“I had to move away when I got my job on the
Highside Times.
But I didn’t lose touch. I’d started playing rugby for South-West London. They use the Mill Lodge ground. So, most Saturdays, there I am, back again.”
“Rugby?” said Mrs. Queen. “That’s the game with the funny-shaped ball, isn’t it? I saw on television that girls were playing it now. I fancy I might have enjoyed that.”
Just the right shape for a front row forward, thought Tamplin. They proceeded in silence for a minute. Mrs. Queen, he knew, had something to say and sooner or later she was going to say it.
It came as they slowed to cross the Upper Richmond Road. “Tell me, Mr. Tamplin, does your paper pay money for information?”
“Occasionally. Very small sums. We usually call them expenses. It makes our informants feel more comfortable about it.”
“Small sums,” said Mrs. Queen thoughtfully. “Even when the information is so important that it might make a lot of difference?”
“The trouble is that we’re not a very important paper. Not one of the big league.”
“But if you was to get hold of a story the others hadn’t got, that might give you a lift into the big league.”
“True,” said Tamplin. He was aware that he was dealing with a much tougher character than the newsagent, Sundridge. Whatever this lady had for sale he would not get it for blarney. He said, “What sort of sum had you in mind?”
“Should we say five hundred pounds? Half of it down and the other half when you’ve used the information.”
The promptness with which Mrs. Queen rattled this off made it clear to Tamplin that the project had been taking shape in her mind for some time. When he said nothing she reverted to her wheedling tone. “Jackie Katanga’s an important man, isn’t he?”
“He’s a witness in a criminal case which wouldn’t ordinarily take up more than half a dozen lines in any paper.”
“Come along, sir, come along. Don’t talk about lines. I can read between lines. Maybe the shop-lifting isn’t all that important, but being in the case is making his name known, isn’t it? He’s going places, isn’t he?”
“You could be right and when he gets there maybe we’ll come back and see what it is you’ve got for sale.”
“And maybe by that time,” said Mrs. Queen tartly, “you’ll find you’re not at the head of the queue. It’s Boswell Road we want. First on the right.”
They had crossed Hammersmith Bridge by now and were in Barnes Avenue. Up to this point he had not needed directions. It was familiar territory. Barnes Avenue led to the home ground of the South-West London Club and they were, at that very moment, passing the Secretary’s flat which he had so often attended on selection nights.
“Turn right at that telephone box. That’s the one. My little home-from-home is number 9. I share it with my married sister and her husband.
Their
children are all grown-up, thank the Lord. Are you married, Mr. Tamplin?”
“Not yet.”
“You’re lucky. It’s usually a mistake.”
“Was yours?”
“Since you ask,” said Mrs. Queen, “I’ll be frank with you. My husband is what you might call a figment. I felt it due to my age and position that people should start addressing me as a married woman, that’s all it was. Here we are and thanks for the lift. I’ve a feeling we shall be seeing more of each other. Goodbye to you.”
Tamplin watched as she hopped nimbly up the front steps. Numbers 7 and 9 Boswell Road, though not semi-detached, were so squashed together that they might, without loss of dignity, have edged up a yard closer and completed the attachment. When the Katangas had lived in No. 7 they and the Queen household must have been very much in each other’s laps.
As Mrs. Queen went in and slammed the front door behind her, Tamplin moved forward slowly. Boswell Road was a oneway street with cars parked nose to tail along the nearside. At the far end he had a choice. He could turn right and re-cross Hammersmith Bridge, heading back to
Highside
and an overdue lunch. Or he could turn left and park in a spot well-known to him between his own club ground and the playing fields of St. Paul’s School.
At the moment he felt that a short interval for thought was more important than food, so he turned left. As he did so a battered grey BMW Alpina pulled out of the line of cars opposite Mrs. Queen’s front gate. When it reached the end of Boswell Road it, also, turned to the left.
The place that Tamplin had chosen was well suited to reflection. Both playing fields were empty and the early-afternoon sun was slanting across the grass and silvering the ruffled waters of the Thames which formed a backdrop to the scene. Now a few boys in football clothes were coming out of the school block and were heading for where he sat, passing a ball between themselves or kicking it ahead and chasing it.
He ignored them and concentrated on his problem.
There were still too many pieces missing for him to be able to put together a coherent picture; but if the enquiry which he had asked Bonnie Parker to make turned out as he anticipated he would unquestionably have enough information to interest the lawyers for the defence. They were the people who were going to fight the next round. Armed with his information, they could at least fight with their eyes open.
If
he decided to help them.
One of the boys had kicked the ball a long way ahead and another boy was running after it. He pulled off the difficult catch a few yards away from where the car was parked. Tamplin said, “Well played,” and the boy smiled before turning to kick the ball back.
As Tamplin started his car and headed back towards the road, the BMW Alpina drew across the opening, blocking it.
The man who got out was young, fair-haired and heavily built. He walked with a limp. The last time Tamplin had seen him he had been coming up the steps of the Orange Consortium.
He hobbled up and leaned in at the nearside window of the car. He said, “Reporter?” managing to make it sound insulting.
Tamplin said, “Reporter’s old hat. I prefer to call myself a newspaper man.”
“Don’t mind what you call yourself, chum. But a word in season. We saw you dropping Mrs. Queen at her house.”
‘We’ apparently included the other young man, who was in the driving seat of the BMW.
“I congratulate you,” said Tamplin, “on the excellence of your eyesight. I did indeed drop Mrs. Queen at her house and I fail to see what the hell it’s got to do with you.”
“You could find out. If you bothered the old girl again.”
“Just move your car. And stop talking like a B-movie heavy.”
The young man looked at him thoughtfully for a long moment, as though memorising his face. Then he signalled to the driver, who cleared the entrance.
“I’m obliged to you,” said Tamplin. “No. I didn’t mean for moving your car. I meant for helping me to make up my mind.”
When Tamplin got back to the
Highside Times
he found the reporters’ room empty. Bonnie Parker had left a note on his table. She had done the job which he had suggested.
Introducing herself as an old school-friend of Rosemary Herbert she had extracted from the Secretary of the City Northern Institute the two addresses which they had on record. One was 10 Mornington Square, N1. The second, and more interesting one, was 10 Axe Lane, EC2.
“We like to have a record of both the home and the office address,” explained the Secretary, who was a girl of around Bonnie’s age and inclined to be friendly. “Axe Lane’s in the City. I imagine that would be the office one, wouldn’t you?”
Bonnie had agreed that this was likely and had proceeded to Axe Lane. There was no indication of the business carried on at No. 10, but Bonnie, who did not believe in hanging about, had marched in and tackled the commissionaire, this time in the character of a girl looking for a job.
The commissionaire had told her who the owners of the premises were and had added that, seeing as how they’d lost two of their three girls recently, they’d probably be glad to take her on. When she asked what sort of person the headman was the commissionaire had been discreet, but unenthusiastic.
At the foot of her note Bonnie had written, ‘I expect the girl you’re interested in was one of the two who left Axe Lane last week.’
Tamplin added the note to his file and turned up the
Sentinel
s account of the hearing at Bow Street. This gave him the name of the solicitor who had been acting for Mullen and he walked across to the public library in Liverpool Road to examine the Law List. There were three Shermans in it, but only one in London. A member of Bantings, the well-known Lincoln’s Inn firm, but not, it seemed, a partner. So much the better. More approachable.
He dialled Bantings number and after the usual rigmarole of telephonist and secretary, was put through to Roger Sherman. He had considered, very carefully, what he was going to say and hoped that he struck the right note.
After giving his name and his office address, but without mentioning that it was a newspaper, he said, “Quite by chance, I’ve come across some information connected with the Mullen shop-lifting case. I feel you should have it, but I’d prefer to give it to you personally.”
After a fairly long pause, Sherman said, “That’s very good of you. I shall be tied up for the rest of the afternoon. Could you possibly drop in this evening at my flat?”
“Willingly,” said Tamplin and meant it. An interview away from the formal atmosphere of the office would be preferable.
When he arrived at Osnaburgh Terrace the only member of the Sherman family present was sixteen-year-old Michael. He had a plummy mouth which, when he opened it, showed a gap in his front teeth.
“It was dead stupid,” he explained, speaking with some difficulty. “If it had been a school match it wouldn’t have mattered so much, but it was just a pick-up game.”
“How did it happen?”
“Someone trod on my face. I’ve been allowed home because I’ve got a date with our own dentist first thing tomorrow. Really, I’m a bit young for false teeth, wouldn’t you say?”
He sounded so aggrieved that Tamplin couldn’t help laughing. He said, “They’ll make a beautiful job of it. Soon you won’t know they’re there. Actually I believe I saw you kicking about before the game.”
“Was that you in the car? We all thought it must be a talent scout from the Harlequins.”
“Sorry. Nothing so grand. I play for one of the South-West London teams, on the ground next to yours.”
“Are you coming to talk to dad about rugger, or about law?”
“Law.”
“About this shop-lifting case?”
“Yes.”
“I hope you’re on his side, then.”
“Strictly speaking, I’m not on anyone’s side. But I’ve picked up a piece of information that might be useful to him.”
“I’m glad about that. Some people seem to think dad shouldn’t have taken on the case. I don’t think that at all.” He added, speaking as seriously as the state of his face allowed, “It doesn’t matter if someone’s unpopular. That shouldn’t prevent him from getting a fair deal.”
“Life would be a lot simpler if everyone thought that.”
“Don’t they?” said Michael. He sounded genuinely surprised. “I should have thought it was obvious. That sounds like dad.”
Tamplin’s first feeling on seeing Sherman was one of relief. He had had little experience of solicitors and none at all of the exotic type who operated from Lincoln’s Inn. He had pictured them as serious, rather elderly men wearing glasses and conversing in learned and measured periods. This sample looked like a soldier and spoke like a man who, when aroused, would have relied more on four-letter words than on polysyllables.
“I hope my son has been entertaining you,” he said. “But I see he’s forgotten to offer you a drink. What’s your tipple?”
“Beer, if available.”
“Splendid. Two bottles, Mike. And two glasses.”
When these hospitable preliminaries had been concluded and Michael had resisted a half-hearted attempt to eject him, Tamplin said, “When I confess that I’m a newspaper man, I hope you’re not going to sling me out.”
“Bantings may be old-fashioned,” said Sherman, “but our intelligence department is second-to-none. We had already located you. The
Highside Times and Journal,
if I’m not mistaken?”
“Correct. A small outfit, but progressive. The point is that my side-kick, Miss Parker, was in Court and was intrigued when the prosecution seemed able to quote something which Mullen had said, in private, to his chief.”
“Which his chief denied.”
“Indeed. But Mullen had already fluffed so much that I doubt if anyone believed either of them.”
“I certainly didn’t. I’m quite sure he said it. The only puzzle was how the Crown got to hear about it.”
“That’s one of the things I’ve come to tell you,” said Tamplin. And did so.
“You mean that this Herbert – Hartshorn – girl had planted a bug and they blew it and her up?”
“I’m sure that’s right. A colleague of mine had the same trick played on him. He was indulging in a piece of industrial espionage. In that case they used a high-powered Guy Fawkes cracker. Which was poetic justice, since the firm he was spying on was one which manufactured fireworks. He was stone-deaf for a week.”
“That certainly explains how they got the information,” said Sherman slowly. “But it doesn’t explain how they contrived to feed it to the opposition.”
“I don’t know exactly how they did that, but I’ve a fair idea of the way they’d have set about it. Have you really got any idea of the sort of organisation you’re up against? This self-styled Orange Consortium.”
“No. But I’m learning.”
“The thing you have to remember is that a lot of people would approve of what they’re doing. Up to now they’ve concentrated on the fight against apartheid. What is not quite so creditable is the way they did it. I can give you a personal example. I’m a supporter of our local volley-ball team. We had reached the final in the London Cup. Three of our best players happened to be South African students. We’d kept this fact under wraps, but somehow it got out. As the game was starting a task-force organised by the Orange Consortium rushed the hall. In the ensuing free-for-all one of the South African students had his arm broken and whilst he was being looked after other people were busy spreading fuel oil on the pitch. The game, of course, was abandoned.”