“So why am I here?”
“The gentleman wants to talk to you.”
The girl glanced at Harris. “Go on then—talk.”
“You went with a man a few days ago to a farmhouse in Kent. Yes?”
“So what?”
“What was the name of the man who took you there?”
“You’d better ask the agency, mate.”
“They said his name was Mr. Gordon. Is that correct as far as you know?”
“Yeah.”
“How many times have you been to the farm with him?”
“Three times—maybe four—I don’t remember.”
“Always with Mr. Gordon?”
“Yes.”
“And what happens at the farm?”
“You know bloody well what happens.”
“I want you to tell me.”
“It’s none of your business.”
“I can make it my business if you’d like it that way.” The girl turned to look at the policewoman.
“You can’t touch me. Everything I do is legal.”
“So tell the gentleman what you do.”
The girl turned her head to look at Harris. She shrugged. “OK. He screws me.”
“Who? Mr. Gordon?”
“No. For Christ’s sake. The old man, Hipcress or whatever his name is.”
“What about Mr. Gordon? What does he do?”
“God knows. He goes off to the cottage. He meets his friends—I go over there in the morning and Mr. Gordon takes me back to London.”
“Is it straight sex with the old man?”
“More or less. He plays around for a bit but there’s nothing out of the ordinary.”
“Have you ever had sex with Mr. Gordon?”
“No.”
“Does Mr. Gordon talk about himself at all?”
“He chats. He obviously fancies himself with girls but he never makes a pass.”
“What does he chat about?”
“Nothing special. Football sometimes—I think he said that he’s a Portsmouth supporter. I think his friends come from Portsmouth or it could be Plymouth. I don’t remember which. He’s obviously got plenty of money.”
“What does he do?”
She laughed. “At first he used to give me this spiel about being in entertainment. He sounded off like he was running the Palladium or at least a club.” She laughed again. “It turns out that he flogs one-armed bandits.” She shrugged. “He obviously makes a lot of dough but it sure ain’t showbusiness.”
“Have you got any idea where he lives?”
“No.” She hesitated. “It’s near Regent’s Park I know that—and it’s posh. He showed me a photo of his main room. Some sort of party for his friends.”
“Is he English?”
“No—he’s Canadian.”
“Did he seem to be on good terms with the farmer?”
She shrugged. “He thinks he is. But the old man told me on the quiet that he didn’t really like him. Thought he was too full of his own importance.”
“What do you think of him?”
“I never made me mind up about him. He wasn’t mean or anything like that. But there was something odd about him. I don’t know what it was. A bit scary.”
“What did you think about the farmer?”
She laughed. “He’s all right—just a dirty old man.”
Harris stood up. “You’ve been very helpful, Miss Manners. We much appreciate it. I’d like you not to talk about our conversation with anybody. Especially Mr. Gordon. Is that understood?”
“Yes.” She nodded. “Is that all?”
“Yes. Can we give you a lift somewhere?”
“You’re not doing the agency for anything?”
Harris smiled. “Of course not. Not so long as you don’t talk with anybody about being here today. I’m sure the agency is a very well-run business concern.”
“Well,” she said, “you know where to come if you want me.”
A routine check on the two cars at the cottage had been inconclusive. The Mini belonged to a middle-aged spinster in Weymouth and the Rover 90 was registered in the name of Peter John Kroger at an address in one of the outer London suburbs. A check with the local police showed that Peter Kroger was a dealer in antiquarian books. Married, the couple lived a quiet middle-class life and were regarded well by their neighbours. A check on the bookshop indicated that the man was considered an expert in his field by other booksellers and the business was modestly successful. A contrived inspection of the house by Chapman posing as a Ratings Assessment Officer from the local council proved negative. It was a typical suburban house and there were no signs of anything suspicious.
Harris applied for a specialist search team to check the cottage at the farm but it took two weeks before it was available and a pattern of the farmer’s daily movements had been established. The only opportunity seemed to be his regular visit to Ashford Market on Wednesdays, and the search team were assembled and briefed the evening before. They estimated that they would need three hours for a Class A search but would only need half an hour for a routine check. Harris decided on a Class A and the team moved in when the radio link confirmed that the farmer’s Landrover had gone through Appledore village.
A Class A search was based on the assumption that the target site was operated by a trained agent and where security precautions might have been taken either to prevent search or merely to reveal that a search had taken place. The team made their entry from an upstairs window and neither the front nor rear door of the cottage were opened. They were the most likely places for check-traps to have been laid.
Before the search team started, the photographer, with a Polaroid camera, photographed every wall and feature of every room. And as the search started he recorded the layout of every drawer as it was opened, and nothing on any surface was moved until its position had been recorded.
The technicians applied stethoscopes and thermocouples to the walls and floors of every room to check for cavities, and a two-man team checked all the inside and outside dimensions of the whole building room by room. There were two bedrooms upstairs, one living room below, a good-sized kitchen and what had once been a pantry. As soon as they saw the two elaborate locks on the pantry door they guessed that the search was going to be worthwhile.
Everything was neatly laid out. A small pile of one-time pads, a Minox camera, a photocopying stand, a
