A SONG IN THE MORNING (35 page)

• • •

He had the name of Jack Curwen. He had an address in the Surrey town of Leatherhead. He had a date of arrival in South Africa.

The colonel dictated his telex.

He had forensic confirmation that the explosive traces found on the inside of the wardrobe door matched the types of plaster gelignite most generally issued by the Soviets to the military wing of the A.N.C.

By choice he was an overworked man. He drew to his own desk as many strands of investigation as it was possible for him to gather in.

He missed a link.

He did not marry the information he now possessed with the report sent from London by Major Swart before the John Vorster Square bomb, which had been circulated to the colonel by Pretoria.

The colonel had so much to concern himself with, it was understandable, only human, that he missed the link.

• * •

The telex had been transformed from a jumble of numbers to a demand for immediate information. The telex lay on the desk of Major Swart.

Major Swart's office was deserted. The telex was placed on the untenanted desk.

* * •

Halfway through that Monday morning.

There had been a short hail shower. The forecast was for rain later.

Major Swart thought it a dismal occasion. A burial service without dignity. But then Arkwright had been a pathetic creature.

It was an hour's drive out of London for Major Swart. Piet had brought him down the M4 to the village beyond Reading.

They were dressed for the part, the major and his warrant officer.

The major was unshaven and in jeans with an old donkey coat on his shoulders. The warrant officer had chosen denims with a Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament logo on the back of his jacket. The major had thought there would be a better turn out. It was the last chance perhaps to get a tail on the young man introduced by Arkwright to Jacob Thiroko. And the bastard hadn't shown. He could have saved his time.

He recognised faces from Anti-Apartheid. No one that was special. A few kids out of the secretaries' pool, a man who made speeches at the really bum meetings when the seniors didn't want to know. He saw Arkwright's parents, country people, and they looked as embarrassed at the contingent from London as they were by the attendance of Arkwright's wife's people whose Jaguar was a flashy intrusion in the lane outside the church.

The group was around the open grave. He could hear the vicar's voice, as sonorous as the clouds. He and Piet were standing back, amongst the old head stones.

"Pleasant surprise to see you here, Major Swart."

He turned fast. He didn't know the man who had come silently over the wet grass to stand behind him. A big man, wearing a good overcoat.

"Detective Inspector Cooper, Major Swart. Didn't expect you'd be out and about to offer your condolences at the death of an Anti-Apartheid activist."

The anger was crimson on the major's cheeks.

"I'd have thought the embassy could have done better on the clothing allowance, Major Swart."

Swart saw the amusement on the detective inspector's face. "There is no regulation restricting the travel of South African diplomats inside the United Kingdom."

The detective inspector looked him over, with mocking enjoyment. "None at all, Major. Going on afterwards to the family for a drink and a sandwich, are we?"

"Go and fuck yourself," Major Swart said.

"Nice language for a cemetery, Major, very choice. I doubt you'll tell me why you're here, but I'll tell you why I'm here. Our investigations tell us that Douglas Arkwright was followed out of a public house on the night of his death.

It is our belief that he was attacked as he walked home.

Some of his injuries were consistent with a kicking. Stroke of luck for us, really, but when he went under the bus only his head and shoulders were hit by the tyres, that's how we can say for sure what were other injuries he had very recently sustained. It is our belief that Arkwright was running away from his assailants when he fell under the bus. Wouldn't be murder, of course, manslaughter would be the charge. You'd know about that, Major Swart, you being a policeman back home. Any ideas on who would be interested in roughing up a creep like Douglas Arkwright?"

"Any time you want advice on how to police your inner cities, just telephone me, Inspector."

"The National Theatre could give you a hand with your costume, Major. And you, Warrant Officer. It is Warrant Officer Piet Kaiser, isn't it? I thought so. Ask for the wardrobe mistress at the stage door. Very helpful folk."

The major walked away, his warrant officer close behind him. He didn't look back. He presumed the man was Special Branch.

They drove off, crashing through the gears, causing the vicar to pause in mid flow.

Major Swart and Warrant Officer Kaiser stopped at a pub on the Thames and didn't leave before closing time.

It would be late afternoon before he found the telex on his desk that required immediate attention.

* * •

The funeral of James Sandham, held by coincidence that same Monday morning, was an altogether grander affair.

The Foreign and Commonwealth Office saw to the arrangements. The Personnel Department had booked a chapel of rest, and the official fleet of cars, and the crematorium, and enough flowers to make Sandham seem to have been a loved and respected colleague.

His former wife had married again, and successfully, and was able to afford a clinging black frock that set her off well against the men from the F.C.O. She was allocated the front row in the crematorium chapel, never whimpered, never produced a handkerchief. The P.U.S. was behind her, and sitting alongside him was Peter Furneaux, head of the late Jimmy Sandham's section.

They didn't speak, the P.U.S. and Peter Furneaux, until after the curtains had closed on the coffin, and the taped organ music had come to a stop. As the mourners scraped to their feet and followed the former Mrs Sandham to the door and into a light shower of rain, Furneaux said, "I wonder if I could have a word with you, sir."

"I've lunch out of town, I am afraid, then the Cabinet Office, so I haven't a lot of time."

"It's quite pressing, sir."

"Let's walk a bit."

There was a garden around the crematorium, trimmed lawns with staked trees and ordered borders.

"Well, Peter, let's have it."

"This fellow, Carew, sir, that's going to hang in South Africa . . . "

"Thursday, right?"

"I know that Carew is an alias. I know that his true name is Curwen . . . "

"Classified, Peter, in the interests of national security."

"Shortly before James Sandham died, a young man came to F.C.O. His name was Jack Curwen. He said that James Carew was his father. I saw him, and Jimmy Sandham was with me . . . "

"Was he now?" the P.U.S. mouthed softly.

"Then Sandham disappeared, then he was dead. So we move on . . . I have regular reports coming in from Pretoria, the run of the mill embassy material, and I have a note on Carew. Last Friday I get a confirmation that Carew will definitely hang this Thursday. No more speculation. Finish.

He's going to hang . . . This Jack Curwen, he was a stroppy fellow but he was decent. He told me to my face that I was washing my hands of his father and I wasn't pleased at being told that, but in his position I reckon I'd have said the same, so I thought he deserved a call. He'd left his numbers. On Friday evening I rang the home number . . . "

Furneaux saw a thoughtful, concerned face, he saw a gathering frown. Behind them the cars were pulling away.

Another line of vehicles waited at the gates for the next cremation.

"I rang the home number. I think the phone was answered by Curwen's mother, who was first married to Carew. I told her what I knew, delicately, and then asked for her son. She put the phone down on me. I wanted to speak to the boy himself so this morning, before coming down here, I rang the office number that he'd left with us. He wasn't there.

Young Curwen had taken abrupt leave. I spoke to his employer, I was told it was a very sudden departure."

"You're taking, Peter, a long time getting to the point."

"I asked the nature of young Curwen's employment.

The firm he works for is called Demolition and Clearance.

Curwen drums up business for the sort of work that required demolition by explosives . . . "

"The point, please, Peter."

"It's conjecture, of c o u r s e . . . I would hazard that Curwen has flown to South Africa. That blast at police headquarters in Johannesburg, our people report that the rumour in security circles is that a White with an English accent planted the bomb. I would further hazard that Curwen, having launched one attack, is going to make something of a noise at around the time his father hangs . . . "

"Thank you, Peter. You're going by train, I'll drop you at the station."

They walked to the P.U.S.'s official car, the doors were opened for them by the chauffeur.

"There wasn't anything strange about Sandham's death, was there, sir?"

"What sort of strange, Peter?"

"He'd no more go mountain climbing than I would, sir."

"You never can tell, can you, with people?"

The P.U.S. asked the chauffeur to find the nearest underground station. They drove away.

"It's my duty to tell you, sir . . . " Furneaux was muttering, difficult ground. " . . . there's been a fair amount of disquiet on the desk. So far out of character that he should be mountain climbing. He spoke to no one about taking leave. It's caused quite a bit of anxiety on the desk, and I thought you should know that, sir."

"As head of department, you'll want to discourage idle speculation."

"Yes, sir."

Lighting a cigarette, the P.U.S. said, "Thank you, Peter, for your guessing game about Carew's boy. If it needs to be taken further I'll handle it. You don't have to concern yourself with the matter. By the by, Peter, you probably heard that there's going to be a gap in Nairobi. Needs a most responsible and sensitive man to fill it. Quite a posting for a youngish man, don't you think, eh, Peter?"

They shook hands, the P.U.S. smiled a watery smile.

Furneaux went down into the underground and bought a ticket. He shrugged. Every man had a price. And he was not much of a mountaineer himself.

• * *

The Director General scraped with a match at the mess in the stem of his pipe, and listened.

"Let me give you a scenario. Young Curwen has gone to South Africa, unconfirmed, but possible, and you will check it at once. Through his work he is familiar with explosives, that we know. A bomb goes off in Johannesburg and is rumoured to have been planted by a White. For the sake of our scenario let us assume that James Carew is to hang on Thursday, at the moment intending to take his secret to his grave, and let us assume that young Curwen is arrested in the hours remaining before the execution. What chance
then,
if they put the screws on him, so to say, that Carew would remain silent?"

The P.U.S. had cut short his lunch and driven to Century House for the meeting. Still the Director General said nothing.

"Or the related scenario: Carew hangs and Curwen is subsequently arrested. How much does the boy know? He met Sandham; Sandham knew only so much and probably hadn't told him. Would the boy talk?"

"Probably."

"I believe it is back to Downing Street, Director General."

"For what earthly reason?"

The Director General filled his pipe. It was a mechanical action. His eyes were never on the bowl, but none of the tobacco fibres fell to the polished surface of his desk.

"I don't intend to finish
my
career in an expose on the front page of Sunday's newspapers. Never forget, Director General, our job is to advise and to execute. The politicians are paid to make decisions, whatever a ham-fisted job they make of it. Keep this one in the dark and I reckon we'll get swamped by home-flying chickens. Lay it all before them and we safeguard ourselves and possibly them too. I'll fix an appointment for early evening."

"If the Prime Minister's schedule permits."

"No problem. Any Prime Minister I've worked with would meet one in a dressing gown at four in the morning if the matter under consideration involves an intelligence foul-up."

When the P.U.S. had gone, the Director General called in his personal assistant and named a man who was to be called to his office immediately.

• * *

Major Swart read the telex.

They'd had to stop once at a service station on the way back to London. Heavy stuff, English beer. He read the telex, then went back to his private lavatory, and back again to the telex.

Shit, and he was half cut. He was never at his best after he had drunk at lunchtime.

He knew the name of Curwen. Checked it out, hadn't he, days before. Checked and found that Mrs Hilda Perry had been married to a James Curwen. Thought he'd cracked the connection between James Carew and Hilda Perry. Had it all sewn up until he had taken the photograph of James Carew to the village in Hampshire and been told four times that the photograph was not that of James Curwen. From Somerset House he knew there was a son of the marriage between Hilda Perry and James Curwen, he knew from those same records that the son had been christened Jack.

Johannesburg wanted information on a Jack Curwen.

They wanted background, and they wanted confirmation of a photo-fit likeness.

Major Swart could have sent off an answer straight away

. . . But he wanted to piss again . . . He reckoned he could have established the link between Jack Curwen and Hilda Perry and a letter written from Pretoria Central by James Carew.

With too much beer inside him, and a foul temper still from the encounter at the funeral, he chose a different course.

He would first stitch the matter, then he would send his message.

He would stitch it so tight that there were no call backs, no demands for follow up information.

He rang Erik. Yes, the bloody man had replaced his bloody television set. Yes, Erik would be at the embassy within forty-five minutes. He shouted down the corridor to Piet that if he had plans, life or death, for the late evening then he should bloody well forget them.