The Hawk Is Dead

50

Friday 24 November 2023

Andy Westinghouse answered his phone on the first ring. Grace began by congratulating him on his promotion.

‘That’s good of you, sir, but I suspect you had a little to do with it?’

‘You did it on pure merit, Andy!’

‘Hmmmn! Well, I’m very grateful, and I appreciate you calling.’

‘Actually, there’s something else. I’ve just learned that you know a bit about codes?’

‘Well yes, but probably a bit rusty. Have you got a map of buried treasure?’ he jested.

‘Nothing quite so much fun, Andy.’ Grace explained about the diary, and the urgency — as well as the options the Met detective, Brent Dean, had suggested.

‘Well, I’ve always loved codes, Roy — when I joined the Army and graduated from Sandhurst I was intending to join the Royal Signals, until I realized that the infantry was where I really wanted to be. So this is an ex-Naval officer who has written the code. Quite possibly he uses a military one. I wonder if it’s in BATCO.’

‘Batco?’ Grace queried.

Westinghouse spelled it out. ‘B-A-T-C-O. It stands for Battle Code. That was what we used for encrypting any military messages on the Clansman net — the radio comms system up to the early 2000s before Bowman took over. What time period did Sir Peregrine serve in the Forces?’

‘He was there in the early 2000s.’

‘That fits. BATCO — if that’s what you have — is cumbersome and time consuming. If you can ping a page of it over, I’ll be able to tell you.’

Grace sent it while they were still talking. Moments later, Westinghouse said, ‘Got it! Give me a moment.’

Less than a minute later, Westinghouse said, ‘Yes, it is BATCO but a variation — and it’ll be a bugger to decipher.’

‘Could you do that for us?’ Grace asked.

‘How many pages of it do you have?’

‘Eight.’

‘I’m pretty confident I could crack it — I’m one of those sad people who’s a hobbyist cryptographer — but it would take me a good couple of days, if not longer.’

‘That’s quicker than any of our other options. I could live with that, Andy.’

‘The problem is, sir, I wouldn’t be able to start until at least Sunday — I’m Silver on Op Archer. We’re about to raid and probably seize a container ship in Newhaven Harbour with fifteen million pounds’ worth of cocaine on board — in two hours’ time.’

‘I’m sorry, yes, I’d forgotten, Andy. I’ve been somewhat absorbed in Op Asset. Can you think of someone who could start right away — tonight? A cryptologist? Anyone from your Army days, someone retired perhaps who’d be up for a challenge — and protecting the Royal Family?’

‘That would take time too, sir. I could put you in touch with the Army Intel Corps — they have people who could have a good run out at the code — but...’ He fell momentarily silent.

‘But?’ Grace prompted.

‘There would be issues. The Army will want to know the reasons you want the code deciphered — and then they might want to cover up or minimize a former member of the Armed Forces’ behaviour. There’s a bit of a fraternal loyalty in the Forces that’s similar to the posh British school system. You know what they say about public schools?’

‘No, tell me?’

‘They might throw you out, but they’ll never let you down. The Armed Forces are a bit like that too. If there’s an issue with a former officer, their regiment will be the first to close ranks. If there’s a whiff of the notion of corruption, the Army, Navy and Air Force will want to cover up, or at the least minimize their former member’s behaviour.’

‘I don’t think there’s any suggestion of Sir Peregrine being corrupt,’ Grace replied. ‘We think he may have stumbled across something — the thing that led to him being murdered.’

‘I completely understand, sir. But just knowing how the Army works — I’m worried that going down their Intel Corps route won’t give you the speed you need. But I have just had a thought. Remember DC Scroope?’

‘Denton Scroope?’

‘That’s him — a Surrey detective from Godalming, near Guildford, but I think he moved to Ringmer a couple of years ago when he retired. He was on the Major Crime Team before being transferred to Professional Standards.’

‘I remember him,’ Grace said. And he did remember the man, very clearly.

Denton Scroope, a pedantic DC, who had been born — as Norman Potting had described it — with a brain the size of Google, and an equally massive sense-of-humour bypass. He would finish the Telegraph crossword in under ten minutes, daily without fail, during whatever tea or lunch break he had. Grace knew also that Scroope had at one time during his police career been seconded to GCHQ. In a rare unguarded moment, Scroope had let it slip that he had been on a team that intercepted and decoded terrorist communications.

Scroope had been fond of telling everyone that it was one of his ancestors who had signed Charles I’s death warrant. Although he was always quick to say he was a very distant and remote relative — and in a rare display of something approaching humour would add that he was on more of a twig than a branch of that particular family tree.

‘I’m still in touch with him,’ Westinghouse said. ‘We exchange the occasional puzzle — I’ll give you his home and mobile numbers.’

Thanking Westinghouse and ending the call, Grace immediately dialled Scroope’s mobile. As he did so, he had a mental image of an imperious aardvark with spectacles. Scroope’s pompous, precise voice as he answered matched the image perfectly.

After Grace explained what he needed, Scroope responded, deadly serious and with no hint of irony. He spoke slowly, as he always had, in a dry, pedantic manner, leaving a gap between words that was a fraction longer than necessary, as if addressing a simpleton. ‘I think I could be your man for this. I think you’ve come to the right person, Roy. Very fortuitously, for you, less so for me, due to the vagaries of the mind of She-Who-Must-Be-Obeyed, my weekend plans have been rescheduled, so I will be able to get straight on to it.’

Grace put the phone down, silently detesting the demeaning way Scroope talked about his wife, something he still heard way too often these days. He emailed the diary pages to him straight away, asking him to call as soon as he’d had a look. Less than five minutes later, Scroope called him back.

‘Interesting, Roy. Challenging. This is definitely a bastardization of BATCO. I will do what I can. But I need you to know I will only be able to proceed at the speed of a tortoise.’

‘I’d prefer a cheetah or a gazelle, Denton.’

‘I don’t do either of those animals. Just tortoises,’ he retorted, somewhat cryptically.

‘The tortoise and the hare,’ Grace said. ‘Got it!’

‘No, Roy,’ Scroope’s humourless voice responded, the pedantic dial turned up to maximum. ‘Only tortoises.’