offer Gennady a prize to gain his masters’ trust.
‘Now through his old diving friends he had heard that MI6 had hatched a risky plan to send a frogman down to investigate the cruiser that brought the Soviet leaders to the UK. The whole project was flawed. Apart from anything else, MI6 weren’t supposed to operate within the UK, that was our remit, and there was a lot of bad feeling about it in MI5. It seems that Miles Beaumont got it into his head to turn the tables on MI6 and betray the plan to Gennady. The Russians captured the frogman.’
‘Commander Crabb,’ Brock said.
‘Yes. According to what Gennady told Mikhail, they took him to London, to the basement of Miles’s house, where Gennady was supposed to carry out an initial interrogation of Crabb, before he was smuggled back to Russia on one of the Soviet airliners that had come over for the visit. But Gennady was too rough. Crabb died. They buried him there in the basement. Later the body was exhumed, and all but the head and hands were removed and dumped in the sea near Portsmouth, as you said, Brock.’
‘Did Miles Beaumont have authorisation from MI5 to do this?’ Sharpe asked.
‘Hell no. He did it completely off his own bat. He was a bit of a loner, by all accounts. An arrogant bastard. He never reported it afterwards.’
Brock was watching him closely. ‘But it was discovered?’
‘After a while,’ Sean said reluctantly, ‘suspicions were raised.’
‘There was a cover-up.’
‘All the same, this is old history,’ Sharpe said. ‘Is it really so vital that it’s not made public now?’
‘That an MI5 officer arranged the kidnapping and murder of an MI6 officer by the Russians? Toby Beaumont thought so, and so do a number of other people who were around at the time.’
‘Well,’ Sharpe said, ‘you’ll have our cooperation.’
‘We’d appreciate it.’
When Ardagh and Kuzmin had gone, Sharpe gave a little smile. ‘Money in the bank, Brock. He’ll have to pay for our silence.’
Brock drained his glass. ‘Case closed then.’
FORTY-ONE
T oby Beaumont gathered himself up and stood rigidly to attention-like a prisoner of war, Brock thought, that’s how he sees himself now, ready to give his name and serial number and nothing else. But he looked exhausted; prison was doing him no good, the effort involved in maintaining his front becoming too hard.
‘I brought you some reading matter,’ Brock said, and placed a small parcel of books on the table between them. He watched Toby open the package and peer at the titles: a new history of Napoleon’s campaigns, a reprint of Richard Burton’s 1855 book, Personal Narrative of a Pilgrimage to Al-Madinah and Meccah. Toby looked pleased, until he turned over the third book, The Buster Crabb Mystery.
‘You’ve probably read that one,’ Brock said. ‘I imagine you buy each one as it comes out, wondering if they’ve finally discovered the truth. Well now they have, Toby, thanks to Nancy Haynes, though we won’t be reading about it. Like you, they prefer to keep it buried.’
Toby’s expression was unreadable behind the dark lenses.
‘Tell me about your father. He must have been a remarkable man.’
Toby remained silent.
‘I’m told he wasn’t a team player.’
‘He was a team leader.’
‘Why did he kill himself?’
Toby sniffed, but didn’t answer.
‘Did he change his mind about what he’d done? Did he realise that he’d never be able to explain to his friends how he’d betrayed a fellow officer to the Russians? Was he riddled with guilt at how it had turned out, once that brute Gennady got his hands on Crabb?’
Toby still said nothing.
‘It was while you were away, fighting on the Suez Canal, wasn’t it? I wondered if there was some connection. So I checked your army record, and discovered that you weren’t up at Catterick Camp on the twenty-sixth of April 1956 as you said. You were on leave.’ Brock leaned forward. ‘You were there, Toby, weren’t you, at Chelsea Mansions when they did it? You were part of it, helping. And I wondered if your father killed himself out of a feeling of guilt for having involved you? Or was his suicide the price they demanded, when they finally worked out what he’d done-the price to keep you out of it, to let you continue in your military career?’
Toby took a deep breath and spoke in a low voice. ‘It’s a matter of loyalty, Brock. In the end that’s the most important thing, loyalty to your kin.’
Brock rubbed his beard thoughtfully. ‘Apparently an unknown woman looked after Crabb’s grave for twenty years after he was buried. His family denied it was any of them. I wondered if it might have been your mother.’
Toby got abruptly to his feet. He picked up the first two books, but left the one on Crabb lying on the table, and turned and marched away.
FORTY-TWO
B rock ducked his head through the low doorway of the old pub, steadying the tray of drinks in his hands. Across the dappled lawn, in the shade of a large oak tree, he saw the three of them around a table, heads together, discussing a photograph. They had met at one of Suzanne and Brock’s favourite country pubs on the way to Battle, and Brock paused for a moment in the sun and took a deep breath, thinking what an enormous relief it was to be out of London, like escaping from an airless room.
Suzanne was making a great fuss of John, teasing information out of him, gauging his temperament, clearly enjoying his company. Yes, within ten minutes she’d decided that she genuinely liked him, Brock realised, and it made him aware that he hadn’t even reached that stage yet. With anyone else he would have formed his assessment long ago, but with John he was lost, the burden of old memories too great.
He had at least made his apologies to the lad, for the Crabb business, and most of all for doubting his judgement about the authenticity of the letter. He felt ashamed of himself, remembering how he would have felt if his father had dismissed him like that.
Watching them now, laughing easily together, John’s hand on Kathy’s arm, Brock thought how open and exuberant he looked. It seems, he thought, that I have things to learn from this young man.
Suzanne turned her head and saw him standing there and gave him a smile and a wave. He set off across the grass towards them.
It was that night I heard the ghost in the chimney. I was tucked up in the old-fashioned hotel bed, so high off the floor, unable to sleep. On the small table beside my pillow was the present that Uncle Gennady had given me, his war medal, the most precious thing he owned, he had said. I thought how strange it was that he had given it to me, and with a tear in his eye, but Pop had just smiled when I asked him, and said that he was a Russian, a very emotional race, given to spontaneous, generous actions. I was thinking about this when I heard the sound, a strange, distant cry, almost inaudible. It came again, a little louder and more urgent, and it seemed to me that it came from the direction of the fireplace. I got out of bed and made my way towards it. I knelt down and bent my head toward the grate and felt a breath of cool air brush against my cheek. And then I heard it again, a scream of agony, echoing down the chimney from far, far away. I gasped and rocked back on my heels, terrified. All around me the room was dark and still. I jumped to my feet and ran back to bed and buried myself under the blankets. It was a cat, I told myself, up on the roof, yowling at the moon. The next morning at breakfast I asked Daphne, the owner of the hotel, about the cries from the chimney. She seemed quite alarmed that I had heard them, and then explained that a ghost haunted Chelsea Mansions. I didn’t believe in ghosts, but this was England, and things were
