Undercover Blues

Chapter One

London, 1935

Tom Langton stretched awake in his own bed for the first time in a month and relished every moment of it. His ground floor flat, courtesy of His Majesty’s Government, was a haven of peace and tranquillity in a quiet mews off Upper Brook Street, not far from Hyde Park. During his eight years with the Metropolitan Police he’d lived in a succession of boarding houses, none of them as classy as this.

The rent-free flat in the rather salubrious setting would have been out of his reach on his previous salary, and his current one with the Home Office. Here he had luxury compared to his previous homes - hot and cold water available at the turn of a tap, electric fires in all the rooms, including the bedroom, and a bathroom of his own. His flat wasn’t quite as classy as Rob’s - no shower over the bath - but that was a tiny fly in the ointment.

He didn’t often come out of an assignment with a relatively undamaged skin. Despite the best efforts of a nasty collection of thugs from the British Union of Fascists bent on creating havoc during next month’s celebration of King George’s Silver Jubilee, he’d managed it, thanks mostly to the quick thinking and quicker reactions of one Rob Darnley.

Typically, Tom’s heartfelt thanks had been expressed in his brusque, Took you long enough. Rob’s smirk had showed he’d heard the unspoken words. For all that they’d had only four assignments as a team, they’d worked very well together over the last year, and their friendship had rapidly become as solid as a rock. Shared danger and implicit trust had a way of doing that. It either rapidly broke a team or bonded them.

Tom valued their friendship more than he could say, and if the lonely ache for something deeper lived in his heart, he kept it barricaded away. Even if Rob was that way inclined - which was as likely as a snowball surviving Hell - Tom had no intention of risking his heart, their friendship, his career and the law by propositioning him.

He stretched again, comfortable and at peace with the world. He’d indulge in a lie-in, followed by a long soak in the bath, then after a late breakfast, he’d take a leisurely stroll down Bond Street and see if he could persuade Diana out of her posh dress shop for lunch. Not that she would take a lot of persuading.

Di was a party girl, devil-may-care, very fond of dance halls and nightclubs, had no interest in commitments, and was completely devoid of inhibitions. She was great company as well, sharing a similar sense of humour to his, and a boundless energy for life. Most of the time she was exactly the kind of girl he needed to take his thoughts away from his preferences. After lunch he’d arrange to meet her later for dinner and a show. Then the rest of the night and the next two would be theirs.

Three days of leisure. The Major worked them hard, sent them into danger on a regular basis, but he also allowed them to play hard. That suited Tom down to the ground. He did not miss Scotland Yard at all. For the first time in too many years, he was finally working with people he could rely on, and one in particular he trusted with his life. He smiled at the ceiling. He’d always thought of himself as something of a lone wolf, until Sloane partnered him with Rob.

Tom’s smile widened. Rob was almost certainly sleeping off the evening’s excesses in someone else’s bed. Perhaps he should stroll past and hammer on his door on the off chance he’d returned home in the early hours. A rude awakening was just the thing for a hangover. Besides, he owed Rob for a similar trick played on him six months ago. Tom never forgot such things - not that he bore grudges, he just made sure all debts were paid.

His partner lived in another government-owned apartment in Brook Street, a five minute brisk walk from Tom’s. The more he thought of it, the more appealing the idea became. That settled it. The nearer to noon he left it, the more likely it was Rob would be there, and if he walked to Bond Street, his route would take him past the apartment building.

Unfortunately for his plans, Tom didn’t get any further than the door of his bedroom. His telephone rang and he detoured to the living room to answer it.

Langton, he said crisply, and was greeted by the precise tones of the formidable Mrs Frobisher.

Good morning, Mr Langton, she replied. Major Sloane requires your presence at your earliest convenience.

That meant only one thing in Tom’s experience. Mrs F! he groaned. I’m supposed to be on leave! Is Rob called in too?

Your leave has been postponed, and yes, Lieutenant Darnley has also been advised to attend.

Which told Tom that as soon as he put the phone down, Rob would be calling him. On my way, Mrs F.

He replaced the receiver and waited. Seconds later, the phone rang again.

You got the summons as well? Rob said as soon as Tom put the phone to his ear. I’ve only just walked in the bloody door!

Mrs F said postponed, so there’s still hope.

Yeah. Rob’s voice blurred on a yawn. Pick me up, but give me time to knock back a pint of coffee, hm?

Okay. You’ve got time. I need to shave and grab something to eat.

God, me too! Their conversation ended with the rattle of receivers returned hastily to their rests.

Ten minutes later, Tom dashed out of his front door to the garage opposite it, and the quiet mews soon sounded to the growl of his Rover saloon. Admittedly, it didn’t have the panache of Rob’s Bentley coupe, but Tom didn’t care. The dark blue car was the love of his life. The drive to Brook Street took only minutes and Rob was waiting on the pavement. He threw himself into the passenger seat and Tom accelerated away.

Wonder what the Major’s got in store for us? Rob muttered as he settled into the seat.

Don’t know, but it must be high priority if he’s called us in so soon after the BUF case.

Rob brightened. That’s true. Could be fun.

Your idea of fun is sometimes a little strange, Tom pointed out. His partner chuckled, then smothered a cavernous yawn.

* * *

Emmett, old man, I need a favour. Eighteen months ago, those seven words had launched Major Emmett Sloane out of a comfortable if boring retirement into a new career. Since the speaker had been Sir John Gilmour, once his commanding officer in the Fife and Forfar Yeomanry in the penultimate year of the Second Boer War, and now the Home Secretary, Sloane hadn’t felt he had much choice. But truth be told, a life of leisure hadn’t suited him at all. He’d played an active part in the Intelligence Service during the Great War, and it had not prepared him well for a mundane life.

Even though he was no longer in the Intelligence Service, Sloane had kept in touch with old friends. While some laughed at the notion of another war, the signs were there, clear to be seen by anyone who did not stick their heads in the sand. All his instincts told him trouble was coming, and it took only one conversation for him to realise Sir John shared the same foreboding.

Adolf Hitler’s rise to power over the last few years had set off alarm bells in their minds. And where there was the potential for conflict, there were always those who would exploit it, either for political ends or monetary, hence the favour. Sloane was to take over the close to moribund Information and Resolutions Department and transform it into a weapon against the criminal and the traitorous. He’d accepted the challenge with a fierce delight.

In the intervening months, Sloane had taken over the largely overlooked, understaffed and underfunded IRD hidden away in the depths of Whitehall and given it a new lease of life. Of course, it was still overlooked and understaffed but not quite so underfunded.

The old personnel had been replaced across the board, and eleven new, younger men had taken their place. And scandalously, one woman. New office staff had also been employed. All of them, agents and backroom personnel, had been individually selected by Sloane. Now, a year and a half on, while IRD remained something of a joke among those who knew no better, it had acquired a certain reputation with the few who counted.

Which was why he now had a pretty tangle on his desk and only two agents who would fit the bill. Both were due a well-earned leave, after infiltrating and breaking up a particularly unpleasant group of fascists. But he couldn’t afford to give them the respite. Everything was in place, apart from assigning the two main players. Sloane stroked his fingers over his luxuriant grey moustache, hiding his wry smile. At least they would have spent one night in their own beds. Probably. His telephone rang and he scooped up the handset.

Yes, Mrs Frobisher?

Mr Langton and Lieutenant Darnley are here, sir, his secretary announced.

Thank you. Send them straight in. Seconds later the door opened, and they entered. Sit, Sloane ordered and the two men sat, as obedient and expectant as a pair of gundogs.

He studied them, feature by feature, letting the silence grow, examining the two utterly different faces. Thomas Langton’s thin features remained impassive, his green eyes watchful but patient. There was something about him that always reminded Sloane of the leopards he’d hunted in South Africa. No more than average height, average looks, lean of build, his light brown hair combed back from his brow and the curls tamed with Brylcreem, he seemed to be nothing out of the ordinary. But people disregarded Tom at their peril. His particular brand of calculated ruthlessness made him a vital asset to IRD. He had been one of the first Sloane had chosen, recruited from the Metropolitan Police, where Tom’s attitude towards certain politically motivated senior officers had him teetering on the edge of an ignominious dismissal from the service.

Six months later, Robert Darnley was another Sloane had selected, this time from the 11th Hussars. Lieutenant Darnley - of the Somerset Darnleys - was another who did not suffer fools gladly, no matter what their rank or political importance. He also showed a lamentable streak of recklessness that occasionally broke free of restraints.

Sloane had arranged his secondment to the Home Secretary’s staff and brought him into the IRD. He’d taken to the specialised work of the department like a duck to water. But he didn’t handle inaction well. He stood six feet tall, sleek as a well-groomed otter, with cropped dark hair combed back from a sharp widow’s peak. Below it, strongly arched brows drew attention to his very blue eyes. The readily smiling curve of his mouth couldn’t disguise the stubbornness of his chin, but it added to his practised charm.

Loose cannon, was how his commanding officer in the Hussars had described him to Sloane, and right from the start Sloane had known Rob would need careful handling. Pairing him with another agent was an imperative, someone who would provide an anchor and a curb rein in steady hands. The Hussars’ loose cannon was a lethal weapon, and like all weapons, needed a safety lock and a cool head to deploy it. Tom Langton supplied both. Though their team was of comparatively short duration, in that year they had meshed quickly and proved their worth more than once.

As Sloane had known he would be, Rob was the first to become restless, impatient. Tom remained impassive. Neither man spoke. Sloane nodded, a silent assent to the question he had been asking himself since Harvey’s visit.

Sir Owen Bellamy, he said, taking a photograph out of a file and putting it in front of them. They stared at the image, a grim-faced man in his late fifties, white hair thinning, a bushy white moustache above thin lips and an obstinate chin. Edmond Bellamy. A second photo joined it, a young man, short dark hair combed from a side parting, and pale eyes scowled at the camera. The face was handsome, but marked with a sullen nervousness, skin sallow, eye sockets dark-ringed, jaw jutting with an inherited obduracy.

Looks familiar, said Tom. Do we know him?

No. Sloane’s smile was entirely mirthless. He bears a marked resemblance to Darnley. Change Darnley’s hairstyle to match and they could be twins.

What? Not bloody likely! He doesn’t look a bit like me.

I see what you mean, Tom said thoughtfully. Sending him in as a ringer, sir?

Yes. Pay attention, Darnley. Sir Owen is an old friend of mine, we went to school together. So too is John Harvey. He produced a third photograph; another man in his late fifties, brown hair greying at the temples, styled straight back from a high forehead. "John had been meaning to look me up for some time with a problem of his own but was not sure if it was IRD material or not. After a meeting with Sir Owen and a comparing of notes, they decided their two problems could well be one.

"Sir Owen is the head of the Montfort Research Laboratories at Oxford. Last month, his chief assistant’s son was caught going through his father’s notes. They had a row, the boy ran out. The next morning he was found hanging in the orchard. Suicide. He left a note which Sir Owen kept from the police. It is somewhat ambiguous and seems to have been written under the influence of drugs, and certainly heroin was found in the boy’s system at the post mortem. However, it does tie in with some of the things he’d shouted at his father during their quarrel.

"The boy was under pressure from an unidentified person or persons to obtain information on the Research Laboratories’ current project, refining a new underwater detection device to be used by submarines. The lever being blackmail with some unspecified photographs, and the lad’s addiction to cocaine. He had been an habitué of some rather expensive London nightclubs, and this is where the two problems become one.

John is the leader of a dance band that plays alternate nights at two of these clubs. He served with me in Intelligence during the war, and he is convinced that one of the clubs is being used for some kind of underhand activity. He thought drugs, but it could also be blackmail.

Does it link in with any other security leaks, sir? Tom asked.

"Possibly. We’ve no concrete proof, but what we could have here is a gang who specialise in industrial espionage, using inside contacts through blackmail. There have been a number of cases over the last year that could fit this pattern. Even more worrying, this group is rumoured to be linked with the Baumann-Klein gang in Germany, who are known to be funded by the Nazis. If that is the case, and it seems highly likely, extremely sensitive and valuable information will end up in the hands of our country’s potential enemy. 

The relevant files are here for your perusal. I intend to put a stop to their activities and have come to an arrangement with Sir Owen and John. And Edmond Bellamy. He frowned at Rob, daring him to speak out of turn. "He is Sir Owen’s only child, and is something of a black sheep. He’s spent the last six years in New York, living a somewhat bohemian life, and has been estranged from his family since he