Here Comes Charlie M

THIRTEEN

Charlie had identified the unmarked police car about twenty yards from the house, so he was waiting for the doorbell when it sounded. He paused, briefly, preparing himself and when he opened the door the expectant smile was carefully in place.

‘Yes?’

‘Police,’ identified the taller of the two men. He produced a warrant card, holding it steadily for Charlie to examine it. ‘We …’

‘Of course,’ broke off Charlie. ‘Come in.’

He stood back for them to enter. They were both smart but unobtrusive men, grey-suited, muted ties, polished black shoes. Hendon, guessed Charlie.

‘Why of course?’ demanded the first man, unmoving.

Aggressive, too, decided Charlie. But properly so.

‘The robbery,’ he said. ‘What else?’

‘Ah,’ said the man. Then waited. It was a practised reaction, realised Charlie, leading them into the lounge. So the older man prided himself on his interrogation technique. He had once, remembered Charlie. He’d been damned good. He hoped it hadn’t been too long ago; he felt the tingle of apprehension.

The policeman looked at Charlie and Charlie smiled back.

‘So you know about the robbery?’ queried the man.

‘I didn’t get your name?’ replied Charlie.

The detective frowned, off-balanced by the response. Then he smiled.

‘Law,’ he said. ‘Superintendent Harry Law.’

He stared at Charlie, expectantly. Charlie gazed back.

‘Law,’ said the man, again.

Still Charlie said nothing.

‘Unusual name for a policeman,’ offered the detective, at last. ‘Law … police …’

It was a prepared charade, the clumsy joke at his own expense to put an interviewee falsely at ease, decided Charlie.

‘Very unusual,’ he allowed, hardly intruding the condescension. On the flight to London, he’d rehearsed the inevitable meeting, deciding on the vague impatience of a rich man.

The superintendent detected the attitude. The smile slipped away, irritably.

Law was an almost peculiar figure, thought Charlie. Smooth, shining-pink cheeks, glistening oiled hair, perfectly combed and in place, eyes wetly bright and attentive. A disconcerting man, Charlie labelled him. Because he chose to be. He would have to be careful. It was not going to be as easy as he had imagined. Perhaps nothing was.

‘You knew about the robbery?’ Law repeated. There was a hardness to his voice now. The man had almost lost his temper, guessed Charlie. Maybe he wasn’t as good an interrogator as he thought he was.

‘It’s the main item in every newspaper,’ pointed out Charlie. ‘It would be difficult not to know about it.’

‘But you didn’t bother to contact the bank?’ criticised Law.

The reason for the waiting police car and the visit from such a senior officer within thirty minutes, realised Charlie. It would have been sensible to have telephoned from Switzerland. And even more sensible to have picked upon an alternative reaction to the police approach. He’d never be able to play the rich man as long as he had a hole in his ass. It was too late now to change it; it would increase rather than allay suspicion.

‘No,’ he admitted. It would be as wrong now to hurry an explanation.

‘Why?’

The question thrust from the man, the voice even harder.

‘Please sit down,’ deflected Charlie. He gestured Law and the other man to a couch in the middle of the room.

‘I didn’t catch your name, either,’ he said, to the younger man, aware as he spoke of the anger stiffening the superintendent’s body.

‘Hardiman, sir,’ responded the young policeman. ‘Sergeant John Hardiman.’

‘Why?’ repeated Law.

Charlie turned back to the man. Very soon, Charlie guessed, the superintendent would become openly rude.

‘Didn’t I contact the bank?’

Law nodded, breathing deeply. The temper was the man’s failing, thought Charlie.

‘I didn’t want to be a nuisance,’ explained Charlie simply.

Law frowned.

‘Forgive me, sir,’ he said. ‘I don’t follow.’

A clever recovery, assessed Charlie. Seize the apparent conceit of the person you’re interviewing and convey the impression they’re far more intelligent than you, so they’ll over-reach themselves.

‘The newspapers talked of the value being in the region of a million pounds,’ said Charlie.

‘Could be,’ agreed Law. ‘Once we establish the contents of the deposit boxes.’

‘Quite,’ said Charlie, as if that were sufficient explanation. ‘So I didn’t want to be a bother.’

There was another sigh from the older detective.

‘You’re still not making yourself clear.’

‘Can I offer you a drink?’ Charlie slipped away again. He gestured towards the drinks tray. Law had begun to perspire, he saw. Charlie decided he wan’t doing too badly.

‘Whisky would be very nice, sir,’ accepted Law. The man fitted a smile into place, the protective mask behind which he was determined to operate.

Charlie went to the bottles and poured Scotch for himself and the superintendent. Hardiman hesitated, then shook his head in refusal.

‘You were telling me you didn’t want to be a nuisance,’ encouraged the superintendent.

‘Yes,’ said Charlie. ‘I imagined that people who had had valuables in their boxes would be inundating the bank with telephone calls and visits and I thought my enquiries could wait until tomorrow.’

Slowly Law placed the glass on a side table that Charlie had positioned close to him and nodded to Hardiman. The younger man took a notebook from his pocket.

‘I see,’ said Law, slowly. ‘So there was nothing valuable in your box?’

‘Not valuable in the terms of the robbery,’ said Charlie. ‘Some insurance policies … the lease to this house and the conveyancing documents … that sort of thing.’

‘Just papers?’ demanded Law.

‘And a little money … perhaps £500 …’

The superintendent sipped his drink again.

‘You don’t know the actual amount?’

He let the disbelief leak into the question.

‘I travel a great deal,’ said Charlie. ‘The odd bits of currency and travellers’ cheques I don’t spend I normally put into the box for use another time. So I can’t give you the precise figure, no.’

‘But it certainly wouldn’t be more than £500?’

‘Certainly not,’ said Charlie.

He waited, disguising the apprehension. If the money had been left, as Sir Archibald would have decreed it should if he had organised the operation, then this would be the moment when he lost the encounter, Charlie knew. A formal accusation of lying, maybe even the official warning under Judges’ Rules and then the request to accompany them to the police station for further questioning.

Law was nodding, disclosing nothing. Hardiman was busily writing in the notebook.

‘Isn’t that rather expensive?’ asked the superintendent, ending the pause.

‘Expensive?’ asked Charlie. His voice almost broke, showing anxiety. Had the money been there, they would have challenged him immediately, he knew. He felt the first bubble of hope.

‘Hiring a safe deposit box for the sort of stuff most people keep in a cupboard drawer?’ enlarged the detective.

Charlie forced the smile.

‘Ironic, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘I’m the sort of person who likes to know everything is safe … so I put it in a bank because I thought there was less chance of a robbery than here, in the house.’

‘Ironic,’ agreed Law.

But it wasn’t agreement, guessed Charlie. There was still doubt.

The superintendent emptied his glass and shook his head in refusal when Charlie gestured towards the bottle.

‘You wouldn’t mind if I checked with your insurance companies about the policies?’

‘Of course not,’ said Charlie. ‘The Sun Life of Canada and the Royal Assurance.’

Hardiman noted the names.

‘Hope I haven’t caused difficulties,’ said Charlie.

‘Difficulties?’ queried Law.

‘By not bothering to contact the bank … you seemed to attach some importance to it.’

‘It appeared odd,’ allowed Law.

‘And I was just trying to be helpful,’ repeated Charlie.

‘Yes, sir.’

Law paused, then demanded again: ‘There was nothing more than the policies, documents concerning this house and the small amount of money?’

‘Nothing,’ Charlie assured him. The insurance had been Edith’s idea, he remembered; being normal, she’d called it.

Both men were staring at him, he realised. A silence settled into the room. Charlie stayed perched on the edge of the armchair, curbing any indication of nervousness.

‘Then you’re lucky,’ said Law, at last.

‘Lucky?’

‘The policies weren’t even taken … so you won’t have to bother with duplicates.’

Charlie nodded. He’d got away with it, he thought. The realisation swept through him. The two detectives still didn’t seem completely satisfied.

‘That’s very fortunate,’ said Charlie.

‘Yes,’ said Law. ‘Very fortunate.’

‘The money’s gone, I suppose?’ asked Charlie.

‘Yes,’ confirmed the superintendent. ‘All five hundred pounds of it’

Again the policeman waited, letting the sarcasm settle. So it was the smallness of the amount they couldn’t accept. Another mistake, like the artificial attitude.

‘So I’m lucky all the way around,’ said Charlie.

‘Sir?’ questioned the superintendent.

That it was only £500,’ expanded Charlie. ‘It’s enough, but not as much as the other people seem to have lost.’

‘No, sir,’ accepted Law. There was still doubt, Charlie gauged.

‘You say you travel a great deal, sir?’ pressed Law.

‘I have a home in Switzerland as well as here,’ said Charlie. ‘I move between the two very frequently.’

‘That must be nice,’ said Law.

He managed always to convey the impression that he expected more from any sentence, decided Charlie. It was an interesting technique.

‘It is,’ he said. ‘Very nice.’

‘How long do you plan to be here this time, sir?’ asked the superintendent.

Charlie delayed answering, guessing some point to the question.

‘I don’t know,’ he shrugged. ‘A week … maybe two … depends on business.’

‘What business?’

The query was abrupt again, cutting across Charlie’s generalisation.

Charlie grew cautious again, recognising the danger.

‘Investment,’ he said. ‘Finance … that sort of thing.’

Both detectives stared, waiting for more.

When he didn’t continue, Law prompted: ‘You’re a financier?’

‘My passport describes me as a clerk. But I suppose financier is a better description,’ smiled Charlie.

‘Any particular firm?’

‘Predominantly Willoughby, Price and Rowledge,’ responded Charlie easily. ‘I deal with Mr Willoughby.’

‘A financier,’ picked up the superintendent. ‘Yet you only kept £500 in a safe deposit box?’

‘Exactly,’ retorted Charlie. ‘Money that isn’t working for you is dead … useless. No one who’s interested in making money leaves it lying around in safe deposit boxes.’

‘And you are interested in making money, sir?’ asked Law, unperturbed.

‘Isn’t everyone?’ asked Charlie.

Law didn’t reply immediately, appearing to consider the question.

‘And where will you be going, after one or two weeks?’ he demanded, changing direction.

‘Back to Switzerland,’ said Charlie.

‘You could let us have an address, of course?’

‘Of course,’ agreed Charlie. ‘But why should you need it?’

The superintendent smiled apologetically.

‘Never know, sir. Things come up that you can’t anticipate. Always handy to be able to contact people.’

Charlie nodded.

‘And I’d like a formal statement,’ continued Law. ‘Could you come to the station tomorrow?’

Charlie hesitated, a busy man remembering other appointments.

‘I suppose so,’ he said, at last.

‘We’d appreciate that,’ said Law.

The approach had changed, realised Charlie.

‘Naturally I’ll come.’

‘You know,’ said Law, extending the apparent friendliness. ‘Of all the people we’ve interviewed, you’re probably the most fortunate.’

‘How’s that, superintendent?’

‘Apart from the money … and as you say, that’s not a great deal … you’ve lost practically nothing.’

‘Except my faith in the safety of British banks,’ suggested Charlie, trying to lighten the mood.

Law didn’t smile.

‘In every other box there was more money … jewellery … stuff like that Really you are very lucky,’ insisted the superintendent.

‘Very lucky,’ concurred Charlie.

Law looked hopeful, as if expecting Charlie to say more.

‘Is there anything else I can do to help?’ asked Charlie. He shouldn’t seem too eager to end the meeting, he knew. But equally it would be a mistake to abandon the attitude with which he’d begun the encounter, wrong though he now knew it to be. It was the sort of change Law would recognise.

The superintendent gazed directly at him. Then he shook his head.

‘Not at the moment, sir. Just make the statement, tomorrow, if you wouldn’t mind.’

‘Of course not.’

‘And let us know if you’re thinking of going anywhere,’ the detective continued.

Charlie allowed just the right amount of time to elapse.

‘All right,’ he said.

‘And perhaps tomorrow you could let my sergeant have the Swiss address?’

Charlie nodded.

‘Tomorrow, then,’ said Law, standing. Immediately Hardiman followed.

‘Good night, sir,’ said Law.

‘Good night, superintendent. Don’t hesitate to contact me if I can do anything further to help.’

‘Oh we won’t, sir,’ Law assured him. ‘We won’t hesitate for a moment.’

Charlie stood at the doorway until he saw them enter their car and then returned to the lounge. He’d just got away with it, he judged, pouring himself a second whisky.

But only just. Not good enough, in fact. He’d lost his edge, in two years. So he’d better find it again, bloody quickly.

‘Otherwise, Charlie, your bollocks are going to be on the hook,’ he warned himself.

He looked curiously at the whisky, putting the glass down untouched.

‘And that’s how they got there last time,’ he added into the empty room.

For several minutes the policemen sat silently in the car. The lights of Palace Pier were appearing on the left before Law spoke.

‘What do you think?’ he asked Hardiman.

‘Cocky,’ replied the sergeant, immediately. He’d been waiting for the question.

‘But involved?’

Hardiman shook his head.

‘Would you rent a box to discover the layout practically next door to your own house? And having pulled off a million-pound robbery, risk coming back and being questioned, even if you had been that stupid in the first place?’

Law moved his head, in agreement.

‘Hardly,’ he said. ‘They’re big points in his favour.’

The car entered the town, pulling away from the sea-front.

‘There was something though, wasn’t there?’ said Hardiman.

Law smiled at the other man’s reservations.

‘Couldn’t lose the feeling that he was used to interrogation … didn’t have the uncertainty that most people have … the natural nervousness that causes them to make silly mistakes,’ he confirmed.

‘Yet he was nervous,’ expanded Hardiman.

‘Know something else that struck me as odd?’ continued Law.

‘What?’

‘For a financier, he was a scruffy bastard.’

‘Yes,’ agreed the sergeant. ‘Still, don’t they say that only the truly rich can afford to dress like tramps?’

‘And can you really believe,’ went on the superintendent, ignoring the sergeant’s remark, ‘that a financier with a house like he’s got here and who openly admits to another home in Switzerland would only have five hundred quid in a safe deposit box?’

‘No,’ agreed Hardiman, as the car entered the police station compound. ‘But he’s not the first one we’ve encountered on this job who’s lied about the amount. That’s just tax avoidance, surely?’

‘Probably,’ said Law. He started to get out of the car, then turned back into the vehicle, towards the other man.

‘Let’s just keep an eye on him,’ he said. ‘Don’t want to waste any men on full-time observation, but I want some sort of check kept.’

‘Good idea,’ agreed Hardiman. ‘Who knows what we might come up with?’

‘Who knows?’ echoed the superintendent.

Despite a friendship that stretched back more than two decades, there had been few meetings with Berenkov since his repatriation to Moscow from British imprisonment, General Valery Kalenin accepted. Too few, in fact. He enjoyed the company of the burly, flamboyant Georgian. The K.G.B. chief smiled across the table, offering the bottle.

Berenkov took the wine, topping up his glass.

‘French is still best,’ he said, professionally. ‘More body.’

During his twenty years in London, Berenkov had developed the cover as a wine importer, which had allowed him frequent trips to Europe for contact meetings, into an enormously successful business.

‘Not the sort of remark a loyal Russian should make,’ said Kalenin, in mock rebuke. ‘You’ll have to get used to Russian products from now on.’

‘That won’t be difficult,’ said Berenkov, sincerely.

Kalenin pushed aside the remains of the meal he had cooked for them both in his bachelor apartment on Kutuzovsky Prospect. Berenkov had enjoyed the food, the other Russian knew.

‘Glad to be back?’ Kalenin asked, caught by the tone in the man’s voice.

Berenkov nodded.

‘I’d had enough,’ he admitted. ‘My nerve was beginning to go.’

Kalenin nodded. Now Berenkov could lead a pampered life in the Russian capital, he thought, teaching at the spy college to justify the large salary to which he was entitled after the success of such a long operational life, spending the week-ends at the dacha and the vacations in the sunshine of Sochi.

‘You did very well,’ Kalenin praised him. ‘You were one of the best.’

Berenkov smiled at the flattery, sipping his wine.

‘But I got caught in the end,’ he said. ‘There was someone better than me.’

‘Law of averages,’ said Kalenin. Should he tell Berenkov? he wondered. The man had developed a strong feeling for Charlie Muffin, he knew. A friendship, almost.

‘Charlie has been trapped,’ he announced bluntly, making the decision.

Berenkov stared down into his wine, his head moving slowly, a man getting confirmation of long-expected bad news.

‘How?’ he asked.

Kalenin gestured vaguely.

‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘But from the amount of leakage it’s obvious the British want it recognised they intend creating an example out of him.’

‘Charlie would have expected it, of course,’ said Berenkov distantly.

Kalenin said nothing.

The former spymaster looked up at him.

‘No chance of your intervening, I suppose? To give him any help?’

Kalenin frowned at the suggestion.

‘Of course not,’ he said, in genuine surprise. ‘Why ever should I?’

‘No, of course not,’ accepted Berenkov. ‘Stupid of me to have mentioned it.’

‘He’s still alive, apparently,’ volunteered Kalenin. ‘It’s not at all clear what they are going to do.’

‘Charlie was Very good,’ said Berenkov. ‘Very good indeed.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Kalenin. ‘He was.’

‘Poor Charlie,’ said Berenkov.

‘More wine?’ invited Kalenin.

‘Thank you.’

FOURTEEN

Perhaps, thought Wilberforce, arranging the money on the desk for everyone to see had been too theatrical. Onslow Smith was openly smirking, he saw, annoyed. That would stop, soon enough. The time had passed when people laughed at George Wilberforce; and from today they would begin to realise it.

‘Just over two hundred thousand dollars,’ said the British Director, indicating the money. ‘About half of what was stolen from you … and no affidavits that might have caused problems.’

‘So now we kill him,’ Ruttgers interrupted impatiently.

‘No,’ said Wilberforce simply.

For several moments there was no sound from any of the men in the room. It was Sir Henry Cuthbertson who broke the silence.

‘What do you mean, no?’ he demanded. ‘We’ve achieved what we set out to do. Let’s get the whole stupid business over.’

‘No,’ repeated Wilberforce. ‘There are other things to do first.’

‘Director,’ said Onslow Smith, trying with obvious difficulty to control himself, ‘this affair began with the intention of correcting past problems. We’ve put ourselves in a position of being able to do so. Let’s not risk making any more.’

‘I intend teaching the Russians a lesson,’ announced Wilberforce.

‘You’re going to do what?’

Onslow Smith’s control snapped and he looked at the other Director in horror. The damned man was on an ego trip, he realised.

‘For almost two years they’ve mocked and laughed … I’ve been ridiculed. Now I’m going to balance the whole thing.’

‘Now wait a minute,’ said Onslow Smith urgently. He stood up, nervously pacing the room. ‘We agreed, not a month ago, that what we were attempting to do was dangerous …’

He looked intently at the Briton for reaction. Wilberforce nodded.

‘But it worked,’ continued Smith. ‘Charlie Muffin is now back in England. We can do anything we like with him. So now we just complete the operation as planned and invite no more problems.’

‘There will be no problems,’ insisted Wilberforce, quietly. They were all very scared, he decided.

‘With Charlie Muffin, there’s always risk,’ said Braley breathily, risking the impertinence. Surreptitiously he slipped an asthma pill beneath his tongue.

‘How do you intend teaching the Russians a lesson?’ asked Cuthbertson.

From the rack on his desk, Wilberforce selected a pipe and began revolving it between his fingers. Sometimes, he thought, he felt like a kindergarten teacher trying to instil elementary common sense. It would be pleasant hearing them apologise for their reluctance in a few days’ time.

‘I’ve already seen to it that the Russians know we’ve located the man,’ he admitted.

‘Oh, Christ!’ blurted Onslow Smith, exasperated. Already, he thought, it might be too late.

Wilberforce shook his head sadly at the reaction.

‘And tonight, for a little while at least, we are going to borrow the Fabergé collection that has just arrived from Russia for exhibition here.’

‘You’re going to do what?’

Onslow Smith appeared in a permanent state of shocked surprise.

‘Take the Fabergé collection,’ repeated Wilberforce.

‘The Russians will go mad,’ predicted Braley.

‘Of course they will,’ agreed Wilberforce. ‘That is exactly what I intend they should do: And what will they find, when we leak the hint about one of the insurers of the collection? What we found, by elementary surveillance and checking the company accounts after the churchyard encounter with Rupert Willoughby – that their precious Charlie Muffin is a silent partner in the firm.’

‘It’s lunacy,’ said Smith, fighting against the anger. ‘Absolute and utter lunacy.’

‘No it’s not,’ insisted Wilberforce. ‘It is as guaranteed against fault as the method I devised to get Charlie Muffin back to England.’

‘But we can’t go around stealing jewellery,’ protested Cuthbertson.

‘And I’m not interested in settling imagined grievances with Russia. It’s over, for Christ’s sake. It has been, for years,’ said Smith.

‘Not with me, it hasn’t,’ said Wilberforce. He turned to the former Director. ‘And I’ve no intention that we should permanently steal it. The Fabergé collection is priceless, right?’

Cuthbertson nodded, doubtfully.

‘But valueless to any thief,’ continued Wilberforce. ‘He’d never be able to fence it.’

‘So why steal it in the first place?’ asked Ruttgers.

‘For the same reason that such identifiable jewellery is always stolen,’ explained Wilberforce. ‘Not to sell or to break up. Merely to negotiate, through intermediaries, its sale back to the insurers who would otherwise be faced with an enormous settlement.’

They still hadn’t understood, realised Wilberforce. Perhaps they would, after it had all worked as perfectly as he intended.

‘With something as big as this, the insurers are guaranteed to co-operate and buy it back,’ he tried to convince them. ‘Every piece, apart from those which are absolutely necessary to achieve what I intend, will be back in Leningrad or Moscow within two months. And the only sufferers will be Willoughby’s insurance firm who have had to pay up on the missing items. And Charlie Muffin, who will lose the other half of what he stole from you … paying America back for something stolen from Russia. Can’t you see the irony of it? Charlie Muffin will. That’s why I’m letting him stay alive, to see it happen. There’s no hurry to kill him now … he can’t go anywhere and he knows it.’

When there was still no response, Wilberforce pressed on: ‘We’ll have put the Russians in their place and there won’t be a service, either in the West or the East, who won’t know about it … because I’ve already made damned sure it’s being spelled out, move by move …’

‘It’s very involved,’ said Cuthbertson reluctantly.

‘And foolproof,’ said Wilberforce. ‘No risk. No danger.’

‘There are too many things over which we haven’t any control,’ said Ruttgers, through a tobacco cloud. ‘Charlie Muffin has only got to do one thing we don’t expect and the whole thing is thrown on its ass.’

‘But it won’t be,’ said Wilberforce. ‘The jewellery is being taken tonight. Once that goes, everything else follows naturally. It hardly matters what Charlie Muffin does. He’s helpless to affect it, in any way. In fact, that’s exactly what he is – helpless.’

‘What about the civil police?’ protested Smith. ‘They’re already involved in the bank robbery. There’s a risk there.’

‘We employed a petty crook on that … the same one who will be used tonight. We’ll arrange his arrest, so that most of the stuff taken from the Brighton bank can be recovered and returned to its owners – those not too frightened of any tax investigation to claim it, anyway.’

‘He’ll talk,’ said Smith.

‘About what?’ enquired Wilberforce. ‘A mystery man called Brown who seems to have an enormous amount of inside information and knowledge?’

He nodded towards Snare, whose reluctance at the instructions he had been given that night was growing with the objections from the other people in the room.

‘The meetings are always arranged by telephone. They’ve only ever met at crowded railway stations. And they’ll part immediately after the Fabergé robbery, just as they separated directly after the Brighton bank robbery. Packer can talk for as long as he likes and it won’t matter a damn. He’s a villain, with a list of previous convictions. Which is exactly why we chose him. We’ve even ensured that during the bank robbery he drank from a mug which was left behind, so there will be saliva contrasts for blood type identification. He’ll be sufficient for the police, especially when they’ll be able to return most of the property. Why can’t you accept that there is nothing that can go wrong?’

‘Because I’m not convinced it’s that easy,’ said Smith. He hesitated, then added quietly: ‘So I won’t agree with it.’

Wilberforce stared back expressionlessly at the other Director. He hadn’t expected an outright refusal.

Smith stood up, feeling he had to emphasise his reasons.

‘Not only is it dangerous,’ he said, ‘it’s stupid. Because it’s unnecessary.’

‘I don’t really see that there’s a great deal you can do to stop it,’ pointed out Wilberforce objectively. It was unfortunate he had to be quite so direct, he thought. In many ways, Smith’s growing condescension reminded him of his wife. At least, he decided, he’d be able to make Smith express his regret, later on.

For several moments, the two Directors stared at each other and Wilberforce imagined the American was going to argue further. Then Onslow Smith jerked his head towards Ruttgers.

‘Let’s go,’ he said.

As the men walked to the door of the huge office, Wilberforce called out: ‘I do hope that you’re not severing our co-operation on this matter.’

Smith halted, looking back.

‘It was not I who ended the co-operation,’ he said.

Neither American spoke until they had settled in the back of the waiting limousine and were heading towards Grosvenor Square.

‘We going ahead by ourselves?’ asked Ruttgers, expectantly.

‘We bring men in,’ agreed Smith. ‘A lot more than were with you in Zürich.’

‘Why?’

Smith didn’t answer immediately.

‘Wilberforce is a sneaky son of a bitch,’ he said, after several minutes’ thought. ‘I’m not going to get our asses in any snare he’s laying for us.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘Even when you can control the civil police, as Wilberforce can within limitations on a thing like this, a killing is still a killing. I’m not making a move against Charlie Muffin until I’m convinced that Wilberforce isn’t setting us up.’

‘More delays,’ moaned Ruttgers bitterly. ‘We’re giving the bastard a chance.’

‘But we’re not making any mistakes,’ said Smith. He’d already made too many, imagining there was safety in letting Wilberforce take the lead. It was time, thought Smith, that he started looking after himself. And that was what he was going to do.

Back in the Whitehall office, Cuthbertson stared at the Director’s desk he had once occupied.

‘They forgot to take the money with them,’ he said.

‘They’ll be back,’ said Wilberforce confidently.

Contacting Rupert Willoughby by telephone, instead of going personally either to his flat or City office, was probably a useless precaution, decided Charlie. But it might just reduce the danger to the younger man. So it was worth while. It was right he should feel guilt at compromising Sir Archibald’s son, he knew.

‘Warn me?’ queried the underwriter.

‘The robbery must mean they’ve found me,’ said Charlie. ‘It’s very easy for the department to gain access to bank account details. If they’re aware of the meetings between us, they’ll know the £50,000 inheritance has been moved from deposit. And probably guessed the other money came from me, as well.’

‘Couldn’t the robbery just be a coincidence?’

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

‘It’s a guaranteed way to get me back here … where they can do what they like, when they like and in circumstances over which they’ll have most control.’

‘Christ,’ said Willoughby softly.

Very soon, thought Charlie, the man would appreciate it really wasn’t a game.

‘I’ve already had to involve you,’ apologised Charlie. ‘I’ve had to make a statement to the police and I gave you as a business reference.’

‘They’ve already contacted me,’ confirmed Willoughby. ‘I think I satisfied them.’

Law was very thorough, Charlie decided.

‘Thank you,’ he said.

‘I had little choice, did I?’ said Willoughby.

The attitude was changing, recognised Charlie.

‘What are you going to do?’ asked the underwriter.

‘I don’t understand enough to do anything yet,’ said Charlie. He stopped, halted by a thought If Wilberforce were the planner, he’d get perverse enjoyment moving against the son of the man he considered had impeded his promotion in the department.

‘Has anything happened to you in the last few weeks that you regard as strange?’ Charlie continued. ‘Any unusual business activity?’

There was a delay at the other end of the line, while the man searched his memory.

‘No,’ said Willoughby finally.

‘Sure?’

‘Positive. Whatever could happen?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘You’re not very encouraging,’ protested Willoughby.

‘I’m not trying to be. I’m trying to be objective.’

‘What should I do?’ asked the underwriter.

‘Just be careful,’ said Charlie. ‘They’re bastards.’

‘Shouldn’t you be the one taking care?’

Charlie grimaced at the question. Wilberforce was using him like a laboratory animal, he thought suddenly, goading and prodding to achieve an anticipated reaction. When laboratory tests were over, the animal was usually killed. When, he wondered, would Wilberforce’s experiment end?

‘I am,’ promised Charlie, emptily.

‘When are we going to meet?’

‘We’re not,’ said Charlie definitely.

‘Let’s keep in touch daily, at least.’

The concern was discernible in the man’s voice.

‘If I can.’

‘My father always said there was one thing particularly unusual about you, Charlie. He said you were an incredible survivor,’ recalled Willoughby.

But usually he’d known from which way the attack was coming, thought Charlie. Willoughby had meant the remark as encouragement, he recognised. To which of them? he wondered.

‘I still am,’ he said.

‘I hope so,’ said the underwriter.

‘So do I,’ said Charlie. ‘So do I.’