She Died Young (4 page)

‘I’m on my way back to London after constituency business – a minor emergency. At a time like this – the crisis. I managed to sort it out, I’m thankful to say – the constituency stuff, that is. Now back to the general turmoil.’

There was a moment of uncertainty as Quinault dragged a chair into the vicinity of the fireplace, nearly overturning the tea tray. ‘Sit ye down, a cup of tea for the weary traveller.’

Almost as an afterthought, as if wishing to minimise Charles’ presence, he mumbled an introduction. But the new visitor thrust out his hand.

‘Delighted to meet you. How I envy you. What an oasis of calm even in the midst of these testing times – wonderful to get away from Westminster, no matter how briefly.’ Unable to reach the tiny table on which the tea tray was perched, Turbeville held his cup and saucer perilously on his knee.

That was the trouble with patina. It usually involved discomfort. Patina indicated a world where things didn’t run smoothly in the modern way. Patina was quite different from Turbeville’s energy. That was as modern as you please.

Turbeville sprayed the patina with crisp platitudes about the crisis, giving away nothing, as Charles noticed. It was a polished performance, with, in fact, a patina – or patter – all its own, but Charles couldn’t help wondering what made it worthwhile for this up-and-coming politician to visit his former tutor. He watched and listened and soon detected – not from anything said – that his own presence was inhibiting the two older men. There was a hint of something withheld. Rodney Turbeville had not just casually dropped in out of friendliness, good manners or respect for a distinguished scholar.

‘All prepared for the onslaught of Hungarians?’ Turbeville leaned forward and Charles guessed that this was what the politician had come to talk about – although he couldn’t imagine why Quinault would be interested in them.

He rose languidly. ‘I have to be off, I’m afraid, sir.’

‘Oh … must you … but we haven’t discussed …’ The protest was purely formal.

‘Good luck with your endeavours,’ said Turbeville. This came with another hearty handshake.

A black Austin Princess limousine stood parked outside the college in the narrow lane, impeding the passage of any vehicle other than a bike that might wish to pass.

The party was in full swing when they arrived. Penny had been late meeting Charles, presumably because she’d taken great trouble with her appearance. It hadn’t quite worked. The black top and full taffeta skirt didn’t flatter her rather chunky body and although she’d washed and tried to set her hair, the effect was still formless and untidy.

Charles himself felt ill at ease. This would have been quite his scene in undergraduate days. Then he’d flitted from one party to the next on waves of sherry and champagne, drunk Benedictine till dawn while arguing about Wittgenstein’s philosophy and flirted as much with Bullingdon types as with the communists who rose from their beds to leaflet the Cowley motor works just as he was off to his, preferably with a new conquest.

This evening his black polo-neck sweater looked out of place among the coloured brocade waistcoats of the poseurs and the paisley cravats and twill trousers of the desert boots brigade. He found the girls too bright and hard and they already looked like their mothers with their stiff perms and cocktail dresses.

As soon as they’d arrived Penny, in spite of her pleas to him not to leave her side, had dashed off into the crowd in search of Alistair. She must have found him, for he hadn’t seen her since.

He joined a little group around one of the stars of the theatre set, a cadaverous actor with a horrible little goatee beard. An undergraduate with a flop of blond hair was enthusing over Tolkien’s recently published
Lord of the Rings
. After listening to this drivel for a while, Charles couldn’t help himself.

‘I can’t understand why anyone of even average intelligence could possibly want to read novels about elves and goblins. Wouldn’t it be just a little more grown up to learn about the real Middle Ages?’

There was a shocked silence in the midst of the hubbub all around. Then the blond spoke in tones of the utmost disdain.

‘I don’t think – I don’t think I could
ever again
trust the judgement of someone who didn’t recognise Tolkien’s genius.’

‘Really?’ Charles attempted to return the disdain with interest, but he felt humiliated. He shouldn’t have put himself in the position of being patronised by some little shit of an undergraduate. In the old days he’d been a personality on the scene himself, but now he was forgotten and invisible to a new generation. Fleeting fame.

To them he appeared simply as some troglodyte in a sweater. He was about to withdraw, clinging on to what dignity he could muster, when Penny appeared at his side, clutching his arm. She seemed distraught.

‘Alistair’s not here. Someone said he was here, but he’s – he’s gone.’

chapter
5

M
CGOVERN SAT IN THE
battered leather chair that was the only remaining piece of furniture from the Gorch epoch and observed his new boss. For a start, the desk was much neater than in Gorch’s day; and in choosing rimless spectacles and a smart charcoal grey suit, Superintendent Moules perhaps consciously intended to present an image of the policeman as civil servant, one of the new breed, a moderniser, efficiency his watchword. McGovern, however, did not jump to conclusions. He reserved judgement, watched and waited.

‘So you’ve met Gerry Blackstone of the
Chronicle
,’ said Moules in a tone that suggested suspicion of so unorthodox a move. He leaned forward slightly as he spoke. ‘That’s the one who’s been giving us a hard time over the Soho affair.’

‘That’s not what he was interested in.’

‘Not interested? The
Chronicle
’s been down on us like a ton of bricks.’

‘It’s not what
he’s
interested in.’

‘Personally I don’t believe in hobnobbing with the press,’ said Moules primly. ‘I don’t trust journalists. Hyenas. Out for information.’

Gorch had said the trick was to make the press believe they were using you, when in fact you were using them. McGovern had had mixed feelings about his old boss’ cosy relationship with journalists, but the outright hostility expressed by the new man did not please him either. All he said, however, was: ‘Well, sir, I suppose that is their job. And Blackstone is influential.’

‘Influential?’ Moules cleared his throat. ‘We cannot allow the gutter press to set the agenda for policing.’

‘No, sir. But he’s put two and two together and worked out that things’ll not be carrying on the way they were, now you’re in charge.’

Moules fidgeted with the stationery tray on his desk, aligning it more neatly with the blotter. ‘My results in Birmingham are well known.’

‘Exactly, sir.’

‘Ever since my arrival I’ve been concerned at what one might call the general atmosphere. I don’t like what’s going on. Something has to be done about it. Policing cannot be carried out by nods and winks, you scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours. There must be standards and there must be procedures.’

McGovern agreed, but wondered at Moules’ tactics in making his intentions so clear at such an early stage. ‘He also guessed that I’m the man you have in mind.’

Moules raised his eyebrows slightly and moved the pen tray a little further to the left. For a moment the square rimless lenses caught the light, concealing his eyes.

‘You didn’t drop any hints—’

‘On the basis of one conversation with you? No. In fact, in no circumstances would I—’

‘Of course not … As you say, you and I have had a discussion, that’s all. It’s hard to see how anyone could have heard—’

‘It’s probably naught but gossip.’

Moules looked affronted, as if the very idea of gossip concerning such an important issue was a form of insubordination. ‘That’s rather cynical, McGovern. And how could anyone have given him the idea that I want you—’

‘He’s not a stupid man. He worked it out.’

‘You haven’t given me an answer. You haven’t told me what you think of the idea.’

‘Not much’ was the truth, but McGovern wanted to avoid getting off on the wrong foot with his new boss. ‘I’m not best placed – CID don’t trust the Branch and—’

‘But that’s the point. You’re apart, a detached observer.’

‘It’s exactly that that could be the problem. It’s the opposite of a detached observer you want, sir. You need an insider, you need someone they trust. And they’ll not trust me. They’ll think I’m a spy. So I doubt it will work.’

Everyone knew there was a lot going on in the CID, but McGovern’s solution was to stay clear. He minded his own business.

‘I wouldn’t put it quite like that. You’d be putting out feelers, a preliminary reconnaissance to see if a full-blown inquiry is required – or could be avoided with a quiet word here and there, tightening up procedures, a little more discipline. It worked in Birmingham.’

‘I’m not popular. And I don’t come into contact much. Our work does not overlap.’ He’d thought about his next words. ‘If it’s an inside picture you’re wanting you’d be better with my former Sergeant, Jarrell. He’s working with the crime squad now. And he gets along with them.’

It was true. Manfred Jarrell, who should have been the butt of all their jokes, a teetotal boffin, an egghead intellectual, in short a laughing stock, was on excellent terms with his colleagues.

‘You think so?’ Moules was silent. He again straightened the already straight blotter, aligning it with knife-like precision to the letter rack and rearranging the paper knife and pens. ‘You could then liaise with Sergeant Jarrell. Is that what you’re suggesting?’

It wasn’t, but McGovern didn’t contradict him.

Moules cleared his throat. ‘It was clear to me as soon as I arrived that we’re not making full use of your talents.’

‘With respect, I’m not exactly in agreement with you there, sir. I was responsible for security during the Soviet leaders’ visit earlier this year.’

Again Moules looked displeased, but McGovern was beginning to realise that his sour expression was habitual. ‘Well,’ said the Superintendent, ‘we’ll talk of this again later, but in the meantime, as it happens, we’ve been rather overtaken by events. Now you are off to Oxford. We need to talk about that. Hundreds of refugees are about to descend on us, McGovern, indeed have already arrived. I daresay some riff-raff is managing to get across the border as we speak. Petty criminals, some of them, all sorts of undesirables. But we can cope with that. In any case, most of the students are perfectly genuine and they’ve been more or less vetted. They were assessed by British academics in Austria, where they’d first sought asylum, as you know. Most have been found places at British or Canadian universities.’

The Hungarian uprising, crushed by the Soviet army, had gripped the headlines for weeks, but McGovern had already discovered that Moules had a habit of rehearsing in detail information everyone already knew.

‘There will also be others. Subversive elements.’

‘Because they come from a communist country? Do we not trust any of them?’

‘It’s not the disillusioned ones, McGovern. But the genuine refugees make the perfect cover for the others – who aren’t disillusioned.’

‘Spying on their own dissidents and on us as well.’

‘Exactly. This is, as you must have realised, a considerable emergency. An unknown mass of arrivals from a Soviet Bloc country – we have to take it very seriously.
They
’ (and by
they
Moules meant MI5) ‘worry that an agent could quite easily be brought in under the cover of the general refugee crisis. There are rumours – but it’s rather vague. Or perhaps they’re just keeping more definite intelligence to themselves.’

It made sense. There was bound to be someone stirring up trouble. On the other hand his years in the Branch had convinced McGovern that the spies exaggerated everything, talking up the slightest bit of information in order to increase their importance and, perhaps more importantly, be given enhanced powers to spy on their own fellow countrymen. McGovern might have rejected his father’s radicalism, but some remnant of indignation persisted at the anti-democratic nature of the secret services.

‘I have been briefed, sir.’ But as Moules conceded, the information hadn’t been at all specific, little better than gossip. Then again, gossip could often be important.

‘There’s a detective up there will help you. I’ve got his name here.’ He lifted a piece of paper from his in-tray. ‘Venables. But they’re a bit out of their depth, I suspect.’

McGovern had known from the moment it all started that he’d be involved. The poor bloody Hungarians. Their fate interested him far more than Moules’ doomed plan to clean up the CID. He was looking forward to his trip to Oxford.

‘
Have
you been fully briefed?’ Now Moules spoke sharply. ‘Because there’s something else. I’m told you should contact a Professor Quinault. There are some questions about his activities.’

McGovern’s heart sank. He hadn’t been briefed about
that
.

‘In fact it’s a rather delicate matter. He was with them during the war, you know, involved in operations in that part of the world. Hungary, that is. And they say he still has his ear to the ground. You know how it is – some of those scholars and intellectuals – they returned to academic life, their adventures in spying officially over, but still wanting to be involved – anyway, it seems as if Quinault has retained links of one kind or another.’ Moules fidgeted with the paper knife. ‘This rumour about a spy may even have emanated from him. And in fact it seems there have also been doubts … suspicions as to what he might be up to.’ He leaned forward slightly. ‘This is not my area, McGovern. You’re aware of that. But ever since the Burgess and Maclean affair … the possibility of a third man—’

‘They think this Professor might be the
third man
?’ McGovern couldn’t keep the astonishment out of his voice.

‘No, no, no. Nothing like that. A cloud of suspicion hung over Kim Philby, but those rumours have been dissipated, put to rest. Philby is in the clear. So now they are grasping at straws. They know there is a traitor somewhere and I got the impression they think this Professor Quinault may know – there are friendship networks, you know, Quinault knows everyone …’

The Burgess and Maclean affair had been a disaster. The Americans would never trust the British secret services again. But there was still a double agent out there somewhere, so they were charging around in the dark in their desperate search for whoever he might be.

‘Quinault has ongoing contacts with Hungarians he knew in the war, I’m told. He may have information he’s keeping to himself, suspicions, perhaps. He’s being monitored. He’s been travelling up and down to London a lot recently. And there’ve been a lot of rather odd phone calls abroad.’

So they’d been tapping the Professor’s telephone. ‘There’s no possibility I’ll be able to get any information out of him. That’s not a sensible way to go about it. I was told Quinault has never forgiven me for what happened in Berlin.’

‘What happened in Berlin … ah, yes.’ Moules paused. ‘They seem to think that for that very reason – well, it was put to me like this. Professor Quinault won’t expect you to be the one who’s poking about in his affairs.’

‘I don’t see it.’ McGovern shook his head.

‘They just want to know if he’s up to something. All this travelling he’s been doing lately. Not just going up and down to London. Travelling abroad as well.’

‘Is that suspicious? Surely not! His work must take him abroad.’

‘Hardly, McGovern. He’s a classical scholar, I’m given to understand, a specialist in ancient Rome.’

‘Might he not need to visit ancient sites?’

Moules brushed that aside. ‘He’s not an archaeologist. In any case I gather he’s also been causing them problems, ringing them up and trying to stir up trouble about Hungarian infiltrators. I suspect they’re being over-sensitive. My impression is they see conspiracies everywhere, but as I said, I’m no expert. And with regard to the Professor it seems to be more just a question of giving him the once-over. Possibly your appearance is meant to act as a kind of mild warning.’

‘I see.’ McGovern let this sink in, with all its unpleasant implications. ‘I’m the last person he’d take any notice of.’

‘On the contrary, you will remind him of bungles in the past. That he supported a friend who turned out to be a criminal. Supported him up to the hilt, I’m told.’

For someone who claimed to know nothing of the secret services, Moules appeared quite well-informed. ‘Just do your best, McGovern,’ said the Superintendent.

‘Sir.’ McGovern stood up.

Moules put up his hand and said: ‘We haven’t finished our discussion about the newspaper man, Blackstone. My fault – we got sidetracked – the Hungarian business has driven everything else off the agenda, but we can’t lose sight of other objectives. Is Blackstone going to be a problem? Is he going to put a spanner in the works?’

McGovern sat down again. In the discussion about the Hungarians and Quinault, he’d forgotten about the girl in the hotel and his promise to the journalist. ‘He can do a lot of damage if he wants to, but he can help us too. The reason he wanted to see me – that’s how I read it – was he thinks he’s onto something and he’s thinking we might help him.’

McGovern paused. He wanted to put it in the most palatable way he could. ‘He mentioned an accidental death. A girl fell down a flight of stairs in a hotel. I felt he had some kind of personal stake in it. But whether that’s the case or no, he feels there’s more to it than meets the eye. The post-mortem was inconclusive. The coroner returned a verdict of accidental death, but he wasn’t happy. And there was no proper police investigation. Another look at the case might lead to … to matters related to your own concerns, sir. He’s interested in police methods and so is the
Chronicle
.’ McGovern watched Moules as he spoke. ‘It could lead to something that might be helpful in any changes you may hope to make.’