Icelight Page 3

  Cotton wrote, Derek got out and Ayrtoun wound down his window. He took the paper and handed it to Derek.

  ‘Commit those numbers to memory,’ he said.

  Derek looked somewhere between surprised and nonplussed.

  Ayrtoun looked at his watch. ‘Shit. We’ll give him a minute,’ he said. ‘What were those numbers again?’

  Cotton told him.

  ‘Good,’ said Ayrtoun. ‘One more time perhaps.’

  Cotton shrugged. He repeated his telephone numbers again slowly and clearly.

  ‘All right Derek?’ asked Ayrtoun. ‘Eat the paper, will you? It’s rice paper, man.’

  Derek blinked. Ayrtoun snatched the rice paper out of Derek’s hand and stuffed it into his own mouth.

  ‘You see? It’s not bad at all. Rather sweet.’

  Ayrtoun swallowed and so did Derek.

  ‘You have those numbers in your head?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Say.’

  Derek told him what the numbers were.

  ‘Good.’ Ayrtoun got a ten-shilling note out of his wallet. ‘Go and get something you can to eat, Derek. Isn’t there a Dorothy’s Café here?’

  Derek let out a noise like a rabbit sneezing. ‘And there’s a Palm Court for those who like dancing with fat women!’

  Ayrtoun pretended surprise. ‘Oh no,’ he said, ‘not those awful footguards from Caterham barracks? I am so sorry. Well, how about the cinema back there?’ He looked round. ‘Yes, the Astoria. That’ll be ladies for the matinée and some sort of mixed grill.’

  Derek looked uncomfortable. ‘My mother goes there sometimes,’ he mumbled.

  ‘Then invite her to lunch, man!’ said Ayrtoun. ‘And an ice. Oh, look!’ There was real delight in his tone. ‘I see they have Great Expectations coming on Boxing Day and A Matter of Life and Death after that.’

  Derek looked round at the posters, as if checking those were real titles.

  ‘You will call Mr Cotton next Tuesday morning at 10 a.m. You will arrange a meeting – so you can get to know each other a bit more.’

  ‘All right,’ said Derek.

  ‘No,’ said Ayrtoun. ‘Colonel Cotton will tell you what he wants and you will do everything you possibly can to comply with his orders. Have you got that? It’s your choice. Seven pounds ten a week, Derek, or your face like a bloody fishing net.’

  Derek looked more resentful than impressed, as if he did not need that much insistence.

  ‘Do you understand that, Derek?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And no tales, Derek, no mean tricks on people you dislike, mm? No faffing around. Don’t be lazy. And don’t ever dream of hiding. Driver.’

  3

  THE DRIVER put the car in gear and drove off.

  Ayrtoun sighed. ‘I’m not actually sure whether Derek can read,’ he said, ‘so I make allowances.’ He snorted, for Ayrtoun quite softly. ‘I do know we’re awash with rice paper someone ordered. Do you want some?’

  ‘No, thank you.’

  Ayrtoun laughed. ‘Derek’s rather older than his boyish looks may suggest. He may even be as old as you. He’s utterly terrified of ageing, of course. He started as an apprentice mechanic but acquired a taste for the life some of the car owners had. Soft cheeks, soft cashmere rugs and a hamper in the dickie seat. He was turned down for military service – “character defect”. Then, rather wittily, the police picked him up for trying to be a spiv rather than a rent-boy. Derek can be a very quick learner if he’s desperate. He dug around and shopped one or two bigger wide-boys and then we took him over.’

  The Triumph had continued past Purley Cottage Hospital, a parade of mock-Tudor shops, and then swung right to get on to Purley Way. They were heading back to London. There was a rise in the road. The sky up and ahead, the usual dull grey pall over London, had taken on faint tinges of tobacco brown and some touches of faded sulphur yellow.

  ‘Looks like snow,’ said Ayrtoun.

  Cotton thought it lacked pink.

  ‘You obviously don’t know London,’ said Ayrtoun. ‘Snow almost never lies in London. Too much coal, too many bodies.’

  To the right of Purley Way were rows of light-engineering factories, warehouses and car showrooms and garages. Along on the left was the entrance to the white, half-art deco Croydon Airport and the similarly styled Airport Hotel. They turned in and parked.

  ‘Take my bags in, will you, driver?’ said Ayrtoun.

  The driver got out. Ayrtoun turned towards Cotton.

  ‘I’m sorry you’re on the Tinkerbell detail,’ he said. ‘But the Americans want you. And I agreed. Perhaps not for the same reasons. They think you’re honest and direct.’ Ayrtoun paused. ‘I have the impression they may even think you’re slightly prickly and puritanical – like woollen underwear. They’re quite frantic about traitors, fifth columnists, the enemy within, and they’re particularly frantic we’re not doing much about ours. They’re also brewing up a witch-hunt of their own, an unholy alliance of ambitious demagogues, politicians – you should see some of the crop just elected – unscrupulous newspapers, various evil-minded churches anxious to save their choirboys for themselves and, of course, any number of intelligence agencies.’

  Ayrtoun paused and lit a cigarette. ‘Have you ever seen an American gangster film? They spray bullets, turn cars into a lot of holes with bits of metal round them? Sometimes there’s quite a lot of collateral damage. Shop windows shattering, passers-by going down.’ He shrugged. ‘These days if we riddle a queer instead of a traitor, that’s aim enough for them.’ Ayrtoun stubbed out the cigarette. ‘You should also look at our own warlocks, of course. Did you know how long MI5 and Special Branch have been hunting pansies? Since 1939.’

  Cotton frowned. ‘As part of our war effort?’ he said.

  ‘Quite,’ said Ayrtoun and opened his car door. ‘Let’s go in.’

  They went into the airport, past the Propeller Bar and directly to a private room.

  ‘Sandwiches for two and a pot of coffee,’ Ayrtoun told the steward. ‘As soon as you can, please.’

  He sat down, got a folder out of his briefcase and put it on his knees.

  ‘You’re on the fairy squad for another reason however.’

  He gave Cotton the folder. Cotton opened it. At the top of the page was a head and shoulders photograph of a middle-aged man wearing a striped tie and a hard collar that cut into his ample neck. His chin formed little more than a thin tier or ledge above his jowl. His nose was sizeable enough to make his eyes look narrow-set, but above those he had barely any eyebrows. His hair was scraped back, and it took Cotton a second or two to realize that the parting was rather low and to the left side of his head. His ears were large and his earlobes were pushed up by the fat round his neck. The man was smiling. The lips were thin and the smile was lopsided, but he gave the impression of being almost squint-eyed with contentment and pride. Cotton looked up.

  ‘Major Albert Briggs MP,’ said Ayrtoun. ‘Major Bertie.’

  Cotton did not know him.

  ‘A new kind of MP, of course. But quite interesting.’

  Cotton waited.

  ‘MI5 have agreed that they can’t be seen to be investigating our own MPs, can they now?’

  ‘And MI6?’

  ‘Yes, that would be me,’ said Ayrtoun, ‘for now anyway. Major Bertie is building his own little intelligence service, something Members of Parliament are not supposed to do. However, the Labour Government has considerable suspicions about our Intelligence Services, some of them I should say amply justified, and is certainly not kicking too much about Major Bertie’s information-gathering activities.’

  ‘Does he have a special interest?’

  ‘Oh yes. Major Bertie is an excitable and prurient chap. I suspect he finds even the word “smut” exciting. He collects the dirt on the Tory Party – but is also building a little photographic library on his own party members, preferably in a state of arousal.’

  ‘Does he have an aim?’


  Ayrtoun nodded. ‘Yes. I’d imagine there’s a certain sniffing of ambitious dogs’ bottoms involved. He’ll be able, at the very least, to cash in on his collection later, perhaps be a small kingmaker or even wag his tail in a junior Cabinet post. Where the hell are those sandwiches?’

  Cotton read the report that was not supposed to exist. Albert Cedric Bellamy Briggs had been born in November 1900 in Portsmouth. His father, George, had been described on the birth certificate as ‘first mate’. His mother Peggy was recorded as a piano teacher. As Ayrtoun had said, a new kind of MP.

  An only child, Briggs had been educated at Portsmouth Grammar School. He had joined the Army Education Corps in 1920 where, being a trained teacher, he was immediately promoted to sergeant. It was not clear where he had been trained but he had recently mentioned the town of Havant in a newspaper interview in which he had also said his training had been ‘Froebel-based’.

  Cotton looked up. He did not know much about educational theory but knew that Froebel had come up with the term ‘kindergarten’ about a hundred years before and that the term translated literally as ‘children garden’, a concept not normally associated with military school.

  ‘Havant and Froebel?’ he said.

  Ayrtoun smiled. ‘That’s Major Bertie’s idea of humour.

  Cotton saw that Briggs had spent almost all of his peacetime army career at the Duke of York’s Royal Military School in Dover, retiring in 1938 with the rank of sergeant-major. He had married his wife Doris (née Gibson) in 1934. They had no children. The same year that he was married, however, Briggs had fathered an illegitimate child, a girl called Evelyn. The girl’s mother, Rose O’Sullivan, remained his mistress and he had recently set them up in a villa he had bought in Bognor Regis, where she described herself as widow and called herself Sullivan. In 1934, Rose had been sixteen and employed as a skivvy or serving-girl. Evelyn now attended a college for young ladies.

  As the steward arrived with a tray, Cotton paused. Presumably the tale of Sir Percy Sillitoe’s domestic arrangements in Africa had been meant to put Major Briggs’ own family affairs in perspective. Cotton looked down at the report again but was interrupted by a noise that combined protest and something like retching.

  ‘Dear Jesus!’ Ayrtoun exclaimed staring at a sandwich. ‘What the hell is this?’

  ‘Fish paste, sir. I believe it has salmon and shrimp in it, sir.’

  ‘Then I have to say your faith is considerably greater than mine,’ said Ayrtoun. ‘Do you have anything at all to mask the flavour?’

  The steward looked doubtful. ‘We do have some chutney, sir. And there is a tin of piccalilli but … on that side of the plate the sandwiches are liver-paste, sir. You might prefer those.’

  ‘I very much doubt it.’ Ayrtoun shook his head and sniffed at the coffee pot. He sighed. ‘This is mostly chicory waved over a coffee bean,’ he said.

  The steward nodded.

  ‘Just bring me a whisky.’ Ayrtoun looked at Cotton.

  Cotton shook his head.

  ‘And a plain biscuit if you’ve got some.’

  ‘We have Rich Tea biscuits, sir.’

  ‘Good, I’ll have some. Yes, please take this tray away.’

  The steward did so. A man in uniform approached.

  ‘Twenty minutes to take-off, sir.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Ayrtoun.

  He looked at Cotton. ‘We’ve given your name to the Major. He’ll be in touch.’

  Cotton closed the file and handed it back. ‘And what will we talk about?’

  ‘Your mutual interest in security matters. My guess is he’ll be quite flattered. By the way, he has only what I’ll call a mild interest in flushing out fairies. I mean he’s a politician, not a first-class moral humbug. But if he thought it would help him, he’d do it and do it indignantly, especially if he could find a security angle to dress it up in.’

  ‘“It” being a security scare involving a homosexual?’

  Ayrtoun nodded. The steward returned with a single measure of whisky and two biscuits.

  ‘Two?’ said Ayrtoun.

  ‘Rationing, sir.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Ayrtoun. He sighed when the steward had turned away. ‘The Americans seem to think we’re class-ridden, daft, queer or incompetent, sometimes all four together. I often think they have a point.’

  Cotton said nothing.

  ‘I have the impression you’re waiting for something,’ said Ayrtoun.

  ‘Yes, I am,’ said Cotton.

  Ayrtoun took a sealed envelope out of his inner jacket pocket.

  ‘The driver will take you home. He knows where you live.’

  Cotton opened the envelope. In its own way his letter of appointment was a marvel of obscurity. It appointed him as ‘acting liaison officer’ in an operation codenamed ‘Sea-Snake’. This operation was covered by the Official Secrets Act. The heads of both MI5 and MI6 had initialled it but the signatory was Ayrtoun.

  ‘Am I right in thinking neither MI5 nor MI6 will really cooperate with me?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Ayrtoun. ‘That’s about it.’

  ‘What other letters do you have for me?’

  ‘The driver has them. There’s no point in hanging around. What do you say?’

  ‘I haven’t signed anything.’

  ‘There is nothing to sign.’

  ‘What about Colonial Intelligence?’

  ‘Sir Desmond has been informed you’ve been seconded.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  Ayrtoun smiled. ‘No.’

  ‘Let me see if I have this right. You appear to want me to soften MI5’s efforts at queer-bashing and to emasculate an MP.’

  ‘That’s not a bad way of putting it. Great Expectations can be our codebook. What do you say? The UK can also be a land of opportunity, you know.’

  ‘Fuck you,’ thought Cotton, but he smiled instead.

  ‘Have a good flight,’ he said.

  The driver offered Cotton a tartan rug. Cotton shook his head. A few moments later they were heading back to London.

  At Cotton’s address the driver got out and opened the door.

  ‘I have something for you, sir,’ he said. He went to the back of the car and came back with a heavy cardboard box. It was from Cotton’s sister Joan in New York. Evidently Ayrtoun had thought a Christmas package stood more chance of actually arriving if it came through diplomatic channels.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Cotton. The driver took off his cap and placed his card on top of the box. His name was Hans Bieber. He had straight dark hair that flopped naturally into a middle parting, brown eyes, and something of the chin-raised, ready-to-smileness of the ballroom dancer.

  ‘My nickname is Eager Beaver,’ said Hans. ‘A joke. Bieber sounds like the German for “beaver”.’

  Cotton smiled politely. ‘POW?’

  Hans Bieber shook his head, but did not answer the question. ‘I don’t want to go back to Germany. Ever,’ he said. ‘Mr Ayrtoun suggests this car and this driver should you need them.’ He paused. ‘I think you will. I’m changing my name soon. I will be John. John Driver.’

  ‘Is that another joke?’

  ‘No,’ said the driver. ‘Deed poll. The paperwork is going through now.’

  Cotton nodded. ‘Really? Where do you live?’

  ‘At the moment, I’m living in Kensington.’

  ‘Are you telling me that is temporary?’

  ‘It depends. He’s director of a football club. Very jealous.’

  Cotton shrugged. ‘Chelsea?’

  ‘Or Fulham,’ said Hans, as if Cotton were being a little naughty and indiscreet. He put his gloved hand on Cotton’s forearm. ‘Thank you for not saying Arsenal.’

  Hans giggled and put on his cap to show that personal banter was over. He took an envelope out of his inside pocket and dropped it on to the gift box. It was addressed to Cotton in Ayrtoun’s handwriting. He then assisted Cotton inside the block and saluted.

  4

  COTTON LIVE
D in Wilbraham Place off Sloane Street. The five-storey block of apartments was stolid red brick marginally relieved by white stone edgings. He chose it because the flat was conveniently placed for Sloane Square Tube station. His bank was near the first stop, at Victoria. He usually got off at the second stop, St James’s Park, and walked across the park to work. It was just another stop to Westminster.

  The block had a porter, an ex-sergeant from the First World War called Reginald Hill, with polished boots and a bristling moustache. By the lift was a names-board showing which residents were in or out. Cotton hardly knew any of them. Three never appeared to be there. A retired general’s middle-aged daughter used her father’s flat when in town, and when Cotton got back from work, he would sometimes see her in evening gowns and fur stoles when she was off to the theatre and Major General G. B. D. Fenwick was shown as being IN. Some of the flats were rented out – to a shy, film-star handsome man called Shalhoub from the Lebanese Embassy with a never-seen wife and two plump, demure little daughters; and a couple from Canada called Grimes, he having something to do with aluminium. Another was occupied by a Harley Street dermatologist’s female ‘cousin’, called Brenda, who had a small dog and who winked when she said the word ‘cousin’, and another to a dentist called Silver who lived in Manchester but was on all kinds of committees.

  Cotton had bought the place in early 1946 from an ex-army colleague. Even allowing for a depressed market, the price was reasonable, and Cotton just had enough cash, from his late mother and his wartime savings, to complete the purchase of the flat and everything in it quickly. The service charge was rather high and the property was leasehold – his father did not approve of leasehold though the term of the lease, Reich style, was only slightly short of a thousand years – but central heating and hot water were included in the fee.

  The flat had ceilings rather too high for the size of the rooms and draughty metal windows. The décor was pre-war, about 1933, done for an actress Cotton had never heard of, apparently influenced by the designer Syrie Maugham. This turned out to mean that the walls were plain and off-white, the large rug on the parquet floor was similar, and the two sofas were grubby white. He was told the curtains might have started off as a colour called celadon but had faded to eau de Nil. By the time he moved in, the walls had picked up more than ten years of smoke and shadows. He was particularly fond of what looked to be small elephant tusks – apparently they had contained a mirror – above the mantelpiece in the main room. But the bathroom was robustly plumbed, entirely tiled in white, green and black, and had a shower-rose the size of a soup plate.