Assassins Read online

  ‘Our class? Working-class women?’

  ‘What’s wrong with that? Me and your mum are working class. You’re working class. Don’t look down your nose at your own, boy, just because you got some high and mighty job at the police. You’re no better than Charlie Watts, so don’t think you are!’

  ‘I don’t think I’m better,’ insisted Stark. ‘All I’m saying is, why do we all have to stick to our own class?’

  ‘Because that’s the way it is,’ said Henry flatly. ‘That’s the way it always has been.’

  ‘The rich man in his castle, the poor man at his gate,’ quoted Stark bitterly. He’d always resented the sentiments of that hymn, ‘All Things Bright and Beautiful’: The rich man in his castle, the poor man at his gate, God made them high or lowly and ordered their estate.

  ‘That’s right,’ nodded his father. ‘It’s the natural order of things.’

  ‘Not for me, it isn’t,’ said Stark. ‘I had enough of the high and mighty during the war. Most of them couldn’t tie their own shoelaces without help. Anyway, I’m going out to dinner tomorrow evening at Lady Amelia Fairfax’s, and if you don’t want to look after Stephen for me—’

  ‘We will!’ said Sarah quickly. ‘You know we will, Paul.’

  Stark stopped and looked apologetically at his mother. There was no need to take out his anger at his father on her. ‘Yes, I know, Mum,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry. That was very unfair of me. I apologize.’

  Henry glared at him, sniffed angrily, then disappeared towards the kitchen.

  ‘You promised Stephen you wouldn’t be long,’ Sarah reminded him.

  ‘Yes, I did.’ Stark reached out and hugged her close. ‘The last thing I want to do is upset you and Dad. But I’ve got to have a life of my own, and what I want to do and the way I want to live it won’t suit Dad.’

  ‘I know,’ she said. ‘But don’t ever take Stephen away from us.’

  ‘I never will,’ Stark assured her. ‘I promise.’

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Stephen was sitting on his bed, looking at a book about aeroplanes, when Stark came in.

  ‘More planes?’ he said.

  Stephen nodded. ‘When we’ve finished the Sopwith Camel, me and Grandad are going to make an Avro.’

  ‘Great,’ said Stark. He sat down on the bed next to Stephen. ‘The reason I asked you to go upstairs while I talked to your grandad and grandma was because I thought that one of the things I was going to tell them would make your grandad upset.’

  Stephen hesitated, then said quietly, ‘I heard him getting angry.’

  ‘The thing is, Stephen, I am going out on work tonight. I have to see a man who might have some information that will help me with the case I’m on. But tomorrow night, I shall be going out for dinner with someone your grandad doesn’t like.’

  ‘A woman?’

  ‘Yes,’ nodded Stark.

  Stephen hesitated, then looked at his father and asked directly, ‘Is she going to take you away from us? Is that why Grandad’s upset?’

  ‘No,’ said Stark firmly. ‘No one’s going to take me away from you, I promise. The thing is that Grandad has his own views about the kind of people he wants me to mix with.’

  ‘Like he says to me about not playing with Terry Smith?’

  Terry Smith, the same age as Stephen, and one of the enormous Smith clan who lived a few streets away and were noted for their criminality.

  ‘Yes,’ said Stark. ‘Like that.’

  ‘Is this woman like the Smiths?’

  ‘No,’ replied Stark, smiling at the comparison. ‘This woman is called Lady Amelia Fairfax, and she lives in a very nice house in a very nice part of town.’

  ‘Lady?’ queried Stephen. ‘A real lady, like you see in the papers?’

  ‘A real lady, like you see in the papers,’ agreed Stark. ‘And she’s invited me to dinner tomorrow night, but your grandad thinks I shouldn’t go.’

  ‘Why did she invite you to dinner?’

  That’s a very good question. Stark had been asking himself the very same since she’d invited him. ‘I think she felt a bit lonely and wants someone to talk to,’ said Stark.

  ‘Hasn’t she got any friends?’

  ‘I’m sure she has, but maybe she wanted to talk to someone different for a change. Anyway, that’s where I’m going tomorrow evening.’

  ‘Will you be back?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ nodded Stark.

  ‘Grandad says you ought to get married,’ said Stephen suddenly.

  ‘Perhaps one day I will. But I’m not planning to do anything about it any time soon.’ He looked into his son’s eyes, so Stephen could see into his own and know he was being sincere. ‘I’m not going to do anything that divides us up. I don’t spend enough time with you as it is.’

  ‘Because of work,’ said Stephen.

  Stark nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘And once this case is over, I’m going to make sure I spend a lot more time with you. We’ll do whatever you want. Go places together. Do things.’

  ‘I like doing things with Grandad as well. Making models.’

  ‘I know,’ said Stark. ‘And you’ll still do that.’ He looked at his watch. ‘I’ve got to go.’

  ‘This man you’ve got to see about work?’ said Stephen.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Are they very dangerous people, the ones you catch?’

  Stark hesitated. ‘They can be,’ he said. ‘But luckily I don’t do it on my own.’

  ‘You were on your own when they hurt you the other night.’

  ‘Yes, but that was rare. That’s never happened before.’

  ‘Will they come back again and try to hurt you?’

  Stark saw that Stephen’s lower lip was trembling. He reached out and put his arm around his son, cuddling him to him. ‘Not a chance!’ he said determinedly. ‘No one’s coming here again like that!’ And he vowed: When I catch the bastards who did it, who’ve frightened Stephen in this way, I shall rip their hearts out.

  The meal at Danvers’ Uncle Edwin’s was excellent. Four courses: leek and potato soup to start, followed by lightly steamed haddock, steak with all the trimmings as the main course, and a rice pudding for dessert. I won’t need to eat again for a month, thought Stark. Then he remembered that he would be facing another meal the following evening. This is not a style of living you can allow yourself to get used to, he warned himself. Not on a chief inspector’s pay.

  Sir Edwin Drake was someone who had allowed himself to get used to the finer things in life: food and wine especially, to judge by his expanded waistline. Not that Drake bulged too obviously, but then his clothes had been made for him by the best tailors. During the meal they kept light conversation going, mainly social, which meant reminiscences between Danvers and his uncle about family members. For Stark, it was an insight into the world his sergeant inhabited, one very different to his own.

  For his part, Sir Edwin Drake was very pleasant company: charming, engaging, occasionally telling humorous stories about public figures he’d come into contact with, such as Lloyd George and Churchill. Although, Stark noted, he avoided mentioning any of the Irish politicians he must have met – de Valera and Collins and the rest.

  After the meal, Drake invited Stark and Danvers to join him in the library for cigars and brandy. As they left the dining room, two servants entered and began clearing the dining table.

  If my parents could see me now, thought Stark. Dad would accuse me of being too big for my boots, and Mum would just be terrified.

  They settled down into large and luxurious dark leather armchairs in the library, Stark and Danvers both refusing the offer of a cigar but accepting the brandy.

  ‘Thank you for not bringing the reason you came this evening into the conversation at table, Chief Inspector,’ said Drake. ‘I do so enjoy good food, and I like to treat it with delight, rather than as background to serious talk.’ He lit his cigar and waved away the smoke, then said, ‘So, Bobby tells me you want to know about Ir
eland.’ He smiled. ‘It’s a big subject.’

  ‘I’m interested in your view of the present situation,’ said Stark. ‘The talks going on in London at the moment.’

  Drake nodded. ‘It’s complicated,’ he said. ‘Of course, nearly everything about Ireland is. People think there are just two political factions in Ireland. The mainly Catholic population in the south, who want home rule, and have agitated for it for many years. And the mainly Protestant faction in Ulster who want to remain part of Britain. Actually, it’s not that straightforward, and these talks that are going on in London have brought home the divisions in the home rule faction.’ He looked enquiringly at Stark. ‘How much do you know about the talks? The terms being discussed, that sort of thing.’

  ‘That Ireland is to become a self-governing dominion of the British Empire, the same status that Australia, Canada, New Zealand and South Africa have,’ said Stark.

  ‘Good,’ nodded Drake. ‘And the head of state?’

  ‘The Irish Free State will be able to elect its own president, but the King will remain the head of state. Members of the new Irish Free State’s parliament will have to take an oath of allegiance to the Irish Free State, and also take a secondary oath to be faithful to His Majesty King George, his heirs and successors by law, in virtue of common citizenship.’

  ‘I congratulate you on your sharp memory, Chief Inspector,’ Drake nodded. ‘There are many involved in the current talks who would not be able to quote from the treaty document so accurately.’

  ‘The wording struck me as being memorable, sir,’ replied Stark.

  ‘It is,’ agreed Drake. ‘The rest of the terms?’

  Stark called to mind the documents he’d been given by Special Branch to read in Benson’s office. ‘Northern Ireland will have the option of withdrawing from the Irish Free State within one month of the treaty coming into effect. If Northern Ireland chooses to withdraw, a boundary commission will be constituted to draw the boundary between the Irish Free State and Northern Ireland.’

  ‘And there you have the two sticking points at the heart of the issue, Chief Inspector. The King as head of state and the related oath of allegiance to the British royal family, and the loss of Northern Ireland. One faction is prepared to accept those terms as the best option available, hoping to get improvements on them later.’

  ‘Michael Collins and the others who are in London.’

  ‘Yes. The other faction resolutely opposes the oath of allegiance to what they see as a foreign invading power, Britain, and also the loss of Northern Ireland. They want an independent and united Ireland of all four provinces: Munster, Leinster, Connacht and Ulster.’

  ‘By “the other faction”, I assume you mean de Valera?’

  ‘Exactly. And that is why de Valera is not with the delegation in London.’

  ‘I understood it was because he is too busy running the Irish Free State as its president, and that the delegation are here acting on his behalf.’

  ‘That’s the official reason. The real reason is that de Valera knows that this treaty is the best the Irish can get at this stage. And when it’s voted on in the Irish Parliament – the Dáil – de Valera will oppose it. But he can’t do that if he’s been seen to support it in London.’

  ‘So what do you think will happen?’

  ‘I think the treaty will be signed after long discussions, and taken to Dublin to be ratified by the Irish Parliament. De Valera and his faction will vote against it.’

  ‘And who will win?’ asked Danvers.

  ‘I think initially the treaty will be passed by the Dáil, but by a narrow margin. But then …’ Drake paused, and a look of deep unhappiness came into his face. ‘But then I think it will lead to civil war in Ireland as de Valera urges his followers to fight against the terms of the treaty, and the treaty-ites against those who want a free and independent united Ireland. Unfortunately, I foresee bloodshed in Ireland even worse than the War of Independence we’ve experienced so recently. Brother against brother. Mother against sons.’ He shook his head. ‘It will be carnage.’

  ‘Is there a way to stop it?’ asked Danvers. ‘What if Collins and his colleagues refuse to sign the treaty?’

  ‘Then the state of war between Britain and Ireland will continue.’ Drake sighed. ‘Whichever decision is taken in London, I fear it will lead to war of one sort or another.’

  TWENTY-SIX

  In the taxi that took them home, Stark patted his stomach. He still felt bloated. ‘I don’t think I’m going to need to eat again for a week,’ he said. ‘Four courses!’

  ‘Uncle Edwin entertains so rarely; that’s why he splashed out tonight,’ said Danvers. ‘But it was good food, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Excellent!’ agreed Stark. ‘I think we’ll have to find ways to ask your Uncle Edwin’s advice more often.’

  ‘What did you make of what he told us?’

  Stark hesitated. Then he leant forward to make sure the glass partition between them and the taxi driver was securely shut, before saying, ‘I think the Irish business is a dead end, as far as these murders are concerned.’

  Danvers looked at him, puzzled. ‘But you said there was a connection. The business of them both being against home rule.’

  ‘Yes, but it doesn’t make sense about them being killed over it. Think about it from the point of view of a possible assassin. Amersham and Smith and their Union group are out of the loop as far as the government is concerned. They have no power and no influence. So what’s the point in killing them? The pro-treaty crowd, the Irish delegation in London, have no interest in killing them. It wouldn’t benefit them; it could only make their bargaining position worse.

  ‘The anti-treaty Irish, the de Valera faction, they also have no real interest in killing them. They know that this group are outside the seat of power; they have no impact on the talks. Amersham and Smith and their like shout and rant about keeping Ireland British, but that’s all they can do. They are not a threat. Lloyd George and Churchill have set their minds on getting a deal. So why kill Amersham and Smith? It doesn’t make sense.’

  ‘The man who attacked you had an Irish accent.’

  ‘So the witness said, but I’m not a hundred per cent sure of that.’ Stark shook his head. ‘There is something going on here involving the Irish talks, but I don’t think the murders are connected to it. I think that Special Branch used the murder of Lord Amersham to try to undermine the talks. There is a faction inside Britain that wants these talks to fail, and they are more powerful than mavericks like Lord Amersham and Tobias Smith. And I’d bet my pension that some of the people in Special Branch are connected with them.’

  ‘The two you saw?’

  ‘Chief Inspector Burns and Inspector Rogers,’ nodded Stark grimly. ‘They had those files all ready for me. They wanted me to come to the conclusion that there was a split between the pro-treaty delegates, and de Valera and the anti-treaty brigade, and put suspicion on de Valera.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘To undermine the talks. Churchill was right. He said to me, “There are powerful people in Whitehall who want these Irish talks to fail. They will do anything to stop the talks succeeding.” We need to look elsewhere for our murderer.’

  Stark’s mother was still up when he arrived home, sitting in the kitchen by the range, darning a hole in one of Stephen’s socks. He looked at the clock. Eleven.

  ‘You needn’t have waited up,’ he told her.

  ‘You know your dad, he likes to make sure everything’s locked up for the night and the door bolted. I told him I’d make sure. He had to go to bed. He was tired.’

  Stark nodded, choosing not to comment about his father. ‘Did Stephen get to sleep all right?’ he asked.

  Sarah nodded.

  Stark hesitated, then said, ‘I’m likely to be home late tomorrow night, Mum. I’d prefer it if you didn’t wait up.’

  Sarah opened her mouth as if she was about to say something, then changed her mind and just nodded.

&nbs
p; This was always going to be difficult, Stark groaned silently to himself. ‘You go on up, Mum. I’ll bolt the door.’

  ‘I’ll just finish this,’ said his mother, gesturing at the partly darned sock in her hands.

  ‘All right,’ said Stark. ‘I’ll see you in the morning.’

  He went to the front door and slid the bolts into place, then headed up the stairs. Quietly, he opened the door of Stephen’s room and looked in. Stephen was fast asleep, his hands clutching at the sheet, pulling it up around his face.

  ‘Goodnight, son,’ Stark whispered, then gently pulled the door closed and went to bed.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Next morning, Stark was up and washed and dressed before anyone else. He was boiling a kettle to make tea when his mother appeared.

  ‘You’re up early,’ she commented. She turned away from him as she added, ‘Your dad’s feeling a bit under the weather this morning. So he’s staying in bed for a bit.’

  He can’t face me, thought Stark. He can’t even bear to be in the same room as me. ‘In that case, maybe I can take Stephen to school this morning?’ he suggested.

  Sarah shot him a puzzled glance. ‘I thought you had to get to work? Isn’t there a car coming for you, like usual?’

  ‘Yes, but he won’t mind waiting. It won’t take me long.’

  The school, Richard Cobden, was just a couple of hundred yards down Camden Street. It had been Stark’s old school, a place of fear and dread for many, with teachers whose philosophy seemed to have been to beat learning into children with the aid of a cane and anything else that came to hand. It was no wonder that quite a few children had left school unable to read and write properly, and many with stammers in their speech. By all accounts, things had improved since those days. And, fortunately for Stephen, he was a bright boy for whom reading and writing and arithmetic were a pleasure.

  ‘I’ll go up and tell him,’ said Stark. And maybe I’ll bump into Dad on the landing, he thought as he climbed the stairs.

  There was no chance of that: the door to his parents’ bedroom remained firmly closed.