Confirm or Deny Page 9

  Down at the scene of the DLB, Dobbs listened phlegmatically to the radio traffic. “I’d love to know who he telephoned,” he said; it was almost a criticism of the team; in common with a lot of detectives, Dobbs always thought that he could do a better job than the blokes who were actually doing it.

  “Delta, give location, control over.”

  “Kingsway, near the LSE, facing south, over.”

  “Zulu Four to control. He’s crossed over to the south side of Aldwych. Still going east… Melbourne Place. Stand by, he’s getting into a car.” The voice assumed urgency. “It’s a Sierra Ghia, blue in color. I’ll give you the number as soon as I can see it, Zulu Four over.”

  “Control to Delta. Sorry, you seem to be in the pole position. I’ll get someone else in place ASAP.”

  “Roger. Delta out.”

  Zulu Four came up with the car’s number, and the Special Branch officer at the Yard immediately keyed it into the Police National Computer.

  “Zulu Four from Handcuffs, are you sure about that number?” asked the computer operator.

  “Handcuffs from Zulu Four – affirmative,” and Zulu Four repeated it.

  “Well in that case, all units, you’ll be interested to know that it’s an electric milk-float. Registered keeper lives in Gwent.”

  “Control from Delta. This is the fastest Welsh milk-float I’ve ever seen. Round Australia House… Strand going west… across the traffic. He’s sussed me, I think. Jumped the lights at Melbourne Place… and again at Montreal Place… left onto Waterloo Bridge. Sod it, there’s a bus in the way…”

  “How unladylike,” said DS Randle quietly.

  “I can’t hold him… seventy… I’ll try… Tenison Way roundabout… the Bullring…” Then Delta went silent.

  “Delta from control, receiving?” Still silence. “Any other mobiles? Location?”

  “Control from Echo. Just turning into Waterloo Bridge, but I’m in a van. I’ll do my best.”

  Then the air was filled with the call-signs of other units as they came up, converging on Waterloo Station. But still there was nothing from the girl biker called Delta.

  “Control from Echo. Delta’s come off her bike at Tenison Way roundabout. Hit a diesel slick.”

  “Is she hurt, Echo?”

  “She’s torn her leathers, and she’s a bit shaken up and bruised. She’ll live, but I’m a bit worried about her mouth.”

  “What’s wrong with it?”

  “Control from Echo. It’s the language coming out of it.”

  *

  It had happened again. Delta’s accident had occurred before the other mobiles, thrown into disarray by Dickson’s sudden maneuver, had been able to catch up with their quarry. Despite an immediate circulation of all police cars in London and beyond, as well as to ports and airports, the car and Dickson had vanished without trace.

  Down at Teddington, Dobbs turned to Hodder. “Well that’s that then. I fancy we’ve seen the last of P. Dickson, Esquire, or whoever he is.”

  Hodder looked gloomy. “I rather fancy you’re right.”

  “I thought your blokes were the surveillance experts,” said Dobbs savagely, seeking already to apportion blame. “My blokes only went along for the walk.”

  “I really don’t know what can have happened.” Hodder looked unhappy, aware, now that a contact had escaped for the third time in succession, that there were likely to be some fairly high level questions and, doubtless, recriminations.

  “Well there’s no point in hanging about,” said Dobbs. “He’s had two hours to get here by fast car. He’s not coming, that’s for certain, Geoffrey. I suggest we open Pandora’s box out there, and see what the bold major was leaving for him. If it’s a box of chocolates we’ll know we’ve uncovered a poofters’ circle.”

  “It’s not funny,” said Hodder.

  “I’m not joking,” said Dobbs.

  Despite being conscious that it was a waste of time, Dobbs and Hodder eventually agreed to leave an observation team at Teddington until midnight.

  Dobbs himself, deeming it too urgent to go looking for a justice of the peace, issued a superintendent’s written order to search Dickson’s flat, which he was empowered to do under the Official Secrets Act. He and a small team went through the flat thoroughly, but without much enthusiasm. They found the two hidden cameras, and some indications that Dickson had departed, but nothing else incriminating.

  “Sod it!” said Dobbs, speaking for them all.

  Once again, a spymaster had evaded them.

  Chapter Seven

  “It’s damnable,” said Sir Edward Griffin. “Damnable!” He was pacing his office, backwards and forwards past the armchair in which Gaffney was seated. “There can be no doubt, no doubt at all. I wish… I had hoped…” He left the sentence unspoken. It was obvious that he would rather have been facing the comparatively minor problem of finding an excuse for taking no further interest in Armitage, and arranging for Dickson to be deported. Instead there was the certainty that someone in his organization was working for the KGB.

  “It must be evident to just about everybody in your service that something’s gone badly wrong over this Dickson business, Sir Edward. It seems that he had no intention of going to Teddington; he must have been warned, either in advance, or told of Armitage’s arrest almost as soon as it happened.”

  “What do you propose, Mr Gaffney?” He sat down behind his huge desk and gazed at the detective across the broad expanse of mahogany, now devoid of paper. He had been convinced that this situation would not arise; thought that he would be able to go to the Home Secretary and say that the previous cases had been a coincidence; he was even prepared to admit to incompetence. But now he knew. The culmination of his career would be to preside over an enquiry to discover a traitor, and to admit that, under his stewardship, the Security Service, to which he had devoted all his working life, had been penetrated. His portrait would hang alongside all his predecessors, certainly, but in the years to come they would point him out for special notice, just as they did now to poor Roger Hollis, with his heavy eyebrows, and the halfsmile which the viewer could interpret as guilt or innocence, according to what he thought.

  “I think that a thorough investigation is the only way,” said Gaffney, “and it cannot be done covertly; not in the end, anyway. I shall have to ask questions.”

  “What sort of questions?” Griffin shook his head, slowly and hopelessly.

  “What they do: their social life, their hobbies, their friends, who they mix with; that sort of thing.”

  “But think of the embarrassment. You can’t just go knocking on doors, asking questions.” Griffin considered the gravity of it. Gaffney was right. It was just not possible to make discreet enquiries about a thing like this. There was a limit to what could be learned, and all the time a subtle background investigation was going on, suspicion would hang in the air like a black cloud. Invisible fingers would point, not least at the Director-General himself. But then again, suppose it got out. There was a number of investigative journalists who specialized in poking their noses into matters of security, most of them ill-informed. The whiff of a suggestion that things were not quite as they should be in MI5 would bring them baying like a pack of unscrupulous hounds.

  Gaffney smiled. “We are a little more subtle than that,” he said. “I don’t propose to mount a full-scale operation all at once. We’ve plenty of time; the first stage will be to talk to Hodder and each member of his team. Then I shall move to a more thorough investigation of those who interest me. Some may not even know that they are being enquired into – may not be, in fact.” Gaffney paused. “You may rest assured, Sir Edward, that I shall do my best not to compromise your officers. I am conscious of the possibility that at least five of them are above suspicion. Unfortunately, I do not know, at this stage, which five; with any luck it may even be six.”

  Griffin raised his eyebrows. “I’d like to agree with you,” he said, “but I don’t see how you can—”


  “Disinformation?”

  “In what way?”

  “I suspect that the KGB have a pretty good idea of the way in which your service operates, as you are familiar with theirs. It may be that they have decided to rock your boat. Suppose they had decided to put in three successive red herrings—” Griffin did not smile at the pun. “—knowing how you would react, and then withdraw their man at the crucial moment each time, just to cast doubt on the probity of your officers.” Gaffney didn’t really believe it, but he felt a genuine sympathy for the man opposite him.

  “D’you really think so?” There was a sparkle of hope in Griffin’s face, but it faded just as quickly. “I’d like to believe it, but somehow I think it’s too much to wish for.”

  “Incidentally, Sir Edward, there is one other thing: some of your people may be a little reticent; they do tend to shelter behind the Official Secrets Act. I should like you to provide me with a letter authorizing them to tell me what I need to know about these matters…”

  Griffin nodded. “Very well.” The words came out softly, as though he was unwilling to release them, and had fought to the last to prevent them being heard.

  *

  “What sort of order are you going to play this in, guv’nor?” Tipper handed the list of names back to Gaffney.

  “I don’t think it matters too much. The problem’s going to be starting an investigation into one of them without alerting the others to the fact that something’s going on. We’d have to be very lucky to pick the right one first time. And I don’t suppose we shall.”

  Tipper laughed. “We should be so lucky. Well who d’you fancy for starters?”

  Gaffney glanced at the list once more. “Geoffrey Hodder.”

  “Any particular reason?”

  “Yes. He’s the team leader; and I’ve got a nasty mind.”

  *

  Detective Superintendent Terry Dobbs sat silently as Gaffney told him the full story behind the arrest of Armitage. “So there it is, Terry,” he said. “I’m sorry about your big job.”

  “Nice to know I’m trusted, sir,” said Dobbs.

  The sarcasm was not lost on Gaffney. “It’s got nothing to do with trust, Terry. If you didn’t know, you couldn’t do anything but act naturally; that was vital. It’s fairly evident that the KGB have got a snout on the inside; he’s the one I’m after, not Dickson.”

  “What happens to Armitage, then?”

  “Nothing. When’s he up again?”

  “Five days’ time, sir.”

  “Let him out, then. Don’t object to bail. Have a word with his brief; tell him that Dickson’s done a runner, and Armitage’s prosecution now looks doubtful.”

  Dobbs laughed. “Doubtful! It’s a non-starter—”

  “I know, but you don’t have to tell him that.”

  “The only thing that grieves me is how he must have been laughing up his sleeve when I nicked him.”

  Gaffney smiled. “He won’t be laughing so much after eight days in Brixton,” he said.

  *

  “Have a nice holiday?”

  “I think that everyone should spend eight days in there,” said Armitage. “It’s the greatest deterrent to crime I can think of.”

  “It isn’t, you know,” said Marilyn. “If it was, the prisons wouldn’t be full to overflowing.”

  “You’ve no idea what it’s like.”

  “Oh but I have. I’m a police officer, don’t forget. Just think yourself lucky that they didn’t put you in Holloway.” “Now that would have been all right,” said Armitage, smiling.

  “Don’t you believe it; they’d have brought you back here on a stretcher.”

  *

  The one policeman on duty in the Back Hall of New Scotland Yard was heavily engaged in conversation with an unkempt woman whose worldly belongings were in three plastic carrier bags grouped around her varicosed legs.

  Geoffrey Hodder made his way round them to the desk and waited for the receptionist to finish a telephone conversation. She looked up and smiled.

  “Chief Superintendent Gaffney, please. I have an appointment.”

  “Which department?” she asked.

  “Special Branch.” It was not unusual for Security Service officers to visit the Yard, or for them to be asked to call there to discuss some problem of mutual interest. In fact, it was only a few weeks previously that Hodder had called to see Commander Frank Hussey to ask for help in connection with the arrest of Major Armitage. He presumed, when one of Gaffney’s assistants had telephoned him, that it was in connection with that very case. He was a bit concerned about that. It wasn’t going the usual course. Certainly to have released Armitage on bail was unusual, but he assumed that the police, who now had full responsibility for his prosecution, must have a good reason – or that the Director of Public Prosecutions had.

  “The messenger will take you up, sir.” The girl replaced the receiver, signed his pass and handed it to the woman in the blue overall who had appeared beside him.

  Gaffney was waiting in the lift lobby on the eighteenth floor when Hodder stepped out of the lift. He took the pass from the messenger, thanked her, and shook hands. “Geoffrey, how are you?”

  “Fine, John, thank you.”

  Gaffney had decided that the normal stark furnishing of the interview room was unsuitable for what he had in mind. The table and the two or three hard, upright chairs had been removed and replaced with three armchairs. He would have used his own office, but there was no guarantee against interruption, particularly from the telephone.

  “May I introduce Detective Chief Inspector Harry Tipper. Harry, this is Geoffrey Hodder, from Five.”

  Tipper stood up; he noticed that Hodder had a weak handshake.

  “I don’t think we’ve met before,” said Hodder. It puzzled him; he thought he knew most of the senior officers in Special Branch.

  “Harry’s only just joined us,” said Gaffney. “He’s spent most of his service being a real detective – investigating murders and suchlike. You probably remember the Penelope Lambert job; your predecessor, Hector Toogood, handled it from your side.”

  Hodder nodded vaguely. “Oh yes, of course,” he said. He didn’t remember it at all.

  “I’ve been tasked by Sir Edward Griffin to look into the disappearance of Peter Dickson.”

  “Yes, it’s very worrying,” said Hodder.

  “Just to show you that it’s all official and above-board, you’d better look at this, Geoffrey.” Gaffney produced a letter signed by the Director-General, giving him full authority to conduct his enquiries. He had taken the precaution of encasing it in a plastic sleeve, mainly because he knew that it was going to come in for a lot of handling, but also because he had learned in a previous case that it was a very good way of acquiring fingerprints without letting the handler know too openly what he was doing. Hodder skimmed through it and handed it back. “You won’t mind if Harry takes a few notes, will you?” said Gaffney.

  Hodder waved a hand airily. “Not at all.”

  Gaffney smiled. “It’s always difficult to know where to begin with a job like this,” he said. “Frankly, I don’t really know what I’m looking for, Geoffrey.”

  “A leak – from the inside, I should think,” said Hodder in matter-of-fact tones. “It’s what I’d be looking for; have been, actually.”

  “Have been?”

  “John…” He sounded tired. “It hasn’t escaped my notice that this is the third time this has happened – and the third time when the same team, led by me, has been assigned to deal with it. How do you think I feel?”

  Gaffney knew how he must feel, so he didn’t bother to ask. “What was the result of your enquiries?”

  “Drew a blank. I’d trust the five chaps on my team absolutely. I know that sometimes you think the fellows in our lot are odd, but they’re all damned good at what they do. Even Selby…” He smiled.

  “Why d’you mention him in particular?”

  “Well he is a bit strange
, I suppose. Looks a bit of a wimp, and people tend to think he’s a homo.”

  Tipper smiled at the old-fashioned description. “And is he?” he asked.

  For a moment Hodder stared at him as if giving the question careful thought. “No, I don’t think so,” he said at length.

  “Shouldn’t you be certain?”

  “How can you be? If there’d been any evidence, he’d have been sacked.”

  Tipper nodded and left it; it was a pointless discussion.

  “How much did the team know? Was there anyone who knew the full story?” asked Gaffney.

  “There wasn’t a full story to know. All we had was the anonymous telephone call that a woman made; made to you, Special Branch, as I’m sure you know.” Gaffney nodded. “We put the watchers on to it; they eventually saw Armitage do the drop, and subsequently, Dickson do the pick-up. They followed them and identified them both. They were under round-the-clock surveillance until the second occasion. That was when Armitage was arrested, but Dickson never showed up. It was almost the same with the last two jobs. I wondered if the DLB had been set up quite deliberately, with Dickson intending to wait somewhere, so that if he saw Armitage being arrested, he’d make a run for it. But that theory was destroyed: Dickson must have had prior knowledge. We now know he had no intention of going anywhere near Teddington that day; he’d already planned to escape. He must have been warned.” Hodder ran a hand through his soft, untidy brown hair. “Believe me, John, I’ve puzzled over this thing – and the other two – until I’m left with absolutely nowhere to go.”

  “Apart from your team, who else knew about this?”

  Hodder leaned back in his chair, his gaze wandering up to the ceiling. Then he looked down again, straight at Gaffney. “The DG, of course, and John Carfax, my boss.”

  “How much did John Carfax know?”

  “Just the bare bones. I didn’t even give him the names; he didn’t want to know. I told him it was an army officer, and what I presumed to be an ‘illegal’. He just asked me to keep him informed. It’s usual.”