Play Dead (14 page)

‘I might try to talk to Emily Young later.'

‘You'd better let me know in advance,' White said.

I've got three electric toothbrushes in my toilet bag - holiday kit, one for me, one for Louise, one spare. I think someone moved them slightly to check the number.
But Cass didn't say this. He thought White sounded close to the jitters. It would be callous to shove him nearer still.

‘Mrs Young, I'll postpone,' Cass said. ‘I'll see if I can reach the handler, Inspector Lambert.'

‘You're going to get a stone wall there, Dave. This is someone who helped run a secret operation. Whether he's bent or not he's hardly likely to welcome the Press. He said his bit at the trial and that'll be it.'

‘Maybe. But I'll give it a go. He might have stuff he didn't realize the significance of at the time.'

‘I ought to overrule this. But, yes, it could help velocitize things,' White replied.

H
arpur got two messages along the same disturbing lines. He'd told most of the people they'd talked to on the new inquiry so far where he was staying, in case they heard something fresh, or recalled something they'd forgotten to mention. Jane Matson, with her partner Gerald Beatty, had found Mallen dying on Elms, and she turned up alone now at the hotel where Harpur and Iles were having evening drinks at the bar, Iles with his port and lemon; Harpur the large gin - Old Raj if available - in half a pint of cider. He considered that this mixture, if taken aboard twice or three times at a session, gave him a clearer view of life in general: politics, the job, his daughters, Denise, anthropology, religion, Iles, travel, interior decorating. He knew some would dispute this.

Jane Matson said she would take bourbon on the rocks. Harpur could see Iles approved: it brought an international tone. He disliked ostentatious temperance in women, and even worse, teetotalism, though he also shunned two-pot screamers, women who got loud after a small amount of booze. ‘This is how things
ought
to be, Jane,' he said, ‘relaxed, friendly, leisured. I expect you remember the scene in one of George Borrow's books about gypsies and his journeys where he meets some glum-looking people but finds that after a drink or two they all perk up, seem more cheerful, so sucks to the anti-alcohol lobby.'

‘Well, yes,' she said.

‘And so with us,' Iles replied, ‘though I'm not saying you look glum, Jane. Not a bit.' She had a long, naturally glum face, now laced with anxiety, but Iles handed her the glass and watched with pleasure as she sipped. ‘Grand!' he said, though Harpur saw not much change in her features.

‘There's a London journalist,' she said.

‘They get everywhere,' Iles said.

‘Cass. David Lee Cass,' she said. ‘He gave us his card. He's well-known.'

‘He has a room here,' Harpur said.

‘Yes, I know,' she said. ‘He said we could find him in this hotel if necessary. I don't mind if he sees me talking to you.'

‘Good,' Iles said.

‘In a way I
want
him to know I'm in touch with you.'

‘This is flattering,' Iles said. ‘Harpur doesn't usually get that kind of compliment.' His voice grew tremulous and sharp, like a two-pot screamer's. ‘The way he conducts his private life, and particularly his private life as regards women, whether or not they are married, possibly to a colleague, and a colleague of superior rank, is hardly likely to result in general public esteem, is it, Jane, I . . .?

‘Cass has been to see you lately, has he?' Harpur asked her.

‘He has our names and so on from the trial, of course,' she said.

‘Probably you'll say “it takes two to tango”, Jane,' Iles replied, ‘and that my wife was as much a part of it as Harpur but—'

‘Cass and his paper are interested because they've heard Mr Iles and I are here and that there might be further developments in the Mallen-Parry situation,' Harpur said.

‘I gathered as much,' she said, ‘but we want no further part in it.'

‘I can understand that,' Harpur said.

‘We did what we had to do for the trial - gave evidence of the discovery,' she said. ‘That was stressful enough, but inevitable. This, we hoped, was the end of it. We don't want to get drawn into anything further. We don't want to appear in the Press again.'

‘Harpur, opportunistic, sly,' Iles said. ‘I would be away on a staff course, perhaps. My wife, lonely, isolated. He sees his damn chance, doesn't he, Jane? He can be ingratiating and—'

‘I don't think there's a likelihood of anything appearing in
Epoch
at present,' Harpur said. ‘Cass can know nothing because there is nothing to know.'

‘He's talking to people all over, he told us, as if that would be some kind of comfort! Does he realize that this is a very dangerous area? Who knows who's watching him, and watching those he calls on? You tell me there's little immediate possibility of publication, but that's not the point, is it? We have no wish to get involved in it at all, now or later. We don't want him leading a trail to us. Gerald is furious that this reporter should be stirring things again. Can't something be done to stop him, and those behind him?'

Home Office Maud might be behind him, in a devious, confidential way. It wouldn't be wise to tell Jane Matson that, though. Harpur went for truism instead: ‘He's the Press. He's the
free
Press, greatly prized in our country, despite its occasional massive slip-ups.'

‘Can't he be warned about how hazardous it is - for himself as much as for those he implicates? We've tried to convince him of that. It would be more effective coming from two senior police officers.'

Iles said: ‘Of course, my wife and I now, subsequently to the Harpur episode, find it more or less incomprehensible that she should have allowed herself to be tarnished by him -
her
self and
my
self. Many's the hoot we have when looking back on the preposterousness of that situation, hoots in concert with each other.'

‘Hoots in concert are often cited as evidence of a successful marriage,' Harpur said.

Next day, he and Iles had an arranged interview with Inspector Howard Lambert at the headquarters building. Lambert had been Mallen-Parry's handler. A burly, mock-genial detective, he met them in his room in the CID wing of the building. He, like Jane Matson and Beatty, had given evidence at the trial of Jaminel and there probably wasn't much more for him to say now. The meeting was not a lot above a formality, but it gave an uncomfortable echo of the conversation with Jane Matson.

At the trial, Lambert said Tom Mallen-Parry hadn't been in place long enough for him to have gathered much information. Lambert had met him secretly twice and Mallen-Parry had talked mainly about his method of infiltrating the Leo Young firm. Lambert's evidence might be accurate, or not. Their meetings had no witness, of course. His room was extremely tidy, the furniture a workstation and screen, a small bookcase full of what looked like manuals and abstracts, a secretarial, revolving chair at the work station, four straight-backed metal chairs stacked against a wall, a cork notice board near the work station with schedules and graphs displayed. Lambert unhooked three chairs and they all sat down.

Iles said: ‘Your evidence at the trial was exemplary - as one would expect from an experienced detective - but it was properly concerned with the immediate circumstances of Tom Mallen-Parry's recruitment to undercover and his couple of briefings to you.'

‘That's all I could offer,' Lambert said.

‘But while you were very rightly focused on those factors, did you push to one side other matters, so you could concentrate on what then was relevant, and only on that - a quite commendable way of getting to the nub of things, as the nub at that stage was defined?'

‘What kind of matters, sir?' Lambert replied.

‘Stray, tentative, insubstantial observations Mallen-Parry might have mentioned, almost unnoticed.'

Lambert gave a sort of token whistle: ‘Do you know, sir, this is the second time lately I've been asked that kind of question.'

‘Oh?' Iles said.

‘Cass?' Harpur said. ‘David Lee Cass?'

‘You know him, do you, Mr Harpur?' Lambert said.

‘Heard of him,' Harpur said. ‘He called to see you?'

‘Phoned.'

‘Did you tell him anything?' Iles asked.

‘I don't have anything to tell him,' Lambert said. ‘Like you and Mr Harpur, he had the trial records, and like you and Mr Harpur he wanted to know if there was anything more - anything I might have neglected to mention in my trial evidence because it would not have been deemed relevant.'

‘How did you answer?' Harpur asked.

‘As I've answered you and Mr Iles,' Lambert said, unbothered, unvexed. ‘Nothing. But one facet was different from this talk today. I told him that he should be careful.'

‘Careful in what sense?' Iles said.

‘Well, if he's going about our ground making implications and looking for more, he should be wary,' Lambert said.

‘Implications of what?' Iles said.

‘I'm not sure,' Lambert said.

‘Implications that might suggest a link of some kind between one of the firms and police officers?' Iles said.

‘Of that order, yes,' Lambert said. ‘Absurd. I rang off.'

‘Excellent,' Iles said.

‘Yes, I rang off,' Lambert replied and stood. The interview was over.

A
lmost all national newspapers carried a report of the murder of investigative journalist David Lee Cass. Harpur read each of them, plus the locals. Cass's own paper published a full obituary with head-and-shoulders picture, as well as the page-one account of the place, time, circumstances and method of the killing (‘at least four knife blows'). Colleagues' tributes made up part of the obituary, on page 18. The longest came about halfway down. It began, ‘Philip White, Associate Editor (News) writes,' and Harpur guessed this would be Cass's immediate boss:

David Lee Cass was a brilliant investigative journalist - thoughtful, persistent, accurate and with a charm that won him many confidential sources, so crucial in his type of work. They knew they could trust him to use the information in a measured, considerate way, disguising, as far as it could be disguised, where and whom the secrets came from. It is one of the most difficult skills in exposure journalism. A reporter naturally wants the full impact from what's been uncovered. But the published story mustn't betray its source. That can bring him or her trouble, possibly dire trouble and, if nothing else, make further disclosures unlikely.

David Lee Cass began as a junior reporter in the Midlands but, after two years of describing charity walks and local council spats, felt an appetite for tougher tasks and came to London. He adapted swiftly to the requirements of investigative work: its concealed purposes, its subtle but binding rules, its patience, its use of sophisticated and ever-improving technology, its tactical finesse in, say, deciding whom to approach first with questions, then second, third and so on. And its occasional quaint and specialized humour. For instance, this police area where he'd most recently worked, and where he was killed, had been given a befogging title by police to hide its location, its identity: Larkspur. Originally, an undercover operation there had to be protected, and the name stuck. Another police force, who'd supplied the undercover officer, was labelled Carnation, and another, Cowslip. David would have a smirk at such primitive ruses. He said he was glad to know they hadn't used Pissabed, the dandelion.

He'd gone to Larkspur lately to chart the aftermath there, following the murder of undercover officer Detective Sergeant Tom Mallen ten months ago, and the subsequent trial and conviction of a local police inspector for his killing. Before this visit, Cass had made inquiries and found that some aspects of the case were never satisfactorily dealt with, possibly very substantial aspects. A deliberate, unholy ploy? It was the kind of dubious, complicated situation he relished, and he went to see what he could find. The barbaric nature of his death suggests he had begun to unearth features of the aftermath that someone - or more than one - did not want revealed. He has been silenced before he could find more. The gentle, serene coding, Larkspur, seems now, after two killings, sadly inappropriate. This paper and journalism generally have lost in David Lee Cass a remarkable, brave and principled representative, possessed of what every investigative reporter must have: an abiding thirst for truth.

The moments of clanging rhetoric made Harpur uneasy. He'd come across a lot of journalists in his career and some of them certainly had an abiding thirst, but not necessarily, or exclusively, for truth: vodka and tonic, maybe, or claret, or both, and in any order. For God's sake, who said ‘abiding' these days? Or ‘possessed of'? Did a ‘barbaric' killing indicate more than a
non
-barbaric killing - if there was such a thing - that someone had to be prevented from talking? And perhaps Cass really had ‘relished' some of his assignments, but it seemed a puffed-up word to Harpur. He thought ‘sadly inappropriate' about the name Larkspur a showy, wet and irrelevant attempt at sensitiveness. ‘Principled representative' sounded like an anti-scam salesman: a very rare species.

He went back to the straight, factual account of Cass's death on page one. ‘At least four knife blows' must be based on someone's immediate view of the body where and when it was discovered. There had been no post-mortem yet. Four separate patches of blood on his clothes? Or maybe a neck wound and a face wound as well as those to the torso.

The report said Cass's body was found by a routine police patrol at just after 2 a.m. near the junction of a couple of minor country roads at the western edge of the city. A parked, silver Ford Focus stood nearby. One of the local papers carried a photograph of the spot, though the Focus had been removed before the picture was taken. An invoice in the glove compartment apparently showed the car was signed out to Cass by a local hire firm a few days before. It had no satellite navigation, but a road map, open on the front passenger seat, might have helped him locate the junction. It raised the possibility - probability - that he had driven to this secluded spot by arrangement, secretly at night, to meet a contact, or contacts. This would probably be the normal way people in his kind of skulking job functioned. They'd pick somewhere remote or somewhere shelteringly crowded for their rendezvous.