A Conflict of Interests (20 page)

Half an hour later, Patterson drove out of Linsdale Gardens and headed north across the river toward Woodford. The smart executive briefcase resting on the seat beside him contained the sample tape and five assorted lengths of clothesline he'd purchased that morning. Beneath the slightly flared jacket he was wearing, the . 22 caliber revolver rode comfortably on his left hip in a black leather holster.

The note Coghill found pinned to the blotting pad on his desk was brief, curt and singularly uninformative. It read: "Before you do anything else, report to me." Angry with Kingman and baffled to know why Bert should have written to him in such a vein, Coghill waited until his temper cooled, then went next door to find out. The customary friendly greeting was conspicuous by its absence; all he got from Kingman was a long cold stare.

"You wanted to see me?" he said, equally offhand.

"You bet your sweet life I do." Kingman leaned forward, elbows on the desk, shoulders hunched. "As of now, you're suspended from duty."

"I'm what?"

"You're not hard of hearing, Inspector," Kingman said icily. "You're suspended pending the outcome of an investigation into your personal affairs by officers from the Complaints Investigation Bureau."

"Do you mind telling me what I'm supposed to have done?"

"Certainly. You've been on the take."

"That's balls and you know it."

"I'm not so sure." Kingman studied him thoughtfully. "Ever come across a James Nicholls?"

"Nicholls?" Coghill frowned, then snapped his fingers. "Dandy Jim Nicholls, the self-styled crown prince of porn. He owned a chain of dirty bookshops and massage parlors off Soho and was making a packet until he drew a ten stretch for grievous bodily harm in seventy-seven."

"I thought you might remember him. Nicholls claims you were on his payroll when you were a detective constable with the Obscene Publications Squad."

"If you believe that, you've got to be out of your tiny mind."

"Don't get stroppy with me," Kingman growled. "I'm only the fucking middle man. Nicholls has made a statement and the assistant commissioner has decided the bloodhounds should follow it up. And I can't say I blame him; the Obscene Publications Squad wasn't exactly lily-white in your day."

That was putting it mildly, Coghill thought. With very few exceptions, the squad had done very nicely thank you, and he'd been put under a lot of pressure to go along with the others and take his share of the kickback. Twice he'd found an envelope containing £150 in used notes in the top drawer of his desk, and there had been a good deal of consternation when he'd immediately turned the bribe over to his superior officer. One of the detective sergeants had taken him aside and told him he'd better watch his step, and after he'd ignored that friendly piece of advice, every dirty job going had come his way. When this tactic had failed to intimidate him, a couple of muscle men had put him in the hospital for a month with a broken jaw and three cracked ribs. With the benefit of hindsight, Coghill was now inclined to believe that his promotion to detective sergeant and subsequent transfer to Serious Crimes had been their way of getting rid of him.

"My fingers were never sticky," he told Kingman.

"Yeah? Well, some people are beginning to wonder how you managed to afford a flat in South Kensington on a detective constable's pay."

"Janice had a job, too. The building society took her salary into account when they gave us a mortgage on the property."

"Good," said Kingman. "Let's hope she can produce her pay slips."

"After eight years? You've got to be joking."

"The Complaints Investigation Bureau won't think it's a joke. They'll want proof that your wife contributed toward the deposit on the flat and without it, you're in the shit."

"This whole business is beginning to stink," Coghill said angrily. "I think I'm being set up."

"You're what?"

"Muzzled, gagged, neutralized; whichever way you want to put it. Somebody in Whitehall is determined to keep the Whitfield-Leese investigation on a short leash and the word went out that the VIPs in Karen's address book are strictly off limits. Overall responsibility for the dual investigation went to the Regional Crime Squad because the high-priced help knew they could rely on Tucker to keep his nose clean. This morning I tried to get in touch with Jeremy Ashforth; that's why I've been suspended."

"That's a load of rubbish," Kingman snapped.

"Is it? How long has Nicholls been inside? Five years? So why did he wait until now to point a finger at me?"

"You're not the only officer he's named and he didn't suddenly open his mouth. Nicholls has been talking to the CIB ever since he was transferred from Parkhurst back to the Scrubs nine weeks ago."

"Four years ten months is still a long time. What persuaded him to break his vow of silence?"

"Remember Operation Countryman, when our revered commissioner decided to bring in the provincial yokels to purge the Met of corruption? Maybe Nicholls saw how well some of his friends had done out of that little caper and figured he'd better take a leaf out of their book. Anyway, I hear his wife was fed up with traveling to the Isle of Wight on visiting days."

"That was part of the deal, was it? He'd talk to the CIB if we moved him back to London?"

"Something like that," Kingman agreed.

"I see. And when did Nicholls mention my name for the first time? Yesterday? The day before? A fortnight ago? Or right at the beginning?"

"You'll have to ask the bloodhounds from CIB," Kingman said testily.

They were like cat and dog, circling each other, spitting and snarling. Whatever the final outcome, things would never be the same again between them, but Coghill no longer cared.

"That could be a mite embarrassing," he snapped. "I mean, they may have casually asked Nicholls if he'd ever met me and he figured a nod was as good as a wink, used his imagination and told them what they wanted to hear."

"I've already said you weren't the only officer he named."

"Well, Nicholls was coached by experts, wasn't he? My guess is the others were thrown in for good measure to make it look right."

"You know something?" Kingman drawled. "I was going to suggest you have a word with the Police Federation so that they could put you in touch with a hot-shot lawyer. Now I'm beginning to think you should get them to make an appointment for you with a reputable shrink. Meantime, you'd better get off home and introduce yourself to the two officers from Complaints who are probably waiting on your doorstep."

Loyalty was supposed to work both ways, down as well as up, something Kingman conveniently appeared to have forgotten. Coghill doubted if he would get much help out of him, but there was an innocent party who deserved to be protected and it was worth a try.

"About Janice," he said tentatively. "Do we have to drag her into this?"

"I think you'll find they've already interviewed her. Franklin rang me earlier this afternoon to ask if I knew her present address and I said I thought she was still living at seventeen Brent Way in Hendon. I hope my memory wasn't at fault?"

"It wasn't," Coghill said grimly.

He wondered what Janice had said to them, wondered too if she had pulled the rug out from under his feet. There had always been a vindictive streak in her character, and there was a distinct possibility it had surfaced following the bitter row they'd had yesterday after Whitfield had phoned him.

"That's a relief." Kingman rubbed his nose as though it had an itch, then said, "All I need now is your warrant card. Naturally you'll get it back once the CIB are satisfied you're in the clear."

Coghill reached inside his jacket, took out his warrant card and tossed it on to Kingman's desk. "What makes you think I give a fuck one way or the other," he said and then walked out of the office.

Patterson turned into Cherry Tree Road and stopped opposite number 154. Grabbing the executive briefcase from the adjoining seat, he got out of the Ford Fiesta and walked up the narrow front path between two strips of grass that hadn't seen a lawn-mower for several weeks.

The woman who answered the door had iron-gray hair cut short and a squarish masculine face with the down of a moustache clearly visible on the upper lip. About his height and weight, she was wearing a checkered shirt with the sleeves rolled up and a pair of loose-fitting gray slacks covered with dog hairs. The brief flicker of recognition in her eyes confirmed his hunch that Orlov's people had photographed him when he was in Paris.

"Hi, Denise," he said, smiling. "My name's Henry Kingfisher."

"You're early," Denise said, then added, "I wasn't expecting you until seven-thirty."

"I must have misheard you." Patterson moved forward, forcing her to back off down the hall. "Still, now that I'm here we might as well get on with it."

"The kennels stay open until six P.M.."

"It won't be the end of the world if you close a few minutes early for once," Patterson told her calmly.

She hesitated, then with a slight shrug of her shoulders, Denise Rousell turned about and led him into the living room at the back. Like the slacks she was wearing, both armchairs, the sofa and the Axminster carpet needed a good brushing. There was also an unpleasant smell coming from the kitchen next door where several large saucepans of offal were gently simmering on a low gas. In the left-hand corner of the room was an old twenty-one-inch television set, its cabinet scratched, the top marked with circular rings, as though it had been pressed into service as an occasional table. By contrast, the video machine standing next to it looked brand new.

"When did you get that?" he asked.

"The rental people delivered it this morning."

"Yeah? Well, suppose you draw up a chair, make yourself comfortable and we'll see what sort of a picture we get."

"I'm afraid you'll have to wait until I've fed the animals," she said.

"Is that a fact?" Patterson walked over to the window and looked out. Away in the background, a train moved from left to right along the embankment toward the Underground station at Roding Valley, and even though the windows were closed, the rattle of its wheels was clearly audible. As far as he could tell, the noise had no effect on the dogs; in the nearest pen, a Labrador was nose to nose with a Dalmatian bitch in the adjoining cage, while beyond them, a Great Dane lay on its side apparently fast asleep.

"You know something, Denise?" he said. "I think you're trying to snow me. Those dogs out there aren't hungry, and I don't see any kennel maid."

"I expect she's in her room."

"Bullshit. You don't have anybody living with you, Mrs. O. D. Beaumont; I've seen a copy of the electoral roll at the central library."

"You're very thorough," Denise said acidly.

"It's the only way to survive in this business." Patterson opened the briefcase, took out the cassette and loaded it into the video machine. He noticed her handbag lying on the sofa next to a pile of mimeographed newsletters from various kennel clubs and, crossing the room in a few strides, he picked it up and thrust it at her. "You'll need something to write on," he said. "A diary, the back of an old envelope, anything to hand. You're going to see a lot of VIPs in the next few minutes and I want you to make a list of their names."

"I presume you'll tell me just who they are, Mr. Kingfisher?"

"Wrong," said Patterson. "You'll get them from the soundtrack. Not that you'll need any prompting to recognize these men."

"I think you're overestimating my importance in the scheme of things. I was only a humble clerical officer when I retired from the Civil Service."

"The hell you were." Patterson laid a hand on her shoulder and pushed her down into an armchair. "Point one: clerical officers don't end up collecting an OBE. Point two: I know the KGB expects you to put a price on the merchandise, and they're not in the habit of using a nobody to do that kind of job. Point three: you can't stall me forever, so let's cut out the bullshit."

He waited until Denise Rousell had found a pocket notebook in her handbag, then switched on the video machine, picked up the remote control and moved around the armchair to stand behind her. Setting the tape in motion, he brought the picture sharply into focus and held it momentarily on freeze the instant Karen Whitfield unmasked Jeremy Ashforth. He repeated the process with the subsequent clips and was amused to see that Denise Rousell was visibly nauseated by some of the more perverted acts of sexual congress she witnessed on the screen.

"That must have been quite an education for you," he said when the tape finally ended.

"Yes, one I could have done without." She twisted around in the chair to face him, her bottom lip curled. "Furthermore, I don't believe the people I represent will be interested in acquiring these films."

"Try convincing Viktor of that. After seeing Raschid al Jalud in action, he couldn't wait to get in touch with Moscow and London."

"He didn't know how you'd acquired the cassettes."

"I'll tell you this," Patterson said, "it won't bother the people in Dzerzhinsky Square. They're not squeamish like you."

He thought there might be some reluctance to use the material while the heat was on, but three or four months from now, other events would have overtaken the Whitfield affair and, with very few exceptions, nobody would connect the KGB with her murder. The exceptions were the VIPs, but they had their reputations to protect and would keep their mouths shut.

"The asking price is half a million U.S. dollars." Conscious that Denise Rousell was watching his every move, Patterson walked over to the video machine, retrieved the cassette and, collecting his briefcase, returned to his former position behind her. "I'll accept payment in any major currency," he continued. "Yen, guilders, French or Swiss francs, Deutschemarks, but pounds sterling and rubles are out." He placed the palm of his right hand against her jaw and gently forced her head around until she was looking at the screen once more. "The Bank of England has a long arm and the Soviet currency is only good for papering walls."

"You've an inflated opinion of their value, Mr. Kingfisher. I think you'll be lucky to get one-tenth of the asking price."