A Conflict of Interests (21 page)

Her reaction didn't surprise him. He and Viktor might have shaken hands on the deal, but from previous experience, he'd known there was a distinct possibility Moscow would decline to honor their verbal agreement.

"Three hundred and fifty thousand dollars," he said. "That's the bottom line, take it or leave it."

"You're in no position to dictate terms," Denise told him curtly.

"Yeah? I can't believe you're that naive, Denise." Patterson placed the briefcase on the floor, opened both locks and placed the cassette inside. Then, removing the five assorted lengths of clothesline, he stuffed them into his pocket and straightened up. "I can sell the cassettes one at a time to other parties. Naturally, it'll take a while longer, but there won't be a shortage of buyers. The Italian, French, German and U.S. intelligence agencies will be only too anxious to acquire a slice of the material on offer. Be sure you pass the good word on to your friends."

"I think you'll find they will receive the news with equanimity," she said primly.

"I'm not interested in your opinion. Viktor's associates have until eleven o'clock tomorrow morning. When I phone you then, I want a straight yes or no. Any hedging and the deal's off." Patterson drew the revolver from the hip holster and laid the barrel against the right side of her head just forward of the temple. "I don't intend to hurt you," he said quietly, "but if you scream or try to resist, I'll hammer the butt into your skull. You get the message?"

"Yes." She swallowed nervously and repeated the assurance although her voice refused to rise above a whisper.

Patterson said, "I'm glad we understand one another. Now lean forward and clasp both hands behind you."

Second thoughts killed the question which had begun to form on her lips, and with an involuntary shudder, Denise Rousell leaned forward and crossed her hands behind. Patterson holstered the revolver, lashed her arms at the wrists and elbows, then made her lie down on the floor, where he proceeded to truss her legs around the ankles and above the knees. As a final touch, he used the remaining length of clothesline to draw her ankles up to her elbows until she was arched in a bow.

"You may suffer some discomfort," he told her, "but it won't be for long. Your friends from Kensington Gardens will release you when they arrive at seven-thirty. You see, I'm wise to you. Why should the KGB part with good money for something they can get for nothing? With their technical resources, they can get all the stills they need from this one tape. How, when or where they intend to grab it is immaterial. The important thing is that you've seen the license number of my car and I need a head start."

"You're mad."

"No," Patterson said, "just careful."

He took a handkerchief, folded it diagonally and gagged her, knotting the ends tight to force her mouth open as though she were yawning. Then, having locked the briefcase, he picked it up and walked out of the room. He opened the front door and put the catch down to prevent the lock from reengaging when he closed it behind him. Although the door now appeared to be firmly shut, he knew it would swing back on its hinges at the slightest touch.

Satisfied he hadn't overlooked anything, Patterson got into the Ford Fiesta and drove back to his flat. The route he took was not the shortest distance between two points, and throughout the hour-long journey, he kept one eye focused on the rearview mirror. Although it soon became apparent that he was not being followed, Patterson did not relax his guard until he turned into Linsdale Gardens.

15.

The footsteps in the corridor were brisk and purposeful, the heels striking the floor with the distinct military precision Caroline Brooke had come to associate with Vaudrey. The rhythm was also a rough guide to his mood. A slow, measured tread was usually a sign that he was either deep in thought or worried about something, while a normal, infantry marching pace was indicative of anger or elation. When he walked into her office moments later, the half-smile on his mouth told her it was the latter.

"Morning, Caroline," he said cheerfully. "Have you heard the news about Coghill?"

"What news?"

"He's been suspended." Vaudrey strolled over to the window and stood there gazing out into space, both hands thrust deep into the jacket pockets of his blue pinstripe. "A man called Nicholls, one of the former porn kings of Soho, has made a statement alleging that Coghill was on his payroll when he was a detective constable with the Obscene Publications Squad."

"That's a long time ago." Her voice was neutral, but the doubt showed in the way she shook her head, a gesture which was lost on Vaudrey who was still facing the window. "Was Coghill the only police officer he accused?" she asked diffidently.

"No. As a matter of fact, three of his former colleagues have also been suspended. Their names didn't mean anything to me, but I understand two of them were previously questioned by officers from the provincial forces drafted in for Operation Countryman. They were given a clean bill of health on that occasion and it's possible there's no substance to these latest allegations either."

"Where did you hear that, Nicholas? On the grapevine?"

"One has one's friends and acquaintances," Vaudrey said enigmatically.

It was a masterly understatement. Vaudrey's contacts were legion and embraced every government department in Whitehall. These contacts, which he had cultivated assiduously over the years, enabled him to keep a finger on the public pulse without going through the usual channels. Although Vaudrey maintained that he'd never abused this unofficial "old boy" network, Caroline Brooke could recall any number of instances in the past when it was obvious that a word in the right ear had ultimately produced the information he'd wanted.

"Do we have any idea how long the investigation of these police officers will take?" she inquired.

"It's difficult to say." Vaudrey shrugged, then turned about to face her. "In some cases there is circumstantial evidence to support the accusations of bribery and corruption; in others, we only have Nicholls' word for it."

"So where does Coghill stand?"

"Oh, he has a lot of very awkward questions to answer."

"I find that hard to believe."

"Really?" Vaudrey raised his eyebrows. "I didn't realize you knew him, Caroline."

"I don't."

"Then I fail to see how you can be so positive he's innocent. I trust you've not allowed yourself to be unduly impressed by the photographs you've seen of him in the newspapers. I admit he has a strong, rugged-looking face and I can appreciate that a lot of women would find him attractive, but it's irrational to judge a man's character by his appearance."

The acid reproof touched a new nerve, especially as she had to concede that there was more than a grain of truth in Vaudrey's observation. Instinct, however, was not the only reason why she was convinced the allegations were false. A highflyer, ambitious, intelligent and a potential source of trouble; that had been her assessment of Coghill, but Nicholas had repeated it word for word and with considerable vehemence. The fact that a few days later he had seemed completely indifferent when she'd told him Coghill had tried to get in touch with Jeremy Ashforth had been merely a pose. Knowing the way Vaudrey operated, she was convinced more than ever now that he had anticipated the event and had already set the wheels in motion to deal with the threat.

"His suspension is just a little too convenient, Nicholas," she said tartly. "We've gone out of our way to protect the VIPs Karen Whitfield was blackmailing; then Coghill decides to step out of line and within a matter of hours of our knowing this, he's under investigation."

"A purely fortuitous coincidence." Vaudrey smiled. "And it's not the only bit of luck we've had. If Cadbury had been really on the ball, we could have been faced with some very embarrassing publicity."

"Cadbury? Who's he?"

"The detective superintendent from S District."

"His name is Rowntree," Caroline told him.

"I knew it was some brand of chocolate." Vaudrey perched himself on the radiator, left foot firmly planted on the floor to retain his balance, the other swinging idly like a pendulum. "Leese had an answering machine connected to his telephone," he continued. "Anyone who rang the flat while he was out was advised to try 01–813–2693. Fortunately for us, Tucker got hold of the tape and decided Special Branch were the people to check it out. The phone number led them to a studio in the Edgware Road near Marble Arch. It appears Leese operated behind a legitimate business front — wedding photographs, minor fashion shows, formal portraits and the like — but the real profit came from his involvement with hardcore pornography. The contents of his filing cabinet in the office upstairs showed he had produced and directed several blue films in collaboration with a Dutch entrepreneur, which would explain what he was doing in Amsterdam last week. Special Branch also found a photocopy of an IOU made out to Karen Whitfield for eight thousand pounds and dated the third of March 1971."

"The address book." Caroline snapped her fingers. "Leese must be one of the six men I couldn't identify. There were only two symbols against the entry, a canvas mounted on an easel and a little girl. No payments had been made to reduce the original debt and I assumed the client was an up-and-coming portrait artist whom Karen Whitfield saw as a long-term investment."

"He was all of that," Vaudrey said dryly. "And I fancy he did more than photograph the little girl. That was her hold over him, the reason why he became her accomplice. Can you imagine the salacious articles the press would have run had they discovered that Karen Whitfield had been leading a double life?"

"Is it likely they would have done so?"

"You're being naive again," Vaudrey said. "There isn't a police station in the Metropolitan area that doesn't have a tipster on some reporter's expense account."

"And as you've said before, we don't want any adverse publicity."

"It wouldn't be in the public interest. But there's more to it than that."

"You amaze me, Nicholas."

"Sarcasm doesn't become you," Vaudrey told her. "You know damn well this department can't function properly if it's in the limelight. However, rest assured there'll be no coverup. Any former client of Karen Whitfield who's in a sensitive government post will be removed and sent elsewhere, but it has to be done discreetly and with the minimum of fuss."

"There are thirty-six entries in that address book, Nicholas. We've managed to put a name to thirty-one of them and of that total, you're proposing to deal with rather less than half. What happens to the others, the Jeremy Ashforths?"

"Let's wait and see. You never know, they might be useful to us one day." Vaudrey left his perch on the radiator, walked over to the door and then suddenly turned about as though he'd just remembered why he had dropped into her office. "Oh, by the way," he added, "you'd better get to work on the Libyan scenario. We may well need it any day now."

Caroline stared at him, round-eyed, her mouth half open.

"What Libyan scenario?" she asked in a small voice.

"The one we'll put to Raschid al Jalud. He doesn't know it yet, but he's about to bait a trap for Patterson. Naturally, he'll deny all knowledge of the man, but we'll hit him with a surveillance report, the one where our people observed him with Patterson in Northumberland Avenue. We'll also quote the registration number of the Datsun and then disclose everything we know about his association with Karen Whitfield." He glanced at his wrist-watch and looked up smiling. "I'd like you to knock out a draft on those lines. Make it top priority and give me a buzz as soon as it's ready."

"You'll have the draft before noon."

"Good girl." Vaudrey flashed her another smile, then wheeled out of the office before she had a chance to ask him just who was going to approach Raschid al Jalud.

Mace left the Underground station at Blackfriars and walked toward Upper Thames Street, his shoulders slumped, a hangdog expression on his face. Nothing had gone right for him from the moment the black police constable had booked him for drinking and driving late yesterday afternoon, and the way things were going this morning, it looked as though his run of bad luck was destined to continue for the foreseeable future.

The Borough of Southwark was one of his former stamping grounds and the desk sergeant was an old acquaintance, but despite their long-standing friendship, there wasn't much he'd been able to do for him. The breathalyzer and blood tests had proved Mace was over the limit, and the chief inspector in charge of the local police station was a very progressive type who was determined to back his constable in the interests of race relations or some such crap.

"Sorry, Harry," the desk sergeant had told him, "but that's the way it is. My guv'nor refuses to turn a blind eye and the best I can do for you is sit on the paperwork for a couple of days."

Although it was only a brief stay of execution, Mace had immediately taken him up on the offer in the faint hope that within the next forty-eight hours he might somehow redress the balance by running Pittis to ground. Truth was, a part of him had known all along that he was being stupid, but it had taken a restless night to make him see he was only compounding the offense. Over breakfast, he'd rehearsed how he would break the news to Coghill, only for his resolution to founder ignominiously the instant he learned the younger man had been suspended. In the circumstances, he should have telephoned Kingman to inform him of the impending charge, but knowing the superintendent thought him next to useless, he lacked the courage to do that.

All he could do now was to pursue the line of inquiry Coghill had suggested yesterday and so far he'd made a real hash of it. Precious time had been wasted because he'd assumed Pittis was a creature of habit who would have moved from one expensive flat to an equally expensive address elsewhere. Consequently, Mace had begun his inquiries with the Flatlands agency in Victoria, where of course he'd drawn a complete blank. He wondered if his visit to the City Bureau would prove equally negative.