Chapter 4
He spent Friday poring over the file he’d discussed with Reg. Five men all working on a cryptology and communications project had, in the past two years, seemingly committed suicide. The Government had played it down on every occasion revealing only that each man worked on unclassified, unconnected projects. The first three had been coroner confirmed, the last two were more recent and hadn’t got that far although the Police were of the opinion that despite there being no suicide notes there could be no other explanation.
The truth was that each man had a pivotal role in a developmental programme. The first death set it back at least nine months, the next two, in close succession, a year. It seemed, every time it got back on track, and looked like progressing further, someone decided to top themselves.
Whilst the newspapers bought the coincidence, MI5 had their chief suspects as being East German agents. Direct involvement from the Russians, if caught out, could cause immense diplomatic implications that no one wanted to think about. The East Germans, however, were almost a deniable resource, known for their 'react first think later' mentality. If the shit hit the fan, then diplomatically, the Russians could claim they'd had no knowledge and pledge to rein the East Germans back in, a few heads would roll and everyone would be happy.
Many countries and alliances didn't recognise East Germany, or even the DDR as it was formally called, and the UK was one of them. As a result, neither country had an embassy in the other's territory but it had been established there were three East Germans working from the Polish Embassy. They were under 24- hour surveillance but all of them appeared to be doing bugger all but walking around London and taking occasional sightseeing trips into various parts of the Home Counties.
He trawled through the Police files, statements, photographs of the scene, postmortem pics and reports. Three down and two to go. A mug of tea appeared in front of him. "Thanks."
"Careful, it might still be hot." Reg sat down and opened a club biscuit.
Gallagher looked up. "When did they first think things were not quite as they seemed?"
Reg munched away. "They didn't. We were asked to come up with the statistical chances of the initial three all dying as they had. Oddly enough, given the scope of the programme and the diverse sources of input, the answer is 'not as unusual as you might first think' but I asked for the post-mortem report and photographs and that's when I saw the giveaway little pinprick on their legs or in one case his buttock. The pathologists picked it up as well, mind, but the tests for the usual drugs came up negative in all but one case. They flagged it as a point of mild interest and it was there to be read if you bothered to do so. We fed the info back and it seems the Stasi have form for using some type of slow-release drug that brings on mood swings, anxiety and depression, currently untraceable. All of them have displayed those symptoms to one extent or another." Reg popped the last bit of biscuit in his mouth and wiped his hands on his trousers.
"Wouldn't that be something they'd be more likely to administer over a period of time, the mood swing thing?
It strikes me if they injected him with something it would be to make him compliant, therefore more immediate."
Reg adjusted his glasses. "Yes, you're right, of course. It makes sense. We don't know how they managed to administer the other stuff but it was probably dropped in a drink or their food so it could have happened anywhere. It'll be completely tasteless, naturally. Wanstead, the third one, we know was full of LSD when he went off Beachy Head cliffs."
"Are the post-mortem reports and pics for him and the other chap, Eddlestone, in their envelopes?" Gally sipped his brew.
"Yes and no. We haven't got the full pathologist's report and post-mortem photos for Eddlestone yet."
"Who's getting all this stuff for you anyway? Who's your Police Liaison?"
"Your Boss, Bert Hansen."
"I'll speak to him; ask him if he can chase it up. You know, Reg, I can't help wondering if some of these East Germans aren't maybe just there as a distraction but I've only read the summaries. Are the typed surveillance logs in here somewhere?"
Reg smiled. "They're at the back in that tatty envelope. I haven't had a chance to go through them all myself yet."
"Why are we looking into this? Surely Box are more than capable."
Reg gave him a pleasant smile. "They're accountable, Gally. We're not. What I mean is, we're a Stats Unit. We're accountable for the stats; nothing else."
"What did the Old Man mean by 'with all the attention on the World Cup it gives us some much- needed leeway'?
"Surely you can work that one out by yourself but just to keep you straight I'll put it this way. Diplomatic incidents of this nature are more likely to disappear into the ether during a time when journalists and the public are distracted by other matters. If, for some reason, any of the participants should end up, shall we say, permanently indisposed then it's easier to hide."
"Are you telling me that Farralland can just bury people in the woods?"
"If they have to then, yes, but they have access to an appropriate facility so, usually, they just scatter them in a river." He saw the reaction. "Or the woods. It's a fact of life, son."
Gally sat back, sipping his tea. "Well, that's heartening to know, Reg." He glanced at his wrist. "Blimey, time flies. I'll have to start making a move, places to go."
"What you got planned for your evening, by the way, just out of interest?"
"Well, I'm feeling lucky tonight so I thought I might head up West and sample some of the nightlife if you know what I mean."
Reg nodded. He had an inkling. "Listen, to change the subject, I've read your file." A pause. "I just thought I'd let you know."
Gallagher eyed him with suspicion. "Who else has been nosing through it?"
"No one, son. The Old Man thought I should, seeing as we'll be working so closely together. He thought I might be able to keep a fatherly eye on you, what with you not having one with the war and all that."
Gally frowned." And what's going to happen when I want to chat with my Mum. Are you going to dress up for that one, Reg, because by all accounts she was a good looking woman and it would be nice if you made the effort? Personally, I don't remember her you see, but my Gran told me."
Reg stood up and took his mug to the small sink in the corner and began rinsing it. "I didn't mean any harm, lad." He grabbed the tea towel. "Why don't you come out with me? I'm off to a club tonight."
Gally laughed, "Well, bugger me, this could be interesting. What club is that, Reg? You won't be wearing a raincoat I hope?"
Reg chuckled. "Chance would be a fine thing. No, the Philately club down the Nag's Head."
"The Phila... I can't even say the word. You're going to a pub to study butterflies?"
"Nah! That's Lepidopterology."
"I thought that was a study of leopards?"
It was Reg's turn to laugh out loud. "Now, I know you're not that stupid!"
Gally beamed back at him. "I must be. I was too dim to go to a Grammar School. I only just made it to Secondary Modern."
Reg wagged a finger at him. "You're forgetting I've read your file. You weren't too thick, you were just too lazy and wanted to stay with your mates."
"Well, be that as it may, I'll have to decline your kind invitation on this occasion." He paused. "I know tomorrow's a Saturday but, you likely to be available in the afternoon?"
"You want to plough through some more of the file?"
Gally nodded. "If you don't mind?"
Reg scribbled something down then tore it from the page and handed it to him. "Give me a call when you've surfaced.”