A Little White Death (51 page)

‘And I don’t suppose you know anyone called Curran, do you? Wallace Curran?’

Driberg mused a moment. ‘Only Curran I know is old Egg Curran.’

‘Egg?’

‘Edward George Gilbert, hence Egg. He’s one of the Soho boozing lot. You can find him most afternoons in the Colony, or the French pub of an evening.’

‘I rather think the bloke I want is M15.’

‘Then it’s not Egg. He drinks professionally. No other known skills.’

Clover came up the stairs from the bathroom. He could not hear the treads creak, nor the silent step of shoeless, sockless feet. He could smell the floral mixture of her talcum
powder. He could see the dappled texture of her skin, here dusted, here damp, the pattern of camouflage. He could see the wet footprints she left across the floorboards of his bedroom. Watched them
vanish into air, heel to toe, like will o’ the wisp.

She stretched out next to him, her lips touching his ear, both hands gripping his upper arm, one leg slipped over his, the foot slowly easing his legs apart, the rough skin on her heel scraping
against his thigh and raising goose pimples on his skin. He woke calm and curious. No screams. He could still feel the imagined touch of her dead hand on him. What was it Pritch-Kemp had said? Why
does the dead hand grip so? Ripped from its context, pushed into the man’s own field of literary symbols, rather than literal truths, Troy knew exactly why. The demon/dead lover comes back
from the dead – to claim you for death. ‘Our wedding day’ was death. Consummation was death. Sex was death. The dead hand gripped simply to remind him of this.

Time for the little yellow friend.

Troy called Clark first. Took the risk of mentioning Curran’s name on a Scotland Yard line.

‘You couldn’t try and find out a bit more, could you? Sit in the canteen and pick up a bit of Special Branch gossip. Curran must be known to some of them. Dammit, the name’s
familiar to me – I just can’t place it. I’ve heard it somewhere . . .’

He found himself with a stronger mental image.

‘. . . I’ve
seen
it somewhere.’

Clark sighed. ‘It won’t work, sir. Not this time. We’re
persona non grata
with the Branch. All of us, you, me, Mr Wildeve, virtually anyone who’s ever served in
the Murder Squad.’

‘They’ve sent you to Coventry?’

‘Worse. I couldn’t come up with a metaphor strong enough. It’s like the mid-fifties all over again, sir. Only worse. You’ll remember, sir, the reputation you had when you
got me down from Birmingham in 1956. Not to put too fine a point on it, sir, you were known as trouble. The last few years have been good. You put a lot behind you. It was unfortunate that the line
of duty occasionally put you in the line of fire – but you came through. Even with the Ryan affair there wasn’t a man jack in the Yard didn’t think you deserved to run CID .
You’d earned it. Everybody said so. Right now it’s as though the good years never happened. Right now, as far as the Branch is concerned, you might just as well have put the noose
around Percy Blood’s neck yourself. Half of ’em think you went down to Camberwell to shoot him anyway. They’re not going to give us the time of day. So there’s no point in
me asking.’

‘And Mary? What about Mary? What are these instant moralists saying about murdering coppers on the streets of London?’

‘Nothing, sir. She wasn’t one of theirs. Honestly, sir, I don’t know who to ask. Even some of the ordinary coppers are saying you’re as mad as Percy.’

This struck home.

‘That’s what Quint said to me.’

‘I wouldn’t take it personally, if I were you. He’s not exactly Sigmund Freud, is he?’

‘I’m not. It was what he said about Blood that concerned me.’

‘I don’t follow.’

‘Gossip is one thing. “So and so is crazy.” Doesn’t mean much at the best of times. But Quint was blazing with anger. I’ve never subscribed to the idea that what
people say in anger is something you dismiss as an aberration. More often than not it’s the lifting of the inhibitions. It says what they really think. Quint really thought Blood was nuts.
And I don’t mean just because of that medical report you pinched. I think he thought Blood was nuts as long ago as last year when Percy came close to getting disciplined over that CND
business. And I think he transferred him from the Branch to Vice because he needed the doggedness, the sheer tenacity of a good nutter.’

‘You’re edging a bit nearer conspiracy, aren’t you, sir?’

‘My speciality,’ said Troy. ‘But if Quint didn’t want me looking for conspiracies, he should never have told me.’

Troy felt he had little choice. He called young Alex at the
Sunday Post
.

‘What have I done now?’

‘Nothing. I need a favour.’

‘Freddie, your favours are proving rather costly.’

‘Meaning?’

‘After your visit to Tara her fortnight off became a month. I don’t know what you said to her, but she’s still out in the sticks. If she doesn’t sit down and write the
story with me soon it’ll lose momentum altogether.’

‘I doubt the saga of the Ffitch sisters will ever go cold.’

‘I didn’t mean cold. I mean it’ll be eclipsed by the next scandal.’

‘You mean there’s more!’

‘Of course there’s more, Freddie. Don’t be naive. They’re going to roll out for the rest of our days. We have unleashed the flood, opened whatsername’s box.
There’ll never be an end to it. This is the shape of things to come. And the shape is priapic.’

Troy wondered if he was shocked by this. He was not accustomed to being shocked. ‘Can you meet me after work?’ he said.

‘I suppose so. The Scandalmonger’s Arms. About six thirty?’

‘In the course of your investigations have you—’

‘Freddie, don’t you think that’s a bit hi’falutin? I’m a reporter, not Plodder of the Yard.’

‘Are you going to be serious?’

‘Sorry.’

‘Does the name Wallace Curran mean anything to you?’

‘No. What’s the context?’

‘MI5.’

Suddenly the ingenue was wiped from Alex’s expression. He looked hammily around to see who in a roomful of deafening noise might hear their whispers, nudged his glass nearer Troy’s
and put his weight on one elbow.

‘You mean Paddy Fitz and MI5?’

‘Yes. Have you heard this?’

‘No. I’ve not heard it. I’ve thought it, my God I’ve thought it, but truth to tell I’d dismissed it as pretty well preposterous. But it does rather explain one
thing that’s had me puzzled.’

‘Just tell me what you know, Alex.’

‘Official, is it?’

‘How official do you like your murders to be?’

‘There’ve been deals done.’

‘Deals?’ said Troy, sounding and feeling rather ignorant.

‘In the House.’

‘The Commons?’

‘Of course the Commons. Does anyone give a fuck what happens in the Lords? Contrary to popular definition, there’s more to being a good parliamentarian than remembering to call your
opponent honourable as you shout the bugger down. It covers some very shady cross-party deals. For example, I know for a fact that Wilson agreed not to press for a debate when Charles Leigh-Hunt
defected. He even argued against the idea in the House. Didn’t it surprise you to find another Burgess and Maclean scandal spread across the papers and no real reaction from the Opposition?
They did a deal. To keep Macmillan in power. If there’s one thing Wilson is scared of it’s facing one of the younger Tories in the next election. He wants Macmillan to lead the Tories
till the flesh falls off his bones. They did a similar deal over Fitz and Woodbridge. There’d be only the pretence of a debate. I think the way they handled Charlie set the pattern, and if
they hadn’t I might not have been so suspicious this time. They sold Fitz out, for the same reason they did a deal over old Charlie. Complete waste of time of course – Woodbridge has
done for Macmillan. Only a matter of time. The smart money says Supermac will go before the year’s out. But . . . and what a but it is . . . I’ve been mightily puzzled to know quite
what Wilson had on the Tories, but if it’s this, if you’ve got it right, then it explains everything.’

‘I don’t believe this.’

‘Freddie, I know you and my father have nothing but contempt for Wilson. In fact, he seems to be the butt of most of your jokes when the two of you get together, but believe me, he’s
the most devious operator in the Commons. His mother’s false teeth are not safe in their tumbler!

‘Think about what you’re telling me. If MI5 ran the Tereshkov business, then there was no security issue. Labour agreed not to make an issue of Tim Woodbridge’s morals, simply
because it was a shot in the dark; it could rebound anywhere. We’re a nation in rut. There are illicit couplings in every layby of every highway; there are orgies twice nightly with
matinées on Wednesdays in half the houses of Belgravia. The aristocracy seem to be going mad with Polaroid cameras and blow jobs. There are more nymphs and satyrs in Richmond Park than
frolicked in ancient Greece. Who knows who is fucking who? Who really wants that question answered? So they kicked around the non-issue of security instead, knowing it was nonsense. They had a lot
of fun, but that’s all it was. However, there still had to be a national scapegoat. And since it couldn’t be Woodbridge, it had to be Fitz. He was a dead duck the minute Macmillan and
Wilson put their heads together – and if I knew for certain that that was the literal truth and not just a metaphor, I’d have the story of a lifetime. Now, if I had a name – if in
fact you have just given me a name—’

‘Don’t even think about it, Alex. If Fitz was a spook, then this is a mess and a half. You may never get to print it.’

‘So Wallace Curran is between you and me?’

‘Yes.’

‘How did you find out about him?’

‘I can’t tell you.’

‘You know, Uncle mine, there are times when the family act seems singularly less effective than the old pals’ act. Whatever happened to you scratch my back and I’ll scratch
yours?’

Troy said nothing. Alex changed tack. ‘How do you think Wilson found out about it?’

‘I’ve no idea,’ Troy lied, with copies of Wilson’s replies to Fitz tucked away in his wallet. ‘Have you spoken to your father?’

‘No,’ said Alex. ‘I don’t know how to. How does one discuss such a thing with one’s own father? I can’t think of a way to raise it with him.’

‘I can,’ said Troy.

‘How long have you known Fitz was MI5?’

Rod hung up on him.

Troy walked round to the Commons, through the tunnel that linked the Palace of Westminster to the Underground and the Thames Embankment. He found Rod already coming down the staircase, briefcase
in hand, hell-bent on avoiding him.

‘I can’t talk to you, Freddie,’ Rod said and bustled past him and out into the courtyard. ‘Not now, not ever.’

Troy followed closely, feeling more than a little winded by the haste, but casting around him for the makings of an embarrassing confrontation. All he needed was string, sealing wax and eye of
newt.

He grabbed Rod by the sleeve.

‘Rod, you talk to me and you tell me what you know or I ask you all the questions you don’t want to hear right now and at the top of my voice.’

It worked. Out of term it may have been, but enough nobs and names seemed to be hanging about the corridors of blather to impress a sense of privacy on Rod. Troy recognised the lean, dog-like
figure of George Wigg stalking the cloister, received a fleeting if friendly wave of hello from George Brown, and fended off an anxious-looking Driberg with a killer look. Whatever Tom wanted, it
would have to wait. He’d got Rod by the trouser buttons and he was not about to let him go.

‘For Christ’s sake, Freddie. Not here. I’ll meet you in the park in an hour. Downing Street entrance.’

The old routine. How often had he met someone for the purposes of indiscretion in St James’s Park? The nearest bit of open space to Whitehall, Westminster and Scotland Yard. Here permanent
secretaries heard secrets from private secretaries, ministers dallied with the kind of secretaries who typed and took shorthand, and Murder Squad detectives swapped information they didn’t
want to hear whistling down the corridors at the Yard. He and Jack had stood in the park a thousand times and thrashed out matters that never saw pen and paper – Clark, even now, was in the
habit of ostentatiously picking up his plastic bag of sandwiches and his Boots’ thermos flask and saying none too convincingly that he was ‘just off to feed the ducks’. If the
secret intelligence services had any intelligence they’d have had a microphone in every tree, up every damn duck, years ago. At the very least they’d have hours of tapes of Fitz fucking
in the bushes.

An hour later Troy stood by the pedestrian entrance to the park on Horse Guards Parade opposite the narrow back end of Downing Street. He had no doubts that Rod would show up, he was, after all
an honourable man all but crippled by his sense of honour – and ten minutes past the hour he saw him coming down the steps by the whips’ office.

He walked a few feet past Troy, stopped and turned.

‘Well,’ he said. ‘Are you coming or not? You do want your pound of flesh, don’t you?’

Troy followed. Rod could not cow him now. No one could.

Rod picked a spot on the north side of the water, opposite a couple of preening pelicans. Unless Troy was very much mistaken, it was the same spot at which he and Jack had stood nearly twenty
years ago, in the last year of the war, at a time when secret services were just that, secret – and Troy had set Jack to follow one of MI5’s section heads, Muriel Edge. And if she were
alive now he might not be buttonholing his own brother. Troy dearly missed having a nark on the inside of the not-so-secret-service.