'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 — '
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