CHAPTER TWELVE – ONLY THE MOST TRUSTWORTHY
Major William Jefferson Clayton was a mild mannered man. He rarely lost his temper, and was rarely cross. But when he was cross, people knew about it.
He stormed into his office on his return from Downing Street, without pausing to say ‘afternoon, chaps’ as he normally did, spun his peaked cap towards the hat-stand as he always did, and missed, which he never did. To crown it all, he slammed his office door behind him. Well, that door hadn’t been shut for … well, weeks if not months.
Captain Brian Foley and Sergeant Catherine Wilson, who had stood up when he crossed the outer office, sat down again.
They looked and each other in disbelief.
“Is he cross, or something?” asked Foley.
“Not exactly his usual bright self, is he,” responded the Chief Clerk.
They looked towards the closed door.
“Do you think we should do something?” asked Foley.
“I’ll put the kettle on,” replied Wilson, helpfully. “And you can take the tea in when it’s brewed.”
“No thanks. That’s a woman’s job.”
“I hope you’re not going to pull rank, sir, at a time like this.”
“Oh, no! Of course not,” replied Foley. “It’s just that a woman’s touch is probably what’s called for ‘at a time like this’ in my view. So you can take the tea in to him.”
“You are pulling rank,” said Wilson.
“I’ll have a cup, too, while you’re about it,” said Foley, as if to end the discussion.
“Do you think the visitors’ china is called for ‘at a time like this’?” asked Catherine Wilson, “or would his old mug make him feel more at home?”
“I shouldn’t think he’d even notice, or care.”
“Mug, then.”
“On the other hand,” said Foley, “it might be a good idea to leave him alone for a bit, y’know. Shutting the door like that might be a sign.”
They looked towards the door again. Foley edged towards it, and cocked an ear.
“Not a sound,” he said. “He’s not on the phone or anything.”
“At least he’s not throwing things about.”
“Perhaps we should wait a bit, to see what happens,” decided Foley.
“And what if nothing does?” asked Wilson.
“Then you can take the tea in,” said Foley.
They agreed to wait, and didn’t have to wait long.
“I’m going to the toy hospital,” announced Clayton as he emerged, grabbing his hat from the hook where Foley had put it.
“But it’s only Thursday,” ventured Sergeant Wilson, immediately wishing she hadn’t.
“If the phone rings, I’m out,” said Clayton, and went out.
Foley and Wilson looked at one another again, still in disbelief. Nothing like this had ever happened before.
“I’ll make the tea anyway,” said Wilson. “In case he comes back soon. I can’t believe this will last.”
“And what if it does, and he doesn’t?” asked the Captain.
“Then I’ll have to go and get him,” said the Sergeant. “A woman’s touch is probably what’s called for at a time like this.”
Bill Clayton wanted time to think, and he always did that best on his own, in the garage full of old toys.
He was worried.
There were things going on which he hadn’t expected and didn’t understand. Not usual, that. He usually knew what was happening and why, and he wasn’t often taken by surprise by the turn of events, either. But he was now. Could he be losing his touch? Surely not. But he needed to understand what was going on, or he couldn’t decide what to do about it. He needed to think. He needed to get the facts sorted into some sort of order, if there was one.
It was possible that it all started with his poor, dear wife. Only been married a few months, they had, and almost immediately went to Northern Ireland for Bill to take up his present posting. She wasn’t used to the military life, or to the security situation in the Province, and hadn’t got used to the idea that Bill was in a high-risk job. She’d been shopping in Lisburn, as if she was at home in her cosy Hampshire home of Farnham. Protestant Lisburn in County Down was usual pretty safe, but you still needed to be careful and be aware. Dorothy obviously wasn’t. It must have been while she was in the supermarket that someone had planted the bomb, under their car parked at the back. At least she didn’t suffer. Killed instantly, thank God. They never did discover who did it, but Bill had always secretly and guiltily believed that he was the real target. They had recognised the car. On the other hand, it could just have been a warning for him to back off. In the end, it had had just the opposite effect.
But now his uncle. First his wife, and now his uncle. Were the two events related, or was it just a co-incidence after all this time? A settling of old scores, perhaps, and not connected to the current operation at all. Not many people even knew he had an uncle. There certainly weren’t many outside his small family circle. The Prime Minister, the Cabinet Secretary, Alistair Vaughan – that was about it, really. It must be a co-incidence. None of them ever met his wife, or knew anything about him when he was posted to Northern Ireland. Come to think of it, though, he did know Alistair before his posting to Belfast, but he was a Commander at Scotland Yard even then. Surely he could be trusted. What had the Prime Minister said? “Only people who were totally trustworthy must be told.” But that had included Vaughan. He had been brought into the loop by the Cabinet Secretary, no less. Could the Cabinet Secretary himself be trusted? It was he, of course, who had given Vaughan his uncle’s old envelope, with the list of bank accounts in it. Had Vaughan then passed it on to someone else?
Who else knew? Closer to home, both Captain Foley and Sergeant Wilson could have seen the envelope and noted the name and address. And what about the mysterious Commander Marsden, who had suddenly appeared on the scene, out of no-where? He had been a pillar of strength through this operation, like the rest of the team. Surely he was absolutely trustworthy. But would any of them who had seen the envelope have known that Edward Benbow was his uncle? Had he mentioned it? He didn’t remember. If someone was trying to get at him through his family, perhaps he should warn his father to take more care? Would he be next?
Then there was the death of Sean Doyle. He felt bad about that – really bad. If he’d been quicker off the mark, Sean might still be alive today. He just hoped he hadn’t suffered too much at the hands of his IRA masters and captors. He was pretty sure he wouldn’t have talked, whatever they did. He was thoroughly trained by the Army to be able to resist that sort of thing, but you never could be sure. Everyone had a limit to what they could take. But Bill Clayton had a nagging un-ease about the whole thing. Something wasn’t right, somehow. The more he thought about it, the odder he thought the whole thing was. It just wasn’t like the IRA to dump people into Strangford Loch, or anywhere else come to that, when they had finished with them. Their methods of disposal were usually much more thorough than that. There was usually no trace left at all – no bodies for the mortuary, no clues, no forensic evidence, nothing. No bodies, no post mortems – exactly the policy that had been adopted during Op. Honolulu. And yet there was poor old Sean, floating face down in the Loch. He must find out what the result was of the post mortem. Find out how much the ex-Army padre might have suffered and how much he might have been tempted, after all, to talk, to put an end to it all.
He ought to get back to the office, really. There were things he had to do; people he had to talk to.
And yet, suddenly, Bill Clayton didn’t know whom he could trust anymore, or who he dared talk to about all this.
There was a soft knock on the partially open door, and Sergeant Wilson peered in. It was her turn to ask the question now.
“Are you all right, sir? I’ve brought a hot cup of tea, if you’d like it.”
“That’s kind of you – thanks. And I’m fine. Just worried about a couple of things that I wanted to try to get my mind round. A cuppa will help no end. Come in and shut the door,” he said.
“Is that wise?” she asked, “shutting the door, I mean. People might talk.”
“Frankly, I don’t care,” replied Clayton. “But I suppose you could do without gossip.”
She went over with the tea, and shut the door behind her.
“I was just thinking,” said Clayton, “that I should get back to the office, if only to apologise to you and Captain Foley. I’m sorry if I acted a bit cross, but I was.”
“We did wonder.”
“I hope I wasn’t too rude. I would hate to think that I’d upset you in any way.” Clayton realised that he wasn’t very good at this sort of thing. “I hope you’ll forgive me, Catherine.”
He hadn’t called her that before.
“Don’t be silly, sir. No offence was taken at all, although we were surprised that you were so upset. We haven’t seen you in a mood like that before.”
“Was it that bad?” Bill Clayton was becoming even more embarrassed.
“It was funny, really. You shut the office door, which you haven’t done for simply ages, and your hat missed the peg. We knew something must be wrong.” Catherine Wilson grinned.
“To be honest, I suddenly felt I wasn’t in control of events any more. Things have happened which I don’t understand and wasn’t expecting, and which I can’t yet explain.”
“I’ll help if I can,” said Wilson, “and I know Captain Foley will as well if you want us to. But what exactly is the problem?”
“The problem is that I’m no longer sure who I can trust and who I can’t.” said Clayton. “And I desperately need to talk this through with someone, just to get my thoughts in order, but the fact is there could just be a traitor at work within the small team involved in Op. Honolulu. I’m not saying there is, but there could be, and until I know for sure, one way or the other, I can no longer be sure who to confide in.”
“This sounds quite appalling,” said a shocked Wilson. “There must be someone in authority you can talk to.”
“I don’t yet need anyone in authority, as you put it, although eventually I shall. At the moment, I can only think of the Prime Minister as being beyond suspicion, but I shall need to know more before I go to him. No. At the moment, I just need someone intelligent who can listen, and help me sort out the facts.”
“How about Commander Marsden?” queried the Sergeant.
“I can’t even be sure of him, at the moment,” replied Clayton. “Until I know more, I can’t be sure of anyone.”
“Not even me?” asked Wilson.
He looked at her, and his anguished expression softened.
“Since you ask,” he said, “and since there’s no-one else about, I can tell you that I would trust you with my life – with anything and everything.”
“Well, thank you,” she said, simply. “So why don’t you?”
He looked at her again, and sipped the now-cold mug of tea. He sighed.
“We’d better get back before Brian Foley comes to find out what’s going on. Not that anything is, but I’m sure part of your task was to humour me back into the office.”
“You’re quite right, actually,” grinned Wilson.
Clayton stood and stretched. “Let’s go, then. But it would be nice to talk things through with you later, if you’re not doing anything.”
“Nothing,” she replied. “Shall we meet up in the office after dinner?”
“If you’re really doing nothing, why don’t we meet before dinner,” suggested Clayton. “I know a quiet restaurant where we could grab a quick meal, and talk at the same time. We’re unlikely to be seen by anyone from here, either.”
“That would be really nice, if you’re sure that’s OK. I mean, I know we’re not supposed to socialise, being different ranks and all that.”
“What the hell! I’m happy to risk it if you are,” said Clayton. “It would be a great pleasure to take you out, if I may. And I’d really like to talk to you, about all sorts of things; not just this.”
“I’d really like that, too,” she said. “I’m no traitor, either!”
“That’s about the only thing I’m really sure of at the moment,” said Clayton with a grin.
He suddenly felt a good deal better, and much happier. On the way back to the office, they arranged where and when to meet. Foley looked up as they got there.
“See?” he said to Sergeant Wilson, “I told you a woman’s touch was what was needed at a time like this!”
“The mug of hot tea helped a bit, too,” said Clayton. “Sorry I was a bit abrupt earlier on. I suppose I ought to see what’s in the ‘in’ tray.”
“Not a lot, actually, sir,” said Wilson, the Sergeant Chief Clerk again. “A few memos, a couple of e-mails for you to look at and delete, and a letter marked ‘personal’. Not hand-writing I recognise, I’m afraid.”
“That shouldn’t take long then,” said Bill Clayton, as he went into his office, leaving the door open this time. “Where’s Commander Marsden, by the way.”
“Said something about exercising his horse, which I take it means that he’s using the helicopter for something or other,” replied Captain Foley.
“Nice to have my office to myself again.”
Clayton settled as best he could, but he was still anxious about the recent turn of events. More than that, perhaps, he was excited about the prospect of a quiet evening out with Catherine Wilson. He was looking forward to that.
He was brought back to earth with a jolt when he opened the letter addressed to him personally.
It was from Father Sean Doyle.
It was short and cryptic, obviously hastily written a very short time before his death.
Clayton read it over and over again.
“My dear Bill,” it read. “I’m sure you know me well enough to recognise what is in my character and what isn’t, in spite of what may be suggested. And I’m sure I know you well enough to be confident that you will spot a red herring when you see one. May the Good Lord bless you. Regards, Sean.”
The envelope contained a second, scribbled note, almost more alarming than the first. But it would explain a few things, if it was accurate. He read that over and over again, too, even though it was only a few words. After a few moments’ thought, he pushed the note into his pocket. He would keep that to himself for the time being, until he was sure whom he could share it with. But he at least now had something to go on, and a possible, if tenuous, link between all this and his uncle. He needed to know more, but would need time to work out how best to check this out.
Clayton stood slowly, patted his pocket, and went to the door.
“Come in you two,” he said.
‘Now what,’ they thought.
“Sit down, and listen to this. The letter I had is from Father Sean Doyle.”
They both knew Doyle’s background, and that he was – or had been - one of their best men. Clayton read the letter to them, twice.
“What on earth is that about?” asked Foley.
“There always seemed to me to be something odd about Sean’s death,” said Clayton. “It’s one of the things I was trying to puzzle out earlier this afternoon. The odd thing about it in particular is that the IRA doesn’t usually leave people who they have assassinated lying about, which is what we had assumed had happened to poor Sean. We assumed that they had decided it was he who was creaming off their funds, and that after they had tried to get him to talk, had killed him to put a stop to it or as punishment. This letter suggests that Sean somehow knew what was going to happen to him.”
“It could also suggest,” offered Sergeant Wilson, “that he committed suicide before they got to him. We need to know how he died.”
“Then let’s find out, quickly,” said Clayton, reaching for the phone. “We need the results of the post mortem, and fast.”
They sat there while he spoke to his contact at the Queen Victoria Hospital, where the post mortem had been carried out. He almost looked relieved at the end of the conversation, but immediately dialled again to speak to the Detective Chief Superintendent in charge of the enquiry into Doyle’s death.
At the end of it, he sat back and looked at them both.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” he said. “For the last few years, Sean has been risking his neck on our behalf, and so far as we know, he was never suspected as being anything other than a parish priest. Thanks to his exceptional bravery and total loyalty, he won’t be now, either.”
“Why, what happened?” asked Sergeant Wilson.
“You were right; it was suicide. There wasn’t a mark on his body, so no torture thank God. He was found full of barbiturates, which he took before swimming out to the middle of the Loch. That was obviously a deliberate attempt to avoid the attentions of the IRA, and the risk of being forced to give away his real role in life. But he didn’t stop there. The police have found child pornography in his rooms and a computer full of downloaded material, mostly of recent origin. The police believe he was a paedophile, who was about to be uncovered. They are already appealing for possible victims to come forward.”
“That letter makes absolute sense now,” said Foley.
“That’s one hell of a red herring he’s laid, too,” said Wilson. “Blackening his own character in such a vile way just to protect us and our Op. Honolulu.”
“You’d better dig out his file for me, if you would,” said Clayton. “I shall need to square this away with his poor parents, if they are still alive.”
Catherine Wilson couldn’t remember when she’d last felt like this.
It was a long time since someone she really wanted to be with had asked her out. And she really wanted to be with Bill Clayton.
His friend, James Anchor, had been nice, but somehow she never really felt comfortable with people who had been divorced. You only ever heard one side of the story, and there was always another. Anyway, they only went out a couple of times before he decided that who-ever-it-was in the Cabinet Office was a better bet. But she had learnt a thing or two about Bill Clayton during idle chats over dinner, and the more she heard, the more she liked. She had always thought he was a nice man, anyway, but had never given a second thought to the possibility that they could, one day, become friends rather than just office colleagues. The Army didn’t like officers mixing with NCOs, so that was the end of it, so far as she was concerned. But he was obviously not the least concerned about that, which made this evening’s dinner an even more exciting prospect. And if he didn’t care about gossip, why should she? He had far more to lose than she did. If the worse came to the worse, she could always leave the Army. The thought had crossed her mind more than once, anyway, especially since her time in Iraq. That had been a brutal experience, and she often wondered if she’d ever really get over it. The physical hurt had passed and the wounds had more or less healed, but she didn’t think the mental anguish would ever leave her, unless and until she left the Army. She liked the military life for the company it gave her and the active life – that’s why she had joined – but now it always reminded her of a quite horrid episode in her life which she would rather forget.
She looked at her scarred body as she dressed after her shower, and winced at the memory. She wondered if he’d mind, although she was jumping the gun a bit, and grinned. Wishful thinking! She still had a good figure, but the scars were not a pretty sight, and she would understand any man being put off by them.
It would probably never come to that, though. Certainly not tonight. Bill wasn’t the sort of man to rush things, she thought.
She was intrigued to know what it was he so urgently needed to share with her – or anyone – about recent events. Although they still had a few odd ends to tie up, their part of the operation was more or less over, she had thought, while the emphasis swung towards the politics of it all. She knew that James Anchor was now in Hawaii as part of the planning for that phase, but frankly, politics didn’t interest her too much.
Bill Clayton did, though, and she hoped there would be time for her to learn more about the man - and for him to learn more about her.
She didn’t know the restaurant he had suggested, but she would find it all right. They had agreed to go independently – him in his old car, and she on her motorbike – and to meet there. He would book a table, although it was quiet he said, and probably wouldn’t be crowded. Seemed a shame they would have to say goodnight in the car park, but it was probably for the best. What sort of parting would it be, she wondered? The excitement and anticipation was killing her! She shoved her long hair into a bun, struggled into her tight leathers, and grabbed her helmet. She would soon know.
Bill Clayton had left the mess earlier than he really needed, although he knew his old VW would not be as quick as Catherine’s Honda. But he couldn’t hang around any longer. The suspense was killing him. He really wanted to get to know this girl, and the opportunity to do so had come about quite unexpectedly. He still couldn’t believe that he had been brave enough to suggest meeting out, rather than in that bloody office, or that she had agreed so readily. That had to be a good sign.
He got there first, as he had planned. He was shown to the table, and would have ordered a drink, except that he suddenly realised he didn’t know what she liked. He really didn’t know anything much about Catherine, except what was on her file. And that didn’t include her favourite tipple.
He didn’t have to wait long for Catherine. Her face flushed from the wind, she handed the waiter her helmet, shook her long hair into place, and unzipped her leather jacket as she crossed the small restaurant towards him.
“Hope I’m not late,” she greeted him.
“Bang on time,” replied Bill. “I was a touch early – must have had the wind behind me for a change!”
He helped her into her seat at the table, as the waiter took her coat and hovered.
“I couldn’t order a drink,” said Bill, “because I haven’t the slightest idea what you like. In fact I know very little about you at all, but hopefully that will all change this evening. How about some champagne, as this is our first evening out together?”
“That would be lovely,” she replied. “But we mustn’t forget that we are both driving.”
“Bring a bottle,” he told the waiter. “I’m sure we could manage that between us. We shan’t be hitting the road again for a long time yet, I hope.”
They studied the menu and ordered their meal, although neither of them had much of an appetite, for some reason.
“Now!” said Bill. “Tell me all about yourself!”
“Certainly not,” Catherine replied. “I want to hear all about you first! But you wanted to talk shop – that’s really why we’re here.”
“No it isn’t,” he replied “We’re here because I wanted to take you out and get to know you a lot better. But I do also need to unburden myself a bit at some time this evening.”
“Work first,” said Catherine. “Let’s get that over, and then we talk about more pleasant things.”
“If you insist. But I hardly know where to start.”
“The beginning is always a good place,” said Catherine, philosophically.
So Bill Clayton started at the beginning. He told her about the death of his wife, which might or might not have been the beginning, and his fears that he was the real target. Then there was his uncle, and the old envelope of his.
“I remember seeing it,” said Catherine. “It was in the safe for a bit.”
“And the list of accounts inside was largely provided by Sean Doyle, as you know.” said Bill. “So there’s a sort of link between Edward Benbow and Sean Doyle, but is it a strong enough link to explain uncle’s murder?”
“Who else knew about the envelope and its contents?”
“The Prime Minister, the Cabinet Secretary, and Alistair Vaughan.”
“The Bank of England man?”
“Right. Sir Robin Algar gave him the envelope and contents together. Vaughan was responsible for action to close the accounts.”
“Using the convicted computer expert to do it.”
“Right again, Catherine.”
“Would he have seen the envelope as well, do you think?”
“Possible, I suppose. But one of the things I haven’t yet been able to work out is why anyone would want to kill Edward Benbow.”
The smoked salmon arrived.
When the waiter had gone, Catherine said, “Tell me about your uncle.” If nothing else, it might give her a few clues about Bill’s family background, and she really wanted to know more about him.
“An interesting and complex man, my uncle Edward,” said Bill Clayton. “My father was in the Army – retired as a General some years ago. His sister married Edward Benbow, who was also in the Army, although not the sort of Army my father had much time for. Benbow was in the Royal Artillery, rather than a teeth-arm infantry battalion. So far as my father was concerned, people in anything other than that were a different and inferior breed from those in the front line battalions. Which is why I’m a bit of a disappointment to him!
“But Uncle Edward did well. He retired as a Major, and went into the MOD – the final blow to my father – and while there, got a degree in nuclear physics, and then transferred to the Foreign Office, or MI5 or something like that, as an Arms inspector. Much respected in that role he was, too. Spent a lot of time in Iraq before he retired altogether. Since then, though, he has been called up on some sort of contract to help out in Libya since Gaddafi declared his Weapons of Mass Destruction, and he’s been there quite often in the … ”
Bill Clayton stopped in mid sentence, and stared at Catherine.
“Bill, whatever is it?” she said, alarmed.
“I wonder.” he said quietly. “I just wonder if perhaps Libya isn’t the link we’re looking for.”
“Libya?” she queried.
“Yes, Libya. Libya could just be the key to all this.” He fumbled in the pocket of his best jacket. “I didn’t show you this, but I will now. It’s a hand written, or scribbled, note from Sean Doyle. It was in with his letter, but didn’t mean much to me at the time.”
He handed it across the table, just as their main course arrived. Catherine kept it hidden until the waiter had gone, and then read,
“Your man Vaughan a fund raiser – links to Libyan arms dealers.”
“Good God,” she exclaimed. “If that’s true…”
The rest went unsaid. They were both deep in thought.
“Why Vaughan?” asked Clayton, thinking aloud. “What’s his particular interest in all this?”
“If that note from Doyle is accurate, then I suppose it’s always possible that Benbow discovered that Vaughan was involved in IRA arms running,” said Catherine.
“Or that Vaughan was afraid he would.”
“Suddenly, we need to know a great deal more about Alistair Vaughan, don’t we?”
“We certainly do,” agreed Clayton. “And I would also like to know about the weapon that killed my uncle. I wonder how good the Sussex Police forensic people are? I think I might pay them a call to find out.”
He looked across at Catherine. “Fancy a dirty weekend in Brighton?” he asked with a grin.
For the rest of the meal, they forgot the shop, and delved into each other’s personal background. They discovered they had quite a lot of interests in common, although a love of motorbikes was not one of them. The more Bill heard, the more attracted he was to the girl across the table. And the more she learned about Bill Clayton, the more inclined she was to think that a weekend in Brighton, or anywhere else, would be worth having.
Eventually and inevitably, the conversation drifted back to the problems surrounding Op. Honolulu, and they discussed how they might set about finding out more about Vaughan.
“I’ve met the man quite recently, of course,” said Bill. “Had lunch with him and the Cabinet Secretary at a very posh restaurant in London. We mainly discussed how to get hold of the IRA cash, but I seem to remember that I also mentioned the arms dump in the south, and how difficult I thought it was going to be to get at it. I also mentioned the shipment of arms they were expecting from Libya. Good grief, if he is on their side and not ours, I just about gave the game away about everything we knew.”
“You weren’t to know,” said Catherine.
“Of course not,” agreed Bill. “But if that note from Doyle is only half accurate, we’ve been extremely lucky to get away with it so far.”
“I’m sure the man could have done more to stop us,” said Catherine.
Bill looked at her. “He should have killed me and not my uncle for one thing,” he said.
“Bill, please don’t say that,” she implored. “You must take special care from now on, until we know the truth. Promise me you will.”
“Agreed,” said Bill Clayton. “I’ll start by keeping off the back of that motorbike of yours!”
He was flattered that she seemed to care.
“Talking of my bike,” she said, looking round, “we should make a move. They must be waiting to close. We are the last here.”
He looked at his watch.
“You’re right. I suppose we should, but I was just beginning to enjoy getting to kno