Bernard shook his head. ‘It isn’t what I want, or what you want, Kenny. It’s what Rosie wants.’
‘And what may that be?’ said Kenny.
‘To have you for a husband.’
‘Don’t give me that patter, Bernard. She hates me.’
‘No she doesn’t. She’s hurt and confused. In a sense her father means nothing to her. Heck, she can’t even remember him. On the other hand she wants to meet him and see for herself what…’
‘This has nothing to do with Manone,’ Kenny interrupted.
‘It has a lot to do with Manone,’ said Bernard. ‘It has a lot to do with Harker, Frank Conway or whatever you like to call him. All right, I’ll tell you.’
Kenny sat up, raising the upper part of his body.
Bernard went on, ‘It’s an international conspiracy – no, don’t laugh: it is. I know it seems pretty bizarre to say so but we’re at the sharp end of a Nazi plot.’
‘Go on.’
‘Manone and Harker are in it up to their ears. It started somewhere in Germany and moved to America. Carlo Manone was brought in. He got Dominic involved. Harker’s the middle-man, the manager.’
‘Who told you all this? Dominic?’
‘God, no!’
‘Polly?’
‘I’ve seen with my own eyes what they’re up to.’
‘What are they up to, Bernard?’
‘Don’t you know?’
‘No, I don’t.’
‘Not much of a detective, are you?’
‘Detective enough to suspect that it’s a spy ring,’ said Kenny.
‘The spy ring’s out of your reach.’
‘But Harker and Manone aren’t?’
‘Exactly.’
Kenny was still sitting bolt upright like a woodland animal that has caught the scent of danger. ‘Flint, Manone, Lombard, Harker,’ he murmured. ‘They’re funding this spy ring, aren’t they?’
‘Yes.’
‘How?’
‘First I want some guarantees.’
‘I told you, Bernard. I don’t deal.’
‘Not even for Rosie’s sake?’
‘I can’t protect Rosie now,’ Kenny said. ‘Much as I love her she’s just going to have to take what’s coming. I don’t mean to sound harsh but this – this thing is far too important to let personal feelings get in the way. I thought you were a patriot, Bernard.’
‘I’m a husband and father first.’
‘Oh, how gallant!’ Kenny said, sarcastically.
‘If we play our cards right,’ Bernard said, ‘we can collar the agents. I don’t know where they are or who they are or how valuable the information the Germans will glean from them might be, but I do know that Manone’s supplying them with money and at a guess I’d say Harker and Flint are distributing it.’
‘How much money are we talking about? Thousands?’
‘Millions, more like.’
‘Dominic Manone doesn’t have millions.’
‘He will have,’ said Bernard, ‘very soon.’
Kenny let his body slide in the wooden-armed chair. He was tempted to put his feet on the desk as Inspector Winstock had done in times of stress. Instead he shifted his weight on to his spine and stretched his long legs under the desk.
He was pleased, still puzzled but pleased none the less. He had lied to Bernard, of course. He knew a lot more than he had let on, enough to recognise that Bernard was telling the truth. He had read Fiona’s carefully assembled clippings and typed translations, Winstock’s scant correspondence with the Home Office, Harker’s file from the FBI in America; enough, quite enough to have a picture of what was happening and how Manone fitted into it. Now Bernard had given him the key.
‘If you make me one promise, Kenny, I’ll tell you what Manone’s got in hand and where you can find all the evidence you’ll need to make your case.’
‘What promise?’
‘I want you to handle it personally and discreetly, without whistling up forty coppers and a Black Maria,’ Bernard said. ‘If you plan this properly, Kenny, you can cop the lot, not just Harker, Flint and Manone but the agents down south. That’s what your superiors want, isn’t it? They want the spy ring broken before it has a chance to leak information back to Adolf.’
‘All right, Bernard,’ Kenny said. ‘You’ve made your point.’
‘I need a promise,’ Bernard said. ‘Your promise.’
‘I’ll do my best. I can’t promise more than that.’
‘They’re printing counterfeit notes off damned-near perfect plates.’
‘Ah!’ Kenny exclaimed. ‘Ah-hah!’
‘I know where the press is. I can take you there.’
‘When?’ Kenny said.
‘Soon,’ Bernard said. ‘Soon, but not just yet.’
‘Why not now? Why not today?’
‘Because they haven’t start printing yet,’ Bernard said. ‘And if they haven’t start printing then they haven’t started distributing and the agents are safely tucked away and you’ll never lure them out into the open.’
For half a minute Kenny said nothing. What Bernard proposed made sense. If he could somehow tempt the agents into the open then Scotland Yard or Home Office hard nuts could pick them up one by one. Money was the bait, the money that Manone had been commissioned to print and Harker to distribute.
‘All right,’ Kenny said.
‘All right – what?’ said Bernard.
‘I’ll go along with you,’ Kenny said. ‘I’ll give you a week.’
‘It’ll take a lot longer than that,’ Bernard said. ‘I’ll tell you when.’
‘When?’ said Kenny. ‘When what?’
‘When the machines are up and running and Harker’s ready for the drop.’
‘Red-handed,’ Kenny said, nodding. ‘Of course.’
‘Do we have a de … an agreement, Sergeant MacGregor?’
‘I believe we do, Mr Peabody,’ Kenny said. ‘Yes, I do believe we do.’
* * *
Polly could not decide whether it was sentiment or convenience that motivated Dominic to take her to lunch at Goodman’s Restaurant.
It had been years since she last she’d eaten there but she hadn’t forgotten that it was in Goodman’s that Dominic had advanced his courtship, in Goodman’s that they had celebrated their anniversaries. Three or four years ago the tradition had lapsed. No reason for it, no decision made to let it go. It had simply withered and faded away. He had taken her elsewhere – to Braggio’s, to Brown’s, to the Delphic – but never again to Goodman’s.
Over lunch they talked business. He imparted a little of Victor Shadwell’s history, more about Carfin Hughes, men whom Dominic trusted and admired.
He told her that the importation of manufactured goods and comestibles from Italy had been seriously affected by the threat of war and warehouse profits had dropped alarmingly. He outlined his arrangements for collecting untaxed ‘interest’ from Clyde coast café owners and explained how in exchange for monthly pay-offs – sums fixed regardless of profits – he provided security and, if asked, loans for expansion. He talked of his share in a plant for making ice-cream and his holding in Bonskeet’s, presented her with a steady stream of facts and figures that, for the most part Polly found quite comprehensible.
It wasn’t until they were driving back to Manor Park, however, that she put the questions that had been troubling her all afternoon.
She began tentatively, almost innocently.
‘Does Tony make the collections from the Clyde coast clients?’
‘He did. Charley Fraser does it now.’
They drove on through sunlight and barred shadow.
‘Are all these clients listed?’ Polly said.
‘Victor Shadwell keeps a special ledger. You can see it if you wish.’
‘Is Jackie’s name in it?’ Polly asked.
‘Jackie? Oh, you mean the salon: no, that’s recorded elsewhere.’
‘Who “collects” from Jackie?’
‘No one. He
’s family.’
‘I see,’ Polly said.
The interior of the car was warm. She had drunk wine at lunch. She was unusually aware of the luxury that surrounded her; leather and walnut wood, box-cloth, silk against her skin, the aroma of Dominic’s cigar, his soft, unmuscular body nestling beside her. Approaching mid-life now, he looked smooth and comfortable, almost too comfortable to be real.
‘Are you really thinking of making a run for it?’ she said.
‘I didn’t say I was making a run for it.’
‘Going away. You said “going away”.’
‘For a time. If I have to.’
‘What will be the deciding factor?’
‘What happens next.’
‘Oh, Dominic, for God’s sake!’ she said, not crossly. ‘Stop being so damned enigmatic. Why won’t you tell me everything?’
‘In case you let something slip.’
‘Slip? To whom?’
‘Kenny MacGregor,’ Dominic told her. ‘Bernard.’
‘Bernard?’
‘Tony, possibly.’
He steered the big car through a welter of afternoon traffic, seated well forward, the wheel close to his chest. She thought of Tony who drove casually almost indifferently, bossing the rest of the traffic on the road. She felt safer with Tony at the wheel.
‘I thought Tony knew everything that goes on?’ she said.
‘He doesn’t,’ Dominic said.
‘You have secrets from him too?’
‘Sure. He has secrets from me, doesn’t he?’
‘I wouldn’t know,’ said Polly. ‘I am, after all, quite new to the game.’
She waited for his challenge, a word, a hint that he had learned of her affair. All he needed to do was glance at her and say ‘Are you?’ with just the right amount of inflexion, but he gave her nothing, nothing at all.
After a few moments, she said, ‘Where will you go if you do leave Glasgow?’
‘I don’t know yet.’
‘America?’
‘Not to Philly, not to my father, no.’
‘Would he not make you welcome?’
‘I doubt it,’ Dominic said.
‘Italy then?’
‘Not Italy either.’
‘Where?’
He adjusted position, pulled himself closer to the wheel.
‘That, Polly,’ he said, ‘is not something you need to know.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me that my father was alive?’
He came back at her at once. ‘Why didn’t you tell me you were negotiating with John Flint to take over my business?’
‘It wasn’t a negotiation, not quite.’
‘You worried them.’
‘Good,’ said Polly. ‘I take it you mean my father as well as Flint?’
‘Your father is dangerous.’
‘I think I’d rather worked that out for myself.’
‘He doesn’t want to see you, or your mother, or any of you.’
‘I guessed that too. Sad, isn’t it?’
‘Depends on how you look at it,’ said Dominic. ‘I didn’t tell you, Polly, for the simple reason that I didn’t feel it would benefit you.’
‘No,’ she said. ‘I understand.’
‘If it hadn’t been for that damned interfering aunt of yours…’
Polly laughed, a small sound. ‘Janet, Janet having her revenge.’
‘I’m sorry about your mother,’ Dominic said. ‘And Rosalind.’
‘And I’m sorry I disappointed you by talking with Flint.’
‘I admit it wasn’t what I expected of you,’ Dominic said.
‘Oh, but you expected – something?’
‘Hmmm.’
‘What?’
The car turned into the Avenue. Trees were showing green, new leaves trembling in the breeze from the river. Tulips had replaced daffodils in the border beds and a gang of eight or ten labourers were digging a trench behind the Ibrox gate. She didn’t have to ask what the labourers were doing; signs of preparation for war had become too numerous to be remarkable.
She touched Dominic’s sleeve, said again, ‘What?’
Thirty yards from the gateposts of the mansion, from home, Patricia walked along the pavement, flanked by Stuart and Ishbel. Holding on to the girl’s hands, Polly’s children chatted and skipped happily. The girl looked fresh and confident and – loving: yes, loving, Polly thought, more motherly and loving than she had ever been. When war came Patricia would probably leave to take care of orphans or evacuees or load shells into boxes in a munitions factory; any sort of work was more useful than being paid to mother the children of a woman who was too selfish to mother them herself.
The car sped on down the avenue past the children, past the house. Looking back, Polly saw her son lift his hand in an uncertain wave and then lower it again.
‘That was the children,’ she said. ‘Didn’t you see them?’
‘I saw them,’ Dominic said.
Dominic steered around the long corner of the park, brought the car in against the kerb and braked to a halt. He switched off the engine.
‘Dominic, what are you doing?’
He reached out a gloved hand, drew her gently to him and kissed her mouth.
‘Listen,’ he said, ‘I want to tell you this. Whatever happens, I have not deserted you. I love you, Polly. I always have and I always will and, no matter what, I’ll come back for you. Do you understand?’
‘Yes,’ Polly said.
‘Do you believe me?’
‘Yes,’ Polly said again and for no particularly urgent reason began to cry.
* * *
It was late in the afternoon and Tony had been drinking steadily since lunch-time. He was propped in the attic window and not even the stiff little breeze that twisted over the pine trees managed to keep him alert.
The telescope nodded in his hands and his ear, resting against the window frame, was numb. If the guy had shown up five or ten minutes later Tony may not have noticed him at all. He wasn’t drunk though, not even tipsy, just sleepy enough to be inattentive so that the man was in the yard before he spotted him.
Tony opened his eyes, rubbed a hand over his chin then, snapping wide awake, shouted, ‘You. Stop right where you are,’ and fumbled for the rabbit gun.
‘What do you intend to do, Lombard? Shoot me?’ Bernard stood in the centre of the yard with his hands on his hips, overcoat billowing around him, hat tipped back from his face. ‘Is that what the boss ordered you to do, to shoot me and put me out of my misery.’
‘What do you want here, Bernard?’
‘A wee quiet word, that’s all.’
‘Stay where you are.’
Tony closed the attic window, tossed aside the telescope and, with the rifle in both hands, made his way down the narrow stairs and out into the yard.
From the stables the sound of machinery was almost deafening, a fantastical clickety-clickety-clacking, like a gigantic knitting-machine. The wind accentuated it and carried it off in the direction of the roadway. There was no sign of Giffard, of course, and the racket in the stables would render him oblivious to any disturbance outside the thick stone walls.
Penny? Tony had no idea where Penny was; asleep maybe.
Bernard was waiting where Tony had left him, hands still planted on his hips. Easiest thing in the world to cock the loaded rifle, put a bullet through his chest and be rid of at least one complication. Plenty of places to hide a body too. Bury it among the trees or stuff it into one of the pits on the building site and cover it with earth and concrete.
‘Go ahead, Tony, waste a bullet if you really feel like it,’ Bernard said.
‘You’ve got some bloody nerve coming back here.’
Bernard showed no sign of fear. He jerked his head in the direction of the stables. ‘Has your tame printer got it working at last?’
‘None of your business,’ Tony said.
Where was Penny? Where the hell was the girl? He could toss her the rifle, tell her to d
o it. By God, she’d do it without turning a hair.
‘I want my whack,’ Bernard said.
‘What?’
‘You heard me, Mr Lombard. I want my share.’
Tony laughed uncertainly. ‘You’ve changed your tune.’
‘I’ve been thinking it over,’ Bernard said. ‘Rationally there’s no reason for me not to get in on it. I mean, I’m family, aren’t I?’
‘How much do you want to keep your trap shut?’
‘Fifty a week.’
‘Too much.’
‘Too much, when you’re producing twenty grand?’
‘We ain’t producing anything yet,’ Tony said.
‘Sounds to me like you are.’
‘That’s noise, just noise. Wanna see for yourself?’
‘No, I’ll take your word for it,’ Bernard said. ‘I assume that since you haven’t shot me dead Mr Manone hasn’t made up his mind what to do about me. Gone queasy, has he? Gone a little soft?’
‘Soft or not,’ Tony said, ‘he won’t give you fifty.’
‘Fifty,’ said Bernard. ‘Clean money. None of your counterfeit rubbish.’
‘Why don’t you talk to Dominic?’
‘I would if I could find him.’ Bernard looked past Tony and politely tipped his hat. ‘Perhaps your missus knows where he is?’
Penny was standing in the farmhouse doorway. She wore nothing but a bathrobe and a towel wrapped, turban-style, around her head. Her legs and feet were bare and she had the clean, athletic look that he, Tony, had begun to find more stimulating than any of the paraphernalia with which she teased him upstairs: just out of the bath she looked almost unspoiled.
He glanced behind him then, quickly, back at Bernard.
‘Dominic ain’t here. We haven’t seen him for days. Call him at the warehouse if you want to strike a deal.’
‘No,’ Bernard said. ‘You tell him what I’ve just told you. I’m not going to bother the boss with such a trivial matter as fifty quid a week. Heck, he can take that much from petty cash and never even miss it.’
‘Not these days,’ said Tony.
‘Don’t give me any sob stories.’ Bernard jerked his head in the direction of the stables once more. ‘You’ve got a money machine set up in there and as soon as it goes into production you’re all going to be wallowing in dough. The day that contraption starts to cough out cash I want fifty pounds in a plain brown envelope on my desk at Lyons and Lloyd’s.’
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