It was a long time since I had gone Christmas shopping, trailing round the London stores with my mother, sitting on Santa Claus’s knees in Harrods, Swan & Edgar, D H Evans. I thought about all the long, sometimes happy, sometimes wretched process, of growing up, becoming a man, and now I was a man, and had been a man for a long time, and I was alone, wandering down this cold Manhattan street, feeling like an old toy that had been chucked into a waste bin.
I spent the day shuffling the streets, drinking eternal cups of black coffee and smoking eternal cigarettes in the cafes that came my way and I came no closer to any solution. Finally in the early evening I hailed a cab, went to Kennedy Airport and bought a ticket on the 10 pm TWA flight to London. The flight was a little under seven hours and, depending on the strength of the tail wind, we were scheduled to arrive at Heathrow Airport at about 9.40 in the morning.
The stewardess brought me the New York Times. The front page headline read, ‘British politician dead in New York Building collapse mystery.’ The article stated that no cause for the collapse was yet known but there was evidence of an explosion. The IRA was mentioned as possibly being involved but they had not claimed responsibility and there was as yet no clear evidence of any foul play. The article went on to state that the building had been scheduled for demolition under a redevelopment scheme.
It normally drizzles most of the week before Christmas and this Tuesday morning was no exception. If you ever feel gloomy and despondent, avoid flying into England on a wet day. Not that to have been greeted by blazing sunshine, a temperature of 95 degrees, and a host of naked dancing girls would have made much difference to my mood.
No one arrested me at the passport control and I walked out into the arrival lounge. I hired a car and drove off onto the M4 and the West Country. The plane had had engine trouble and the tail wind was weak; I switched on the radio to catch the one o’clock news. Not surprisingly the late Anthony Lines MP featured prominently. Considerable advances had been made since the New York Times had gone to press. Lines had definitely been killed by an explosion, which in turn had brought on the collapse of the building, the explosion apparently having taken place in the elevator. The IRA had denied responsibility and none of the other Irish terrorist organisations had as yet claimed any part in it. But whilst his death was given great prominence in the report, what was given even more prominence was the fact of Lines’s being in New York at all; that was a complete mystery to everyone.
He appeared to have told his wife late on Friday that he had to go to an emergency conference with the Prime Minister and wouldn’t be back until Monday. But the Prime Minister denied all knowledge of this conference and had been seen by numerous people out Christmas shopping all that Saturday. Had Lines gone to a secret meeting with a terrorist group? Why hadn’t the Americans any knowledge that he was coming? Under what name had he flown over since no passenger of his name had been carried by any of the airlines over that weekend? The speculation was well and truly rife. Already the death of Sir Maurice Unwin was being linked with Lines’s by the reporters. The Prime Minister had not yet issued any statement but was expected to later that day. In a strange way it all cheered me up.
Fifeshire’s country house was deep in the Cotswold hills, on the outskirts of two minute hamlets, and I found it with some considerable difficulty. There were two impressive stone gateposts topped by handsome gargoyles; the gates were open and looked as though they hadn’t been shut in years. Inside the gates the drive dropped sharply down to the right, and as I drove down, the house came into view some way below me. It was a massive Elizabethan manor, sunk deep in the hollow on one side, but looking down over hundreds of acres of rolling fields and hills in the distance on the other. It was a rich man’s house but sufficient parts of the facade, the driveway and the gardens looked in need of some care, not a great deal, but just enough to give it the feel of a private home rather than a National Trust set piece. It was the kind of house that told you, whatever else you might be feeling, that all was all right in the world.
I rang the doorbell and a rather matronly housekeeper opened the huge oak door.
‘I’ve come to see Sir Charles,’ I said.
She looked at me, surprised. ‘But he’s not here,’ she said, ‘he’s in town.’
‘I thought he wasn’t working up there at the moment.’
‘Not usually, he isn’t — at present; he’s still convalescing from his, er,’ she couldn’t bring herself to say the word. ‘But some telegram came over the weekend and he drove up very early on Monday morning; we don’t expect him back for a few days.’
‘Oh. I had an appointment with him,’ I lied, ‘three o’clock this afternoon.’
‘If you like, I’ll ring and tell him you’re here.’
‘I’d be most grateful if you would.’
‘May I have your name, please?’
‘Spade,’ I said.
She left me on the doorstep and went off inside. After a few minutes she returned:
‘Sir Charles is terribly sorry, sir; he says he completely forgot about your appointment. He asks if you will come in and make yourself at home; he will be back down just as soon as he can get away from his office.’
It didn’t sound to me like the message of an angry man but then Fifeshire never had given much away. I accepted the housekeeper’s offer of tea and biscuits, then fell into a deep sleep in the armchair in front of the roaring inglenook fireplace in the drawing room.
I awoke with a bolt of cold fear to the unmistakable clattering of a helicopter overhead. My immediate reaction was that the bastard had sent the army to get me. Then I looked at my watch: it was past seven. If he’d wanted me arrested, he’d have done it several hours ago. The huge door opened and in strode a beaming Fifeshire, limping a little, but looking fitter than ever, with attaché case in one hand and newspaper in the other; he dropped them both onto a chair.
‘Well, well, good evening, Mr Digger!’ he gave me a firm, warm handshake.
‘So you’re still speaking to me,’ I said.
There was a grin on his face from ear to ear. ‘I purloined a chopper to get down here as quickly as I could; damn traffic’s dreadful otherwise. Look like you’ve been to hell and back — you probably know the way by now.’ He gave me another big grin; he was looking pleased as punch, like some child that’s just got up to some mischief and is waiting for the results of its handiwork to take effect. He picked up the newspaper, the Evening Standard, and thrust it at me. ‘Have you been watching the news on television?’
‘No, haven’t heard anything since one o’clock; I’m afraid I fell asleep.’
He nodded at me to look at the Standard. The thick black type across the top of the front page blazed out the legend: Was Lines a Russian spy? I looked quizzically at Fifeshire.
‘Go on,’ he said, ‘read it.’
‘On Friday evening in Washington Sir Maurice Unwin, Britain’s attaché to the United States, apparently committed suicide. It is not widely known that Sir Maurice was the Head of MI6 in the US.
‘On Sunday afternoon in New York the Home Secretary, Anthony Lines, was murdered by a bomb.
‘It has today been learned that Commander Clive Scatliffe, deputy head of MI5, has been missing since Friday night. Intelligence sources report that he boarded an Aeroflot flight in New York, bound for Moscow, late on Sunday. Commander Scatliffe was acting head of MI5 since the hospitalisation of Sir Charles Cunningham-Hope, who was seriously wounded by gunfire when President Battanga was assassinated in his car in August of this year.’