, Faith, Hope, Bubbles and the simply magnificent Tim.
It wasn't that she felt no one would understand; it was simply that people didn't and probably never would. And she never meant to annoy people at work with her brilliance but had managed to do so inadvertently on several occasions and then, apparently, made things worse by not having noticed. She had problems with body language, both her own and that of others and was often accused of being in a mood when perfectly happy. Her last lover had told her she'd been trying for six months to give her clues as to her attraction to her before having, in the end, to risk all by telling her outright. Some things were way too subtle for Marion.
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Her quirky habits, like taking the foil that had wrapped her sandwiches and folding it over and over again to form a neat compact square before she threw it in the bin and switching lights off and on then off again when she left a room at the end of the day, weren't helping matters either.
But these were the things to be noticed on knowing her better. She could control her OCD when in casual company and only the truly observant would pick up on her habit of repeatedly rubbing the top right-hand corner of her notepad with her thumb when attending the likes of a seminar or meeting.
Born in Manchester, the daughter of a toolmaker, she'd shown an aptitude for mathematics at an early age gaining a scholarship to Manchester Girls Grammar School then another to Somerville, in Oxford, from where she'd obtained her degree. A spell as a mathematics teacher at the Royal High School in Edinburgh followed and it was there she'd taught Andrew Pollock, a young man she would later recommend to her new employers. After a while, she wanted to open new horizons and had thought of world 235
travel but a colleague had strongly suggested she apply for a seemingly innocuous job advertised in the Times newspaper. She didn't know it at the time but her older friend had worked for the Government Code and Cypher School at Bletchley Park, during the war, decrypting enemy codes and so she found herself working for the now renamed GCHQ.
She'd enjoyed the work even when she'd been placed in Giles Reddington-Taylour's team for the new project and it took her a while to discover he'd been taking the accolades for her work. By the time she'd found out, her awkwardness and odd habits, helped by Reddington's confidential conversations with his superiors, had alienated her from certain influential members of the management.
She'd hoped that things would improve after he was nominated for secondment to America yet when he didn’t get the job, it was all too late; her moment of truth had passed. She didn't like to admit it, even to herself, but she'd been secretly pleased when he got himself shot.
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However, she was in it for the long run, the work was immensely interesting and vitally important and she felt certain she wouldn't have to put up with him forever. His supposed 'brilliance' would catch up with him one way or another. That's why she allowed herself to relax, give in to desire despite her initial reluctance, a reluctance caused only by the fact that it had been so long. Wendy was beautiful, tactile and understanding and while she was almost everything she could have wished for, Marion wasn't stupid – she felt her lover was hiding something. She couldn't be certain but thought perhaps it was a husband, boyfriend or another woman.
She decided to take what she could get and, anyway, Wendy's knowledge of plants was surprisingly good.
Her only regret was telling her of Reddington-Taylour's deceit in pitching her work as his own, it had been churlish and could have been viewed as egotistical but she'd been angry and Wendy was a good listener. She'd told her nothing more.
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Yes, today she would leave everything to the NSPCC, the national children's charity, for the children she'd never have. Time for a shower.
Back on the street, Sandy headed for the phone box and reported to the office while the others visited the little newsagent's shop, Clive buying the Sunday Times, Gallagher choosing the Sunday Mirror.
The passenger door opened and closed as Sandy plonked himself on the rear seat. The newspapers went down as two heads swivelled round to look at him.
"Everything's changed. The Old Man says he's been told to get her out of there. They think it’s too risky.
Now they've realised Reddington's lack of ability they can't afford to lose her, especially with Petterson currently over in the States. We've got to get her to that police safe house we stayed in, as a temporary measure.
Box will take her from there later on. Oh, and Reg says the Cherneys are booked for a flight to Stockholm early tomorrow, although he can't guarantee it isn't a cover for them leaving elsewhere but he's still got people checking."
They were interrupted. "Billy to Gally, over."
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"Billy – We've monitored a phone call to her. The targets have arranged to visit her at eleven-thirty. We're on, mate. For your information, I'm issuing the Browning nine millys, over."
"Gally – roger. We're coming to get her out of there, new instructions from Sunray. We'll be there soonest but if anything happens you have full autonomy, over."
"Billy – roger. Out."
"Shouldn't we get that authorised by the Old Man?"
Sandy queried.
"No time, Ginge. You can't be tying these guys'
hands. They'll know what to do. We'll sort any mess out later."
He checked his wrist. "It's eleven now. Let's get going."
The three car convoy left at speed.
On arrival, they were greeted by Billy, still dressed in his gas board overalls. "I've a crew en route to the safe house to secure it. I spoke to Reg just before.
We've identified ourselves and explained the situation.
I've two inside with her, not just for close protection but 239
you never know, just in case she panics and tries to do a runner. Front and back are covered and I'm waiting on the cut off group to get here, shouldn't be long though."
Gally patted him on the arm, "Thanks, Billy, you're a star."
He waved Sandy and Clive over to a nearby shrub and briefed them. "Look, I'll take her in mine, you two follow on and look out for any company we might pick up. I wouldn't be surprised if they turned up early just to get a feel of the place and watched for any unusual activity. If they have, they'll be onto what we're trying to do and it's their last chance so it may get rough."
Inside, explanations given and his SB identity card shown, they chivvied her along as she gathered some things into a bag and Gallagher deposited her onto the back seat with instructions to keep her head down.
John and Helen Cherney watched from their Ford Zephyr parked on the tree-lined rise that commanded a view of anything that entered or left the drive upon which Marion Ward's home sat. The three car convoy wasn't difficult to spot.
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A small bag containing the intended tools of their trade lay on the back seat. The syringe and drug phial now redundant, John removed the two PPKs and racked a round into the chamber of each. Handing one to Helen with spare mags, he placed his own inside his jacket.
His only fear at that moment was failure. He could sense the title 'Hero of the Soviet Union' slipping from his grasp and desperate times called for desperate measures.
He knew the area well. Cutting through the back lane, he reached the junction on the other side of the rise just as the convoy sailed past. On the clear straight road, he put his foot down and measured his progress perfectly. Sandy just managed, "We've got company"
on the radio before the Zephyr overtook and Helen fired three rounds into the driver's window. Reflex took Sandy over as glass flew everywhere and something skimmed his chin.
In his rear view mirror, John Cherney saw Sandy's Triumph Herald bounce through the hedge and disappear into the field. Sandy saw the hedge and the windscreen. For several minutes it was all he could 241
remember. Falling from the open door, he dragged himself to his feet wiping blood from his chin and feeling more blood trickle down his face from the head wound sustained when he headbutted the front window.
It hurt when he breathed.
Aware of what had just happened, Clive attempted to provide distance between Gally and their pursuers by blocking as they tried another overtake. Back and forth they went, narrowly avoiding collision with several oncoming cars and a box van. From a rise in the road, before his adversary had time to recognise it, Cherney saw his chance.
Clive had placed his weapon on the seat next to him for easy access but looking for it now, he discovered it had glided off into the footwell. Desperately, he glanced up at them just as they slammed into the side of him. He gripped the wheel hard, tyres kicked up dirt and grass from the edge of the carriageway then he careered across onto the opposing lane until he managed to control it and steer back.
Cherney was ready, accelerating fast and using his opponent’s own momentum to help him achieve his 242
aim, the next contact forced Clive straight off the road causing his car to cling, crazily, to the embankment of the ditch as he fought to save himself. Seconds later his undoing was the unseen culvert he struck. He lay slumped at the wheel as steam erupted from the radiator, dust and debris settling all around.
Gally checked his mirror. All he saw was the Zephyr advancing like a great white shark. He glanced down at the seat next to him. The radio had gone, probably wedged beneath.
As calmly as he could, he told Ward, "I don't want you to worry too much but things are not going well. If we're going to get out of this alive you have to do exactly what I say when I say it. Do you understand, Marion?"
Her reply disclosed no hint of terror. "Yes, I understand you perfectly, mister Gallagher."
He made eye contact in the mirror. "Then get down into the space between the passenger seat and the back seat and stay there until I tell you to do otherwise."
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He knew he couldn't outrun them, especially on a straight road and this was a very straight road. Cursing the Romans, he also knew if he stopped to engage they had all the advantages. When he saw the sign, it was all he had. Stomping sharply on the brakes, he threw the Cambridge left into the entrance to the forest; the Zephyr sailed on past, smoke coming from contact of tyres and tarmac.
Slipping from side to side on the dusty track, he regained control and remembered what the military guys had told him. The rapid increase in speed took him into the metal barrier popping it open like a bag of crisps. Gears racked from third to second, he stomped on the accelerator, slewed around the first bend out of view and threw the steering wheel left as he yanked the handbrake, spinning the car around to almost face back towards the main road, a cloud of dust filling the air.
Out, he dragged the rear door open and pulled her from the footwell.
"In the ditch! Get in the ditch! Keep down and crawl as far as you can then go left into the bracken and keep 244
going to the trees. Wait for me there. Don't come out until you hear me calling you!"
He took the Smith and Wesson out, checked his pocket for the speed loaders and reached the engine block just as his pursuers swung around the bend and skidded to a halt, surprised at what confronted them.
Up over the bonnet, he let loose three shots into the passenger side of the windscreen but the doors still opened. They weren’t giving up. Seconds later, the Cambridge's side windows shattered and the door skins plinked as rounds penetrated them. He spun around and rolled between the tyres to the boot, up again, three more then rolled back to eject the spent cases and reload. He was in trouble, who knew how many magazines they had yet he was saving the British public on the inconvenience of the cost of defence. He had to make them count and tried to calm himself.
He knelt up and fired one at the driver's door then lay flat as the reply thudded into the car and spat up dirt behind him. He reverse crawled a few feet in the hope they wouldn't be able to see him beneath the vehicle.
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His heart thumped in his ears as he watched their feet approaching. Prone, he pulled the hammer back silently and lightly pressed the trigger. The figure on the left yelped and went down. He fired two more as they struggled to recover their dropped weapon then rolled to his right, tumbling backwards into bracken as he tried to get to his feet, letting one loose as a figure came running, firing as it did so.
Ignoring the pain of his landing in the deceptively deep ditch, he righted himself and scrambled into the overgrown ferns out of view. Cautiously kneeling, he raised his head just enough to see through the undergrowth and catch a glimpse of the man reloading behind the open rear passenger door of the Cambridge.
Up, he fired the remaining round then ran left, back into the ditch. Crawling rapidly several feet, ditching the empty cases from the revolver as he did so, with trembling hands he reloaded with his last speed loader.
Facing towards the direction of the threat, he lay waiting for the inevitable. It didn't come. He used his legs to propel himself away on his back. After ten feet 246
or so, all the time the weapon pointing in readiness, he stopped and warily rose.
The figure who'd been reloading at the rear door was now lying on his back, arms outstretched, gun still in hand. Gallagher scrambled from the ditch and tentatively approached in a wide arc, weapon out in front of him. Swiping the sweat from his eyes, he flicked the PPK with his foot then slowly bent down to recover it, putting it in his jacket pocket. Blood from Cherney's head formed a dusty pool on the ground, Gally's last hopeful shot had struck him through his right eye, killing him outright.
Where the other figure had gone down he wasn't exactly sure, he couldn't see it, maybe it had been closer to his car than he'd realised. Slowly, revolver thrust before him, he edged around the bonnet. There was nothing but a disturbance to the dust track and a small, dark damp patch. He squatted down, catching his breath, quickly checking the dead man's gun; round in the chamber, rounds in the magazine.
The sound of the engine startled him. A brief crunching of gears and it began to reverse away as the 247
sunlight glared off the windscreen. He knew it had to end here. One down was messy but one down and one getaway was even messier in his line of business.
He got to his feet, firing all six rounds two-handed at the glare. Dropping the empty weapon, he dragged out the PPK and disengaged the safety. The car rolled back across a culvert and slid gracefully through the bracken, struck a large conifer and stalled. He could feel the acid in the back of his throat as he fought to control his breathing.
Advancing towards the driver's side, he saw the figure slumped to their right. When he opened the door, she fell out, her hair concealing her face. He felt her wrist and neck but there was no pulse. He brushed the hair to one side. It was the girl who'd mined his history with a simple look.
He quickly searched the car and found her gun in the driver's well where it had fallen as she took the impact of his bullets. He made it safe then dragged her further into the ferns, out of sight, arranging her decently and covering the traces as best he could. He did the same for Cherney, kicking dust over the evidence of blood then 248
called Marion from the undergrowth. It took a while before he could convince her it was safe. Under his instruction, they piled the biggest ferns and fallen branches they could find over the Zephyr until, to the casual observer, it almost wasn't there. Taking a smaller branch he broke off a portion and, as a marker, forced it into the ground at the edge of the track roughly opposite the Zephyr and the body it guarded; then he did the same for her husband.
He rummaged under the front passenger seat and pulled out the 502 radio and gave it a try; nothing. It could be the set or it could be the trees. He'd no idea.
Surprisingly, the Cambridge fired up on the second attempt and after he'd changed the flat front tyre they were able to drive back to the road and the telephone kiosk that sat in the lay-by two hundred yards further along.
He found some small change in the glove box and made the call to the number on the rear of his identity card. After 40 seconds, the engaged signal ceased and a voice answered. "Cleaning Services."
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The word of the day was given then the phone number and a brief description of the location, markers and requirements. The reply was a simple, "Understood.
Someone will be with you shortly. Go back to the track and wait." They did.
He told Ward to call him Gally then sat and debriefed her as best he could. As he looked at her closely for the first time, he thought she had a pleasant face but it gave away just a hint of apprehension of the future when he informed her of their suspicions about her lover, Wendy. He complimented her on her bravery and she replied, "I wasn't brave, it was just exciting. Do you do this all the time, Gally?" He waved her away in mock modesty, "Shucks, no ma'am," he said, in his best cowboy voice. "We usually take Wednesdays off." It made her smile.
Marion filled the rest of their time by telling him all about the plants that surrounded them until they were interrupted by the blue 'Gas Board' van bouncing up the track.
Several tumbled out of the back and Mick nodded briefly to Marion as Billy said, "Sorry, Gally. There 250
was no way we could keep up when we sussed what was going on. We came across Sandy and Clive on the way. They're ok, a bit beat up but they'll survive. Clive's done his collarbone in and I reckon Sandy has a cracked rib but I left a couple of the lads with them, trained medics. Where are they then?" His head swivelled from side to side.
"Follow the markers."
Billy threw a couple of hand signals out and the others waded through the ferns.
"You got any body bags, Billy?"
He shook his head. "Nah. We'll wrap 'em in a groundsheet when they're in the back."
Gallagher watched him inspect the Cambridge and then the ground, kicking over the empty cases.
"What about their vehicle?" Gally asked.
"What? Oh, recovery'll be here shortly." He looked up. "You did well, mate. I'm proud of you. You look like a bag of shite though."
Bodies placed in the back of the van, they set about picking up the empties, kicking glass away and covering any obvious marks on the track. A small 251
transporter turned up and they all helped load the Zephyr and cover it with a tarpaulin.
From start to finish it took them twenty minutes before they parted ways, draping the chain over the reclosed barrier so it looked as if it were locked. Tich and another escorted Gally and Marion to the safe house.
On the main road heading southeast, the transporter and its cargo passed a car in a ditch then joined a short queue of traffic that waited as a sister recovery vehicle hauled a Triumph Herald from a field.
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He wandered along the corridor and stepped across the workman who was removing the wooden sign from the door of the Old Man's office.
"Hello, Tich. What you doing?"
"Hello, mate. New signage. Got to use the budget up or they'll reduce it next year."
Gally took in the old original gold painted door sign, the one revealed by the removal. In old fashioned script, it read, 'Room Three'.
Tich put the new brass plate on the door and began screwing it in place. It declared, 'R.W. Deakin. Director of Home Office Statistics'.
"I don't suppose there's money in the budget for me to have my own office?"
Tich glanced up. "Yeah, I've got a door plate here for it." He held up a sign that said, 'Toilets'.
Entering the main office, he saw the Old Man was present and there was a young woman with him.
"Good morning, Gallagher. So nice of you to join us but we start at nine, not ten past." He turned to the woman. "I believe you know Miss Johnson?"
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She smiled awkwardly and Gally smiled back. "Yes, we have met once or twice," he said.
The Old Man continued. "I'm sorry, Gallagher, but I needed to know more about you. What sort of a person you are, whether you would be a liability, that sort of thing."
"It's nice to be trusted, Sir. Is there anything else you might want to tell me? Any other things you've set me up for?"
The Director glanced across the room. "Ah, you mean Clive? Yes, well, I wanted to know how loyal you were and whether you would allow your prejudices to get in the way. I'm glad to say you passed all the tests with flying colours." He accepted a cup of tea from Clive who gave Gally an apologetic smile, his arm still in a sling and a plaster over his eye,
"I've known all about it since he joined us. He was very upfront about it. He knew the importance of total honesty in a place such as this. The good news is, from what I've been told, next year we will see an end to the nonsense that has blighted so many lives."
Gally had to ask, "Who was the young copper?"
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The Old Man couldn't stifle a wide smile. "Your replacement at SB. Hansen loaned him to us. He came with his own uniform which was a bonus." He turned to Sandy. "Has that chap finished doing my sign?" Sandy nodded.
"Right, well, I'll be in my office if anyone needs me." He stopped at the door and turned. "Oh, I forgot to say. If you want an open-ended secondment here it's yours. Unfortunately, you've begun to grow on me, Gallagher. I hope I don't regret it."
Gally and Clare eyed each other then she beckoned him to one side where she whispered. "I suppose you can't forgive me? In my defence, I can honestly say that what began as just an assignment became something else. I like you, Gally, very much. You probably feel betrayed though."
He smiled at her and whispered back. "Oddly enough, I don't and I do forgive you, not that there's anything to forgive really. I had a feeling things were moving too easily so when I called the Ministry of Agriculture and no one had heard of you, I knew it wasn't what it seemed. Then, of course, you told me 255
your mum was picking you up only she didn't and when I realised the room connected to the Old Man's office was the same as the one with the locked door on the corridor and the missing nameplate well, even I managed to put things together. Plus, I think you wanted to give me a clue when you told me about your dad. Working in Yugoslavia during the war? It had to be something like SOE at least and then Malaya? I didn't miss it."
"So, you just played along to see where it was leading to?"
"Yes, but not in the way you might mean. I thought it was going somewhere good. You see, I like you too, Clare. You're a gutsy girl with a good sense of humour.
Most of the women I've been involved with don't have a sense of humour."
"And let's not forget my brilliant mind," she grinned.
"Yes, there is that as well."
They stood there, slightly awkwardly. He broke the moment. "Wasn't there a film you wanted to see?" She nodded coyly. "Would you mind awfully if I came with you to see it?" She shook her head.
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Sandy breezed over, gauze dressing taped to his chin covering stitches, a pair of sunglasses hiding his blackened eyes. "Sorry to break this up but Reg has something important that only you can do."
Gally pointed at Sandy’s face. “You do know we’re indoors, don’t you?”
He knocked on the door then opened it.
"What're you doing knocking?" Reg commented.
Gally grinned. "Who knows what you do in here when no one's about? You've got a job for me, I'm told."
"Yeah, the tea kitty. You’re in arrears so get your hand in your pocket, there's a good lad."
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Several weeks later, the Old Man called him into his office.
"Take a seat, Gallagher."
Gally sat and watched him pace up and down behind his desk.
"I've a job for you. You're going to Berlin."
"I've always wanted to go to Berlin, Sir. They say the beer and the nightlife are second to none. Will it be on expenses or should I get a loan out?"
"You won't have time for any of that nonsense. You won't be going alone."
"Oh, then can I take Miss Johnson with me?"
"Gallagher, try to be sensible for just a short while.
You and I shall be going."
"That's a very kind offer, Sir, and I hope you're not offended but you're not my type."
The Old Man glared at him. Gally decided he'd pushed it far enough.
He started again, slowly. "Gallagher, if you weren't so bloody competent I'd have you back on school 258
crossing patrols permanently." He made the follow-up stare count.
"Listen very carefully. You and I shall be going to Berlin to hand back Herr Radler to the East Germans.
We'll have some of the Farralland chaps with us for security." He sat down and took a file from his drawer.
Slipping a sheet of paper from within, he slid it across the desk. "Read that and shut the door on your way out."
They flew Radler into RAF Gatow on a C-130
transport. It wasn't the most comfortable flight Gallagher had taken. Whisked off to a safe house by Billy, Mick and a bloke the others called Johnny Mirrors, he put a call in to the Berlin Savoy and spoke to the Old Man, receiving instructions for the following day.
They settled down for the night and the conversation between Gallagher and Radler drifted to the handover.
"Of course, you know I'm interested in who I'm being exchanged for, Gally. What is my value these days?"
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"I'm not sure. You tell me? You're being swapped for someone you caught a few years ago, it seems. I only know of him as 'Don'."
"Ah, Mister Creech-Kellar. I must admit to feeling pleased my value to my comrades has increased somewhat in the last months." He sipped the Asbach brandy Gally had Johnny Mirrors purchase from the Naafi in Gatow. "You know, that network was difficult to crack, they led me on a merry chase but I got them.
All of them apart from the one I only knew of as Havel.
Two British agents, fluent speakers. The rest were local acquisitions. So, I'm to be exchanged for Mister Creech-Kellar. I'm honoured." He held his glass out for a refill.
"Just the one, Harald. We need you up bright and early and looking chirpy." Gally smiled.
The following morning, oh dark hundred, the borrowed Embassy black Mercedes collected them. The Farralland team followed on in the locally provided VW.
For the most part, they travelled in silence. Radler, despite his bravado of the night before, was nervous 260
about his forthcoming reception but he also had a slight yet persistent annoying feeling that, eventually, he gave in to.
He leant forward and lightly tapped the shoulder of the man in the front passenger seat. "Excuse me, but have we ever met before?"
The Old Man didn't turn. "I don't believe we have, Herr Radler." The image of an accidental pedestrian collision on the footpath outside the 'Runde Ecke' Stasi HQ and prison in Leipzig flashed through his head.
Harald sat back. "That's strange. I have a distinct feeling somehow I know you. Ach, what does it matter.
My mother was a psychic. I blame it on her." He laughed.
Next to the barrier, two American military policemen and a uniformed Berlin cop on one side and Gallagher on the other, the Old Man waited impatiently.
Behind them, Billy minded Radler whilst Mick and Johnny Mirrors leant against the Volkswagen, nine millimetre Brownings hidden beneath their jackets. A sign in front of them stated, in four languages - You are leaving the American sector.
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With dawn fast approaching, the cobblestones were still wet from a heavy but thankfully brief shower. At the far end of the Glienicke Bridge, on the Soviet-controlled side, a grey van pulled up and Gallagher could see a group descend from it. They stood around the checkpoint. He lifted his binoculars and hovered over the face of a uniformed guard. So, that's what a Russian looks like. He was expecting something ugly and grim but what he saw was the sort of young man you could find anywhere.
"I think that's your man, Sir," he commented.
The Old Man clicked his fingers and Gally relinquished control of the binos. "Yes, that's him. A bit thinner but it's him."
"Why here, Sir? Why not somewhere else?"
The Old Man gave him a scathing look. "It's what we do, Gallagher. Besides, I'd have thought you might have noticed it's permanently blocked off to the public."
Gally's head rose slightly in understanding. "Ah, and I thought it had something to do with the river, Sir. You know? The Havel and all that?"
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He received an inquiring stare and then, "A fortunate coincidence and do try not to parade your cleverness too much. It could prove to be the undoing of a potential career."
Less than a minute later: "Right, time for you to go."
Gally held the car door open, gesturing Billy and Harald over and then took the wheel. The barrier on the Soviet side rose and the grey van slowly proceeded towards the centre of the bridge. The Mercedes glided forward but the Old Man caused it to stop. He signalled Radler to wind the window down.
"Die Runde Ecke, Leipzig," he said. "Auf wiedersehen, Herr Radler."
He thought it should be enough to drive the East German half insane over the next few months or even years and as Gally drove from cobbles to smooth tarmac, a satisfied little smile crept across the Old Man’s lips.
With 30 metres to go, both vehicles stopped and the occupants got out. Standing alongside each other, Gallagher murmured from the side of his mouth, "Well, Harald, it's been nice to meet you. If they ever pull your 263
wall down we'll have to have a drink sometime but you're paying."
Radler seemed preoccupied. "What? Oh, yes! Yes, of course, Gally. However, we may be waiting some time, but I would like that."
"We won't shake hands, Harald, because I don't want anyone getting the wrong idea. Mind how you go."
Radler set off on a slow walk. At the white line marking the centre of the bridge he and his counterpart nodded at each other but didn't stop. Gallagher watched intently, looking for any sign that could tell him all was not well, his hand gripping the butt of the revolver in his pocket.
When his prize reached him, he simply said, "In the back, Sir and keep your head down. We don't want any accidents." A nod and Billy got in the back with him.
Swinging the vehicle round, they returned to the safety of the West where he pulled the car over to the side and opened the back door. His passenger looked tired and drawn.
264
The Old Man approached and they embraced each other. "I knew you wouldn't forget me," Don said quietly.
"How could I? I owe you my life," Havel replied.
"And Vistula? We've heard nothing."
Don took a step back and placed his hand on the Old Man's shoulder. "They shot him, Havel. I'm so sorry."
265
These things were complicated. To expel someone from the Soviet Embassy attracted too much attention and the same would be generally true with the Poles, awkward questions might be asked by the press and there was no need to advertise the lack of intelligence that allowed them to pass off the Stasi men as their own in the first place. No, it had to be an Embassy connected to the Soviets but not too connected or else there was no point. They chose the Czechs.
Of course, the Czechs weren't overwhelmed by the idea but knew how the game was played.
In return, at the British Embassy in Prague, the Air attaché and an Intelligence Corps Warrant Officer were politely told to pack their bags and go home. The former was not long for retirement in any event but the latter was recently arrived and had just moved into a lovely, fully furnished apartment the Foreign Office had found for him, complete with a baby grand piano, majestic sweeping staircase and a view to die for. To say he was miffed was an understatement.
266
MI5 managed to identify their tea lady. Lack of vetting was blamed. She'd joined the British Communist Party as a teenager under her step-father's surname, using one of her three forenames. When he died, she reverted to her mother's maiden name.
Introduced by a BCP colleague, she'd been groomed by the Soviets specifically for use by the East Germans. On the day Kasner took a bus ride, she'd told her friends she was taking a trip to London 'to do some shopping'.
The MI5 agent on the bus confirmed she and Kasner had exchanged glances and when she got up to leave, he immediately occupied her seat.
The woman on the bench in Karl-Heinz Gast's park in Swindon was confirmed as Reddington's mistress.
She'd been recruited using compromising photographs.
The Cherneys were cremated at a secret Government research establishment in a building referred to as 'the facility'. Their ashes were scattered in woodland.
Three days after their intended flight to Stockholm a man and woman entered the offices of Folkturist, the Swedish Communist Party's travel agency, and purchased tickets for travel to Leningrad in the name of 267
John and Helen Cherney. Routine camera surveillance of the Soviet Embassy by Swedish Security Services recorded the same couple waiting outside. The next day, two MI6 agents returned to London via Oslo.
The Brighton 'lure' turned out to have been just that.
The team who paid him were never identified, the blonde known as Wendy was never traced and England never won another World Cup.
268
2016
Sitting back in his chair, he eyed the black, below the knee, coat, trilby and white silk scarf that hung from the clothes stand in the corner. They were classic garments he'd had to update as time and the elements, such as he encountered them now, took their toll.
He leant forward and ran a finger over the frame of the picture on his desk. A photograph from a happier time, two figures in swimwear on a beach in Belize. It hadn't been a holiday, just a few days respite before they had to mend a local problem and move on to the next; all deniable of course.
They'd travelled the country and the Commonwealth together, places that needed a certain skill, sharing the danger and uncertainty but there had been the occasional real holiday: San Marino, Lake Garda and a lovely little hideaway they found and loved in southern France.
Of all the places to lose one another, it had been nowhere exotic. Returning from Scotland, they'd decided to spend a few days in Liverpool, see the sights 269
while they had the time – the wall had come down and Eastern Europe was opening up though he felt no inclination to go there. It had been surprisingly pleasant and they were returning home, heading for the motorway when they were hit by a stolen car. She died at scene and all he could do was hold her hand while she slipped away as they cut him from the wreckage.
He wished they hadn't. He looked again at the photograph and mouthed, "I love you, Clare."
The Sergeant dealing with the case, a Traffic man, visited him in hospital as he lay recovering; a nice chap, very professional and correct. Nickson, he said his name was but added everyone called him 'Nicks'. He went above and beyond, arranging things, formalities that he, himself, wasn't in a position to do and even attended the cremation service that was held locally.
Eventually, returning home with her ashes, Gally kept them on the little table in the corner of the living room where they would stay until it was time for him to join her – to be scattered together at a favourite spot.
He and Deakin had eventually become close friends, despite the initial mutual reticence. It had taken a few 270
years though. People in his line of business tended to shelter behind an invisible shield, a personality that is not entirely theirs but assumed as a form of defence either from others or situations. Yet, finally, they had worn each other down to reveal their true nature, as true as it could be. Deakin had learnt to relax, finding the younger man inside his head and Gally had realised that a tendency to be flippant was indeed both tedious and annoying and had learned to find the older man inside his own. They'd met in the middle.
The Old Man's death had been a shock, unexpected, he'd looked well but secretly wasn't. An injury sustained many years before had been ticking away and was the cause of a massive stroke. He was found at his club, in a high backed leather padded chair, seemingly asleep.
Sixty-two years old. No age at all, Gallagher thought.
Through Deakin, he'd become close to Don, they'd worked on the revamp of the old cold war resistance movement, officially disbanding it but in reality making it disappear from any outside oversight by diversifying its structure and command in much the same way big business had, creating autonomous regions with no real 271
connection to each other besides the brand name. In this case, there was no 'brand' because the organisation didn't 'exist' and thus, in the land of those who thought they knew, it simply became a rumour. Don, reliable, dedicated and often very humorous, if you knew him well enough, had overseen everything and remained in contact with the first of the regions to be reorganised, the North West. He'd always said it was the flagship.
Sadly, over the years, age had crept up on both of them and he blamed himself for not paying enough attention to the possibility of failing faculties in either of them. They'd taken their eyes off the ball; relaxed too much, ignored they were slowing down. The fact that neither of them looked as old as they were hadn't helped their realisation process.
By the time Don told him of his suspicions regarding the scale of the problem it was apparent that a wholesale cleansing operation was needed and they weren't even certain that it would resolve everything.
They considered a total shutdown but some 'units' had mutated and were practically self-funding. Don's death had been yet another knife in Gally's soul.
272
Checking his watch, he saw it was time to get a move on. He had damage limitation to do, an artful Chief Constable to control and some keen detectives'
ardour to rein in. Getting up, he rearranged the seat and went to the stand, placed the scarf carefully around his neck and slipped into the coat, leaving it open. He took the hat from the hook, ran the brim slowly through his fingers and smiled to himself. It had started as simple respect for Deakin but he hoped it would become a tradition, like the head of MI6 signing official letters with a 'C' in green ink.
In the corridor, Darren tapped the open door. The newest acquisition, he was coming along nicely. Early thirties, designer stubble, dark curly, fashionably cut hair, his slimly built frame fitted perfectly into a stylish slim fit suit with a fine pair of pointy shoes to finish it all off. No one would have guessed his day job.
"Thomas is waiting for you downstairs, Sir."
He nodded and put on the hat. As they walked towards the stairs he asked, "What time is my appointment with the Chief Constable, Darren?"
273
"Eleven thirty, Sir. It'll give us time to have a leisurely breakfast at the hotel and an early morning walk, weather permitting," he said as he opened the security door and stood aside.
"And is the weather permitting?"
"I'm keeping my fingers crossed, Sir."
"All this weather technology and satellites and still it comes down to crossed fingers."
Outside, it promised a fine afternoon. Thomas, with a physique that had more than a passing acquaintance with a weight or two, held the rear door open, smiled and nodded.
"Liverpool, Thomas, you know the hotel and this time let's come off the motorway at Holmes Chapel and cut across. I'd like to see some scenery."
Thomas closed him in and took the wheel. "Darren will be tailing us, Sir. Your last stop to use the facilities will be Keele services, the fridge is stocked with water, wraps and sandwiches and the thermos is in the centre console. Sit back and enjoy the drive."
"Thomas, I'm fairly certain you're a frustrated airline pilot. It's the same speech every time." He glanced out 274
the window as he said, in mock annoyance, "Yes, yes, I'm putting the seat belt on now."
Thomas eyeballed the Old Man in the mirror and inwardly smiled.
275
As Dan Wheatcroft
The Leveller Trilogy books:
The Road to Eden is Overgrown
Ask the River
No Room for the Innocent
John Gallagher series:
The Summer of 66
The Summer of 75
As Paul Addy:
Pad's Army
The House in the Wood
(a book for children 6 to 9)
276
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