She Died Young (9 page)

chapter
11

O
XFORD WAS FAMILIAR TERRITORY
to McGovern. He saw the spires rising across the meadows as the train approached the station and for some reason remembered that other Oxford down by the motor works at Cowley, visited a few years ago, on the lookout for trade union subversives. No ancient buildings there; it had been very different from the quads and colleges and ancient back streets of what the world thought of as ‘Oxford’.

More significantly, as a senior Branch officer he’d covered the visit of the Soviet leaders, Khrushchev and Bulganin, the previous April. That was the sort of work he did well, minutely precise and therefore tedious, but work where one failed detail might spell disaster. He had taken charge of the meticulous pinpoint examinations of hotel rooms, proposed routes and locations of official visits. Every paving stone trodden on by Field Marshal Bulganin and Chief Secretary Khrushchev had to have been sterilised, so to speak, the slightest possibility of assassination by bomb, revolver or any other means eradicated. At first the Russians had even insisted on having their own special agents to taste everything in the kitchens at Claridges Hotel, where the Soviet leaders were to stay. There were fingertip searches of Portsmouth harbour, where their Russian cruiser was to land them, and of Westminster pier, where the Russians would arrive in London. There were Branch personnel crawling round under the stage at Covent Garden before the gala performance and others guarding every port and aerodrome in the country. His silver cigarette case was his thank-you gift from the delegation.

Communication had been via interpreters, which slowed things down and caused tension. It was also frustrating, as McGovern, good at languages, had added Russian to the German and French in which he was already fluent. He could have talked to them in their own language, but this was not permitted, because his remit was partly to overhear the Russians speaking among themselves. That had revealed disappointingly little, except that they seemed bedazzled by what they glimpsed in the shops in London and elsewhere.

It was at Oxford that the worst demonstrations were expected, but the students hadn’t managed anything more confrontational than a chant of ‘Poor Old Joe’ as the visitors approached the Sheldonian Theatre. This was a mocking reference to the convulsions in the communist world since Khrushchev had denounced Joseph Stalin at the Twentieth Party Congress. Normally the Congress was a celebration of Soviet triumph and progress, but in 1956 Khrushchev had acknowledged the purges and murders committed at the behest of the late great Uncle Joe.

As the cortege had moved along the Broad the strange thing was that, on hearing the chants, Khrushchev had raised his arms and clenched his hands together above his head like a victorious boxer in a gesture of apparent approval. Whether he believed the students were simply welcoming him, or whether he agreed with their jeers about Stalin – good-humoured enough after all – was unclear.

The most interesting part of the assignment, however, had been McGovern’s interviews with every supposed dissident and enemy of Soviet Socialism. Each had been paid a visit. He had met cranks, fascists, embittered exiles, thwarted priests and idealistic socialists. None of them had appeared as a genuine threat. The only real trouble, and it didn’t amount to much, had come from the League of Empire Loyalists, a diehard, far-right group.

That was all in the past. The team had achieved the result for which they hoped: nothing had happened. By contrast, he thought, as he waited by the desk at Oxford police station, there was no possible satisfactory outcome for his current mission. There were those who hoped he’d find some kind of evidence that Quinault was up to no good. There were those who hoped the opposite. Probably all of them were united in hoping he’d come to grief himself. In his paranoid moments he suspected some sort of trap. Whatever the outcome, he’d fall foul of someone. It wasn’t a good sign, either, that they’d communicated with him only through Moules.

A stout, middle-aged detective emerged from the back regions to greet him. ‘Pleased to meet you, sir. Detective Sergeant Venables.’ McGovern’s hand was clasped warmly in the Sergeant’s moist one. ‘The Superintendent sends his apologies. He’s been called away.’

McGovern followed him through to a back office.

‘Have a seat.’ There were papers everywhere. Venables moved some off a chair so that his visitor could sit down. He sat down himself and looked expectantly at McGovern.

As if it hadn’t all been explained – discreetly – to the missing Superintendent over the telephone. ‘I’m just here to check over some of the new arrivals,’ said McGovern blandly. He hoped his detachment reflected a courteous implication that the police in Oxford were perfectly capable of identifying any security risk without intervention from London. ‘It’s just a formality.’

Venables looked puzzled. ‘There hasn’t been any trouble to speak of.’

McGovern smiled reassuringly and added: ‘I’m sure you’ve done extremely well. The sudden influx must have been difficult to handle.’

‘You can say that again. We’ve had our hands full. But the social workers and the WVS have worked like Trojans. It’s been all hands to the pump and we’ve got most of them settled now. We’re expecting more, though. Tragic, really. You have to feel sorry for them.’

The expression of concern on Sergeant Venables’ pale, round face seemed genuine. His dishevelled appearance – suit crumpled, shirt strained against his belly, a few hairs drawn lankly across his bald patch – suggested either that it had all been very stressful or that his wife didn’t look after him properly.

‘Sounds as if you’ve done excellent work and it’s gone to plan.’

‘More or less. There was a certain amount of grumbling at the hostel in Jack Straw’s Lane – some of them are very keen to get to Canada and feel we’re not dealing with it quickly enough. But the first priority has to be to get them all out of Austria. And I think they understand that, really. Simon Holt – the man in charge up there, the social welfare chap – he’s done an excellent job. They had a terrible time, some of them. Some don’t know what’s happened to their folks. You can understand why they get a bit heated. Hungarian temperament’s a bit fiery, you know.’

McGovern offered Venables a cigarette. ‘Is that so?’

‘All the universities are making arrangements for students to be allocated places to study. The Warden of St Antony’s College went to Vienna himself with two other high-ups to interview students who might be eligible to continue their education here. It was done very thoroughly.’

McGovern knew all this. ‘I hope I’ll not be treading on your toes. I’m just here to get an overview of the arrivals. I’ll need to look at their papers.’

Sergeant Venables blinked. He pulled out a handkerchief and blew his nose. ‘We thought it best – the records are kept with the welfare people. Mr Holt knows you’re coming. He seemed to think he could accommodate you there. I can take you up there now, sir, if it’s convenient.’

So he was being shot out of the police station as quickly as possible. McGovern wondered if he could be bothered to feel offended that no-one higher ranked than a sergeant had been deputed to look after him, to meet him, even. Well, no doubt there was ill feeling that anyone from the Met should have been sent up to teach them how to do their job, as it must seem to them. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘we might as well get going.’ There was no point in making a fuss, in insisting on a room at the police HQ. In any case, if he was to be based at the hostel he’d have more opportunities to observe what was going on.

The first item that caught McGovern’s eye as he entered the hostel was the poster.

RALLY!

PROTEST AGAINST
THE SOVIETS IN HUNGARY AND
TROOPS OUT OF SUEZ!

‘I’ll tell them you’re here.’ And Venables, who’d driven him in a police car, bustled off out of sight.

McGovern looked round the cream-painted hall. A hard bench, its wood splintered and scarred, was the only furniture apart from a notice board. The place had an institutional feel. He heard voices. A door to the right opened and two young men burst out. They were arguing in Hungarian.

Sergeant Venables reappeared and ushered McGovern through a door on the left. ‘Mr Holt’s out of the office at the moment, but Mrs Mabledon will be able to help you.’

The woman who came forward to greet him from behind her desk was dressed in the WVS uniform, grey-green, piped with maroon. She held out her hand.

‘Sally Mabledon. So you’ve come to give us the once-over, have you?’

Venables hovered uncertainly. Then: ‘Well – I’ll leave you in Sally’s capable hands.’

‘Thanks,’ said McGovern, ‘I’ll be in touch.’

‘Let’s go into the back office. It’s more comfortable there.’

They passed three more desks piled with papers as they eased their way through to the second room, which was separated from the front office by a frosted-glass partition. Here there were two easy chairs, as well as another desk and some filing cabinets.

‘So how can we best help you, Inspector? Simon Holt, the liaison officer, is out at present. You’ll want to speak to him. He’ll be back tomorrow.’

‘Yes, I’ll need to meet him. I’ll be here for a few days. In the meantime I’m sure you’re very busy and I don’t want to take up too much of your time, but it would be helpful if you could just take me through the way it’s organised here – I’ll need to look at your records. I hope that won’t be too much of an intrusion.’

‘I think you’ll find it’s all quite properly organised.’

McGovern hastened to reassure her. ‘There’s no suggestion otherwise. It’s simply a routine check on the refugees.’

‘They’ve been very patient,’ said Mrs Mabledon. ‘They are volatile. But they have a genuine grievance in a way. So much energy has gone into bringing them all over here from Austria that plans for sending them further on have lagged behind rather, I’m afraid.’ She stood up again. ‘Perhaps you’d like a cup of tea?’

‘No thank you.’ Then he thought she’d probably like one herself. ‘Unless you’re having one.’ It turned out she was, so five minutes was wasted while she made it.

When she’d poured and offered him broken biscuits from a tin, she continued: ‘Mind you, they’re a good lot, quite patient on the whole. It’s true there have been one or two instances of arrivals who turned out to be – well … there was an unpleasant incident with the head of one of the colleges. They kindly offered hospitality to two of the young men and then found some silver had disappeared. It was all very unfortunate. And then one of the Hungarian girls became rather too friendly with the son of the family in another case. Some of these continentals seem to have a rather different idea of morals. But the Oxford police have dealt with the case of theft. I don’t understand why Scotland Yard should be involved.’

‘It’s a matter of security. Purely routine.’ There was no question of him mentioning the rumours emanating from M15. Possibly they’d picked up something from their dogged surveillance of the British Communist Party; or perhaps they’d received suspect intelligence from some dubious informer in Budapest, even a malicious invention emanating from East Germany. Or possibly Quinault himself was the author of the stories. Little better than gossip, probably. But: ‘We can’t be too careful.’

‘Security?’

He watched as comprehension slowly dawned. And then he recognised her look as one of suppressed excitement. This was the most thrilling time she’d had since the Blitz and the evacuees. ‘Oh, of course. Yes. Naturally. But they are such very nice lads, most of them. And they’ve had a terrible time.’

‘I’m sure you’re doing all you can to help them. Perhaps – if you’ve time, that is – you could explain the filing system to me now. Then I’ll leave you in peace.’

‘That would suit very well. And of course I can show you our system. It’s quite simple.’

The recording system did indeed seem straightforward and well organised. Mrs Mabledon took him through it briskly and added: ‘You’ll be able to work in here. It’s only used for interviews.’

McGovern looked at his watch. It was after midday. ‘I wonder – is there a copy of the list of the refugees staying with families? I could start going through that in the hotel.’

‘I think so – let me have a look …’

‘How were they allocated? Was there any special system? Or any special reason why some have gone to families and some are in the hostels?’

Sally Mabledon hesitated. ‘Not really. Those that spoke the best English, I suppose we thought they’d more easily fit in to a family. And I think … there were one or two special requests. You see, some of them come from families out there, academics, you know. One or two of the dons actually know the parents, from before the war, even. I can’t remember off hand, but when you’re here tomorrow I can look out some more information. I can let you have the list now, though.’

‘Thank you. That would be most helpful.’