For the Good of the State

by Anthony Price

  The front door was open, and he could see Audley himself in the porch, talking to one of the drivers, who had an Ordnance Survey map in his hand.

  ‘Not outside, sir—if you don’t mind,’ said the plain-clothes man as Tom gestured to Mrs Audley, after he had just failed to stop her husband.

  Tom dearly wanted to hear what Audley was saying, but there were limits to what he could achieve, with another Special Branch man — the sergeant, no less — striding towards him now.

  ‘Mrs Audley—’ He had promised her to keep his eye on her husband, and he couldn’t escape her now.

  ‘Sir Thomas.’ Unlike her daughter, she wasn’t whistling. But she was still chin-up. ‘I thank you, for all your help.’

  The sergeant coughed politely, and offered him a completely-holstered Smith and Wesson, with the good grace to be embarrassed in front of Audley’s family.

  ‘Thank you, Sergeant.’ What made it worse was that he would have to put the damn thing on here and now—what the devil was Audley doing, pointing to the map, when he didn’t even know where he was going? — because the other SB certainly wouldn’t let him outside carrying it like a pound of sausages.

  ‘Let me hold your coat, Sir Thomas,’ said Faith Audley.

  ‘And I’ll hold the other—’ Cathy Audley seized the weapon and its harness before anyone could stop her while Tom himself was trying to catch what Audley was saying. So all he could do was to give his coat to the wife and recover ‘the other’ as quickly as he could, but much too late for his peace of mind.

  ‘Ah!’ Audley returned to them, eyeing him critically as he put his coat on again. ‘ “Arma virumque cano”—“forced by fate, and haughty Juno’s unrelenting hate” … But I fear it would break your tailor’s heart—it doesn’t sit at all well under that good worsted, Tom. Makes you look like a soldier from Chicago, rather than a soldier of the Queen—what d’you think, love?’

  ‘I think you’re being your usual self, David,’

  ‘There now!’ Audley plainly couldn’t see that his attempt to lighten the occasion was only making it worse. ‘All the sympathy she can spare from herself, she freely gives to you, Tom. Which is probably not a lot.’

  The sergeant coughed again. ‘If you would care to sign for the … equipment, Sir Thomas. And we would like it back when you’ve finished with it, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘Well, love … ’ Audley drew a deep breath ‘ … after we’ve made ourselves scarce the sergeant here will take you both to your mother’s. And he’ll leave a man with you, just for form’s sake … And he’ll also leave someone here too, just to mind the silver—you do know how the burglar alarm works, don’t you, Sergeant?’

  ‘Yes, Dr Audley.’ The sergeant recovered his requisition form.

  ‘Thank you.’ The weight of The Thing reminded Tom how much he hated guns. But it would never do to admit that he didn’t want to start with it, never mind finish. But what he wanted to do most of all was to get at the police driver whom Audley had briefed. ‘Mrs Audley—’

  ‘Sir Thomas—’ She wanted to say more. But at least they both knew what couldn’t be said ‘—perhaps we shall see you again some time? I gather my husband was at Cambridge with your mother—?’ That was the most she could manage.

  ‘Yes—yes, I’m sure we shall … in much more agreeable circumstances.’ That was all he could manage in reply. ‘Miss Audley—’ But he had to do better in her case, so he patted the Chicago bulge before he offered her his hand in farewell‘—goodbye, Miss Audley.’

  Miss Audley opened her mouth, but then she caught her mother’s eye and all the things she wanted to say remained mercifully unsaid, so she didn’t say anything at all by way of farewell.

  ‘I’ll see you in the car, David.’ He transferred his serious smile from the daughter back to the mother without looking at Audley, disliking himself for taking the credit for his delicacy when all he really wanted to do was to talk to the police driver outside.

  Outside, there were visible evidences of Limejuice, in the form of his own car now very close to the door, sandwiched between two police cars, and with armed men on the gravel beyond who were not in the least interested in him.

  The man he wanted must be in the lead car—

  ‘What was that you were discussing with Dr Audley?’

  ‘Sir?’ The driver blinked at him, then recovered. ‘Dr Audley was giving me a route to the main road, sir.’

  ‘Yes?’ That was logical, because Audley obviously knew the country roads in his own territory. But then so did the police driver. ‘Show me.’

  ‘Show—?’ The urgency of the order overrode the man’s surprise, and he reached for the same map which he had consulted in the porch. ‘We’re here, sir—’ he crinkled the map towards Tom and stabbed it with a blunt competent finger ‘—and we go as far as … there, sir. Right?’

  There was out of the spider’s-web of minor roads around Steeple Horley, along a main road. But it was well to the west of the direct line towards London, which Audley should have presumed was his direction—unless he knew better … But he bloody-well couldn’t know better—could he?

  And there was something else, by God! ‘As far as you go?’

  The man looked questioningly at him. ‘As far as you want us to go with you, sir … is what I meant … sir?’ He wasn’t sure now if he’d got it right.

  ‘Ah … yes.’ Tom nodded, and straightened up. If that was where Audley wanted to go, then it suited him very well, because it gave them good access to the westward motorway, so there was no need to countermand it. And once they were on that main road their escort would be superfluous, anyway.

  But now he heard the front door slam behind him. So the old man—once Mamusia’s young man, but his old man now—the old man, who knew where he wanted to go—had made his proper untearfully stiff-upper-lipped farewells, and they were going at last. But now going, it seemed, to two different destinations—

  ‘Well, thank God for that!’ Audley stretched the seat-belt wide with relief, and then fumbled incompetently but quite happily to find its anchorage.

  ‘You don’t mind abandoning your family?’ Tom slammed him back into his seat with a clear conscience as the car ahead accelerated: the rule was to keep tight and fast, risking collision rather than a three-second clear shot for any potential sniper along the way; but it was Audley who was taking him for a ride now, not vice versa, anyway.

  ‘Not in the very least—quite the opposite!’ Audley let the strap wind itself up again. ‘The further I am away from them, the safer they are—huh!’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘Huh!’ Audley settled back comfortably. ‘Having a large policeman in the house—in my esteemed mother-in-law’s house … that’ll poach the old haybag to rights, by God!’ He twisted suddenly towards Tom. ‘In fact, I do her an injustice: she’s a dear old bird—and a tough one, too … But having a policeman there will flatter her, so she won’t quarrel with her daughter, she’ll be too busy making him endless cups of tea, and generally making his life a misery—’ He concentrated on Tom ‘—or … what would your dear mother do, if she suddenly found a large policeman in her parlour, because of you—?’

  The car in front swung out of the drive into the road, much too fast for safety and taking Tom by surprise until he saw the uniformed man who was waving them on. ‘I’ve never bothered her that way, David.’

  ‘No? Mmm … ’ Audley trailed off, evidently summoned again by rose-tinted recollections of his undergraduate past. ‘Mmm … ’

  Well—damn his memories! ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘Where—?’ A particularly deep pot-hole in the uneven surface of the road helped to shake the old man out of his temps perdu. ‘Ah … now, I was meaning to tell you about that. A minor detour, no more.’

  There was no point in protesting. ‘Yes?’

  ‘I should have told you.’ Audley suddenly sounded contrite. ‘It was remiss of me—I’m sorry, Tom.’

  ‘It’s okay.’
The trouble was, contrition didn’t suit the man, it just wasn’t his style; which, if it was because of those ancient memories, would very soon become irritating if it wasn’t nipped in the bud at once.

  ‘It’s hardly out of your way. We can still pick up the London road … oh, in just a mile or two from there.’ Audley got in before he could start nipping. ‘We may even save time, in the end.’

  Unless the old liar had discovered a shorter line between two points than a straight one, they were going in very nearly the opposite direction, that was the truth of it. ‘Just tell me what the hell we’re doing, David.’

  ‘Yes.’ Audley’s meekness was as bad as his contrition. ‘Well … we’re going to talk to someone—someone I need to talk to. So when we get to the main road … we bear left there, until we come to the Three Pigeons—which is a big pub with coloured lights … ’

  Left would be even further to the west, or at least north-west. ‘Yes?’

  ‘And then, about five miles further on … there’s another pub—just by the church … the Bear and Ragged Staff. You turn sharp left there.’

  That would be due-bloody-west. Which was fine for Nikolai Andrievich Panin, who would probably be already within sight of the Bristol Channel by now, speeding down the M5. But for a man who ought to presume that he was going to London it was a bad joke.

  ‘Yes?’ Tom stifled the temptation to ask Audley whether he habitually navigated across England from pub to pub, with the occasional church thrown in.

  ‘Yes.’ Audley nodded. ‘It really will save us time. And maybe not time alone, Tom.’

  ‘Yes?’ But pubs didn’t matter. What mattered more was … who the hell did Audley want to see, who mattered more than Panin, who wanted to meet him so urgently on Exmoor?

  And, come to that—Exmoor! Because the Russian would have needed Foreign Office dispensation to go so far. But—never mind the Foreign Office!—he would have required Moscow Centre dispensation too, to swan off into the far unexplored West of England, to meet his old friend, and Mamusia’s—

  ‘I’ll tell you where to go then. But it’s only a step or two from there.’

  A step or two to the west, near another pub? The Red Lion, or the Eight Bells, or the Vine, or the George and Dragon—or the Old Castle, where even now, in a better world, Tom Arkenshaw ought to have been drinking champagne cocktails with Miss Wilhemina Groot, in the privacy of the bridal suite? Bloody hell!

  ‘Who are we going to see then, David?’ He thrust Willy out of his mind, back to London where Audley thought he was going, but wasn’t.

  ‘Ah … ’ Audley jerked forward as the police car in front illuminated its hazard lights, ahd then slowed; and then signalled left, as it drew aside on to the grass verge by the side of the road. ‘You go ahead here, Tom.’

  Tom drove ahead into the first beginnings of evening, unsure whether he was glad or sorry as he lost sight of the flashing lights behind him. He didn’t know where he was, because he’d never castle-hunted seriously in Hampshire. Somewhere to the north of this, or more like north-east, Henry of Blois had thrown up one of his 1138 strongpoints at Farnham, certainly. And there were other 1138 ‘illegals’ at Waltham and Wolvesey. But he couldn’t place either of them on the map in his head. Yet—much more to the point—the A34 Winchester to Oxford road couldn’t be far ahead, and that would take him fast to the westward-bound M4 and M5.

  But it was no use fretting (Farnham was an interesting site, which he’d always intended to measure: the motte there had been revetted with a buttressed shell-wall allegedly comparable with the Crusaders’ keep at Acre in Israel; although that hadn’t prevented good old Henry Plantagenet from demolishing it in 1155). He was going to be late, bringing them together, but that wasn’t his fault—so it was no good fretting.

  ‘You were saying, David—?’ The brief intrusion of Henry of Blois and Henry Plantagenet, eventual Lord of England, Wales, Ireland and two-thirds of France, and of their great works, restored his sense of proportion, as always: the two Henrys, and David Audley and Nikolai Panin and Tom Arkenshaw, and all the ants in all the ant-hills, engaged in great works. But it would all be the same in the end—always the only question was sooner or later?

  ‘Yes.’ Audley had been quite content for him to go ahead in search of the bright lights of the Three Pigeons public house. ‘Did you ever meet Basil Cole? Or was he before your time?’ Once committed, Audley perked up. ‘Probably not, even if he wasn’t. Because he worked for Fawcett—Victor Fawcett—? Who worked for “Digger” Wilmot … I don’t think he was still in post when that clever bugger Jaggard came into his inheritance.’

  Tom felt Audley’s eyes on him as he searched in vain for bright lights ahead. ‘No.’ But if they were into name-dropping, he’d better drop one or two. ‘ “Digger” Wilmot took me on—he was at school with my father. And I’ve met Henry Jaggard since, of course.’ That was the truth—even if it was the truth naked and ashamed. ‘But I work for Frobisher, David.’

  ‘Yes. And he approves of you, too.’ Audley spoke derisively. But, to give him the benefit of the doubt, that might be because he didn’t wish to patronize Danny Dzieliwski’s son too obviously. ‘At least, that’s what he gave Jack Butler to understand. He says you’re a straight-shooter—is that true?’

  There were lights ahead. And, because Jaggard had obviously foreseen that Audley would never obey orders exactly, it was so much the opposite of the truth that he couldn’t bring himself to give it a straight lie. ‘Not with that damn thing they gave me, David.’ He felt the discomfort of the police Smith and Wesson, and remembered that he had lied to Cathy Audley too. ‘If we meet your sniper again, for God’s sake don’t rely on me—I’ll most likely shoot myself in the foot.’

  ‘Hah!’ Audley chuckled, but then pointed suddenly. ‘Turn left by the pub—see the sign?’

  Tom hadn’t time to read the sign, only to see that the road was empty behind as they swerved into a narrow side-road. So now, even if there was an unmarked police car behind them, it would end up heading for Winchester and disappointment.

  ‘I had a driver in Normandy—he was a damn good driver, too … He tried to shoot himself through the foot … purely by accident, you understand … ’

  Now they really were lost, thought Tom. Except that there was a church and another pub somewhere ahead now.

  ‘Not that I blame him. We were in the bocage, you see—’ Audley sat back, oblivious to his surroundings, as Tom strained in the half-light to see where he was going ‘—because I have three nightmares in my old age … One is of taking examinations, on subjects about which I know damn-all … But the other is about the bocage—every two or three years some damn fool asks me to go back to Normandy, to meet the old people whose houses we demolished, and the priests—I demolished a church in Normandy. That was probably my main contribution to winning the war—demolishing a church at point-blank range with 75-millimetre HE.’ Audley nodded. ‘It’s quite simple: you just knock the corners out, and the tower falls into the chancel then, with a bit of luck—’ Another nod ‘—and it was a fine old Norman church too, mine was, I think.’ Sniff. ‘There was a sniper in the tower, who’d just shot a friend of mine. He must have been a brave bastard!’ Pause. ‘There’s our church—do you see it?’

  ‘Yes.’ Tom caught a glimpse of a squat tower.

  ‘He missed me.’ Audley dismissed all churches from the conversation. ‘We were the last surviving tank in the troop, that night. And my driver also missed his foot.’

  The church came into view. And there, sure enough, was another pub. So turn sharp left now—

  ‘Shot himself in the boot instead—missed his toes by a whisker.’ Another nod. ‘So we didn’t have to court-martial him, thank God!’

  They passed the pub, which Tom thought looked uncommonly inviting, now that the light inside it was stronger than the evening blue outside.

  ‘So he was killed later on, after I’d left the regiment.’ Audley shook his head. ‘But … Basil Cole
, I was asking—?’

  There was still a third nightmare outstanding, in Audley’s old age. But Basil Cole, who had worked for Victor Fawcett, in some Old Testament progression—Someone begat Someone, and Someone-Else begat Someone-Else—was more important than Audley’s nightmares, from the Normandy bocage of forty years ago. Only, what mattered now on the darkening road was that they were only ‘a step or two’ from where Audley wanted to go. ‘Basil Cole—?’

  ‘Yes.’ Audley rallied under pressure. ‘ “Old King Cole”— you’ll like him, Tom.’ Chuckle. ‘Drunken old bugger!’

  Drunken old bugger? thought Tom. ‘Basil Cole?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’ Audley sounded sure of himself now. ‘It was Old King Cole who sounded the early warning signals on Burgess and Maclean, before you were born—even almost before I was born, professionally speaking … Why are you slowing down?’

  ‘I caught a glimpse of a church, I thought. Up ahead.’

  ‘You did?’ Audley sat up, then gestured irritably. ‘Go on, go on!’

  The church came into view. If Basil Cole dated from the early days of Burgess and Maclean then ‘Old King Cole’ was right, thought Tom. ‘Here’s the church, David.’

  ‘I said a church and a pub. I see no pub. You just drive— I’ll tell you when. Okay?’

  Tom accelerated. What he had to get used to was crossing England from pub to pub. ‘Okay.’

  ‘Okay. So … where was I? Go on, man—don’t dawdle … ’

  ‘You said Basil Cole was a drunken old bugger.’

  ‘Is—not was.’ Audley corrected him. ‘So they put him out to grass eventually—Fawcett did. Gave him his wooden foil and niggardly pension. Fortunately his wife had a bit of money—nice woman. But hardly enough to keep him in his favourite tipple, you see.’

  Tom didn’t see. But he needed to keep his eyes open for the next pub, so he decided not to admit it.

  ‘And that was where my old boss came in—I take it that he will not be unknown to you, Tom?’

  ‘Sir Frederick Clinton.’ Clinton was the near-legendary architect of Research and Development. ‘Colonel Butler’s predecessor?’