Simon Tolkien - Orders from Berlin

‘You? No, of course not. Just tell Alec I need to see him urgently. You can do that much, can’t you?’

Seaforth nodded, amused by the old man’s rudeness. There was nothing more to say, so he walked away round the corner and watched Albert jumping anxiously from one foot to another at the bus stop, until he finally gave up and went into the Tube station, where Seaforth followed him down onto the westbound Circle Line platform. In retrospect, Seaforth realized that much the best solution would have been to push Albert under the train when it came in or, better still, to throw him in the river when he stopped on Chelsea Bridge on his way home and stood gazing down into the water, lost in some kind of old man’s daydream. That would have saved a lot of trouble, but Seaforth had wanted to find out what Albert knew, so he’d followed him back to Battersea and forced him up the stairs of his apartment building at gunpoint. It was against the law to carry a concealed weapon, but it was a law that Seaforth broke every day. He had no intention of being taken alive if Thorn and his friends ever caught up with him.

‘You! All the time it was you!’ Seaforth remembered how Albert had seemed more interested in his discovery of Seaforth’s treachery than frightened of what Seaforth was going to do to him. He was courageous — Seaforth would at least say that for the old fool.

‘Yes, me. Sorry to disappoint you. And now I’m going to need you to tell me everything you know about that radio message,’ Seaforth said politely as he released the safety catch on his gun.

‘What radio message?’

‘You know what I’m talking about. Thorn brought it here, didn’t he — earlier today, to ask your opinion about what it meant? Come on, there’s no point in denying it.’

But Albert hadn’t tried to. He went quiet instead, refusing to answer any of Seaforth’s questions, watching mutely but intently while Seaforth threatened him with the gun and started to lose his temper, sweeping the papers off the desk onto the floor in angry frustration. And then suddenly, without warning, he made a run for it, dashing out through the door and slamming it shut behind him.

He’d been surprisingly quick on his feet and had got as far as the outside landing before Seaforth caught up with him and started hurting him properly, pulling his arm behind his back and pushing him up against the iron balustrade. But still he refused to talk, preferring to fight, until he finally went tumbling over the barrier and fell head over heels to his death with an unholy scream. He hit the ground right at the feet of his daughter, whom Seaforth could dimly see below, looking up at him out of the shadows at the foot of the staircase.

It had been a mess, which could so easily have turned into a total disaster. But instead Seaforth’s luck had held. There hadn’t been enough light on the landing for Ava to get a good look at him, and two days later he just happened to be the ranking officer on duty at HQ when Quaid, the police inspector in charge of the murder case, rang up to ask about the dead man’s connection to 59 Broadway.

‘Do you know an Albert Morrison?’ the inspector asked after introducing himself. ‘He’s the subject of a murder inquiry I’m conducting.’

‘Yes, he used to work here,’ Seaforth admitted. He had no choice not to. ‘But he retired several years ago,’ he added quickly.

‘We’ve found out that he took a taxi from his flat in Battersea over to St James’s Park on the day of his death. It seems reasonable to assume he was coming to visit your office.’

‘I don’t know anything about that.’

‘Yes, my assistant, Detective Trave, was at your office yesterday and was told that there was no record of any visit. I’m just following up to see if you can shed any light on why Mr Morrison should have gone there. That’s all.’

‘I’m afraid not,’ Seaforth said. And that might have been the end of the conversation, except that there was something in the inspector’s tone that Seaforth had picked up on — a sense that Quaid was just going through the motions, almost as if he were looking for a way to cross 59 Broadway off his list of leads.

‘Can I speak to you confidentially?’ Seaforth asked, testing the waters.

‘Yes, of course.’

‘Thank you. Well, it may help you to know that this office is a top-secret department of the War Office, and I think that I can speak on behalf of the Minister when I say that we would appreciate anything you can do to keep us out of your inquiry, unless it’s absolutely necessary, of course. You obviously have experience in these matters, and I’m sure I can count on your discretion.’

‘You can rely on me,’ Quaid said enthusiastically, responding immediately to the appeal to his vanity. ‘Between ourselves, I already have a prime suspect — the victim’s son-in-law. He had the motive and the opportunity, and he’s a bad penny if ever I’ve seen one. I don’t see this as being one of our more difficult cases, to be honest with you.’

Quaid had been on his side from that moment on. His over-zealous young assistant, Detective Trave, had continued to be a nuisance, following Seaforth to his meeting with Ava at the Lyons Corner House, but even that had turned out be a lucky break. Seaforth had rung up Quaid to complain, and it was during that conversation that the inspector had mentioned the cuff link the police had found outside Albert’s flat, the one Seaforth had lost in the struggle. And the information had come just in time for Seaforth to bring its twin over to Battersea today and plant it in Bertram’s desk, ready for Ava to find.

Trave had tried to follow him today too, but it had been child’s play to give him the slip, and he’d decided not to complain again to Quaid. As far as he was aware, he had done nothing to inspire Trave’s dogged pursuit, and he hoped that lying low would put an end to Trave’s interest in him. Quaid would certainly not want more time wasted on a case that had already been solved.

All that remained now was to watch the final act of the drama that he’d set in motion. Seaforth looked to his right and saw the dapper, rotund figure of Bertram Brive coming into view. There was a jauntiness in his step that made Seaforth think Bertram had got what he wanted down at the Probate Office. It was strange to watch him strutting up the road, blissfully ignorant of the fate that awaited him, moments away, inside his flat. He stopped in front of his building, took out his key, and opened the door. And two minutes later came back out in handcuffs.

Trave sat in the office he shared with Quaid at Scotland Yard and waited for the inspector to return, expecting the worst. Now that it was too late, he bitterly regretted going back to Broadway again. He’d been a fool to think he could track Seaforth without being seen. The man had eyes in the back of his head.

Trave had been careful this time, remembering the lessons he’d learnt at the police training school and trying not to repeat the mistakes he’d made the day before. From the moment he’d followed Seaforth into the Underground station, he’d kept himself at maximum distance from his target, staying close to other travellers and waiting patiently at the top of each set of escalators and at the turning of every passage until Seaforth had disappeared from view, and only then hurrying forward until he had caught sight of him again. And there had been no sign that Seaforth knew he was being followed. He’d walked at a brisk pace, turning left and right without a backward glance until he’d finally come to a halt halfway down the westbound platform and stood waiting for the train, examining a government information poster on the opposite wall with apparent rapt attention.