‘That is something of a difficult question,’ Austwick replied. ‘He never got the money, so he couldn’t leave Ireland.’
‘Yes, he did,’ Narraway contradicted him. ‘I dealt with it myself.’
‘That’s rather the point,’ Austwick said. He moved position slightly, scuffing the chair leg on the carpet.
Narraway resented being reminded of his failure. ‘If you don’t know who killed him, why are you spending time on that now, instead of current things?’ he asked abruptly. ‘If you have nothing to do, I can certainly find you something. Pitt and Gower are away for a while. Somebody’ll have to pick up Pitt’s case on the docks.’
‘Oh, really?’ Austwick barely masked his surprise. ‘I didn’t know. No one mentioned it!’
Narraway gave him a chill look and ignored the implied rebuke.
Austwick drew in his breath. ‘As I said,’ he resumed, ‘this is something that I regret we have to deal with. Mulhare was betrayed-’
‘We know that, for God’s sake!’ Narraway could hear his own voice thick with emotion. ‘His corpse was fished out of Dublin Bay.’
‘He never got the money,’ Austwick said again.
Narraway clenched his hands under the desk, out of Austwick’s sight. ‘I paid it myself.’ He had done, but indirectly, for good reasons, which he would not tell Austwick.
‘But Mulhare never received it,’ Austwick replied, his voice conflicted with a mixture of emotions. ‘We traced it.’
Narraway was startled. ‘To whom? Where is it?’
‘It is in one of your bank accounts here in London,’ Austwick answered.
Narraway froze. Suddenly, with appalling clarity, he knew what Austwick was doing here, and held at least a hazy idea of what had happened. Austwick suspected, or even believed, that Narraway had taken the money and intentionally left Mulhare to be caught and killed. Was that how little he knew him? Or was it more a measure of his long-simmering resentment, his ambition to take Narraway’s place and wield the razor-edged power that he now held?
‘Went in and out again,’ he said aloud to Austwick. ‘We had to move it around a little, or it would have been too easily traceable to Special Branch.’
‘Oh, yes,’ Austwick agreed bleakly. ‘Around to several places. But the trouble is that in the end it went back again.’
‘Back again? It went to Mulhare,’ Narraway corrected him.
‘No, sir, it did not go to Mulhare. It went back into one of your special accounts. One that we had believed closed,’ Austwick said. ‘It is there now. If Mulhare had received it, he would have left Dublin and he would still be alive. The money went around to several places, making it almost untraceable, as you say, but it ended up right back where it started, with you.’
Narraway drew in his breath to deny it, and saw in Austwick’s face that it would be pointless. Whoever had put it there, Austwick believed it was Narraway himself, or he chose to pretend he believed it.
‘I did not put it there,’ Narraway said, though he thought it would not change anything. The betrayal of Mulhare was repugnant to him, and ‘betrayal’ was not a word he used easily. ‘I paid it to Terence Kelly. He was supposed to have paid it to Mulhare. That was his job. For obvious reasons, I could not give it directly to Mulhare, or I might as well have painted a bull’s-eye on his heart.’
‘Can you prove that, sir?’ Austwick asked politely.
‘Of course I can’t!’ Narraway snapped. Was Austwick being deliberately obtuse? He knew as well as Narraway himself that one did not leave trails to prove such things. What he would be able to prove now, to justify himself, anyone else could have used to damn Mulhare.
‘You see it calls into question the whole subject of your judgement,’ Austwick said half apologetically, his bland face grave. ‘It would be highly advisable, sir, for you to find some proof of this, then the matter could be let go.’
Narraway’s mind raced. He knew what was in his bank accounts, both personal and for Special Branch use. Austwick had mentioned one that had been presumed closed. No money had passed through it for some time, but Narraway had deliberately left a few pounds in it, in case he ever wished to use it again. It was a convenience.
‘I’ll check the account,’ he said aloud, his voice cold.
‘That would be a good idea, sir,’ Austwick agreed. ‘Perhaps you will be able to find some proof as to why the money came back to you, and a reason poor Mulhare never received it.’
Narraway realised with the first chill of fear that this was not an invitation; it was a comparatively low-key warning to him, but it was in earnest. It was even possible that his position at Special Branch was in jeopardy. Certainly he had created enemies over the years, both in his rise to leadership, and even more so in the time since then. There were always hard decisions to make; whatever you did could not please everyone. There had to be sacrifices both of ideals and of people. They were dealing with lives, the movements and the tides of history, there was no room for sentimentality.
He had employed Pitt as a favour, when Pitt had challenged his own superiors and been thrown out of the Metropolitan Police. To begin with he had found Pitt unsatisfactory. He lacked the training or the inclination for Special Branch work, but he had learned quickly, and he was a remarkably good detective: persistent, imaginative and with a moral courage Narraway admired. And he liked the man, in spite of his own resolution not to allow personal feelings into anything professional.
He had protected Pitt from the envy and the criticism of others in the Branch. That was partly because Pitt was more than worthy of the place, but also to defend Narraway’s own judgement. But — he admitted it now-it was also for Charlotte’s sake. Without Pitt, he would have no excuse to see her again.
‘I’ll attend to it,’ he answered Austwick at last. ‘As soon as I have a few more answers on this present problem. One of our informants was murdered, which has made things more difficult.’
Austwick rose to his feet. ‘Yes, sir. That would be a good idea. I think the sooner you put people’s minds at rest on the issue, the better it will be. I suggest before the end of this week.’
‘When circumstances allow,’ Narraway replied coolly.
Circumstances did not allow. Early the following morning Narraway was sent for to report to the Home Office, directly to Sir Gerald Croxdale, his political superior, the one man to whom he was obliged to answer, without reservation.
Croxdale was in his early fifties, a quiet, persistent politician who had risen in the ranks of the government with remarkable swiftness, not having made great speeches or initiated new laws, nor apparently having used the benefit of patronage from any of the more noted ministers. Croxdale seemed to be his own man. Whatever debts he collected or favours he owed were too discreet for even Narraway to know of, let alone the general public. He had made no individual initiatives that were remarkable, but probably far more important, he had made no visible mistakes. Insiders spoke his name with respect.
Narraway had never seen in him the passion that marked an ambitious man, but he had noted the quick rise to greater power and it earned in him a deeper, if reluctant, respect.
‘Morning, Narraway,’ Croxdale said with an easy smile as he waved him to a brown leather armchair in his large office. Croxdale was a big man, tall and solid. His face was far from handsome in any traditional sense, but he was imposing. His voice was soft, his smile benign. Today he was wearing his usual well-cut but unostentatious suit, and perfectly polished black leather boots. He could have been the second son of any of the great families in the country.
Narraway returned the greeting, and sat down, not comfortably, but a little forward, listening.
‘Bad business about your informant West being killed,’ Croxdale began. ‘I presume he was going to tell you a great deal more about whatever it was that is building up among the militant socialists.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Narraway said bleakly. ‘Pitt and Gower were only seconds too late. They saw West but he was already terrified of something and took to his heels. They caught up with him in a brickyard in Shadwell, only moments after he was killed. The murderer was still bending over him.’ He could feel the heat of the blood in his cheeks as he said it. It was partly anger at having been so close, and yet infinitely far from preventing the death. One minute sooner and West would have been alive, and all his information would be theirs. It was also a sense of failure, as if losing him were an incompetence on the part of his men, and so of himself. Deliberately he met Croxdale’s eyes, refusing to look away. He never made excuses, explicit or implicit.