Текст книги "A Spider in the Cup"

Автор книги: Barbara Cleverly

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Текущая страница: 2 (всего у книги 23 страниц)

CHAPTER 2

Joe Sandilands, seated in the back of the unmarked squad car that had picked him up from his flat in Cheyne Walk, was speeding along the embankment in the opposite direction, heading for Mayfair. The driver’s automatic but abrupt raising of his right foot from the accelerator at the sound of the police whistles caused Joe’s briefcase to fall to the floor. He leaned forward and slapped his driver happily on the ear with his rolled-up newspaper.

“Eyes front! Not one for us, Sarge! Just grit your teeth and drive past. The local plod can manage.”

All the same, both men’s heads swivelled to the right as they passed the scene of activity on the riverbank.

“The usual, I expect,” offered the sergeant. “Three bodies washed up on that spot so far this month. It’s the current,” he explained vaguely. “You’ll be all right, sir. We’re no more than ten minutes from Claridge’s. It’s still early—we should beat the crush at Hyde Park Corner.”

The sergeant glanced up at his rearview mirror and smiled with approval at the stern face of his passenger. Assistant Commissioner Sandilands. Seven in the morning and here he was, bustling about, well into his day. He’d probably already finished the crossword. He was top brass—no doubt of that—but the other men of his rank would be still abed, rising later to put on their uniforms and swagger about opening bazaars, pushing piles of paper from one side of their mahogany desks to another or just waiting about for retirement. This one, Sandilands, waited for nothing and no man. Ex-serviceman, like his boss, Commissioner Trenchard. You could always tell. A bloke who got things done. The “new policing,” they called it. Horses for courses. The sergeant would have put a bundle on Sandilands if they’d entered him for the Grand National. A man built for speed as well as skill over the jumps. Smart looking chap, too. Good suit. Discreet tie. The doorman at Claridge’s would be pleased to see this gent bounding in, oozing confidence and Penhaligon’s best.

Ten minutes. Joe’s composure was all on the surface. He readjusted his perfectly tied tie and sighed. It was hard to remain calm when you were about to meet one of the world’s most influential, most wealthy and most scurrilous men. And you’d had instructions from your boss to shadow him for a week or two, possibly longer. With the simple instruction of keeping the unpredictable rogue alive.

He remembered his briefing from the Commissioner the week before: “It’s this damnable conference, d’you see, Sandilands. The World Economic jamboree. London awash with dignitaries of one sort or another from Albania to Zululand. All highly vulnerable. One-to-one protection is what the Home Office has decreed. At the highest level. And you’ve been allocated your man. Welcome him, assist him, make friends with him—if that’s possible—but, above all, make sure no one bumps him off—not even one of our own rubber heels. If you can keep your subject out of trouble that will be a bonus. Keep him out of the scandal sheets and there could be a medal in it for you,” had been his brief.

It had been useless to put forward the name of the man in Special Branch who could have made a much better job of it—indeed, whose job it was. “Surely James Bacchus would be expecting to assume this duty, sir?” He’d tried. “A senior officer in the protection squad with an impeccable record?” he reminded his boss. “Known to have saved the lives of several members of the royal family.”

“Agreed.” The commissioner had nodded. “We’re all aware of Bacchus and his men. Formidable reputation! Not the least of their achievements—preserving the lives of at least half a dozen of our leading politicians.” He nodded sagely. “Winston Churchill could have been a goner on several occasions here and abroad if Inspector Thompson of the Branch had not thrown himself between the man and the bullet. And shot back to good effect. At IRA gunmen, Egyptian lynch mobs, Indian nationalists, knife-wielding Frenchwomen and a selection of the deranged. Difficult man to protect, Winston!” He chuckled. “Likes to take his own bullets. Old soldier, you know. And it occurs to me you might well have the same problems with your charge. He’s somewhat battle hardened, too, I understand, and much more sprightly.”

Joe’s spirits were sinking fast. He waited to hear more.

“James Bacchus will certainly be involved and working alongside. We value his skills. But I’ve got something special up my sleeve for him. Our Branchman speaks excellent French and Italian and—rather essentially—German, I understand. I shall be assigning him the overall control of the European contingent. He’ll be liaising with all those foreign johnnies in black leather jackets and fedoras who slink about with bulges in their pockets, protecting their lords and masters. Might as well support them so long as they know who’s in charge and respect our firearms laws.”

Joe recognised this flow of words as a reluctance to get to the point and come out with a name. It did not bode well.

“You get the American. Cornelius Kingstone. Senator Kingstone.” Trenchard sighed and favoured Joe with a glance that was questioning and yet apologetic. “Friend and advisor to the President. Attending the conference loosely under the direction of their Secretary of State, Cordell Hull.”

Joe searched his memory and came up with nothing. “Cornelius Kingstone? I’m not aware of the gentleman, sir. But if he’s a friend of Roosevelt, I’m sure we’ll find some common ground. Aren’t you offering me an easy option? From your introduction, I was expecting a more taxing proposition. Herr Hitler’s High Chief Executioner or Signor Mussolini’s Spymaster General, perhaps. Not a solid American democrat.”

Again Trenchard showed signs of unease. “Look here, Sandilands. Our SIS, New York Section, or British Security Coordination as they like to call themselves, are new boys and just working themselves into the posting. Plenty to do! That east coast is littered with German spies—always has been. But Jeffes and his lads are very keen. They have practically assumed consular status for themselves and get invited to the best parties. They are in a position to vet these politicians for us, and they’re making odd noises about this one. Not an entirely straightforward proposal they’re telling us. Oh, politically, he’s as sound as a bell, all he declares himself to be and very much in Roosevelt’s pocket. Or is Roosevelt in his? Kingstone has been very generous to the cause apparently. But there have been discordant notes. Quite recently. Since Roosevelt’s election. Fact is, the chap disappeared for three days in January. The president was angry—his aide missed several important meetings—but forgiving when he showed up again. Kingstone was a bit disturbed and made excuses for his absence that were less than convincing. Whatever his adventure, it left the senator with a black eye, a sprained wrist and a thoughtful expression. Our men leap on such stories with relish. They love a bit of diplomatic scandal. Too much partying at the White House.” Trenchard sniffed his disapproval and added dismissively, “I expect it was no more than a romantic interlude that got out of hand. The senator’s prone to that sort of thing. But just in case the man’s got some pugilistic skeleton in his cupboard, you will be on hand to protect him, Sandilands. He’s a man who understands our position and has a well-informed world view. A valuable asset amongst that pack of screeching egotists we’ll be seeing lining up to do us down.”

“Don’t the Americans have their own security squads at their back? The Bureau of Investigation, Naval Intelligence, Secret Service, Pinkerton’s … they’re not short of that kind of thing.”

“I’ll say! And all bristling with armament. The whole lot—delegates and their accompanying gorillas—are being put up at Claridge’s, no less! The Frogs have got the Savoy, of course. The Italians demanded the Ritz, but we stood firm on that one. And that’s where you come in. I know Bacchus. Educated and plausible as they come on the surface, but not a great deal of social sensitivity. In fact, at heart—pure thug. He’d have Kingstone in an armlock and waltzed off to the Tower in minutes on any pretext or none. And no one would call Bacchus a man of the world …”

The commissioner had stirred uneasily. “Er … you have, shall we say—and you must not take any offence because none is intended, my boy—a certain reputation for sophisticated relations with the opposite sex. A way with the women. A gift shared and enjoyed by Senator Kingstone, if we are to believe rumour—and the press, of course. Whereas Bacchus is something of a Sir Gawain—or was it Galahad? You know, the virginal one—as far as I can make out. Bit of a Puritan outlook on life and censorious of those who do not share it.”

Joe wondered where his boss had gotten his information. Not from him certainly.

“You can’t, sir, be suggesting that I should introduce my charge to the delights of London? An evening cutting a rug at the Embassy … picking up a ten quid tart on Conduit Street … going on to a champagne-fuelled trawl through Soho and ending up in a heap under a table at Ciro’s?”

“Would that be your idea of a good night out, Sandilands?” The commissioner sniffed. “No wonder you look a bit rough around the edges of a Monday morning. No, no! Nothing so exciting. I had in mind an evening at the ballet. Do you enjoy the ballet?”

“No, sir. I prefer a musical comedy.”

“Well, you’d better mug up and prepare to show an interest. The Senator is, I’m told, bringing his own distraction with him. Well, ‘bringing’ is not exact. She’ll be here already in London before he arrives. And she’s a dancer. Classical variety.” He flicked an eye at his notes and took a run at it: “Natalia Kirilovna. Miss Kirilovna’s appearing at the Alhambra early next month with the Ballets Russes de Monte Carlo. Taking the prima ballerina’s part in Les Sylphides. Is that the one with the swans in it? No? Better get hold of some tickets anyway.”

“Good lord! I’m sure I’ve read about her in Tatler. Isn’t that the girl who had a liaison with a French ambassador recently? A German general … an American saxophonist …”

“Yes, yes. We could go on. And I don’t want to hear she’s inscribed the name of a Scottish policeman in her leather-backed trophy book from Aspinal. Surprised she finds the time and the energy. Demanding profession, ballet dancing. But the point is, it will be up to you to manage this situation. Carryings-on behind closed Claridge’s doors, of course, I’d say it’s none of our business. But this girl has a reputation for plain speaking, some might say titillating directness, in her conversations with the gentlemen of the press amongst whom she has many friends. She’s ruined one or two reputations. Gag her. Should it become necessary.”

“I’ll remember that the eyes of the world are on London, sir.” Joe tried to keep his tone light but dutiful.

The commissioner’s expression changed from gently cynical to deeply serious. He got to his feet in sudden agitation and began to pace about the room, staring through the window at the crowding plane trees in the park. Finally, he turned to Joe again. “The eyes and the hopes, my boy. Of every country. We’re teetering on the brink. We’re suffering a ‘Depression.’ Huh! Sounds like something you can cure with an aspirin and a cup of tea. The word doesn’t begin to give the flavour. ‘Disaster’ would be nearer the mark. We sink or swim, all of us, in every continent, if this World Economic Conference fails. Our contribution is to guarantee that the men who—wisely or not—have been chosen to come riding to the aid of their fellows get a straight run at it and stay the course. No unseating or pulling up short to be tolerated by anyone, however grand. Surveillance must be constant, intelligent and anticipatory.”

“I understand, sir.”

“That’s not to say you will need to be breathing down your protégé’s neck the whole while, of course. Too irritating for both of you. We’ve thoroughly vetted and approved his official meetings, so you needn’t trail about after him everywhere he goes. Just keep a nose to the wind if he strays into uncharted territory. Sets up a clandestine meeting, that sort of thing.”

“Indeed. And in support, I shall have …?”

“Even you have to sleep sometimes, Sandilands. Pick your team. I imagine you’ll be using Cottingham again?”

“He would be my first choice.”

The commissioner sighed in irritation. “This circus is going to vastly reduce our manpower. I’ve had to cancel all leave. Why couldn’t they have staged it in Paris?”

“The Branch, sir?”

“Will, of course, be fully deployed and liaising with you as usual. No mucking about. Many men on the ground. Our top brass—that’s you and your fellows—are the tip of the iceberg, their appearance the visible signal that we are taking the security of our foreign guests very seriously. Just for once I shall not object to the sight of your ugly mug on the front pages of the rags. Rather you than me, eh? The gentlemen of the press seem to have chosen you as the acceptable face of Scotland Yard.” He paused and shot a long, considering gaze at Joe. “Well, I suppose one sees why. You’re still young and active and, er, of distinctive appearance … Look, Sandilands, just for once, my advice would be not to hide. Tip your hat and smile at the rogues as you leave Claridge’s. Let the public know we’ve got the problem covered.”

“Is this public fandango to be my priority, sir? And if so—for how long?”

The commissioner thought for a moment and then gave the answer Joe was hoping for. “Use your own judgement, Sandilands. I suggest that, having made a showing and evaluated the situation, you get back to your relaxing CID duties. Just keep a watchful eye out.”

“Well, let’s pray for civilised behaviour and good weather, shall we?”

The commissioner nodded, understanding. A fine hot summer always saw a dip in the crime rate in the capital.

“And, to ensure that you and the other members of what the press are happy to call the ‘Yard Heavies’ have the very best chance of an informed handling of the lively characters under their protection, I shall be arranging for you to have preparatory discussions with a selection of economists and politicians who are standing by. To put you in the picture. How do you stand on world affairs these days, Sandilands?”

“Not exactly in the dark. But I should appreciate some inside information if that’s what’s on offer. Forewarned is forearmed and all that. And one can only glean a certain amount from page ten of the Times.”

The commissioner nodded. “I hear from those who would know that you turned down a career in diplomacy when it was dangled before you some years ago. Our gain, I’m sure. And now the Met may find itself glad of your skills and interests.”

“I’m a copper, sir. More comfortable in boots than patent leather dancing shoes. I’ll do what I can.”

This diplomatic disclaimer appeared to satisfy his boss. He got down to business. “The show opens with a speech by King George into a BBC microphone—gold plated, if you can believe!—on June the twelfth. He will be addressing the world using the new radio links to the continents. New York and Delhi will hear him at the precise moment he speaks.”

“That leaves me a week to prepare then.”

“Rather less. Kingstone is scheduled to meet you slightly in advance. He’s arriving the week before, when he has several meetings scheduled. They don’t plunge in, you know, these politicos. By the time the conference opens, they’ll all know each other’s views—all sixty-six countries participating. They’ll have finished their wheeling and dealing and arm wrestling and be ready to present papers containing no surprises. Your man’s looking forward to a relaxing pre-conference session with his ballet dancer before it all kicks off. We’ve booked you an interview with him at his hotel on the Friday before it all breaks loose. At seven thirty A.M. His aide called it a working breakfast, I believe.” The commissioner rolled his eyes at the ceiling to show his contempt for these new-fangled foreign ways. “Sandilands, I leave you with this thought: no whiff of scandal is to be released. And, above all, no one goes home in a coffin.”

Joe swallowed. “Have I got this right, sir? An international contingent of the world’s most powerful, most sophisticated and most energetic men is about to be let loose on London. Some at daggers drawn with each other. Scores to settle. Serbians? Albanians? Greeks? Turks? And let’s not forget everyone’s friends, the Germans? Assassination targets, the lot of them!” Joe gave a theatrical shudder. “And one of their number: the dashing, debonair Cornelius Kingstone. A man who habitually walks the streets with a bull’s-eye on his back, a grin on his face and two fingers raised. Thank you very much, sir.”

The commissioner allowed himself a rare smile. “I thought I’d detected something of an affinity! Oh—the Senator and his inamorata have both been allocated rooms on the third floor of the hotel. I took the precaution of obtaining one for you also. I don’t suppose I need to warn you to keep well out of the lady’s clutches, do I?” He looked away in embarrassment. “It wouldn’t be fair not to warn you. From your reading of the gossip columns, you have gathered that she has the reputation of being something of a predator. True. And, indeed, something of an expert in the ars amatoria with an experimental bent. She’s a well-travelled young lady. And you’re a well set up young feller. Still the right side of forty, fit and smart. A potential target for Cupid’s darts, what!”

“If she invites me to come backstage for a private viewing of her entrechats, I’ll exit at speed, stage left,” Joe promised.

“Leave the waggery to Harry Lauder, Sandilands.”

“In any case, sir, I’m a happily affianced man,” Joe objected with a smile.

“Well, well! Relieved and glad to hear it. Congratulations. I hadn’t read about it in the papers.”

“It hasn’t been announced yet.” Joe grinned. “You’re the first to hear, sir.”

“Indeed?” Suspicion was in the commissioner’s voice as he asked, “Are you sure you’ve asked the lady?”

Joe was taken aback, as he often was by the man’s sudden insights. “I don’t believe I ever have, come to think of it,” he admitted cheerfully. “But an agreement seems to have been reached.”

“Anyone I know?”

“Oh, sorry, sir! As a matter of fact, yes … at least you will know her name. It’s Dorcas Joliffe. The daughter of Orlando Joliffe.”

To his credit, the commissioner did not groan, though he could not repress a startled blink. “And protégée of young James Truelove, if I’m not mistaken? Weren’t the two of them involved in that dreadful case in Sussex that you pulled the plugs on last January?”

“That’s the girl, sir.” The confirmation was produced with a proud smile.

The commissioner took a few moments to digest his information and question some preconceptions. “A girl of some spirit, I’d judge. You’ll pardon me for speaking out of place but I like to get these things straight … I’m sure I’d been told—on the hush-hush, don’t you know—that, er, if an announcement of Miss Joliffe’s matrimonial intentions were to be released, the name linked with hers would be a political one to conjure with.”

Joe decided to be kind and put the old fellow out of his embarrassment. “A government minister, no less? Sir James Truelove? Yes, I’ve heard the same rumour myself. They’re good friends and colleagues and find themselves thrown together in a working environment. The unfortunate death of Lady Truelove last month inevitably gave an extra turn to the rumour mill.”

The unhurried delivery and the unconcerned smile had eased down many an unpalatable dose of the truth.

“Ah yes. The as-yet unexplained death out in the wilds somewhere, wasn’t it? I was expecting some appeal for help from the local constabulary. Are they coping, d’you suppose?”

“They are supremely competent, sir,” Joe reassured him. “Though, knowing their readiness to seize on the crime passionnel as a likely scenario, I was relieved to establish that both my fiancée and her boss were a hundred miles away at the time. In opposite directions,” he added with a happy grin.

“Indeed. Poor James … That must be a very silent house these days …”

Joe nodded. He knew what Trenchard was thinking. Lavinia Truelove had been one of the silliest women in London and one of the noisiest.

“How we should mistrust the gossips! I’m sure I’d heard that you were, in some way, that girl’s uncle.”

Joe smiled again. He was going to have to get used to this. “Such was my own misapprehension, sir, for many a year.” He nodded his understanding. “Misleading term. There is no family connection whatsoever. Being much younger than myself, Miss Joliffe, as a girl, assumed a relationship that was socially acceptable at the time. A mere device. After an absence of some seven years, she came back into my life again quite recently. She’s a mature young lady of twenty-one these days. And, as you say, under the wing of the Minister for Reform.”

“Um … a girl who keeps her powder dry. She was lucky to find you still on the loose, Sandilands, from what I hear. Odd way of going about finding a wife. And the Joliffe family isn’t perhaps the first place a patriotic chap would think of looking.” He realised his comment might well have given offence and, reassured by Joe’s easy smile, felt free to add in his avuncular way: “Look here, you’d better warn the young lady that you’re going to be up to your ears for the foreseeable … working day and night.”

“That won’t be necessary, sir. Miss Joliffe is away in France sorting out some pressing family matters. Out of range of a telephone.”

“Never had any success with a French telephone. Good. That leaves you free to concentrate on the job in hand. You can turn all your attention to Kingstone’s dancer. You’re going to be … what’s the phrase?… riding herd on this pair for the duration of the conference. She’ll have every chance to get to know you pretty well. So—stand to attention and think of England! Have a happy time, Sandilands!”

The car was held up in Park Lane behind a throng of omnibuses. The frustrated sergeant at the wheel was amused when his race winner in the back seat snorted, sighed, fished in his pocket and held out a paper bag.

“Like a mint humbug, Sarge? Steady the nerves?”