'Because my eye-witness is dead and buried. So I never got to dummy2
talk to — '
' What?' Ian gulped air.
'Hold on, lad!' Buller cut him short. 'At ninety-one years old she has a perfect right to be dead — and decently buried, too!
You don't need to blame me: it was pneumonia, after she broke her hip getting out of bed, an' fell over, see? An'. . . she was always gettin' up — they never could stop the old girl, that's what her daughter said . . . An' the daughter's nearer seventy now, than sixty . . . But she heard all the commotion, the old woman did, so she got out of 'er bed an' went to look
— see?'
The repetition of see? was maddening. 'You're saying, Reg ...
a ninety-one-year-old woman . . . saw Mitchell shoot O'Leary? At Thornervaulx — ?'
'She wasn't ninety-one then. She was . . . what's ninety-one minus eight?'
'Eighty-three.' Jenny answered automatically, before she could stop herself. 'You're pissing us around again, Mr Buller. And in our time.' She was beginning to get angry again. 'She was . . . bed-ridden. But she was an eye-witness.
And . . . now she's dead?'
'That's right — you got it, Lady.' No one could shrug off Jenny better than Reg Buller. But, then, no one but Reg Buller dared to shrug her off.
'Got what, Mr Buller?'
Buller half-grunted, half-sighed. 'Got the whole thing. The dummy2
story of your life an' mine — how we make a crust, an'
something to drink with it, between us. Like ... no matter 'ow clever they are, or 'ow careful . . . there's always somethin'
that they ' ave thought of. But it still scuppers 'em — see?'
Ian didn't see. And he knew that Jenny couldn't see, either.
But, in the next instant, he knew exactly what Reg Buller meant, all the same — in general as well as at Thornervaulx, on November 11, 1978: Sod's Law was out there, waiting for everyone.
'You've been to Thornervaulx?' When Jenny remained silent Reg simply nodded at her. 'A lot of old ruins, that Henry VIII knocked about a bit? Chucked out the old monks —
privatized the abbey, an' pinched all their savings . . . An' now they charge you a dollar to see what's left, all neat an' tidy.
An' half-a-dollar for the guide-book — right?'
Jenny wasn't meant to interrupt, and she didn't.
'You go up the steps, an' the path, from the car-park, by the road — by the "Thor Brook", the little river there — when you've paid your money, an' got your ticket... an' you never notice the cottages there, on the other side of the path, alongside the ruins.' Pause. 'Farm-labourers' cottages, they are — God knows how old . . . They're all listed as "historic buildings", because they're built with the stones from the old abbey, anyway. But no one notices 'em.'
There was a picture forming in Ian's head.
'So they were all there, that day.' Buller warmed to his own dummy2
story. 'It was pissing down with rain — it was a Saturday, an'
it was in November, an' it was pissin' down with rain. An'
then the cars started to arrive.' Pause. 'An' then they started to arrive — first Butler and Mitchell, an' Audley — Dr David Audley . . . an' some more.' Pause. 'An' the woman — 'er too, eventually.'
Ian opened his mouth, but then shut it tightly.
'An', of course, old "Mad Dog" was there too, somewhere . . .
Up on the hillside, in the bracken an' the trees — good cover there.' Pause. 'So he was there, too.' Pause. 'An' then a police car comes along, over the bridge — soundin' 'is siren, the silly bugger, just to show off.' Pause. They will do it, 'owever much you tell 'em not to, when there's no need — silly bugger!'
'Why was Audley there?' The question burst out of Jenny as though she couldn't contain it.
'God knows.' Buller seemed to dismiss the question. 'It was Butler who was in charge. My bloke that I talked to first didn't know anything about Audley. Or about Mitchell, either . . . Never even got their names.' Pause. 'Good descriptions, though. An' from the old lady too, second hand . . . Bloody shame, that. But even second hand, she was good, though.' Pause. '"The bloke" in charge wore a deerstalker hat, an' carried a golfing umbrella, an' 'e 'ad freckles an' a red face" — how's that, then, for memory?'
Buller grinned. 'When it comes to mindin' other people's business, an' peering through the curtain, an' seein' strangers dummy2
up to no good, you can't beat a countrywoman — specially North Countrywomen. And they knew that, of course.'
'They?'
'The local cops. Maybe Butler, too — he's North Country, so he'd have known ... So, after it was all over, they went into the cottages an' put the fear of God into the women there.
The men an' the boys were all at the matches, see — there was the football and the rugby, it being a Saturday afternoon.
So there were only women an' girls home. An' the Police put
'em through it.'
'What did they want to know?'
'What they'd seen. Who they'd seen. Every last detail.' Buller drew a breath. 'Frightened the life out of 'em — twice. First time, it was a uniform man, Mrs Rowe said — Mrs Rowe being the old woman's daughter . . . But not their own local man. A senior officer, with lots of silver braid on his uniform, and talked posh. Then, later on, a civilian, with their own local bobby in attendance. Same questions . . . only he talked even more posh. An' he wore a beautiful suit, she remembered — Mrs Rowe did. Because she'd been in one of the mills in Bradford when she was a girl, so she knew good cloth when she saw it. I reckon the suit frightened her more than the man. But then, of course, she was already scared stiff by that time.'
'Why?' Jenny had decided to be chief questioner.
'Huh! Because she knew by then that she'd deceived 'em dummy2
something shocking the first time, Lady.' Buller chuckled grimly. 'She an' the old witch between 'em.'
'How?'
'She'd told 'em she hadn't seen anything. Just the police car, anyway . . . An' then a policeman had told her to stay indoors.
An' the wall by the cottage is too high to see right into the ruins from the ground-floor, anyway. So he half-believed her the first time. But even then they also told her not to speak to anyone — meaning the press, of course.'
'But she did see something — ?' Jenny frowned.
'No. She didn't see anything. But, when they asked her if there was anyone else in the house, she'd said "Only my old mum, who's ill in bed upstairs". An' then the bloke with all the silver braid went up an' checked, she said. An' that frightened her, too . . . But, of course, all he saw was a frail old lady with the sheet drawn up under her neck, pretending to be halfway to heaven. So that satisfied him, anyway.'
Buller chuckled again. 'Silly bugger!'
Ian recalled his own grandmother vividly to mind. 'She saw everything — from her bedroom window, Reg?'
'Near enough, lad. Near enough!' No chuckle this time.
'When the daughter went back up, after the silver-braid bloke had gone — she started to tell the old witch about him. But she didn't get far, before the old witch started to tell her . . .
near enough everything — aye!'
'And she didn't tell the second man — the man in the suit dummy2
— ?'
Buller sniffed. 'Too scared, she was.' Another sniff. The first one told her, if she'd not been telling the truth, or had withheld evidence, then she'd be in serious trouble. And her eldest boy was a prison officer, at Northallerton or somewhere then. So she thought he might get the sack, an'
lose his pension. So she stuck to her story, same as before.
An' fortunately the old girl was still in bed. So the whole story stuck, same as before.'
Sod's Law: no matter how clever you were, there was always something waiting to catch you by the heel. Frances Fitzgibbon's book had gathered dust in Mrs Champeney-Smythe's shelf, waiting for its moment. And now an old woman's eye-witness story had fo
und its moment too — even after the death of its eye-witness narrator.
'But she talked to you, Mr Buller — the daughter.'
'Ah, she did that, but 'appen I'm not a silly bugger in a uniform. An' my suit's Marks and Spencer, off the peg.'
And Philip Masson had been waiting also, in his shallow grave, for his moment, to catch someone — Audley?
Mitchell? Someone, anyway — by the heel —
'Very true, Mr Buller.' Jenny wasn't about to let Buller's arrogance remain unpunctured. 'But you also slipped her a few of those nice crisp banknotes you always keep, to loosen honest tongues? Which you charge to expenses.'
'The man with the freckled face had a golfing umbrella.'
dummy2
Buller cut his losses. 'Red, white an' blue ... or, red, green an'
white — that's what the old woman said . . . An' she'd never seen a golfing umbrella before. But the old witch 'ad a telescope to spy on people, an' a good memory. Because Sir Jack Butler, KBE, MC . . .'e's got ginger hair, an' a red-brick face, an' freckles. An 'e plays golf.'
'Yes?' Buller was making his point. But Jenny was after other game. 'What about Audley?'
'A big bugger. Like . . . her old man, who was long-dead . . .'e was Rugby League. So she said there was one of 'em built like
'im: six-foot an' more, with broad shoulders an' long legs, an'
a broken nose from way back — ?' Buller paused to let the next identification sink in. 'An' that's Audley, to the life, by all accounts.' Shorter pause. 'Rugby Union, 'e played — not Rugby League . . . But that's Audley.' Even shorter pause.
'But he was late: it was all over when he arrived. It was Butler first, with his umbrella — '
' Why?' Jenny snapped the question, before Buller could continue. 'What was he doing there?'
'Doing?' Buller gave a snort of derision. 'I'll tell you what he wasn't doing, Lady: he wasn't expecting to meet O'Leary.'
'Why not?'
'F — !' Buller swallowed the obscenity. 'If you were goin' to meet an IRA marksman . . . would you carry your golfing umbrella, to help him aim?' He let the thought sink in. 'An'
besides . . . Butler had been told to give O'Leary back to the dummy2
Anti-Terrorist Squad — an' the Special Branch — after the bomb at the University: it was them that were after O'Leary.
An' they thought he'd long gone, too.'
'You don't know why Butler was there?'
'Christ Almighty!' Buller simulated outrage. 'Twenty-four hours — thirty-six hours ... an' you expect me to know what British Intelligence was up to in 1978? An' not just MI5 — but Research and Development? An' not even MI5 knows what R
& D is up to, most of the time. Lady — you don't want much, do you!'
'I'm sorry, Mr Buller. I was just asking, not expecting.' Jenny recovered quickly. Tell me about Mitchell.'
'Yes.' Buller accepted the name, but stopped on his acceptance. Because 'Mitchell' wasn't just another name any more: he echoed distant gunfire now, and maybe more than that.
'He was with Audley?'
'No. Audley was late — I told you. The woman was with him.'
'Yes — of course! Ian's woman.' Jenny dismissed Frances Fitzgibbon once more. 'So ... Mitchell was there with Butler, was he?'
Ian's woman, thought Ian: in a curious way, that was what she had become now — just that. And the need to know more about her obsessed him again suddenly.
'Go on, Mr Buller.' Jenny's patience was beginning to stretch again. 'What — '
dummy2
'Tell me about the woman, Reg.' Ian overrode her. 'Mrs Fitzgibbon.'
'Ian! For heaven's sake!'
'Tell me about the woman, Reg.'
'Yes.' Buller ignored Jenny. '"Just a slip of a girl", the old witch said — Mrs Rowe said she said. A pretty little thing, too
— '
'She had good eye-sight, did she? At ninety-one?' snapped Jenny.
'Eighty-four. An' yes, she did.' Buller's voice strengthened.
'But I told you: she had this old telescope. An' she used to sit in her room, by the window, an' spy on everything — on all the people that came to visit the abbey ruins. Like, it was her hobby: see the coaches come over the narrow bridge, down the road, where they used to get stuck. An' then the kids climbin' on the ruins, an' their mothers pullin' 'em off an'
thumpin' 'em — ' He stopped suddenly. 'A pretty little thing.
An' she saw 'er first when the car came. Like a racin' car, slitherin' on the gravel in the car-park. An' out she comes like lightning — didn't even close the door after 'er, before she started runnin': that's what the old woman saw first, that took her eye — the way she went off runnin'.'
Buller paused there, and Ian thought for a moment that he was challenging Jenny to interrupt again. But Jenny didn't speak, and in the next instant he knew why — and why Buller had stopped, as the final picture he was painting for them in dummy2
words began to form again in his own mind — and to move, like a suddenly-animated film.
'It was rainin'.' Buller confirmed that second thought with extra information, to complete the picture. 'It 'ad been rainin'
all day, off an' on. So there 'adn't been any visitors much, before then. An' it was November, in any case.'
November 11. Next day, there would have been the Armistice Day Sunday parades, with everyone wearing their red poppies up and down the country, and the Queen televised at eleven o'clock, laying her wreath at the Cenotaph, before the veterans' march-past.
'An' then ... it was the way she ran.' Buller's voice was matter-of-fact, as it always was when he was totally-recalling what had been said to him. 'Like a boy, the old woman said: with
'er short hair, if she 'adn't noticed 'er skirt when she come out of the car, she'd 'ave thought it was a boy, when she ran up the path by the wall . . . Until she came out at the top, where you turn through the little gate into the ruins — remember?'
Buller was addressing Jenny, as one who knew what he was talking about, quite forgetting Ian now. So Ian had to build his own picture for himself, out of a jigsaw of other pieces, from other places, other ruins: Tintern and Bylands, Fountains and Rievaulx — all the old ruined abbeys . . . And Rievaulx for choice . . . because, hadn't there been cottages nearby there — ?
'You know, the old woman actually saw O'Leary — saw 'im?'
For an instant Buller's matter-of-factness became dummy2
incredulous. ''E must 'ave got there late — like Audley . . . Or, not like Audley. Because Audley would 'ave been VIP, an' 'alf the police in England was lookin' for O'Leary by then, so it wouldn't 'ave been easy for 'im, by Christ!' The next intake-of-breath was incredulity mixed with admiration. They must
'ave been payin' 'im premium rates, for whatever 'e was paid to do — even with all the escape disguises 'e'd got set up behind 'im. Because, 'e was really chancin' 'is arm, that last time — gettin' to Thornervaulx, over the top of the moor there . . . Silly bugger!'
'Yes.' Jenny weakened. 'But . . . what was he doing there, Mr Buller?' The logic strengthened her. 'It had to be Butler, surely — ?' Then doubt intruded. 'Or . . . whoever was meeting him there — ?'
'Aye. That's more likely. Because he must 'ave 'ad a clear shot at Butler — just about, anyway.' Buller sounded as though he'd been there before her, but was still uncertain. 'What about your Philip Masson, though?'
'No.' Jenny was decisive. 'Philly was out of the country that week. He was abroad — ' As she spoke her voice came from Buller to Ian ' — he was talking to the French in Paris. And he must have had all his R & D interviews by then. That's what I think, anyway.'
'So he'd got the job — deputy first ... an' then the gaffer, when Sir Frederick Clinton retired — ?' Buller stopped short, but just a shade too innocently.
dummy2
'I didn't say that.' Jenny also stopped there. Because the reality was that they had both been busy calling in their debts from their best sources — Jenny from her
friends, and
'Daddy's friends', or even from Daddy himself, while Buller had tapped his 'blokes' in Fleet Street, or the Special Branch, who owed him favours (and who hoped to owe him more in the future?); but, with John Tully dead, this was a situation neither of them would ever have faced before, anyway: with survival at stake, they both had more urgent imperatives.
'You know too much, Reg Buller,' said Jenny.
'Too much?' Buller snapped back at her. 'Lady — I don't know 'alf enough.' Deep breath. 'But Audley was in Washington too, that week — I do know that. So someone tipped 'im off that Butler was in trouble — right?'
'But he got there in time for the fun, all the same — right?'
Jenny still didn't know how much Reg Buller knew, but she wanted all he'd got.
In time for 'Mad Dog' O'Leary! thought Ian. But not in time for Frances Fitzgibbon. 'Mrs Fitzgibbon reached the ruins, Reg. She reached the ruins, Reg — ?'
' Ahh — ' Buller breathed out again, through the silence between his two questions ' — yes, she got there, lad — your
"slip of a girl" — yes! She came out there, at the top, through the gate — the gate, there — ?'
'Where was Mitchell then? Paul Mitchell — ?' Jenny's interest in the final picture still concentrated on Mitchell.
dummy2
'He was right there.' Buller agreed with her. 'He was up top, gawpin' about in the main part, under the hillside, where the high altar was, an' the big window at the end — the big round window they all admire — ? That's in all the postcards?'
'The rose window.' Jenny supplied the rest of the tourist information.
'That's right. But there isn't any glass in it now — '
' Reg!' He lost patience with Buller. 'What happened then?'
'It was all rather quick, lad.' Buller sniffed. 'Mitchell was there — coverin' Butler, most likely. An' Butler was there . . .
down in the lower part of the ruins, keepin' the rain off 'im, under 'is big umbrella. An' O'Leary — 'e came down the hillside, over the bracken, an' through the trees . . . An' she shouts at 'im — the woman does — '
'Shouts what?' Jenny burst out, suddenly abandoning Mitchell.
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