A Conflict of Interests (13 page)

"The same rule applies, Tom. As soon as you hear anything from Swansea, pass the details straight to the Regional Crime Squad."

"Well, if that's the way it's going to be, I suppose we could afford to release some officers from the investigation."

"Good," said Kingman, "I'm glad we see eye to eye. Mace, Ingleson and a DC can handle it from now on. Naturally, you and I will keep a finger on the pulse in between dealing with this little lot."

Kingman picked up a bundle of files and in a few clipped sentences summarized each case in turn. Nothing he said was new, but no salesman could have put it across better. Most of the burglaries he referred to had been committed in broad daylight on the spur of the moment by tearaways who'd noticed a house was unoccupied and had taken anything to hand. More often than not, the haul had not come up to their expectations and the burglars had then vented their frustration on anything to hand, vandalizing furniture and fittings. At the other end of the scale was a gang of thieves who did their homework well in advance, knew who were the most affluent residents in Wimbledon and had visited a large number of them. The amateurs were probably local unemployed teenagers who would go to the well once too often and get caught in the process; the professionals came from another patch and were likely to be in business for a long time unless somebody shopped them out of spite.

"It's the villains who work the upper end of the market that I want to see behind bars," Kingman said, winding up.

"Right."

"You know what to do then."

Coghill nodded. "We lean on our snouts and give the fences a hard time."

"That's the style." Kingman pushed his chair back and stood up. "It's all yours, Tom," he said, indicating the files with the wave of a hand.

There was, Coghill thought, enough there to keep him fully occupied for the best part of a month and maybe, just maybe, that was the whole idea.

The address book had been forwarded in a double envelope, the outer one addressed to The Secretary, P.O. Box 650, the inner marked "For attention Head of K Desk" and franked "Discreet handling, officer to officer." It had reached Vaudrey late on Friday afternoon and he had passed it on to Caroline Brooke with a brief note instructing her to take appropriate action soonest. The word
soonest
had been underlined twice and he had added a postscript to the effect that, if possible, the task should be completed by 11:00 A.M. the following day.

Interpreting the symbols had been child's play, but it had been a time-consuming and often irritating business to discover the identity of the person referred to by a code name.
Who's Who, Kelly's Trade Directory, Whitaker's Almanack
, the Bar List and other official registers had proved valuable aids when the subject's occupation and interests had been adequately described, but at the end of the day, there had remained a hard core of six who were still without a name.

A painstaking review early that morning had led nowhere and she had been left with several possible names for the recalcitrant half-dozen. However, none of these men were public figures of any account, a factor that had persuaded Caroline that further research would be a waste of time. As it was, the final list that she presented to Vaudrey would never have gotten past the supervisor had one of the girls in the typing pool produced it, but, as she was quick to point out, it was the content that mattered, not the appearance.

"I see you were right about Raschid al Jalud." Vaudrey looked up scowling. "The question is, does Coghill know he's on the list?"

"He may have guessed the entry referred to a Libyan from the various symbols, but it's unlikely he could identify him without access to the
Diplomatic Blue Book
and that's not issued to police districts."

Vaudrey nodded, bent over the typewritten list again and studied it carefully, the lines on his forehead becoming more pronounced with every passing minute. "Two life peers, three members of Parliament, including a former junior minister in the last Labour government, a senior civil servant from the Ministry of Agriculture and Fisheries, the secretary of the Havelock Committee appointed to review the organization of the security services, a merchant banker… My God, how did she get to meet these people?"

"Who knows? Perhaps one man put her in touch with the next?"

"Members of the same club, are they?"

"Club?" she repeated in a small voice.

"Brooks's, White's, The Athenaeum, the Reform or whatever."

"I haven't the faintest idea. You merely told me to break the code."

"You're an intelligent young woman," Vaudrey said. "It should have occurred to you that there had to be some common denominator between these top people." A wintry smile made a brief appearance. "Excluding Karen Whitfield, of course."

"You want me to find a connecting link?"

"I'm surprised you should ask."

There was, Caroline thought, no answer to that. A stupid question had drawn the kind of acid retort it deserved and Nicholas had been unable to resist a golden opportunity to deflate her. She waited guardedly for the next barb, but Vaudrey merely uncapped his fountain pen and went through the list yet again, making the odd tick in the margin as he hummed tunelessly to himself. The only other sound in the room came from the Westminster chiming clock on top of the bookcase.

"When do you want this brief, Nicholas?"

"The sooner the better," he said without looking up.

"Then hadn't I better get on with it?"

"Just hold on a minute." Vaudrey turned a page over and added a few more ticks before handing her the list. "I'd like you to type out the names I've indicated and send them on to Scotland Yard with a short covering letter. You can say that, as yet, we haven't succeeded in identifying the remainder, but they will follow in due course. Keep it vague and make some excuse about how difficult it is to find a logical pattern in a one-time personal code. They'll understand."

"I'm sure they will." Caroline stood up. "Meantime, I presume we'll hang on to the address book?"

"Naturally." Vaudrey waited until she was halfway to the door, then said, "Incidentally, what are your plans for tomorrow? Are you free around lunchtime?"

"More or less. There are one or two personal chores I should attend to, but nothing vital."

"Good. Shall we say my flat, twelve noon? There's a rather nice American I'd like you to meet."

Caroline nodded and, resisting the temptation to slam the door behind her, returned to her own office down the corridor. Still seething at the way Vaudrey had involved her in a conspiracy to withhold information, she sat down at the typewriter and began to peck out the list of names, venting her anger on the keys as she did so.

Mace had met all kinds of landlords during the course of his work, but he especially despised those like the owners of 192 Southwood Road whose property company was registered in the Bahamas for tax purposes. Within minutes of meeting Mr. Alec Gordonston, he had also developed a strong aversion toward their local agent. A dapper, black-haired little man in his early thirties, with a military mustache and an overinflated opinion of himself, Gordonston had been extremely reticent about the business affairs of his clients and equally reluctant to produce a copy of the lease Pittis had signed, until Mace intimated that, if necessary, he could always return that afternoon armed with a search warrant. The implied threat to his leisure time had had a marked effect on Gordonston, who thereafter had bent over backward to be helpful, furnishing not only the agreement but also a key to the flat before Mace got round to asking for it.

The flat was ultramodern, from the fitted kitchen with breakfast bar, built-in refrigerator, dishwasher and eye-level grill to the fully tiled bathroom with its shower stall, bidet, pedestal washbasin and sunken bath. The lounge was a contrast in black and white: white carpet, white walls, white velvet drapes, black vinyl three-piece suite and an occasional table with what appeared at first sight to be a black marble top, but on closer inspection turned out to be a plastic imitation. It was the same with the dining room, where the pieces of furniture were plainly cheap copies.

"A bit different from the flat below," Mace observed.

"You mean the one Mrs. Hayden is occupying?" Gordonston wrinkled his nose. "Well, of course, she was a sitting tenant when the present owners acquired the property."

"What about the other tenants? Weren't they protected by the Rent Act?"

"They were much younger than Mrs. Hayden and we made them a generous offer."

I bet you did, Mace thought. You probably dangled just enough for them to find the deposit on a flat of their own and offered to arrange a mortgage to cover the rest of the purchase price if the building societies turned them down.

"What did you say the rent was on these flats?"

"One hundred and ten pounds a week in the winter, but they rise to a hundred and seventy-five from June through to September."

"I'd be surprised if they didn't," Mace said wryly.

The rents were bound to go up during those months; it was the peak holiday period and the property company would be anxious to cream their share of the foreign tourists visiting London. It explained why no lease ran for more than six months and he could see why, with so many people coming and going, a man who wanted to remain anonymous would find that advantageous. Except Pittis had reckoned without Mrs. Hayden, who must have been the bane of his life as well as that of the estate agents who'd done their level best to get her out of the flat she was occupying.

"And Pittis paid you three months' rent in advance effective from Saturday the fifteenth of May, the date he moved in?"

"Yes."

"Cash or check?"

"Deutschemark traveler's checks from American Express." Gordonston ran a hand over his sleek black hair. "He had a thick wad of them in various denominations from a thousand down to fifties. I think the exchange rate was then about four marks seventeen to the pound. I know I had to give him just over three pounds' change out of the petty cash."

"I'm not a mathematician. How many marks did he give you?"

"Eight thousand seven hundred and fifty. My secretary will have listed the check serial numbers on the deposit slip to the bank." Gordonston followed Mace into the bedroom and looked a trifle pained when he started to go through the wardrobe and chest of drawers. "Is that really necessary?" he asked plaintively.

"Pittis told you he'd only be away for about a month. Right?"

"Yes. He said he had some business to attend to in Dublin and was then going on to Vancouver."

"Doesn't look as though he's coming back, does it?" Mace said. "The wardrobe's empty, so is the chest of drawers. You'd have thought he would have left something behind. Socks, shoes, sweaters, stuff like that."

"I'm sure there's a simple explanation."

"He's done a bunk. What could be simpler than that?" .

Mace left the bedroom as it was, drawers open, cupboard doors ajar, and ambled out into the hall and gazed thoughtfully at the pay phone which had been installed in the alcove to the right of the front door. It seemed that Gordonston's employers were not the kind of people who left anything to chance and they had taken steps to insure that none of their erstwhile tenants landed them with an unpaid phone bill.

"Was Pittis required to supply a referee before he signed the lease?" Mace asked, his face innocent.

"A referee?" Gordonston's voice rose a full octave in sheer disbelief. "Jesus Christ, Sergeant, nobody in his right mind would ask a highly respectable insurance broker for a character reference. At least, I don't know of any estate agent who would."

"No, I guess you wouldn't," Mace said. "Silly of me to ask."

Any man who could afford to pay over two thousand pounds' cash in advance was bound to be all right as far as Gordonston was concerned. One look at the fat wad of traveler's checks and he'd have believed almost anything Pittis cared to tell him.

"Have you seen everything you want to, Sergeant?"

"You don't mind if I take another look at the lounge, do you?" Mace unlatched a door off the hall to his left and stuck his head inside before Gordonston had time to open his mouth. "That video machine," he said abruptly. "Does it go with the flat?"

Gordonston shook his head. "No, I imagine he must have hired it, possibly from Radio Rentals in the High Street."

"Then he probably had to pay them nine months' rent in advance," Mace said, thinking aloud.

"I wouldn't know. You'll have to ask them about that." Gordonston shifted his weight from one foot to the other in mounting impatience. "Will that be all, Sergeant?" he finally asked.

"Except for the list of check numbers you mentioned. If you leave word with your secretary, I'll collect them when I drop by the office again."

"When's that likely to be?"

"After I've seen how our artist is doing. Say about half an hour from now."

Mace let himself out of the flat, went downstairs and called on Mrs. Hayden, who promptly invited him in for a cup of coffee and steered him into the living room before he could have second thoughts.

The artist was doing very nicely, thank you. He was sprawled in one of the easy chairs eating a large slice of Dundee cake while playing nursemaid to good old friendly Hector curled up on his lap. The finished impression of Pittis was lying on the occasional table. It portrayed him as an amiable, round-faced man with a half-smile on his lips which suggested he was rather pleased with himself. Glancing at each of them in turn, Mace wasn't sure who looked the most smug, the artist, Pittis or good old Hector purring like a motor bike with a hole in its silencer.

"Herr Otto Prole?"

Patterson nodded, removed his narrow-brimmed trilby hat and smiled at the Immigration officer, as he looked up from the passport to gaze at him thoughtfully while the Special Branch officer, seated at a desk in rear, went through his list to see if they had anything on a Herr Otto Prole. Familiar with the routine, Patterson didn't allow the careful scrutiny to rattle him. Neither man had been on duty in the Terminal Building on Thursday when he'd left for Paris by Air France, but even if they had, they would never have recognized him now. His appearance had undergone a radical change: contact lenses that changed the color of his eyes to blue, hair dyed a pepperish tone, thicker eyebrows, a facial blemish in the form of a reddish-brown birthmark and heavy clear-glass spectacles which made him look slightly myopic.