The Accident Man

69

Dame Agatha Bewley was back in MI5’s headquarters at Thames House, on the north bank of the river Thames. It wasn’t excitingly new. It wasn’t impressively old. It wasn’t provocatively ugly or inspiring in its beauty. It was just there, a Department of Works project from 1929. Millions of people drove to and fro in front of it along a crowded riverside route. Not one in a thousand ever wasted their time even looking at it. As a home for domestic spies, it really couldn’t have been better.

After her breakfast at the Travellers Club, she had been driven to work in her official black Jaguar, and on the way she’d thought about Sir Perceval Wake. Now that his services were not so regularly required by his country, had he gone into business for himself? What was it Grantham had said in that meeting, straight after news of the crash had come through? Something about Wake’s genius for black operations, his instinct for their execution and consequences. Wake had always disturbed her. She didn’t feel comfortable with a man whose desire for influence was so apparent but whose sexual and emotional needs were so well-masked.

Wake was a lifelong bachelor, with no known lovers of either gender. He’d been around so long, the chances were he hadn’t been security-vetted in decades. He could be hiding some secret shame that would leave him open to blackmail. He might equally well be asexual, of course, repelled by the thought of bodily contact. But a repressed sexuality was almost as dangerous as a perverted one.

So, what had he been doing for kicks? Dame Agatha knew she’d have to be careful. Wake was still connected all the way to the top. If he caught wind of any investigation, all hell would break loose. So she kept it discreet. A team had been dispatched to keep an eye on Wake’s home, his movements, and any contacts he made. She’d been summoned to the room where the operation was being controlled at around half-past twelve. Now she was leaning over a workstation, one hand on the tabletop, the other on the back of a chair. One of her agents was sitting there, running the communications system.

A voice came over the speakerphone:

“We have two males entering the building, both white, smartly dressed. One looks to be in his fifties, gray hair, florid complexion. The other is younger, probably late thirties, short-cropped hair, carrying a briefcase. We have pictures. Mark’s just setting up the link now, should be sending them through to you any second.”

Two grainy photographs, shot long distance through a telephoto lens, appeared on the computer screen at the center of the workstation.

“I know one of them,” said Dame Agatha. “Lord Crispin Malgrave, the chairman and major shareholder of Malgrave and Company. He’s a steward of the Jockey Club, receives regular invitations to the royal box at Ascot, and has donated at least five million to the Conservative Party.”

“You’re very well-informed, Agatha,” said her deputy, Pearson Chalmers, who was standing next to her, watching the same screen.

“I should be,” she replied. “The last time Lord Malgrave joined the royal family at Ascot, he had lunch beforehand in Windsor Castle. I was sitting next to him.”

“My, you do move in high circles.”

“Not often. But Lord Crispin lives in them. Now, who’s the man with him?”

“A bodyguard?” suggested Chalmers. “He has that military look.”

“Possibly.” Dame Agatha cast a skeptical eye over the figure on the screen. “But would a bodyguard carry a briefcase? Put him through the system. See if his face jogs the computer’s memory.”

She pressed a button on the workstation and spoke into a microphone. “Keep watching. Await further orders. Good work so far.”

Dame Agatha cut the conversation short with her field agents. She was thinking about the military man standing at Wake’s front door. Was this the killer Grantham had mentioned, coming back to England on the trail of his lost girl? It was a very long shot indeed, but if Wake really was involved, then the killer would certainly want to talk to him. But where did Lord Malgrave fit in? Dame Agatha decided to wait awhile and see if she could get to the mystery man without offending too many senior members of the British establishment.

She turned back to Pearson Chalmers. “You’d better call Jack Grantham at SIS. Tell him we may have something for him. If there’s an interrogation, he’ll want to sit in.”

Chalmers raised an eyebrow. “I’m all for interservice cooperation, but isn’t that taking it a bit far?”

Dame Agatha smiled. “No. We’ve both got our necks on the line. This time, for once, we’d better stick together.”

She pressed the button again and spoke to her agents in the field. “When Sir Perceval Wake’s visitors leave, I want a tail put on Lord Malgrave. But make it discreet. As for the other man, lift him and bring him back here. I’d like a word with our mystery guest.”