Here Comes Charlie M

THIRTEEN

Charlie had identified the unmarked police car about twenty yards from the house, so he was waiting for the doorbell when it sounded. He paused, briefly, preparing himself and when he opened the door the expectant smile was carefully in place.

‘Yes?’

‘Police,’ identified the taller of the two men. He produced a warrant card, holding it steadily for Charlie to examine it. ‘We …’

‘Of course,’ broke off Charlie. ‘Come in.’

He stood back for them to enter. They were both smart but unobtrusive men, grey-suited, muted ties, polished black shoes. Hendon, guessed Charlie.

‘Why of course?’ demanded the first man, unmoving.

Aggressive, too, decided Charlie. But properly so.

‘The robbery,’ he said. ‘What else?’

‘Ah,’ said the man. Then waited. It was a practised reaction, realised Charlie, leading them into the lounge. So the older man prided himself on his interrogation technique. He had once, remembered Charlie. He’d been damned good. He hoped it hadn’t been too long ago; he felt the tingle of apprehension.

The policeman looked at Charlie and Charlie smiled back.

‘So you know about the robbery?’ queried the man.

‘I didn’t get your name?’ replied Charlie.

The detective frowned, off-balanced by the response. Then he smiled.

‘Law,’ he said. ‘Superintendent Harry Law.’

He stared at Charlie, expectantly. Charlie gazed back.

‘Law,’ said the man, again.

Still Charlie said nothing.

‘Unusual name for a policeman,’ offered the detective, at last. ‘Law … police …’

It was a prepared charade, the clumsy joke at his own expense to put an interviewee falsely at ease, decided Charlie.

‘Very unusual,’ he allowed, hardly intruding the condescension. On the flight to London, he’d rehearsed the inevitable meeting, deciding on the vague impatience of a rich man.

The superintendent detected the attitude. The smile slipped away, irritably.

Law was an almost peculiar figure, thought Charlie. Smooth, shining-pink cheeks, glistening oiled hair, perfectly combed and in place, eyes wetly bright and attentive. A disconcerting man, Charlie labelled him. Because he chose to be. He would have to be careful. It was not going to be as easy as he had imagined. Perhaps nothing was.

‘You knew about the robbery?’ Law repeated. There was a hardness to his voice now. The man had almost lost his temper, guessed Charlie. Maybe he wasn’t as good an interrogator as he thought he was.

‘It’s the main item in every newspaper,’ pointed out Charlie. ‘It would be difficult not to know about it.’

‘But you didn’t bother to contact the bank?’ criticised Law.

The reason for the waiting police car and the visit from such a senior officer within thirty minutes, realised Charlie. It would have been sensible to have telephoned from Switzerland. And even more sensible to have picked upon an alternative reaction to the police approach. He’d never be able to play the rich man as long as he had a hole in his ass. It was too late now to change it; it would increase rather than allay suspicion.

‘No,’ he admitted. It would be as wrong now to hurry an explanation.

‘Why?’

The question thrust from the man, the voice even harder.

‘Please sit down,’ deflected Charlie. He gestured Law and the other man to a couch in the middle of the room.

‘I didn’t catch your name, either,’ he said, to the younger man, aware as he spoke of the anger stiffening the superintendent’s body.

‘Hardiman, sir,’ responded the young policeman. ‘Sergeant John Hardiman.’

‘Why?’ repeated Law.

Charlie turned back to the man. Very soon, Charlie guessed, the superintendent would become openly rude.

‘Didn’t I contact the bank?’

Law nodded, breathing deeply. The temper was the man’s failing, thought Charlie.

‘I didn’t want to be a nuisance,’ explained Charlie simply.

Law frowned.

‘Forgive me, sir,’ he said. ‘I don’t follow.’

A clever recovery, assessed Charlie. Seize the apparent conceit of the person you’re interviewing and convey the impression they’re far more intelligent than you, so they’ll over-reach themselves.

‘The newspapers talked of the value being in the region of a million pounds,’ said Charlie.

‘Could be,’ agreed Law. ‘Once we establish the contents of the deposit boxes.’

‘Quite,’ said Charlie, as if that were sufficient explanation. ‘So I didn’t want to be a bother.’

There was another sigh from the older detective.

‘You’re still not making yourself clear.’

‘Can I offer you a drink?’ Charlie slipped away again. He gestured towards the drinks tray. Law had begun to perspire, he saw. Charlie decided he wan’t doing too badly.

‘Whisky would be very nice, sir,’ accepted Law. The man fitted a smile into place, the protective mask behind which he was determined to operate.

Charlie went to the bottles and poured Scotch for himself and the superintendent. Hardiman hesitated, then shook his head in refusal.

‘You were telling me you didn’t want to be a nuisance,’ encouraged the superintendent.

‘Yes,’ said Charlie. ‘I imagined that people who had had valuables in their boxes would be inundating the bank with telephone calls and visits and I thought my enquiries could wait until tomorrow.’

Slowly Law placed the glass on a side table that Charlie had positioned close to him and nodded to Hardiman. The younger man took a notebook from his pocket.

‘I see,’ said Law, slowly. ‘So there was nothing valuable in your box?’

‘Not valuable in the terms of the robbery,’ said Charlie. ‘Some insurance policies … the lease to this house and the conveyancing documents … that sort of thing.’

‘Just papers?’ demanded Law.

‘And a little money … perhaps?500 …’

The superintendent sipped his drink again.

‘You don’t know the actual amount?’

He let the disbelief leak into the question.

‘I travel a great deal,’ said Charlie. ‘The odd bits of currency and travellers’ cheques I don’t spend I normally put into the box for use another time. So I can’t give you the precise figure, no.’

‘But it certainly wouldn’t be more than 500?’

‘Certainly not,’ said Charlie.

He waited, disguising the apprehension. If the money had been left, as Sir Archibald would have decreed it should if he had organised the operation, then this would be the moment when he lost the encounter, Charlie knew. A formal accusation of lying, maybe even the official warning under Judges’ Rules and then the request to accompany them to the police station for further questioning.

Law was nodding, disclosing nothing. Hardiman was busily writing in the notebook.

‘Isn’t that rather expensive?’ asked the superintendent, ending the pause.

‘Expensive?’ asked Charlie. His voice almost broke, showing anxiety. Had the money been there, they would have challenged him immediately, he knew. He felt the first bubble of hope.

‘Hiring a safe deposit box for the sort of stuff most people keep in a cupboard drawer?’ enlarged the detective.

Charlie forced the smile.

‘Ironic, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘I’m the sort of person who likes to know everything is safe … so I put it in a bank because I thought there was less chance of a robbery than here, in the house.’

‘Ironic,’ agreed Law.

But it wasn’t agreement, guessed Charlie. There was still doubt.

The superintendent emptied his glass and shook his head in refusal when Charlie gestured towards the bottle.

‘You wouldn’t mind if I checked with your insurance companies about the policies?’

‘Of course not,’ said Charlie. ‘The Sun Life of Canada and the Royal Assurance.’

Hardiman noted the names.

‘Hope I haven’t caused difficulties,’ said Charlie.

‘Difficulties?’ queried Law.

‘By not bothering to contact the bank … you seemed to attach some importance to it.’

‘It appeared odd,’ allowed Law.

‘And I was just trying to be helpful,’ repeated Charlie.

‘Yes, sir.’

Law paused, then demanded again: ‘There was nothing more than the policies, documents concerning this house and the small amount of money?’

‘Nothing,’ Charlie assured him. The insurance had been Edith’s idea, he remembered; being normal, she’d called it.

Both men were staring at him, he realised. A silence settled into the room. Charlie stayed perched on the edge of the armchair, curbing any indication of nervousness.

‘Then you’re lucky,’ said Law, at last.

‘Lucky?’

‘The policies weren’t even taken … so you won’t have to bother with duplicates.’

Charlie nodded. He’d got away with it, he thought. The realisation swept through him. The two detectives still didn’t seem completely satisfied.

‘That’s very fortunate,’ said Charlie.

‘Yes,’ said Law. ‘Very fortunate.’

‘The money’s gone, I suppose?’ asked Charlie.

‘Yes,’ confirmed the superintendent. ‘All five hundred pounds of it’

Again the policeman waited, letting the sarcasm settle. So it was the smallness of the amount they couldn’t accept. Another mistake, like the artificial attitude.

‘So I’m lucky all the way around,’ said Charlie.

‘Sir?’ questioned the superintendent.

That it was only?500,’ expanded Charlie. ‘It’s enough, but not as much as the other people seem to have lost.’

‘No, sir,’ accepted Law. There was still doubt, Charlie gauged.

‘You say you travel a great deal, sir?’ pressed Law.

‘I have a home in Switzerland as well as here,’ said Charlie. ‘I move between the two very frequently.’

‘That must be nice,’ said Law.

He managed always to convey the impression that he expected more from any sentence, decided Charlie. It was an interesting technique.

‘It is,’ he said. ‘Very nice.’

‘How long do you plan to be here this time, sir?’ asked the superintendent.

Charlie delayed answering, guessing some point to the question.

‘I don’t know,’ he shrugged. ‘A week … maybe two … depends on business.’

‘What business?’

The query was abrupt again, cutting across Charlie’s generalisation.

Charlie grew cautious again, recognising the danger.

‘Investment,’ he said. ‘Finance … that sort of thing.’

Both detectives stared, waiting for more.

When he didn’t continue, Law prompted: ‘You’re a financier?’

‘My passport describes me as a clerk. But I suppose financier is a better description,’ smiled Charlie.

‘Any particular firm?’

‘Predominantly Willoughby, Price and Rowledge,’ responded Charlie easily. ‘I deal with Mr Willoughby.’

‘A financier,’ picked up the superintendent. ‘Yet you only kept?500 in a safe deposit box?’

‘Exactly,’ retorted Charlie. ‘Money that isn’t working for you is dead … useless. No one who’s interested in making money leaves it lying around in safe deposit boxes.’

‘And you are interested in making money, sir?’ asked Law, unperturbed.

‘Isn’t everyone?’ asked Charlie.

Law didn’t reply immediately, appearing to consider the question.

‘And where will you be going, after one or two weeks?’ he demanded, changing direction.

‘Back to Switzerland,’ said Charlie.

‘You could let us have an address, of course?’

‘Of course,’ agreed Charlie. ‘But why should you need it?’

The superintendent smiled apologetically.

‘Never know, sir. Things come up that you can’t anticipate. Always handy to be able to contact people.’

Charlie nodded.

‘And I’d like a formal statement,’ continued Law. ‘Could you come to the station tomorrow?’

Charlie hesitated, a busy man remembering other appointments.

‘I suppose so,’ he said, at last.

‘We’d appreciate that,’ said Law.

The approach had changed, realised Charlie.

‘Naturally I’ll come.’

‘You know,’ said Law, extending the apparent friendliness. ‘Of all the people we’ve interviewed, you’re probably the most fortunate.’

‘How’s that, superintendent?’

‘Apart from the money … and as you say, that’s not a great deal … you’ve lost practically nothing.’

‘Except my faith in the safety of British banks,’ suggested Charlie, trying to lighten the mood.

Law didn’t smile.

‘In every other box there was more money … jewellery … stuff like that Really you are very lucky,’ insisted the superintendent.

‘Very lucky,’ concurred Charlie.

Law looked hopeful, as if expecting Charlie to say more.

‘Is there anything else I can do to help?’ asked Charlie. He shouldn’t seem too eager to end the meeting, he knew. But equally it would be a mistake to abandon the attitude with which he’d begun the encounter, wrong though he now knew it to be. It was the sort of change Law would recognise.

The superintendent gazed directly at him. Then he shook his head.

‘Not at the moment, sir. Just make the statement, tomorrow, if you wouldn’t mind.’

‘Of course not.’

‘And let us know if you’re thinking of going anywhere,’ the detective continued.

Charlie allowed just the right amount of time to elapse.

‘All right,’ he said.

‘And perhaps tomorrow you could let my sergeant have the Swiss address?’

Charlie nodded.

‘Tomorrow, then,’ said Law, standing. Immediately Hardiman followed.

‘Good night, sir,’ said Law.

‘Good night, superintendent. Don’t hesitate to contact me if I can do anything further to help.’

‘Oh we won’t, sir,’ Law assured him. ‘We won’t hesitate for a moment.’

Charlie stood at the doorway until he saw them enter their car and then returned to the lounge. He’d just got away with it, he judged, pouring himself a second whisky.

But only just. Not good enough, in fact. He’d lost his edge, in two years. So he’d better find it again, bloody quickly.

‘Otherwise, Charlie, your bollocks are going to be on the hook,’ he warned himself.

He looked curiously at the whisky, putting the glass down untouched.

‘And that’s how they got there last time,’ he added into the empty room.

For several minutes the policemen sat silently in the car. The lights of Palace Pier were appearing on the left before Law spoke.

‘What do you think?’ he asked Hardiman.

‘Cocky,’ replied the sergeant, immediately. He’d been waiting for the question.

‘But involved?’

Hardiman shook his head.

‘Would you rent a box to discover the layout practically next door to your own house? And having pulled off a million-pound robbery, risk coming back and being questioned, even if you had been that stupid in the first place?’

Law moved his head, in agreement.

‘Hardly,’ he said. ‘They’re big points in his favour.’

The car entered the town, pulling away from the sea-front.

‘There was something though, wasn’t there?’ said Hardiman.

Law smiled at the other man’s reservations.

‘Couldn’t lose the feeling that he was used to interrogation … didn’t have the uncertainty that most people have … the natural nervousness that causes them to make silly mistakes,’ he confirmed.

‘Yet he was nervous,’ expanded Hardiman.

‘Know something else that struck me as odd?’ continued Law.

‘What?’

‘For a financier, he was a scruffy bastard.’

‘Yes,’ agreed the sergeant. ‘Still, don’t they say that only the truly rich can afford to dress like tramps?’

‘And can you really believe,’ went on the superintendent, ignoring the sergeant’s remark, ‘that a financier with a house like he’s got here and who openly admits to another home in Switzerland would only have five hundred quid in a safe deposit box?’

‘No,’ agreed Hardiman, as the car entered the police station compound. ‘But he’s not the first one we’ve encountered on this job who’s lied about the amount. That’s just tax avoidance, surely?’

‘Probably,’ said Law. He started to get out of the car, then turned back into the vehicle, towards the other man.

‘Let’s just keep an eye on him,’ he said. ‘Don’t want to waste any men on full-time observation, but I want some sort of check kept.’

‘Good idea,’ agreed Hardiman. ‘Who knows what we might come up with?’

‘Who knows?’ echoed the superintendent.

Despite a friendship that stretched back more than two decades, there had been few meetings with Berenkov since his repatriation to Moscow from British imprisonment, General Valery Kalenin accepted. Too few, in fact. He enjoyed the company of the burly, flamboyant Georgian. The K.G.B. chief smiled across the table, offering the bottle.

Berenkov took the wine, topping up his glass.

‘French is still best,’ he said, professionally. ‘More body.’

During his twenty years in London, Berenkov had developed the cover as a wine importer, which had allowed him frequent trips to Europe for contact meetings, into an enormously successful business.

‘Not the sort of remark a loyal Russian should make,’ said Kalenin, in mock rebuke. ‘You’ll have to get used to Russian products from now on.’

‘That won’t be difficult,’ said Berenkov, sincerely.

Kalenin pushed aside the remains of the meal he had cooked for them both in his bachelor apartment on Kutuzovsky Prospect. Berenkov had enjoyed the food, the other Russian knew.

‘Glad to be back?’ Kalenin asked, caught by the tone in the man’s voice.

Berenkov nodded.

‘I’d had enough,’ he admitted. ‘My nerve was beginning to go.’

Kalenin nodded. Now Berenkov could lead a pampered life in the Russian capital, he thought, teaching at the spy college to justify the large salary to which he was entitled after the success of such a long operational life, spending the week-ends at the dacha and the vacations in the sunshine of Sochi.

‘You did very well,’ Kalenin praised him. ‘You were one of the best.’

Berenkov smiled at the flattery, sipping his wine.

‘But I got caught in the end,’ he said. ‘There was someone better than me.’

‘Law of averages,’ said Kalenin. Should he tell Berenkov? he wondered. The man had developed a strong feeling for Charlie Muffin, he knew. A friendship, almost.

‘Charlie has been trapped,’ he announced bluntly, making the decision.

Berenkov stared down into his wine, his head moving slowly, a man getting confirmation of long-expected bad news.

‘How?’ he asked.

Kalenin gestured vaguely.

‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘But from the amount of leakage it’s obvious the British want it recognised they intend creating an example out of him.’

‘Charlie would have expected it, of course,’ said Berenkov distantly.

Kalenin said nothing.

The former spymaster looked up at him.

‘No chance of your intervening, I suppose? To give him any help?’

Kalenin frowned at the suggestion.

‘Of course not,’ he said, in genuine surprise. ‘Why ever should I?’

‘No, of course not,’ accepted Berenkov. ‘Stupid of me to have mentioned it.’

‘He’s still alive, apparently,’ volunteered Kalenin. ‘It’s not at all clear what they are going to do.’

‘Charlie was Very good,’ said Berenkov. ‘Very good indeed.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Kalenin. ‘He was.’

‘Poor Charlie,’ said Berenkov.

‘More wine?’ invited Kalenin.

‘Thank you.’