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  With a white bust of Shakespeare to his right, Cotton gave his business to a porter. ‘Peter Cotton, to see Mr Miles Crichton.’

  ‘Mr Crichton is expecting you, Colonel.’

  He was ushered up the main stairs. Cotton had never liked eighteenth-century colours, particularly what he thought of as stagnant cesspool green. There were portraits on the walls. These included the images of one or two women. Otherwise, the Garrick was an entirely male preserve.

  Miles Crichton was in the cocktail bar, fast asleep in a round-armed chair in a dark corner. Arranged in a line on the table in front of him were three empty champagne glasses. Tucked between himself and the arms of the chair were his crutches. From a distance, Cotton saw how the Cat and Bagpipes name had come about. Crichton was dressed in an ancient blue chalk-stripe suit and wore a red bow tie just visible below his slumped chin. Add on his small-featured face, his roundish head and smoothed back hair, a hunched, neckless look, and the crutches, and there was something of a cat sitting on bagpipes with the chanter and drones sorted out.

  The porter cleared his throat and Miles Crichton woke instantly. He had large blue eyes. He smiled.

  ‘Colonel!’

  ‘Not any more, Mr Crichton.’

  ‘Don’t you believe it,’ said Crichton. He held out his hand. Cotton shook it, and found that the cripple had a deliberate and exceptionally powerful grip. Crichton smiled again and summoned the barman. ‘Same again all round, please.’ And then to Cotton, ‘Won’t you sit down?’

  Cotton nodded and sat. The report had said Crichton’s legs were like an eight-year-old’s. Not true. They were as thin as an eight-year-old’s, but longer and twisted.

  ‘An advantage to being a cripple is the tremendous saving on shoe repairs,’ said Miles Crichton. He leant towards Cotton. ‘The advantage of having a tall young man from Intelligence come to see you is … well, I shall of course over-egg you, in a portentous and shadowy way. But I will not give your name. I will call you my Colonel from the Secret Service. It adds steel. The Garrick is not noted for its physically courageous members, but a few of them have imagination or suspicion or easily stirred fears. What do you say?’

  ‘I’d prefer some discretion,’ said Cotton.

  Miles shook his head. ‘Not part of my valour, sorry. I like the idea of protection and I will make shameless use of you to get it.’

  Cotton smiled. The champagne arrived.

  ‘Cheers,’ said Miles. He downed his glass like medicine. ‘How can I help?’

  Cotton came straight to the point. ‘Major Albert Briggs MP has a salary almost exactly the same as mine. I know how I’m getting on so I’d be interested to know how he can afford to own a house for his wife in his constituency, another for his mistress in Bognor, and how he can have his daughter privately educated – all while keeping a flat in Dolphin Square for himself and running what is described as a private intelligence service. Eight years ago he was a retired sergeant-major without any property or prospects.’

  ‘You’re suggesting that’s quite a short time and there’s been a war in the middle?’

  ‘A short time certainly. The war, on the other hand, provided some with opportunities.’

  Miles Crichton smiled. ‘Didn’t it just!’ He paused. ‘I think to do what Major Briggs has done,’ he said, ‘you have need of an awfully good solicitor. Might I suggest Alfred Perlman?’

  Cotton waited. ‘Just one man? Nobody else?’

  Miles Crichton started. ‘Dear God, you can’t say “just Alfred”. For one thing he’s quite phenomenally stout, legs like a hippo and the lugubrious, hangdog face of someone just breathing to get to his next meal. Alfred is the same age as Jesus at the crucifixion, looks quite twenty years older, but probably has more down-to-earth influence. Are you going to drink that champagne?’

  Cotton pushed the champagne glass towards him. ‘Go ahead. What brought them together?’

  Miles lifted Cotton’s glass. ‘Oh, I really think we can give Herr Hitler the credit for that, don’t you? Whatever else Adolf did, he contrived to start a social revolution here, sent the class cat amongst the privileged pigeons, blurred many, many boundaries. Lawyer Alfred and the man to be Major Bertie met in the very same gunnery unit and, surrounded by sandbags, over mugs of tea, buffing up a 3.7-inch QF gun or two, from time to time loosing off a shot at a Nazi bomber plane, realized they could help each other out. Now Briggs is Alfred’s “in” to Parliament and much bigger contacts, and Alfred takes care of Major Bertie’s finances.’

  Cotton nodded. ‘I take it he is not just a good manager.’

  ‘Alfred looks after one of the biggest property estates in London, has discretionary powers, can sign cheques, that sort of thing. He’s also awfully good with rich widows.’

  ‘You’re reading between the lines?’

  Miles Crichton frowned. ‘I don’t deal in gossip,’ he complained. ‘I deal in the omitted history.’

  ‘Forgive me,’ said Cotton, ‘there’s a lot of that about.’

  ‘But not in the real world!’ said Miles. ‘Understand. Alfred takes care of people. He gets rid of his clients’ “impurities”, he oils their self-importance. Behind that gross exterior is a slim, elegant legal Fred Astaire. His wits are as quick as Fred’s feet.’

  Cotton smiled, but Crichton thought he was not taking this seriously enough.

  ‘Take the Inland Revenue,’ he said. ‘I don’t know about you, but they scare the shit out of me. To Alfred they are splendid chums in the struggle for fairness and social justice. If they’re lucky they keep up with him, as Ginger does in “Cheek to Cheek”, and don’t notice the feathers coming off her dress – quite enough to line several nests. They are happy, the widows really want to be happy and I’d suggest there’s a profitable gap in the middle. More champagne?’

  Cotton nodded and Miles Crichton waved at the barman.

  ‘Alfred allows his widows to feed him what he calls “delicacies”. He’s also rather fond of good-looking young men but limits himself to having them watch him as he toys with dainties. There’s a wonderful story of him just after the war in France. Do you know what an ortolan is?’

  Cotton remembered ortolano in Spanish. ‘It’s a tiny songbird. A kind of bunting?’

  The champagne arrived. Miles took a sip to refresh himself, and leant back in his chair.

  ‘Exactly. And a very great delicacy. You have to prepare it though. You catch it, you prick out its eyes, put it in a dark box and feed it on millet, grapes and figs. After a month it has swollen to about the size of a goutish thumb. You then kill it. You drown it in Armagnac, pluck it, season with salt and pepper and pop it into a high oven for eight minutes. You then use your napkin as a kind of wimple, wear it over the head to form a private cocoon – or as if you had a head cold – so that nothing of the exquisite aroma and taste escapes. You eat it whole, though some bite the head off first, bones and all. I imagine there is, for the very sensitive, a kind of evaporated puff from those minute Armagnac-soaked lungs.’

  Cotton’s eyebrows had come up. ‘I see,’ he said.

  ‘No, you don’t,’ said Miles. ‘Think about it. How long do we normally chew? A few seconds at best. An ortolan takes about two minutes to eat. That’s a very long mouthful of bliss. Of course, it is all a bit High Church for me. A two-minute orgasm for a man would, I think, be rather alarming.’ He paused. ‘When the war was over, Alfred found it expedient to go to France to check out a client’s vineyards. He gave six weeks’ notice and brought his own embroidered napkin.’

  ‘Have you met him?’

  ‘Very briefly. Here actually.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘Whisky is always kosher.’

  ‘Is that a joke?’

  ‘No, no. Apparently whisky is kosher whoever prepares it.’

  ‘What about songbirds?’

  ‘I don’t think they are prohibited by a dietary law,’ said Miles, ‘but I imagine certain decencies are observed. I don’t think
they’d be eaten when children or maiden aunts were present.’

  Cotton smiled. ‘What’s his background?’

  ‘His father was an immigrant, from Lithuania, a tailor. A hard-working invisible mender, if you know what I mean, quiet and careful to the point of timidity. But his mother! Doughty as unleavened dough, indulgent as sugar mice! He has a half-witted brother, you see, who soaked up most of the family money. So in the family arithmetic Alfred became a brain and a half. Won scholarships. I never understand why people don’t see that scholarship boys can be imaginative and perceptive as well as obedient and bright. They must be associating scholarships with charity. But Alfred saw very early on that his clients’ ability to be charitable had often been preceded by a crime. And crimes are always crude, however they are dressed a couple of generations on.’ Miles Crichton waggled a finger. ‘Don’t underestimate Alfred. He knows you get one life and does not care about his reputation after his is over, just as long as his clients in this life are kept happy and he gets to eat ortolan.’

  He paused. ‘There is some suggestion he assigned his soul to the devil before he even reached puberty – and then beat him to the dinner table. Alfred knows what he is. He’s a very talented, extraordinarily practical lost soul.’

  7

  COTTON’S CONTACT at London Metropolitan Special Branch was a Sergeant Dawkins. Cotton was told his name was Dickie, that he dressed in plain clothes and consequently should not be addressed by rank ‘in public situations’.

  Dickie Dawkins suggested they meet at the church of St Martin-in-the-Fields, on the north-east side of Trafalgar Square. Cotton was unsure whether or not this was Dawkins’s idea of neutral ground. In his mid thirties, quite short, Dawkins had a fresh, slightly chubby face that made him look fatter than he was, and a lot of straight, dark hair that flopped when the water he used when combing it had dried out. He was standing outside the church two columns along watching, without signs of obvious enjoyment, a Chinese family celebrate a christening and drew Cotton’s attention by the spit and polish of the toecaps of his shoes.

  ‘Mr Dawkins? My name is Cotton.’

  Dawkins nodded. ‘Colonel,’ he said.

  ‘No, no,’ said Cotton. ‘That was only during the war. My name is Peter Cotton now.’

  He paused, smiled, and held out a hand to Dawkins.

  Dawkins gave his hand a quick tug. ‘Dickie Dawkins,’ came in a mumble.

  ‘Delighted to meet you,’ said Cotton. ‘Are we going in?’

  Dawkins blinked. ‘Do you want to?’

  ‘Not particularly.’

  ‘Right,’ said Dawkins. ‘It’s a famous piece of architecture,’ he added.

  ‘Yes,’ said Cotton. ‘James Gibbs, wasn’t it? The architect, I mean.’

  ‘I believe so. Very influential.’ Dawkins paused. ‘In the US particularly.’ He frowned. ‘Do you have an interest in church architecture?’ he asked.

  ‘None at all,’ said Cotton. ‘Nil.’

  Dawkins laughed. ‘Right,’ he said.

  ‘We’ll walk then.’

  ‘Just one second.’

  The Chinese family was going down the steps.

  ‘Do you see the baby has a board at the back of his head? The Chinese like that bit of a boy’s head flat. It’s their idea of beauty. So they encourage it while the skull is still soft.’

  Cotton nodded. ‘You’ve worked with the Chinese?’

  ‘My first job,’ said Dawkins. ‘Before the war in the East End. They got bombed out and moved to Soho – Wardour Street and round there.’

  ‘And what have you been doing recently?’

  ‘Black market,’ said Dickie Dawkins. ‘We’ve just closed a clothing coupon operation. But we’re still swamped, you know. You’ve seen the figures, I suppose.’

  Cotton nodded. It had been made public that the level of recorded crimes had increased tenfold in a period of twenty years. That obscured the point that the bulk of the increase had taken place during and particularly in the eighteen months after the war.

  ‘Yes, I know. What you’re involved in now is more to do with national security than criminal activity. I think you could take it as a vote of confidence.’

  Dawkins looked doubtful.

  ‘What have they said to you?’ asked Cotton.

  ‘That you’d fill me in.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Please. My name is Cotton.’

  ‘Yes, Mr Cotton.’

  ‘There’s an officer called Radcliffe in Special Branch.’

  ‘Inspector Radcliffe? Yes. He works there.’

  ‘Do you know what he does?’

  Dawkins looked less uncomfortable than disapproving that he was being asked about a colleague. ‘I don’t rightly know,’ he said.

  ‘What he does or whether you can say what he does?’

  Dawkins blinked.

  ‘It’s all right,’ said Cotton. ‘What I really want to know is whether or not Mr Radcliffe has spoken to you or whether he knows of this meeting.’

  ‘He hasn’t spoken to me. Why would he?’

  Cotton smiled. ‘Good. Mr Radcliffe and a Mr Starmer-Smith of MI5 are about to start a campaign aimed at … discouraging the homosexual community in sensitive jobs.’

  Dawkins made a face.

  ‘I know. I wasn’t thrilled either,’ said Cotton. ‘Part of our job, however, is to see that this doesn’t occupy too many men or prove too much of a distraction.’

  Dickie Dawkins shut his eyes for a moment. ‘Can I be honest?’ he said. ‘If I had a choice, I wouldn’t touch this with a barge pole.’

  ‘Agreed,’ said Cotton. ‘What can you tell me about Radcliffe?’

  ‘Not much. He went to a minor public school.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  Dawkins blinked. ‘Most of us didn’t.’

  ‘Right. Anything else?’

  ‘He has an interest in Greyhound pubs.’

  ‘Yes. In Croydon, for example.’

  Dawkins nodded. ‘I understand he has a man there. But there are other Greyhounds, you know. There’s one in Carshalton, quite high class, another in Streatham. And in Battersea, of course.’

  Cotton’s eyes widened. ‘What? Find a Greyhound and you find succour and a male friend? Are you serious?’

  Dawkins shrugged. ‘Well, it’s not entirely Radcliffe’s choice, let’s be fair.’

  Cotton sighed. ‘Would you know his man in Croydon?’

  ‘You’re joking?’

  Cotton shook his head, mostly at Ayrtoun’s method of communication. He wondered whether Derek was working two agencies. It wouldn’t have surprised him.

  ‘We have been given a name,’ he said. ‘Operation Sea-Snake. I’m described as a liaison officer. We’ll have to find out what that means. At present I’m taking that to mean I work with you. You have close knowledge of London. I don’t.’ Cotton was not sure Dawkins believed him. ‘I’m familiar with the bit between Whitehall and Sloane Square.’

  ‘Ah. Right,’ said Dawkins.

  ‘I’ve also been asked to keep an eye on a certain Member of Parliament. Major Albert Briggs.’

  Dawkins shook his head. ‘No. Whatever else he is, Briggs is not like that.’

  ‘Apparently his interest is in smut in general and photography in particular.’

  Dawkins groaned. ‘Do you have children?’ he said.

  ‘No. You?’

  ‘I have two little girls. April and June, six and four.’ He made a face.

  Cotton nodded. ‘I understand. But we don’t actually know what is going to happen.’

  Dawkins frowned. ‘You’re telling me to wait?’

  ‘Something like that. Will that do for now?’

  Dawkins thought. ‘Yes. All right.’ He sighed. ‘You’re being honest.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Dawkins winced. ‘Honesty has its drawbacks.’

  ‘I know that too,’ said Cotton. ‘So far I’ve spoken to a patrician Americ
an who’s difficult to understand, a heavy-drinking journalist who may just embellish his anecdotes, and a driver I’ve been given who is German and now lives with a Tory councillor who is also director of a football club.’

  Dawkins smiled. ‘Can I be honest too?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Queer business is never good for a career.’

  ‘That’s probably true.’

  Dawkins smiled. It looked like an involuntary reflex, a twitch. He offered his hand and Cotton shook it. The handshake was brief and polite. Dawkins shrugged.

  ‘Do you use your sweet ration?’ he said.

  ‘No,’ said Cotton. ‘I’ll bring them along after Christmas.’

  Cotton watched Dawkins walk away. He thought Ayrtoun might have had a point in trying to depress him. He was able to think this while not thinking any better of Ayrtoun.

  8

  COTTON HAD already told his father of Joan’s present. He carried the box down to Peaslake after work on Monday, 23 December. The morning of the 24th he had taken off.

  ‘This is all a bit Red Cross,’ said James Cotton.

  ‘I didn’t see any meat at all when I passed the butcher’s here. There was a “closed for the holidays” sign.’

  His father shook his head. ‘Damned bad show,’ he said.

  Cotton began removing tins and placing them in piles. Meat, vegetables, fruit. His sister had even included a tinned cake.

  ‘She’s stealing from me,’ said James Cotton.

  Cotton frowned. ‘Who is?’

  ‘No, not her. Her daughter.’

  It turned out that the lady who cleaned and cooked for his father, Mrs Douglas, had developed what James Cotton called a ‘bad leg. I don’t know what it is exactly.’ To help her out, she had brought along her daughter Maisie.

  ‘How old are we talking?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ James Cotton paused. ‘She must have left school,’ he added. ‘She’s quite buxom in a vulgar sort of way.’

  Cotton considered his father. Having become a widower in 1938, he had retired from Mexico in 1939 into a world war. At sixty-seven he was beginning to look pinched, bent and old. His speech, when not being mean, had started to dither as if he needed a little acid to be clear.