Princes Gate (41 page)

When he got back to his office he felt much fresher. He realised that he hadn’t eaten anything the night before and was ravenous. A quick trip to Tony’s was feasible. Bridges probably wouldn’t be in for another half-hour and he set off down the stairs. Unfortunately, at the bottom, he walked straight into the A.C.

“Frank. Just the man. I was trying to get hold of you all of yesterday. Come and tell me what’s going on.”

“I was just nipping out for a quick bite to eat, sir.”

“I’ll make you a cup of tea in my room.”

The A.C. bounded up the stairs energetically. For a man who was stiff and rigid in most aspects of his life, he was surprisingly loose-limbed. Merlin knew that he had been a keen beagler for many years, chasing foxes madly around the Surrey countryside on foot with other like-minded country types. The A.C. had given up this hobby only the previous year. As a consequence, his weekends were now spent entirely in the company of Mrs Gatehouse, to which circumstance Merlin largely attributed the A.C.’s recent enhanced level of irascibility.

The A.C. pushed through his door, glared briefly at the offensive geraniums, then offered refreshment. And so Merlin sat listening to his stomach rumble with one of the A.C.’s notoriously weak cups of tea cradled in his hands. He had given a quick rundown of his progress, after which the A.C. found it difficult to remain still. Gatehouse got up, walked to the window, opened his mouth to speak, thought better of it then returned to his desk. His right hand strayed to an ink bottle which he twirled round for a few seconds. Eventually it appeared that what he had been told had settled in his mind. “Let me see if I’ve got this straight. The story now seems to be as follows. This swine Norton meets Johnny Morgan through the good offices of Morrie Owen, the owner of a sleazy club which Norton and various diplomatic friends of his frequent. Mr Norton procures Morgan a job at the Ambassador’s residence. Morgan, no doubt a sharp boy, plays on Norton’s weaknesses to extract money from him. Initially he allows him to watch him having relations with women in Owen’s Kensington flat. Then he arranges to have pictures taken for his perverted edification. At Norton’s prompting, he seduces Miss Harris, a pretty girl at the office who has rebuffed Norton’s own advances. This occurs around the time that Miss Harris herself has been rebuffed by the Ambassador’s son. Photographs are taken, which Norton uses to blackmail Miss Harris into having relations with him. Norton in due course tires of Miss Harris.”

“That’s about it.”

“Miss Harris later attends a doctor for a pregnancy test which proves negative, in the company of a man. You are waiting on a sketch of this man. It may be the Ambassador’s son.”

“That’s right. I am awaiting confirmation as to his movements over the past two months. I’ll be seeing the sketch this morning.”

“In addition – thanks to Mr Reardon, is it?”

Merlin nodded.

“In addition, thanks to Mr Reardon’s turning King’s Evidence and your other enquiries, you have pieced together a picture of Mr Owen’s criminal activities which overlap to a certain extent with the sad tale of Miss Harris.”

“Yes, sir.”

“This puts Mr Owen at the centre of a range of illicit activities including drug-running, prostitution, loan-sharking and blackmail. In the course of these activities he employed Mr Bernie Myerson, the man who took Morgan’s lewd photographs, Owen taking a cut of Morgan’s earnings for so doing. Myerson, also with the assistance of Morgan, took the photographs of Mr Douglas engaged in sodomy for Owen’s blackmail purposes. Your discovery of Mr Myerson’s involvement prompted Mr Owen to arrange for him to be murdered by some of his underworld connections, and Mr Reardon will give evidence to this effect?”

“Yes, sir.”

The A.C. steepled his hands in front of his face.

“It’s all terribly seedy, isn’t it?”

“Very.”

“However, while you’ve got a large cast of villains, it seems you still don’t know who actually committed the murders.”

“I think we’re getting close.”

“Yes. Well, you’d better get on.”

Merlin smiled wearily.

“You haven’t notified Douglas’ superiors yet about the photographs, have you?”

“Not yet, no, sir.”

“Well, I suppose I’d better. Halifax isn’t going to be very happy.”

“I’d rather you wait a little. Until I’ve finished my enquiries.”

“If you prefer, but try and make it snappy.”

The wind had got up again and raindrops the size of marbles were battering the windowpanes in his office. On the other side of Merlin’s desk sat a cheerful Johnson, who had hurried into the office to convey the happy news that he had nailed Edward Fraser.

“The forensic people have matched a print from the victim’s briefcase. At the time of the accident they lifted a partial print from the case but said they wouldn’t be able to match it. But there’s a new chap in there. Brought some new methods over from the States where he’s been on secondment. He says he can make a match.”

“I hadn’t realised you’d got Fraser to provide fingerprints, Peter.”

Johnson, his arms waving around with unusual excitement, explained how he had become friendly with a Special Branch officer the previous year, on a case he had worked when a Scottish communist had taken a pot shot at the Dominion Secretary. “I got in touch with him and asked if he could pull Fraser’s security vetting file. He did, and on the file, of course, were Fraser’s fingerprints. That’s how we got the match.” Johnson stood up. “I’m off to see him now.”

“That’s good work. Once you’ve brought him in I wouldn’t mind a word to see what he’s got to say about Norton. If…”

The door banged open and Bridges walked in with the two constables.

“Robinson’s got the sketch, sir.”

Robinson passed the drawing across the desk to Merlin who stared hard at it before eventually grunting with disappointment. “No. It’s certainly not Kennedy. I can’t say who… something’s stirring at the back of my brain but I can’t pin it down. You’ve had a look, Sergeant?”

Bridges felt there was something familiar about the face but couldn’t say more than that. Cole also couldn’t help.

Merlin stood up with a sigh and walked to the window, leaving the sketch on the desk. “That’s a bit of a let-down then.”

“Mind if I have a look?”

Johnson, who had remained when the others entered, picked up the drawing, looked at it carefully then smiled. “The nose is a little wrong, and the hair isn’t quite right, but…”

“You know the man, Peter?”

“Best put your coat on, sir.”

It had snowed heavily overnight and was snowing still on the Wilhelmstrasse. As Giambelli emerged from the car, two men hurried out from behind a small truck to clear his pathway to the entrance of the building. He had not visited the German Foreign Office for a few years and on his last visit the sun had been shining on a sweltering July day. Today’s contrastingly bleak weather better matched his mood. He had been enjoying a champagne cocktail at Friday’s Italian Embassy reception when Rossetti had crept up to him in that irritatingly supercilious way that he had and pointed to the nearest exit. An urgent message from Rome had apparently just been decrypted. His ultimate superior, Count Ciano, had been asked by Berlin for a report on the progress of Giambelli’s initiative with the British and the Americans. Apparently they would prefer a report in person. Transport had been laid on and so now, after a boneshaking journey via Stockholm in a freezing old Italian cargo plane, Giambelli stood unhappily in the austere marbled lobby of the German Foreign Ministry. It was not only the disruption of his evening and the travails of the journey which lay behind his sombre mood – he had come all this way with little significant progress to report. But then, he mused as he rubbed his eyes, that wasn’t exactly his fault and was he not seeing an old drinking friend again? The Reichsminister had been Ambassador in London for a couple of years prior to the war. Giambelli’s mood lightened a little, and lightened further when, on entering the Reichsminister’s palatial office, he was met with a beaming smile and a glass of Sekt.

“Some champagne for you, my friend, to revive you after your, no doubt, tedious journey. It’s one of my own.” Ten years earlier, Joachim von Ribbentrop had been a champagne salesman. He had been a very good salesman and had married the daughter of his boss, the owner of the country’s largest producer of Sekt, the champagne of the Rhine. Shortly thereafter he had met his idol, Adolf Hitler, and had begun his dizzying rise to the highest echelons of the Nazi command.

Giambelli grasped the proffered glass and returned Ribbentrop’s smile, his face briefly registering surprise that his host was in uniform. “Ah, yes. The outfit. I’m sorry but Himmler has one of his patriotic teambuilding get-togethers this weekend – Wagner, Goethe and all that – and has asked me to attend and make a speech. I’m a member of the S.S. now, you know, Ricardo. What do you think? Quite smart is it not?”

“Very. It beats what Il Duce gets us to wear sometimes, I’ll say that.”

Ribbentrop slapped Giambelli on the back, then guided him to a sitting area to the right of a gigantic partners desk. “It is good to see you again, my friend.”

“Likewise, Joachim.”

They were speaking in English, their one common language.

“And how is London these days?”

“Surprisingly jolly. Much fun is still had despite the dark clouds hovering above.”

“Ah, yes. The English and their famous sangfroid. I had a bellyful of that when I was there.”

Ribbentrop shook his head, dislodging a thin lock from above his receding forehead. He smoothed his hair back then sneered. “We shall see how stiff their upper lips remain under the torrent of metal the Luftwaffe will soon be raining on them.” He threw the remains of his drink down his throat and poured out another glass for himself and his guest. His features resettled into their original cast of benign equanimity. “Forgive me, Ricardo. There I go again. The thought of the English often makes me lose my temper.”

He adjusted one of the medals on his jacket. “Now to business. Perhaps you are about to tell me that there will, after all, be no need for the Luftwaffe to cross the Channel and blitz the English. What news have you for me?”

“Not much, I’m afraid. We have had little communication and my sources tell me that our contacts may be in some difficulty.”

“Difficulty. You mean they have been found out?”

“No. They have other problems.”

The Reichsminister twirled his glass in the air and sighed. “Was a message ever passed to the Americans?”

“I believe so, but the conduit we used has not reported back to us. I should note that our people in Washington have observed that Ambassador Kennedy has met with the President recently.”

“Ah!”

“Our people in Washington have also observed to me that Mr Kennedy is not currently in the best of favour at the White House.”

Ribbentrop crossed his legs, causing his leather boots to squeak and creak. “I know. I know. The Ambassador is a powerful, isolationist voice it is true, but I tried to tell the Fuhrer that Kennedy was not the best channel to use. However, he insisted – he was sure that his would be the most persuasive voice to use on Roosevelt.”

Giambelli sipped his champagne while declining a top-up.

“So we don’t have any response from your people? What are the ‘difficulties’ you mention?”

“We have been using senior people in Halifax’s office and a long-serving aide of Kennedy. I do not have the full picture but there seems to have been some unpleasant, unrelated events in which one or two of them may be implicated. The net result of this has been that my principal British contact has been avoiding me and my American contact’s only recent conversation with me was a drunken babble in which he cried off from an engagement last night and said he couldn’t talk to me anymore.”

“I see.”

“I am sorry, Joachim.”

Ribbentrop stood up and wandered over to his desk, where he toyed idly with a small sculpture of his own head. “No need to be, my friend. I was against this approach all along. As you know, for years the Fuhrer has harboured delusions about establishing a grand alliance with our Anglo-Saxon cousins. I laboured tirelessly on his behalf to promote this idea during my time in London and was rebuffed at every turn. When Chamberlain used Poland as the basis for a declaration of war, I told him the game was up, and I thought he was persuaded – but still, in some small corner of that great mind, he keeps a door open. Even if this particular approach were to fail, as seems likely, he will probably persist. He will persist that is, of course, until the die is cast – a moment not so very far away now.”