Chapter 31
29th July
The news the Old Man brought back from his club was interesting. Radler told his interrogators he'd entered the country with the assistance of the Polish Embassy simply to do some sightseeing. He couldn't do it under his own details, he wouldn't be allowed in, so his Polish contacts had seen no harm in providing the means for an old friend on a purely cultural visit. A simple mistake but it was understandable, he claimed.
As for the stamps, all he'd done was answer an advert in the Times because he wanted to be helpful. He had a small collection himself that he no longer required and saw nothing wrong with what he'd done. He'd only sent four or five letters in total and he was sure they already knew they were all genuine. He didn't know any British postmen but he often spoke to his own back home. Hans was a nice chap who didn't collect stamps. He collected bottle tops. Radler thought he was possibly a hoarder.
He'd never met or spoken to the stamp man and the only old man with a dog he knew sold matches in the Altstadt in Leipzig. His name was Jürgen and his dog was called Dottie, a lovely little thing. Did they like dogs? They should because it was a sign of a nice person. Yes, he had been foolish but he'd always wanted to see Big Ben before he died and didn't think anyone would mind so much.
The stamp man was knackered. They found blank passports in a tin box under the floorboards in the back room and, most significantly, equipment for producing microdots in his study. Usually, he returned it to the cellar after use which would have allowed him to claim it must have been there when he rented the house but he was caught with his trousers down, literally, when they jiggled their way silently through his front lock and kicked the toilet door in.
The old bloke claimed he didn't know the contents of the letters he was leaving behind the cistern in the gents. He'd been approached by a nice, well-spoken lady and was paid £20 for every letter he received and then left at the cafe. The money arrived through the post and he'd used some to pay the cost of saving his beloved Leonard's life, some more on a little holiday for the both of them in Weston-super-Mare and put the rest in his post office savings. He didn't remember ever joining anyone's communist party and was fairly certain he would remember such a thing. He had thought about joining the Labour Party once though. Did they have to tell the taxman?
Box's further enquiries revealed he was right about not joining the Communists in the thirties, or any other decade for that matter. It was someone else with a confusingly very similar name.
The postman didn't know who was leaving the letters and he didn't know their contents. He freely admitted posting them on to the old bloke but had never met or spoken with him. Faced with charges relating to Post Office offences and the Official Secrets Act, he agreed to co-operate when the sentencing consequences were explained to him in graphic detail. In return for the dropping of the espionage charges, he named his handler, a 'diplomat' from the Russian Embassy. An early expulsion was anticipated.
"Well, there you have it." The Old Man passed his gaze over them. "It's a sort of result but it still doesn't take us to our end of line targets. I just thought I'd update you."
Reg stood up. "I think I might have something, Sir. The boys went out on the ground yesterday. A lot of leg work but they sorted out the scrap yards and any iffy lock-ups the County lads had identified. Sandy and Gally got a bit of a result the day before from the motor dealers and repairers. They believe they found the Humber Hawk used to take Reddington off the road. They've traced it back to a firm, they gave me the details. It's called Cherney Motors and from the enquiries I've made, it seems it's run by a John Cherney and he's had it for six years." He picked up a sheet of paper and put his glasses on. "Formerly Dillon's Motors. He's thirty-three years of age and his wife's name is Helen. She's thirty-five and a solicitor for the local county force. A member of the Rotary Club and the Masons, he's very well thought of but a 'bit of a socialist' according to some. Keen hikers, they like to travel and honeymooned in Italy when they married in fifty-seven." He looked up. "The thing is his parents were naturalised citizens who came here in twenty-five. The family name used to be Chernikoff. It's all in the report I just put on your desk, Sir."
Sandy put his hand up. "May I ask a question, Sir? What's happened with the Farralland boys' obs on the redhead? Is she doing anything interesting?"
Reg shuffled his feet. "Good point, Sandy. I was going to get to that. Yes and no is the short answer. She is seeing someone at the moment and they tell me it's a local uniformed bobby. I tend to suspect it may be the one Gally had visit her. I haven't had their written report as yet, just what they've told me on the phone. As for our surveillance on Marion Ward, which I know will be your next question, she's not been having any meetings, surreptitious or otherwise with anyone apart from her solicitor."
Gallagher raised his hand. "What's the name of the solicitors?"
Reg thumbed through his notes. "Crantwell Evans."
All eyes were back on Gally. He shrugged his shoulders. "I don't know. Maybe let's have a look at them?"
The Old Man: "Why do you want us to look at them? They're a firm of solicitors. Do you think they're a team of assassins who somehow cajoled Ward into becoming a client? I mean, if they had, she could be long dead by now, surely?"
Gally wasn't discouraged. "Well, are they actually her solicitors, as in family ones or is she just visiting them for a particular purpose? We don't know. I'm only bringing it up because I've just thought on. Her colleagues at the project said she'd started wearing makeup." He leaned forward to glance across the front of Sandy. "What was it they said, Clive?"
"Not that you would notice."
"That's right! Not that you would notice. It wasn't 'not that anyone' would notice. It was 'not that you', meaning a man, would notice but they noticed, her female colleagues. What if her 'outside interest' was or still is a woman? It could be one of these solicitors or perhaps someone they have working for them? Surely, it's worth checking out?"
The Old Man considered the proposal. "I see where you're coming from, Gallagher. Reg? Extend enquiries and find out exactly who and what this firm is about. Clive, give Reg a hand plus I want to know a bit more about Missus Cherney’s work for the local force." He pointed at the other two. "In the meantime, let's get hold of the Farralland team doing Ward's surveillance. Get yourselves an RV and speak to them face to face today, I want everything they've seen and done." He made for the door but turned. "Do we know where in Italy they honeymooned, Reg?"
"Brindisi, Sir. It's in the heel."
The Old Man smiled, "I know where it is, Reg. Perfect. Ferry to Corfu, short trip from the right place and you're in Albania. In Fifty-seven? The Russians and Albanians were still co-operating. Pull out all the stops, Reg. Speak to our contact at SIS. Track our honeymooners down, if you can. I'll be in my office reading your reports.”