Lies And Consequences Collection: The Complete Series

LIES AND CONSEQUENCES COLLECTION

THE COMPLETE SERIES

DANIEL KEMP

CONTENTS

What Happened in Vienna, Jack?

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Once I Was A Soldier

Prologue

I. By The Wayside

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

II. Stones

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

III. Thorny Ground

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

IV. Fertility

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

The Widow’s Son

Foreword

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

The Second Third: Fraser Ughert's Story

The Third And Final Part Of Chapter Thirty-Four: Patrick's Explanation

A Covenant of Spies

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

About the Author

Copyright (C) 2023 Daniel Kemp

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2023 by Next Chapter

Published 2023 by Next Chapter

Cover art by Cover Mint

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

WHAT HAPPENED IN VIENNA, JACK?

LIES AND CONSEQUENCES BOOK 1

PROLOGUE

My father was a field-promoted captain in the Royal Artillery Regiment during the Second World War, but after the surrender of Italy he was attached to Military Intelligence interrogating captured Axis troops, remaining stationed in that country until 1945. Back home he served a further seven years in 'The Colours' before applying to join the London police. He was turned down because he had one false tooth! The Metropolitan Police had the choice from so many returning British Forces personnel that such a small inadequacy of a missing tooth was deemed to be undesirable in a perfect police force; however, that presumed perfection was not evident in later years. I was born four years after my father returned home.

I cannot speak of the integrity of the police in London before I joined in 1971, but through the late '60s and early '70s reports of the alleged corruption in the Met were regularly carried in the national newspapers and openly spoken of. It ranged from the ordinary constables, in a patrol car, stopping a drunk driver and accepting the equivalent of a week's wage to drive that drunk and his or her car home, to high-ranking criminal investigation detectives taking bribes from violent robbers to turn a blind eye, or, in some notorious cases; covertly assist! No station or department was immune to this endemic practice.

I was at Oxford when the offer to join the 'Job' was first put to me. I declined that offer, favouring to stay and follow my chosen path of studying analytical chemistry and my secondary recreational pastime; the science of psychology. Three weeks into my final year at university, my father died of a sudden heart attack. He was forty-nine and employed at the War Department. My mother died two months later from a broken heart.

The security of a degree became less important to me on accepting another approach from a senior Metropolitan police officer named Barrington Trenchard. He spoke passionately about his desire to root out this criminality that was being linked to Members of Parliament. He wanted me and knew my weakness.

My self-importance had led to some written articles of mine being published on the utopian dream of right and wrong. The complexity of realism that he threw at my argument destroyed the idealistic world I lived in. Both the ordinary men and the extraordinary, who wished to serve the cause of justice were being challenged by the ensnarement of those who wished its desecration.

Sometime after Trenchard's presentation, I became a fully signed-up and committed custodian of justice. As I was coming straight from university I was to be fast-tracked, becoming an inspector within five years, but no one mentioned Jack to me, nor the tracks he travelled to impose his kind of virtue.

I was about to find out that justice could be found in more places than a court of law, and bribes come in more ways than mere money.

CHAPTER ONE

FRIDAY IN LONDON

Models

The doorway was set back in an alcove between a world-renowned French restaurant and a newly opened Chinese one that had crispy roasted ducks hanging from a rail in a steamed-up window. There was only one bell push that did not have the word 'Model' added above it with their country of origin; just the name of Jack Price. I pushed it. Moments later a buzzer sounded and I was climbing the bare wooden staircase to the third floor. The corridor leading to his black-painted apartment door was narrow, lined by peeling garishly wallpapered walls and crumbling ceiling plaster, the same state of disrepair I'd seen on the staircase. The place reeked of damp, garlic and cooking oil.

I was twenty-three and attached to the criminal intelligence section of Scotland Yard, or C11 as it was known when I first came to meet Jack. He was thirty years my senior. He had been in the wrong place at a time when my department was executing an operation against an organised gang of robbers under the command of a known Irish Republican Army member on a cash-carrying security van in Charing Cross Road one day previous to this meeting. I had shot dead the Irish brigade commander, and another armed robber was wounded as Jack looked on from across the street. The year was 1972. However, seldom are things quite as they appear in life and this was true in this case. Although I had followed the standing orders of the day I was naive and to some extent gullible. If those are faults, then I plead guilty!

Are you sure that warrant card is not a forgery, young man, as you don't look old enough to be out of short trousers let alone a gun-carrying, hot-shot police officer, he said on answering my knock after unfastening three locks, then as I entered he added, But there you go, all you lot look young to me nowadays. A sure sign of getting old, or so they say.

The apartment was spartanly furnished. No television but a radio instead with a copy of the Radio Times lying open on the occasional table it occupied beside an odd looking hard-backed triangular, wedged shaped chair, newly upholstered in a yellow leather lookalike material. There was a single, soft, red velvet armchair almost on top of a five bar electric fire. On the wall opposite the double bay windows stood a cheap imitation light oak sideboard, on which were three mixed size glasses and an open bottle of what appeared to be whisky.

I would offer you one but I don't want to encourage the young to drink. From experience I know that's a bad habit to get into at an early age, on catching my gaze he declared.

The red, well-trodden, patterned carpet clashed with the heavy dark blue curtains which were closed, even though it was only the afternoon on a moderately hot July day with no sun shining on the windows behind. A yellow shaded chrome standard light and two similarly shaded table ones enhanced the natural light in the room. On the mantelpiece over that electric fire was a grey chiming slate clock, beside which were two wooden framed photographs. The one on the left, in black and white, a young woman arm in arm with, I presumed, a young Jack and the other, in colour, of two children; a boy and girl.

Your family, Mr Price? I asked.

He picked up the first of the photographs, held it in his left hand and stared at it.

That was my wife, Mary. She died six years ago from the loneliness I caused, I think. I was never around much in those days. He kept it close for a second then carefully replaced it in its exact spot as he turned from the fire, walking the few paces towards the sideboard.

The other one is of my children; George and Mildred, both living in Canada. They upped and left soon after Mary had gone. No love lost between us there. Do you want a drink while you tell me why you're here, Detective Constable West?

He had an impassive, well-worn, chiselled face, not hard and cold, but one where no emotion or feeling for the past lived. More pragmatic than sentimental. He was just under six foot tall, weighed slightly less than his height suggested and although his complexion was more waxen than florid there were no signs of health issues that I could see.

I will, Jack, thank you, I replied, about to sit in that hard chair thinking that the soft one was his to relax in. I was wrong!

No, wrong chair, my friend. That one is mine. Have the one I keep for visitors. Hardly used nowadays, far more comfortable than that old thing, he said.

You never lived here when married then, Jack?

Pretty obvious, that, I would have thought, unless Mary had little taste for the finer things in life like me, which she didn't. Could never quite work out why she married me, as I've always been a bit of a slob around the place. Never one for an Ideal Home Exhibition show house. Now I live as the mood takes me, with no one around to moan. Live on your own, Patrick, or is there a Missus West? Take water, or as it comes?

I didn't bother to answer the first question.

Have you any ice? I asked.

No, neither does the water come all the way from a pure Scottish glen. Good old murky Thames tap stuff. Take it as it comes, will you? he asked, somewhat impatiently.

You've sold it to me, Jack, pour away.

Although I considered myself well-crafted in the insight of a person's personality by the fundamental material things in life that they owned or spoke of, nothing held my attention more than that odd shaped chair. I could not avert my gaze away from it.

I wouldn't think that you're here to discuss my choice of interior colour nor to taste my whisky, so why are you, Patrick? I have made my statement. By the way, hope you don't mind the familiarity of me using your first name, young man?

Not at all! Patrick is on the warrant card, after all. It was my governor's decision, not mine. He wants me to go through that statement of yours and see if my description can be; I'll use his words, 'erased,' Jack. As though I wasn't there, you understand.

You have nothing to be ashamed of. The man had a gun, and, in my opinion, looked capable and dangerously close to using it. I did say that in my statement. I can't see how you had a choice.

That's not the problem! The 'Job' has had its own internal enquiry and there's no question over the need or legality of my actions, it's just your wording that we would prefer to alter slightly if that's possible.

We? I thought you said it was your governor's wish?

Always that pedantic, Jack? Had a need to be precise in a previous life, have you?

He stood, tasting his drink before he spoke again.

Precision can and often does save lives, but it can also cost lives when it confuses the enigmatic and ambivalent of this life leaving them lost to understand the rationality of thought. Your governor a rational thinker, is he? What's his rank?

I've always found rationality to be a subjective thing, Jack, best left to the believer, so I can't answer that. My direct governor is DI Fisher, that's Detective Inspector Fisher, but we all answer to the high Commander of 'C' department; Commander Trenchard. He's got something that you have, a precious thing at that.

What has Mr Trenchard got that I have, Patrick? straight-faced he asked.

You both have the George Medal. He got his one a lot later than you got yours, though. I believe you were one of the first recipients of that honour, Jack. 1942 you got it, was it not?

It was, yes! Research that on your own initiative, did you, or your revered 'C' gently nudge you into doing the shovel work?

I was sure I saw the glint of a smile in those hard, hazel-coloured eyes below his high forehead and receding hairline as he placed my glass in my hand and his on top of the Radio Times, moving the full glass ashtray aside to make room. His dilapidated surroundings were not improved by his clothes; striped pyjamas under a dark blue stained dressing gown and neither socks nor shoes. He had not shaved for days. From Trenchard's description I had expected a man of means, well-appointed and well positioned in life, but on the surface, he was none of that, lonely, down on his luck and living a shabby life in one of the most squalid areas of London. A place frequented by transient visitors seeking temporary pleasures; Soho.

If you don't mind me saying, Jack, this is not the sort of place I thought someone of your past would be living out his final days. I tasted the Scotch, finding it raw and stinging on the throat. That's a bit fierce, I added.

Tesco's own brand. I think they have a still in the back of the shop, he laughed and I almost believed him. Are you a connoisseur of Scotch whisky as well as being very self-opinionated and presumptuous? Disturbing for someone your age. For all you know I might have a place in the South of France and a yacht on the Med, this being my London pied-à-terre when I have the misfortune to visit London town. As for living out my final days, have you inside information on that too?

Not of that rank yet, Jack. Maybe someday, though! It would be nice to think along the lines of a place in France, feet up, sipping the local wine, watching the French girls go by, but this is all you've got. You're right, though, it is none of my business how you live on the government pension you receive on the twenty-third of each month. I found it to be a tidy sum for a retired minor home office official.

I was not sure if I'd rattled him as I hoped, but there was a change in tone to his next question.

You will eventually come to the point of this visit, won't you, officer?

Ah, touched a delicate spot, have I? Sorry if I have. It was not meant to offend. The enthusiasm of youth added to a poor background in diplomacy, I guess. I think it comes from those hard-nut instructors of mine. One knocked me out for being indelicate in the way I put my supposition as to his birth, but he never went on to teach me how to call a superior officer a bastard without causing offence.

You should always add the word 'sir' after the insult, Patrick. I always found that helped.

That would explain a lot, especially if you forgot to take your own advice. A short period of service in the secret mob but no explanation as to why they dumped you that I could find, and I had clearance from way up high, Jack.

The obdurate Mr Trenchard, I presume.

Got it in one. You two go back a long way, I understand. I had the impression that he doesn't much care for you. Said he saw your name on the witness statement then recognised that distinctive signature of yours with the capital P and R of Price. Added rather brusquely that he hadn't seen it for many years, and that observation was not followed up with any words of admiration or effervescent compliments. He was very silent after that, not usually so monosyllabic, my commander, but I gathered that you must have worked together at some point.

Are you always so insightful, Patrick? I do hope that you are. Wise head on young shoulders comes to mind. How is old Barrington nowadays? he asked as he rose to refill our glasses.

I didn't answer his question, instead I asked one of my own. Care to enlighten me as to why the extra capital letter in that surname of yours, Jack?

Stands for Police Reject, Patrick. Thought of applying once before a better offer fell into my lap. I realise that it was only conjecture on my part about being rejected, but it seemed to fit at the time, so I kept using it.

CHAPTER TWO

Three Months Earlier

There had been four gunmen and two drivers, both of whom had stayed inside the cars at their respective steering wheels of a red S-Type Jaguar and blue 3.5 Rover, one in front of the security van and one behind as it started to pull away from the last bank on its route. Two of the robbers had pickaxes with their guns and the other two just firearms; sawn-off shotguns. The pickaxes went through the windscreen before Henry Acre fired both barrels of his gun at the roof just above the uniformed driver and his mate. He reloaded and was holding his weapon pointed at the passenger's face as I shot him dead. The second sawn-off holder turned in my direction, levelled his gun and was then wounded by an armed colleague from the Flying Squad. Acre immediately died at the scene. Greenlee, the one wounded, was taken to University College Hospital where he was still receiving treatment. None of the other four in the gang had a chance to use any weapons. All were arrested and taken into custody before I removed my heavy disguise. It was then that Jack Price had noted my description, the one he gave in his written statement taken at Tottenham Court Road nick a few hours later. I knew of Acre's intentions to shoot the driver as it was I who had infiltrated the Kilburn Six, as they were known, some months prior to the robbery. That's why Trenchard insisted that I was included at the scene, at least that's what I was told.

My father was a born and bred Londoner but my mother was Irish through and through, hence the name of Patrick, my red hair and my natural Irish accent which, after a few months of ironing away any flawed nuances, was perfect enough to get an invitation to Edward (Teddy) Greenlee's table in the Nag's Head pub, Cricklewood Lane one Thursday night, three months, more or less, to the day of my calling on Jack.

Bill Hewitt, an Irish-Canadian, had unknowingly invited an undercover policeman into the heart of a conspiracy. The other three at the table that night: William O'Brien, Roy Murry (known as the Beret, which he wore come rain or come shine) and Ward Morrill, were all Irish by birth. Murry and Morrill were the two drivers. I had the innate endearing Irish ability of friendly conversation, aligned with good humour along with a deep pocket that my cover legend provided. My peripheral acceptance within the group was guaranteed as I worked at a second-hand quality car showroom where I could get legitimate cars without the need to 'ring' them. Henry Acre, whom I met later, was notably different from the others. Whereas they all were vicious he had a criminal record more akin to a savage animal than any human, and that's what worried Bill.

He's going to shoot one of the guards regardless of the outcome, Pat. I can sense it. It's a statement he wants to make, not just pull off a robbery. Some time ago he told me of his Republican friends trying to drag me into the Provos, but I'm not a bomber. I'm a tea-leaf and a good one at that. I'll take my share then leg it back to Toronto away from politics, cos that's what turns him on in all of this. The money is less important to him than the statement. You mark my words!

On the strength of the assessment made by Hewitt, coupled with Acre's previous two convictions of grievous bodily harm, one using a firearm, we were instructed to shoot if the situation looked life-threatening. As I was the only one with a clear shot I followed the orders given by Detective Superintendent Ball, the head of C1, the flying squad.

Have you shot someone before, young Patrick? I only ask as you seem so unaffected by it all. As though it's quite a common occurrence in your everyday life as a police officer. We were well into our second glass of throat-blistering liquid as Jack asked his question.

Mind if I smoke, Jack?

Not at all! I'll give the ashtray an empty just for you. On his return with a now sparkling clean one, I offered him a Dunhill cigarette which he accepted before I answered.

First time, Jack! And yes, it never touched me. My hands were as cold as ice as I squeezed that trigger, not one shake anywhere. How about you when you faced down that neo-Nazi in his black-shirted uniform on the steps of the public toilets in Whitechapel? Did you shake? Were you scared stiff?

Different days then, Patrick, maybe we had different reactions too. Long forgotten times and best that way.

You were the same age as me, were you not?

I was twenty-three, I believe, at the time. So, if you're twenty-three, then, yes, I was.

Signed on in any particular branch of the services, or waiting to join up with the Americans and win the war, Jack?

Now he did laugh, a high-pitched loud one at that. It suddenly struck me that I could not hear the sound of sex coming from below his flat but could hear the traffic on Shaftesbury Avenue, some fifty yards away.

If Barrington Trenchard has sent you on this mission of yours then I'm sure he must have filled in some details, Patrick. Are you fishing for bigger game in order to persuade me to visit Tottenham Court Road nick again, because there's really no need?

Another bottle of golden colour liquor appeared without a label attached, as our two glasses were refilled.

I was trying to get more background on you as you'll have my life in your hands. Not only would I like you to change your statement slightly, I need an introduction to someone you both know. Only Trenchard is on the same side of the fence with no camouflage to work behind nowadays.

Who might that be then? he asked as my packet of cigarettes was further used.

A Charlie Miller! I was told he is a top rank Met Police officer. My Mr Trenchard believes he knows the porn magazine trade in London inside out. Apparently every shop we raid is suddenly emptied of pornographic material before we arrive and it's Miller's department who organise the raids. Whoever he's in with is always one step ahead of us and we would like to stop that with your help. That was to be my next mission, hence the reason for the disguise. Not that it worked that well did it? We just need you to take out all reference to what I look like.

A bit odd that your lot would expose you in such a high profile way just before another operation, don't you think?

That's why I joined the police, Jack. To uphold the law. Mine's not to reason why.

And why did Barrington Trenchard send you looking for me, do you think?

The only reason I can think of is that he suspects you might know Miller and know his tricks.

Hmm, was the only reply as he sipped his drink before adding, anything in it for me, this help you ask for?

About the same reward you got from MI5 when they dispensed with your services, Jack. Nothing but our thanks.

I did get the pension that you remarked on, Pat, plus I got the chair I'm sitting in.

Strange gift, the chair I mean. Far from normal government furniture, I would have thought.

And you wouldn't be wrong in that. It was presented to me when I came home from abroad and they billeted me at an outstation of Five in Pinner, Middlesex. It was part of my job to grade the pupils at the nearby Harrow School as to their prospects towards a career in the intelligence gathering industry.

Funny shape for a chair, I said, to which he made no comment.

Give me half an hour to dress, shave and what have you, then you can buy me dinner. I hope, but doubt, you've got a huge expense account as I'm as hungry as an old war horse, and the club I and Miller use doesn't open until nine o'clock. We'll have hours to fill with food and drink before you'll have a chance to meet one another. Go find Fifi on the floor below, tell her I send my avuncular love. Her real name is Gloria, comes every day from Bethnal Green. The door painted pink is hers. Likes a quick turnaround of clients, does my French neighbour, so she won't keep you long. Again he laughed, but even more so when I declined that invitation.

Scared I might hear of your sexual prowess, or lack of it, are you! he said as he left the room.

While you're away I'll try to think of reasons why you only empty ashtrays when you have a visitor. Not many call on you, I'm guessing, I countered.

CHAPTER THREE

Curzon Street

My newly acquired unkempt friend had metamorphosed into a Savile Row-tailored dressed man about town in a purple chalk-striped linen suit with a red silk handkerchief in his jacket pocket when he next appeared.

Will this shatter the image you've formed about me, Patrick? I do hope so, otherwise I'll have nothing to smile about when I think of Barrington in his stiff collars and club ties. I too can put on a charade when required. Still wear that university club tie, does he? Not entitled to, you know. He never played rackets at Cambridge and as far as I know he never did play the game at all. It was his great-great-great-grandfather who played it whilst in the old Fleet Prison in 1832. He was put away for being unable to pay the debts of the company business, but Trenchard likes to gloss over that.

I don't know much about the man, Jack.

That I can believe, Patrick. Now's the time to fill that missing space in your education then. Come on, let's go taste some fine wine and talk about bent coppers.

Do you know who Miller gets his money from? I asked, genuinely surprised.

There are many more than just Miller on the take and I know most of them, maybe not all though. How much time have you done on the streets young man?

None, Jack! I went straight into the 'Job' from university. I finished my full tutorial, got the 'A's' I wanted then joined the police on a whim. Thought it would be much more exciting than delving into furtive minds or sitting in a sterile laboratory. I was told that I could return to Oxford for a Master's if things don't work out, but I want to right the wrongs of this world, Jack, before I settle into a sedentary career. The 'Job' shoved me into a section of the criminal records department at Scotland Yard from a shortened initiation course to profile criminals. It was a start. I did only a five-week stint at reading The Instruction Book. That was too easy to learn verbatim for me. The Kilburn job was my first. Did the firearms course at Gravesend, apt name when you think of it, before they let me loose. All of that's part of the reason for the C11 attachment. Trenchard wanted me on that security van heist, as he knew I could identify Acre and not just from photographs.

You're very young to have been trained on firearms, Patrick.

I didn't know guns had a discrimination policy against age.

As far as I knew the Met did. Two years before you can play with them, he replied, then went down a different track. You said Fisher was your DI, did you not? Only we might run into some others from the Yard tonight. Thought about that at all, have you?

I've never actually met Fisher, Jack. Only heard him on the phone and read his written orders. Been exclusively tied to Trenchard's desk since day one. He is the only serving officer that I've met at the Yard. I've been kept out of sight since joining. Never actually worn the uniform! This opportunity of going solo was put to me just after the interview board. I grabbed it with both hands. They assigned two physical training instructors from Hendon to meet with me twice weekly in an old railway shed outside King's Cross, but apart from the time I spent with them, I studied all I was given in a flat not far from here in Covent Garden. The car front where I now work is part of C11. Buried deep beyond anyone's knowledge, as far as I was told.

Where's that apartment of yours? he asked, rather quickly I thought.

Number six, Rose Street, Jack. Did you want an invitation?

Did you rent it directly, or was it provided by someone?

Came with the job. Trenchard sent me to a letting agency and then I rented it in my name.

Who was on that board when you joined?

Trenchard was one, but the other two I didn't know. Looked like civilian brass to me. I never had a formal introduction.

"Old Barrington certainly threw you in at the deep end, didn't he. It's not in my hands that your life lies, Patrick, it's in the hands of the intelligence set-up that you're wrapped up in. Personally, I wouldn't trust it, but I no longer play that game. As far as anyone is concerned I'm out socialising with the man who possibly saved my own life three days ago but I won't introduce you as that. I'd only say that you're a friend and leave it there. But if pressed, I wouldn't be wrong in saying that the man you shot could have shot me and others. The robbery has been spoken about in these parts. There's a very close knit society amongst the prostitutes and us layabouts. I have a reason to be out with you if I need one!

You've got to understand something before we go on. What I know about people has come after donkey's years of listening to what I'm told. To them that tell the story, I'm just an old sop who likes a drink or two, easy on the eye and of no consequence. You're a stranger in a world where the only knowledge you have of it, has come from what you've read, fantasied about or been told. Soho is not just on the surface, Patrick, it goes a lot deeper than that. Now you've come to dig a hole into the soul of the sex trade. If you're successful you're likely to put a lot of people out of work. Afterwards, if you ever want to hide away where no one looks further than their own nose, then don't look for a farmhouse set in acres of open ground, hide in a city with plenty of noise, that's where you'll find the real silence."

It was he who fell silent as we left his apartment on the top floor of number twenty-six Romilly Street and walked north along Dean Street towards Soho Square. Then as we turned into a side street he spoke again.

I'm guessing here, Patrick, but did Trenchard recruit you at university with a whiter than white campaign speech? —Let's clean up the streets of London together, making it safe for the working man, my young intellectual friend. Paint the town white with an Irishman as the artist.

Not quite as pretentious as that, Jack, but that was his stated purpose without the Irish bit. Frankly that's what enticed me to sign up. I hate dishonesty in any form. If I can help him achieve that aim, then why not try? He didn't answer my question.

That club I mentioned earlier, as being used by Miller and others of his fraternity, is owned by a one-time friend of Trenchard's and a distant acquaintance of mine. A man known as Alhambra. That's not his real name, of course. Barrington knows it as do I, along with the majority of what used to be the intelligence community. Mind you, if the rumours are true, he's moved on and upwards to other things nowadays. Some in these parts say that it's him that runs the porn trade. That could be why his club is so popular, but I have no first-hand knowledge of that. Trenchard could well be intrigued by me telling you that name, or, he might just want to hide it away and ignore it. Be careful how you play it, Patrick. As I remember Trenchard has allies in very high places.

You off to the Ritz for the night, Jack, or on the pull? asked a very beautiful woman, whom Jack introduced as Amelia, as we entered a wine bar in Wardour Street.

If you are out looking for company then I'll take your arm. Oops, sorry, I didn't see your friend? He looks tasty! she said before adding, I'll take him off you when you've had your fill.

My new lover, Amy! Keep your hands to yourself.

Yeah, if either of you were that way inclined then I'm an elephant flying on a cloud. Her long blonde hair trailing down her slender back was the last I saw of Amy, leaving me to admire her wiggle and shapely legs as she departed.

You two know each other well then, Jack? I asked, rather unnecessarily.

Somewhat, yes! She owns this place along with half of Soho. Don't let that sensuous, female body fool you. She is a he, Pat! Goes by the name of Jimmy when the moon's asleep. Never go on first impressions alone, they can be painfully misleading.

I looked around but I could see no men in the bar; only women. Or were they women? Certainly the cleavage of the girl that brought our drinks over to the candlelit table Jack had selected in the corner facing the doorway had me fooled if she was not. I never asked, but the uncertainty didn't impinge on my imagination.

Have you a fetish for full ashtrays, Jack? I asked, noticing the overflowing one on our table, at which he laughed before he explained.

My wife hated me smoking, even tried to force me to quit. I told her I would cut down, but never quite managed to. Whenever we were out, and I had to wait for her, I would sit at a table where there was a full ashtray so she wouldn't be able to count how many fags I'd smoked by the time she had finished her shopping. It's a habit I haven't been able to shake off. You used the word camouflage a little while ago, so call it that if you like. He continued to laugh until the business of the evening was once more addressed.

What did Trenchard tell you about me, Pat?

Nothing really from Trenchard. Just what I've told you: said he'd seen your name on the list of witnesses, recognised that distinctive signature of yours and knew you from the old days. That was it. I thought you may have been in the police until I followed his orders of visiting a building in Curzon Street, in Mayfair, where everyone I came across told me that was about to be closed down. I showed some guy in a uniform a letter from Trenchard and was allowed to view a file on you. It didn't tell me much either, other than you worked in the secret intelligence service during the war and for a bit after. It ran out of paper in 1948.

I didn't work in the SIS, Pat, I worked for the likes of Barrington who worked in it. There is a difference. I never went to the right schools, you see, nor lived in Guildford to become staff. I did the mundane that they were too busy talking about.

Want to tell me how you started, Jack, because there's nothing in your file. A list was all I found. Date and place of birth, parents' names and your retirement date; June the first 1948, he laughed.

Is that what it said? Even that's a lie! I did another five years after that. Not all that time for Five. I was pushed upstairs somewhere along the line, up a number to Six and sent abroad to Austria. It was when I came home from Vienna that they put me out to grass. I was married then, but the time abroad cost me my wife and the time back here cost me my children. Mary and I married in the autumn of 1944. I was twenty-five, with her being three years younger. George was born the year after and Mildred the following one. That was the year they started to send me away from London more and more. If they hadn't, then who knows how many kids I would have fathered that would have grown up to hate me.

There was no change registered on his face that I noticed nor any alteration in his voice that I detected. The sadness, if there was any, was swept away long ago.

Mary and I never got back together when I returned. I moved out and let life go on for them. In 1966, when she passed from this world, both my son and daughter emigrated without a word to me. We've never spoken to this day.

I was looking hard for some recognition of regret, some trace of human emotion that my psychological training could pick on and develop, but there simply was none. He had detached himself from the world that he had once lived in, in a way I had never thought possible. Work had been his love, coming first before any pangs of conscience about a destroyed passion of a once solid and tangible relationship. The unattainable and the touchable both ruined, but only one clung onto. It wasn't indifference, otherwise, he would never have broached the topic, nor apparent apathy, just self-control being demonstrated naturally and not for effect. What an asset for someone in the espionage game, I thought, and could not hide my juvenile admiration.

What a spy you must have been, Jack. He smiled at that, but kept whatever reaction he had to himself.

CHAPTER FOUR

Leonard Miller

We left the wine bar with its dark mysteries undisturbed after finishing a rather good bottle of Beaujolais, then doubled back on ourselves towards Old Compton Street.

Let's eat, Pat! By the time we finish a good slap-up meal, Alhambra's club will have opened and you can start on that journey of yours. Without another a word we suddenly turned abruptly left into a dead-end alleyway, and stopped.

You thinking that we're being followed, Jack? I asked, I haven't noticed anyone.

You wouldn't if they were good, Pat. And if they were super good they'd know that this place leads nowhere, so they wouldn't turn in here. But I don't warrant the super good anymore.

The regret in that admission was covered by a contrived smile that now lined his forehead and creased his mouth. Almost a minute passed before he spoke again.

Simple precautions can save lives, young Patrick. Your man will be at our next port of call. We need to be cautious. If it's true that Alhambra does indeed run the porn industry then Miller has his hands deep inside his pockets. He sits alone every night at the same table just inside the doorway of the restaurant we're going to use. I use the place regularly. Sometimes he will just nod his head at me, but occasionally he will speak. Tonight, if he does, you will say nothing nor look at him. Just stand silently on my left side looking straight in front. I will say that you're a person I met a few days ago and leave it at that. If he invites us to sit, which I very much doubt, you will excuse yourself, saying you need the Gents as you have an upset stomach. Stay in there for at least ten minutes. He's normally gone by a quarter to nine on the dot for his journey home to his wife and three children in Blackheath. He has a very grand looking place there. He's a fool, Pat, but not a stark raving idiot. He'll smell you out as plod if you get too close. His name is Leonard Miller; Detective Chief Superintendent at West End Central nick. High cheese as you said and a tough target to hit, but if you are as passionate about all this as I believe you are, then you will find a way. Ready? he asked as we departed from our lonely alleyway.

No one following us then, Jack? I asked.

Seems not, Pat, phlegmatically he replied.

He was a big man, but it was not until he left that I saw his overall build. The first, and the only thing I saw, as I stood where Jack had told me, were his feet. They were enormous!

You're looking very smart tonight, Jack. Out on the town, are we? asked a gruff, guttural, cockney voice as we entered.

Something like that, Leonard. We will be at the Guitar later. Will you be in there tonight?

Nah! I'll be home with the trouble and strife soon. She misses me rotten if I'm away for too long. Have a nice evening with your friend, and say hello to the maestro for me if you get a chance, Jack. He was too busy with his meal to glance at me.

We sat a table at the far end of the half empty restaurant with my back turned to where the detective chief superintendent was seated. I caught sight of him as a reflection in the emblazoned Restaurant 'Da Fiono' windows. Wide shouldered, much taller than average with a head of hair that betrayed his age. From his rank, I had deduced that he must have passed fifty, but the thickness of his grey hair, swept back behind his ears, was that of a much younger man. He stood as an athlete would, straight with no slouch of any kind and looked light on his feet. He was dressed immaculately, but seemingly with no pockets of his own unless he had paid before our arrival, as he offered no money to the waiter who obsequiously brushed the front of his suit jacket. He made no sign to us as he left, right on the time that Jack said he would.

You are a very observant man and one for precise details, Jack. Did that come from over here or the time you spent abroad on HM business?

Never gave that much thought. Both would be right in their own way, he replied as a waiter hovered to take our order. I took a menu but had not finished with Jack at that point.

What would you like to do first, Jack? Tell me how you started that work you did over on foreign soil, or about Alhambra and that man who's just left?

"As I told you, the man who just left is a fool, but he'll take some catching. I'll give you his full address in Blackheath Park later. He has the first floor as his family home, but look at the deeds lodged with Land Registry. The Millers own the whole building and the one at the back of the plot that's being built. The construction company is not in his name but it's his all the same. Take a drive out there one day if the urge grabs you, and see if you could buy that place and maintain his lifestyle on the salary he draws. He would probably say that his wife is on the game as his way of explaining it. He's not your worry, though. Alhambra is another kettle of fish all told.

He fought on the Nazi side in Spain during the Civil War, taking that name from the palace in Grenada. He was born to English parents in India. Very good breeding with better-placed connections than most. He was one of the first Nazi sympathisers I came across when I started work for those inside the SIS whilst still at school. Again, you must control that enthusiasm of yours. Order some grub first. We might have a long night in front of us. We'll talk as we eat, but first some more vino to smooth my throat. Un chianti per favore, Alfonso. Il tuo migliore, come il mio amico sta pagando."

Learn Italian in Italy, Jack? naively I asked.

Somewhere colder than that, Pat! Learned it when I was in Austria. I had a teacher who had a huge wood-burning stove going all day and every day. Sometimes I sat on it until my arse was cooked. Outside it was cold enough to freeze the balls off brass monkeys. I even heard them fall sometimes! I was getting used to his humour and that smile of his.

The bottle was served, uncorked, sniffed and tasted, then when approved poured into the appropriate glasses. He excused himself from the table to wash his hands, leaving me alone with my thoughts. His return coincided with the arrival of the first offerings of food.

Was it simply my persuasive powers that led you to agree to helping so much, Jack, or something more than that? After all, I only asked you to change a few written words. We didn't have to do all this tonight.

Why not tonight? I was hungry anyway and you're paying, I've already told the waiter that. It was my turn to laugh which I did gladly.

I think I can see a bit of me in you, Patrick. I was eager to help my country at your age, do the best I could in flying the flag. Patriotism, idealisms of freedom from oppression and all that shit drove me on. For me, at that time, the establishment stood in the way and shut me out. Ever seen and read the inscription on Edith Cavell's statue opposite the Portrait Gallery? She was a spy, you know. Ran a small but significant group from a Belgium hospital in the First World War where she worked. We made a great propaganda thing out of the firing squad death. Used photographs of her on recruiting posters. That is something we're good at; turning the truth our way at pressing times. Barrington's name is enough of an incentive to wind me up and start the motor running again. Enjoy the ride while you can, but learn where the brake pedal is, and check that it works every so often, Pat.

Not having heard him elaborate on any statement so much as that before, I wondered why now there was a necessity.

CHAPTER FIVE

The Savoy

"I was a page at the Savoy Hotel when I was fifteen, Patrick. My dad had died the year before and although I was in a grammar school with ambitions of perhaps making it into a university, Mum needed the extra money that I could provide with that job. I was a bit ruthless in those days; it was the tips I was really after. Saw the advert at the bottom of a newspaper I was delivering on my paper round one morning and applied straight away. I had to bunk off school to get there. The only qualifications it said that were needed was you had to be clean and not too tall. I passed on both those counts. I think the man who was in charge was called Snow, but it could have been Scott. Nearly forty years have flown past since I was given that first pair of white gloves. They gave you three pairs a day you know, so none got dirty or grubby. Good little earner, that job! Bit wearing on the old feet, though. Must have walked miles each day through the corridors and reception halls. There were eight of us, I think, delivering messages or going out for cigarettes or flowers for the guests. Gave you a cloak to wear if you had to go outside through the main doors. Great fun I tell you, especially if it was an American guest you were going out for.

They tipped well, but no one tipped like a US celebrity. Had a few in my day. Don't ask me for their names as most of them I'd never heard of, but Mr Snow, or whatever his name was, said they were really important and to look after them. Added a big wink when he said that. That was enough for me. I do remember one celeb, a young girl, a year or so younger than me who was over here to sing on the stage at the Adelphi. She was with her parents and every morning I was instructed to take breakfast to her room. I was the only one allowed to do that. Her mother gave me two tickets to the show, and, don't faint, a five-pound note! More than a year's wage. I went with my mum, who was so proud of me knowing this American girl that she told all our street that she was off to the theatre to see Judy Garland. She bought a hat for the occasion from that fiver. My mum would fill a hot bath tub every night for me after that for my sore feet. She and I feasted well on the strength of my tips and the stories I told about who I'd met at Savoy."

Was it at the Savoy that you were first approached to work for the secret mob, Jack?

"Observe and listen, they were the first orders I received, Pat. That's all we want you to do. So said Mr Stewart Campbell, my first handler in early 1933. He wanted me to pin my ears back for mentions about Germany and the name of Hitler in particular. Then they wanted more. They always did! I was promoted in-house a year later to the reception desk and that's where Alhambra comes into the equation, although, he wasn't called that then, of course. Trenchard came a few weeks later. 'The Strummer' was Alhambra's code name between Campbell, Trenchard and me, and I was to handle him carefully, they told me. Taking note of callers, telephone numbers if I could, along with which guests he mostly spoke to or mingled with. Trenchard was a junior at Five then. I called him a runner as he was always in a hurry to get somewhere else. He passed on instructions from Campbell and sometime later one of them ordered me to enlist in the Blackshirts of Sir Oswald Mosley. I was on my way to one of the rallies held in the East-End, calling for him to be released from internment, when I came across that man at Whitechapel with the gun. I knocked him out, but my cover was blown in Mosely's New Party so they assigned me elsewhere. I was sent to a Royal Naval yard to work in order to unearth a Communist spy, but I can't tell you of that. Mind you, by that time I had every name signed up to Mosley's way of thinking, some would blow your mind wide open, Pat. What I will say is that I told Campbell about John Cairncross way before his name cropped up with Burgess and the other lot from Cambridge. Dropped Victor Rothschild's name on his lap as well, but what I said was ignored because, as I said before, I never lived in Guildford and only went to a common old grammar school. I was not one of the chaps. Wrong side of the country for inclusion into their club."

Why would they wipe your file clean from 1948 if you didn't finish with them until '53? That doesn't make sense unless you did some really important covert stuff for them and they wanted to hide you.

There was a wide smile from Jack as he finished picking at his food, neatly placing his knife and fork beside each other and laying them diagonally across his half eaten meal. At first, I thought the smile was because the pasta he'd had and the wine he'd drunk both met with his approval, but there was another reason.

Do you remember me saying that the chair you paid so much attention to was given to me when I retired from the service, Pat? I nodded in agreement. Well, that wasn't entirely true. I took it as my going away present! Walked out the office, past a startled janitor and boarded a bus carrying it. A right two and eight of a mess I made of it on that bus, I can tell you. The conductor said it was too big, but it wasn't at an angle. I only travelled as far as the train station and he let me ride on the platform with it. Caught the train into Marylebone then had to walk all the way home to Baker Street with it across my back. It has been everywhere with me since then. Had it re-covered more times than I can recall. Did you wonder why it has three sides? he asked. To which I replied that I had.

"Barrington brought it in with him one day. Wanted to make some derogatory gesture in front of all the others, put me in my place kind of thing. Said that one side was us, the Brits, one the Americans and the other represented the Russians. But although I asked him what he meant by that, he wouldn't say. Trenchard was by then in Special Branch, heading up 'A' department; internal affairs. Sort of rubber-heel mob, creeping around with their noses up each other's arse. They were amateurs, Patrick. Made loads of noise and unnecessary commotion. I was under surveillance by them. When I complained, I was informed that I was suspected of having been turned in Vienna, where I had diligently served my country. They had no evidence of that, because it had never happened, but I was told it was—standard practices, old chap. We use the same procedure on everyone who has returned from foreign lands. We suspect first and regret the inconvenience later; if we must! and don't take it personally. But I did, in a big way! Can you see the irony in all of this?"

I answered that I couldn't and he'd left me behind somewhere. As two glasses of Marsala were delivered to our table that I had not seen Jack order, he explained how he had come to that conclusion.

There you are, a university graduate helping another graduate to bring down another who has enjoyed privilege, but having to engage me, an old washed-up spy from the wrong side of the bed. One whose affiliations were once questioned but never answered. He tasted his wine as I tasted mine before continuing.

Trenchard needs not only you but me too, Patrick. On your own, I doubt the two of you would have got close. Even if I'm wrong you most certainly would not have any inside knowledge of Miller so soon. From him there must be a direct money trail to Alhambra. The trouble for Barrington is yet to be revealed, but it will be, believe me. I will introduce you to the ultimate prey right after we drink up and leave. That's where things will start to get hairy. A simple point I would like to raise before we set about our quest. How do you suppose a known fascist who still advocates his hatred of Jews and all blacks, yellows and browns can get a licence to run a club in London? Let's forget about his trade in pornographic books and concentrate on why he's not locked up for his political statements. Whose pockets do you think he's lining?

Could be freedom of speech, Jack? Something along those lines, perhaps?

If only! Soho might be a closed shop to outsiders, but it's nothing compared to Freemasons, Westminster and the law, Pat. You're on a loser, my son. You're the tethered lamb to bring out the snakes while the lions gorge on the buffalo around the next bend. If you want my advice, which you haven't asked for but nevertheless will get, then call it in now. There's a phone box we pass before we get to his club. It's never been raided, not even Barrington would dare to do that.

Why, Jack? That would seem the obvious place to start. Another smile preceded his reply.

"You are an ant in this world, Patrick. You are expected to show the corruption in the police that every Tom, Dick and Harry walking the streets of London know about. Appease the public mind. You are not expected to find politicians having it off in the back rooms of a Nazi's club in the Capital on a Friday night whilst claiming allowances for legitimate entertainment. Follow Miller's money lodged