Clandestine, page 5
The door opened and the housemaid had brought up a pot of tea and a selection of sandwiches. She was young and pretty with a bright smile and the twang of a Liverpool accent that she kept in check in front of guests. “Mrs Gregson thought you might like some refreshments after your journey, sir,” she said.
“Thank you, just put it on the dresser. I’ll deal with it later, er… ?” He left the sentence hanging, waiting for her to fill the gap.
“Daisy, sir.”
He smiled. “Nice to meet you, Daisy. Do you work here full-time?”
“No, sir, only weekdays. I do a bit of cleaning and housekeeping for some of the bigger houses over in Wallasey. Are you here about the murder, sir, if you don’t mind me asking? It’s a terrible business,” she said.
He nodded and put his case under the bed. “Oh, I’m just here to see if I can be of use. What do you know about what happened? And yes, you are right, it is a terrible business.”
Martineau had a calmness about him when he spoke and a kindness in his manner. It put people at ease. It was a skill that made him such an effective thief of information.
“Oh, only what was in the papers, sir. It’s just shocking. You never think it’s going to happen on your doorstep, do you? Well, look at me wittering on! Excuse me, sir, I best be getting on,” said Daisy. She made to leave and then remembered something.
“Oh, I almost forgot – me and my mind! A police officer left his card for you earlier today, said he would see you in the morning.” She reached into her pinafore pocket and handed over a small white business card before leaving, closing the door gently behind her.
Martineau looked at the details on the card: D.C. Martin Thompson. On the back was scribbled in pencil, 8.30 pickup and a phone number in case of emergencies.
Martineau carried on unpacking while picking at the sandwiches and sipping at the excellent tea. When he had finished, he lifted over the manila folder and sat on the edge of the bed to read it. He flipped it open and settled into the life and background story of the victim, one Robert Gordon Dutton.
Robert Dutton, former wartime resister and one time officer at the British Secret Intelligence Service, had been a loner, but all in all a thoroughly decent chap who had served his country well.
When Martineau had received the call from the top floor at SIS’s Broadway headquarters to ‘help them with a little problem’, he had almost refused. He was currently deep in the inner workings of a Mayan translation from an ancient text that had remained hidden for centuries.
“Vagabond, we need a man with your delicate touch. We need your steel trap mind to find out what happened to Dutton, a former member of this Service, like yourself. He is your generation, after all,” had said the Vice-Chief of the Service.
The last time he had been called upon to do a favour for SIS, his old Service, had been a year earlier when he had helped arrange the defection of a Polish cipher clerk from South America.
“We want you to make sure there is nothing that embarrasses the Service; clean the house, bury any rubbish, smooth over the ruffles,” continued the V-C.
So Vagabond Martineau did what he always did. He put duty before his personal needs like the good secret soldier that he was.
* * *
DAY TWO – Anatomy of an Investigation
The next morning, it was cold and wet and Martineau dressed appropriately in black roll-neck sweater, slacks and a pair of sturdy shoes. His greatcoat and his trusty walking cane completed the ensemble. He had a feeling that he was going to be out in the elements today and he wanted to be as comfortable as possible.
After an excellent cooked breakfast in the River View’s dining room (where he was the only patron), he made it outside onto the gravel path to wait for his police chaperone for the next few days.
He stood in the shelter, out of the rain. It was the kind of day to stay inside… or to investigate a murder, thought Martineau. A few moments later, a dark blue Oxford Morris car made its way up the winding driveway that led to the hotel’s entrance and stopped in front of him. A man with a young face, sandy blond hair and a good strong face, at least to Martineau’s eyes, pushed open the passenger door and leaned over.
“Morning, Mr Martineau, sorry about the weather. I’m Detective Constable Thompson, your escort for the next few days.”
Martineau climbed in, his body first and then followed by the stick. Old habits die hard and he always had it ready in case of attack. Backside first, stick ready to fend off an attack.
“D.C. Thompson. Did they furnish you with a first name?” asked Martineau.
“Martin, sir. Martin Thompson.”
“I’ll stick with Thompson, if that’s alright. I’m not a policeman myself, so I prefer a more informal approach, especially if we are going to be spending some time together. Oh and forget about the ‘sir’ with me, just call me Martineau. Sound fair?”
They started driving out of the hotel grounds and onto the leafy main road, their destination yet to be decided upon. Thompson was very much taking his cue from the older man, even though he was classed as a civilian. “You a specialist of some sort, sir, if you don’t mind me asking? Except I’ve never seen such a flurry of activity about a murder victim. Not that we get lots in this neck of the woods,” said Thompson.
“Oh, I’m just here to keep an eye on things for people higher up. What can you tell me about the murder?” enquired Martineau, as he watched the road curve round the crescent of a hill.
Thompson kept it concise. “Body was found a little over a week ago. They estimate that he had been there a good eight hours or more before he was found.”
“Who found him?”
“A local man walking his dog. Eastham Woods are a popular location for dog walkers and ramblers, even in this weather,” said Thompson.
“Cause of death?”
“Stab wounds. I can show you the autopsy report and photographs when we stop, if you’d like?”
Martineau nodded. He already knew most of the details; he just wanted to see if this young DC could offer any fresh information. “Any next of kin?”
Thompson shook his head. “No one, at least as far as we can tell. He lived a solitary life by all accounts, modest pension, kept himself to himself. Attended Crown Green Bowling Club at Birkenhead Park during the summer months, but that seems to be the limit of his social life. No wife, no kids, extended family long since passed away.”
“Who handled the funeral arrangements?”
“The deceased’s solicitor, Roger Brownlow, a respectable firm, based in Hamilton Square. They handled everything.”
“Did you go to the funeral?”
Thompson nodded. “It was a bit of a pathetic affair to be honest, Mr Martineau. There was only myself, the Detective Chief Inspector, the solicitor and a few old codgers from the bowling club.”
Martineau nodded in understanding. Secret servants did tend to lead a bit of a solitary life, even retired ones. “And what is the status of the investigation at the moment?”
There was a pause and Martineau picked up on it instantly, so he decided to set the ground rules.
“Thompson, I don’t expect you to tell me the small details and I wouldn’t want to compromise the police’s investigation in any way. It’s just that I have people I have to answer to as well, and I need to know if I’m wasting my time being up here, or if it’s better to stick around for a while longer. At the end of the day I have a report I have to write, just the same as Merseyside Police.”
Martin Thompson sneaked a sideways glance at the older man. There was something about this Martineau that he liked. There was a quiet, self-assured air about the man that inspired confidence and trust.
“Not much to go on at the minute, really. The current thinking is that it was a robbery gone wrong, as the victim’s wallet and watch were missing. The attack was frenzied, or at least seemed that way. No witnesses, nothing forensically, no real motive apart from the aforementioned robbery. His car was found parked on the outskirts of the woods and we searched his house, but there was nothing that gave us any clues; it was the house of a confirmed bachelor who lived alone.”
“And the location? Isn’t that unusual?” said Martineau.
Thompson nodded in agreement. “Slightly. As far as we know, the victim never went for walks there, certainly not at that time of night. He lived about seven miles away in Wallasey, so it wasn’t as if this walk was on his doorstep.”
Martineau let the information sink in and said, “Thank you, Thompson. I just like to know where we all stand.”
Thompson was aiming roughly back towards town and to the main police station. Martineau seemed to be weighing up his options. Eventually, Thompson asked, “What would you like to see first, sir?”
Martineau thought for a moment and then said, “Well, let’s do it properly, shall we? Let’s go and pay our respects.”
By the time they arrived at the cemetery, the weather had brightened, with only the occasional grey cloud giving a hint of what had come before.
Thompson had driven past the Crematorium and over to the Catholic side. He shivered inside his raincoat; the thought of being back here after only a week didn’t sit well with him. Graveyards were the last place he wanted to spend any time in.
Martineau had spotted the freshly turned soil and headed towards the plot, his walking stick digging into the wet grass to give him stability. He stopped and looked down at the slate grey gravestone.
ROBERT GORDON DUTTON
12th June 1895 – 7th April 1957
“Taken from us too soon”
“Did you know him?” asked Thompson clearly from the car.
Martineau was silent for a moment, staring at the gravestone, lost in thought. Had he known him? Martineau thought back through the years; faces from the war, fellow officers from SOE and SIS. He had known Dutton, of course – firstly on an SOE training course during the war and then, post-war, when they had both moved over to SIS at Broadway in London before being dispatched to various corners of the globe. Martineau thought that both of them had been in numerous meetings together in the same room for a few hours, nothing more than a face around a table after a while.
“No, not really,” lied Martineau, shaking his head. “Just paying my respects to an old colleague from the same office. It seems the right thing to do.”
“I understand, sir.”
Martineau gave it another few moments and then turned to face the young Detective Constable leaning against the car.
“You said something about the autopsy report?”
“Yes, I have it in the boot, in my briefcase,” said Thompson.
“Show me.”
The photographs were the epitome of clinical. Martineau had seen dead and traumatised bodies before; people he had fought alongside and people that he had fought against. But there was something eerie and disturbing about the cold starkness of a body being examined on a slab.
The first photograph showed a pale, white, portly body with seven stab wounds to the torso, each one marked with a small piece of numbered paper. Martineau scanned across the attached sheet of paper that laid out the details.
“So the weapon used was long, thin and sharp. In short a knife. It says on the report that there were eight insertions wounds but this photograph is only showing seven?” queried Martineau.
“Look at the next photograph, Mr Martineau,” said Thompson, indicating the next page.
Martineau rifled through the papers until he came across another black and white photograph. This one showed a neat wound just below the right ear, no more than an inch in length.
Martineau had seen wounds like that before, in fact he had administered them himself in combat with a stiletto commando dagger. It was the art of silent killing. You would grab the victim from behind, wrench their head to one side and insert the long, thin blade straight into the flesh, just below the ear. The blade would penetrate through into the brain, killing the victim. A quick twist and then the blade would be swiftly retracted. It was silent and deadly.
“So which of the wounds killed him?” said Martineau. “The report isn’t clear on that.”
Thompson frowned. “Does it matter? It was a frenzy.”
But Martineau didn’t think so. In fact, he thought it was the exact opposite of a frenzy. It looked cold and calculated – not something a knife-wielding robber would do. If he had to guess, it had been the cold insertion behind the ear that had killed Dutton and taken him out silently. The rest of the stab wounds were there to distract the eye and throw the detectives off the scent of whoever they were looking for. It was the equivalent of hiding a tree in a forest.
Martineau took one last look over the report before handing it back, preferring to keep his own counsel. “What happened to the things from his house?” he asked.
“I understand the furniture was sold off. There was a box of personal possessions; papers, medals, that sort of thing. I understand our Mr Dutton was a bit of a war hero,” said Thompson, his voice indicating that he would like to know more about the man.
Martineau nodded. “So I believe. I’d like to see them, if at all possible?”
Thompson nodded and started the engine. “We would need to head back to the station and I’d have to get the DCI’s permission. At the minute, they are still classed as evidence.”
The main police station was in Birkenhead in a side street next to the Town Hall. Martineau was ushered through the front desk to the office of the Detective Chief Inspector running the case. DCI John Edge was a hardnosed, boots-on-the-ground type of copper who had worked his way up from ‘bobby’ status to Senior Investigating Officer. Like most people, he didn’t like having interlopers sniffing around his investigation, especially ones that came from a civilian background and were born with a silver spoon in their mouths.
“There are limits, Mister Martineau, to what I can give you,” he warned in his thick Liverpudlian accent. These days, he might live in a very nice semi-detached in Cheshire, but there were no doubts where his roots came from. He was street-tough through and through.
Martineau nodded, trying his best to offer diplomacy. “I understand that. I simply wish to look over a few of Dutton’s personal papers to see if there is anything related to his former employers.”
“What kind of papers?” questioned Edge, one crafty eye cocked suspiciously.
“Official or semi-official papers! Anything that could compromise Her Majesty’s Government in any way.”
“And who exactly are your employers… I’m sorry… Dutton’s employers again?” pushed Edge.
“Well, if you would like to pick up your telephone and call the Chief Superintendent of Merseyside Police, I’m sure he’d be happy to put you straight… or maybe he wouldn’t… but then again, that’s the thing about orders, we don’t always know why they are there, just that we are expected to carry them out.” The words from Martineau were said calmly, but there was no doubting the underlying threat. There are powers greater than yours at work, DCI Edge, it seemed to say.
Edge gave him a hard stare and then yelled, “THOMPSON!” through the open office door.
“Yes, guv?” said Thompson, pausing in the doorway.
“Take Mister Martineau down to the evidence room and get the personal items box,” said Edge. Then he turned his gaze and gave Martineau another hard stare. “You remove nothing, do you understand me? So I’m hoping that you have a photographic memory. You have one hour and no more.”
It was one man’s entire life condensed into a small cardboard box and it was as tragic as it sounded.
Martineau and Thompson were left alone in a small interview room, with only a table and two chairs to make them comfortable as they sorted through the items.
It was the usual array of paperwork of a life; birth certificate, death certificates of long forgotten relatives, old Christmas cards and love letters from years gone by. Each of the items were individually sealed in paper folders and when he emptied one particular one, out dropped Dutton’s wartime medals and citations for nameless operations that he had been involved in during the war.
The only slightly contentious item that alerted Martineau was a black and white photograph. It was a group photo of men and women and seemed to be taken in the Scottish Highlands; it featured a much younger Dutton together with the rest of the people on his training course. Martineau turned it over and noted the handwritten details, Arisaig – 1941, on the back. Hidden in the throng of stout fellows, Martineau spotted himself. He looked a different person back then, innocent and not yet battle-hardened.
After another thirty minutes, Martineau was left both relieved and disappointed. Relieved that there was nothing really that could embarrass SIS or any of its operations and personnel, but disappointed that there was nothing, no clues, that could lead to what was behind Dutton’s murder. So really his task here was only half complete. Paper over the cracks of a possible scandal certainly, but more importantly find out who killed Dutton and discover if it was because he was a spy, or if he was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.
“Anything, Mr Martineau?” asked Thompson, checking his watch. Their hour was nearly up.
Martineau shook his head and returned the items back to the cardboard evidence box. “No, nothing, I’m afraid, Thompson.”
“So what do we do next, sir?” said Thompson, who was already packing away the items back into the box.
Martineau tapped his walking cane absentmindedly, lost in thought. “Well, it’s been a good first day. We’ve covered a lot of ground, gotten a feel for the situation, but now I think I’d like to go back to my hotel. I’m bushed.”
Thirty minutes later, Martineau was lying on his bed in his room. Despite his desire to rest before dinner, he found that he couldn’t. His mind was working overtime, like a computer processing a massive amount of information and trying to filter out the useless from the useful. He closed his eyes and slowed his breathing, focused on his body lying on the comfort of the bed, grounding him.
