Corridors of Death (6 page)

‘Until yesterday.’

‘Until yesterday. I really believe he must have gone mad. He didn’t bother to cover his tracks. It wasn’t, of course, just a matter of his leaving the room at a critical time. He set me up for a personal humiliation that could well cost me my job in the next reshuffle. “Poor chap can’t cope,” they’ll be saying.’

Nixon went on to tell Milton of the events which had led up to the IGGY
débâcle
. His Private Secretary, thought Milton wryly, was obviously plugged as efficiently into the network as was Amiss. Nixon knew the whole story.

‘You didn’t know all this until you came back here yesterday afternoon and made enquiries?’

‘No, but I was pretty sure that he was responsible at least for the speech which I was given to deliver. An ego like his could never resist putting something of itself into a draft speech, even in those circumstances. Beautifully done, of course, rubbish though it was. And when the threatened attack from the TUC which had ostensibly necessitated my presence didn’t materialize, I had no doubt about who had invented it. I’ve been honest with you, Superintendent. I had every reason to kill the swine yesterday morning. I also had the opportunity, apparently. But I didn’t do it. Oddly enough I was almost grateful to him for bringing the whole business to a head. He had given me a reasonable chance of being able to nail him at last, and he had made me realize once and for all that I was happier as an M.P. than as a minister and the sooner I returned to the back-benches the better.’

‘I am extremely grateful to you, sir. I assure you that I shan’t abuse your confidence.’

Nixon got to his feet and held out his hand. ‘I apologize for being so evasive at the beginning, Superintendent. Answering straight questions doesn’t come easily to a politician.’

As Milton closed the door behind him he caught himself wishing that he had Nixon as a constituency M.P. rather than the smooth, intensely able, totally inhuman rising star who presently graced the position. He doubted if he would feel the same way about the man he was to meet next.

8

That Milton was already late for his appointment with Wells was made clear to him by the way in which he was greeted by one of the two minions inhabiting Wells’s modest outer office. The girl seemed slightly agitated and fussed about how busy the minister was.
But isn’t he called a PUSS
? thought Milton, confused again.

Then realized that this would hardly be a respectful term of verbal address. Equally, you could hardly go about calling people ‘Parliamentary Under-Secretary of State’ if you ever wanted to get any business done. Presumably ‘minister’ was a catch-all title of respect for any politician holding even the most lowly of offices in the government. He was grateful he could stick to ‘sir’.

The girl had said that Wells was in the middle of an important phone call. Her insistence that it couldn’t be interrupted was so intense that it seemed that the fate of the government must rest on its successful conclusion. Milton wondered if she were an idiot but, while he waited, his close observation showed her colleague to bear equal signs of strain. In view of what Amiss had told him, he guessed that their master’s self-importance and ambition made him a nightmare to work for.

Initially he felt ashamed of his unprofessional prejudice when Wells welcomed him with affability and charm, ushered him into his office and urged him towards the most comfortable chair (altogether less commodious than Nixon’s). However, a couple of brief exchanges overheard from the outer office, whither Wells had dashed with a last-minute instruction once Milton was seated, confirmed his original suspicions. Amiss was right. The man was clearly a Grade A shit. That was a relief. He couldn’t afford to like another of his prime suspects.

Milton went through the same rigmarole he had gone through in the first ten minutes with Nixon, though in this case there seemed to be no need to calm the man’s nerves. Wells was relaxed. Milton sensed that he was trying to hide his amusement at the inability of the clod-hopping detective to get his evidence straight the first time round. Anyway, Wells’s account of his movements over Monday lunch-time had been correctly noted and typed up. So far so good.
Come on, smirk so I can see it, and we’ll have the gloves off
. Wells looked more serious when Milton asked about his relationship with Sir Nicholas.

‘I can’t say it was particularly good, Superintendent. You know what civil servants are like. They want it all their own way and are absolutely determined to reject new ideas. I see my job as helping to ensure that the radical commitments on which we were elected are put into force – and quickly – but these damned bureaucrats never lose an opportunity to put a spoke in the wheels. I’m not the sort of person to lie down under this treatment, so I suppose my blunt criticisms are the reason why my relations with some of the officials – including Sir Nicholas – have often been rather strained.’

‘Are you saying that you got on no better or worse with Sir Nicholas than with many of his colleagues?’

Wells paused for a moment.
He’s too fly a bugger not to realize that I can check up on this
.

‘Well, to be quite frank, I should say that I normally got on worse with Sir Nicholas than with any of the others. Even by their standards he was exceptionally arrogant and unhelpful. He was forever accusing me of being irresponsible in trying to bring important information to the attention of the public. He didn’t seem to understand that one needs to expose injustice if one is to remedy it. I see my job as a…’

Aware that once in his stride Wells was likely to go on all day, Milton interrupted.

‘Did you feel personal dislike for each other?’

‘I can’t answer for him, though I expect he would dislike anyone who stood up to him. I wouldn’t demean myself by feeling dislike for a man who merely symbolized the inadequacy of the way in which we allow an unelected executive to undermine the democracy of this country. I didn’t look upon him as an individual, so much as an example of what I have set out to curb.’

Milton felt tired. Did the fellow ever talk in anything other than political clichés?

‘Was he disliked as an individual by anybody, to your knowledge, sir?’

‘How would I know?’

Milton realized that Wells was telling the truth. His kind simply wasn’t interested in personal relationships. He would never speculate about who felt what about whom and why. He probably never listened to gossip unless he felt it politically necessary. People who believed in conspiracies were always like that. Individuals were to them symbols or tools, depending on their position. And he was far too self-satisfied to be vulnerable to the kind of weapons which Sir Nicholas had used on poor old Harvey Nixon.

‘Well, sir, can I ask you to tell me about the events leading up to the meeting of the Industry and Government Group yesterday? I understand you were originally to be the department’s representative?’

‘I certainly was. And I may tell you, Superintendent, that I was furious when I arrived and found that I had been replaced. I had put a great deal of work into mastering that subject – which is one of the greatest importance for this department and the paper industry of this country. I made those damned officials work hard for a change on the speech I was to make there. And even then I had to rewrite it myself. Civil servants. They have absolutely no political sense

‘You arrived at the meeting still expecting to speak, sir?’

‘Certainly, I did. And then found myself hustled to one side and prevented from making any contribution to a discussion on a subject about which, I may tell you, I knew far more than anyone else present.’

‘Didn’t you find it very odd that you hadn’t been informed that Mr Nixon was to replace you, sir?’

‘Well, naturally I put it down to some bloody civil-service cock-up.’

‘Are you saying that Sir Nicholas, whom I understand knew about this change of plan on Friday, failed to perform the simple courtesy of letting you know about it?’

‘Oh, I don’t know. It doesn’t matter now anyway.’

‘It matters to me, sir. Any of Sir Nicholas’s actions or inactions over the last few days may have some bearing on this case. If he was failing to perform his duties it may have implications that we can’t know about at this stage. You must know whether he got, or tried to get, in touch with you before the meeting.’

Got you, you bastard
, crowed Milton to himself as he watched the indecision on Wells’s face.

‘Well, yes. I gather he made some effort to get in touch with me.’

‘When, sir?’

‘On Friday.’

‘What exactly did he do, sir?’

‘He rang my home after I had left the office.’

‘And did he speak to anyone, sir?’

‘To my wife.’

God
, thought Milton.
This is like drawing teeth
.

‘And what did he say?’

‘Merely that he wanted to speak to me.’

‘Didn’t she tell you, sir?’

‘Well, she couldn’t, actually. I was away for the weekend and she couldn’t get in touch with me.’

‘Did she comment on Sir Nicholas’s manner at all?’

‘No, she didn’t. It seems to me that you are making a great deal out of nothing here. Couldn’t you be spending your time more productively with some of the other people who were at the meeting? Whether Sir Nicholas spoke politely to my wife during a perfectly mundane telephone call three days before he was murdered can hardly have any bearing on the case.’

Milton studied Wells’s face. The small blue eyes stared back at him defiantly. He was pleased to see how the affability had given way to irritation. Time for a kidney punch.

‘Anything might have a bearing on the case, sir. Sir Nicholas’s state of mind is of great interest to me. I think I had better have a word with your wife about the telephone call. She might be able to give me some of the flavour of it. Could you please give me her address and telephone number?’

He watched the look of calculation reappear. The chances were good that Wells hadn’t been able to repair relations with his wife sufficiently to guarantee her keeping her mouth shut about his weekend.

‘Her address, sir?’

‘Oh, there’s no need for that, Superintendent,’ replied Wells crossly. ‘I’ll tell you about it. I object on principle to having my private life interfered with, but I suppose I can’t stop you. By sheer ill-luck Sir Nicholas gave my wife some information which seriously upset her – namely that I wasn’t, as she supposed, away at a departmental conference.’

‘Where were you, sir?’

‘In the flat of a female friend of mine in north London.’

‘So your wife concluded you had been deceiving her, sir?’

‘Yes.’

‘And when did she let you know this?’

Wells hesitated for a moment, and caved in. ‘When I rang her just before the meeting yesterday morning.’

‘She must have been very upset.’

‘She was.’

‘So must you, sir. Particularly with Sir Nicholas.’

‘Yes, damn it, I was. My wife gave me the impression that Sir Nicholas had raised her suspicions deliberately.’

‘Thank you, sir. I think that’s all I need to know.’

‘Now, listen, Superintendent. You’re not to run away with the lunatic idea that I killed Sir Nicholas because he had exposed my affair to my wife. She’ll come round. Women always do if you make enough fuss of them. She must realize that a man in my position has lots of temptations and needs to relax occasionally. I can’t spend every free weekend with squalling children.’

Milton rose and looked down at Wells. ‘The police do not go in for lunatic ideas, sir. I have already established that you were one of those with the opportunity to murder Sir Nicholas. I have now discovered that you had a motive. I will come to no conclusions until I have discovered how many others are similarly placed.’

He looked back as he made his exit and had the satisfaction of seeing Wells sitting with his head in his hands. The girl in the outer office reacted uncertainly to the happy smile he flashed at her.

9

As Milton headed towards Parkinson’s room he was hailed by the be-jeaned girl from Nixon’s office with a message asking him to ring Romford urgently. She showed him to a private telephone and within seconds he was connected to an agitated sergeant. ‘There’s a new development, sir. A postcard has arrived addressed to the Commissioner which simply says “What about Lady Clark and Martin Jenkins?” ’

‘Jesus!’

‘Of course, sir, it may be just a bit of unfounded malice.’

Milton suppressed the urge to scream at Romford for his uncanny ability to state the obvious. ‘Yes, but we’ll have to follow it up,’ he said, stating the no less obvious. ‘What does the postmark tell us?’

‘Westminster area. Seven-thirty yesterday evening.’

‘Anything special about the card? Handwriting?’

‘It was in an envelope, sir. Handprinted in block capitals. The card’s one of those saucy seaside ones. About some bloke whose missus is having it off with the coalman. She’s got these black handprints on her…’

‘Look, I can’t do anything until I’ve seen the rest of the people on today’s list, but try to make appointments for me to see Lady Clark and Jenkins – separately, of course – later this evening or early tomorrow morning. Make the usual noises about it’s being simply a matter of routine. I’ll see you when I get back just before two.’

He rang off, irritated that he must immediately see Parkinson without having any time to reflect on the implications of this piece of news. His overwhelming feeling was one of injustice at fate’s determination to go on finding new motives. As he hurried towards Parkinson’s rather cramped little room, he found he was intensely curious about him. Nixon had had the Sir Nicholas treatment for only two years. Parkinson had apparently had it for about eight, and should therefore be showing signs of premature and bitter old age. Try as he might, he could conjure up no memory of him from their hurried meeting the previous day.

He was rather taken aback by the relaxed and courteous man who unwound his lanky form from his chair and shook hands with an easy and sympathetic greeting.