Ethel Elizabeth Gee was forty-six, and a temporary clerk at the Portland navy base. With small features and a clear complexion she looked younger than her years but very plain. Expecting little or nothing from life, she was surprised and flattered when Harry Houghton started paying court to her. Even when it had matured, their relationship was far short of a romance but in some odd way it satisfied them both. The meek timid woman saw the man as a protector; not quite a hero, but a man who had seen something of the world. He spent money freely, took her on trips to London, and everywhere he went he seemed to get to know people easily and quickly. And for the man, he had a sympathetic listener and a woman who didn’t despise him, who mended his clothes and cared about whether he had eaten enough.
“Call for you, Harry.”
“Who is it?”
“Don’t know, mate. A fella—he said it was personal.”
Harry Houghton reached across the desk for the receiver and put it to his ear as he scribbled a note on a file.
“Houghton. Who is it?”
“I’ve got news of Kristina for you, Mr. Houghton.” The voice was soft and had a slight foreign accent.
“Who are you?”
“A friend of Kristina. She asked me to talk to you.”
“Is she coming over then?”
“Maybe we should meet and I can give you her news.”
“Where do you want to meet?”
“I suggest you come up to London and we meet outside Drury Lane theatre on Saturday next. About twelve o’clock mid-day.”
“How shall I recognise you?”
“I’ll recognise you, Harry. Don’t worry.”
And the caller hung up. Houghton reached for his mug of tea. It was cold but he sipped it slowly as he thought about the call. Kristina had always said that she wanted to get out of Poland and come to England. It would complicate things but by God it would be worth it to have a girl like that to show off to his friends.
He found it hard to concentrate on his work for the next two days. And in the evenings when he and Ethel were decorating the empty cottage that he had bought in Portland he wondered how she’d take it when the time came. She was a dignified woman so she’d probably not make a fuss. And that bitch Peggy would have finished divorcing him and it would be one in the eye for her when she heard he’d got a pretty young girl as his new wife.
Houghton stood in front of the theatre looking at the front page of the early edition of the Evening Standard. There was a picture of the President of Italy in London on a State visit. He looked up from the paper. There were plenty of people about but nobody who seemed to be looking for someone. He turned to the stop-press. Chelsea were playing at home. He’d just be able to make it to Stamford Bridge if the chap on the phone didn’t turn up.
And then a hand touched his arm. “Glad to meet you, Harry.”
The man was tall. Younger than he had expected.
“Glad to meet you too.”
“Where can we have a coffee and talk?”
“There’s a place round the corner.”
“You lead the way, my friend.”
When the waitress had brought the tea and coffee and the buttered toast Houghton couldn’t wait any longer.
“How is she? How’s Krissie?”
“She’s got problems, Harry. She needs your help.”
“I’m nothing to do with the embassy now you know.”
“I know that, comrade.”
“What’s the problem anyway?”
“She’s got problems with the police. They know about the drugs and the black market. It’s a very serious offence you know in Poland.”
“Who says she did such things?”
The man smiled. “They’ve got statements from the buyers. Dates. Places. And she’s confessed, so they have a clear court case.”
“How can I do anything?”
“Well, Harry, she feels she’s only in this mess because she wanted to help you. She thinks that the police might be more lenient if you co-operated.”
“Co-operated. How?”
“There are things the authorities would like to know. If you helped them I’m sure things would go better for Kristina.”
“There’s nothing I can tell them that Kris couldn’t tell them. I just brought the stuff over.”
“I’m not thinking of that business, Harry, I’m thinking about your present work. There are small bits of information that we should like to know.”
Houghton looked at the man’s face. “You mean tell you things about Portland?”
“Yes.”
“I couldn’t do that. I’m not allowed to. You ought to know that.”
The man shrugged. “It could be very bad for you if you don’t, Harry. Bad for your ladyfriend too.”
“You mean they’d …”
The man held up his hand. “Let’s not talk about that. We both know the facts of life. And nothing will happen if you co-operate.”
“I’ll think about it.”
The man shook his head, dismissively. “In future when we are to meet you will receive a brochure in the mail offering you a Hoover vacuum cleaner. When you receive this you will phone this number and ask for Andrew.” He pushed a scrap of paper across the table. “When you phone you say your name and you will be given a time and date. Nothing more. No talk. At the time and on the day given you go to a public house called the Toby Jug. You already know it, don’t you.”
Houghton nodded. “Yes.”
“Anything else, my friend?”
“What the hell do I get out of all this?”
The man reached inside his jacket for his wallet and below the table he counted out eight one pound notes, folded them over and then passed them over the table to Houghton. “That’s for your expenses, Harry.”
The man stood up, put a pound note on the table alongside the bill, gave Houghton a brief cold smile and left.
It was beginning to snow as Houghton walked into Covent Garden, and he walked down into the Strand and across to Charing Cross Station and
