But it was the truth: the giant concrete caissons, backbone of the entire project, were perilously behind schedule. There were so many problems it might have been funny if the stakes weren't so high. There were critical shortages of concrete and critical shortages of steel for reinforcement rods. There were too few construction sites and no room in Britain's south coast harbors to moor finished units. There were shortages of skilled workers, and the workers they had on the job were weak and malnourished because there were critical shortages of food.
It was a disaster. Without the caissons acting as a breakwater, the entire Mulberry project was unworkable. They needed someone to go to the construction sites first thing in the morning to make a realistic assessment of whether the Phoenixes could be completed on time, someone who had overseen large projects and knew how to make design modifications in the field once construction was under way.
They chose the former chief engineer of the Northeast Bridge Company, Commander Peter Jordan.
35
LONDON
The Hyde Park shooting made the first editions of the London evening papers. All the papers printed quotes from the bogus police statement. Investigators were treating the murder as a robbery that went wrong; police were searching for two men thought to be Eastern European in origin--very probably Polish--seen near the site of the murder shortly before it occurred. Harry even had invented two rather vague descriptions of the suspects. The newspapers all bemoaned the shocking rise in violent street crime in the West End that had come with the war. The stories contained accounts of men and women who had been beaten and robbed in recent months by bands of roving refugees, drunken soldiers, and deserters.
Vicary felt a tinge of guilt as he leafed through the newspapers at his desk early that afternoon. He believed in the sanctity of the written word and felt bad about misleading the press and the public. His guilt was easily assuaged. It was impossible to tell the truth--that Rose Morely might very well have been murdered by a German spy.
By midafternoon Harry Dalton and a team of officers from the Metropolitan Police had pieced together the final hours of Rose Morely's life. Harry was in Vicary's office, his long legs propped up on the desk, so that Vicary was treated to a view of his worn soles.
"We interviewed the maid at the home of Commander Higgins," Harry said. "She said Rose had gone out to do her shopping. She went most afternoons before the children arrived home from school. The receipt we found in her bag was from a shop in Oxford Street near Tottenham Court Road. We interviewed the shopkeeper. He remembered her. In fact he remembered almost every item she purchased. He said she bumped into another woman that she knew, a domestic like herself. They took tea together at a cafe across the street. We spoke to the waitress there. She confirmed it."
Vicary was listening intently, studying his hands.
"The waitress says Rose crossed Oxford Street and queued for a westbound bus. I put a man on as many buses as I could. About a half hour ago we found the ticket collector who was on Rose's bus. He remembered her very well. Said she had a brief conversation with a very tall, very attractive woman who jumped off the bus in quite a hurry. Said that when the bus arrived at Marble Arch, the same very tall, very attractive woman was waiting there. He said he would have called us on his own, but the papers said the police already had their suspects and neither one was a very tall, very attractive woman."
A typist poked her head in the door and said, "Sorry to interrupt but you have a call, Harry. A Detective-Sergeant Colin Meadows. Says it's urgent."
Harry took the call at his desk.
"You the same Harry Dalton that cracked the Spencer Thomas case?"
"I'm the man," Harry said. "What can I do for you?"
"It's concerning the Hyde Park shooting. I think I have something for you."
"Spill it, Detective-Sergeant. We're under a bit of time pressure over here."
"I hear the real suspect is a woman," Meadows said. "Tall, attractive, thirty to thirty-five years old."
"Could be. What do you know?"
"I've been working the Pope murder."
"I read about it," Harry said. "I can't believe someone had the balls to slit the throats of Vernon Pope and his girl."
"Actually, Pope was stabbed in the eye."
"Really!"
"Yeah," Meadows said. "And his girlfriend got it in the heart. One stab wound--surgical, almost."
Harry remembered what the Home Office pathologist had said about the body of Beatrice Pymm. The last rib on her left side had been nicked. Possible stab wound to the chest.
Harry said, "But the papers--"
"You can't trust what you read in the papers, can you, Harry? We changed the descriptions of the wounds to weed out the crazies. You'd be surprised how many people want to take credit for killing Vernon Pope."
"Not really. He was a right bastard. Keep going."
"A woman matching your girl's description was seen entering the Popes' warehouse the night Pope was killed. I have two witnesses."
"Jesus Christ!"
"It gets better. Immediately after the murder, Robert Pope and one of his muscle boys broke into a boardinghouse in Islington looking for a woman. It seems they had the wrong address. Took off like a pair of jackrabbits. But not before they roughed up the landlady."
"Why am I hearing this only now?" Harry snapped. "Pope was killed nearly two weeks ago!"
"Because my super thinks I'm on a wild-goose chase. He's convinced Pope was killed by a rival. He doesn't want us to waste time pursuing
alternative theories,
as he puts it."
"Who's the super?"
"Kidlington."
"Oh, Christ! Saint Andrew?"
"One and the same. There's one other thing. I questioned Robert Pope once last week. I want to question him again but he's gone to ground. We haven't been able to locate him."
"Is Kidlington there now?"
"I can see him sitting in his office doing his bloody paperwork."
"Keep watching. I think you'll enjoy this."
Harry nearly killed himself sprinting from his desk into Vicary's office. He told it very quickly, running over the details so fast that Vicary twice had to ask him to stop and go back to the beginning. When he was finished, Harry dialed the number for him and handed Vicary the receiver.
"Hello, Detective Chief Superintendent Kidlington? This is Alfred Vicary calling from the War Office. . . . I'm fine, thank you. But I'm afraid I need your rather serious help. It's about the Pope murder. I'm declaring it a security matter as of now. A man from my staff will come to your office right away. His name is Harry Dalton. You may remember him. . . . You do? Good. I'd like a complete copy of the entire case file. . . . Why? I'm afraid I can't say any more, Superintendent. Thank you for your cooperation. Good afternoon."
Vicary rang off. He slammed the palm of his hand onto the desk and looked up at Harry, smiling for the first time in weeks.
Catherine Blake packed her handbag for the evening: her stiletto, her Mauser pistol, her camera. She was meeting Jordan for dinner. She assumed they would go back to his house together afterward to make love; they always did. She made tea and read the afternoon newspapers. The murder of Rose Morely in Hyde Park was the big news of the day. The police believed the murder was a robbery that spun out of control and ended in murder. They even had a pair of suspects. Just as she thought. It was perfect. She undressed and took a long bath. She was toweling her wet hair when the telephone rang. Only one person in all of Britain knew her number--Peter Jordan. Catherine pretended to be surprised when she heard his voice at the other end of the line.
"I'm afraid I'm going to have to cancel dinner. I apologize, Catherine. It's just that something very important has come up."
"I understand."
"I'm still at the office. I need to stay here very late tonight."
"Peter, you're not obliged to give me an explanation."
"I know, but I want to. I have to leave London very early tomorrow morning, and I have a lot of work to do before then."
"I'm not going to pretend I'm not disappointed. I was looking forward to being with you tonight. I haven't seen you for two days."
"It seems like a month. I wanted to see you too."
"Is it completely out of the question?"
"I'm not going to be home until at least eleven o'clock."
"That's fine."
"And I have a car picking me up at my house at five in the morning."
"That's fine too."
"But, Catherine--"
"Here's my suggestion. I'll meet you in front of your house at eleven. I'll make us something to eat. You can relax and get ready for your trip."
"I need to get some sleep."
"I'll let you sleep, I promise."
"We haven't been sleeping much lately."
"I'll do my best to restrain myself."
"I'll see you at eleven."
"Wonderful."
The red light shone over Boothby's double door for a very long time. Vicary reached out to press the buzzer a second time--a flagrant violation of one of Boothby's edicts--but stopped himself. From the other side of the heavy doors he heard two voices elevated in argument, one distinctly female, the other Boothby's.
You can't do this to me!
It was the woman's voice, suddenly loud and slightly hysterical. Boothby's voice grew calmer in response, a parent quietly lecturing an errant child. Vicary, feeling like an idiot, leaned his ear against the seam in the doors.
Bastard! Bloody bastard!
It was the woman again. Then the sound of a door slamming. The light suddenly shone green. Vicary ignored it. Sir Basil's office had a private entrance, used only by the lord and master himself and by the director-general. It was not all that private; if Vicary waited long enough, the woman would turn the corner and he could get a look at her. He heard the sound of her high-heeled shoes, smacking angrily against the corridor floor. She turned the corner. It was Grace Clarendon. She stopped walking and narrowed her vivid green eyes at Vicary in disgust. A tear tumbled down her cheek. She punched it away, then disappeared down the hallway.
The office was dark except for the single lamp burning on Boothby's desk. The room reeked of the cigarette smoldering untouched at Boothby's elbow. Boothby was working through a file in his braces and his shirtsleeves. Without looking up, he commanded Vicary to sit by jabbing his gold pen at one of the chairs in front of the desk. "I'm listening," he said.
Vicary brought him quickly up-to-date. He told Boothby about the results of the daylong investigation into the murder of Rose Morely. He told him about the possible link between the German agent and the murder of Vernon Pope. He explained that finding Robert Pope and questioning him was imperative. He requested every available man to assist in the search for Pope. Boothby maintained a stoic silence throughout Vicary's briefing. His habitual fidgeting and pacing had been suspended, and he seemed to be listening more intently than usual.
"Well," Boothby said. "This is the first piece of good news we've had when it comes to this case. I do hope for your sake that you're right about the connection between these killings."
He began making noises about the importance of patience and legwork. Vicary was thinking of Grace Clarendon. He was tempted to ask Boothby why she had just been in his office but couldn't bear the thought of another lecture about
need to know
. Vicary felt terrible about it. He had miscalculated. He had put Grace's head on the block for the sake of scoring a useless point in a lost argument, and Boothby had chopped it off. He wondered if she had been sacked or had escaped with only a stern warning. She was a valuable member of the staff, intelligent and dedicated. He hoped Boothby had spared her.
Boothby said, "I'll telephone the head of the watchers straightaway, order him to give you as many men as he can possibly spare."
"Thank you, Sir Basil," Vicary said, standing up to leave.
"I know we've had our differences over this case, Alfred, and I
do
hope you're right about all this." Boothby hesitated. "I spoke with the director-general a few minutes ago."
"Oh?" Vicary said.
"He's given you the proverbial twenty-four hours. If all this doesn't produce a break I'm afraid you're going to be removed from the case."
When Vicary was gone, Boothby reached across his desk and picked up the receiver of his secure telephone. He dialed the number and waited for the answer.
As usual the man at the other end of the line did not identify himself, just said, "Yes?"
Boothby did not identify himself either. "It seems our friend is closing in on his prey," Boothby said. "The second act is about to begin."
The man at the other end of the line murmured a few words, then broke the connection.