London Blues (21 page)

I lay on my back on the rafters breathing heavily. Who knew I had Stephen’s case? That must have been what they were after – they weren’t regular burglars. Nobody knew … but then how come they came looking for it here? Someone must have known. I haven’t told anyone. Veronica wouldn’t have told anyone. And Stephen would hardly jeopardise himself by rabbiting on to somebody … but whoever it was, they knew. They really knew. Should I tell Stephen about this?

If I did, what could he do? It would just be one further thing for him to worry about. I suppose he knew someone would be after the case, would want what’s in it. That’s why he gave it to me … and what is in it? Should I break it open and see?

I stumbled back to the room, poured myself a gin and tonic, straightened the television set and sat down in front of it. I was in a state of shock and I just sat there watching A.J.P Taylor giving a lecture about Lord Palmerston until Veronica arrived and screamed: ‘What the fucking hell has been going on!!??’

I wish I knew. I really do.

‘There’s a black car over there with two men in it,’ said Veronica.

She was standing at the window looking down on Porchester Road. I was going through the papers. Since Stephen’s arrest I’ve been buying every daily newspaper and reading everything I can about the case. Acres of it. Acres and acres of coverage but not an awful lot of
information
. The same stuff printed in each paper five different ways. It seems these two coppers from Scotland Yard, Herbert and Burroughs, have taken London apart while investigating Stephen. They’ve interviewed nearly two hundred people by most accounts. They’ve tracked down people who said hello to Stephen once in 1945 and have never seen him again since. They haven’t left a stone unturned … but they haven’t been here … yet.

The more I’ve thought about the break-in the more I’ve become convinced it was someone other than the police who did it. The Old Bill could have turned up here any time, said they were looking for drugs, and then turned the place over. It was someone else who did it. But who?

Who indeed? The security services?

If I knew the answer to that I would know the answer to a lot of other things as well. I then might also know if Stephen is and has been on the level with me … which is a
pretty intriguing question.

‘It’s been there all day, Tim. It was there yesterday too.’

I went over to the window and peered through the side of the curtains.

‘Where?’

‘The black Humber just up from the Royal Oak … see?’

There was a black Humber there but I couldn’t see anyone in it as the light was being reflected from the windscreen.

‘There were two blokes sitting in it all day yesterday and they’re there now. I saw them just now when I came in.’

‘I wonder what they’re doing?’

‘They’re doing something … aren’t they?’

‘Waiting, I guess.’

‘For what?’

‘For me?’

It was a possibility, but one I could not face directly, not at the moment anyway.

The following morning the first thing I did when I got up was peek out through the curtains. The Humber was still there.

I left for work at the usual time. I walked directly across the street to the newsagent’s and glanced to my left. There were two men sitting in the car. Just sitting there and staring ahead. I bought a paper and took a right as I left the shop so that I could walk down and abreast of the ‘watchers’ (as I had come to think of them).

The Humber was four or five years old and in good nick. There were no aerials on it, no distinguishing features. It was plainclothes all right. The two blokes sitting in it were in their thirties, in suits and collars and ties. They could have been anyone. Nothing remarkable at all … except they were here … waiting and watching. I nonchalantly strolled by and continued down to the Royal Oak and then turned into Westbourne Grove. The moment I was round the corner and out of sight from the car I broke into a sprint and raced down past the ABC Cinema and into the turning
that was the continuation of Queensway north of the Grove. There was a furniture removal van parked a little way up so I ran behind it to get my breath. I’m not in good shape and even this little burst taxed me. I moved around to the far side of the vehicle where I could get a clear view across the Grove and down Queensway without being seen. It was early. There was hardly any traffic about: a taxi or two heading down to Paddington, a milk float, a couple of buses. I could see half a dozen people only, a couple of workmen, a newspaper boy, two women cleaners (if that is what they were) nattering to each other on the corner, some beatnik type with an armful of LPs standing at the bus stop smoking, a delivery van at the baker’s.

I waited.

If those two blokes were sent to tail me I would expect to see one of them appear soon on foot or for the car to drive by … wouldn’t I? I continued waiting. Nothing. Not a dicky bird.

Now, if I were under surveillance it would be important for them to know exactly what I was doing and where I was going the whole time. They couldn’t make any
assumptions
. They couldn’t assume that I was now going to work and, say, pick me up again in Wardour Street. I might break the journey. I might lead them somewhere. A tail would have to be on me the whole time.

I stood behind the pantechnicon for ten minutes. Neither one of the blokes nor the car appeared. Nothing. Nothing remotely suspicious.

What do I do now?

Is the car parked around the corner still? Are the blokes still sitting in it? I decided to find out by going back to the newsagent’s and getting some cigarettes.

As I turned by the Royal Oak on the corner of Porchester Road I could see the Humber ahead of me. The two of them were there still, just sitting. Doing nothing. Saying nothing. Just waiting

Does someone else take over from them when I go off?

Over the next few days I walked around with one eye over my shoulder the whole time. I didn’t know if I was under surveillance or not but it seemed prudent to assume that I was. I kept my routine straight and simple. I got up, went to work, had a drink in Soho, went home. I did not do anything different. I’d walk down Queensway every morning and catch the bus to the top of Wardour Street and amble down from there. I did our shopping on Westbourne Grove. Went home. And all the time glancing back,
registering
faces, filing them away. Waiting for somebody to give themselves away.

And still the two guys sat in the Humber. I had now figured out there were six of them altogether working two at a time in eight hour shifts. They just sat there. They had become a fixture in Porchester Road. And still, under an old mattress in the eaves above, was Stephen’s suitcase.

Was there any connection?

‘They make me very nervous just sitting out there, Tim,’ said Veronica.

She worried about them more than I did now. She was convinced they were after me, after us. This was a war of nerves guaranteed to chip away at our equilibrium. Veronica said they would continue like this and if that got nowhere – they’d raise the ante. She didn’t want to be about when that happened.

‘Why don’t you just give them that bloody suitcase?’

‘We don’t know if it’s that they want, do we?’

‘Of course it is!’

‘We don’t know.’

‘It’s the suitcase! What else could it be?’

‘I don’t know. I just don’t know.’

Give them the suitcase? This remark of Veronica’s alarmed me. She wouldn’t do anything silly like telling them about it, would she? I’m sure she wouldn’t … but she is getting worn down by this. She could get over-wrought, have a drink or two, and then do something stupid. It is not
a good idea keeping the thing here. But what do I do? My life seems nothing but an endless series of questions lately … and uncertain answers.

That night I checked out the back exit to the house. I went down to the basement and along the corridor to the glass-panelled back door. This opened on to a yard about 30 feet long that was surrounded by a high wall. Beyond the wall at the far end I could see the mews houses which, at one time, were linked with the main houses here. But that was before the dividing wall was built. No escape here. There was only one way in and out of this fucking decrepit house and that was through the front door that opened on to Porchester Road
and
the black Humber. I’m back to square one.

The anxieties about Veronica and the suitcase were dissolved the following day, at a price. Veronica told me she could no longer stay here while
‘you
are under
surveillance
’. Not
us,
but
me
…
under surveillance. She was going to stay with her friend, Audrey, who lived down on Blenheim Crescent. She’d stay there until all this blew over. She was very sorry and she knew she should stand by me and give me support but it was all too much for her and if I were anything of a man I’d understand anyway.

I did.

I was now alone with the men in black and the suitcase.

The waiting game. But waiting for what? And when? And was it just the suitcase?

I pulled the edge of the curtain back and looked down to the Humber parked where it always was: heavy, black and silent. It then struck me how obvious this all was. They wanted me to know they were there. This was all part of the game.

I met Nick Esdaille in the Swiss on Old Compton Street on Wednesday after work. He’s a good friend and used to be a regular at Modern Snax. Works down in Fleet Street on a newspaper. I can trust him. We had a drink or two and then
went to Jimmy’s for a meal. A noisy place but you can talk with privacy. Also, the Greek food is good and cheap and the portions are large. The front part of the basement had a few people scattered about but the back was empty. We took a corner table and both ordered the mousaka. I got a cheap bottle of retsina too, it was 4s.6d.

‘Did you see the papers today?’ Nick asked.

I hadn’t. I still bought the
Telegraph
most days but I hadn’t today.

‘No,’ I said. ‘More about Stephen?’

‘No, something else.’ Nick held up the front page of the
Daily
Mirror
:
‘
NEW THIRD MAN SENSATION: FOREIGN OFFICE
FOUND PHILBY A JOB
.’

‘You didn’t see this about Philby?’

‘The Russian spy? No.’

‘Interesting. The FO got him a job on the
Observer.
They said there was never any reason to doubt his loyalty. They recommended him to the
Observer.
The paper sent him out to the Middle East and then in January this year he
disappeared
from Lebanon ….’

‘And surfaced in Moscow.’

‘Yeah. Surfaced in Moscow. You know who was Foreign Secretary back in 1955? You know who cleared Philby then when it was first rumoured he was the Third Man in the Russian Spy Ring?’

‘No? Who?’

‘Harold Macmillan.’

‘Jesus. I didn’t realise that.’

‘Uh-huh. On Monday Philby was officially named as the Third Man in the House of Commons. Doesn’t look good for old Harold, does it? And it’s getting worse for him over all this Profumo business. Profumo says he never fucked Keeler and Macmillan says he’ll stand by him, won’t accept his resignation. Then it turns out he was screwing her while she was seeing the Russian naval attaché, so Profumo does resign and Macmillan is left with a lot of egg on his face. The government is looking decidedly dodgy … very iffy.’

‘And Stephen’s trial is coming up … God knows what birds that is going to scare from the trees.’

‘Exactly.’

The waiter put the bottle down in front of me together with two glass tumblers. I poured us a glass each. I took a sip. I’ve always been a sucker for the resinous taste of retsina. It haunts your palate like mouthwash.

‘Yeah, your friend Stephen is up to his eyes in it.’

‘He is, now that Profumo is out of the game.’

‘A fast lifestyle, surrounded by leggy tarts who don’t mind putting it about. Orgies. Sexual favours. Whispers of espionage. It’s the sort of story Fleet Street editors have wet dreams about. They’ll bleed it dry. They’ll bleed him dry.’

‘What’s going to happen to him?’

‘No idea. What do you think’s going to happen to him?’

‘I’ve got no idea either … but I know what he thinks.’

‘What’s that, Tim?’

‘He thinks it’s going to blow over. He thinks this is a little charade he has to go through. And then at the trial the cavalry arrives and saves him. That’s what he thinks.’

‘Who’s telling him this?’

‘I don’t know, but someone is. I thought you might have some idea?’

‘No idea. No idea at all. Perhaps he got it from a ouija board? Or how about the husband of the drugged blonde you were supposed to photograph? You tell me. Could be anyone, right?’

‘Yeah, that narrows it down a bit.’

‘Anything is possible. Listen, there’s a rumour going around that the whole Profumo thing was orchestrated, brought into the open, to camouflage something else to do with Ward. Have you heard that?’

Nick said it like he thought there was something to it.