A Taste for Death (47 page)

and joiied the real world.'

Gilmartin said mildly:

'I'm not sure that speech wouldn't have been more

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appropriately made to MI5. There's something in what you say. One ought to guard more against over-enthusi-asm, and we're certainly over-bureaucratized. But then what organization isn't? We deal in information after all and information is valueless if it isn't properly documented and easily available. Still, pound for pound, I think we

give the taxpayers value for money.'

Dalgliesh looked at him.

'You really haven't understood a word I've been saying.'

'Oh yes I have, Adam. But it's all so unlike you. Such vehemence! You've been reading too many of those espionage novels.'

Three years ago, thought Dalgliesh bitterly, Gilmartin might have thought even if he hadn't dared to speak it: It's all that poetry you write. But he couldn't say that now. Gilmartin went on:

'Are you sure this Berowne murder isn't getting und'r your skin? You knew him, didn't you?'

'For God's sake, if another person suggests I can't handle the case because I knew the victim, I'll resign.' For the first time, a look of concern like a brief spasm of p;i passed over Gilmartin's bland, almost colourless face.

'Oh, I shouldn't do that. Not over a small sin ofomisin on our part. I suppose that Berowne was murdered, by the way. There's a rumour that it could have been suicide. After all, he was hardly normal at the time. This habit hdd developed of sleeping in church vestries. And isn't he supposed to have had some kind of divine revelatit? Listening to his voices when he should have been listerig to the Prime Minister. And such a very curious church to choose. I can understand an enthusiasm for English Perpendicular but a Romanesque basilica in Paddington is surely an improbable choice for a good night's sleet let alone one's personal road to Damascus.'

Dalgliesh was tempted to ask him whether he wtld have found St Margaret's Westminster a more accept.tle choice. Gilmartin, having neatly demonstrated at le a superficial knowledge of church architecture and scrip e

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to his own evident satisfaction, got up from his desk and began to pace between the windows as if suddenly aware that he was the only one sitting down at a desk and that this lower status might put him at a disadvantage. He could afford a good tailor and dressed with a careful formality which, in a less confident man, might suggest that he was aware of the slightly ambiguous reputation of the security service and was anxious not to reinforce it by any slovenliness in manner or appearance. But Gilmartin dressed to please himself as he did everything. Today he was elegant in grey. Above the formal suit with its almost invisible darker stripe, the square almost bloodless face and the sleek hair, prematurely white and brushed straight back from the high forehead, reinforced both image and colour scheme; a carefully composed arrangement in grey and silver against which his old school tie, despite its com-parative sobriety, hung like a garish flag of defiance.

In contrast Bill Duxbury, stocky, ruddy-faced and loud-voiced, looked like a gentleman farmer whose farming is more successful than his gentility. He stood half looking out of the window like a child ordered to distance himself from the adults and their concerns. Dalgliesh saw that he had recently got rid of his moustache. Without it his face looked incomplete and naked, as if he had been forcibly shaved. He was wearing a tweed checked suit, rather too heavy for the comparatively mild autumn, the jacket cut with a back flap which strained over his large, rather feminine buttocks. When Gilmartin looked at him, which was infrequently, it was with a pained, slightly surprised expression as though deploring both his subordinate's figure and his tailor.

It had early been apparent that Gilmartin was to do the talking. Duxbury would have briefed him but Duxbury would remain silent unless invited to speak. Dalgliesh was suddenly reminded of a dinner party conversation some years previously. He had found himself sitting with a Woman on one of those three-person sofas which can only comfortably hold two. It had been a Georgian drawing room in a north Islington square but he couldn't now

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remember the name of his hostess and God knew what he thought he had been doing there. His companion had been slightly drunk, not offensively so but enough to make her flirtatious, merry, and then confiding. Memory refused to come up with her name and it didn't matter. They had sat together for half an hour before their hostess, with practised tact, had separated them. He could remember only part of their conversation. She and her husband had a penthouse overlooking a street which was commonly used for student demonstrations and the police - she was sure they were Special Branch - had asked if they could use their front sitting room to take photographs from the window.

'We said they could, of course, and they were really very sweet about it. But part of me wasn't really happy. I wanted to say: "They're British subjects. They've got the right to march if they want to. If you want to photograph them, can't you do it openly, in the street?" But I didn't. After all, it was rather fun in a way. The sense of con-spiracy, being in the know. And it wasn't up to us to make a stand. They know what they're doing. And it never does to antagonize these people.'

It had seemed to him then, and it did now, to sum the attitude of decent liberals all over the world: 'TI? know what they're doing. It isn't up to us to make a stad.

It never does to antagonize these people.'

He said bitterly:

'I'm surprised that you and MI5 don't encourage

lar secondments to the KGB. You've more in commn with them than you have with any outsider. It might instructive to see how they deal with their paperwork.

Gilmartin lifted an eyelid at Duxbury as if invi solidarity in the face of unreason. He said mildly:

'As far as paperwork is concerned, Adam, it would

us if your people were a little more conscientious. singham, when requesting information about Ivor Gar should have put in an IR49.'

'In quadruplicate, of course.'

'Well, registry need a copy and so, presumably, do ?ou.

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We're supposed to keep MI5 in the picture. We could look at the procedure again, of course, but I would say

that four copies were the minimum.'

Dalgliesh said:

'This girl, Diana Travers. Was she the most suitable person you could find to spy on a Minister of State? Even for Special Branch, it seems an odd choice.'

'But we weren't spying on a Minister of State, she wasn't assigned to Berowne. As we told you when you inquired about his mistress, Berowne never was a risk. No IR49 submitted there either, incidentally.'

'I see. You infiltrated Travers into Garrod's group or cell, whatever he calls it, and conveniently forgot to mention the fact when we inquired about him. You must have known that he was a suspect. He still is.'

'It hardly seemed relevant. We all operate, after all, on the "need to know" principle. And we didn't infiltrate her into Campden Hill Square. Garrod did. Travers's little job

for us had nothing to do with Berowne's death.'

'But Travers's death might have.'

'There was nothing suspicious about her death. You must have studied the autopsy report.'

'Which wasn't, I noticed, carried out by the usual Home Office pathologist for Thames Valley.'

'We like to use our own people. He's perfectly compe-tent, I assure you. She died from natural causes, more or less. It could have halbpened to anyone. She had eaten too much, drunk too much, and she plunged into cold water, got tangled in the reeds, gasped and drowned. There were no suspicous marks on the body. She had had, as you no doubt remember from the PM report, a sexual connection just before death.' He hesitated a little before the phrase. It was the only time Dalgliesh had seen him even slightly discomposed. It was as if he felt the words 'making love' were inappropriate and couldn't bring himself to use a coarser soubriquet.

Dalgliesh was silent. Anger had led him into a protest that now seemed to him humiliatingly childish as well as ineffectual. He had achieved nothing except possibly to

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exacerbate the simmering professional rivalry between C Division, the Special Branch and MI5 whose uneasy re-lationship could so easily spill over into high politics. Next time Gilmartin might say: 'And for God's sake, put AD in the picture. He's apt to get his knickers in a twist if he doesn't get his share of the lollipops.' But what depressed him most and left him with a sour taste of self-disgust, was how close he had come to losing his control. He realized how important it had become to him, his reputation for coolness, detachment, uninvolvement. Well, he was involved now. Perhaps they were right. You shouldn't tale on a case if you knew the victim. But how could he clai to have known Berowne? What time had they spent t,,-gether, except for a three-hour train journey, a brief te minute spell in his office, an interrupted walk in St James' Park? And yet he knew that he had never felt so great empathy with any other victiTM. That impulse to conn: t his fist with Gilmartin's jaw, to see blood spurting that immaculate shirtfront, that old school tie; well, fifte' years ago he might have done it and it would have him his job. For a moment he almost yearned for the

uncomplicated spontaneity of youth.

He said:

'I'm surprised that you thought Garrod worth tle trouble. He was a left-wing activist at university. It har tly needs an undercover agent to discover that Garrod doe't vote Tory. He's never made any secret of his beliefs.'

'Not of his beliefs, but he has of his activities. His grtp are rather more than the usual middle-class malcontt:ts looking for an ethically acceptable outlet for aggresi.n and some kind of cause, preferably one that gives trn the illusion of commitment. Oh yes, he's worth it.'

Gilmartin signalled a glance at Duxbury who said: 'It's only a small group - cell he calls it. At present ur are women. Thirteen of them altogether. He never recruits more nor less. A nice touch of counter-superstition, and, of course, it adds to the mystique of conspiracy. The magic number, the closed circle.'

Dalgliesh thought that the number also had a 'tttin

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operational logic. Garrod could organize three groups of four or two of six for field work and still free himseff as coordinator, director, recognized leader. Duxbury went

on;

'They're all from the privileged middle class which makes for cohesion and obviates class tensions. The comrades, after all, aren't notable for brotherly love. This lot speak the same language including, of course, the usual Marxist jargon, and they're all intelligent. Silly, maybe, but intelligent. A potentially dangerous bunch. None is a member of the Labour Party, incidentally. Not that the Party would have them. Six of them, including Garrod, are paid up members of the Workers' Revolutionary Campaign but they don't hold office. My guess is that the WRC is little more than a front. Garrod prefers to run his own show. A natural fascination with conspiracy, I sup pose.

Dalgliesh said:

'He should have joined Special Branch. And Sarah Berowne is a member?'

'For the last two years. A member and Garrod's mistress, which gives her a peculiar prestige in the group. In some ways the comrades are remarkably old-fashioned.'

'And what did you get from Travers? Al/ right, let me guess. Garrod introduced her into the Campden Hill Square house. That wouldn't be difficult given the short age of reliable domestic help. Sarah Berowne would have tipped them off about the advertisement, if she didn't actual]), suggest it. Anyone willing to do housework and turning up with good references - and you'd have seen to that - would be pretty sure of a job. That was his cell's function presumably, to discredit selected MPs.'

It was Gilmartin who answered:

'One of their functions. They mostly went for the moderate socialists. Dig up the muck, an illicit love affair,

forgotten sponsored trip t ill-advised friendship, a half-preferably homosexua!, a South Africa, a suggestion of

Sticky fingers in the party funds. Then when the poor devil goes up for re-selection, spread the manure around judi

ciously and draw delicate attention to the smell. Dis-crediting members of the present administration is probably more a matter of occasional duty than enjoy-ment. I imagine Garrod chose Paul Berowne for personal rather than political reasons. Sarah Berowne dislikes more than her Papa's party.'

So it had been Garrod who had sent the poison pen message to Ackroyd and the gossip writers of the nationals. Well, he had always been Dalgliesh's most likely suspect for that particular mischief. As if hearing his thoughts, Gilmartin said:

'I doubt whether you'll be able to prove he sent th:it message to the press. They do it very cleverly. A of the group visits one of those shops where they sell new and second-hand typewriters and let you try out thc machines. You know the scene, rows of chained typewritc-s for the customers to bang away on. The chance of a sin,tle, prospective customer being recognized is almost nil. can't keep perpetual watch on all the cell members. Ttwv don't warrant that intensity of effort and I'm not sure, anyway, what particular section or subsection of criminal law they'd be infringing. The information tty use is accurate. It's no use to them if it isn't. How did you get on to Travers by the way?'

'Through the woman she lodged with before she moved into her flat. Women have a profound contempt lkr masculine secret societies and a knack of seeing throt,:,h them.'

Gilmartin said:

'The whole sex is one secret society. We wanted Travcrs to live alone. We should have insisted. But I'm surpri:,'d that she talked.'

'She didn't. Her landlady didn't altogether believe' an unemployed actress who could yet afford to buy a But it was your men turning up to search her room that confirmed her suspicions. Incidentally, what was your real interest in Garrod, apart from getting some additional names in your activist files?'

Gilmartin pursed his lips.

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'There could have been an IRA connection.'