THIRTY-THREE
‘I noticed you were on first-name terms, Captain,' said Donaldson.
And why not?' the little soldier asked. His tone was light, but something in it warned the policeman that Arrow's sense of humour did not extend to his own affairs.
I'm in Private Office a lot, so Shana and I see quite a bit of each other. I was on first-name terms with Maurice Noble, too. And I was on first-name terms with all the lads in my SAS squad. So what?'
Donaldson knew nothing of Arrow's military background. `No matter,' he said, and moved quickly on. 'Let's get the next guy in. Joseph Webber, Executive Assistant.'
Aye, that's right,' said Arrow. I'm on first-name terms with him, too.'
Joseph Webber was a year short of forty, older than either Maurice Noble or Shana Mirzana. He had been a civil servant for twenty-one years, the last eight of them spent in Private Office. This was far beyond the normal posting even for a junior grade, but the Annual Reports in his Personnel file revealed that he was trapped there by his own faultless efficiency.
His vetting report revealed him as a contradictory character. He was single and lived in a small flat in Pimlico. His life was dominated by his work, and his only hobby seemed to be the consumption of large quantities of beer in the Red Lion pub, around 200 yards from the great grey Whitehall headquarters of the Ministry of Defence.
The effect of the previous evening's consumption was showing around Webber's eyes as he took his place at the table opposite his three interrogators. The black circles stood out in his otherwise pasty face.
`Must have been a hell of a shock,' said Donaldson abruptly.
Webber looked at him blankly.
The accident, I mean.'
`That? Yeah, I suppose so,' said the man, in an accent which reminded Neil Mcllhenney of a market-stall trader in a television soap.
`You don't seem overwhelmed by grief.'
`What do you want me to do? Gnash my teeth? Weep uncontrollably? I'm afraid that's not me. These things happen, that's all I can say.'
Donaldson gazed at him. 'Don't you feel touched by it at all?'
Webber shrugged his shoulders. 'I feel sorry for Maurice. He was a harmless enough geezer. But people come and people go. I've seen enough of them go in my time in here, and he's just one more.'
`Don't you feel sorry for Colin Davey too?'
The civil servant stared unblinking across the table. 'Not a bit. The world's a better place without him. The man was a complete arsehole.'
`What did he do to you?'
`He threatened to have me moved on from here, for a start.'
`But you've been here for eight years, man. Haven't you had enough of it?'
Joseph Webber laughed softly, revealing years of dental neglect 'I told Sir Stewart: the day I move out of here, I go straight through the big front door, out into Whitehall and I don't come back. This place is like a fuckin' beehive, mate. I spent thirteen anonymous years as a mainstream drone and the thought of putting in another twenty of 'em makes my blood run cold. I like Private Office because it's the centre of the hive. I know how it works, I know how to make it run smoothly, and I know how to spot banana skins before someone steps on 'em.'
`So why did Davey want you out?' asked Arrow.
`Because I knew about him, and he knew it, that's why. I know everything.'
`What d'you mean by that?'
`You're Ministry Security, Adam, you find out.' Webber and Arrow stared across the table at each other for several seconds, neither man blinking.
`We'll maybe come back to that later,' said Donaldson, breaking the stalemate. 'If you know everything, Mr Webber, what can you tell us about Maurice Noble?'
The man looked up at the ornate plastered ceiling for a few seconds, then out of the net-draped window at the Saturday afternoon traffic as it moved smoothly along Whitehall.
Finally, the black-ringed eyes swung back across the table. `Maurice was a poor sad little bugger, who was out of his depth in just about every way. Over the last few weeks I watched him come apart.'
`Hold on a minute, Joseph,' said Arrow. 'He was put forward for the job by Sir Stewart.
He's not a guy to make mistakes.'
`He made one this time.' Webber paused. 'Maurice coped okay at first, but Davey's behaviour and his attitude began to get to him after a while. Then outside factors began to have an effect.'
`Such as?' asked Mcllhenney, intrigued.
`Such as he reckoned that someone was 'aving it off with his wife.'
`Did he tell you that?' asked Donaldson quickly.
Webber nodded. 'One night we were working late, as usual. Shang 'ad gone off to meet her mystery bloke..
The DCI's eyes narrowed. 'Who's he?'
`Like I said, that's a mystery.'
`Now look, Mr Webber, withholding information-'
`Leave it,' said Arrow quietly. Donaldson turned and stared at him.
`Go on Joseph,' said the soldier. 'You were working late, you said.'
`Right. It was gone half-nine when we left, so I headed straight for the Red Lion. I asked Maurice if he wanted to come along and 'e did. I'd never seen him drink before, but Christ,
'e made up for it that night. I was banging the pints away to make up for the two hours or so I'd lost, and 'e kept pace with me. Not on beer, but on large gin and tonics.
Eventually we slowed up, and he began to talk. He told me that the job was getting him down, not because Davey was such a bastard — he said that he could 'andle that all right — but because it was keeping him away from home for too long. He said that no Secretary of State 'e'd ever heard of worked his staff so 'ard, and he was right.
`He was half-pissed by this time, so he told me that he'd always had trouble keeping Ariadne happy. Now the hours he was working were making it bloody near impossible, and he blamed Davey for it personally.
`He said that he was sure she'd got bored wiv 'im, and that someone else was in there doing the business. I said to him, 'What are you doing sitting 'ere getting pissed with me then? Get on home and fight for her.' But he said that he was past all that: He said that he loved her but that she was too much woman for him, and she knew it. Poor little bugger.
He was so sad he put me off my beer, so I slung him into a taxi and headed off home.'
`When did all this happen?' asked Donaldson.
About three weeks ago.
`Didn't you think to suggest that he get medical help?' said Arrow, frowning.
As a matter of fact I did tell 'im that, but short of twisting his arm up his back I couldn't force him, could I?'
`Didn't you think to talk to me?'
`Yeah. I thought about it, and I decided against it. I reckoned that you might have decided he was a security risk and have him removed from the job. The guy was near enough suicidal as it was, without that. And anyway, where I come from, you don't grass. Omerta, the Sicilians call it — the vow of silence. Down the East End we don't need vows; it's in the blood.'
`D'you realise that makes you a security risk, Joseph?' said the soldier.
Webber smiled, widely enough to reveal the full extent of his dental catastrophe. 'Frankly, my dear Adam, I don't give a damn! I made a decision this morning. I hauled my ragged arse out of bed, I stared in the mirror at the wreck of my face, and I said to myself,
'Joseph Webber, you've given the beehive twenty years of your life. It ain't getting any more.' So I sat down,
