Gary checked the voter register and discovered that Betty and her husband lived in a new block of flats off Arundel Street. He called her number but got no reply. He decided not to leave a voicemail message but to try the address anyway. As he drove through the city, he did some more pondering about another dilemma. His best drinking friend, Mike Morrissey, was the local freelance reporter and correspondent for most of the London national newspapers – and they always swapped information on the stories they were covering. Mike’s tip-offs sometimes helped Gary to shine with exclusive stories that pleased the editor of the Herald; Gary often heard titbits which Mike could develop into a story for the London tabloids – and also paid for a few drinks. But should he share this emerging story – which might turn out not to be a story at all? Or it could be something big. Should he wait 24 hours so that the Herald could feature an “exclusive”? Or perhaps it would help to let the experienced Mike loose on the story…
He decided to wait a bit longer, and when he arrived at the Arundel Street flats, neighbours told him that Betty was a nurse, working shifts at the local hospital, and that she came home at unusual times. Her husband worked in a High Street furniture store, and just as he was sitting back in his car, working out which direction to try next, Gary spotted a woman in nurse’s uniform walking towards the flats from the bus stop. His lucky day?
He followed her to the door and, as politely as he could, asked, “Excuse me, but are you Betty McGuire?”
“Who wants to know?”
“I’m Gary Andrews from the Herald. I am very sorry to bother you, but may I have a few words – it’s about your friend Marina.”
“What’s happened to her? Come on in for a moment,” she replied anxiously.
When they got inside and Betty had taken off her coat and sat down in the kitchen, Gary explained that Marina had not turned up for work as expected that morning. He said the Navy had asked the police to make some enquiries, and it was quite normal for the local paper to follow up this sort of thing in case someone else knew something. Someone like Betty, for example.
“When did you last talk to Marina?” Gary asked.
“At the weekend – we usually see each other somewhere at the weekend unless I am working overtime. On Sunday, we went for a walk on the seafront and had a cup of tea at her flat. Why, what has happened?”
“Nothing I know of yet,” said Gary. “Did she have any other special friends who could help me – like a boyfriend or anything?”
“I don’t think there is anyone special at the moment, but she was a bit excited about a fellow she had met on one of those dating sites on-line. She didn’t say a lot, that was her way. But I think she said he was a foreign naval bloke and she was expecting to meet him when his ship arrived this week. Single girls here in Portsmouth do a lot of that, but I know Marina was always very careful about meeting strangers – especially sailors. Would you like a cup of tea?”
“Not at the moment, thanks, but that’s really helpful,” said Gary, now trying anxiously to get away without looking rude. “I don’t suppose you have a picture of Marina I could borrow, do you?”
Betty went through to her bedroom and came back with a framed picture. “That’s the two of us in the Dockyard at the Navy Days last year – it’s the best one I’ve got.”
“Tell you what, Betty. Could I just borrow it for a couple of hours and then return it to you, please?”
And with a few more pleasantries, Gary made his exit as quickly as he could and probably broke a few driving regulations on his way back to the office.
“It’s coming together,” he said, breathlessly to the editor. He went on to report on his conversation with Betty McGuire and showed him the photograph. He then took the photograph down to the art department with instructions to make several copies, deliver them all to him and then find someone to take the original “in exactly the same state” back to the owner. He scribbled Betty’s name and address on a slip of paper.
7.
“A RUSSIAN SPY?”
Gary did not need to be so concerned about his “exclusive”. Not long after his early-morning wake-up call, his freelance friend Mike Morrissey had also received a call. This was from his local police contact, who was a detective working in the CID; he, therefore, knew much more about the events there during the night than Gary’s friend Bill. He spilled out the information that a Russian naval officer and a Portsmouth woman who worked for the Royal Navy were being questioned by two men who had come to Portsmouth the previous day from MI5 in London. They were still there.
Mike quickly made some more calls but was not able to get any confirmation from his usual contacts in the Dockyard, other than details about the three Russian naval ships which had arrived the previous afternoon. “Just a fairly routine refuelling stop for 24 hours,” he was told. When asked, his contact added that it was not often that the Russian Navy visited Portsmouth these days.
Mike trusted his police contact, and this sketchy information was enough for him to put two and two together and call his best Fleet Street contact, David Hancock, the news editor at the Daily Star in London. He knew they would pay the most for an exclusive story, especially one involving MI5, the Russians – and a woman! Mike outlined the details he knew so far and then followed up by e-mail with a few more facts, such as where the ships were berthed and the exact location of the police station. Hancock wasted no time in getting things moving. He briefed two of his reporters to follow up with their contacts at the Home Office, at the Foreign Office and with Scotland Yard’s National Security section, and then he despatched one of his best men to drive immediately to Portsmouth to work with Mike Morrissey.
The contacts made by the Daily Star reporters in London during the morning led to a flurry of phone calls between government departments. Ministers were informed, and this activity led to another urgent background briefing at the Home Office, who were taking the initiative, since at this stage, it was essentially a police and MI5 matter. The decision was made to bring the Russian officer from Portsmouth to London as soon as possible for further interrogation. At the same time, they would move cautiously with the woman and continue to process her involvement locally in Portsmouth. The MoD would liaise with the Portsmouth naval command, and meanwhile, the Foreign Office would keep the Russian Embassy informed.
Word had quickly spread that the press was onto it and, by early afternoon, the Foreign Office had issued a statement which went out to all the usual newspaper, news agency and broadcasting editors:
“Following the arrival of three frigates of the Russian Navy for refuelling in Portsmouth yesterday, it proved possible to follow up a long-term security operation by MI5 relating to an exchange of information between a member of the ship’s company of RS Admiral Essen (one of the three frigates) and a staff member in the offices of the Commodore of the Portsmouth Royal Navy Base. The two people concerned were detained for questioning by the Security Service, and further investigations are taking place. The names will be released later. The Ambassador of Russia to the United Kingdom has been informed.”
Meanwhile, in Portsmouth, Mike contacted his friend Gary at the Herald. He discovered that he was already on the story, and they agreed to compare notes. Mike then went to meet the staff reporter from the Daily Star, who had just arrived in Portsmouth, and briefed him as far as he could. They went to a pub to meet Gary, and as they exchanged information, they quickly recognised that this story was becoming big. They were particularly impressed when Gary produced a copy of the photograph he had borrowed, and this was quickly scanned and sent to the Daily Star head office in London.