CHAPTER FOURTEEN – THE ENVELOPE
After lunch, Major Bill Clayton wandered across from the Mess to the Transport Office.
Corporal Harrington was having a quiet day, and had been looking forward to getting stuck in to his new paperback. He had to admit that, so far, the book itself was not living up to its cover, and that’s what had persuaded him to buy it. So far – page 53 he was on – there had been no reference whatsoever to a tall, willowy blonde with big boobs and not much on. And Major Clayton, nice bloke though he was, nearly always spelt trouble.
“Why is it,” asked Bill Clayton, “that it’s always you on duty when I come across?”
“I often ask myself the same question, sir,” replied Harrington.
“Anyone would think that you ran this place on your own.”
“It sometimes feels like it, sir,” replied Harrington. “How can I help?”
“Well,” said Clayton, “For once there’s no panic.”
“That’s a relief.”
“I would like you to book me two seats on the first flight out on Thursday, please.” said Clayton. “The day after tomorrow,” he added, just to be sure Harrington knew what day of the week it was. Clayton had spotted the cover on Harrington’s book.
“Who for, sir?” asked the Corporal.
“Me, and Sergeant Wilson,” replied Clayton. “And before you ask, I’ve got a meeting with the Prime Minister in Downing Street, and Sergeant Wilson has a meeting at Scotland Yard. Try to book us back on the last flight, if you would – neither of us knows how long we shall be.”
“Should be no problem, sir,” said Harrington. “I’ll get the tickets to your office in the morning.”
“Thanks.” Clayton turned to leave. “Oh, and, er, enjoy the book.”
Harrington blushed.
“Early start on Thursday, I’m afraid, sergeant,” Clayton said when he got back to his own office. “I’ve asked for seats on the first flight out, and the last one back. Tickets delivered here tomorrow. We’ll use my car to get to Aldergrove – save bothering the Transport office again. I give them enough trouble.”
The Prime Minister’s statement a few days earlier had really caused a stir, as everyone knew it would. So far, though, it had been difficult to accurately gauge reaction around the world to what he and the President had announced, but the early signs were reasonably encouraging. Certainly, there was unqualified relief that terrorism in Northern Ireland seemed to be at an end at last, although there was still the odd incident now and then, as there had been in Iraq. The Protestant population was more fidgety about the plan than anyone else, as expected, but even there, it seemed that the option of keeping a British passport or taking out dual nationality, coupled with the continuing representation at Westminster had been enough. There had also been a quiet ‘spin’ campaign going on for some time, to make sure they knew the alternatives - civil war or union with the South. The message that Britain had had enough had got through, and if continuing union with Britain was no longer an option, then the comfortable umbrella of the United States was better than the rest. There seemed to have been enough concessions to the Unionists for them to be reasonably content, at least for the time being. No doubt both sides of the divide would be seeking even more during the run up to the referenda and elections, when the people of Northern Ireland, and in the South, would finally express their views. And that process was due to start very soon, before too much opposition was allowed to build up on either side of the Atlantic.
Nick Marsden was in Bill’s office, as he still liked to call it, when Clayton returned.
“I had been thinking, you know, that it was time for me to sling my hook, as they say, and get back to Hereford,” he announced, “but suddenly, after Monday’s political hoo-hah, we seem to be getting busy again. So if it’s OK with you, I’ll hang around a bit longer.”
“I could still do with your back-up if you don’t mind. I shall be away from the office for bit in the next week or so I think.”
“Agreed, then,” said the Commander.
“As a matter of interest,” asked Bill Clayton, “why are we suddenly busy again.”
“The PM’s statement has brought all sorts of people out of the woodwork. You can hear the din of the whistle-blowers from here. We’ve had several very useful tip-offs from anonymous individuals who want to clean their slate and their consciences while there’s time. There are a couple of quite important people we need to pick up – they were on our initial list – and there are a few, small, arms caches to deal with, ‘as a result of information received’, to use the jargon.”
“That’s good news,” said Bill. “Tell me about the weaponry.”
“Nothing really big,” replied Marsden, “although one, a UVF haul, is well worth getting rid of. And lots more illegally held weapons are being turned in by their owners, too, according to our police chums at Knock. The Police can actually deal with most of this, but I’ll get a team together to deal with the ammo. when we find it.”
“Excellent. But I’m sorry we’re getting busy again right now, as I’ll miss a bit of the action when I go to London on Thursday.” said Clayton.
“With the lovely Sergeant Wilson, I see!” Marsden pulled his leg.
“That’s right. She’s using a contact of hers’ to gain unofficial access to some records at Scotland Yard that I wanted to go through, and I’m meeting the Prime Minister again in the afternoon. There’s no end to the fun, is there!”
“Brian Foley will be here, though, so we’ll manage without you for a day,” replied Nick Marsden. “What are the records Wilson is searching through, as a matter of interest?”
“If I can, I’ll tell you when we get back, if they prove to be at all relevant. But they may not – we’ll see.”
It had been the fag end of last week when Catherine Wilson, wearing an even bigger grin that usual, had knocked on Bill Clayton’s door.
“You’ll never guess what I’ve done,” she said.
“Surprise me,” said Clayton.
“By devious means, which we won’t go into if you don’t mind, I’ve been given access to Alistair Vaughan’s personal files at the Yard.”
“You’re joking!” exclaimed Clayton. “How the hell did you manage that, you clever girl?”
She raised a finger to her lips.
“Not a word,” she said, “but I have managed to persuade an old chum of mine – ex Military Police – to let me have a quiet and unofficial look, if he can get hold of them from the vaults where the archives are stored. Thursday, unless I hear to the contrary before then.”
“That’s brilliant.”
“I thought you’d be pleased,” Catherine Wilson said. “It could provide us with just the information we’ve been looking for.”
“Tell you what,” said Bill Clayton. “I’ll try to fix to see the PM on Thursday too, - I need to see him again - and perhaps we can both meet Alistair Vaughan for lunch. How about that?”
“A great idea. If I don’t get all we need from the files, I can chat him up over lunch, and if necessary, and if I’m asked, stay over.”
“That’s the bit I don’t like,” said Clayton.
“Don’t fuss,” she replied. “It may not come to that, but you know very well I can take care of myself if I have to.”
Clayton nodded.
“I still worry about you, Catherine.”
“Nice of you, but please don’t,” she replied.
“I’ll book us both back on the last flight, and hope you’re there,” he said. “Apart from anything else, it will give us a good chance to de-brief, over a drink.”
“I can think of better places than that,” she said with a laugh.
As it happened, Clayton couldn’t get an appointment with the PM until late afternoon on Thursday, which didn’t really matter as he might, by then, have learnt a bit more about Vaughan from Catherine’s researches.
He had an uneasy feeling about that man, and his possible involvement with the opposition. It just didn’t seem to ring true, somehow.
He had arranged to meet Catherine Wilson outside Scotland Yard at 12.30, from where they would get a cab to Covent Garden for their lunch with Vaughan at ‘The Crusting Pipe’ wine bar. He had given Wilson her return air ticket, ‘in case she was delayed for some reason’, as he put it; otherwise, they would meet at the check-in desk at Heathrow.
In the cab, Catherine Wilson was able to give Clayton a rather breathless debrief about her morning’s work.
“Went right through his personal file,” she reported, “and your friend looks as clean as a whistle to me. Not a hint of any trouble, no Irish connections, excellent annual reports, and a very high security clearance.”
“Lifestyle?” queried Clayton.
“No evidence of anything excessive,” she said. “Smallish house in a village called Lane End, near High Wycombe, and a smallish mortgage to go with it. Of course, he left the Yard a couple of years ago now, so I suppose things could have changed since then.”
“Maybe we’ll find out later,” said Clayton, as the cab pulled up.
“Oooh! Shops!” said Catherine.
“Keep your mind on the job, if you don’t mind, Sergeant,” said Clayton.
Alistair Vaughan was already at the table when they arrived, and Catherine Wilson was introduced as Clayton’s P.A.
“Very nice to meet you,” said Vaughan, shaking hands.
“We can talk shop quite openly,” said Clayton. “Catherine’s got a high security clearance, and knows all about our recent endeavours.”
“Good,” said Vaughan. “We haven’t met since my part in the venture was finished, but I was impressed how well that villain Farlow got on, and how quickly he got to grips with things.”
“He seems to have done a good job for us,” said Clayton, “although I haven’t checked the figures to make sure he managed to transfer all there was. I hope to do that later,” he added, watching Vaughan’s face.
“I think you’ll find not a penny piece missing,” said Vaughan. “We watched him like a hawk all the time, and recorded his every move. Every stroke of the keyboard is on tape, by the way, if you should want it for your files.”
“I’ll take the tapes off your hands, if you like, although it might be best if we destroyed them eventually rather than risk them getting into the wrong hands.”
“I agree”, said Alistair. “There are no copies, of course.”
“I could perhaps collect them from you this afternoon” said Catherine. “I shall have nothing better to do while the boss is in Downing Street, although a bit of West End shopping is always tempting.”
“There’s not much in the way of shops in the City,” said Vaughan, “but Canary Wharf is worth a visit, if you have the time.”
“I’d certainly love to have a look round Docklands,” Wilson enthused. “I’ve never been, but I’ve heard so much about it. In fact I rarely get to London at all, and when I do, usual head for the West End or Knightsbridge.”
“Don’t all women?” asked Clayton.
They chatted on over a pleasant lunch and a bottle of Claret, but learnt nothing about Vaughan that they thought was in any way out of the ordinary – not a clue. The man was as open and frank as they could wish, and perfectly relaxed. He didn’t mention Farlow’s unfortunate accident on the tube after he left prison, although they all knew of Vaughan’s part in arranging it.
Eventually, Clayton looked at his watch, and made to leave.
“Can’t keep the PM waiting, but you two by all means linger over coffee or another glass. I’ll settle up on the way out.”
He and Vaughan shook hands, promising to keep in touch.
“See you at the airport, Catherine,” he said as he left. “If you’re going to be delayed, give me a bell on the mobile.”
“I’ll have to get back to the Bank soon, too,” said Vaughan. “But if you’ve really nothing else to do, why don’t I point you towards Canary Wharf, and perhaps meet you again later for a drink, when I can show you around.”
“That would be really nice, if you’re sure it’s not putting you out at all.”
Bill Clayton saw the Prime Minister alone in his Downing Street office.
“It’s very good of you to see me, Prime Minister, and I sincerely hope I’m not wasting your time, but something’s come up in relation to Op. Honolulu that I thought you should know about. On the other hand,” continued Bill thoughtfully, “it would be rather better in the end if I am eventually proved to be wasting your time.”
“I told you at the beginning that if there were any problems you should discuss them with me direct. You’d better explain.”
“Frankly,” said Bill, “I am extremely worried that we may have a traitor in our midst. Someone we have trusted absolutely until now appears to have let us down, and not to have been on our side at all.”
“Good grief,” exclaimed Tony Weaver. “If true, that is very serious indeed, and I see now what you meant about hoping that you are wasting my time. Are you suspicious of anyone in particular?”
“Yes, I am, although I should find it difficult to believe if it proved to be true.” said Clayton. “My problem is, though, that until we can be certain of the man’s identity, I no longer know whom I can trust. Which is why I asked to meet you on your own.”
“I quite understand that,” said Weaver. “Tell me what’s happened to arouse your suspicions.”
“It is all related to that wretched envelope of my uncle’s, and his later murder. At the time, Edward Benbow was acting for your Government, Prime Minister, as an arms inspector in Libya, following Gadaffi’s admission that he had WMDs. Obviously, because of the envelope, his death is in some way related to Op. Honolulu, but for the life of me I have been unable to find the link or any explanation at all. But it all comes back to the envelope containing the list of terrorist bank accounts, which, you may remember, you passed on to Sir Robin Algar. He, in turn, gave it to Alistair Vaughan at the Bank of England. Alistair is an old and trusted colleague of mine, but I’m sad to say that he is my prime suspect.”
“Why?” asked the Prime Minister, looking very worried.
Bill Clayton told Tony Weaver about the circumstances surrounding the death of Father Sean Doyle, the erstwhile priest of the Falls Road, but also one of Bill’s top men, who had actually supplied most of the bank account details, gleaned through his other role as the IRA’s Treasurer.
“You may remember me telling you that he was found dead in Strangford Loch.”
The Prime Minister nodded.
“For a time, we imagined that he had suffered at the hands of the IRA, who probably assumed that he was responsible for the disappearance of their funds. But then this arrived in the post.”
Bill took Doyle’s letter from his pocket, and waited while the Prime Minister read it.
“Well,” asked Weaver, “What do you make of it?”
“We now know,” said Clayton, “that Doyle committed suicide, presumably because he feared torture or worse at the hand of his IRA colleagues. But he left a false trail, to ensure people didn’t suspect any involvement with us. The public view of his suicide now is that he was a paedophile, about to be uncovered, although we know that he was no such thing. Now look at this, if you will.”
Clayton produced the scribbled note that had been included with the letter.
The Prime Minister read it with growing concern.
“Now I understand,” he said, quietly.
He sat, thoughtfully, for a few moments.
“I find all this as difficult to believe as you do, but we really do need to take colleagues into our confidence if we are to get at the truth.”
Clayton frowned.
“I shall take full responsibility for this, as I have for everything else which has happened in this area recently, but I want you to go over all this again, with Robin Algar, who I trust absolutely, and one other, who I believe you also know from the past – Air Commodore Paul Bridges. I’m told he has one of the highest security clearances available, and he also knows Vaughan well.”
Clayton knew that Army Majors don’t argue with Prime Ministers, so he had to agree. Eventually, in response to Tony Weaver’s summons, both men joined them. Clayton briefed them, as he had the Prime Minister, and showed them the two notes from Doyle.
“I came direct to the Prime Minister with this,” he concluded, “because frankly I didn’t know whom I could trust anymore. I’m having Vaughan checked out, so there’s no need for either of you to do anything on that front. So far, though, the whole thing remains a complete mystery, and Vaughan seems, at the moment, to be beyond reproach.”
“Frankly, that doesn’t surprise me, Bill,” said Paul Bridges. “I’ve known him and worked with him on and off for years, but you were absolutely right not to dismiss this out of hand.”
“And equally right to trust no-one until you had done some research,” said Sir Robin Algar. “But like Paul, I would find this very hard to believe.”
“I’m afraid I took the view that I shouldn’t trust anyone who had seen that envelope, apart from my own team, of course, and you, Prime Minister,” said Clayton.
“The fact remains, though, that the link with Libya could help to explain why Edward Benbow was murdered,” said the Prime Minister.
“And at the moment,” said Bill Clayton, “It’s the only explanation available to us. There seems to be no other possible motive, except that Vaughan wanted to prevent Benbow from uncovering his arms dealing activities, and so arranged for him to be shot. It’s quite possible that Vaughan could have been creaming off the IRAs’ funds as well as being a fundraiser, and he could also have creamed the top off the accounts we’ve just closed. As an ex-Head of the Fraud Squad, he’d know all the dodges.”
“A bent ex-copper,” murmured Robin Algar.
“The problem is,” said the Prime Minister, “that if we do confirm these suspicions, we can hardly have him arrested and charged. It would blow the whole of Op. Honolulu sky high.”
“So what will you do next?” Paul Bridges asked Clayton.
“I’m waiting for the results of forensic tests on the bullets, recovered at the scene by Sussex Police, and Vaughan is under close personal surveillance. After that, God knows,” said Clayton. “And I have to say that at the moment, Vaughan looks squeaky-clean.”
“That’s a relief, but not all together surprising,” said the Cabinet Secretary, “unless I totally misjudged the man.”
“The whole thing makes no sense to me at all, to be honest,” said Clayton. “Just cast your mind back to our lunch, Sir Robin. I mentioned, in front of Vaughan, plans to blow up the Arms dump south of the border, while the IRA Quartermaster was inside. He appears to have done nothing to stop that, when he could have. And he appears to have done nothing to thwart our plans to empty the terrorist coffers – indeed, he suggested Jim Farlow as the man who could do it for us. It just doesn’t make sense.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” said the Prime Minister. “The whole thing is quite extraordinary.”
“There was one thing I wanted to ask while I am here, Prime Minister,” said Clayton. “Can you possible find out for me, very discretely, how much cash was actually moved from the various IRA accounts into the special Treasury account which was opened for it?”
“Why do you ask?” enquired Weaver,
“Well, Sean Doyle gave us a pretty good idea how much was in the accounts, and I would just like to be sure that none of it was creamed off during Vaughan’s operation to close the accounts.”
“That’s a damned good idea, Bill,” said Robin Algar. “If I may use a phone, Prime Minister, I can get a ball-park figure almost immediately.”
“Go ahead,” said the PM.
He did, and it was all there.
Another mark in Vaughan’s favour, and a further deepening of the mystery surrounding his role in this affair.
Clayton wondered how Catherine was getting on.
Vaughan got away early from the Bank, and he and Catherine met again by the escalators at Canary Wharf station. He guided her to a nearby wine bar. He had remembered to bring the tapes, which she put in her briefcase. They were getting on well, but Catherine had still not discovered anything like an explanation for Sean Doyle’s cryptic note. Eventually, and without a lot of persuasion, Catherine agreed that she could stay a bit longer to have dinner with him, and that she really didn’t have to get back to Belfast tonight.
“Tomorrow morning really will do,” she said. “So long as I let Bill Clayton know where I am, there won’t be a problem, and I’ve got my return ticket, so I can easily re-book. This really is most kind of you, Alistair, but I haven’t enjoyed a visit to London so much for a long time.”
“Well, I’m really pleased,” said Alistair. “It will be so nice to have your company this evening. I get a bit fed up on my own every night.”
“Aren’t you married, then?” asked Catherine, innocently.
“Oh, yes, but we have a flat near here where I stay during the week, and I get home at weekends, unless my wife is coming to Town, as she is this weekend. She’s coming down tomorrow afternoon and we’re going to a concert on Saturday evening, so the flat is really very convenient for that sort of thing. Otherwise, we live in a small village in Buckinghamshire.”
“How nice,” said Catherine.
“The flat is certainly very convenient,” said Vaughan, “especially when I have to work late. And it’s not a bad flat, either. It’s in one of the old warehouses they’ve converted, so it’s very modern inside, and looks out over Limehouse Creek, which is pleasant.”
“That must cost,” said Catherine, probing.
Vaughan laughed.
“An arm and a leg!” he said. “The Bank pays for it, thank goodness. I could never afford it on my own, and would have to commute without it, which would be costly in time as well as money.”
“I think I passed a few conversions like that on the little train you put me on,” said Catherine Wilson. “They look very nice from the outside.”
“They’re very nice inside, too.” He hesitated for a moment. “Look here,” he said. “Please don’t think I’m making advances or anything, but if you haven’t anywhere to stay tonight, there’s a spare room if you would like to use it. We always keep the bed made up in case, although hardly anyone ever stays. My son, sometimes, but that’s about all.”
“Well, I haven’t booked anywhere,” admitted Catherine, “And I was going to ask if you could recommend somewhere cheap. It’s very generous of you, but I hardly like to put you to all that trouble, since we’ve only just met.”
“It’s really no trouble at all, honestly. I’ll tell Gill to bring a spare set of sheets tomorrow, and the laundry can do yours – they collect on Monday. All part of the service provided for the flats.”
“Well, if you’re really sure,” said Catherine, hesitantly.
“Absolutely,” Alistair assured her. “So long as you think you can trust me!”
“I’ll set Bill Clayton onto you if you make one false move!” responded Catherine. “Thank you again.”
“Right, then. Let’s think about where to have dinner.
“Before we do that,” said Catherine, “I need to dive into Marks over there for a spare pair of tights, and things,”
“Of course you do,” said Vaughan. “I’m so sorry; I should have thought of that myself.”
“Not at all,” replied Catherine. “Look after my drink for me – I shan’t be a minute.”
Alistair Vaughan stood politely as she left, and watched her disappear towards the supermarket. Bill Clayton was a lucky chap, he thought. But then so was he, and he was looking forward to Gill coming down tomorrow. He got out his mobile phone to tell her about his unexpected visitor.
At the same time, when she was well inside the store and out of view, Catherine rang Bill Clayton.
“Where are you?” asked Bill.
“I’m in Marks and Sparks at Canary Wharf, getting a spare pair of tights and things like that.” she replied. “I’ve accepted an invitation to stay the night in his spare room after we’ve had dinner. Where are you?”
“I’m at Heathrow already. I had a useful meeting, although we didn’t get very far, but at least everyone now knows the plot. They’re all as amazed as we are at the thought that Vaughan could be anything but straight.”
“I think he is straight,” said Catherine. “He’s certainly not living a lavish life style. He’s already let me buy a round, and we’ve agreed to go Dutch over dinner, so your expense account is going to take a bit of a hammering, I’m afraid.”
“We were able to check on the cash transfers, and everything that should have moved across seems to be there, so he hasn’t been creaming any off,” reported Clayton.
“If he did, he’s not spending it,” said Wilson. “I’d better a get a move on, or he’ll get suspicious.”
“Take care then,” said Bill Clayton, “and ring the office tomorrow to tell them you’ve been delayed.”
“Good idea,” said the sergeant. “And don’t worry about me. He’s being a perfect gentleman, and is even ringing his wife to tell her I’m staying over at the flat tonight. She’s coming down for the weekend tomorrow afternoon, so I’ll be away well before then.”
“See you tomorrow, then. Take care.”
“G’night, Bill.”
She hurried back to Alistair having completed her purchases, which were shoved into the briefcase.
“I’ve rung Gill,” he announced, “and said you’d be away before she gets to the flat tomorrow lunchtime. I hope that’s right.”
“Oh absolutely!” she replied. “I’m an early riser, usually, so I’ll get your breakfast if you like, before I go!”
“I wouldn’t think of it,” he said. “My breakfast is a cup of coffee when I get to the office, and I’m usually there about seven. So you sleep in, and then help yourself to whatever there is you want.”
“A coffee will do me, too, but I’ll wait until you’ve gone to give you a clear run at the bathroom. I’ll leave the place as tidy as I can,” she promised.
The rest of the evening passed pleasantly for both of them, but no amount of probing and no end of leading questions led Catherine to change her view of the man she was with. He was no bent ex-copper, she was sure, but she’d have a good look round the flat tomorrow before she left, just to be sure. But she had already made up her mind that she would not be bugging the place after all, unless Bill insisted.
Next morning, she waited for Alistair Vaughan to leave for the office before she stirred, although she had been awake for some time. After she had showered and dressed, she made herself a coffee. Vaughan had thoughtfully put everything ready for her, and left a note telling her to help herself to anything she wanted, and he hoped she had slept well and been comfortable.
She used his phone to ring the office, and spoke to Captain Foley.
“Good morning, sir,” she said. “I’m afraid I didn’t finish my work at the Yard yesterday, so I’ve stayed over to finish it off this morning. I hope that’s all right.”
“OK by me,” replied Foley. “I’ll tell the Major when he comes in.”
“Thanks,” said Catherine. “If he should want me (‘I wish,’ she thought!) I shall have the mobile on. But I should be back this evening, and I’ll ring again later to let you know.”
She felt almost guilty as she pulled on her surgical rubber gloves, and started a systematic search of the flat.
Nothing.
She eventually left, and set out for the shops, where she managed to buy a pretty ‘Thank You’ card, and a large box of chocolates. She let herself back into the flat, wrote the card, and left it with her gift on the hall table.
She found their cottage in Lane End quite easily. The man on the Docklands Light Railway station had told her how to get to High Wycombe, and she got a cab from there to the end of the road where the Vaughans lived. It was about lunchtime when she arrived, so she guessed that Gill would already be one her way to Limehouse, if not already there. To make sure, she walked up to the front door, and rang the bell. Twice.
No answer.
She had no difficulty in getting in through the back door, which she closed quietly behind her. The keys were on the kitchen draining board, so she locked herself in, and pulled on her gloves again. As Alistair had said, it was a small house, and didn’t take long to search. After about an hour, she had seen all she wanted to see, used his phone to call for a cab to meet her at the end of the road, and let herself out of the front door.
By the time she got to Heathrow, the late afternoon flight had checked in, so she got herself a seat on the last one of the day – 24 hours after the one Bill had caught – and went for a meal. She was starving, and realised she hadn’t eaten since dinner last night.
She phoned Bill Clayton on his mobile.
“I’m on the last flight,” she said.
“Are you all right,” he asked.
“Hungry, that’s all, but I’m just getting something to eat now.”
“I’ll meet you at Aldergrove.” It wasn’t a question.
“That would be nice,” she said,” Otherwise I shan