Twelve Red Herrings

“Tonight,” he replied. “But not before I’ve made a few telephone calls.”

The Don dialed ten Cambridge numbers, using the digits Williams had been able to jot down, and inserting the numbers from zero to nine in the missing slot.

0223640707 turned out to be a school. “Sorry, wrong number,” said Donald. 717 was a chemist’s shop; 727 was a garage; 737 was answered by an elderly male voice—“Sorry, wrong number,” Donald repeated: 747 a news agent; 757 a local policeman’s wife (I tried not to laugh, but Donald only grunted); 767 a woman’s voice—“Sorry, wrong number,” yet again; 777 was St. Catharine’s College; 787 a woman’s voice on an answering machine; 797 a hairdresser—“Did you want a perm, or just a trim?”

Donald checked his list. “It has to be either 737, 767 or 787. The time has come for me to pull a few strings.”

He dialed a Bradford number, and was told that the new deputy chief constable of Cambridgeshire had been transferred from the West Yorkshire Constabulary the previous year.

“Leeke. Allan Leeke,” said Donald, without needing to be

prompted. He turned to me. “He was a sergeant when I first became an inspector.” He thanked his Bradford contact, then rang directory inquiries to find out the number of the Cambridge Police headquarters. He dialed another 0223 number.

“Cambridge Police. How can I help you?” asked a female voice.

“Can you put me through to the deputy chief constable, please?” Donald asked.

“Who shall I say is calling?”

“Donald Hackett.”

The next voice that came on the line said, “Don, this is a pleasant surprise. Or at least I hope it’s a pleasant surprise, because knowing you, it won’t be a social call. Are you looking for a job, by any chance? I heard you’d left the force.”

“Yes, it’s true. I’ve resigned, but I’m not looking for a job, Allan. I don’t think the Cambridge Constabulary could quite match my present salary.”

“So, what can I do for you, Don?”

“I need a trace done on three numbers in the Cambridge area.”

“Authorized?” asked the deputy chief constable.

“No, but it might well lead to an arrest on your turf,” said Donald.

“That, and the fact that it’s you who’s asking, is good enough for me.”

Donald read out the three numbers, and Leeke asked him to hang on for a moment. While we waited, Donald told me, “All they have to do is press a few buttons in the control room, and the numbers will appear on a screen in front of him. Things have changed since I first joined the force. In those days we had to let our legs do the walking.”

The deputy chief constable’s voice came back on the line. “Right, the first number’s come up. 640737 is a Wing Commander Danvers-Smith. He’s the only person registered as living in the house.” He read out an address in Great Shelford, which he explained was just to the south of Cambridge. Jenny wrote the details down.

“767 is a Professor and Mrs. Balcescu, also living in Great Shelford. 787 is Dame Julia Renaud, the opera singer. She lives in Grantchester. We know her quite well. She’s hardly ever at home, because of her concert commitments all over the world. Her house has been burgled three times in the last year, always when she was abroad.”

“Thank you,” said Donald. “You’ve been most helpful.”

“Anything you want to tell me?” asked the deputy chief constable, sounding hopeful.

“Not at the moment,” replied Donald. “But as soon as I’ve finished my investigation, I promise you’ll be the first person to be informed.”

“Fair enough,” came back the reply, and the line went dead.

“Right,” Donald said, turning his attention back to us. “We leave for Cambridge in a couple of hours. That will give us enough time to pack, and for Jenny to book us into a hotel near the city center. We’ll meet back here at”—he checked his watch—“six o’clock.” He walked out of the room without uttering another word. I remember thinking that my father would have got on well with him.

Just over two hours later, Jenny was driving us at a steady sixty-nine miles per hour down the Al.

“Now the boring part of detective work begins,” said Donald. “Intense research, followed by hours of surveillance. I think we can safely ignore Dame Julia. Jenny, you get to work on the wing commander. I want details of his career from the day he left school to the day he retired. First thing tomorrow you can begin by contacting RAF College Cranwell, and asking for details of his service record. I’ll take the professor, and make a start in the university library.”

“What do I do?” I asked.

“For the time being, Mr. Cooper, you keep yourself well out of sight. It’s just possible that the wing commander or the professor might lead us to Alexander, so we don’t need you trampling over any suspects and frightening them off.”