Brian Freemantle: Madrigal for Charlie Muffin

‘I don’t suppose you’d let me have a razor?’

‘Don’t be bloody stupid,’ said Jackson.

They formed up as before and marched back to the cell. The table and the recording equipment were still in place. The hope came quickly: they were checking what he’d said. The brief excursion made him aware of how cramped he was so he didn’t squat again on the cot but kept pacing the small room. He thought back to the meeting with Willoughby in the office and then at dinner and then the visits to Ostia, willing himself to recall the conversations. There’d been unease, he remembered: and stupidly he’d dismissed it. But unease about what? A car that might have been following? No, more than that. A feeling that somebody had said or done something which was inconsistent. But what, among so much? It was like trying to climb out of a sandhole, constantly pulling the sides back in upon himself.

Charlie had to bunch his toes to prevent his scuffed old suedes sliding off and soon his feet began to ache, so he went back to the cot. The room beyond was completely silent. Once he stood, putting his ear to the door and then, without purpose, pushed at it. The door moved, slightly, against the bolts. He did it again more forcefully and waited. There was no reaction from outside.

Charlie jerked away, when the door suddenly opened. There was a man with a tray, and behind him was Henry Jackson. ‘ I’d like to kick the shit out of you.’ He’d get the chance, Charlie knew.

There was cold sausage, bread and more coffee. Because there was a knife and fork on the tray, the door was left open and Jackson remained inside. Charlie picked at the food, the nausea thick at the back of his throat.

‘Missing the caviar and vodka?’

‘Never touch the stuff.’

‘You won’t again.’

Charlie removed a piece of gristle from his mouth and examined it before sticking it on the side of his plate. He splayed his knife and fork and took up the coffee cup. ‘Been in the department long?’

‘Five years.’

‘What’s Wilson like?’

‘The best damned director there is.’

‘Reminds me of someone I once knew,’ said Charlie.

‘He got you,’ said Jackson. ‘And we knew all about Walsingham.’

Carefully Charlie replaced the coffee cup and took up the knife and fork. ‘How?’

‘The trap, of course. And we found out about the Communist party links in Australia.’

Charlie broke the stale bread into pieces. What did he have? A leak, which they believed they’d found. With a trap. And some Communist affiliation. And Walsingham, whom he knew wasn’t the man. Plus his own curious involvement. It was like trying to make up a four-thousand-piece jigsaw that included a lot of sky and with no cover picture for a guide.

‘Why wasn’t Walsingham arrested?’

‘We weren’t ready,’ said Jackson uncomfortably.

‘And then you buggered it up,’ said Charlie.

Jackson shook his head. ‘You’re the important one. And you know what I’d like to do?’

‘Yes,’ said Charlie. ‘You already told me.’

Willoughby’s habitual stoop was more marked and the suit looked creased and over-worn. His hand strayed in the familiar sweeping gesture towards his hair.

‘What the hell’s going on?’ he said.

Wilson gestured for the tape to be activated and said, ‘You are Rupert Willoughby?’

‘Who are you?’

‘Sir Alistair Wilson, the director of intelligence. My colleague here is with the government.’

Willoughby glanced at Charlie. ‘What’s he supposed to have done?’

‘Do you know him?’ asked Wilson.

‘Of course I do.’

‘Were you aware he was an agent of the Soviet Union?’

For a long time Willoughby didn’t speak. At last he said, ‘That’s ridiculous: he worked for my father.’

‘We’re aware of his history,’ said Wilson heavily. ‘All of it.’

‘I want a lawyer,’ said Willoughby. ‘My home was forcibly entered. I’ve been brought here without explanation. I’m saying no more until I’m allowed access to a lawyer.’

‘You’ll get one when we decide,’ said Wilson.

‘I want someone in higher authority.’

‘We’re the only authority here,’ said Naire-Hamilton.

Charlie looked sadly at the underwriter: Willoughby was bent as if he were supporting a weight too heavy for him. Then he remembered the man in the grey suit. Charlie didn’t feel any rancour. Willoughby had been more than justified in putting an inquiry agent onto him.

‘At no time did Rupert Willoughby know what I had done,’ Charlie interrupted. ‘He knew I’d left the department, but not what die circumstances were. He’s not guilty of any offence.’

‘That’s for us to decide,’ said Naire-Hamilton.

‘He thought my training might help with something his firm was finding difficult, that’s all,’ insisted Charlie.

Impatiently Wilson turned from Charlie back to Willoughby and said, ‘Did you have any contact with this man in the summer of last year?’

‘I do not know anything about the sort of activities you’re suggesting,’ said Willoughby.

‘Did you have any contact in the summer of last year?’ persisted Wilson.

‘Yes.’

‘When?’

‘Around June, I suppose.’

‘We’re not interested in what you suppose,’ said Wilson. ‘When?’

‘June,’ said the underwriter.

‘What date in June?’

‘There was an exhibition of stamps, first in New York and then in Florida,’ said Willoughby distantly. ‘We covered them and I wanted some reassurance of protection. It would have been early in the month.’

‘How early?’ said Wilson.

‘5 or 6 June,’ said Willoughby. ‘No,’ he corrected, in sudden recollection. ‘I’m sure it was the 7th. Definitely 7 June.’

‘What precisely was 7 June?’

‘The exhibition in New York.’

‘And he was there?’

‘Yes.’

‘When did he return?’

‘It ended on 9 July. He came back to London the following day.’

‘Where were you?’

‘Me? I don’t understand.’

‘New York or London?’

‘London, of course.’

‘So you don’t know where he was in America?’

‘New York, I’ve told you. And then Palm Beach.’

‘What proof is there?’

‘We spoke by telephone.’

‘Every day?’

‘Of course not every day: there wasn’t the need. There must be hotel records.’

‘Hotel records are of registration, not occupation,’ said Wilson. ‘You don’t know whether he went down to Washington?’

‘What would he do that for?’

‘Answer the question.’

‘I’ve no idea.’

‘Did you speak to him by telephone on 10 June?’

‘I can’t remember as specifically as that.’

‘Don’t you keep a telephone log?’

‘No.’

‘This is pointless,’ broke in Naire-Hamilton, ‘as I always knew it would be. All we’ve got is confirmation of the meeting, which we hardly needed anyway.’

When the moment came Charlie held back, reluctant to speak. Not a murderer, he thought. Or a Soviet agent. And, from the conversation with Jackson, he knew there was one and that he was still undetected.

‘I gave you another name,’ he said to Wilson.

Clarissa Willoughby must have been brought direct from the yacht. She was wearing jeans, espadrilles and a sweater, and came through the door with an uncertain smile on her face, as if she suspected herself the victim of some elaborate practical joke. And then she saw her husband and Charlie, awkwardly holding up his trousers.

She looked to the intelligence director, who was obviously in charge, and said, ‘What’s going on? Who are you?’

‘British security,’ said Wilson, irritated at the constant need for identification.