Old Flames (56 page)

‘Good Lord, so they did. I haven’t heard that phrase in years. The tearaway toffs ride again, eh?’

There was no reason to feel this way. No logical reason, that is. But when Troy saw Charlie sitting in the Café Royal at the same table at which he and Anna had
ceremoniously dumped each other, his fingers tingled and his thumbs pricked.

‘You look bloody awful,’ said Charlie. ‘Any particular reason?’

‘Dozens, hundreds,’ said Troy.

Charlie had clearly been there a while. He’d finished a plate of sandwiches and marked up the late runners for Sandown Park in the morning paper. He flagged a waiter and ordered the same
again.

‘Unless,’ he said, ‘you feel like something stronger. We could always adjourn to one of the watering-holes.’

‘No,’ said Troy. ‘I’d only feel worse.’

‘Then perhaps you’d better tell Uncle Charlie all about it, and I’ll kiss it better.’

‘Cockerell. It’s all about Cockerell.’

There was only one thing Troy wanted to hear from Charlie. He stumbled into his preposterous tale, and within a couple of sentences Charlie said it.

‘Dammit, Freddie. What are old friends for? Why didn’t you come to me sooner?’

They both knew why.

Charlie reached into his jacket pocket, and finding he had no paper, opened the back of his chequebook and began to scribble. He filled the back of one cheque—those ludicrous, giant pages,
the size of prewar banknotes that Mullins Kelleher favoured—and began on another. Troy wondered if he’d end up filling the book, tearing off the stubs in summary of this mess of mayhem.
And then it would make sense. He would only have to read the stubs to see meaning. Deposit—one mystery. Withdraw—one life.

As Troy told him a cloud appeared in the telling. It hovered at every stage. It was clung to every question Charlie asked. He suddenly felt that he had dreamt last night, that it had not
happened. Washed and dressed, the smell of blood smothered in talcum powder, he felt suddenly stripped of its certainty, as though he had set foot upon a dream. He could feel Johnny’s weight
in his arms, he could see the mask he had made of his face as he wiped the blood from his eyes and lips, a blood-red nigger-minstrel mask. But he could not hear him, and he could not smell him, and
the weight floated from him and the vision dissolved, and he began to think he had dreamt it and because he had dreamt it he could not talk about it. He could not tell Charlie.

‘Where is it now?’ Charlie said.

‘Where’s what?’

‘This document you say you found in Paris.’

‘Oh … my sergeant has it. He knows a bit about cryptography.’

‘And where’s he? At the Yard?’

‘I don’t know. I don’t know where he is. He seems to have vanished.’

They had reached the point at which chronology dictated that he recount the previous night. He tried
to see it all again. The moment when Johnny had placed the hat upon his head and they had symbolically exchanged identities. The sound of his last uttered word—Troy’s own name. It was a
dream. He had floated in pink somewhere. It never happened. And he knew he could not tell it.

And then he saw her. Picking her way between the tables and the afternoon shoppers of Regent Street, taking the tea they all held to be earned, heading for him, waving fussily, coming up behind
Charlie. He rose from his chair. Charlie looked around to see who had joined them, and seeing a woman, rose too.

‘This is unexpected,’ Troy said.

‘Aw … I came up with your sisters. They wanted to hit town and blow some money. It was nice for a while but goddammit, all those women can talk about is shopping and fucking, fucking
and shopping.’

Then she noticed Charlie. And Troy saw the tiny spark that passed between them.

‘Charlie. My wife—Larissa Troy,’ said Troy. ‘Larissa. Charles Leigh-Hunt.’

Charlie beamed his famous smile at her, took her hand.

‘At last,’ she said. ‘I heard a lot about you.’

‘Nothing good, I hope?’

Troy watched. Even Tosca basked in the attention of a man like Charlie. He was not sure what it was, but he knew he didn’t have it. This animal magic that could corrupt the common sense of
women. Height helped, the elegance it gave, and the beautiful blue eyes spoke as loudly as his perfect smile, but these were only parts of the puzzle, and the sum was greater than the parts. She
waved a hand, mock dismissively, almost seemed to blush at one of the corniest lines in the book.

‘Naw—just lotsa stuff about all the things you and the gang used to get up to.’

‘The gang?’

‘Oh … you know … Huey, Duey and Luey.’

Charlie looked quizzically at Troy.

‘Gus and Dickie,’ he said.

‘Baby. I gotta run. Or they’ll come looking for me. You be home soon. Nice meetin’ ya, Charlie.’

She pecked him on the cheek, waved cutely at Charlie and dashed for the door. A ten-second whirlwind.

They sat down.

‘Well,’ said Charlie.

‘You were abroad,’ said Troy.

‘Was I?’

‘I tried phoning you.’

‘I suppose congratulations are in order.’

‘If you like.’

‘You know. I never really thought that we’d either of us marry. Funny really. No rhyme or reason to it. I just never thought we would.’

‘Nor I.’

The pause that followed was one of the most awkward Troy could ever recall. Until Charlie said, ‘Now—where were we?’

Troy ran. All the way home. Out of the Café Royal, into the Quadrant and hell for leather towards Piccadilly Circus. He tripped crossing Leicester Square, tore the knee
out of one trouser leg, pushed away the kindly hands that helped him to his feet and ran for the Charing Cross Road, St Martin’s Court, across the Lane and breathless to his own door. He
could still feel the imprint of Charlie’s bear hug, the palms clapped to his shoulder blades, like demonic stigmata.

Tosca was home. The pipes banged and creaked with the telltale noises of a bath running. Troy threw off his jacket and ran upstairs. She was half undressed, down to her blouse and suspenders,
padding around her bedroom in her stockinged feet, humming softly to herself.

She draped her arms around his neck. The best of moods, smiling, jokey. The wise-cracking, wise-ass, all-American broad
she could be when the mood took her. He slipped his arms about her waist out of nothing more than habit. A reflex in no way connected to what he was thinking.

‘That was quick. Just as well. We’re goin’ out. On the town. It’s time to rock’n’roll!’

She kissed him. A real smackerooney—a parody of a kiss—pulled herself back, arched her neck, put her weight on his arms and beamed at him. He felt the provocative stroking of one
stockinged heel on the back of his calf. It was the peak of irony, that the best should surface in her at the worst moment.

‘Well? Cat gotcha tongue?’

‘Sit down,’ Troy said.

‘What?’

He pushed her to the edge of the bed and made her sit.

‘Where have you seen Charlie before?’

‘What?’

‘Where have you seen Charlie before?’

‘I never seen him before. You introduced us not half an hour ago.’

‘No,’ said Troy. ‘No. I’ve known Charlie since we were boys. He tried, and he put on a damn good show, but he could not hide it. He recognised you. He knew
you.’

‘Baby, I never—’

He took her face in his hands. His fingers splayed across each cheek, and looked right into her eyes. It was better than shouting at her.

‘Think!’ he said. ‘Think! Where have you seen him before?’

Tears started in the corner of each eye.

‘He knew me?’

‘Yes.’

‘I didn’t know him. I mean I thought I’d just met your oldest friend.’

‘He is my oldest friend. But he’s a spook.’

‘You said, but high up—like diplomatic. I was a nobody. I had no reason to think he’d be anyone I’d ever dealt with.’

‘Nor I. But I can read Charlie like a book sometimes. He’s met you, and in the only guise that matters.’

‘On the job?’

‘Yes.’

‘You don’t think maybe in the war? I mean it’s a goddam miracle I never bumped into your brother in the war. I met so many Brits.’

‘If it had been in the war, don’t you think he would have said?’

She sagged with the weight of his logic. He felt that if he let go of her now she would simply fall into a heap on the bed.

‘Yeah. Of course. I’m clutching at straws. I know the type. He’s not the klutz with women that you are. He’s a fuckin’ smoothie. A lounge lizard if ever I saw one.
If there’d been any intro he could have used he’d ’ve flirted with me till his balls fell off. Damn, damn, damn!’

The tears flowed under his hands, and behind him he heard the sound of the bath running over, of water splashing onto wood. He let go of her and went to the bathroom to turn off the tap. When he
returned she had buried her face in the pillow. He picked her up and wrapped her in his arms. She sobbed into his shoulder. He heard her strangled voice say, ‘There’s never going to be
a way out is there? There’s never going to be an end to running.’

She slept and he let her sleep.

When she awoke it was dark. He was sitting on a chair in the corner of her room. He saw her stir, watched her rub her hair and blink at him. For a moment it seemed that she did not recognise
him, the hands left her hair and clapped onto her open mouth as she muffled a scream.

‘Jeeezus. Jeezus. I remember! I remember! It’s him!’

Troy crossed the room, pulled her hands away from her mouth, and held them.

‘Just tell me.’

‘November. Three years ago. 1953. I was on a live drop to Lisbon. Regular run. I’d been doing it since the spring. Same guy, same method, same exchange. He’d show up clutching
a two-day-old copy of
The Times,
with the eyes of the Es filled in, and I’d hand him a parcel. They never told me what it was, but I knew it was money. I’d done half a dozen in a
row. Then in November a different guy shows, clutching the paper marked up in the right way. So I gave him the money. Didn’t take fifteen seconds—we neither of us asked any
questions—and he didn’t try to flirt with me. But it was Charlie. Only time it ever happened. In December the regular guy was back and I never saw Charlie again. The regular guy showed
up every other time. Lisbon, Paris, Zurich. Regular as clockwork, till they pulled me off it.’

Troy went downstairs and came back clutching his briefcase. He tipped it out on the bed and held up a photograph of Cockerell he’d cut from a newspaper.

‘Is this him?’

‘Sure. That’s the guy. Ronnie Kerr. But how did you—?’

‘His real name’s Arnold Cockerell.’

‘The frogman? The guy you’ve been investigating? I don’t get it.’

‘You should. It’s simple. You were the service end of a grubby little operation.’

‘I was?’

‘Where did you think the money went? What did you think it was for?’

‘I didn’t think. You lose the habit. You just do it and hope to get by. Y’know. Maybe it’s not as bad as it seems. Nobody knows. I mean, nobody else. Nobody that could
tell. Charlie won’t tell, will he? I mean he can’t. If he blows the whistle on me he blows it on himself. It’s a Mexican stand-off. So we’re safe. Nobody really knows. I
mean, who else has ever seen me?’

Troy could not tell her pleading from her desire to reassure him, and hence herself. He picked up the police 10 C 8 of the dead Madeleine Kerr.

‘Did you know her?’

‘Nah. Never met her.’

‘She was Ronnie Kerr’s wife. Or at least she pretended to be. Twenty-two years old. Thought it was all a lark. She was murdered. Less than two weeks ago. You remember the case I was
on in Derbyshire? That was Ronnie Kerr’s accountant. That leaves you—you’re the last person in England who knows Charlie was running a racket for the Russians. Everyone else has
been killed.’

‘Oh shit. Oh shit. Oh shit.’

The phone had rung persistently over his words. He picked it up, meaning to hang up and silence it.

‘Mr Troy?’ The operator’s voice.

‘Yes.’

‘Reverse charge call from Leicester. A Mr Clark. Will you accept the charge?’

Tosca was right. No one but Charlie had ever seen her in her old guise. No one except Clark.

‘It’s me, sir.’

‘Eddie. Where are you?’

‘I’m on Leicester station, sir. I’ve forty minutes between connections. I’m waiting for the slow train from Nottingham, but I thought I’d better tell you as soon as
I could. I’m on my way back from Derbyshire. I’ve cracked the code.’

‘The code?’

‘Madeleine Kerr’s last letter, sir. I was getting nowhere with it. Couldn’t get past the first sentence. Then it dawned on me. She hadn’t written it. Cockerell wrote it.
So. I had to look for the key.’

‘Key?’ Troy said feeling like an ill-informed parrot.

‘Yes, sir. Codes like this need a text. An acrostic grid that both writer and reader know to use. At its neatest you have two code pads, one-time pads they’re called, five letters in
a block, and you tear off the page every time you use it, so it’s never the same code twice. At its most complex you have a machine with lots of rotating cogs that makes Babbage’s
engine look as simple as an alarm clock, and a few thousand assorted boffins and WRENS in wooden huts in Bletchley Park to work the damn thing. I didn’t think Commander Cockerell quite that
sophisticated, so I knew I was looking for a printed text. The letter opens in the old alphabet code—Dear Sis. That’s a pun in my opinion sir. SIS. Get it?’

‘Just tell me, Eddie.’

‘Then it says 49AA. However I worked the code I always ended up with gibberish from those four letters. I thought I must be working it wrong. But then it was obvious, there was a new code
for everything that followed and this was the key, they weren’t actually in code themselves. What we in the police force call a clue, sir. I began to realise that Madeleine Kerr had written
only the first two lines, something to steer her sister to the real code that Cockerell was using. And it had to be something Cockerell had access to every day. So I took his shop keys out of your
desk and went up there yesterday afternoon. I missed it. It was out in the open and I missed it. I spent all last night and half this morning turning out his desk drawers. Then I saw it, sticking
out of one of those pigeon holes above his desk. The Automobile Association Handbook for 1949. At the back of the book they give you the distances between the major towns of the country. A simple
A–Z graph on two axes. The perfect reusable code. Unless you know what it’s based on, you’d never crack it! So A is for Aberdeen, and the first use of the letter A is the distance
between Aberdeen and Aberystwyth—which is 427 miles, therefore the code is 427. The second use would be based on the distance between Aberdeen and Barnstaple, which is 573 miles, hence 573.
And as there are fifty-seven possible codes for the letter A, you can write a page or more before you have to repeat any one code. Occasionally you’ll get overlaps—for example the
distance from London to Brighton is the same as from London to Cambridge so you could in theory have 53 standing for both B and C, but as London is at the bottom of every column you’d be on
at least your thirtieth use of the letter by then, so … And the tricky bit is there’s no major British city beginning with the letter J, so the second I, which is Ipswich, becomes J.
You’ll never guess how he managed Z.’