A Prospect of Vengeance

She cut herself off again.

'No.' Maybe she'd misread his expression. But, at all costs he mustn't lose her again. 'No. You're just being honest, Mrs Simmonds. And I respect you for that. Because . . . not many people are honest.'

She stared at him. 'Honest?' The word seemed to hurt her.

'Yes.' If he could hold her now, when her defences were dummy2

down, she'd give him everything she'd got. 'Thanks to you, I understand much better now what others have said. And what they haven't said.'

'Do you?' The pain showed again. 'I wonder.'

'Wonder . . . what?'

'Perhaps I should have tried harder to understand her. After what you've told me.' She looked away from him for a moment. 'It's a long time ago . . .'

'Yes. It is.' He waited.

'And yet ... of all the temps we've had ... I remember her so well — so well!' She looked away again. 'Better than any of them, you know.'

Was that surprising? Apart from Marilyn's see-through blouses, not many of Mrs Simmonds' temps could have been shot by the IRA. But, more likely, the doting mother/kind auntie inside her was now torturing her with visions of Marilyn Francis working long extra hours not to chat up the men, but to support the fair-haired, blue-eyed baby he'd invented. And that, in turn, didn't exactly make him feel a great human being.

She looked at him. 'Deep down I think she was sad.'

'Sad?' The word took him by surprise.

'Yes. And a little desperate, perhaps . . . But I can understand that now, of course.' She nodded wisely.

'Many of these young women make the most terrible messes of their lives. Early marriages, or unplanned babies — just dummy2

like Marilyn . . . We try to help them, naturally. And some of them take it all in their stride — quite amazingly resilient, they are . . . It's as though they never expected anything different.'

'Yes?' He controlled his impatience. 'Are you saying . . .

Marilyn wasn't resilient?'

She thought about that for a moment. 'Perhaps I am — yes.

Some of the most intelligent ones have the biggest problems

— the ones who realize that it could have been different: they are the sad ones.' Another wise nod. 'They don't like what they've become, so they pretend to be someone else. And now I think about Marilyn . . . yes, I'm sure that she wasn't really like that. She was just playing a role — ' She blinked suddenly. 'But that isn't helping you, is it?'

'On the contrary — '

'No.' She sat up very straight. 'As regards Miss Francis, Mr Robinson, I think your best bet would be a certain Gary Redwood.'

'Gary — ' His repetition of the absurd Christian name seemed to tighten her mouth. 'A boyfriend?'

'No.' Her expression belied the question even before she'd rejected it. 'Whatever Gary was to her, he most certainly wasn't that.' She turned away from him abruptly, to stare at a pair of steel filing-cabinets which seemed oddly out-of-place in an otherwise computerized office.

'Who is he?' It disconcerted him oddly that she didn't move dummy2

to consult the cabinets' contents, but merely stared at them, as though their entire contents were already on disc in her memory.

' Was, as far as this company is concerned, Mr Robinson.

Yes.' She switched back to him. 'He was our messenger boy, while Miss Francis was with us ... and for a brief time after that. Gary Redwood — his mother, who was a perfectly decent woman, worked in our canteen. They lived in Albion Street, near the railway line. But you won't find him there.'

She looked at her watch. 'If he has continued to stay one jump ahead of the Police, you should find him in Messiter's timber yard, Mr Robinson — '

' Redwood — ?' He cupped his hands round his mouth to direct his shout at the man over the shriek of the circular saw.

' Eh?' The man tapped his protective ear-muffs.

This wasn't Gary Redwood, he was too old by a dozen years: even now the former Brit-Am messenger boy would only be in his mid-twenties. ' Gary Redwood?' Ian's voice cracked.

An uneven piece of mahogany fell away from the saw. The man picked it up and pointed with it towards a stairway before tossing it aside.

The noise fell away behind Ian as he ascended the stair. He still wasn't at all sure what he was really doing; or, at any rate, whether it really had any bearing on what had dummy2

happened to Philip Masson. For the link between Marilyn Francis and Philip Masson was hardly more than a tenuous sequence of November days in early November, with David Audley in the middle of it. Dr Harrison, of British-American, had been jailed for passing high-tech secrets to one of Russia's East European colonies — Hungary, was it? Or Bulgaria? And Marilyn Francis had quit Brit-Am (and Dr Harrison) on November 7, 1978, to keep an appointment with 'Mad Dog' O'Leary's bullet (or somebody's bullet) in Dr Audley's presence four days later; and, as things stood at present, Audley was playing Macbeth to Philip Masson's Banquo, his victim, if Jenny had heard more than a rumour.

But there lay a full week between those two deaths, and a week was a long time not just in politics.

'Mr Redwood?' There was only one person in the timber-loft, so it had to be Gary. And as the man turned towards him from the pile of planks he was sorting the identification was confirmed: the acne-ravaged face and the stocky build filled Mrs Simmonds' 1978 description to the life.

'Yeah?' Gary straightened up, balancing himself among the planks.

'I believe you may be able to help me, Mr Redwood.' He returned Gary's empty gaze with a smile of encouragement.

'You used to work at British-American Electronics just down the road, didn't you?'

'Yeah — ' A fraction of a second after he began to answer, as though his brain was slower than his tongue, Gary's dummy2

expression changed from the blank to the wary ' — who says?'

Mrs Simmonds' name was not the one to drop, decided Ian.

And, in any case, he had a much better name to open Gary up. 'You had a friend there — ' As he spoke, Mrs Simmonds'

parting words echoed in his head: " She let them chat her up

— even a dreadful ugly little beast like Gary. At the time, I thought it was disgusting. But perhaps I was wrong: perhaps she was just being kind to him!'; but now he observed Gary in the pitted flesh neither conclusion quite fitted ' — a Miss Francis — Miss Marilyn Francis, Mr Redwood — ?'

A succession of different emotions twisted across the moonscape face, ending with a scowling grimace. 'Who told you? Not that fucking old bitch Simmonds?' Gary spoke with surprising clarity as well as bitterness. 'You don't want to believe anything she says — right?'

It would be a mistake to underrate Gary, in spite of appearances. 'She only said you were a friend of Miss Francis, Mr Redwood.'

Gary shook his head, as at some crassly stupid statement.

'About Miss Francis — Marilyn . . . she's who I mean. You don't want to believe anything the old bag said about her —

right?' The corner of his mouth twisted upwards. 'It don't matter what she said about me. Who gives a fuck for that, eh?'

There had been a sum of unaccounted petty cash outstanding dummy2

between Mrs Beryl Simmonds and Mr Gary Redwood, back in 1979. But who gave a fuck for that? What mattered was that, once again, Marilyn Francis had been memorable.

'But . . . Miss Francis was a friend of yours, surely?'

'Yeah — ' Gary stopped suddenly. 'No. I just talked to her —

that's all.' He looked past Ian, down the length of the timber-loft. 'She was a smasher — a right little smasher! Bloody IRA

— bloody bastard sods!' He came back to Ian. 'I was only a lad then. First job out of school, like . . . But she was a smasher, she was — Miss Francis.' He pronounced the smasher's name almost primly. 'Why d'you want to know about her?'

Ian was ready for the question. 'Not for anything wrong, Mr Redwood. I'm just a solicitor's clerk, and we've got this will to check up on — next-of-kin, and all that. And probate, and death duties, and all the rest of it — ' He shrugged fellow-feeling at Gary, as one loser to another ' — I just do the donkey-work for my boss . . .' For a guess, Gary wouldn't know probate from a hole in the road. But it might be as well to divert him, just in case. 'She seems to have been a decent sort — Miss Francis?'

'She was.' He looked past Ian again, but only for a second.

'Yes.'

'And pretty, too.' Ian followed Gary's eyes, and his own came to rest on a copy of the Sun which lay folded on top of a bomber-jacket beside the wood pile. 'Like Page Three — ?' He pointed at the newspaper.

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'What?' Gary squinted at him. 'Like — ? No, not like that . . .

That'll be that old bitch going on — like she always did. She just dressed smart — Marilyn — Miss Francis did. But she was a lady. More of a lady than old Mrs Simmonds. And not stuck-up, like some of 'em . . . She'd talk to you — really talk to you — not treat you like dirt, see?'

Ian wasn't quite sure that he did see. It wasn't just that Mrs Simmonds' and Gary's views diverged on Marilyn Francis, that was predictable. There was something here that was missing. But he nodded encouragingly nevertheless.

'An' she was clever.' Gary nodded back. 'She knew things.'

'What things?'

'Oh ... I used to talk to her about the Old West,' Gary trailed off.

'The old — what?'

'West.' Gary's eyes lit up at the memory. 'Cowboys and Indians . . . and the US cavalry — General Custer . . . It's my hobby, like — I read the books on it ... And she knew about it

— knew who Major Reno was, for instance — I didn't have to explain about him getting the blame for Custer getting hisself killed — she knew. We had a good talk about that once, while she was helping me with the deliveries all round the office.

Which she didn't have to do, either ... All about whether the Sioux had used more bows and arrows than Winchesters an'

Remingtons — she didn't think they had many guns.' He nodded vehemently. 'An', you know, she was probably right dummy2

— there's a new book I got out of the library just last week that says that. . . She was clever, I tell you.'

So it hadn't been just the see-through blouse with Gary after all — or the peroxide hair and the red nails. It had been General Custer and the Sioux (and Major Reno, whoever the hell he had been!). But —

'An' she knew about guns.' Another decisive nod, which brought a cow-lick of hair across the bright-eyes. 'Knew more than any girl I ever met — repeating rifles, an' double-action revolvers . . . An' we talked once about the SLRs what the army had. 'Fact, she said I ought to join the army — said I'd make a good soldier, knowing about guns like I did — ' Gary's gargoyle features twisted suddenly.

Clever little Marilyn, Ian had been thinking. Mrs Simmonds had said it, and Gary had said it — on that they were agreed.

And he was himself thinking it: clever, clever Miss Francis!

But Gary was staring up at him. 'You didn't join up, though

— ?'

Gary straightened up. 'Got flat feet — haven't I!' He scowled horribly. 'Went down to the Recruiting Office — went down the day it was in the paper . . . Flat bloody feet, is what I've got. Bloody stupid!'

Ian became aware that he was returning the scowl. 'What. . .

paper?'

'That one.' Gary gestured toward the Sun. 'In all of 'em —

about the IRA shooting her. Christ! I'd 'uv given 'em shooting dummy2

if I'd 'uv got into uniform, and got to Ireland, I tell you —

killing her like that, the bastards!'

Lucky Ulster! Ian's thoughts came away from clever Miss Francis momentarily. But now Gary would give him everything.

'She talked about Ireland once — funny, that.' Gary's eyes were still bright with Marilyn Francis' memories. 'It was when we were talking about the army — about my joining up, maybe . . . She said it was a better job than running messages, an' delivering the post an' that, in Brit-Am. "No future for you here, Gary," she says. "But you could be doing a good job in Ulster, keeping the peace, an' protecting people.

And they'll teach you a trade too, most like — an' you can practise your shooting for free!"' One broad shoulder lifted in resignation. 'She didn't know about my flat feet . . . But, then, she'd have been sorry — she was ... all right, I tell you — ' He stopped suddenly again. But by this time he had remembered Ian, not Miss Francis. 'What you on about, then — asking questions — ?'

Mills and Boon came to the rescue again, like the US cavalry in Gary's old West, trumpets blaring romantically: Gary, feeling as he did about Marilyn Francis, would not be able to resist Mills and Boon either.

'Well, Mr Redwood, it's like this — ' He looked around the empty timber-loft, and then advanced cautiously across the unstable planks so that he was able to lower his voice confidentially. ' — Miss Francis had a child — a little boy . . .

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And I'm trying to trace him, so that we can give him some money, which is due to him — his inheritance, from his uncle.'

'What?' Gary frowned. 'I didn't know about — ?'

Ian raised his hand. 'It was very secret — you mustn't tell anyone, Mr Redwood.' Actually, on reflection it was as much Charles Dickens as Mills and Boon. But Dickens would do just as well. 'There are those who would like me not to find Miss Francis's little boy, Mr Redwood. Because then they'd get the money, you see — eh?' He gave Gary a sly look.

'Yes — ?' Gary checked the timber-loft himself, but more carefully, before coming back to Ian. 'What d'you want to know?' Then he frowned. 'It was a long time ago ... But — ?'

'Did she have a boyfriend?' The trouble was, Gary was dead right: it was a long time ago, 1978. And it might all be a waste of time, anyway. But . . . somehow Marilyn Francis was alive again now, in her own right; and he wanted to know more about her, quite regardless of David Audley and Philip Masson and Jenny and Reg Buller and John Tully. 'Was there anyone who visited her — anyone you can remember

— ?'

'No . . . yes — ' Gary's brow furrowed with concentrated effort. ' — there was a bloke I saw her with once, one night, just down the road from Brit-Am ... I was just going past, an'

she didn't see me ... I thought he was chatting her up, at first.'

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'But he wasn't — ?'

'No. Because she gave him something — an envelope, or a package, or something.' The frown deepened. 'Good-looking bloke, in a Triumph . . . But she didn't like him — I could see that — ' He pre-empted the next question ' — because she gave him the brush-off, as well as the packet, whatever it was, an' walked straight on without turning round, an' just left him there — see?' He brightened at the memory. 'So he wasn't any boyfriend of hers, anyway.'

'No?' She must have been hard-pressed to have taken such a risk, so close to Brit-Am. 'But . . . didn't she have any friends, Gary?'

'Naow, she was just a temp. So she didn't know no-one, see?'

Gary shrugged. 'Each night ... she just went back to 'er digs.'

Ian controlled himself. 'Her . . . digs?'

'Yeah,' Gary dismissed the question. "Er digs. Old Mrs Smith.'

Old Mrs Smith! Ian warmed himself on the recollection of Gary's 'old Mrs Smith' as he came to the end of the low wall which separated the churchyard from Lower Buck-land Village Green.

He stopped in the shadow of the huge old yew tree at the corner and studied the scene. It was purely a precaution, and an unnecessary one at that: if there had been any car behind him earlier he had certainly lost it at one of the three dummy2

consecutive stretches of road works on the edge of Rickmansworth. And it still took an effort of will — almost a suspension of rational belief — to accept Reg Buller's warning. So now, when he was aware that he was basking in self-satisfied success, was the moment to guard against carelessness and over-confidence, and make doubly sure before he searched for a telephone —

'Mrs S—' In that instant, as he registered the tall, painted, blue-rinsed presence in the doorway, and married it with the legend on the painted sign (THE ELSTREE GUEST HOUSE

— Proprietress: Mrs Basil Champeney-Smythe), Ian amended the question ' — Mrs Champeney-Smythe?'

'Yahss.' The blue-rinsed presence looked down on him from the great height made up of two steps and her own extra inches. 'I am Mrs Basil Champeney-Smythe — yahss.'

'Robinson, Mrs Champeney-Smythe — ' He had somehow expected an unobtrusive lodging-house in a back-street, not this genteel four-storey Edwardian yellow-brick survival, with its ancient genteel landlady (Dame Edith Evans playing Lady Bracknell, to the life). But now plain Mr Robinson wasn't good enough, anyway ' — Ian Drury Robinson, of Fielding-ffulke, Robinson, Mrs Champeney-Smythe —

Fielding-ffulke, Robinson, of Chancery Lane — ?' He repeated the contents of his card as he offered it to her as though he expected everyone to recall it from the legal columns of The Times.

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Mrs Basil Champeney-Smythe (alias 'Old Mrs Smith') accepted the card with one skeletal hand while raising a monocle on a gold chain to her eye with her other claw.

And . . . this wasn't going to be so easy, thought Ian, considering his various scenarios: how the hell did Marilyn Francis, either as a blonde man-eater or an expert on General Custer's Last Stand, fit in with The Importance of Being Earnest?

'Yahss?' She returned the card, wrinkling her nose at the pronounced smell of curry which emanated from the Indian restaurant-cum-takeaway just across the road behind them.

Ian decided to acknowledge the smell by wrinkling his nose back at her. 'If you could spare a few minutes of your time, Mrs Champeney-Smythe — on a matter which really only involves you indirectly — ' This was important, he remembered: ordinary folk always felt threatened by strange solicitors on their doorstep ' — in fact, in a legal sense, doesn't involve you at all ... But you could be of great help to one of my clients. So ... perhaps I might step inside, for a moment — ?' He sniffed again, and glanced deliberately over his shoulder at the source of the nuisance, which must be wafting in through her open front-door even now.

She considered him through her spy-glass for a moment, and he was glad that he had selected his best charcoal-grey pin-striped Fielding-ffulke, Robinson suit and Bristol University tie. Then she drew back, leaving an opening for him into the darkness beyond. 'Yahss . . .'

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That was the first hurdle. Long before, in the old days, he could well remember trying to get past the porter of a minor Oxford college to interview the Master about an alleged sex-and-drugs scandal for the Daily Mail, only to be rebuffed by the loyal college porter with ' You just fuck off! We know your sort!' (And, actually, he had been wearing a decent suit and his Bristol tie on that occasion, also.) The darkness dissolved slowly, and the curry-smell was repelled by a mixture of furniture-linoleum polish, Mrs Champeney-Smythe's face powder and the steak-and-kidney-pie-and-cabbage, which had presumably been the Elstree Guest House residents' lunch not so long ago.

'If you would be so good as to ascend the stairs,' Mrs Champeney-Smythe indicated his route, but then pushed ahead of him after closing out the Indian invasion.

Ian followed her dutifully, up the stair and across the landing, into what was obviously the best room in the house; which, in commercial terms, meant that she wasn't down on her uppers for money, if she could keep it as her own sitting room.

And the tall windows let in the light, so that he could instantly make out all Mrs Champeney-Smythe's lifetime accretion of memorabilia and bric-a-brac, which was consciously arranged around him on occasional tables, and sideboards, and bookcases, and windowsills: silver-framed pictures, and little boxes, and brasses, and paperweights, and dummy2

innumerable meaningless objects which meant so much to her.

It was the pictures which always told the most, and quickest: no children, naked on rugs, or self-conscious in shirts-andties and party-dresses, or gowned for graduation; only an extremely handsome man, posed again and again in carefully-lit situations, always immaculate and cool, and once with a cigarette in hand, the smoke curling up past his nonchalant profile, in a Noel Coward pose.

'You may recall my late husband.' Mrs Champeney-Smythe observed his interest with satisfaction as he bent over the cigarette advertisement. 'That is my favourite — the one Gabby Pascal gave me. But he always preferred Arthur's favourite — ' She pointed, ' — that one . . . which was taken for The Dark Stranger . . . Basil had only a small part. But he had all the best lines, Arthur said — J. Arthur Rank, of course.'

" Basil Champeney as Harry de Vere' , Ian read dutifully. So he was in the presence of late pre-war and early postwar British cinema, not in 1978, but over forty years — maybe even half-a-century — ago!

'Yes!' He lied enthusiastically. 'Yes — of course!'

'Indeed?' She frowned at him suddenly, as though she had seen through his enthusiasm, to its insincere foundation.

'But that was . . . before you were born, Mr Robertson — ?'

'Robinson.' He smiled at her desperately, and played for time dummy2

while he took out his spectacles again, peering through them round the room. 'Yes. But those were the great days of British cinema, Mrs Champeney-Smythe — ' He saw her more clearly now: the ancient remains of past splendour, plundered and weathered by time, like the Parthenon: or, if not an old Bluebell Girl, she had the height for the front row of the chorus, certainly. So all he had to remember now was the list of those old films, hoping for the best. ' The Private Life of Henry VIII. . . and Things to Come . . . and Rembrandt — ' He cudgelled his brains, between Gabriel Pascal, and Alexander Korda, and J. Arthur Rank ' — and The Four Feathers, with Ralph Richardson . . . and Pygmalion . . . and, after the war — I have many of those films on video now, Mrs Champeney-Smythe: those were the great days — ' He bent towards Basil's picture, as though to a shrine ' — I never expected . . . The Dark Stranger — of course!' He sat back, nodding at her, and terrified lest she quiz him further. 'But — I am imposing on you — ' At all costs, he had to get away from the Great Days of British Cinema ' — you see, it's about one of your former . . .

guests ... a young lady — a young lady—?'

'A young lady?' She had sat down, into her favourite chair, beside the table which carried the Radio Times and the TV

Times, and her copy of the Daily Mail. 'Which young lady, Mr Robertson?'

He adjusted his spectacles, solicitorly. 'It was some years ago

— nine or ten, perhaps ... a Miss Francis, Mrs Champeney-dummy2

Smythe — Miss Marilyn Francis — ?'

She frowned at him again. And in that second he threw away all his planned explanations, on instinct. And put nothing in their place.

The frown cleared slightly. 'I remember Miss Francis —

yahss . . .'

Yahss: they all remembered Miss Marilyn Francis. And, at a guess, Mrs Champeney-Smythe had once disapproved of Marilyn's appearance quite as much as Mrs Simmonds . . .

Or, with her own chorus-line memories, maybe not quite as much? Mrs Champeney-Smythe in her time must have seen other bright butterflies and moths fluttering around flames; so Marilyn Francis might not have seemed quite so outrageous after all.

'Yahss — ' Other memories intruded: Mrs Champeney-Smythe had read her Daily Mail back in 1978, and the recollection of her reading, which she must have shared with her other lodgers with shock-horror all those years ago, showed in her face now. ' Yes, Mr Robertson. I remember Miss Francis.'

A gentle smile was called for. 'You wouldn't, by any chance, have any record of a forwarding address — if your records go so far back — ?'

'No, Mr Robertson.' She fingered the strings of costume jewellery which accompanied the monocle's gold chain, and waited for him to continue.

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She was time-biding, Ian decided. She must be all of seventy years old (with all that paint and powder, it was hard to say: she could be nearer eighty for all he could tell: a relic of the twenties, even!). But, just as with Gary, it would be a mistake to underrate her; and he'd already made the elementary mistake of combining two questions into one, so that he didn't know which one that 'no' applied to. 'Your records don't go back — ?'

'My records go back to June 1960, when my husband and I bought this property, on our retirement from the profession, Mr Robertson.'

'So she didn't leave any address?' He chose to interpret her answer. 'Isn't that unusual — not to have an address?'

'Not if you do not have an address. Miss Francis left one place, where she was lodging, and came to me. That is all.'

It wasn't all. She remembered Marilyn Francis very well — so well, that even with Marilyn nine years dead she wasn't going to give any Tom, Dick or Harry ... or Robertson, of Fielding-ffulke, Robertson . . . easy answers. 'Didn't she receive any mail?' He remembered Mrs Simmonds had let slip about Marilyn's hurried midweek departure, with £5 out of the petty cash in her pocket. But perhaps she'd just been playing her part to the last. 'After she left, I mean — ?'

'Miss Francis did not receive any mail.'

Well, that rang true, however uninformatively. But at this rate he'd be here all day, and still not be much the wiser. So dummy2

he must push harder. 'But she did have callers, Mrs Champeney-Smythe.' He made this a statement, not a question. 'There was a boyfriend, I believe?'

'There was no boyfriend.' She rejected his ploy almost contemptuously. 'And there were no callers.'

They stared at each other like evenly-matched duellists.

'I find that hard to believe, Mrs Champeney-Smythe.' He allowed an edge of irritation into his voice.

'Then . . . you must believe what suits you, Mr Robertson.'

She parried the first thrust easily.

'But she was an attractive young woman.' In their different ways, Mrs Simmonds and Gary had both been agreed on that.

'She was, yahss.' A hint of distaste: Mrs Champeney-Smythe would incline more towards Mrs Simmonds there, having no interest in General Custer and firearms and recruitment to the British Army. But she still refused to be drawn any further.

Another thrust, then. 'She left you rather suddenly, I believe

— ?' Once on the attack, he had to go forward. 'Just before her very tragic death, that would have been, of course . . .

And you read about that, in the newspapers, naturally — ?'

The mask didn't crack. But this time he received only the slightest of nods, and no ' yahss' . Yet that concealed pain, he judged.

Suddenly he saw a gap in her defences — or, if not a gap, dummy2

then at least the faintest impossible hope of one. 'Did she come back to you, to say goodbye?'

No reaction at all.

Wait — or attack harder? The possible dividend of success was great, but so was the penalty of failure. Then, even though the mask still didn't crack, he knew that she was old and frail behind it, and he was young and strong. 'She didn't come back — did she?' And there had been no forwarding address: she had already admitted that! And how many suitcases, and other minor pathetic luggage, were up there in the attic — or down there in the cellar — belonging to other 'guests' who had made the proverbial 'midnight flit', rather than settle their accounts? Belongings which were either festooned with cobwebs up above, or mouldy-green with damp down below — ? 'So her things are still here, then?'

She looked away from him, towards one bric-a-brac-choked table over which Basil Champeney (without the plebeian

'Smythe') presided out of another silver frame.

But he could see nothing on it which was of the slightest interest — a wooden ashtray, with a mouse carved on it; a brass frog grinning foolishly; a crude rhomboid First World War tank in seaside souvenir china (which was probably worth a tidy sum in any auction!); a hideous piece of Venetian glass, from Murano Island . . . none of which had

'Marilyn Francis' imprinted on it. And then the washed out eyes (which, for a guess, had once been ingenue china-blue) dummy2

came back to him.

'Tell me, Mr Robertson . . . what is all this about?'

He had won. Or, if he was careful now, and gentle with it, he could win. 'I am concerned with a legacy, Mrs Champeney-Smythe — ' He touched his spectacles, as though slightly embarrassed ' — one of those difficult next-of-kin family affairs, which could go on for years . . . which could swallow up most of the money in legal fees, and all the other costs.

But, you know, I don't believe that's what my job ought to be about, you see — ?' He gave her his most innocent look, which Jenny always said almost melted her heart. Only now, when he came up against all Marilyn Francis's contradictions, he found to his surprise that he was no longer quite pretending, even in the midst of this elaborate tapestry of lies. Because, if he'd been in the law and clever little Marilyn had had a blue-eyed Mills-and-Boon offspring, he really would have been fighting for its inheritance. 'Do you see — ?'

She frowned so hard that the make-up on her forehead cracked. 'No.'

He was surprised as well as disappointed. Because she didn't seem to be rejecting his appeal. 'No?'

'Her brother took all her things . . . afterwards, Mr Robertson.'

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'Her — ?' Damn! He should have expected that. 'Her brother?'

She shook her head. 'She telephoned me — of course . . . But that was the next day, after she didn't come back from work.

She said how sorry she was . . . She always phoned me, when she was working late, or when she had to go away — she was always thoughtful . . . Because she knew that I worried about her, when she was late . . . But she didn't phone that time —

when she went away, the last time. Not until the next day, very late — ' She stared at him, and then through him. And then at him. 'Such a lovely girl, she was — in spite of all appearances to the contrary — ' The stare fixed him, demanding his agreement ' — so intelligent — so thoughtful. . . She knew I worried. Especially when it was dark, at night.'

The image of Marilyn-in-the-dark jolted him. Because Gary had worried also for his darling Miss Francis, when she worked late. He had even followed her all the way back here, one late October evening when the mist was up, to make sure she got home safe: that had been how Gary knew about 'old Mrs Smith'.

'She phoned you — ? The next day?' They had both loved her: in quite different ways they had both loved her.

'Yes.' She nodded. 'After her dinner — or, if she was late, after her supper, which she'd often take with me, in this room . . .

after that she'd often stay, and we'd talk . . . About her day at work, sometimes. Or about what was on the nine o'clock dummy2

news, or in the papers — she was always very well-informed, about what was going on ... And then we would read our books, until it was time to go to bed — ' She inclined her head upwards ' — her room was right at the top of the house, and not really very comfortable — not for reading, anyway. So she'd stay down here with me. And we'd have a cup of cocoa

— so much better than coffee, or tea, which are stimulants.'

From getting nothing, now he was almost getting too much.

Or ... cocoa and reading before bed-time mixed as inappropriately with see-through blouses and 'anything in trousers' as with Red Indians and the army's new rifles. But there was something much more important than all of that.

'She had a brother — ? He took her things, you said.'

Her mask tightened. 'That was unfortunate.'

'How — unfortunate?'

'He came when I was out, Mr Robertson.'

'When — ?' But, then, it wasn't unfortunate, of course: it figured exactly, that Marilyn's 'brother' would have watched for his moment.

'When I was out. She said he would be coming — ' The mask softened ' — and that she would be coming back to see me, some time. But she'd obtained this new position, up north —

not a temporary one, but a permanent post, with a pension and opportunities for promotion, you see-'

Ian nodded. There had been no pension, and no opportunities. But it had certainly been up north. And it had dummy2

been permanent, too. But, in those last hours of her life, Marilyn Francis had been nothing if not professional, sewing up all her loose ends tightly.

'My maid — my house-keeper — was here.' Mrs Champeney-Smythe corrected herself. 'Her brother cleared everything out . . . And, of course, she — Miss Francis . . . she was paid up to the end of the month — she always insisted on that, even though it was quite unnecessary — ' She stopped suddenly, as she saw his face fall.

Dead end! thought Ian. Just when he had thought he was there, too. But ... it had happened before, and it would happen again. And maybe Reg Buller would still come up with something, from 'up north', where someone might have been careless — now that he knew, anyway, that there really was something to be careless about with the real Marilyn Francis, who didn't exist in Somerset House, or anywhere else except here, in the Elstree Guest House, and in the sad recollections of Gary and his 'old Mrs Smith'.

'Well . . .' He smiled at her sadly, and sat up in his chair.

When one lost, one cut one's losses gracefully. And, in any case, he hadn't wholly lost. 'Well, I'm most grateful to you, Mrs Champeney-Smythe — for your time, and your help.' On impulse he decided to give her more than that, as he stood up. 'I'm glad . . . Miss Francis had such a happy time, before . . . before the tragedy occurred.'

She stared at him without replying, as though she hadn't heard what he had said. Then she turned away, looking again dummy2

towards the table with its incongruous collection of souvenirs.

He coughed politely. 'Mrs Champeney-Smythe — ?'

She pointed. 'There is something. You can't have it. But you can look at it, Mr Robertson. They belonged to her.'

He looked at all of it, already defeated: wooden mouse, or brass frog? China tank or spindly glass horse (minus its tail)?

Old ginger beer bottle, advertising 'Burbank', a 'High Class Chemist' of Oxford? Unless Marilyn had left a message in the bottle, it was all rubbish. But he had to humour her. 'Which object do you mean?'

'Not the table — ' The thin finger stabbed irritably towards the table ' — the bookcase, Mr Robertson, the bookcase.'

There was indeed a bookcase behind the table, its mathematically aligned contents also part of the room's ornamentation: she had been looking at that all the time, not the bric-a-brac.

'Which books, Mrs Champeney-Smythe?' ' We would read our books, until it was time to go to bed' , he remembered. So what would Marilyn Francis's literary tastes run to?

'At the end there — at the end!' It seemed to irritate her that he needed direction.

There was a set of Dickens (which didn't look as though it had ever been opened) and a run of diminutive New University Society classics in red-and-gold bindings — and a wealth of better-read washed-out yellow Reprint Society dummy2

volumes which Basil Champeney-Smythe had surely collected, and which customarily stood out on the shelves of a thousand second-hand bookshops . . . The Robe, The Black Narcissus, Bryant and Pepys, Churchill's My Early Life . . .

But he didn't even know which shelf, which end: should he be looking for The Life of General Custer — ? Or even A History of the Repeating Rifle? ?

'The fairy books — I told you — at the end, there!'

'The — ?' What — ? Then he saw them — one old, and hardback, the other new, and paperback —

The Fairy-Faith in Celtic Counties, by W. Y. Evans Wentz —

Who had ever heard of 'W. Y. Evans Wentz', for heaven's sake! Well . . . evidently the Oxford University Press, for a start! And a Penguin book — A Dictionary of Fairies, Hobgoblins, Brownies, Bogies and Other Supernatural Creatures, by Katherine Briggs —

He opened the Penguin. The right date, anyway: first published, 1976 — and in Penguin, 1977 . . . And, on the flyleaf, 'F.F. '78' — but who the hell was 'F.F.' — ?

He looked questioningly at Mrs Champeney-Smythe, then down again at the dictionary of fairies, which had fallen open in his hands at the point where the paperback binding had fallen apart with use, at page 175 — ' Fin Bheara' — was underlined.

And who the hell was ' Fin Bheara' — ?

He felt a cold hand on his backbone: Fin Bheara, alias dummy2

Finvarra, was apparently more than just the Fairy King of Ulster, which was 'Mad Dog' O'Leary's old stamping ground, but also maybe King of the Dead (and therefore a recipient of many of 'Mad Dog's' customers — ?) —

This foolish diversion of his concentration angered him.

'Who is "F.F.", Mrs Champeney-Smythe?'

'You are looking at the wrong book, Mr Robertson.' She closed her eyes as she spoke.

The paperback almost came apart in his hands as he juggled clumsily with Marilyn Francis's only known possessions to bring the stout OUP hardback to the top —

'Robbie, with love — Frances — 16.7.72'

'Who — ?' He realized that there was more than an inscription, there was a folded piece of paper —

It was a bookseller's bill, with a name and an address —

He looked back one last time into Lower Buckland churchyard, in which the second of his future book's bodies lay. But, unlike Jenny's lovely heroic Philip Masson, his own lovely, heroic 'Marilyn Francis' would at least remain decently undisturbed. For she was buried properly —

FRANCES

his loving wife

1948-1978

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— alongside her

ROBERT GAUVAIN FITZGIBBON

Captain, 39th (Royal Ulster) Lancers 1946-1974

Meanwhile, the Village Green was still as comfortingly empty as it had been when he had first arrived. Maybe it was just because it was the betwixt-and-between time of early evening, with the threat of rain from the low clouds which touched the trees on each side of the valley, which kept the inhabitants in their houses. But he might as well have been in Fin Bheara's country, in which Captain and Mrs Fitzgibbon now lived as of right. For the only living souls he'd seen so far were the old village-shopkeeper-cum-postmistress (who looked as though she already had one foot in Fin's kingdom, although she had given him useful information) and (quite fortuitously, but more useful still; and who might be said to have some connection with Fin's business) the village priest.

But the emptiness was reassuring, nevertheless.

So now he had his bearings again: he had parked the car prudently out of sight down that turning, just in case. So the post office must be down that lane, just to his left. And there should be a phone near that —

He had been lucky today, it had to be admitted. Lucky with the start Reg had given him, directing him to dummy2

Rickmansworth . . . and lucky, in a way, at Rickmansworth, during each of his three interviews. But luck was not such a wild card as most people liked to think, it was quite often the just reward for effort, with the Lord helping those who helped themselves. But those roadworks had been pure luck; and he would in any case have sought out the priest next.

Meeting him like that, right in the churchyard, had saved him time, undoubtedly, but —

And there was the phone-box. He should have noticed it first time round. And now, because he was lucky today, it wouldn't be vandalized. (Or anyway, phones didn't get vandalized in places like Lower Buckland.) (Tracing Mrs Frances Fitzgibbon wouldn't be too difficult, at least up to a point: it was the sort of thing John Tully and Reg Buller did well and quickly, with their wealth of varied experience.)

He was barely half an hour late phoning Jenny, which by her standards was nothing. So she'd still be in (and today, anyway, he was lucky). It wasn't vandalized. And he had plenty of change — (Tracing Captain Robert Gauvain Fitzgibbon, of the 39th Lancers, would be even easier: Captain Fitzgibbon, in life and death, would be a matter of record, public and military. Not, in this context, that he would be worth more than a passing reference or two or maybe a footnote, if his family was an interesting one; or — )

'Hullo? Who's that?'

That was Jenny, safe and sound and undoubtedly: Jenny dummy2

never answered the telephone with her own name and number. 'Ian, Jenny — '

'Thank God for that! Where are you?'

'What? I'm at—'

'No!' She cut him off. 'Don't answer that. You're not at home

— at your flat, Ian — ?'

'No. What the hell's the matter, Jen?' He had never heard her so flustered. And that, in very quick succession, surprised him and then frightened him. 'Jenny — '

'Shut up, Ian. Don't say anything. Don't tell me where you are, or what you're doing. Just listen.'

He opened his mouth, and then remembered what she'd just said. But his fear overrode that. 'Are you all right, Jenny?'

'Shut up. I've got to be quick — you've got to be quick. Get out of there — wherever you are — and go to that place where the man dropped the soup . . . Remember that? And don't be followed. If you are, then go to my father's place, and don't leave it. And I'll phone you there. Okay?'

Although he tried to digest all that while she force-fed him with it, there was too much of it, and he gagged on it. Now he was just plain frightened — Beirut-style frightened. Or perhaps even more frightened, because he didn't know what ought to be frightening him in Lower Buckland, or her in London.

'Okay. It'll take me an hour, Jen.' He estimated the journey from Lower Buckland to Abdul the Damned's restaurant as dummy2

best he could. But he couldn't leave it at that. 'What's happened, Jen? You must tell me. Then I'll go.'

There was a fractional pause. 'Reg Buller's dead, Ian. And I can't raise ... his friend — he doesn't answer. I think the police may be there.' Another heart's-beat pause. 'Watch yourself, Ian — for God's sake watch yourself!'

The phone went dead.

5

There were times, under pressure, when everything around him ceased to exist — even he himself seemed disembodied

— and the only reality was what was going on in his head.

Jenny was all right, his brain told him. If she hadn't been all right, she wouldn't have spoken like that: when she'd spoken to him that one time in Beirut, when she'd been unfree, she'd been calm and matter-of-fact, almost confident. This time, she'd been free, but neither calm nor well-organized, and far from confident — certainly far from confident that her line was safe —

He realized that he was still inside the phone-box in Lower Buckland, just down the lane from the Village Green; and he was staring at the dialling instructions blindly, with the phone still in his hand. And his hand was sweaty —

Oh God! He closed his eyes on the blasphemy. Reg Buller!

dummy2

He replaced the receiver, and disciplined himself to accept the world as it now was, both around him in Lower Buckland, and beyond it. Jenny was in her flat, and although she was dead-scared (and although she had been dead-scared she had waited quite deliberately for his call, in spite of that . . . either because she needed him, or because she wanted to warn him — either or both, it could be) . . .

although she'd been scared, she still thought she could beat the odds, and get away to Abdul the Damned's, where she reckoned they'd both be safe — where little Mr Malik could undoubtedly be trusted: that gave more credence to her present safety than anything else she'd said.

There was nothing to be seen outside. And nothing included Reg Buller, for evermore in the world as it now was: Reg Buller, with his noisome pipe and drink problem, and his bulbous nose, and his suburban semidetached villa, had moved from evermore to nevermore.

On that thought, he pushed open the door, and stepped out of the box, with Reg Buller at his back. Because Reg would have had no time for such futile sentiments, and he couldn't afford them either, now. The lane was empty.

Of course the fucking lane's empty, Reg Buller would have said. Just get to the fucking car and drive, like the Lady said

— right?

But it wasn't right. Because Reg Buller had been smart, yet not smart enough. Because Reg had believed in danger before anyone else had done, but Reg was dead now, even dummy2

though he'd been smart.

And the car was all that was left to him, whether he'd been as clever (or as lucky) as he'd thought, just a few minutes back: he just might have been clever enough (or lucky enough) . . .

but Lower Buckland was undoubtedly in the middle of its own commuter-belt nowhere, with a bus once-a-week if at all. So if he wasn't going to walk, then he had to drive —

It was different now, was Lower Buckland, as he progressed up the empty lane towards the Village Green: it really was Fin Bheara's kingdom, as briefly glimpsed in Mrs Frances Fitzgibbon's — now Mrs Champeney-Smythe's — Dictionary of Fairies: if you were still in the land of the living yourself, then all the people you met there were already dead. And he wished now that he hadn't read that —

Yet that wasn't so much not right as simply ridiculous: he had had a long day and if he hadn't been so frightened that he'd be dog-tired after all the unaccustomed leg-work and interviewing, never mind the driving; and, as this day — this evening, this night — was now very obviously far from over he had to cool his unfounded fears here, and summon his reserves, and pace himself.

Also, the Village Green wasn't empty now. There was a woman pushing a pram, with two children and a dog in tow, on the far side. And there was a car — two cars — two lovely, ordinary cars, with drivers and passengers in them — passing just ahead of him. And Fin Bheara surely wasn't into prams, dummy2

and children, and dogs, and cars full of passengers, to people his shadowy land.

He swung round the short stretch of road into the parallel lane where the car was, almost angry with himself for his over-fertile imagination. And then halted for an instant before reversing direction, to set off diagonally across the broad expanse of Village Green, towards the great old yew-tree, where he'd paused the first time, and the churchyard and the church behind it —

God! There had been a man bending over his car, while trying the door to see whether it was unlocked! And, as he'd paused fractionally, the man had looked up, and their eyes had met across fifty yards; but the man hadn't dropped his hand, he had gone on staring — ! God — !

He accelerated his pace, almost to the beginning of a run, not knowing where he was going, only that he wanted to put distance between himself and the man, his follower — his follower who had caught up with him, to become his pursuer

— ? Or, after Reg Buller, something more fearful than that

— ?

God! He hadn't been so clever, or so lucky, after all! He'd been stupid — stupid to blunder straight here, on the track of Marilyn Francis, without taking proper stock of the situation . . . stupid to delude himself that he was clever . . .

and stupid, more immediately, to have reacted as he had just done — to have halted for that fatal half-second, and then not shouted angrily like an honest man, but had acted dummy2

like a thief himself, and given the game away thereby —

damn, damn, oh damn — ! Stupid! Stupid!

But the yew-tree was marching towards him by the second, and he was only compounding his stupidity with self-recrimination. Because when he reached it he'd have to know what he would do next, where he would go next; because there were only two roads out of Lower Buckland, according to the map, and both of them were behind him now, on the wrong side of the Village Green, with maybe Fin Bheara himself in the way. And ahead of him . . . ahead of him was the churchyard wall again —

Damn it! All the citizens of Fin's kingdom would be waiting for him there with old Reg Buller grinning over Marilyn Francis's shoulder!

And he was there, now. And he must stop thinking this Fin Bheara nonsense before it reduced him to a helpless jelly: simply, he must turn round and face his pursuer. Because . . .

because — for heaven's sake! — he wasn't in some Beirut wasteland now, like last time: there were no half-smashed tenements full of hooded women and Kalashnikov-armed trigger-happy bandits from half-a-dozen different militias: these were elegant Georgian-Regency-early-Victorian English residences around him on the other three sides of the green, with elegant stockbroker-merchant-banking-high-tech-yuppie wives (with little boys and girls playing computer games at their backs as they started to prepare dinner, while watching the early evening BBC/ITV news on dummy2

the kitchen TV), waiting for their husbands to return from the high-return, high-risk fray — shit!

(Shit? That was what Jenny would say. But Jenny was extricating herself from her flat; and he had a rendezvous with her at Abdul the Damned's; which he had to keep — or face her father — )

He was right underneath the yew-tree now, where he'd been so few minutes before, in the age when he'd still believed himself clever as well as lucky. But it was as much the threatened prospect of having to explain himself to 'Daddy'

as his own desperation which turned him round, at the last—

Shit! He had increased the gap to the full width of the Village Green, but there were two of them now!

From being in trouble, he was in big trouble now, in his own high-return fray, which had also suddenly become as high-risk: the closest of the Georgian houses was away to his left, beyond the corner of the wall, with its manicured box hedge and holly tree, and its owner's wife's big silver Volvo Estate outside; but could he really knock at the door, and say:

' Excuse me, madam . . . but my name is Robinson — Ian Robinson, of Fielding-ffulke, Robinson . . . And I'm just researching Mrs Frances Fitzgibbon, who used to live here, just across the Green, in Gardener's Cottage — Captain Fitzgibbon's widow — perhaps you remember her — ?

Only . . . there are these two men, just on the other side of the Green — one of them is wearing a check sports jacket, and he's tall. . . and the other is short and plump, in a grey dummy2

suit . . . But I think they may have been following me. And now I think they may want to kill me—I know that sounds silly, but they may just have killed my associate, Mr Reginald Buller — formerly of the Metropolitan Police Force . . . So, do you think that I might use your telephone —

or your lavatory — ? Or could I please cower in one of your attics, perhaps? Can I take sanctuary with you — ?'

One of them was moving left, round the Green. And the little fat one was advancing across the grass, towards him—

Sanctuary — ?

He did know someone in Lower Buckland: the old priest, in his long black cassock — the Vicar? the Rector? — had spoken to him. And the church was right behind him — and the Vicarage — Rectory? — was just somewhere behind that, through the churchyard: he had glimpsed it round the back

— and the priest himself had indicated it at the end of their encounter, after he'd pronounced on the Fitzgibbons, beneath their stone in his churchyard, and very lovingly —

With Check Sports Jacket and Grey Suit converging on him purposefully, the thought of knocking on strange doors and seeking safety no longer embarrassed him: it was no longer a question of feeling foolish, but of which door — ? And Check Jacket decided that for him by accelerating towards the silver Volvo and thereby eliminating the door behind it (which might not, in any case, have opened up quickly enough). But Grey Suit (who was not so much short and plump as dummy2

menacingly thickset and powerful at close range) had already reached the furthest end of the churchyard wall, not far from the lych-gate in it.

Ian ducked under the overhanging yew-tree branches and sprang on to the top of the wall with an agility which surprised him — it was as though his arms and legs, once released from their brain's indecision, knew damn well what to do when it came to physical self-preservation —

He landed awkwardly in a pile of grass-cuttings, but the arms adjusted his balance and the legs kicked strongly, launching him out and away at immediate top-speed among the gravestones. At the same time, nevertheless, his brain cautioned him that perhaps even now he was piling up mistake on mistake: back there, on the edge of the Village Green, he had at least been out in the open, where there might have been watching eyes in the houses on its other three sides to see whatever might have happened next. But here, among the stones — Richard Glover, 1810-1894 —

Edmund Chapman, 1785-1847 — Martha Chapman, 1821-1867 — William Thomas Eden, 1712-1790 — this could be where Ian Drury Robinson might end up — 1958-1987 —

and no one the wiser: this might even be where Check Jacket and Grey Suit had been quite deliberately driving him —

God!

He jinked round an ancient weathered gravestone, and skidded to a halt, steadying himself on its finial, the gritty surface of which sandpapered his hand —

dummy2

A grinning skull-and-crossbones, spattered with yellow-grey splodges of lichen, mocked him: George Wellbeloved, beloved husband —

They were both almost inside the churchyard now, so there was no question that he had been imagining persecution where there was none: he was their target, whatever their final intention — and, with this obscene confidence of theirs, half-hurrying, half wnhurrying, he wasn't going to wait to find out what might be on their minds, in this too-private graveyard.

He pushed himself away from George Wellbeloved's stone, twisting on one heel in the soft rough-cut grass, and took three strides. And stopped.

He was trapped —

He swayed, beginning to half-turn. And then stopped the turn as its purpose became irrelevant: he knew what was behind him, because he had assessed it only a moment before. So now he knew what it was in front of him — and understood why Check Coat and Grey Suit had been so confident.

He was caught — pin-pointed as a collector's butterfly: not pursued, but caught, beyond all hope of escape!

To Check Coat and Grey Suit he added Combat Jacket: a third style, naturally, so that there had been no uniform appearance to register among the followers he might have noticed, if he'd been more observant — if he hadn't thought dummy2

himself so clever, and so lucky. Or ... or, if he'd taken poor old Reg more seriously, maybe — ?

But now he was caught, anyway. And caught finally and more obviously than before, and quite unarguably. Because, where Check Coat and Grey Suit concealed their weapons, Combat Jacket carried his own openly — openly, albeit casually, in the crook of his arm. But then, in Lower Buckland on a wet September evening, a shotgun was as good as a Kalashnikov and more easily explained.

He straightened up, accepting the inevitable even as he tried to reject it as something which didn't happen in real life, to ordinary people.

Or... not to Ian Robinson — ?

Or ... not to Reg Buller — ?

Combat Jacket straightened up, too. But, as he did so, his free left hand came up, to steady the shot-gun even as his casual right hand slid back to slip its trigger-finger into position.

'Hullo there!' Combat Jacket smiled at him, even as the double-barrels swung from their safe downwards-point into the shooter's-readiness position, for the clay pigeon, or the rabbit, or whatever sport was in prospect — whatever game: feathers-and-two legs, fur-and-four-legs — or skin-and-Ian-Robinson —

This time his legs betrayed him: he wanted them to run, but his knees had thrown in the towel, and it was all he could do dummy2

to stop them buckling, to bring him down to grass-level.

'Mr Ian Robinson, I believe?' The gun was coming up.

And Combat Jacket was smiling psychopathically, with enjoyment —

It would be an accident: one of those tragic shot-gun mishaps —

Ian closed his eyes. There would be a terrible impact. And then there would be ... whatever there was after that: probably pain, until communications broke down; but that wouldn't take long, with a shot-gun at five yards. And then . . . everything? Or ... nothing?

Nothing happened.

Or perhaps time was standing still for him, in his last second of it?

Only, time wasn't standing still: all he had felt, before that last thought, was blank fear filling his chest. But then he realized that he had breathed in deeply as he'd closed his eyes, and now he couldn't hold his breath any longer: it was the discomfort of that which was filling him —

He breathed out and opened his eyes again simultaneously, to find that there was no one in front of him any longer: there were only the greens and greys of the churchyard, swimming slightly for an instant and then coming sharply into focus as he blinked the sweat away.

He had been stupid, he began to think. And then the confusion in his mind cleared, just as the sweat had done, in dummy2

another eye-blink, as he remembered that the man with the gun had called him by his name.

He turned round clumsily, grasping at the nearest gravestone for support as his legs threatened again to give way under him, making him stagger slightly.

Combat Jacket was still in the churchyard, but was way past him now, up by the wall midway between the yew-tree and lych-gate and staring out across the Village Green, shot-gun still at the ready. For the moment he seemed quite uninterested in Ian.

But . . . ' Mr Ian Robinson, I believe?' was there between them, validating the man's presence, making it not-accidental — and reconvening all Ian's fears in a clamorous disorderly crowd in his brain: the man was real, and his shotgun was real. And those other men had been no less real —

Check Coat and Grey Suit — but where were they now — ?

Combat Jacket turned towards him suddenly, beckoning him.

There was no arguing with the invitation. If there had been a moment to run, and continue running, it was past now. And, anyway, the weakness in his legs dismissed the very idea as ridiculous, never mind that shot-gun in the man's hands.

The rough-cut churchyard grass was soft and springy under his feet, and there was a different cross-section of memorials to the long-dead inhabitants of Lower Buck-land all around him. But he only had eyes for Combat Jacket now, as he dummy2

approached the man.

Combat Jacket was no longer smiling (and maybe he'd never been smiling: maybe that smile had been inside his own imagination?).

'Well, I think they've gone.' Combat Jacket nodded at him, then re-checked the Village Green, and then returned to him.

'They've gone?' Ian's husky repetition of the words betrayed him. But . . . Combat Jacket was fortyish, for the record: young-fortyish, but a little haggard; brown hair, short-cut but well-cut; brown eyes, regular features ... the sort of man, if he'd been ten years older, whom Jenny might have looked twice at, once he'd acquired a touch of grey (older men, not younger, were Jenny's preference — ) —

(Philip Masson maybe? Is that it, Jenny? Is that it?) The thought of Jenny made him want to look at his watch.

But he mustn't do that!

'Didn't you hear the car?' Combat Jacket was studying him just as carefully.

'No.' It was just possible that this man had saved his life. But, if he had done so, he had only been obeying orders, just like that Syrian major in Beirut. And it was Jenny who mattered now — and Jenny's orders. So he must keep his head and not let foolish sentiment get in the way of necessity. 'Who are you?'

'My name is Mitchell. Paul Mitchell — ' Mitchell-Paul-Mitchell took another look over the churchyard wall: dummy2

whatever Mitchell-Paul-Mitchell was, and whoever ... he was a careful man. 'Paul Lefevre Mitchell. Almost exactly three hundred years ago one of my Huguenot-Protestant ancestors fled from Louis XIV's France, to England . . . and just a minute or two ago I rather wished he hadn't, Mr Robinson.

But now, I think it's time for us to go, too.'

That was curiously interesting. Because a few years back (and after Jenny had vetoed the idea of it, in preference for the more saleable Middle East) he had proposed a book on that anniversary of King Louis' expulsion of his Protestants, which had given England the Bank of England and Laurence Olivier; and Paul Revere to the United States.

But that was all also quite ridiculously beside the point now: the point was ... he had to get to Abdul the Damned's Tandoori Restaurant. And to Jenny.

But the point also was that he mustn't seem to eager —

however desperate he felt. So he must ignore the more important second statement in preference for the first. 'You wished he hadn't, Mr Mitchell? Why was that?'

Mitchell raised an eyebrow. 'You are a cool one, aren't you!'

Then a hint of that original not-smile returned. 'But then, of course, you were a cool one in Beirut, weren't you? When they snatched your lady-friend, and you negotiated her release — ? That was cool — yes!'

Mitchell was Intelligence, not Special Branch: it might be MI5 (it could hardly be MI6) but it was one or the other, to know so much . . . even though he'd got it quite pathetically dummy2

wrong, about the coolness. But he mustn't spoil the illusion.

'Oh — ?'

'I wondered why you didn't duck down behind the nearest convenient cover!' Mitchell nodded. 'But, of course . . . you weren't surprised, were you?'

He had to get away from this total misreading of events. 'You seem to know a lot about me, Mr Mitchell.'

'I know all about you, Mr Robinson: Miss Fielding-ffulke asks the questions, and has the contacts, and negotiates the deals . . . and you sort out the sheep from the goats she brings you, and write the actual books. You are the brains, and she is the brawn . . . unlikely as that may seem.' Mitchell took another look over the churchyard wall. 'Shall we go, then?'

With Mitchell here beside him he was physically safe; that shot-gun, if not Mitchell himself, proclaimed that. So, with this Mitchell-Paul-Mitchell in a mood of indiscretion, he must forget Jenny and get all he could, while he could get it ... no matter how his guts were still twisting. 'If I'm "the brains", Mr Mitchell. . . then I'd be obliged if you'd tell me what's going on — ?'

Mitchell cocked his head. 'Are you going to be difficult? After what has just happened — ?' Again he looked towards the Village Green. 'I think they've gone . . . But let's not push our luck — eh?'

dummy2

Because Mitchell wasn't happy, Ian began to feel unhappy.

'But I still don't know who you are, Mr Mitchell — any more than I know who they were, actually.'

'But you ran away from them?' Mitchell's mouth twisted.

'You are being difficult — '

'Not difficult — ' Actually, not difficult: for this instant he could be at least partially honest ' — who were they?'

Mitchell stared at him for a moment, as though deceived by that partial honesty. 'You don't know him? Well. . . maybe you don't at that! But. . . you ran like a rabbit, across the Green — ?' The moment of credulity faded into suspicion.

'Oh — come on, Mr Robinson! I've just gone through a very bad time on your behalf: this isn't when you should be playing silly games with me, for God's sake!' He lifted the shot-gun meaningfully across his chest — and then broke it, thrusting it towards Ian. 'See — ?'

What Ian saw was that the man's face was breaking up as he offered the gun for inspection, the mouth twisting bitterly.

'Empty.' Mitchell pushed the gun closer. 'See!'

Ian had to look at it.

'Okay?' Mitchell snapped the shot-gun together again.

'Father John — Father John whom you've met ... he lent me his gun. But he couldn't find any cartridges for it — not at short notice, he said — huh!'

That was indeed what Ian had seen: the twin-chambers of the shot-gun had been just like the muzzles which he had dummy2

imagined he'd faced, both black empty circles —

Mitchell nodded. 'I've just pointed an unloaded gun at Paddy MacManus for you, Mr Robinson. And that means that you owe me far more than you can ever repay: I got you one of your nine lives back — but we've both just lost one of our nine lives — okay?'

The empty shot-gun unmanned Ian. He didn't know who the hell 'Paddy MacManus' might be; but Mitchell-Paul-Mitchell knew — and that smile, if it had been a smile, would have been the Syrian major's smile, as they'd finally left the car at the rendezvous, of reassurance-pasted-over-fear, when they still hadn't known whether it was a meeting or an ambush —

He followed Combat Jacket towards the lych-gate.

'My car's across the Green, Mr Mitchell — ' he began. Was it going to be as easy as that, though?

'We're not taking your car.' Mitchell pointed towards the Volvo. 'You come with me.'

He was still following Combat-Jacket-Mitchell-Paul-Mitchell.

But his Rover Vitesse was as much his pride-and-joy as Philip Masson's Folkboat Jenny III had been. 'But what about my car — ?'

'I'll send someone for it. If they followed you here, then they've bugged it. So we'll unbug it for you — not to worry!'

Mitchell remotely unlocked his big silver Volvo. 'And we'll go out the opposite way — just in case?'

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They had followed him here. In fact, they and Mitchell-Paul-Mitchell had both followed him here, when he'd thought himself so clever.

'How did you follow me here?' He still didn't really know who Mitchell-Paul-Mitchell was. But it didn't seem a time for argument.

'You were easy.' The Volvo rolled forward smoothly. 'At least, after Rickmansworth, you were easy.' The Volvo circled the peaceful square of grass. 'This way's longer . . . but, just in case . . . we'll go the longer way, I think.'

They passed the post office side-road, and then the side-road in which his own abandoned pride-and-joy lay. And then accelerated.

'What did Father John say to you, when you met him in the churchyard?' Mitchell pre-empted his next question as they began to climb the other side of Lower Buckland's peaceful valley, in which no one had just been killed.

'Father John' must be the old priest whom he'd met, and thought himself so lucky to meet: 'Father John', in his long black cassock, High Anglican and old — old Father John, and old black cassock, as he'd thought . . . But now he had to think of Father John as part of the deception of Mrs Frances Fitzgibbon, of which Mitchell-Paul-Mitchell was another part.

' Can I help you?' (The old priest had appeared out of dummy2

nowhere, so it had seemed to him.)

" Sir?' (He had been caught looking at the Fitzgibbon grave —

Captain Robert Gauvain and Frances; and he'd been looking at it too long for comfort, with all the other graves around to look at.)

' Are you looking for anyone in particular?' (Father John had given the Fitzgibbon stone a little nod — almost a blessing.) (That had shaken him. He had crossed out Captain Robert Gauvain, and concentrated on Frances, beloved wife; because Frances, beloved wife — formerly Marilyn, beloved

'smasher' of Gary Redwood . . . and maybe the long-lost, never-born daughter of Mrs Champeney-Smythe — but who, in reality? Only, whatever she had been, Marilyn/Frances had almost overwhelmed him then, as he'd seen her name on her tombstone.)

(And that tell-tale concentration on Marilyn/Frances had warned him off her, as Father John had looked at him.) ' I was just looking for Captain Fitzgibbon, sir.' (The Father of Lies had jogged his arm then.) ' He was in the regiment, sir.'

(Father John had nodded then, understandingly. ' Ah . . .

Robbie Fitzgibbon was a splendid chap! The bravest of the brave . . . and a good cricketer, too.' (The ultimate accolade!)

' Did you know his wife, sir?' (The ultimate question.)

'Frances? Yes—'

He caught a last glimpse of the church far below, and it dummy2

brought back a memory of the look on the old priest's face then, which had said it all even before Father John confirmed what he himself already knew. But it hadn't been the moment to press for more, he had judged.

Or had it been that he had no heart then for more of his own lies? Not where Mrs Frances Fitzgibbon was concerned — ?

The car jolted over a pothole as they left the valley behind.

'I was easy?' He knew so much about Frances — and yet he knew nothing really. But it was this man Mitchell who mattered now. 'After Rickmansworth? Why then?'

'When you came out of that old woman's house — that boarding house . . . you looked like the cat who'd found the cream, Mr Robinson.' Mitchell frowned at him quickly. 'So then I knew where you were going. But how the blazes did she know where to send you, though? Frances — Mrs Fitzgibbon . . . certainly didn't tell her. And I cleaned that place out myself, just in case.' He frowned at Ian again, but this time with all the underlying arrogance of a man unused to making mistakes.

'So you were the "brother".' It was good to prick that arrogance. And it was also good when things fitted so glove-like: Mitchell had been to Lower Buckland before — and often, surely, to be on shot-gun-borrowing terms with the old priest. But . . . why did it hurt to think of Mitchell knowing Frances Fitzgibbon so well that her Christian name came to dummy2

him first? 'But . . . who are you, Mr Mitchell? And what are you?' All he could do to soothe that unaccountable pain was to hug his own small secret close. 'And why were you following me?' Mitchell drove in silence, still frowning.

Another question occurred to Ian, rather belatedly in view of its importance. 'Where are we going?'

This time the man grinned. 'To meet Miss Fielding-ffulke —

right?'

That was a nasty piece of logic. 'Why should I want to do that?'

'Oh, come on, Mr Robinson! You've got a lot to tell her. And she's probably got a lot to tell you. Plus what Messrs Tully and Buller have rooted out of the dirt.' The grin faded. 'And now we both need to see her rather urgently don't you think, eh?'

The man didn't know about Reg Buller. But then how—?

'Come on, man!' Mitchell lost some of his cool. Those friends of yours back there — they went away smartly enough when they saw me. But that was only because I wasn't expected, and MacManus doesn't like the unexpected — not when it's a gun pointing at him. He didn't want a shoot-out, he was just paid for you, Mr Robinson. But ... he isn't going to go away forever: he still wants his money. Or ... if not him, then there'll be someone else.'

It was simple, really: Combat Jacket had been the unexpected for Check Coat and Grey Suit. But Check Coat dummy2

and Grey Suit had also been the unexpected for Combat Jacket: the borrowed shot-gun, the empty borrowed shotgun — told all. God!

'What are you, Mr Mitchell? Special Branch? Or Security?'

Ian saw a motorway sign ahead, offering them London or the West.

'I'm the man who's just lost one of his nine lives on your behalf, Mr Ian Robinson.' Mitchell fumbled in his pocket.

'Which way? London, I presume?'

Away in the gathering murk ahead of them Ian saw innumerable rushing headlights on the M25. Which way?

'It could be a forgery, of course.' Mitchell waited as Ian studied the identification folder. It didn't tell him much more than he'd already guessed, and he'd seen others like it. 'But then ... if it was, you could already be dead, Mr Robinson.

Because, by asking all those clever questions of yours, about Philip Masson and David Audley, you seem to have raised the Devil himself between you. Only it seems that the Devil wants you, instead of David, doesn't he?'

They were approaching the slip roads' junction.

'London — yes,' said Ian.

6

Ian could never penetrate the labyrinth of Islington without remembering the Monopoly game he had been given on his dummy2

eighth birthday, and his father, whose present it had been: Dad had been nutty about place-names (among so many other things), and Islington had been his own very first purchase, where the dice had transported his little silver car

—

' "The Angel, Islington" — buy it, boy! Buy it! Although there aren't many angels in Islington these days, I fear . . . No —

the "tun" of the "Eslingas" once, it would have been ... the people of some minor North Saxon chieftain, "Elsa" by name . . . Funny that: "Essex" for the East Saxons, "Sussex"

for the South Saxons, and "Wessex" the biggest — the West Saxons. And even "Middlesex" for the Middle Saxons. But no

"Nossex", eh? Maybe they were Angles there — "Angels", maybe — ?' (Dad had thought about that for a moment, then had got up from the game and gone to his study, to 'look it up' as was his disruptive custom; and Mum had cried out

' Eddie! Come back! We're playing a game — and it's your throw!' and looked at Ian despairingly; and Dad had shouted back, from far away and quite unrepentant, ' Only be a minute, dear! Must look it all up. Because knowledge is power and power is knowledge — always set an example —

only be a minute, dear!'; and then, after a full eternity of five minutes, had returned shaking his head at Ian, as he usually did.) ' No angels in Islington, that I can find. But— lots of the opposite — bad men in Pentonville Gaol, and wicked women in Holloway, my lad . . . And, frankly, I wouldn't rate the dummy2

Polytechnic much higher — I expect the police patrol in pairs there too, at night. . . But you buy it, Ian — '

And a sad-sweet memory of Mum and Dad followed on from that: they had never seen his smart Hampstead flat, or his Vitesse (still parked in Lower Buckland). But, in any case, Dad would have enjoyed his reference library more, and Mum would have loved meeting Lady Fielding-ffulke and the Honourable Jennifer, however much they would also have terrified her.

But now — now ... he wished Dad had been right, and that there had been numerous pairs of large Metropolitan policemen flexing their knees on every street corner as Paul Mitchell nosed the silver Volvo into the lucky space outside Abdul the Damned's tandoori restaurant.

But now — now ... he had to trust Combat Jacket — just as Combat Jacket was trusting him not to scuttle away into the rain-swept half-light when he had the chance, instead of guiding him into the space.

'Am I all right — ?' Mitchell poked his head out of the driver's window.

'You've got another two feet — left hand down — right!' There were people here, whom he could see — unlike those he hadn't seen in Lower Buckland, even when they'd been there; but he had to trust Mitchell's confidence in their safety, just as Mitchell was trusting him. 'Steady!'

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'Phew!' Mitchell locked the car, and then turned on its burglar-alarm. 'Bloody great big tank!' He grinned at Ian.

'Not mine, you understand? But marvellously unobtrusive in the commuter belt — all the wives have got 'em to take the kids to school: and the dogs, wherever they take the dogs.' He looked round, up and down the street with deceptive casualness. 'Ah! There's a phone-box! If it's unvandalized, then I'll phone in from here. You go on in, Ian — be my John the Baptist with Her Ladyship — okay?' The blue neon light advertising Abdul's tandoori delights illuminated his face diabolically. Tell it the way you do in your books, straight from the shoulder — the way it was — okay?'

He didn't want to like Paul Mitchell, for all that they seemed to have Mrs Frances Fitzgibbon in common. But there was something in the man which called out to him, which he couldn't add up, but which came to him across their conflicting interests. And it wasn't just that Mitchell had saved his life — indeed, it wasn't that at all; because that had been duty, so that counted for nothing. But . . . there was something else —

'There's a phone inside, Mr Mitchell.' He indicated Abdul's restaurant.

'Uh-huh?' The street received another up-and-down look.

'You call me "Paul", and I'll call you "Ian" — remember?'

Mitchell came back to him. 'If we're on Christian name terms we can exchange home-truths without insulting each other, I always think: "Fuck-off, Paul" is so much more friendly than dummy2

"No, Mr Mitchell" — eh?' The dark-blue lips curled fiendishly. 'Okay, Ian?'

The curry-smell recalled the street outside Mrs Champeney-Smythe's boarding-house too vividly for him to return the devilish grin. And Mitchell didn't wait for his agreement, in any case.

Then the smell engulfed him, as he opened the door.

And there was little Mr Malik himself, smiling with his own infectious humour and balanced on the balls of his feet like a boxer waiting for him.

' Mister Robinson — you have damn-well been up to no good this time, I think!' Mr Malik signalled towards a group of white-coated waiters, from which the two largest instantly detached themselves. 'But you don't worry. My little brother and my cousin will take a damn-good look outside — make damn-sure nobody is snooping around out there, see?'

The two waiters were already peeling off their white coats, and Mr Malik's gorgeous sister reached under her cash-till to produce two dark windcheaters: when Mr Malik had first launched his business in this tough area there had been several episodes of 'damn trouble', Ian recalled. But Mr Malik had dealt with his problems in a manner which the locals understood and appreciated, without recourse to the forces of law ajid order. So all was peaceful in Cody Street.

'No, Mr Malik — !' The thought of Paul Mitchell having a final snoop outside, and encountering the grinning six-foot dummy2

'little brother' in the process, hit him as the little brother slipped a cosh down his sleeve. 'No!'

'Oh yes, Mr Robinson!' Mr Malik waved him down. 'Miss Jenny says we take damn-good precaution — those are her orders, Mr Robinson.' He carried the wave on to his Search-and-Destroy squad. 'You go!'

'No. I have a friend out there — in the phone-box across the road, Mr Malik — ' In desperation, Ian skipped sideways to block the doorway. When Jenny issued orders, men always jumped. But these two looked like men who had had a boring day up to now.

'A friend?' Mr Malik seemed surprised that Ian had any friends. But he snapped his fingers, and the squad froze.

'But ... we have a telephone, Mr Robinson. And Miss Jenny says to look.'

'Yes.' Jenny really was running scared, to give such orders.

But, then, she was damn-right to run scared! 'My friend didn't want to impose on you. Is the phone okay, out there

— ?'

'Okay?' Mr Malik drew himself up to his full five-foot-five.

'Mr Robinson ... we have no trouble in Cody Street — no damn trouble, sir.' He nodded towards his little brother.

'When Mr Robinson's friend finish his call, you bring him in.

And then you take a damn-good look, like I said — okay?' He amended his cold-hard look of Absolute Monarchy to its original friendliness as he brought it back to Ian. 'Now I take you to Miss Jenny, sir — please?'

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Ian followed the little man down the length of the Taj Mahal, between tables which were already crowded in mid-evening, and with people who acknowledged Mr Malik, and whom he in turn acknowledged with matching esteem, until they reached the curtained stairway at the end.

Mr Malik held the curtain for him. But then touched his arm, arresting his progress.

'All my regulars, this evening, Mr Robinson — all known to me, you understand?' He looked up at Ian and tapped his nose. 'Okay?'

'Yes — ?' The trouble was, he understood all too well.

'Yes. No strangers out there.' Nod. 'And ... all the damn tables taken tonight — until Miss Jenny leaves.' He grinned suddenly. 'Except regulars, that my sister knows — they get served, only.' The grin evaporatted. 'You remember that night — when the damn-soup spilt — ?'

'Yes.' That wasn't a night easily forgotten: it had been the crowning event of the Taj Mahal's first week — very nearly literally — when the obstreperous drunk had jostled the waiter, and the soup had been spilt, and the drunk had moved to crown the waiter with a handy bottle of Malvern Water, and little Mr Malik (not yet aka Abdul the Damned) had squared up to the aggressor — and Jenny had decreed intervention —

' Do something!' (Jenny outraged, Ian, scared.) dummy2

' What— me?' (Ian, appalled, to her . . . the drunk being large, and their table loaded with untouched dinner.)

" You want trouble — ?' (Drunk to Mr Malik, overjoyed.)

' You make damn trouble!' (Mr Malik, disconcertingly unafraid.)

' Ian!' (Jenny, outraged with him now.) I say — ' (Ian terrified, but resigned.) ' — steady on now, everyone!'

' Who asked you?' (Drunk to Ian; then, lifting the bottle, to all comers.) ' Anyone else for trouble— ?'

' Yes.' (Jenny, unflustered and lovely, taking everyone's attention as she squeezed out from behind the table to take centre-stage.) ' Me — if you think I'm small enough?'

But Mr Malik was grinning at him. 'No problem this evening, Mr Robinson — no damn-soup, eh?' The grin almost split his face in two. 'You go see Miss Jenny — second door left, Shah Jehan Room. And I bring up your friend pretty soon. And no damn strangers.'

Ian did his best to return the grin, while trying not to imagine what might occur if Mitchell's confidence was misplaced, and Abdul's retainers encountered this afternoon's hit squad.

Thank you, Mr Malik.' What unmanned him, as he kept the false grin in place over his shoulder, was that there was no dummy2

limit to his imagination after this afternoon, this evening.

But then there was a limit to how much he could worry about, he discovered.

The Shah Jehan Room was to the left — one of the special private dining rooms, of course . . . next to the Mumtaz Mahal Room — Mumtaz, for whom all the wonder of the original Taj had been created . . . and now strangely celebrated in innumerable restaurants and take-aways long after the Mogul emperors and their British conquerors had receded into history.

'Jenny!' The room was dim, and disturbingly scented, after the relatively greater half-light of the corridor and the dominating curry-smell which had followed him up the stairs. 'Jenny— ?'

'Well! You took your time, I must say!'

'Yes — I'm sorry, Jen.' Coming out from behind the silken hangings, she should have been dressed to match, with jewellery and a bare midriff; but, as she was, her voice went with her old sweater and the jeans. 'I was held up.'

'Held up? You said an hour, for God's sake!' She took an inexpert puff from her cigarette, and then stubbed it out; and then picked up the glass by the ashtray, and drained it; and Jenny drinking was nothing unusual but Jenny smoking was demoralizing. 'What held you up, for God's sake? I've been worrying myself stiff.'

' Who — not What.' There were times when he wanted to slap dummy2

her, and if things hadn't been so serious this might have been one of them. Besides which Mitchell had said he wouldn't be long, so there was no time for recrimination. 'What happened to Reg Buller?'

'He's dead — I told you.' She took herself and her glass over to the well-stocked bar in the canopied alcove. 'And we killed him.' She filled the glass. 'Or, to be strictly accurate, I killed him.' She lifted the bottle. 'Credit where credit is due. Have a drink, Ian. I said we'd got a winner here, and you can't say I wasn't right. We can even dedicate the damn thing to old Reg now — that'll wow the critics: " Dulce et decorum est pro Jennifer Fielding mori" — how about that?'

She wasn't scared anymore — or, if she ever had been, she wasn't now. But if this was Dutch courage as well as self-pity, they were in more trouble now, with Mitchell coming.

'Don't worry — it's only Abdul's most innocuous plonk, which is practically alcohol-free.' She could hardly have read his expression in the subdued light, but she always read his silences. 'And I've spiked it with soda water. So I'm not pissed, Ian darling — or ... what was it old Reg used to say, when he'd been on a bender — ? "Crapulated", was it? No —

" crapulous" — I'm not crapulous . . . see?' She thrust the bottle towards him. 'Hardly opened.'

She was scared — of course she was scared. And he was scared too — but, less forgivably, he had been stupid —

'It's all right, Jenny.' He took the bottle from her and put his arms around her, brotherly-sisterly, thinking brotherly-dummy2

sisterly — and the first time since Beirut . . . but that had been different: that had been shared relief, not shared fear!

'It's all right, Jen.'

She held him tighter. 'Oh Ian — it isn't all right — it's all wrong! What have I done — for God's sake, what have I done?'

'You haven't done anything.' What mattered was what they were going to do. And with Jenny so completely out of character he realized how much he normally depended on her to answer that question. So he had to straighten her out first — and quickly. 'Whatever's happened, Reg was just as keen to work on this as you were — he was dead-keen — ' he grimaced at the wall behind her as he heard his gaffe, and pushed on hurriedly ' — and so was John Tully — ' he unwrapped her gently: however much he wanted to know about Reg Buller, that would have to wait (and Tully was more important now, anyway!) ' — where is John, Jenny?

Have you been able to get through to him yet?'

'No.' She blinked at him. 'No, I haven't. And . . . and we can't, I mean.'

Stupid, again: she had said something about the police on the phone, and he had automatically assumed their progression from a dead Reg Duller to a live John Tully, and then had clean forgotten that in the press of events.

'But, Ian — '

'No.' Even Tully wasn't the most important thing now.

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'Listen, Jen: there's someone coming to see us — here — ' He tried to keep one ear cocked for the sound of Mitchell on the stair as he spoke, against the sound of his own voice and the faint restaurant hubbub from below ' — any second now.'

'Someone?' Her eyes widened momentarily, and then narrowed. ' Who — '

'Just listen. I went to Rickmansworth today, to check up on the girl — the one who was killed up north, just before Masson disappeared — '

'Yes, I know. John told me you and Reg were off on some wild goose chase somewhere.' She nodded. 'Marilyn-something — ?'

'It wasn't a wild goose chase.'

'Francis — Marilyn Francis.' The nod became contemptuous.

'A typist.'

'Audley was there when she was killed.' She was irritated with him for acting on his own initiative, but he was also angry with her now: angry because she had closed her mind prematurely (which was unlike her) . . . but also angry at her dismissive contempt for Frances Fitzgibbon. 'I thought it was Audley we were after — isn't it?'

'It is.' From below him she somehow managed to look down on him. 'But, according to John yesterday — and John hasn't been wild-goose-chasing — Audley only got back from the States the day they shot that IRA man. And it's Audley and Philip Masson we're interested in, not Audley and Marilyn dummy2

Thingummy-jig, or Marilyn Monroe, or any other Marilyn.

You can put her in as a footnote, if you like — one of Audley's field-work casualties . . . But Philly Masson was top-brass, and nothing to do with field-work: Philly was going to be Audley's new boss, if he'd lived — If he'd lived.' She achieved another amazing contradiction, to match the physical looking-down one: her anger made her almost plain. 'But not for long. Because he'd probably have given Audley the push pretty soon, Philly would have done . . . Maybe a bit of ribbon, and a full fellowship in some Cambridge college, to go with it ... But maybe not even that.' The ugliness vanished.

'But Philly died, of course.'

Was that a creak on the stair — ?

'And so has Reg Buller, Jenny.' Almost, she had weakened his confidence with her Tully-Fielding heart-of-the-matter intelligence safely garnered while he'd been skirmishing so dangerously in Rickmansworth and Lower Buckland. But the ghost of Reg Buller shook his head at him — and there was blood on Reg's face . . . and that had been a sound on the stair. 'And I think I came damn close to following him, just this afternoon, what's more — '

'What — ?' Without any matching distraction, she had taken in every word after he had hit her below the belt with Reg Buller.

He strained his ear into a sudden unnatural silence: even the pots and pans in the busy kitchen below them seemed to have stopped clattering, and the whole of Dad's ancient dummy2

Eslingastun seemed momentarily still.

'Two men came after me, Jen. At least, I think they did —'

Tap-tap — the soft double knock on the door cut him off decisively. And then, as though the silence had been released by it, the pans started clattering again, and a car driver changed gears inexpertly and revved his engine outside. But Jenny was already turning towards the first sound.

Damn! thought Ian. 'And this man probably saved my life then — Come in, Mr Mitchell!'

In the stretched seconds during which the door opened, Jenny came back from it to him, with an angry expression he was glad he couldn't see clearly.

'Hullo there! Ian — ?' Mitchell saw Ian first, and smiled hesitantly at him; then took in Jenny, holding the smile in place; and then swung round, away from them both. 'Thank you, gentlemen — for your help . . .' The smile began to droop as he got it back to Ian. 'I'd be obliged if you'd tell the Indian Army out here that I'm friendly. Because they're beginning to frighten me.' He opened the door wider, to reveal Mr Malik's fearsome brother at his shoulder and the equally terrifying cousin at his other side.

Ian nodded at them. 'Thank you, gentlemen.'

Mr Malik's brother stood to attention. 'You want anything, sir — you just ring.'

'Phew!' Mitchell closed the door with evident relief. 'They dummy2

were waiting for me outside the phone-box. I thought they were going to mug me. Then one of them mentioned your name . . . But he still looked as though he'd rather thump me

— even after I'd told him I was a friend of yours.'

'And are you a friend of ours?' Jenny had recovered her glass but not her temper, from the cold hostility in her voice. 'Mr Mitchell, is it — ?'

'I beg your pardon?' Mitchell smiled at her uneasily. 'Miss Fielding-ffulke, I presume?'

'Plain "Fielding" will do, Mr Mitchell.'

'Not "plain", Miss Fielding. And my friends call me Paul.

That being my name.'

'Is that so? And we are friends?'

'I would have thought so — yes. I'm undoubtedly your friend, Miss Fielding. And you certainly need friends.' Mitchell was no longer smiling.

'But I already have friends, Mr Mitchell. Lots of them. And in high places, too.'

'Ah . . . yes.' Somehow, as Jenny had become less angry and more confident, Mitchell seemed to have become the opposite. 'But now you may need one in a low place, perhaps

— don't you think?'

'Meaning you, Mr Mitchell?'

'Meaning me, Miss Fielding.' Mitchell gave Ian a slightly puzzled glance.

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'But I really don't know you, Mr Mitchell. I don't know who you are. And I don't know what you do.'

Mitchell's head inclined slightly, as though from weariness.

'Oh, come on, Miss Fielding — I know I was only away for five minutes. But I can't believe that you've been discussing the menu with Ian here. Or the weather. Or your last joint royalty statement. Or ... even your next advance, on the book you're planning to write.'

'How d'you know we're planning to write a book?' Jenny knew she was winning.

'Isn't that what you do?' By the same token, Mitchell seemed to think that he was losing. 'You dig the dirt . . . or should I say pan the gold — ?'

For the first time, Jenny smiled at Mitchell. But not sweetly.

'Isn't that where gold is found — in dirt? But we don't make the dirt, Mr Mitchell. People like you do that. We merely find the gold — ' Then she gestured abruptly. ' — I'm tired of metaphors, though ... In answer to your question, Mr Friendly-Mitchell — yes, we are going to write a book.

Because that is what we do. So what?'

'Unless someone stops you.'

'Stops us? Who's going to stop us?' Jenny seemed delighted that he'd picked up her gauntlet so quickly (Ian felt the metaphor shift from gold-mining to single combat: and that would please her, of course!). 'Not you — you're a friend of ours, you said.'

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'Not me, no.' Mitchell nodded towards Ian. 'He does the writing, doesn't he? And someone damn nearly wrote "The End" to his book this afternoon, Miss Fielding. Ask him if you don't believe me.'

'I see.' She didn't even look at Ian. 'Would you like a drink, Mr Mitchell?'

Thank you.' Mitchell didn't relax. 'I would like a drink — yes.'

He watched her pour a generous glass of Mr Malik's plonk.

'So you're just here to frighten us — is that it?' She thrust the glass at him, spilling it as usual in the process.

'Am I?' Mitchell drank thirstily, swallowing and then making a face. 'I think you ought to be frightened.'

'But you don't mind us writing, though? And publishing — ?'

Mitchell considered the question and the wine together, and neither seemed to his taste. 'It all depends on what you write, I suppose.' But he drank, nevertheless.

'Usually we settle for the truth, Mr Mitchell. Our lawyers find that less complicated to defend.' Jenny watched the man drink again. 'And we try not to be too economical with it.'

'Then, you've been fortunate to find such a lot of it. I've always found it somewhat elusive, myself.'

'Like gold?' Her mock innocence was transparent. 'Another drink — ?'

'Sometimes like fool's gold, Miss Fielding. And even the real stuff . . . since we're into metaphor again ... it can be just like a little knowledge — dangerous.' He nodded towards Ian as dummy2

he presented his glass. 'As Ian here surely must have told you

— thank you ... I can't really believe that you haven't told Miss Fielding about our adventures of this afternoon.' Then he frowned slightly over his glass at Jenny. 'Or has she had even more traumatic adventures of her own, maybe — ?'

Ian felt himself frowning. The man was fishing, unashamedly. But he was also behaving as though he still didn't know about Reg Buller. So ... who the devil had he been phoning from the box outside, who also didn't know?

Could Intelligence really be so uninformed — so downright incompetent — ?

'Only very briefly.' The voice inside his head giving the obvious answer seemed louder than his own voice.

'Yes. Too briefly.' Jenny followed him up quickly. 'So perhaps you would elaborate on what Ian said, Mr Mitchell. As a friend?'

'Ah . . .' Mitchell acknowledged the turning of the tables on him with the ghost of a smile. 'What did you tell her, Ian? No point in repeating ... the truth, eh?'

'He thought you might have saved his life, that's all.' Jenny refused to give up her advantage.

'All?' Mitchell sounded a little pained. That seems quite a lot to me.'

'He wasn't sure it was what you did, though. Maybe not the truth?'

'Oh, it is — I did. And rather heroically too, I thought. Or, as dummy2

some might say — foolishly?' He shook his head at Ian. 'You didn't tell her about Father John's gun — ?'

'He did not.' To her credit Jenny resisted this irresistible red herring. But then weakened. 'There were two men — ?'

'Ah? So he did say more!' But then Mitchell weakened in turn. 'Actually, there were three — '

Three?' Since no one had offered him a drink, Ian had been heading for the alcove. But the number stopped him in his tracks.

Three, including me.' Mitchell took his nod from Ian back to Jenny. 'We were all following him. But I was . . .' He shrugged.

'The cleverest?' Jenny put her knife in with a sweetly inquiring smile.

'Undoubtedly — and fortunately.' Mitchell considered the proposition seriously for a moment before continuing. 'But I was actually going to say "better informed". So I got to Lower Buckland ahead of everyone else, from Rickmansworth.

There's a little back road — '

'Why were you following him?' More red herrings bit the dust.

Mitchell frowned. 'Why — to see where he was going, Miss Fielding. Why else would I follow him?' Then he shook his head. 'I'm sorry — '

'Sorry?' Jenny had been about to snap at him. 'Why?'

'Yes. It was a silly answer.' He half-smiled at her. ' "Why did dummy2

the chicken cross the road?" — "To get to the other side" . . .

But we're past the childish Christmas-cracker jokes, I think.

And . . . the chicken had other reasons, of course.' Mitchell twisted the smile downwards. 'But the joke was certainly on this chicken, Miss Fielding: I had no idea how dangerous the road was going to be. And that is the truth, believe it or not.'

Then he lifted his empty glass. 'Could I have a proper drink, please? Like whisky, say?'

Jenny stared at the man for a moment, almost as though she was seeing him properly for the first time, before taking the glass and turning to the alcove. And Ian felt himself sharing the instant, and also seeing more clearly what he had glimpsed before: that, whatever and whoever he was, Mitchell was also flesh-and-blood, and no superman; and that in Lower Buckland they had both of them come upon their own life-and-death, equally unexpectedly. And that was certainly no joke.

'I think Jenny meant . . . how did you get on to us?'

That was a fair question, with a useful answer — if Mitchell was so foolish as to give it. But also, after this afternoon and what he'd just thought, he felt obligated to Mitchell.

'Is that what she meant?'

'What?' Jenny looked from one to the other suspiciously as she handed him a new glass.

Thank you.' Mitchell drank a little of his whisky. 'Well, if I may answer you with an ancient truth . . . " when you sup dummy2

with the Devil, you need a long spoon" — is that right? I can't remember where it comes from. But your spoon just wasn't long enough, it seems.'

Jenny squared up to him. 'What the hell is that meant to mean, Mr Mitchell?'

Mitchell looked at her for an instant. 'I mean ... at least, I think I mean . . . that if you ask particular questions ... of particular people, about other people — ?' He cocked his own question at Ian. 'Then someone's going to start asking questions about you — quite naturally, wouldn't you think?'

Then he smiled at Jenny. 'And we don't want any harm to come to you, of course.'

The square shoulders lifted, as Jenny took a deep breath.

'We're talking about Philip Masson — and David Audley, of course.' Having been offered an olive branch, the Honourable Miss Jennifer Fielding-ffulke hit Mitchell in the face with it.

'Or is this another Christmas-cracker joke?'

Ian saw Paul Mitchell flinch as the branch slashed him — just as the Syrian major in Beirut had done, when he'd been expecting gratitude and had received the rough side of her tongue instead; the only difference was that the Major had saved her life, whereas Paul Mitchell had only saved his —

'Jenny! For heaven's sake!' He saw Mitchell unflinching. But that didn't blot out Major Asad's pilgrim's progress from incredulity to bitterness, which had soured their comradeship into contempt at the last. ' Jenny — '

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'No, Ian.' Jenny shook her head obstinately. 'Don't be wet.

He's starting to bull-shit us now.'

'No I'm not.' Mitchell's jaw tightened. 'You asked me why I followed Ian. I followed him because you had been asking questions — and you asked one too many, of the wrong person. And about the wrong person.'

'Meaning Audley?'

'So I drew the short straw. Meaning Ian here. Fortunately.'

Mitchell ignored the latest question. 'Because it would seem that you actually flushed out someone else from the undergrowth with your questions — someone who really doesn't want any questions being asked.' He stared at her for a long moment. 'I don't know what the hell you've been doing today, Miss Fielding. But, if our experience is anything to go by, you've been bloody lucky, anyway. Because you're still alive.'

Jenny licked her upper lip, and a trick of the light revealed to Ian that there were beads of sweat above it. Which, since she knew about Reg Buller, was fair enough: whether Mitchell knew as much or not, those last words of his had hit her where it hurt.

Then she resisted the blow. These other two men — the ones who followed you, Ian — ' but she wasn't interested in him: it was Mitchell she was looking at ' — you know them — ?'

'I knew one of them.' Mitchell frowned at him. 'God! You really didn't tell her much, did you?' He shook his head. 'Yes, dummy2

Miss Fielding — Jenny: I knew one of them, from the old days. And that makes us all lucky — and maybe Ian and me luckiest of all. Because Paddy MacManus was a hard man when I knew him ... Or, more accurately, knew of him, back in Dublin in the late '70s. A real hard man — even too bloody hard for the boyos, in the end, when they started to wonder who he was working for.' He drew a breath. 'You see, when you keep a tiger, you've got to feed him regularly, because he gets hungry . . . And when he's a man-eater, and he gets the taste for it ... that's okay when you're in a killing-phase, because then you can feed him. But when you want to lower the profile — maybe for political reasons, or just for public relations in America, for financial reasons, say . . . then you've got a problem — ' Mitchell opened his mouth to continue, but then closed it. 'Mmm . . . well, let's put it like this: when the postman comes up the drive, then he's delivering letters. And when you start asking questions, then you're thinking about writing a book — or writing for the newspapers ... or both.' Another breath. 'But when you see Paddy MacManus striding towards you in the middle of nowhere . . . then he isn't writing a book. And it's not the post he's delivering. Will that do?'

Jenny breathed out, as though she'd been holding her breath.

'He works for — ? The IRA?'

'No. At least, not any more.' Mitchelr shook his head, almost regretfully. 'He's privatized himself: he's strictly a contract man now — that I do know . . . I'm really rather out of that dummy2

scene, in so far as I was ever into it.' He shrugged. 'I'm more like Ian here — a writer. I arrange other men's flowers, is what I mostly do now.' He turned to Ian. 'A much underrated job, not to say unglamorous. But very necessary. And also agreeably safe.'

'I see.' Jenny moved quickly, as though to discourage any idea of writers' solidarity. 'So you work for Research and Development, now?'

The unexpected question caught Writer Mitchell unprepared, in the midst of offering Ian false friendly sympathy, freezing his smile. 'I beg your pardon, Miss Fielding? I work for — ?'

'Jack Butler.' Having achieved her desired effect, Jenny herself brightened into innocent friendliness in her turn. 'Sir James . . . but always Jack, of course?' Even a sweet smile now. 'Why didn't you say so straight away, Paul? It would have made things so much easier!'

Paul Mitchell's desperately-maintained smile warned Ian to attend to his own expression. But neither of them was looking at him, they were concerned only in each other.

' Such a charming man!' Jen was the Honourable Jennifer now, claws sheathed in velvet. 'One of the old school, my father always says — and those enchanting daughters of his ... Which is the one who's with Lovett, Black and Porter —

Daddy's quite adorable lawyers — ? Is that Sally? Or Diana —

or Jane?'

In the car Mitchell had wondered what she'd been up to, dummy2

while they had been having their own adventures — and so had Ian himself; and, latterly, they'd worried more than that, each of them, as they'd progressed agonizingly through the evening traffic into London. But now they both knew.

'Jack Butler was in Korea, of course.' She nodded knowingly.

'Daddy never met him — not there . . . not until long afterwards, when he came back from Cyprus.' The nod, continued, became conspiratorial. 'But he says — Daddy says

— that his MC on that river there — where was it? But . . .

wherever it was . . . Daddy says it should have been a VC, anyway.' She turned the nod into a shake, and then returned the shake to Ian. 'It was only because Jack didn't get himself killed there that they gave him a Military Cross, Daddy says.'

She came back to Mitchell. 'But, of course, you must know that, seeing as you work for him.'

She had the poor devil on her toasting fork now, thought Ian.

Sir Jack Butler might not have been quite as heroic as that, long ago, any more than he was 'charming' now, after having been so dull only yesterday (any more, too, than his three daughters might be 'enchanting' and — least likely of all —

that those legal advisers were 'adorable'). But, when all her calculated exaggerations had been stripped away, Mitchell remained spiked on the facts which he must know were accurate, and on the real possibility that her father knew Butler, even if she didn't.

'I do?' Mitchell had managed to get rid of the wreckage of his original smile. 'Do I?'

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'And, of course, that really answers our question, darling.'

Jenny gave Ian a brief nod. 'Jack wouldn't want anything nasty . . .' She trailed off as she turned back to Mitchell. 'But, then again, it doesn't quite . . . does it?'

In place of the smile, Mitchell's face was stamped with caution. 'It doesn't?'

'Mmmm . . .' Jenny eyed him thoughtfully. 'You are all rather elusive and mysterious, of course — in R & D . . . But, then, that's what you're paid to be, so one can't really quarrel with that, can one? Daddy said not, anyway.' She smiled at Mitchell as she turned the toasting fork, with one side of him nicely browned. 'I really wanted to talk to Oliver, you see —

Jack's No. 2 ... I told you, didn't I, Ian darling — Oliver St John Latimer?'

" Ahh — ' With his mouth already open, that was the only sound Ian could manage before she re-engaged Mitchell.

'But positively the only person connected with R & D I could track down was Willy Arkenshaw. And that was more by good luck than good management — in the chocolate shop at Harrods actually, buying a little birthday present for Oliver, would you believe it?' By the second she was becoming more and more her own most-despised self ('The Honourable Jennifer Fielding-ffulke, the well-known author, chatting with Mr Ian Robinson, and Mr Paul Mitchell' , as The Tatler might caption her). 'And Willy's only a camp-follower, really . . . You remember Tom Arkenshaw, Ian darling — who was such a sweetie in '85 — ?'

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'Yes.' This time he was ready for her: the very mention of

'Arkenshaw', which was a uniquely-memorable name, had already alerted him. And the occasion itself had been memorable too, when Sir Thomas Arkenshaw, baronet, had descended on the embattled embassy in Beirut like the wrath of God: it had been Sir Thomas who had first made contact with Major Asad . . . It had been Sir Thomas, thought the Major, who had been instrumental in saving Jenny, not so much from a fate worse than death, as from death itself, which was the only truly-worst fate of all! 'But — he was R

& D — ?' The answer seemed to beg the question.

'No, darling — not then.' She rounded on Mitchell, almost accusingly. 'Jack's only just recruited Tom, hasn't he, Paul

— ?'

'What?' Mitchell wasn't nearly as ready. 'Tom — ?'

'Oh, come on! Now it's my turn!' Jenny had dropped enough names (which were probably all she had; but which she thought ought to be enough, evidently). 'I'll bet you were at Willy's wedding — weren't you, Paul?'

'Yes?' Suddenly Mitchell was certain. 'But you weren't.'

'No. We were both out of the country at the time, as it happens.' The sharpness of the reply betrayed what was left unsaid; which was not so much pure Fielding-ffulke snobbishness as Jenny Fielding's stock-in-trade, which required her to be present, and seen-to-be-present, on such occasions, when useful old contacts could be renewed, and dummy2

future contacts established. 'But. . . never mind Tom.

Because Willy Arkenshaw — Willy Groot, as she was . . .

Willy and I go back ages, my dear man. We were finished together, by the celebrated Madame de la Bruyere, the dragon-lady of Geneva, more years ago than either of us would care to admit now.'

Mitchell wilted slightly under this further avalanche of name-dropping — to Jack and Oliver, add Tom and Willy and Madame de la Bruyere. But then he looked mutinously at Ian. 'Yes ... I suppose you would know Tom Arkenshaw, at that! In Lebanon, that would have been?'

That was another worrying straw-in-the-wind of British Intelligence inefficiency, thought Ian: Mitchell's homework had included Beirut, but it was homework only half-done if Tom Arkenshaw now worked for R & D but hadn't been consulted about his memories of Fielding-ffulke & Robinson.

And that deplorable omission intruded into his own attempts to put faces to names: Tom he could remember well-enough (although not as well as Major Asad); but Jack and Oliver —

and Willy (if he'd been invited to her wedding with Sir Thomas it was news to him!) — they were on the dark side of the Moon . . . unlike Mrs Simmonds, and Gary Redwood and Mrs Champeney-Smythe, and Father John —

'Yes, Beirut.' He heard his agreement come out as a growl, and tried, and failed to put a face to that other name, of someone he'd never seen and never would see now, in the flesh: Mrs Frances Fitzgibbon, alias 'Marilyn Francis', dummy2

Mitchell? Your colleague who was careless at Rickmansworth — and at Thornervaulx too, maybe? Put a face to her for me, Mitchell: tell me about her then!

'Ian — ?' Mitchell was frowning at him suddenly. 'What's the matter?'

'Mr Mitchell — ' Jenny frowned also.

'Miss Fielding — pardon me — ' Mitchell cut her off without looking at her ' — Ian — ? What's the matter?'

'Nothing.' He blinked at Mitchell, and felt foolish: this too-long day, with its surfeit of information — re-animated experience, and experiences . . . and new faces and information — this long day was beginning to play tricks on him, stretching his imagination too far; and, on an empty stomach, the smell of little Mr Malik's succulent curries was making him light-headed.

'No.' Mitchell humiliated him further by seeming solicitous, as he had never done with Jenny. 'You look as if you've seen a ghost.' The next breath was worse than solicitous: it was understanding. 'But then, I suppose Beirut must have been pretty hairy, I guess!' He took the next breath to Jenny. 'You were both pretty damn lucky there, too.'

'No — ' Ian was all the angrier for not reacting more quickly.

There were other ghosts — newer ghosts — than Mrs Frances Fitzgibbon: even Jenny's Philly Masson was a week younger . . . and far more important; and Reg Buller was so newly-dead that he probably didn't even know how to haunt dummy2

the living properly yet. (Or, anyway, Reg would be too busy now haunting his hundred favourite pubs, trying to catch a last sniff of beer and sending shivers up the spines of his best-loved barmaids as they remembered him across the bar, horrified by the evening paper headlines — )

'What?' Jenny sounded irritated: Jenny didn't believe in ghosts.

He faced Mitchell. 'Audley, Mr Mitchell — Audley?'

All the expression went out of the man's face: it was like watching a bigger wave wash away every footprint in the sand, leaving it smooth again.

'If you work for R & D, Mr Mitchell — Paul. . .' What was sauce for the goose was sauce for the gander. So he smiled at Mitchell. 'If you're here to help us — if we need friends . . .

tell us about David Audley, then.'

Mitchell frowned. 'I'm sorry — ?'

'No.' Jenny reached out, almost touching Mitchell. 'Ian doesn't mean . . . tell us about him.' She touched Ian instead, digging her fingers into his arm — little sharp fingers.

'Because . . . obviously, you — can't do that, I mean.'

Mitchell shifted his position. 'No . . . Obviously, I can't do that.' He took them both in.

'Because he isn't even in England now, anyway.' Jenny added her total non-sequitur statement as though it explained what Mitchell had just said for Ian's benefit. 'He's on holiday, with his wife and daughter, at the moment, Ian darling — ' Then dummy2

she gave Mitchell her most dazzling smile ' — Spain, I gather

— ?'

Another wave washed across Mitchell's face. 'Spain?'

'From Parador to Parador!' She nodded, as though he'd admitted everything. 'Fuenterrabia, Santa Dominigo de la Calzada . . . which was next? Benavente, was it? And now the Enrique Two at Ciudad Rodrigo?' She took the nod to Ian.

'Paradors, darling — remember those lovely old state-owned hotels the Spaniards have?' Back to Mitchell. 'Paradors, Dr Mitchell — right?'

Mitchell stared at Jenny for a moment, and then seemed to relax, even as Ian realized that he'd just witnessed an event as rare as it was unfortunate: Jenny knew damn well who Paul Mitchell was — had known from the moment his name had been first mentioned, if not from the appearance of his face round the door; and she had just put her foot in her mouth, to forfeit that advantage prematurely with 'Dr'

Mitchell.

'Hold on, now.' It was a long time since they'd worked together like this. But the old rules still held good, and they required him to cause a diversion. 'Jenny — how come I'm the only one without a drink?'

'Oh darling, I am sorry!' She came in on cue instantly, contrite — when her normal reaction to such petulance would have been contempt. 'It's Mr Malik's genuine British-German Pils you like, isn't it — ?'

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'Yes.'

As she turned away, he looked deliberately at Mitchell. But the man was staring at Jenny's back with unashamed calculation. So all that he had gained for her was a little time, no more. But the charade still had to be played. 'You can laugh.'

'I'm not laughing, my dear fellow.' Mitchell scorned his game.

'I was just thinking that . . . your associate has been busy . . .

while we've both been at the sharp end, eh?'

'There, darling!' She came back to him quickly — too quickly, with the froth from the badly-poured beer cascading over the top of the glass. 'One ersatz Pils!'

'Busy' was an understatement, thought Ian, torn between admiration for her coverage of both Audley and Mitchell somehow — and in a working day which had also included the Reg Buller horror somewhere in it — and irritation with her for blowing the Mitchell part of it unnecessarily. 'Thank you.' On balance the admiration won.

'Spanish state-owned hotels — you were saying, Jenny?'

Mitchell showed his teeth.

'Yes.' She returned the compliment. 'So David Audley has fled the country for the time being, has he? But did he run?

Or was he pushed? That is the first question, Paul.' She cocked her head at him, dislodging some of her hair. 'But, of course, you won't answer that — can't answer that. Because that's a secret, isn't it "An official secret", well within the dummy2

meaning of the Act. But then, everything is well within the meaning of the Act.' Now she smiled again. 'And everyone, too! All of us — and poor little Mr Malik downstairs — we're all just one big Official Secret now, aren't we? And . . . all to protect naughty Dr David Audley! Who is the biggest Official Secret of all.' She paused. 'But now he's our little secret, as well as your big one — right?'

As she spoke, Ian had been drawn naturally to watch Mitchell, as she moved up the scale of challenges. And Mitchell was watching her very carefully, now that he had been warned.

'He sent postcards, didn't he?' He grimaced at her. But then he frowned. To Willy — ? But no ... Willy knows better than to tell you that.' All her more recent feints, and sharp-toothed threats, were calmly ignored in the search for an explanation for her special knowledge. 'So ... it would be — Mrs Clarke, of course!' Mitchell nodded to himself. 'And she puts them up on her mantelpiece, amongst those lovely old mugs of hers, over the kitchen-oven — ?' He nodded. 'For all to see . . . and he sends them to her because she loves them — because he loves her.' Another nod. But he was only thinking aloud because he wanted her to hear his thoughts, quite deliberately. 'Or were they from Cathy — ?' He stopped suddenly. 'But you went down there, bright and early. And you chatted Mrs Clarke up — ' Mitchell's mouth twisted ' —

and you're pretty, and you're smart . . . and Clarkie's old now, of course.' His expression hardened. There would have been dummy2

a time when you wouldn't have got through that door, Miss Fielding-ffulke: she'd have clobbered you with her rolling-pin first, I tell you!' Then he relaxed again, having betrayed himself momentarily . . . and perhaps not so deliberately this time. 'So ... it was the postcards, wasn't it — ? Fuentarrabia —

Santa Dominigo de la Calzada, Benevente, Ciudad Rodrigo?'

The man's certainty increased as he echoed the drum-roll of names. 'You really are good! Because . . . that's bloody ingenious — just from a collection of postcards? And poor old Clarkie?'

Jenny smiled at Ian. 'Dr Audley has this ancient retainer darling ... his old nurse, I believe she is ... And she's a perfect sweetie.' She transferred the smile. 'Don't worry, Dr Mitchell: I didn't tell her that her "dear Mr David" was a murderer — it would have been too cruel.'

'And it would also have been wrong, Miss Fielding.'

'Wrong?' Her lip curled. 'He's not a murderer? Of course!'

'Of course.' He nodded, and then considered her for a moment. 'Do you always start your books with preconceived notions about the goodies and the baddies?' Then he shrugged. 'But there! I suppose that's the nature of investigative journalism these days: don't spoil a good story with inconvenient facts, by golly! "I name this bandwaggon Freedom of the Press, and this gravy-train The Right to Know. And God bless them, and all who crusade on them, and do very-nicely-thank-you while smiting the wicked and putting down the proud", eh?'

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'That's not true,' snapped Ian. 'We don't go about it like that.'

All the same, he didn't want to look at Jenny. 'If Audley isn't

— '

'He isn't.' Jenny interrupted him quickly, but coolly. 'Then he's been quite remarkably accident-prone in his long career.

Or ... other people around him have been, wouldn't you say, Dr Mitchell?'

Mitchell looked at his watch. 'What I would say, Miss Fielding-ffulke, is that . . . now that we've met at last. . . is that I have more work to do this night. So I must leave you temporarily, I fear.'

'Temporarily?' The breath she drew belied her coolness.

'But . . . you were just getting interesting, Dr Mitchell.' The repeated Dr Mitchell, matching Dr Audley, was another straw in the wind.

'I'm always interesting, Miss Fielding-ffulke. But, what I mean is ... it's my duty to protect you, so that you can traduce me in print in due course — if you can find a publisher — if

— ?' This time it was Mitchell's lip which curled. 'But, of course, you have found one — post Peter Wright that's only to be expected, isn't it! And especially with your record of heroic and responsible investigative reporting — ' He embraced Ian in this embittered accolade — foolish of me ...

yes!' The lips straightened and tightened. 'But you can't stay here, is what I mean. You need a safe house — a very safe house, as of Paddy MacManus's appearance on the scene, I'd say.' This time he lingered on Ian. 'Because he's still got his dummy2

fee to earn, as I told you.'

'Paddy — ?' Check Coat's name was suddenly like a lump in Ian's throat, which had to be swallowed as he thought of Check Coat out there somewhere in the gathering dark of a London night. So he swallowed the lump. 'Still — ?'

'You'd better believe it.' Mitchell nodded. 'It's just like your books, Ian: fifty per cent advance on signature of contract —

is that it, for you? And then the rest on publication?' He paused to let the terms sink in. 'Which, in this case, will be the publication of your obituary. And failure to deliver, after signature, is bad for business — right?'

Ian looked at Jenny, and caught her drawing in her breath.

'We're safe here, Dr Mitchell.' She deflated with the words.

'You're not safe anywhere, Miss Fielding-ffulke.' Mitchell's voice grated on his reply. 'What you don't seem to understand is that you're in the big league now, Miss Fielding-ffulke: you're not just messing with old fuddy-duddy British Intelligence — not with chaps like me, who've got so shit-scared of their own shadows, in case they step out of line, that they swan off without protection, and have to borrow weapons from the local vicar.' Mitchell swung towards Ian. 'For Christ's sake, man: suppose Father John hadn't borrowed that shot-gun himself, to shoot those pigeons that were crapping on his bells in the belfry — ? Or ...

never mind he wouldn't find the shells — in case I actually shot anyone, even in self-defence — ?' His mouth twisted. 'So dummy2

where the hell would you have been now?' He shook his head. 'Because I sure-as-hell wouldn't have gone out there to point my finger at that bastard, and said " Bang-bang!" — '

Mitchell brought his hand up as he spoke, and squeezed his eyes shut as he pointed his finger. 'Because that's the way to get dead, forever after.' Then he focused again. 'You're in the big league. And the first mistake you make in that league is to think you're cleverer than the opposition. And that's the only mistake you make.'

Ian had been conscious of Jenny all the time Mitchell was speaking, drawing in breaths to interrupt; but first failing to get her words in edgeways, and then failing altogether as Mitchell concentrated not on her, but on him, because he was more receptive to the message after their shared experience of Lower Buckland.

'But why us, Dr Mitchell?' She seized the first moment of silence between them. 'If you're not trying to stop us . . .'

There was still doubt in that: she still wasn't giving him the whole benefit of doubt, even now — '. . . then who is?'

'Who?' Mitchell gave her his full attention. 'I wish I knew, Miss Fielding-ffulke!' He shook his head. 'I tell you — you were just a bloody inconvenience, as of forty-eight hours ago . . . Asking all your questions, in the wrong places — '

'About Audley — David Audley — ?'

'Forget Audley!' Mitchell shook his head. " Philip Masson —

d'you think we haven't been asking questions about him, too?

Ever since he turned up — ?'

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She stared at him obstinately. 'Only if you don't already know the answers . . . about him — ?'

Mitchell stared at her for a moment. Then he looked at his watch again. Then he looked at her again. 'Miss Fielding-ffulke — Jenny — ?'

'Very well.' She nodded. 'Tell me about Philip Masson.'

Suddenly Ian felt like a fly on the wall, ignored by them both.

They were each making terms now, and no longer pretending; and whatever Mitchell thought he could get, Jenny herself was as excited as she ought to be at the prospect of having someone on the inside, who was willing to trade with her.

'We don't know any of the answers.' Mitchell drew a matching breath. 'We didn't expect Masson to turn up.

But . . . when he did ... we didn't think Audley had anything to do with it — ' He shook his head slowly ' — because it's not his style . . . And, he hasn't the resources, anyway — '

'The Americans?' She cocked her head as she cut in. 'Or the Israelis — ? He's been kissing-cousins with both of them for God knows how long! Since Suez — ? Or, since the Seven Days' War, anyway: wasn't he the middle-man then? When the CIA double-crossed the State Department — ?'

Mitchell's mouth opened. 'My God! That was long before my time!' The mouth closed tight-shut. 'Who the hell have you been talking to? That's — for Christ's sake — !' He frowned at her.

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'Ancient history? Medieval history?' She paused. 'Or modern history — modern secret history?'

Ian knew exactly what she was doing: if the man was here to make a deal, she wanted him to be under no illusions about the strength of her position, which he had been trying to weaken with his emphasis on the danger that threatened them. So now it was her turn.

'You said it first, Paul.' He nodded as to an equal. 'She's been busy.' And that crack of Mitchell's about 'investigative journalism', couldn't be left unanswered: it had to be nailed once and for all. 'It's what we "investigative writers" have to do, to earn our money: we have to earn it by being busy. And, because we're self-employed, we are busy: it's what Mrs Thatcher calls "Private Enterprise". And the emphasis is on both words equally. So we can't afford to waste our precious time.'

Mitchell gave him a something-less-than-friendly look. But at least that was better than being regarded as part of the furniture of the Shah Jehan private dining room.

'But you were wasting your time today.' Mitchell looked like a man who found himself where he didn't want to be. 'And mine.'

'Was he?' Jenny picked up her private bottle again. 'And yet . . . there was that man — the man with the contract. And now we're not safe, even here?' She applied the bottle to her glass. 'Even here?'

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'You're not safe anywhere. Not with MacManus after you—'

'"The big league" — yes! So you keep saying.' In spite of her best efforts, glass shook against glass. 'And yet, you don't know why — ?' She got the wine into the glass at last. 'You only know that David Audley had nothing to do with Philly Masson's death, back in 1978?'

'Yes.' Mitchell watched her drink. 'And — yes, I don't know why. If I did I'd know better what to do next. All I know is, I'll be able to think a lot straighter if I don't have to worry about you two.' He looked from her to Ian, and then back to her.

'Just for a few days, anyway?' Deep breath. 'For your own sakes, if not for mine — ' He looked at Ian almost pleadingly.

'For God's sake, man . . . MacManus isn't just a name in the index of some book, he's real. And he's got your name in his own little book, which he keeps in his head — your name until he crosses it out!' Back to Jenny. 'Maybe he hasn't got

" The Honourable Miss Jennifer Fielding-ffulke" in it yet. But there has to be big money on Ian's head. Because MacManus is taking a big risk to earn it, I tell you. Because . . . there's a warrant out — Christ! There are half-a-dozen warrants out on him — in half the countries in Europe, Ireland included ...

So neither of you are safe, as of now.'

The dishes were still clattering downstairs. And Paul Mitchell might be a good actor — he probably was a good actor. But (as in Beirut) Ian knew that he himself was a clerk at heart, not a man of action. And Jenny was looking at him.

'I think they call it "Protective Custody", darling.' She smiled dummy2

at him. 'But we can consider it as part of the rich tapestry of life's experience — one of the hazards of "investigative journalism" in a free society?' She turned the smile on Mitchell. 'And it'll look jolly good in our book eventually, won't it? How the Security Service protects the citizen —

even the fearless writer? The fearless inconvenient writer — ?

We could make a fortune out of your solicitude for our safety, Dr Mitchell. And maybe they'll promote you — ? I could have a word with Daddy . . . and Daddy can drop a word in the Prime Minister's ear.' Having inserted the knife, she couldn't resist turning it. But then she pretended to return to Ian.

'"Protective Custody", if not "Durance Vile" — shall we be good citizens ... if only for "a few days, anyway" — and for our

"own" sakes — ?' Then she spoilt it by not waiting for him to agree. 'Very well, Paul! So ... what do you want us to do?'

For a moment Ian thought she might have overdone it.

Because anyone who knew Jenny when she was as brittle as this wouldn't trust her an inch. But Mitchell didn't know her, he saw instantly: Mitchell only knew that she ought to be frightened, as he had intended her to be, and deluded himself consequently that she was hiding her fears behind her banter.

'You stay here, for the time being.' Mitchell was infinitely relieved by her surrender, so that he insulted Ian by not even looking at him.

'You mean ... we are safe, under Mr Malik's protection?' She was so sure of herself now that she prodded Mitchell dummy2

unmercifully.

'This is your secret place, is it?' Mitchell was still relaxing.

'Nobody knows about Mr . . . Malik — ?' For the second time Mitchell tasted what was in his own glass, which he had hardly touched hitherto.

'Yes.' Suddenly she wasn't quite so sure.

'Yes. Well . . . there's a term we have for that: it's called

"Making pictures".' Mitchell nodded, and tasted his drink again. 'Which means, believing what we'd like to believe.' He wanted to drink more deeply, but he resisted the temptation, and looked at his watch instead. 'So . . . maybe you've got another hour or two, at best.' He looked up from his watch.

'But you let me worry about that now. And when I come back . . . then we can maybe make a deal — okay?' He started to turn away, towards the door.

'Paul — wait!'

Ian agreed with her: now it was all happening too quickly.

' Mitchell — ! '

Mitchell turned. 'This is your secret place — isn't it?'

Jenny drew a deep breath. 'What's the deal?'

'How do I know?' He shrugged. Then he concentrated on them both. 'Well . . . let's say ... if I have to throw David Audley to the wolves . . . then you can be the wolves — how's that, for starters — ?' He paused for a second — two seconds

— while Ian's mouth opened, but before he had time to look at Jenny. And then he opened the door and was gone dummy2

through it before they could exchange faces. And then it was too late.

Ian stared at the door. 'Phew!'

' Shit!' murmured the Honourable Miss Jennifer Field-ing-ffulke.

'What?' He hated to hear her swear.

'Did he really save your life?' She was angry.

Ian pressed his video-buttons, re-winding fast and trying not to see the reversal, which always reduced reality to comedy; but then, as he played forward again slowly, frame by frame, without sound, the reality became frozen into a succession of unrealities, turning the horror film he had lived through into single pictures, like the stills outside the cinema.

'I don't know.' He tried to add up Mitchell — Combat Jacket to Dr Paul Mitchell. 'But I think he thinks he did, Jenny.'

'He was lying.'

'What?' He couldn't complete the addition. But there were certain pictures he couldn't forget. 'I don't know. But ... I don't think so, Jenny — '

'I mean, he knows one hell of a lot more than he's saying, Ian.'

That was true! She hadn't been there, in the churchyard, or afterwards. But Paul Mitchell knew one hell of a lot more about Mrs Frances Fitzgibbon — that was true!

'About Audley — by God, he does!' She crossed over towards dummy2

the heavy curtains at the window. 'Never mind Philly—Audley

—!'

That was different — Audley was different. And ... she knew more about Mitchell, too — more even than she had let Mitchell himself see.

'What about him, Jenny — Mitchell, I mean — ?' He cursed their failure to communicate in the few minutes they had had, when they'd thrown away their advantages, so that they'd had to play the game cold just now.

'He's R & D from way back.' She touched the curtain, but then turned back to him. '"P. L. Mitchell" — doesn't the name mean anything to you, Ian? You're supposed to be the literary one — the literate one? Half of them are bloody authors, in their spare time — P. L. Mitchell?' She shook her head irritably. ' Or Neville Macready? You're not an economist, of course . . . but " Hayek and Keynes" — you must have seen Macready's book reviewed in the FT, or the Sunday Times, or somewhere. Because even I did . . . even though I didn't read the reviews. But Macready is R & D —

he's their economist, actually. And Audley's their medieval historian ... for all the good that does them!' She touched the curtain again. 'And P. L. Mitchell — ' She peered into the gap

' — Dr Paul Mitchell—'

'What are you looking at?' What she knew, which he didn't know, needled him more than what she was doing — which was obvious, now he thought about it. 'A big silver Volvo, Jenny. And it's parked right outside the door, on double dummy2

yellow lines . . . But he could be back in the phone-box again

— '

He saw the curtain tighten sharply, almost convulsively, as she held on to it. And, for a foolish half-second, didn't understand why. And then he realized that she was holding on to it, as her knees buckled, to stop her falling —

" Jenny — ' In the next half-second he was holding her, and she was a dead-weight as she let go of the curtain, and he took the strain. And the weight was nothing — she was light as thistledown, with her hair in his face, and what little there was of her in his arms; much more than the childish weight, he could smell her — he had seen her sweat before, as all red-headed girls always did, with those dark patches under her arms, when she hadn't changed her dress in Lebanon —

when her dress had been sweaty and dirty, that time . . . But now, when she was in his arms and close to him — she might have been sweating before, but she was throwing it off like an animal now, mixed with her own additional expensive commercial smell, which was always with her ' — hold up, Jenny!'

She stiffened, her legs suddenly obeying her will again, pushing her body upwards and then letting him manoeuvre her sideways towards the nearest chair.

Then, without warning, she started resisting him, trying to throw off his arms. 'No! Let me go — '

That was more like her: Jenny never fainted — that was her own boast. But she'd never been closer to giving the lie to dummy2

that than just now, all the same.

'I want to look — let go, Ian!' She struggled weakly. 'I want —

'

'No!' He pressed down hard on her shoulder, thumping her into the chair. ' I'll look, damn it!' He twisted round her, to get his back to the wall as he parted the inside edge of the curtain, knowing simultaneously that he wanted to look, yet didn't want to — and that this was the wrong way to look, anyway — not extinguishing the light first, before he looked.

But the hell with that!

'Well?' She whispered the question.

To make the best of an unprofessional job, and in order to see right up and down Cody Street, he pushed himself all the way in, letting the curtain drape round his shoulders like a cloak. It had rained since he had come out of the premature half-light of the evening, and the street lamps reflected a million points of light in every drop of water trapped in the unevenness of the road surface. Then he looked back towards her, frowning.

'Well?' Her face was chalk-white, emphasizing the dark smudges under her eyes and the remains of her lipstick: with her accustomed falling-down hair she looked even more like the wreck of the Hesperus than usual. And more beautiful to him than ever.

'There isn't anything — is there?' Something of the original Jenny returned as she clenched her jaw.

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'There isn't anything there, Jenny.' He couldn't lessen her humiliation. Whatever she'd thought she'd seen, there was nothing now in Cody Street — not only not the scene of carnage he'd been half-expecting as he'd parted the curtain from the wall . . . but actually nothing, other than the reflection of the wetness on the street and the cars parked in it; and, most of all, no Mitchell and no Volvo — the man and the car had slipped away into the night together and quickly, without fuss, unheard against the Taj Mahal clatter.

'No. There wouldn't be.' She subsided into the chair, gripping its arms. 'I'm hungry — ' She pushed herself up, straight-backed, and picked up her glass from the table ' — I haven't eaten anything since breakfast. You're always telling me that I don't eat enough ... In fact, I'm bloody starving, Ian. So let's have one of Abdul's specials, eh — ? Ring the bell, darling.'

Excuses? But . . . excuses — from Jenny? 'What else did you see, Jen?'

'I didn't see anything, darling. Ring the bell.' She pointed at the bell-push by the light-switches at the door. And then picked up his beer, from where he had put it down beside her glass and offered it to him. 'You haven't touched your drink, darling. And . . . knowing you . . . did you have lunch — ?'

He reached for the glass automatically. But, as he did so, there came a sound from behind him: not so much a knock, as a finger-tapping scraping noise on the door-panel — quite unnatural, because it was quite different from Mr Malik's sharp-knuckled signal.

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Jenny spilt beer over his hand as the door opened, and a hideous apparition appeared in the gap.

"Ullo there!' said Reg Buller.

7

There were so many things outrageous about Reginald Buller's appearance that the fact that he very obviously wasn't deceased was almost the least of them.

Most obviously, he wasn't deceased because the newly-dead had no need of large theatrical beards. Or, if they did, they had no need to pull such beards down to reveal their faces as they came to haunt the living. Or, if such a revelation was part of the haunting, they had no call to grin quite so happily before releasing the ridiculous growth so that it sprang back slightly askew, under one ear.

And, anyway, in the next moment, Reg Buller was all-too-abundantly flesh-and-blood as he removed the equally-ridiculous trilby from his head, and then unhooked the beard, finally adding his voluminous Sherlock Holmes cape to them on the chair beside the door.

'That's better!' Reg Buller nodded to Jenny, and then advanced on Ian, larger and cruder than life, and took his glass from his hand, momentarily holding it up. 'And that's even better! Untouched by human lips — ?' He drank noisily.

'Gnat's piss! But, like the bishop said to the actress, " my need dummy2

is greater than thine!"' He finished off the beer, and returned the glass to Ian with exaggerated courtesy. 'Is there a back way out of here?'

'Mr Buller — ' Jenny hissed the name ' — Mister Buller . . .

don't you ever do that to me again!'

'Do what, m'lady?' Buller caught Ian's eye, and nodded at the bar in the alcove before coming back to her. 'It was you at the window, wasn't it — ? Very careless, that was . . . But — you knew it was me?' He wiped his mouth with his sleeve, and then gestured towards the heap in the chair. 'That's a disguise, that is — twenty-five quid's worth ... if I get it back tomorrow, anyway. And cheap at the price — seein' as what I got with it.'

Ian observed her weaken. Of all the men Jenny knew, gilded and ungilded, she could resist Reg Buller least. 'What did you get with it, Reg?'

'I got professional advice, Mr Robinson. Which is worth more than gold-dust.' Buller nodded at the bar again hopefully.

'And I got the lady who gave it for free.'

'What lady, Mr Buller? What advice?' The colour was coming back into Jenny's face. 'I thought you only knew barmaids?'

'Theatrical costumier — " costumier" — ?' Buller tried to will Ian towards the bar. 'She's only a barmaid part-time, in the evenings . . . And she said, "What you are, Mr Buller, is unobtrusive — you move like a shadow in the night ... So, they'll be looking for shadows-in-the-night, the blue-bottles dummy2

will be. So we'll make you a bit of local colour — like an actor from the Hippodrome, down the road, where they've got the music-hall on ... And I'll walk with you, on your arm, an'

they'll look at me, not you!" — she's got a heart of gold, that woman has.' He concentrated on Jenny. 'But how did you know it was me?'

But Jenny wasn't looking at Buller. ' Is there a back way out of here, Ian?'

Her stare caught him struggling with more important matters. But then, maybe they weren't more immediately important, he thought. 'I don't know, Jen. We've never had to get out of here — ' And that, in turn, concentrated his mind.

'I'll ring for Mr Malik.'

'You do that, darling.' She had been there before him, so she was back with Reg Buller now. 'You're supposed to be dead, Reg. Why aren't you dead?'

'Why ain't I dead? It's a good question, Lady.' Buller scratched his nose abstractedly. 'Well . . . you could say that I ain't dead because Mr John Tully stood in for me — '

' John — ' Jenny swayed suddenly.

'Or, then again, maybe it was poor old Johnnie they wanted in the first place, an' not me. I don't rightly know, you see, Lady — '

'For God's sake, Reg!' As Ian caught her arm the full impact of what Buller was saying hit him: they were back in a nightmare again.

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'Oh aye.' Buller was unrepentant. 'There's an easier way of breakin' the news, is there? Now that it ain't me?'

'I'm all right.' Jenny's face was white again, but her voice was steady as she shook Ian off. 'What happened, Mr Buller?'

'You don't know . . . anything, then?'

She shook her head. There was just the rumour . . . that it was you, Mr Buller. A man in the crowd outside said so . . .'

'An' you didn't wait around?' This time Buller sounded more understanding. 'Well, I can't say I blame you.' He nodded to Ian. 'I could use another drink, lad — with a chaser this time, if the bar runs to one. An' whisky for choice.'

John Tully was dead: Ian's relief at seeing Buller alive seemed like a dream already. Buller alive was John Tully dead: that was the appalling reality he must accept, now.

And, more importantly, he had to get Buller a drink.

'I didn't wait to ask, neither.' Buller shook his head, after reassuring himself that Ian was moving. 'They've got clever young coppers trained to remember people who ask questions, when there's a crowd outside . . . An' I ain't got any real friends in the Met, now — not that wouldn't shop me, to get promotion.' He shook his head again, as Ian clinked the bottles while trying to watch him while looking for something better than 'gnat's piss'. 'But, as to makin' a mistake . . .' He sniffed derisively. '. . . I took the BMW last night, to drive up north. An' John — 'e 'ad my little Metro, with the "Disabled Driver" sticker — they don't clamp that so dummy2

quick, in case the newspapers make a scandal out of it. So we always swap when I go out of town.' Buller's expression hardened. 'An' when I was probably somewhere else, an' 'e was up to something . . .'e used to leave 'is credit cards at

'ome, an' carry only cash-money — losin' cash isn't a problem, they just takes it off you, if they've a mind to ... But

'e'd have my calling cards on him, maybe. And those premises are in my name, too ... if it happened there, that is.'

'Here you are, Reg.' Having put the glass and the opened bottle on the corner of the table, Ian just had time to move Mitchell's half-drunk whisky alongside it, for want of anything quicker, if not better, before Reg Buller looked at him. 'You're saying . . . they got the wrong man?'

Buller swept the smaller glass up, and drained it. And then poured the 'gnat's piss' carefully. And then looked at him over it. The wrong man — ? Maybe the wrong man. Or maybe not the wrong man.' He sank half of the piss. They got John Tully, is what it looks like. And, with all his faults . . . which were many . . . Mister John Tully wasn't a bad bloke.

Because ... if he didn't pay twenty shillings in the pound ... at least he paid fifteen of 'em. Which is better than most.' He shifted from Ian to Jenny as he swallowed the rest of the piss. 'So now we owe for him, as well as that one of yours, Lady — '

This time it was a genuine knock at the door, not a ghostly scratching.

'Come in!' Jenny reacted more quickly this time, recognizing dummy2

the knock.

'Madam!' Abdul took them all in almost as quickly, half-smiling first, and then smiling hugely as he saw Reg glass-in-hand. 'Mr Buller — you know Mr Buller — I know Mr Buller: I am not wrong, to admit him?'

'No — yes, Mr Malik.' Jenny brushed at her hair. 'Can we have three of your special take-aways, Mr Malik, please.'

'An' then your special "get-away" to go with 'em,'

supplemented Buller.

'Please?'

'Back-way. Out-the-back — an' then scarper . . . vamoosh

— ?'

'Ah! Tradesman's entrance? Fire escape? Both in passage —

at the side, Mr Buller — council regulations: orderly damn departure, no panic, one minute.' Then the little man stared at Buller. 'But then you go out the front again.' The stare became a frown. 'Nothing out front, my cousin says. But I send him out again, maybe — '

'No.' Buller shook his head. 'What's out back — gardens?'

'No gardens.' Matching shake. 'Back-yard — back wall. Damn great high back wall, broken glass on top. No back-way, Mr Buller, sir.'

'Back-way over bloody wall, mate.' This time Buller nodded.

'Got a ladder, then? An' a bit of sacking — ?' He grinned at Jenny. 'No problem.'

'Big problem.' Mr Malik shook his head. 'Other side — damn dummy2

railway line, Mr Buller.'

'Railway line? Fine! They keep telling us we should use the railway more often.' Buller sank his big nose into his glass.

'An' I got the car over the bridge down the road, by the cutting. If no one's nicked it.' He returned to Mr Malik.

'Ladder up the wall. An' plenty of sacking on top, over the glass, mind you . . . An' plenty of hot lime pickle an' chilli pickle with the special. An' some eatin' irons, just in case —

an' six bottles of Tiger, my lad. With an opener ... an' all on the Lady's slate — got that?' He advanced on Mr Malik as he spoke, shepherding him towards the door. 'Orderly damn departure — no panic — five minutes from now — ack-dum an' pip-emma — an' then no nasty questions for you, after . . .

see?'

As the door closed on the little man Reg Buller was already heading for the bar again. 'It's a nice motor, the BMW — very easy to drive.' He delivered this intelligence to Ian, over his shoulder. 'So you can drive it, then.' He studied the stock.

Troubles enough we got, without me bein' stopped by some little nipper in blue in the line of duty when we're doin' a bunk, before we can ditch it.' He cocked an eye at Jenny.

'They'll 'ave the number out soon enough. But I reckon we're safe until morning. An' you got your passports and Eurocheques with you, like always? You 'aven't changed your rules, since last time? 'Cause I don't want to 'ave to put those whiskers on again, an' chance my arm going back to your place, I tell you!'

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Ian looked at Jenny unhappily as he heard the odds being so casually raised through the roof in this appalling mathematical progression.

'Are you proposing that we flee the country, Mr Buller?' Even Jenny sounded a bit shaky at Buller's clearly implied proposition.

'Well, you don't want to stay to face the music, do you?' Self-released from the necessity of having to drive his — or the late John Tully's — 'nice motor' while far over the limit, Buller was helping himself to another beer and another chaser. 'You don't think that Mitchell's goin' to let you play games do you?' He poured the beer expertly, with a steady hand. '"P. L. Mitchell" — Doctor Paul Lefevre Mitchell, as ever was — "one of our foremost young military historians", no less — ' he held up the glass for inspection, and sniffed.

And then drank. And then looked at them both. "Ow the 'ell did you let him get on to you, then?' The look became accusing.

The look stung Ian. 'Mitchell saved my life this afternoon, Reg.'

' 'E did?' Another drink — another sniff. 'Or was 'e like the man who saved a maiden from a fate worse than death — 'e changed 'is mind?'

That was the maggot in the apple: it all depended on whether Mitchell was telling the truth. 'Does the name "MacManus"

mean anything to you, Reg, "Paddy MacManus" — ?'

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'Never 'card of 'im. But then I never 'card of Dr Paul Lefevre Mitchell 'till this morning. So that don't mean anything. So ...

who's he then, when he's at home? MacManus?'

'He's a contract killer, Mr Buller. Ex-IRA — ?' Jenny had seen the maggot too. 'So Paul Mitchell says.'

'Does he, now? Well ... he should know, I suppose.' As tell-tale as the maggot was Buller no longer dropping his aitches: the seriousness of their situation and the drink together reverting him momentarily to his more educated self.

'Mitchell . . . mmm . . .'

Ian looked at Jenny. 'He's a historian ... as well as—?'

'Oh, yes.' Buller fielded the question. 'And he's done time in Ireland, in Dublin. Watch by the Liffey — "A history of the Irish Guards in the Great War" . . . and I'll bet he wasn't just researching the Guards when he was watching the Liffey.' He looked at Ian. 'And then The Forgotten Victory — same war, but a different river. The Ancre, in France. But you can look at that in the car — and that's £14.95 on your bill, too.

"Necessary expense", that comes under. I had to buy the hardback.' Buller's features creased. 'How d'you think I recognized him? It's got his picture on the back flap. "P. L.

Mitchell", it says, for all to see.'

There was more to it than that. More in Buller's face than he could read — and more in everything Buller had said and done since he'd arrived. And more, not least — more most —

in his insistence on their using the 'back way' to leave the Taj Mahal.

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'"P. L. Mitchell", Reg—?'

'Funny that — putting his picture in.' Buller nodded. 'Like . . .

careless? But then, they're all a law unto themselves, they are, in "R & D". They make their own rules, it seems.'

'He's supposed to be finding a safe house for us at the moment, Reg.' Jenny had also been reading the signals. 'He said we weren't safe here.'

'He did?' Buller almost seemed preoccupied. 'Well, I'd say he's right there. If I thought of here . . . when you didn't go to your dad's place — as maybe you ought to have done . . .' He crossed over to the door and applied a big blunt finger to the bell, leaning on it unmercifully. 'He couldn't have touched you there.'

Ian didn't look at her. 'What d'you know about Mitchell that we don't know, Reg?' But then he looked at her. 'Or what do you know, Jen?' He struggled for an instant with his own knowledge. 'He's a colleague of Audley's — or maybe a friend, even?'

She was staring at Reg. 'He's up-and-coming — isn't he? Jack Butler and St John Latimer . . . isn't he one of their blue-eyed boys?' Now she turned to Ian. 'I rather think we should be flattered — or, you should be, anyway, darling: they put one of their top men on your tail today.'

' Huh!' Buller chased down the last of his beer with one hand, and then stabbed the bell again. "Top Gun" is more like it, Lady! Come on! Come on!' He edited his face as he returned dummy2

it to them. 'You'd think little Abdul 'ud be glad to see the back of us!' He gave Ian a mildly inquiring look. 'An' what

'appened to this Irish bloke — Paddy MacWhats-it — ? Did you actually set eyes on 'im, then?'

'Yes.' Where Jenny sweated, he felt cold, contrariwise. And now he was freezing. 'But only at a distance — '

'An' now 'e's playin' 'is Irish 'arp — like on the Guinness labels — ?' The inquiry became harder. 'But you don't look that scared, I must say!'

The door opened before Ian could reply, just as what Reg Buller was plainly implying and what had actually happened at Lower Buckland began to diverge confus-ingly, and Buller himself sprang away from it to one side, with surprising agility.

'Madam — ' Mr Malik addressed Jenny, and then flinched from Reg Buller as he became aware of him ' — Madam —

you come, eh?'

'We come.' Buller gestured at them both. 'Double quick, we come!' And double-quick, they came, with Reg Buller's urgency transmitting itself to them, into the warm happy curry-smells on the landing, and round the banisters, and down the stairs.

'Your coat, sir — your hat . . . your — ' The false whiskers baffled Mr Malik ' — Mr Buller, sir — !'

'A lady'll come for them — ' Buller was already pushing them

' — which way — the back-way — ?'

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'The lady's coat — it is raining — damn cats-and-dogs — '

The little man shouted something in his own language, suddenly no longer despairing but commanding.

One of his smaller waiters, who had been smiling encouragingly at the bottom of the stairs, stopped smiling and began to search feverishly among the coats hung above him.

'Your dinner, sir — ' Another waiter presented Ian with two large plastic bags, one after another, with a similar smile firmly in place. 'Three extra-special — double hot lime, double chilli — ' He offered the bags to Ian ' — you come this way, please — '

'Where's the beer?' From behind Reg Buller had sorted out his priorities, grabbing the bag which had clinked from Ian.

'Lady — just take the next coat — they're all the same — '

Ian lost the rest of the exchange as he entered the kitchen, half in a daze as its heat and steam and concentrated smells-and-sizzling overwhelmed him: and bright light and stainless-steel and great bowls and frying pans — and there was a door open down the end, offering escape — but what was he escaping from — ?

'Go on, Ian lad.' Buller's voice shouted from behind him, urging him forward down the aisles between the huge tables and the cooking ranges, even as the question answered itself, but then still left itself unanswered: he was running away from Paul Mitchell — from Paul Mitchell, who was worried about his safety — ?

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He issued out of the kitchen, past a series of rough-painted doors into a small yard lit by a single bulb which seemed all the dimmer for the huge canopy of darkness above it. A thin drizzle shimmered in the yellow light, far removed from Mr Malik's cats-and-dogs' rain.

Then he saw the 'damn great wall': it was certainly well-furnished with broken glass set in concrete, but otherwise it had been even more exaggerated than the weather, being only waist-high to the waiter who was even now draping sacks over the jagged glass topping it. Behind it, through a thin screen of bushes, he could see the lights of the houses backing on to the opposite side of the invisible railway track.

'This is ridiculous, Mr Buller.' Jenny caught his own unspoken thought exactly. 'Why do we have to go grubbing around in the dark out there — ?' She waved at the wall and their latest grinning waiter, whose white teeth shone yellow in the light of the single bulb on the side of the house above them. 'What's so terrible out there in front, for God's sake?'

'You tell me, Lady.' Reg Duller sounded cheerfully unrepentant. 'I've been up the street once all the way, with my kind lady-friend on my arm, an' kissed her goodnight at the bottom, whiskers an' all. And then come half-way back, an' Abdul tells me you've got company — company I don't care to meet just yet. So I did a bit more walking an' window-shoppin', till Dr Mitchell removed himself — ' He stopped suddenly. 'How did you know it was me?'

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''It's the way you walk.' She shook her head irritably. 'But he's gone, Mr Buller — Reg — ' She scowled at him in the drizzle, the first strands of hair already dampened against her face. '

— for God's sake, Reg!'

'As 'e? Or is 'e just waitin' for you to run?' Buller was role-playing again. 'Though o' course, the blokes down at each end of the street now, parked in their cars on the double-yeller lines, bold as brass — they may not be 'is blokes, I grant you. They could be local villains waitin' to do a job? Or villains at one end, an' plain-clothes lads at the other, waitin'

to nab 'em? An' you want me to go an' arsk 'em, do you?

'Cause, I tell you, I ain't goin' to — ' He pointed into the darkness, clinking the bottles in the bag in his other hand as he did so ' — 'cause I'm goin' over the wall, is where I'm goin'.' He swung round, clinking again. 'We won't be needing your ladder — just that box'll do, my lad!' He nodded at the wooden box which had been conveniently positioned below the sacking.

'Oh no! Ladder damn necessary!' Mr Malik skipped past them to the wall and on to the box, and addressed the darkness on the other side in his own language.

'What — ?' Reg Buller strode forward and peered over.

'Bloody hell!'

'Walls have two sides, see?' Mr Malik addressed Ian this time. 'This side — little wall. Other side — damn great wall.

All the same wall, but you break your neck jumping it, if not careful. Ladder damn necessary!'

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'Right then!' Buller drew back and gestured towards Ian.

'Over you go. There's a little bloke down there holding the ladder, so don't drop on him, eh?'

Going over the wall was uncomfortable and awkward, even with only one bag. But the other side was purgatory, one-handed on the slimy-wet rungs, brushed by sodden branches

— the 'bushes' he had observed from above were in fact the tops of fair-sized trees — in almost total darkness ... or, almost total darkness twice frighteningly broken by the passage of trains, each of which turned the dark into a nightmare of noise and light through the foilage. And the bloody ladder seemed to go on for ever: if anything, the little man had understated the size of his great wall.

But then, to make him feel feeble and effete, Jenny came down after him like a cat, in half his time. And even Reg Buller made light of his descent, only worried for the safety of his beer.

'Well, that's blown away the cobwebs!' Buller puffed slightly as he turned to the attendant waiter, whose white coat belied the darkness. 'You do this often, do you?'

'Please — ?' The single word sounded curiously unlndian: second generation London-Indian, different not so much because of its pronunciation as for its simple politeness . . .

'Never mind, lad. We got down. Now, how do we get out? Are those lights I can see up there the ones on the bridge?'

A sniff came from Jenny's direction. 'Now you ask!'

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'Don't fret, Lady. I've been alongside more railway lines than you've 'ad 'ot dinners — as a nipper and as a copper, chasin'

nippers. There's always ways in, an' there's always ways out.'

Buller drew in a breath. 'Well, lad.'

'Oh yes, sir. Those are the bridge lights, sure. You just follow the wall — you take my little torch, okay? People throw junk

— very dirty people — and you maybe trip, see? But no difficulty . . . just the rubbish.'

'And then we scale the wall again?' Jenny's voice was admirably calm.

'No, Miss. The bank comes up by the bridge. The wall is very little there — very easily, you go up. Just the broken bottles of the dirty people, you got to watch for them. Then only little walls, like I say. No difficulty, Miss.'

'Well . . . thank you.' She prodded Ian inaccurately in the almost-darkness. 'In your wallet, darling — for services rendered?' She hissed the command.

'Oh no, Miss.' The young waiter moved towards the ladder like a ghost. 'Service charges all included in the bill, my father says. I must go now — we've got to pull up the ladder damn-quick now, he says — okay?'

'Okay. Up you go, lad,' agreed Buller. 'And hide the bloody thing too, just in case — if you can — ?'

'Don't you worry, sir — ' The voice already came from above them, through the branches ' — we padlock this fire-escape ladder back in the passage. Then my father loses the key, I dummy2

think . . . Good night, sir — Miss — ' The voice faded.

'Artful little monkey!' murmured Buller admiringly.

'But well-brought up,' said Jenny.

'Ah . . . well, they still bring 'em up, don't they! Model bloody citizens they'd be, if it wasn't for their religions, makin' 'em all hate each other — ' Buller stopped abruptly. 'But we didn't ought to stand gabbin' sweet nothing's — '

As he spoke, the sound of another train rose, drowning the rest of his words as it increased, until it filled the cutting deafeningly. But, more than the noise which reverberated around him, Ian was filled from within with an almost panic-stricken feeling of unreality, which worsened as he glimpsed the train's occupants sitting and strap-hanging in safety and comfort in their brightly-lit carriages — late city-workers going home to suburban wives and husbands, girl-friends and boy-friends, families and friends ... or (since he didn't even know which way he was facing, up or down) going out happily for a night's West End entertainment, taking their real world for granted . . . while he was cowering illegally on railway property in the darkness, with heaven-only-knew what vile refuse crunching underfoot!

The noise fell away into echoes, which the wind of the train seemed to suck after it, down the line — up the line? And worse —

'Come on, now!' Buller moved into the deafening silence which the vanished train drew into the cutting, within the dummy2

enormous hum of that same real world above them, and all around them. 'We gotta get out of 'ere, Lady — Ian lad — ?'

And worse! (The drizzle, working down through the leaves above him into single larger drops of rain, spattering irregularly on his face now.) And worse: the whole of that world, real or unreal, had turned against him. Ever since Reg Buller had first changed all the rules with his bad news, so few hours ago, but which seemed like forever now — now

—

'Come on!'

He didn't want to move. This day had started unhopefully, yet then it had fed his ego deceptively, when he'd thought himself so clever. But from the moment he'd got through to Jenny its true nature had been revealed, albeit through a glass, darkly: the whole world out there was hostile, and full of dangers which he could no longer dismiss as imaginary.

'Come on — ' Buller had moved, lighting his own way first with the boy's inadequate pocket-torch, and then helping Jenny as she had followed, leaving Ian behind in the actual dark, as well as his inner darkness. So now the voice came further off. ' Mister Robinson!'

'I'm coming.' The feeble glow illuminated a great buttress, dark on his side and dirty yellow-brown on its railway side: the Victorian bricks in which London had burst outwards in its great days, in their untold billions; but now his feet were skidding and crushing on filthy modern detritus, of bottles dummy2

and cans and plastics, up against the wall and the buttress, all mixed with the leaf-compost of a hundred years.

'What's the matter?' Buller shone the torch into his eyes challengingly. 'We 'aven't got all night, y'know . . . You got the bag, 'ave yer?'

That was it! Ian felt the last strand of his patience snap, with the addition of the bag of congealing curries and rice and pickles to Buller's assumed 'working class' voice, which was designed to jolly him along, challenging him to behave like an officer and a gentleman, and not let the side down.

'No.' He rounded the buttress, and then set his back against it, as though exhausted. 'This is far enough.'

'What?' The torch came back to him.

'Darling — when we get to the car — ' Jenny supported the torch — ' — and I'm getting wet, too!'

'Damn the car!' When they reached the BMW, he would be driving it. And then it would be too late, because he would have to concentrate on his driving. And . . . maybe they were both relying on that. 'I want to know what's happening to me.' As he spoke, he knew that he had the whip-hand: even apart from her unwillingness to drive and Reg Buller's careless intake of alcohol (and consequently even greater unwillingness), they couldn't leave him behind now, with whatever they each had in mind — not with Paul Mitchell out there . . . whoever else was out there.

The light continued to blind him. But behind it, in the dummy2

absolute darkness, they must each be coming to the same conclusion. So he leaned back, and let the enormous weight of brick support him, just as it had held up the whole of Cody Street for a hundred years, above all the trains which had used this cutting.

'Fff — ' Buller cracked first, but then remembered Jenny.

'What are you playing at, Ian?' Jenny was not so inhibited, so she sounded unnaturally shrill. 'My God! Aren't things bad enough already? With — ' The rest of the words were cut off by the rumble of another train, which approached them more slowly so that, where before her face had been only flickeringly illuminated, disco strobe-lighted, now he saw its anger and intensity as the noise enveloped them again.

'No . . . no!' Buller came back first. 'He's right. You got to level with him, Lady — that's only fair. And now's as good a time as any.'

'What?' She sounded incredulous, as well as angry.

'About Mitchell, Lady.' Clink.

" What — ?' From incredulity-and-anger to doubt. 'But ... I told him about Mitchell, Mr Buller: he's their blue-eyed boy

— and he knows Audley — ?'

'Ah! And then — ?' Buller paused. And the torch went out, and the pause elongated.

'I don't know what you're talking about, Mr Buller.'

She stopped him sharply on her own full stop. 'Ian — Ian ...

we had a three-way talk this morning — Reg, and John Tully dummy2

and I, on that gadget of John's — the phone-thing — ?'

'I was still up north, coming back, on the motorway,'

supplemented Buller. 'And then, after what I told 'em, the Lady was going to check out Dr Mitchell.'

'Yes. And so I did, as far as I could.' Jenny's voice strengthened. 'And you were off checking on that woman —

the one who got shot... so we couldn't warn you about Mitchell. And it never occurred to us that he would be after you, darling.'

'Yes.' It occurred to Ian that Jenny hadn't reckoned too much to 'the woman who got shot' when they'd spoken to each other last night. But maybe it hadn't just been the dogsbody job they'd given him: maybe, more simply, they'd just wanted him safely out of town, where he couldn't come to much harm while drawing off some of their followers on his wild goose chase. 'Go on, Jenny.'

'Well . . . that's all there is to it, as far as I'm concerned, darling: I did get some more, about all of them. Including Dr Paul Mitchell. Including the fact that Willy Arkenshaw thinks he needs the love of a good woman to sustain him — or even just look after him, like Paddington Bear: " Please look after this Mitchell" — '

'Huh!' Reg Buller emitted an unPaddington Bear-like growl from his own darkness . . .

'And I only got that out of her because she's very pregnant with the next little Arkenshaw baronet, and all dewy-eyed dummy2

about marriage and motherhood. And even so she clammed up then, and started quizzing me about where I'd met him . . . which she'd assumed had been at some party, and that I'd fancied him there. So I had to concoct an elaborate tale which I'm not at all sure satisfied her. Not that it matters now, anyway.' She paused. 'But that's all I got about Mitchell since we talked on the phone, Reg. But now you've got more, obviously — ?'

'No.' Buller remained silent for a moment. 'I had more then. I just didn't want to give it to you over that line, for all to hear.'

The next silence was broken by a clink. 'A lot more.'

Another clink. And then a tiny scraping sound. And then a glugging sound: Reg Buller was at the Tiger beer already.

'Couldn't we go on?' Jenny advanced commonsense tentatively. 'I mean ... we could talk more comfortably in the car, Ian — couldn't we?'

'No.' Buller sounded as though he was more comfortable: Buller's main in-battle worry would have been — and was —

the source of his next liquid refreshment. 'I think . . . maybe we'll leave the car where it is, an' call for a taxi. It might be safer. An' there's a pub I know, not far away. And there's a bloke I can phone from there who's into instant travelling, an' no questions asked, too.' Another glug. 'I reckon we're about as safely lost as we can be, right now. An', whoever's out there ... by the time he comes to ask questions up above, an' gets the wrong answers — ' Buller chuckled ' — 'cause, little Abdul — he'll be good with the wrong answers, to drive dummy2

'em up the wall — ' Another chuckle. Then another glug. And then a soft empty clunk as he dropped the bottle, adding himself to the 'very dirty people' ' — but not our wall . . . his wall, eh?'

'And then?' Jenny just got the question in before the next train.

Buller waited for the noise to hurry after its cause. 'Then they'll get their skates on. Because they'll know we've rumbled 'em. And they'll reckon we've long gone . . . . And there won't be time for committee meetings then: they'll be wetting their britches, an' doubling-up in Hampstead — or at your dad's place, most likely. An' that's really goin' to worry

'em, by golly!'

'Yes?' Jenny sounded doubtful suddenly.

'Right!' Buller caught her doubt. 'That's where you'd have gone, eh? Home to daddy — all nice an' safe? An' then maybe a phone-call to one of daddy's friends in the Government? Or a call from the House of Lords to the Home Secretary — ?'

'You know I wouldn't do that.' Jenny bristled with outrage.

'Wouldn't you? I would — if I was you. Bloody right, I would!'

Buller paused for only a fraction of a second. 'All right — you wouldn't. But they don't know you, Lady: they'll only know that they don't know which way trouble's comin' from, while they're tryin' to find where you've gone — now that they know you're on to them — see?' Another pause. 'If it's Mitchell . . . then he'll be running scared too, I reckon. With dummy2

Audley out of the country, eh?'

'He can always run to Jack Butler.'

'Can 'e though?' Buller paused as though in doubt. 'That's one of the things that doesn't add up — I reckon that, too.'

'Why not?'

'Because Jack Butler — Sir Jack Butler, as 'e is now, from the last Birthday Honours . . . he's not a dirty player, they say.'

'Yes.' Jenny came in quickly. They do say that — yes! But — ?'

'But Mitchell?' Buller came back even more quickly. 'Ah!

Now we're into Mr Peter Wright, an' his dirty tricks, an' his young Turks.' Buller paused. 'An' . . . Philip Masson, maybe.'

This time it was Jenny's silence, with no train coming, and only the distant continuous hum of the city above them holding down the lack of sound in the cutting.

'Philly wasn't part of R & D then,' she said finally. 'And Philly would never have been into dirty tricks.'

'Wouldn't 'e?' Buller goaded her cruelly. 'Not like Audley?

Not like Mitchell?'

'We're not discussing Philly, any more.' She refused to be goaded. 'It's Mitchell we're running away from, aren't we?'

'Oh aye?' Buller harumphed derisively. 'Well, he'll do for a start, Lady. But — '

'But he saved Ian, Mr Buller. Now why would he do that —

for a start?'

Ian was already beginning to regret his obstinacy. Most of all dummy2

he wanted to question Buller about Frances Fitzgibbon. Yet he didn't want to do that in front of Jenny, although he didn't know why. But then, even as he tried to conjure up the girl in his imagination, his thoughts suddenly ignited. 'He was there, Reg — wasn't he?'

'There? Where?' Buller played for time. 'Who?'

'At Thornervaulx. Don't play silly buggers with us, Reg. In '78

— Mitchell was there — right?'

Now, when it was least required, a train from the opposite direction announced itself; and then (obeying a variant of Sod's Law), took an unconscionable time to pass them, unlike its predecessors, stopping and starting convulsively just in front of them.

'Was Mitchell at Thornervaulx, Reg?'

'I heard you the first time, old lad.' Buller had used the interruption more profitably. 'They were all there — at Thornervaulx. Except Masson, of course.' Silence —

mercifully unpunctuated by another dink. ' 'E was probably ordering 'is new suit, with 'is new badges-of-rank, on bein'

promoted to command Research an' Development, most likely.' Silence. 'But the rest were all there — yeah.'

Contempt from Jenny was par for the course. But from Reg Buller — that was over the top. 'And Marilyn Francis — ? Mrs Frances Fitzgibbon — ? Are you including her, Reg?'

'You mean the woman?' Buller sounded surprised at such sharpness, coming from him, like a ferret bitten by a rabbit.

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'Yes — the woman.' It was time Frances Fitzgibbon got her due, outside Lower Buckland. ' "The woman who was killed the week before", Jenny — ? The "innocent bystander"?'

'Yes.' Buller recovered. 'Yes . . . the one that blew it — her too, yes!'

'Blew it?'

'Got 'erself killed. That's blowing it, in my book.' Buller didn't give him time to bite back this time. 'She didn't ought to have got herself killed by "Mad Dog" O'Leary — "Mad Dog" my eye!'

'He wasn't mad?' Jenny cut in quickly.

'Oh . . .'e was mad right enough. 'E was mad to stick around after 'is bomb went off, an' 'e got clean away ... But, of course,

'e stayed. An' that was what took 'em all by surprise — 'im staying, an' 'avin' another go. Took the police by surprise, certainly. But they were bloody fed-up by then, anyway — the way the Intelligence lot had sodded 'em around, tryin' to run things, an' then throwin' O'Leary into their lap when things went sour.' Buller paused. 'Not Colonel Butler, though — "Sir Jack" as 'e is now. Got a lot of time for 'im they 'ave.'

Reg had been talking to the Police. Or, at least, to some contact he had inside the force up north: Reg always seemed to have an old mate, or a mate of an old mate, in whatever Police Authority he found himself. 'Why was that, Reg?'

"E was brought in late, to the University — where the bomb went off. And . . . they said 'e wasn't too pleased with what 'e dummy2

found. But 'e didn't waste time complainin'. An' 'e didn't blame anyone neither, at the University there. But then they

— his bosses — they took O'Leary off him, more or less, apparently. Like . . . well, the last bit, after the bomb and before the shooting at Thornervaulx — all that was pretty confusing, after that, by all accounts.' Buller paused, but Ian knew of old the mixture of resignation and cynicism which he couldn't see. 'Everybody got praised for everything, but that was to keep 'em quiet. Because crossing O'Leary off the

"Most Wanted" list made all the Top Brass — the cabinet ministers, and the judges, and the rest — it made 'em sleep a bit sounder at night. And saved a lot of taxpayers' hard-earned money, too: " Efficient police-work in preventing the suspect from escaping from the cordoned area" — although they didn't know where the hell he was. And " vigilance on the part of the security services and the anti-terrorist group" . . . meaning "Thank you very much for shooting the bugger dead. So let's not have any arguments to spoil the good publicity, eh?"' Buller sniffed. 'Never quarrel with the bloke who pins the medal on you — not when there's been a happy ending: that's the rule.'

'But it wasn't a happy ending for Mrs Fitzgibbon, Reg.' Ian couldn't keep the bitterness out of his voice.

For a moment, Buller didn't reply. '"Fitzgibbon", was it?'

Another pause. 'You had an interesting day, did you, Ian lad?'

He had to keep his cool. 'But she had a bad day — November 11, 1978?'

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Another pause. 'What was she doing in Rickmansworth?'

'What was she doing in ... where was it?' Surprisingly, it was Jenny who came to his rescue. 'At Thornervaulx — the ruined abbey there, wasn't it?'

'You know the place, do you?' Buller had obviously decided that he was giving too much and receiving too little in exchange.

'I know the place. Daddy used to shoot near Thornervaulx —

or hunt, or something.' Jenny also knew Buller's game. 'Or maybe it was racing at Catterick . . . What was she doing in Thornervaulx, Reg — this Mrs FitzPatrick?'

'Ah . . .' With Jenny, Buller usually surrendered more quickly than this. 'Well, it's like they always say with makin'

omelettes: you 'ave to break the eggs now an' then. Only . . .

it's always the cooks an' the omelette-eaters talkin', isn't it?

Never the eggs and the chickens.'

'So she was just doing her job.' It was impossible to say whether Jenny was more irritated by Buller's obstinacy or by fluctuating extremes of the accent he tended to assume with her. 'But was she Police, Mr Buller? Or was she Intelligence?

And ... if she was Intelligence, in R & D? Because they do appear to pretend that they're "equal opportunity", it seems.'

Equal opportunity to die, in this case, Ian added silently.

'I tell you one thing, Lady . . .' But Buller trailed off maddeningly as the sound of another train came down the line towards them.

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'One thing — ?' Jenny urged him on, her voice rising against the sound.

'Aye. She was . . . brave, Lady — ' The rest of his shout was cut off by the train, the noise sucking the words away with it again.

This time she waited until the noise had gone, and the hum of the city had reasserted itself as a background to the silence in the cutting. 'Brave, Mr Buller?'

'She was the one that picked up the bleedin' bomb at the University.'

Frances? thought Ian. Frances! 'How do you know that, Reg?'

'I thought it was Audley, first. But he wasn't there — at the University.' Buller addressed him deliberately in the darkness. 'An' then I thought it must 'ave been Mitchell. But it was ' er — '

'How do you know?' That it had never occurred to him before seemed like a betrayal, almost: like Buller, he had never dreamt of equating the 'heroic secret services officer' of Reg's favourite tabloid newspaper with its 'innocent bystander' at Thornervaulx a few days later. ' How do you know, man?'

'I talked to a bloke that was there — what d'you think?' Buller was guarded about his police contacts again. 'An' I've just put two-an'-two together. An' they make four, just like always.'

'She sounds a bit stupid, to me.' Jenny spoke to no one in particular. 'But . . . she was R & D, then — is that what you're dummy2

saying, Mr Buller?'

Suddenly Ian didn't want to talk about Frances any more.

And he didn't want Jenny to talk about her either. 'I thought we were talking about Mitchell, not Mrs Fitzgibbon.'

'And we know that he's R & D,' agreed Jenny. 'But . . . what's Thornervaulx got to do with Philip Masson, Mr Buller?'

There was doubt in her voice, and she wasn't arguing now: she was conceding a point while seeming to ask for an explanation.

But Thornervaulx was Frances Fitzgibbon to Ian. 'He wasn't there — you said, Reg?' (If there had been the slightest possibility of that, Jenny wouldn't have asked her question: it would have been all Thornervaulx then!)

'No, 'e wasn't there.' Buller dismissed the idea scornfully.

'The bleedin' generals don't go into the front line, lad—'

'Mr Buller!' Jenny snapped him off. 'Just answer the question, please.'

Buller crunched the dirty people's refuse under his feet. 'It's time we got out of 'ere, Lady. It's not too far to that pub I know. An' I can phone from there — '

'Mr Buller!'

'Okay, okay!' He drew a noisy breath. 'I don't know for sure.

But if I'm right . . . then Thornervaulx wasn't just the death of O'Leary an' the woman: it was the death of your bloke too, Lady.'

8

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It was always another pub with Reg Buller: it was a mystery to Ian how the man had found enough opening hours in all the days of his life to be so intimately friendly with so many landlords and landladies, barmaids and barmen, so that they were willing to spirit him away into their small back rooms on the nod, safe from prying eyes.

'Not one of my usual watering 'oles — not since the brewery done it up,' Reg had murmured in his ear as he propelled them through the noise and smoke towards a door at the back of the bar-room. 'But the bloke 'ere owes me a favour, anyway . . . Up the stairs, door straight ahead, an' I'll join you in a mo', when I've fixed up our travel arrangements —

okay?' Then he ducked back into the noise again, leaving them staring at each other.

'What travel arrangements, Jen?' Ian felt that he had left the wet outer darkness of the street outside for a brightly-lit but greater inner darkness.

'Don't ask me, darling.' She shrugged while attempting to repair the ruin of what had probably started out as an expensive hair-do. 'Mr Buller seems to have taken over, that's all I know. Don't you know?'

'You spoke to him this afternoon, Jen.'

'But only on the phone, darling. And he didn't say much then, except that he wanted me to ask around about Paul Mitchell . . . which I had already started to do on my own account, actually . . . But I thought you knew all about his dummy2

trip north — ?' She gave up the repair-attempt. 'I'm not going to argue the toss with you here, darling, in public. So just do like the wretched man said — get up those stairs.'

The only thing he knew — or the only additional thing he knew — thought Ian wearily . . . was that, however scared Paul Mitchell and others might be running now, or soon, Reg Buller was running scared already. And after John Tully, never mind what had happened at Lower Buckland this afternoon, that made sense. So getting up the stairs also made sense.

But the room at the top of the stairs in no way resembled the Shah Jehan room: it had foul red-plastic covered tables and an even fouler smell of stale tobacco-smoke, complete with overflowing ashtrays: it was a meeting-room of some sort, and all that could be said for it now was that it was empty.

'What about Mitchell?' He faced her again.

'Darling — you know him better than we do.' She returned to her repair work, letting the whole elaborate ruin down in a red cascade. 'If only I had an elastic band! You don't happen to have one, do you, darling?' She glanced at him a little too casually. 'No — of course you don't! But... he did save your life — didn't he? Mitchell, I mean . . . No . . . well, of course, we don't know that for sure, do we? And you were busy with that woman of yours . . .'

He had to hit her back. 'Whom you didn't think was important?'

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'I still don't think she's important.' She spoke through several hairpins.

'And Reg Buller going north — ?' Buller had come back with information about Mitchell. So she damn-well couldn't argue with that. 'What — '

The door burst open, and a large young woman with a tray swerved through the opening. 'One large gin-and-tonic —

one low-alcohol lager — ?'

Jenny dropped her hair. 'Mine's the gin — ' She seized the glass from the tray, letting her hair fall again.

Thank you — ' He took one of the three glasses which remained: not the pint in the straight glass, and not the large whisky chaser, and looked interrogatively at the barmaid.

'Those are for Mr Buller — if you don't mind, sir?' She didn't even look at him.

Ian took Buller's share, and waited until the door had closed again. 'But you don't think that was a wasted journey now, do you, Jen?'

'No.' She drank deeply, like Reg Buller. And then set her glass down on the nearest table and returned to her hair. 'I think that was all part of the scene — the run-up to Philly's murder. But your woman was out of it by then.'

He hated that — and almost hated Jenny with it. 'She's not

"my" woman.' But he hated that, too: he heard the cock crow as he spoke. 'But I think you're wrong, Jen. And ... I think she's interesting ... I mean, I think she may be important — '

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But he didn't want to argue about Frances Fitzgibbon. 'What

"scene", Jen — ?'

The door opened again as he spoke, and Reg Buller came through it this time.

"E's goin' to call me back.' Buller looked at them briefly, his radar having indicated where the drinks were. "E knows there's something dodgey goin' on . . .' He drank. '. . . maybe

'e's 'eard about poor ol' Johnny. But I twisted 'is arm, so 'e'll divvy up, you can bet on it . . .' Another drink. '. . . Kidlington, most likely — if 'e can 'andle the paperwork. But he may prefer us to take the hovercraft from Ramsgate, an' then lay on a plane from the other side, see — ?' He wiped his mouth.

'What "scene" was that, then?'

'1978, Mr Buller.' Jenny answered him coolly. 'Where are we going . . . from where was it?' She frowned. 'Ramsgate, I know . . . But "Kidlington" — ?'

'1978!' Buller tossed off his chaser in one swallow. 'A soddin'

bad year for the Labour Party! '78-'79 put Mrs Thatcher in.

An' she's never looked back since then — eh?'

'Where's Kidlington, Mr Buller?'

'Just outside Oxford, Lady.' Buller grinned at her unsmilingly. 'It's the largest village in England, they say. So it's got its own airfield.' The unsmiling grin vanished. 'But you're right about 1978: that's the key to the door, of course.'

There was nothing very clever about that. But, if she chose not to be very clever, he must play their game. 'So what really dummy2

happened in 1978, Reg?'

Buller looked at Jenny. But Jenny was suddenly pretending to concentrate on her hair again, to their exclusion.

'Reg—?'

'All right.' Buller dismissed her, and drank more of his beer.

'There was one of their internal bust-ups . . . like the bloke who ran R & D was going, because 'e was sick ... an' 'is No. 2

'ad just died with 'is boots on, of a heart-attack — what was

'is name, Lady — ?'

'Stocker — ' The name cut through the hairpins.

'Ah! Just so . . .' Buller shrugged off the name. 'So they were all tryin' to fix things, so it came out right for 'em, an' they got the bloke they wanted to sign their expense accounts —

okay?'

Jenny half-turned away from him, as though regretting that she'd even given him a name, pretending to fight again with her hair.

'Okay.' Buller turned to Ian. 'So Audley an' all the rest of 'em wanted Jack Butler. Because, better the devil you know than the one you don't know . . . An' the one they didn't know was the Lady's bloke — Mr Philip Masson — see?'

He had already seen that much. 'So — ?'