A Coat of Varnish (29 page)

That might have been his animal caution on the watch; but about Lady Ashbrook’s money dealings, where he had no need to be cautious, he was almost as dismissive, and contemptuous in the process. He had listened to Briers’ description – some of it wasn’t proved, just a sketch-plan, said Briers, who knew when to be candid – carefully enough.

‘I don’t call those money dealings.’ Thirkill gave a raucous laugh. ‘Fiddler in Petticoat Lane. Peasant stuff. Look here, Frank, people who have anything to do with money don’t go about with pound notes. Since I made some myself, and that’s getting on for thirty years, I’ve never carried as much as five pounds in my pocket.’

‘There are advantages in that, aren’t there, Minister?’

Thirkill was exhibiting his harsh attractive grin, seeing that the other man wasn’t being outfaced.

‘Point taken.’ The grin developed into a laugh. ‘Have it your own way. It does mean that the other chap finds it necessary to pick up the tabs.’

Briers joined in the laugh, as though they had both agreed that that was the summit of all humour. Briers asked: ‘I want to know what you think, though. This operation seems to have worked. Or something like it. Do you think it could?’

Thirkill became suddenly competent. He reflected, not for long. ‘I suppose it could. Given absolute discretion on both sides. And a minimum of information to anyone around.’

‘You really think so?’

‘If they didn’t do it on any kind of scale – yes, I suppose it could work.’

Briers thanked him, and said that was what he had come for. Which was not true. While Thirkill spent a few minutes of ministerial
obbligato
saying that of course old Desmond O’Brien was a dear old friend of his, meaning perhaps that he had met him more than once.

Not long after that meeting, Briers got clearance from Scotland Yard to send a mission to America.This was at the end of October, and Humphrey, by now fully informed, heard of the results the day after they had reached Briers himself. The mission was not a pretentious one, just Bale and Flamson. Why those two, Humphrey asked. Well – Briers was in his briskest form – the Yard already had its officers in New York; they knew what was required. Flamson – well, he might appear too yokel-like to cut much ice with smart boys of the FBI. Old Len Bale, he had some presence, he would give a decent image. Also Frank was able to use the visit as an excuse to get him promoted, which couldn’t have happened otherwise. He needed suitable rank over there. Frank Briers displayed boyish satisfaction, as though this were the main object of the exercise.

As it turned out, whoever was responsible, the mission brought back new facts. Bale reported that O’Brien’s office either had nothing to tell, or would tell nothing. His women secretaries were devoted to the old man, and guarded his memory. They did know that he had made up parcels himself and dispatched them to someone in London each Christmas. Just as he gave each of the three women secretaries a handsome present. They knew a little more, Bale was sure, certainly that he regularly bought largish quantities of sterling notes. But they would never talk – all unmarried women, all Catholics, all used to secretive manoeuvres. Bale had spent some days in the office, and talked to the partners. Only one seemed to know more than the secretaries, and then, in the sacramental security phrase, no more than he needed to know.

That was the opinion of Bale, now Superintendent Bale, and Briers accepted it. So did Humphrey, when Briers told him. Although Bale was viewed with condescension by almost everyone, especially the young officers, rather as though he were a good-natured old Airedale, Humphrey had come to have respect for his judgment in dealing with human beings. In that matter, Humphrey didn’t have respect for many.

As Bale had reported, just one of O’Brien’s partners had been told something, but a bare minimum. This was a young man called Prchlik, not a specially Irish name, but one belonging to as devout a Catholic family as O’Brien’s own. He was one of the youngest partners and selected as O’Brien’s helper and vestigial confidant, for that reason. When O’Brien and Lady Ashbrook were both able-bodied, the transactions went according to plan. That continued until they were in their mid-seventies. Then O’Brien had a stroke. In part he recovered, but travel was over for him. His thoughts were clear, but speech not easy. This was the time that he turned to young Prchlik. Stoically, O’Brien decided that it was necessary to prepare for death; and with lucidity he prepared for Lady Ashbrook’s as well as his own. He gave Prchlik a hint about an unnamed person who was his own age. There were obligations which had to be left in order.

Although Prchlik could have paid visits to London, and transferred money as O’Brien had done, the old man decided that that would be nothing but a temporary solution. There would remain obligations to be discharged when she came to die. They would have to call in aid one other person whom she could trust as she did O’Brien. He wrote to her, laboriously, in his sclerotic hand. They had to find a third person, stationed in England. Could she nominate someone? He would like to know her choice without delay. After their long understanding he thought it reasonable for him to request a right of veto. That was a lawyer’s stipulation of which he told Prchlik and of which he seemed very proud. However, it was not exercised. Once again there was nothing on paper, except for O’Brien’s letter, and that she must have destroyed. Lady Ashbrook gave a name over the transatlantic phone. It was presumably the name of someone known to O’Brien, and there was agreement.

Prchlik was not told the identity of this third person, though in due course he learned Lady Ashbrook’s. Between him and O’Brien – and secretly among the secretaries – the London agent was referred to as the Comptroller. The fund, which had previously been called simply Mr O’Brien’s, became known as the Comptroller Fund. The Comptroller was to join O’Brien and Lady Ashbrook in possession of all the details, the three of them, no more.

During the last year of O’Brien’s life, a timetable was laid down. Prchlik said that, like others in old age, O’Brien had become obsessed with secrecy, obscure and sometimes meaningless secrecy. It would have saved some complications if Prchlik, as well as the Comptroller, had been told everything. As it was, O’Brien insisted on a programme. A messenger from the firm had to travel to London each September. This messenger would take a small parcel, innocuous, contents unknown to him, stay in a hotel, and deposit the parcel to be called for at the desk. It had to bear the name of O’Brien’s firm. The Comptroller would ring up the American Embassy, learn where the representative of the firm was staying, and arrange for the parcel to be collected.

It was, like all O’Brien’s procedures, relatively simple; but, Humphrey commented as he listened to Frank Briers, it would have been even simpler if he had given them £100,000, which he wouldn’t have missed, and to hell with it.

The final item in the arrangement was that, after Lady Ashbrook’s death, which O’Brien seemed to anticipate as not much later than his own, the remaining money in the fund should be transferred to London, in larger instalments than before, so as to wipe the account clear within three years.

That was the story as they reconstructed it. Briers and the detectives accepted that something like it had actually happened. There was no factual evidence as to where the money had gone, except to Lady Ashbrook herself. They assumed that Loseby had some of it. They couldn’t find any trace of the money being collected, and so they still didn’t know who the Comptroller was. There were already guesses, several of them. There were also new guesses as to motives for the killing, but to Briers it remained like a word on the tip of the tongue.

Briers continued to tell Humphrey everything he knew, or suspected, about the case. But he hadn’t told Humphrey of another reason for sending old Bale to New York. It was to give him some respite from his domestic tangle. Briers was totally loyal to his own men, and so said nothing – even though he would have trusted Humphrey with any such secret of his own. He had made indulgent hints about certain imbroglios, caused by the appearance of lively young women police officers. He had left Humphrey to imagine that a young inspector, someone as sly and glossy as Shingler perhaps, had set up house with one of the girls.

The truth was more unexpected. It was Bale, so priest-like, so respectable, so much the pillar of society, who had done just that. The young detectives took it for granted that Bale was a dull old thing. They had noticed nothing of this. He had considerable skill in covering his movements. But Briers had cause to know that Bale, after presiding with subdued dignity over conferences of the background squad, went back to conduct telephone conversations, not so subdued, with his wife. The trouble was, he seemed to be enjoying himself hugely.

There were times when Briers, going back to the sick room at home, could suppress a spasm of envy. However, he had tried to help. A trip to America might bring Bale to his senses, Briers thought. He admitted to himself on Bale’s return it showed no sign of doing so. It seemed to have made him more enthusiastic. Briers gave a sour grin to himself. That would teach him to play God, he thought. If anything, Bale was in more of a tangle than ever. Enjoying himself more, though no one would have guessed it. There was only one resolve of Briers’ good intention. If Bale retired before his time, he would now receive a somewhat larger pension.

After the murky rain-thick morning in the street outside, the mortuary was hallucinatorily bright. Still, for Humphrey, that was scarcely cheering. The smell (was it the clinical smell alone?) didn’t make for ease. He had not been in a mortuary before. It seemed a singular rendezvous. But it was a genuine one. When Frank Briers made a contract, he kept to it. From the outset, he was speaking to Owen Morgan, the pathologist, as though Humphrey were one of them.

Humphrey had heard Briers talk of Morgan, but hadn’t met him. He hadn’t expected anyone so strenuous. He certainly hadn’t expected the joshing those two exchanged, as much a part of etiquette as saying good morning.

Briers had an official reason for calling on the pathologist. It was a piece of forensic business not connected with the Ashbrook case. Questions masterfully disposed of, within ten minutes. ‘Good,’ said Briers. ‘That’s dealt with then.’ He went on to another matter.

‘Oh, something else. Taffy, do you know anything about a doc called Perryman?’

‘What about him?’

‘He was Lady Ashbrook’s doctor.’

‘I thought the name rang a bell. I must have seen it on the files.’ Morgan was quick on the take. ‘Is he involved?’

‘We’re eliminating people who aren’t.’ Briers was including Humphrey into his confidence. ‘He’s still left in.’

‘Can’t you do better than the process of elimination?’

‘If you believe in your own God-given wits, you’d better get out of this job. We’ll find a sensible pathologist.’

Matey abuse duly conducted, Morgan said: ‘I don’t know anything about the man. I might be able to find something out.’

‘Do that. If you get the chance. But don’t waste your time. It’s a very long shot.’

Humphrey was sure that Briers expected nothing in the way of information. That enquiry had been for Humphrey’s benefit, not Briers’ own. It was to show that he was concealing nothing.

Jocular affable insults as Morgan said goodbye. In the street, rain persisting, Frank Briers pointed to a café opposite. ‘I’ve been in there before. That’ll do.’

If he hadn’t been at work, that café would not have done. The only lighting was a strip of neon lamp behind the counter, reflected, not encouragingly, on the streaming pavement. It was a minimal café. They carried cups of milky coffee to a bare zinc-topped table. Frank, who when on duty went without food, and just as absently took any chance of a snack, managed to buy two plastic-wrapped ham sandwiches.

It was about ten-thirty in the morning, and he ate them both. He asked Humphrey what he thought of Morgan, and went in for paeans of praise himself, no false matiness, just praise.

Humphrey was waiting for news. The morning so far had been one of Frank’s curious preliminaries. Preliminaries over, the news came.

‘I have something to tell you,’ Frank said, voice quiet, though there was no one else in the café.

‘Well?’

‘Loseby’s in the clear. Unless he was in it with someone else. He wasn’t in Lady Ashbrook’s house that night.’

‘Definite?’

‘As definite as we can be without having sat in with him and Master Gimson right through that blasted night. That story is true enough. If it hadn’t been, they might have invented something better.’

Briers was half-irritable, as though he oughtn’t to have been bothered. Briers might have been irritable, but he was one of nature’s expositors. This was a minor triumph for the method, warmed by collective pride. Slogging away. Leaving nothing out. He had told Humphrey before, he said, the lads were tapping all the homosexual contacts they had – and there were plenty. He broke out into his occupational grin.

They had burrowed away. Massage parlours. Dance clubs. Date fixers. Tedious work for the lads – again the occupational grin – unless it put ideas into their heads. Most policemen were straight in that respect, not all. One lad, who was a one-hundred-per-cent straight man, had been greeted with the invigorated welcome ‘You’re my sweetie pie’. He wanted to take a dog along the next time. No luck for a long time. Then someone began to run across tracks of Douglas Gimson. Three or four years before, Gimson had been around. He was a cruiser, some of the informants said. He seemed to have dropped out. He might have stopped being a cruiser. There was a boy who shot off his mouth about him.

The boy was identified. Actually, not a boy, about thirty. Name of Darblay, which might have been faked. Stagehand, did some modelling. Frenzied. The lads had put the pressure on him. He had sponged on Douglas Gimson for money (in the clubs, he had yelled about that). The Captain made him take it, Darblay screamed at the policeman. Douglas Gimson was generous. Darblay liked money. Sooner or later Gimson got tired of being sponged on. Threats. Might have been blackmail once upon a time. Not dangerous now. Anyway, Frank doubted whether Douglas Gimson would have been a pushover for blackmail. So Darblay had become a telephone pest. The police knew all about telephone pests. There were thousands. Darblay took to ringing Gimson’s clubs – the respectable ones – and asking, in a histrionic voice, is Captain Homosexual Gimson in? Once or twice he came to Gimson’s apartment block, discovered that he had gone out to dinner, found his host’s address, and on the phone elocuted the same question. He seemed to think that, if he promised to stop the campaign, Douglas Gimson would pay him off.