The Queen v. Karl Mullen (23 page)

“You’re a good girl,” Professor Macheli had said, patting her on the shoulder. “But I do not think you should worry too much. What we did was not a grave matter. Certainly not one for which you or I would be imprisoned.”

The first part of what she told him had interested him, the second part had infuriated him. The anger was still with him. What Yule had done was typical of all that was bestial in the South African government. To make little Anna spy and sneak on her employer. To torment her with threats until she bowed to their demands. He would have liked to relieve his feelings by getting out of bed and pacing up and down, but that would have disturbed his wife. Besides, there was a more practical step that he could take, and he would take it that coming morning.

On this thought, he finally succeeded in getting to sleep.

On the Monday afternoon the Orange Consortium was in session. Captain Hartshorn was in the chair. Raymond Masangi was absent on duty, at Bow Street, but Andrew Mkeba, Govan Kabaka and Boyo Sesolo were there. All of them were excited.

“I saw that old Professor character arriving,” said Sesolo. “I imagine all this stuff you’ve given us came from him.”

Hartshorn said, “Actually, it came, originally, from his daughter Anna. You’ve read the report from City Detectives.”

“Cute little girl,” said Mkeba, “with a foot in both camps.”

“From what we’ve learnt now,” said Hartshorn, “it seems that she was more a victim than a plotter. Yule had found out about the irregularity in her position and was squeezing her.”

It did not occur to any of them to express surprise or disgust. The tactics of the South African authorities were familiar to them.

“I suppose we can assume that she is speaking the truth now,” said Kabaka.

“Yes, Govan. I think so. The Professor, who knows her very well, had no doubt about it.”

“Then it is, indeed, good news.”

“Lovely,” rumbled Sesolo.

“As far as it goes,” said Hartshorn, “it is excellent news. The authorities clearly have it in mind that Jack Katanga was murdered. And the only conceivable murderer is Mullen. He was there, he had constructed an opportunity to administer poison and had the strongest possible reason for doing so. But is that enough to force them to act? I wish I could say ‘yes’, but I have some doubts at the back of my mind.”

“If he used poison,” said Mkeba, “is there any idea what it was?”

“From what Anna overheard the idea seems to be centring on some form of weedkiller. Paradol was mentioned. This would certainly be logical. He could go into a big garden shop and buy weedkiller without attracting any attention at all.”

At this point the telephone on Hartshorn’s desk sounded off. He picked up the receiver and listened for nearly two minutes without interrupting. Then he said, “Thank you. That’s very clear,” and replaced the receiver.

“That was Raymond. He was in court this morning when the prosecution applied for a stay of action to let them consider the situation. The Magistrate was most unwilling to grant it. He said that the case had dragged on long enough and it was his duty to see that it was settled as soon as possible. Now that the Divisional Court, in their joint wisdom, had remitted the matter to him, he said he saw no reason to hang about. It needed a very forceful application by the Attorney General in person to get him to change his mind. He granted a stay of one week and he made it clear that that was as far as he was prepared to go. One week,” said Captain Hartshorn thoughtfully.

How, and when, did the possibility that Katanga had been murdered, become public property? So far as the media were concerned the story, briefly noted, was that he had finally succumbed to an affliction which had troubled him for some years. A handful of people outside the Katanga and Macheli households knew of the suspicious circumstances, but they were professional people, trained to keep their mouths shut. The Orange Consortium might have spread the news, but Captain Hartshorn had said ‘no’. Fate had dealt him a good hand and he was determined to play it carefully. But by whatever crack or cranny the rumour emerged, once it was out it spread with the force and fury of fire through tinder-dry scrub.

It reached Pretoria on Monday and produced a reaction which startled even the phlegmatic Dieter Langenhoven. He was in conference with Max Freustadt and there were two radio-telegrams on the desk in front of him. The longer one was in the normal consular code and had been deciphered by the staff. The shorter one was in a private cypher, the only book of which lived in Langenhoven’s safe.

“It appears,” he said, picking up the longer telegram, “that our masters are displeased with us. We have been showing a lack of drive and initiative in our support of Mullen and we seem signally to have failed to realise the disastrous propaganda effect of a successful prosecution.”

“Do they say what they want us to do?” said Freustadt. “Or is it all piss and wind?”

“Let me see. We should feel ourselves entitled to spend money on this object without any limit—”

“On what?”

“They are a little shy of practical suggestions, but they do say that since the prosecution is making use of private detectives, we should not hesitate to employ the best available detectives ourselves.”

“To detect what?”

“That they do not specify. I shall entrust this part of the operation to Yule. He is more accustomed to such manoeuvres than I am. I have, however, one suggestion to make. Some of this money which has been placed so freely at our disposal should be passed across – a handsome interim payment – to Mullen’s solicitors. Solicitors always work harder with money in their pockets.”

When the arrangements for this payment had been made and Freustadt had left him, Langenhoven re-read the shorter telegram, which he had decoded himself. Its contents appeared to worry him a lot more than the windy exhortations in the longer one. It premised certain things which might never happen. Which were perhaps unlikely to happen. But if they did he was directed, in clear terms which admitted of no argument, to take certain steps; steps which, if they became known, or were even suspected, would certainly lead to his recall.

He noted that the message had a small red star at the beginning and another at the end of the text. This meant that the sender had not retained a copy. The one in his hands was unique.

He placed it on top of the code book in his private safe and locked the safe.

Captain Hartshorn had fixed his appointment with Roland Auchstraw for seven o’clock on that Tuesday evening. He drove himself down, through the early-November dusk. Leaving his car in Finsbury Circus he crossed London Wall and approached Basinghall Street from the far end.

When he arrived, Auchstraw was alone, his table was clear and his filing cabinets were locked. His greeting was as genial as ever. He poured out a generous glass of the malt whisky which he knew was the Captain’s favourite drink and a smaller one for himself. But behind the facade there was a perceptible tension, as though both men knew that the matters on which they were engaged were approaching a crisis.

“When I was at home yesterday evening,” said the solicitor, “I walked up with my family onto the Heath. There were a lot of bonfires.”

“Of course! Guy Fawkes night.”

“Right. Except that it wasn’t Guy Fawkes on the bonfires. On a lot of them it was Karl Mullen.”

Hartshorn smiled, but Auchstraw was not looking amused. He said, “I don’t like getting involved in affairs when there’s too much public interest washing round them. In one scandal lately – I needn’t mention the names – it was put to me by third parties that I might take a hand. I turned it down and I’m glad that I did so. If my name had appeared I’d have been very unpopular.”

Hartshorn said, with a smile, “You needn’t let that worry you. In this case, I can promise you, you’ll be on the popular side.”

“If that’s the way it is – tell me what you want me to do.”

“The first thing is quite easy. I want you to extend the watch on Fischer Yule’s office. It must be continuous through the twenty-four hours. I’ve checked that the lighting in Axe Lane stays on all night, so it shouldn’t be difficult.”

“Not difficult, but expensive. Two men can’t do it. We’d need four - maybe a fifth.”

“Expense need not be considered.”

“Is that so?” Mr Auchstraw sounded happier. “Is there anything in particular they’ll be looking for?”

“We want a record kept of the names and details of everyone who visits Mullen. His flat’s on the top floor of the office and the only way in or out is by the door in Axe Lane. If the person who turns up is a stranger, they must try to identify them.”

“It’d be a help if you could give us some idea what sort of person to expect.”

“It could be a private detective. I heard from Captain Smedley, who’s an old friend of mind. A bod from the South African government wanted to hire his agency. He turned it down, but there are plenty of other people he can go to.”

“Indeed,” said Auchstraw. “Private investigation seems to be one of our growth industries. Did you say there was another matter you wished me to attend to?”

“The second matter is rather more difficult.” The Captain paused to look round the office. “Do you, by any chance, make a tape-recording of things that are said to you here?”

“My dear Hartshorn,” Auchstraw sounded genuinely pained. “An old client like yourself. A trusted friend. Certainly not.”

“Very well, then. I’ll explain what we want. The precise details I shall have to leave to you.”

He spoke for ten minutes. The only sign of emotion that Mr. Auchstraw displayed was to take off his glasses, polish them carefully, and replace them.

Then he said, “I shall need two thousand pounds in used notes.”

“Now,” said the Director, “let us see what we’ve got pinned down.”

This was a favourite expression of his. He liked evidence to be fastened firmly, with a drawing pin in each corner, a precaution against the winds of chance and the wiles of the opposition.

On this occasion, as well as the Deputy Director and the Head of the Special Branch, Chief Inspector Ancrum was there from West End Central. He had brought with him his number two, Detective Inspector Brailey, who was keeping himself modestly in the background. Dr. Summerson was not there. The matter had passed out of the hands of the scientists and into those of the police.

The Director said, “The second report from Aldermaston confirms, beyond question, that a mixture containing paraquat had been added to the olive oil in the jar. Possibly chlordane as well. That’s not certain, but it’s not important since paraquat by itself would have done the job.”

“If that’s right,” said Underhill, “does it suggest any particular weedkiller?”

“Paradol contains both those elements. It’s a garden weedkiller much used for clearing paths. Sold, so the producers tell us, in at least five hundred shops and stores in Greater London.”

“And another five hundred outside it, no doubt,” said Ancrum gloomily.

“Possibly. The tins are rectangular, with a rather eye-catching red and gold label. Not the sort of thing which could be easily overlooked.”

Inspector Brailey said, diffidently, “I had a word with Blanchard about that.”

“I take it,” said the Director, “that you are referring to the officer who made that most irregular search of the premises.” The suggestion of a smile which accompanied this seemed to suggest that he did not consider it a very flagrant breach of the rules.

Brailey said, “It was irregular, sir. But I saw no reason why we shouldn’t use his report. I have it here. It’s quite clear that there was no tin or bottle of any sort of weedkiller in the house. He had time to do quite a thorough job before that old medical pussy turned up. I don’t think he’d have missed it if it had been there. He knows his job.”

“Interesting,” said the Director. “In fact, very interesting.” He had in front of him a sheet of paper on which he had written the words, ‘Motive’, ‘Opportunity’ and ‘Means’. He said, “We need not waste much time over motive. You all know the bookshop story. Statements were taken from the manager, Mr. Snow, from his assistant, Miss Widdicombe, and from that private detective, Harold Ratter. They were never used, because the case was never heard, but they’ll all be available to give evidence. When we come to opportunity, we note that Mullen was alone in that room for quite half an hour.”

Underhill said, “Significant, also, that he had manufactured the opportunity by telephoning to find out when Katanga was expected back and by arriving early.”

“The point had not escaped me,” said the Director. “It is when we come to means that the position is less satisfactory. So far we have no evidence that Mullen had, or could have obtained, paraquat in any form.”

He looked at the four men round the table. The decision was the Director’s and his alone.

He said, “Until we have made every effort to close that gap in the evidence, I don’t feel justified in authorising a charge of murder against Mullen.”

In the silence which followed the three policemen looked at Underhill. He was the only person who could voice their objections effectively. He said, “We all appreciate your reluctance, sir. But it has to be borne in mind that if no charge is brought Mullen will be out of the country by Monday evening.”

“And it’s Wednesday today. That means that in the next four days you will all have to work very hard. There are two questions to be answered. Where the paraquat came from and what happened to it. That suggests a division of work. West End Central can have any help from other divisions and districts that they want. Every shop in and around London which sells weedkiller must be visited. The officers will have a photograph of Mullen with them. Next, the question of the container.” He turned to Brailey. “Do I understand that you know Inspector Blanchard?”

“Yes, sir. Quite well.”

“Then have a word with him and tell him that his technical breaches of the rules will be forgiven if he shows suitable energy and initiative now. He is to get a team of his men to examine the area round the Katanga house. The gutters and drains in the streets and the whole area of Putney Common. They will be looking for any can or bottle which might have contained weedkiller. And they have four days to find it. Progress reports by six o’clock every evening, please.”