Icelight Page 5

  Derek ordered ‘a Chelsea sidecar’.

  ‘What’s the difference between that and a sidecar?’ said Cotton.

  ‘Gin, sir, instead of brandy. The Cointreau and lemon juice stay the same,’ said the waiter. ‘Going to a show, Mr Jennings?’

  ‘Not tonight,’ said Derek. He shrugged. ‘I’ve seen everything.’

  The waiter glanced at Cotton. ‘Sir? May I tempt you to the same?’

  Cotton shook his head. ‘A whisky and water,’ he said.

  ‘Any particular brand, sir?’

  ‘A malt. The Glenlivet? Would you have that?’

  ‘Of course, sir.’

  Derek looked slightly surprised. When the waiter had gone, he frowned and leant forward. ‘It’ll be Glen Hackney, you know.’

  ‘I know that but I haven’t come for the drink, Derek. And I’m not here for pleasure.’

  A man wearing make-up approached them. Derek shook his head. ‘I’m busy now, Basil,’ he said. ‘I’ll speak to you later.’

  Cotton smiled very briefly. ‘Derek, you have a choice. I can use you or not. I’m indifferent. It’s up to you.’

  ‘I’m the best there is, Mr Cotton. Far more than Mr Ayrtoun knows.’

  ‘Really?’

  Derek giggled. ‘Mr Ayrtoun said I had sucked more lordly cock than lollipops. He’s got it all wrong.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘It’s not me who is doing the sucking, Mr Cotton. It’s the lords on their knees.’

  ‘Well, I’ll certainly tell him that,’ said Cotton.

  Derek was in explanatory mood. ‘Mine is like alabaster, they say.’

  Cotton couldn’t help it. He laughed from his chest. It was a genuine laugh, something he had not felt for some time. He was a little surprised by Derek’s reaction. Derek turned his chair sideways and crossed his legs. He showed a stretch of very white, very thin, hairless shin and moved his head rather jerkily.

  Cotton frowned. He was aware Derek had been trying to impress him with the Mr Jennings and man-of-the-cocktail-lounge business. Now something else was going on. Cotton tried. The light was more than dingy but somehow, as Derek worked his profile with the abruptness of a chicken, Cotton caught a glimpse of something unexpected. From one thin angle, Derek presented a waifish version of Michelangelo’s David, a David-Derek with a much smaller skull and a small rabbit-pink upper lip from the effects of a cold. Cotton nodded. Derek was explaining his attraction to back up the status he claimed.

  ‘All right, Derek, tell me what you can offer.’

  Derek pulled his chair round again. ‘London south of the river, through Surrey and quite a bit of Kent, there isn’t an important homo I don’t know about. And in Sussex I can do you for Brighton, Eastbourne and Worthing.’

  ‘A “homo” in this context being?’

  Derek giggled. ‘Well, not me,’ he said. ‘I mean the homebodies, the family men. There’s a lord-lieutenant with five children, a couple of judges—’

  Cotton shrugged. ‘I know this,’ he said. ‘What’s your point?’

  Derek blinked. ‘Well, there’s an etiquette, you know.’

  Cotton closed one eye. ‘There’s a what?’

  Derek was uncertain. ‘Is it pronounced like that? Etiquette?’

  ‘More or less. Why are you mentioning manners now?’

  Derek was uncertain about something. ‘It’s all rather private,’ he said. ‘I mean, they go places but they don’t go as the lord-lieutenant or the judge, do they? I mean, well, there’s an element of incognito involved.’

  ‘But not entirely. Are you talking about discretion?’ Cotton asked.

  ‘Yes,’ said Derek without sounding too sure. ‘It’s like a protected area, you know, where identities are – not so important.’

  ‘A bit like carnival, is that it? But without masks?’

  ‘Ooh. That’s quite good, Mr Cotton,’ said Derek. ‘Carnival is about it.’

  ‘So what are you saying?’

  ‘Well, they’re not, you know, unrealistic. I mean they know where they’ve been and they’re not silly.’

  ‘You’re talking about blackmail?’

  ‘No! It’s an arrangement, Mr Cotton. The etiquette! I help them, they help me.’

  ‘And this help consists of?’

  ‘Information, Mr Cotton. Let’s say I tell them where good things are happening. They tell me bad things they know.’

  ‘Your etiquette is a system of mutual favours.’

  Derek looked doubtful.

  ‘It’s a kind of club,’ said Cotton. ‘A society that prefers secrecy.’

  ‘Well,’ said Derek, ‘you might say that. I mean look at the Scrubs.’

  He meant Wormwood Scrubs, one of His Majesty’s Prisons in London.

  ‘That’s where they send us. We make up about half the prison population there. Queer Hall they call it.’

  Cotton had not known that Wormwood Scrubs specialized. He nodded. ‘Have you been there?’

  Derek shuddered and shook his head. ‘I’ve managed to keep out.’

  ‘All right, Derek. I’m going to ask you for four things. You know MI5 and Special Branch are not keen on “carnival”.’

  ‘I don’t like Special Branch.’

  ‘You don’t have to. The first thing I want is information of their involvement in anything you hear. That has two sides. First, what and who are they looking for? Second, how many of them are – involved.’

  Derek frowned. ‘Are using the etiquette, you mean?’

  ‘All right,’ said Cotton. ‘We’ll call it that. Is that the first thing clear?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘The second thing is this. I’m not talking about the etiquette here, I’m talking about honest to God blackmail. There are people in other sensitive jobs who could be pressured if it was known—’

  ‘That they liked “carnival”,’ interrupted Derek.

  ‘All right. Civil Servants in the War Office, a number of people in the Armed Forces—’

  ‘I understand, Mr Cotton. I do. You mean the vulnerable amongst us.’

  ‘That’s it. You hear of anyone in trouble, you tell me. Is that clear? That’s not just people with more money, it may be those without.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘The third thing I want from you is to keep an eye on people snooping around. They may not be employed by the Government to do that.’

  ‘What, Mr Cotton? Foreigners?’

  ‘Not just foreigners. They may be working for private clients.’

  ‘Right. What’s the fourth thing?’

  ‘That you’re honest, Derek. Don’t pretend you know when you don’t. I’ll take hunches, I’ll even take inklings, but don’t give me information just to give it. Is that clear? If you have nothing to say, you have nothing to say.’

  Derek was polite if a little patronizing. ‘It is Christmas,’ he said.

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘The police aren’t well paid, you know. Some of them get helpful when they have to buy presents for their kiddies. The arrangement I had with Mr Ayrtoun was what you saw. The ten bob goes five bob to me and five bob for Sergeant Statham.’

  Cotton went home on the Tube. He always found the Underground at night depressing. The other travellers looked weary and passive, too tired to pretend, rocking as the carriage rocked.

  Cotton closed his eyes. He realized he was treating Derek’s world as a foreign country. There had been times when Derek had, with some care, treated him as a worthy innocent.

  He was. At Cambridge he had studied macroeconomics. The less measurable parts – corruption, barter and other unrecorded, sometimes imposed, transactions – had fallen into micro-economics and not been on the syllabus. He had then joined the army where activity was furious, movements controlled and information little.

  Cotton thought that here in London he was at the very least dealing with a second economy. In the cocktail lounge, Derek had told him that his brother-in-law ‘was quite a big player in Croyd
on, really. He’s a greengrocer.’

  ‘Is that a euphemism? A special name?’ Cotton had said.

  ‘What? No, he has a stall in Surrey Street Market. You know, sprouts and stuff.’

  ‘Sprouts can’t make him a player.’

  Derek had looked pityingly at him. ‘Not just sprouts,’ he said. ‘A counter has two sides you know. Over and under. How many sides has a stall got? Jim can get a lot of things for the constable’s kiddies. He’s got storage in Wallington and use of a van.’

  Derek had fingered his own striped tie. ‘See this, Mr Cotton? Silk. Pure silk.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Cotton. ‘Pre-war I take it.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Derek. He smiled. ‘My guess is – it’s about twenty years old. Do you recognize it?’

  Cotton squinted. The tie was brown, grey and a silvery white. A memory of a school sporting match stirred, but not too clearly. ‘It might be Lancing College.’

  ‘Lancing?’ said Derek. ‘That’s a good school, isn’t it?’

  Cotton shrugged. ‘I take it you didn’t go there.’

  ‘No, but somebody who did left a trunk of clothes in a depository.’

  ‘It won’t be missed?’

  Derek had looked more pitying than abashed. ‘Some of the trunks aren’t going to be reclaimed, Mr Cotton.’

  Cotton forgot, almost drank from his glass. ‘You’re wearing a dead man’s tie.’

  ‘Well, I’d have worn his shoes if they’d fitted! Beautiful shoes, Mr Cotton, hand-made, really top-class.’

  Cotton reached across the table and grabbed hold of the tie. ‘You shouldn’t do that, Derek. Don’t ever do that again,’ he said.

  ‘What? Make use of a dead man’s clothes?’

  Cotton twisted his wrist and the tie. There was a faint squeak from the silk as old threads parted. ‘No “etiquette”, Derek. No more delicate advice and helpful tips on manners and lips round alabaster and ex-Lancing men like Mr Tom Driberg MP. No back stories, no coy jokes, no cute little secrets and no fucking games. You don’t play dead man’s clothes with me. Have you got that?’

  Derek was having some difficulty breathing.

  ‘We won’t meet here again,’ said Cotton, ‘nor anywhere like it. Clear?’ He let go.

  ‘That’s good, Mr Cotton,’ said Derek. He started nodding. ‘It’s good to clear the air.’

  ‘I’m glad you think that,’ said Cotton. ‘You really must never forget it. Clear?’

  ‘Look, I’ve had contact with Mr Driberg once, but I didn’t know his old school. I swear.’

  Cotton sighed. ‘Then you have to be very careful, Derek.’

  The waiter, alarmed by the turn of things and ties, was approaching.

  Derek sat back and smiled. ‘Is what Mr Ayrtoun said true, Mr Cotton. You’ve killed?’

  Cotton nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said as quietly as possible.

  ‘What about that Jock?’ said Derek. ‘The man from Glasgow!’

  Cotton had been surprised but played along. ‘You really don’t want to meet him,’ he said. ‘Derek? I have great expectations of you.’

  The waiter, in reflex at the tone, smiled. Derek nodded.

  ‘Thanks, Colonel. I really appreciate that.’

  At his stop on the Tube, Cotton got up and groaned. He shook his head. He couldn’t think of a single thing that might make the job enjoyable but could think of several that would make it anywhere from unpleasant to miserable.

  6

  ON WEDNESDAY, 18 December Cotton was surprised to find Hans Bieber waiting for him by the Triumph to take him to the Garrick Club.

  ‘This isn’t necessary,’ he said.

  ‘Mr Ayrtoun wanted you to have these,’ said Hans, giving him two folders.

  Cotton got into the car. He opened the first folder. The report on Hans Bieber was a thin, single page and had huge gaps. He looked up. Hans was watching him in the rear-view mirror. Cotton read that Hans had been born in Hanover in 1910, the third son and seventh child of a baker called Klaus and his wife Gerda. He had received an elementary education. By 1923 he was helping in the family business as a delivery boy on a bicycle. By 1932, Hans had been a drag artist ‘of some renown’ in Berlin. His version of Lili Marlene was described in the report as ‘quite exceptional, probably a classic’ – probably by Hans, thought Cotton.

  Hans was paying close attention to Cotton’s reading. ‘It was a question of assuming the part and the longing,’ he said. ‘The dressing up part wasn’t so difficult.’

  ‘I really don’t mind,’ said Cotton.

  ‘Do you mean you don’t care, sir?’

  ‘No. I mean I don’t mind,’ said Cotton. ‘I take it Mr Ayrtoun knows a great deal more than this?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Hans. He sighed. ‘I am good at mechanical things, Mr Cotton, but not written things.’

  ‘Why on earth are you writing this in the first place?’

  ‘Because if I have a report I exist! Reports are what you work on in this business.’

  ‘I had already understood that you were more than a driver, Hans. I will tell you, however, that you have to give more information.’ Cotton looked down. ‘It says here that you joined the Nazi Party in 1934. Is that true?’

  ‘To hide!’ said Hans. ‘The best place to hide! In the mouth of the wolf!’

  ‘Really? What did they teach you?’

  ‘To drive, Mr Cotton. Real driving. Response to ambush, smooth driving, pursuit driving—’

  Cotton held up his hand. ‘It says here you got married,’ he said.

  ‘Mutual advantage,’ said Hans. ‘I knew her from Berlin. Ping-pong girl, you know. Dyke.’

  Cotton looked up at Hans’s eyes in the rear-view mirror.

  ‘It says you drove for someone important during the war. You don’t say who.’

  ‘But Mr Ayrtoun thought –’ Hans paused ‘– it wouldn’t be advisable to say who.’

  ‘Wonderful,’ said Cotton. ‘Mr Ayrtoun has you on a string, right? Residence? Work permit? And now you’re writing your own report in an attempt to do what exactly?’

  ‘I need papers, Mr Cotton. Papers will help establish me.’

  ‘Tell me about the person you’re living with.’

  ‘Robert. I don’t want to give his surname. He’s a—’

  ‘Director of a football club, yes, you said.’

  Hans looked apologetic. ‘And a Tory London County Councillor too.’

  Cotton frowned. ‘Right. Would he be married?’

  Hans grimaced almost as if he was curtseying. ‘He left his wife and two children for me.’

  ‘My. That’s quite something. You must be very special for him to take that kind of risk,’ said Cotton. ‘How did you get away from Germany?’

  Hans coughed. ‘I drove,’ he said. ‘Mercedes. I drove for Bremerhaven when I knew the British were there.’

  ‘You had information to trade.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Have you met Robert’s children?’

  ‘No.’

  Cotton looked at his watch. ‘I have to get to the Garrick Club,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, sir. Of course, sir.’ Hans started the Triumph. ‘Down Pall Mall, round Trafalgar Square, up St Martin’s Lane and right into Garrick Street.’

  Cotton nodded and began to read the file on Miles Crichton. MI6 was covering the Garrick Club membership and expenses for this ‘freelance journalist, theatre critic, author’. Cotton learnt that Crichton had a cruel nickname, ‘The Cat and Bagpipes’. Apparently this had been the name of a pub ‘popular with Scotch and Irish MPs’ in the eighteenth century in the alleys between Downing Street and Charles Street before they were demolished and built over by government departments. But it really referred to his appearance. As a child, Crichton had contracted polio and now used crutches. ‘He has the legs of an eight-year-old boy,’ said the report.

  Whatever Crichton’s physical disadvantages, he was not timid in print. As a theatre critic he had apparently made enemies of G. B. Shaw (‘
Mr Shaw never tires of hearing actors speak even his most turgid thoughts back to him’) and T. S. Eliot (‘Mr Eliot’s play The Family Reunion failed in 1939. Unchanged, it has now been revived. Has the intervening war improved the play? No’).

  The son of a barrister and with a law degree himself, Miles also wrote on legal matters, particularly miscarriages of justice. He had recently attacked the Attorney General Sir Hartley Shawcross. Shawcross had prosecuted William Joyce, Lord Haw-Haw, famed for his wartime broadcasts on behalf of the Nazis, on a technicality. By accepting Haw-Haw’s false obtainment of a British passport in the thirties, Shawcross argued that he was then British and had been guilty of treason. Haw-Haw had been hanged.

  Crichton had also had a go at Shawcross’s opening statement at the Nuremberg Trials: ‘To talk of the rule of law and then to sit down with Soviet legal luminaries from the show trials, with all examination of Allied crimes excluded, is utter humbug.’

  In 1938, Crichton had found out that his legal training didn’t matter. He had been taken to court for reporting, accurately, that a press baron’s son had attended a charity supper with some friends, including a Lady Violet Hunsford. Some lines down, he mentioned that the press baron’s son had bid 36 guineas for a vase. The press baron’s lawyers claimed that the article was defamatory because it suggested that the son had in effect been bidding for Lady Violet. While dismissing the suit as verging on the malicious, the judge had shown his irritation by omitting to award costs to either party. To pay his legal fees, Crichton and his wife Rosemary had lost their house in John Street, and had ended up ‘camping out in two rooms overlooking theatrical warehouses in Macklin Street, off Covent Garden, where the prostitutes used to live’.

  The car pulled up. ‘This is it,’ said Hans.

  Cotton had never been to the Garrick Club before. He found a large, stolidly grey, pseudo-classical building in Garrick Street. Inside, various male staff exuded a hush of respect for their charges.