4
IAN FELT pleased with himself as he left the churchyard: pleased, first and foremost, because he was not being tailed (if he ever had been); but pleased, second and professionally, because it was just like old times, with the wind in his hair and the rain on his face; and he hadn’t lost all his own skills, when it came to the crunch (or, anyway, it wasn’t only Jenny who was lucky as well as smart!).
Although, to be honest with himself (and he could afford to be honest now, with all the hot-bath luxury of certainty), he had to give Reg Buller his due: Reg had not only zeroed-in on ‘Marilyn Francis’, but had added hard investigative graft and shoe-leather to his intuition to come up with British-American Electronics.
Odd though (he thought) that it had been British-American’s ‘Research and Development’ centre, of all its factories, which had recruited ‘Marilyn Francis’ as a temporary secretary all those years ago, out of nowhere: odd … or maybe not so odd now—?
Not so odd. And not out of nowhere—or, not quite nowhere, even after Reg had tracked down the agency which answered Brit-Am’s Rickmansworth factory’s temporary needs (Reg passing himself off as the pushy manager of another agency, offering his own ‘well-qualified young secretarial persons—we are registered with your local job-centre as a non-sexist, non-racial enterprise’—at competitive rates; and then Reg, having gleaned the name of Brit-Am’s favoured agency, suborning its personnel clerk somehow to let him look at her records … ).
That had been a dead end, in more ways than one: if she had ever lived (which she hadn’t), ‘Marilyn Francis’ would have been long dead, and quite reasonably purged from what were once the agency books, and now the agency computer. But, in any case, that had been more than offset by his outrageous (though deserved) bit of luck, in uncovering the single newspaper reference to ‘the dead girl, who worked for an electronics company in Rickmansworth, Hertfordshire’; which, significantly, had appeared only once (‘Someone didn’t get the message—some copper who’d looked in her bag like, early on, an’ didn’t know no better … See how it becomes just “A clerical worker on holiday from London” later on? I’ll bet they came down on him like a ton of bricks, poor bugger!’). And that had been enough for Reg (although anyone could have carried on from there, given time; just, Reg was quicker on the ball, as well as off the mark), and then, while he had still been acclimatizing to the prospect of having to dig out information for himself again, at the sharp end, instead of sitting in his ivory tower and putting it all together, Reg had automatically taken charge—
‘That inquest, up in Yorkshire, must ‘ave been fucking dodgey—evidence of identification, an’ getting the paperwork done, an’ the right documents and the release for the body, after the post-mortem—somebody took the woman away, an’ somebody buried her. So, most likely, somebody passed himself off as next-of-kin … That ‘ud be the simplest way, if the Police were in on it, an’ smoothing things, rather than asking awkward questions … Coroners aren’t so easy—they can be right little Hitlers when they’ve a mind to … But the local Police, they wouldn’t have liked it, if that was the way it was. An’ that’s what went wrong with Philip Masson, when they found him … But up at Thornervaulx, the top brass were already on the spot—Audley an’ his friends—so they were able to call the tune right from the start—‘
Pattern, once again. But not history repeating itself in Philip Masson’s case: in Philip Masson’s case too much had been revealed too quickly when he’d turned up at last; whereas, in the case of ‘Marilyn Francis’ … apart from Audley’s presence on the battlefield, she had seemed to be only a poor innocent bystander, and everyone’s attention had been focused on ‘Mad Dog’ O’Leary—
‘So who do you think she really was, Reg?’
‘No sayin’ yet, Ian lad. But she’s got to be one of three things. Like she could ‘ave been just what she seemed: a little nobody—say, a girl that ‘ud run away from home years before, an’ got herself another identity to keep her nearest an’ dearest off her back. But then, as there weren’t any pictures of her in the papers, it couldn’t have been them that claimed her. Which leaves … either she was there with Audley … or she was there with O’Leary—and maybe it wasn’t him that shot her. Although, again, maybe it was: maybe he reckoned she’d put the finger on him, when he’d thought she was fingering his target for him. But it’s early days—‘
Early days, indeed! All they had known then, just twenty-four hours earlier, was that ‘Marilyn Francis’ and Michael ‘Mad Dog’ O’Leary had been killed on November 11, 1978, almost (if not actually) in the presence of David Audley, and that Philip Masson had been dead within a week after that; and that, while those deaths might or might not be linked, they had to start somewhere with their part of the investigation—
‘So, if it’s all the same to you, Ian lad, after I’ve had another little talk with old Terry, an’ got a few names an’ contacts up north from him … an’ checked up one or two more things down here … then I’ll just take a little trip up to Yorkshire an’ see whether they maybe didn’t bury this ‘Marilyn Francis’ any deeper than Philip Masson. ‘Cause it could be that it was a bit too easy for ‘em. In which case they might ‘uv been careless round the edges. And as for you, Mr Robinson sir … how would it be if you went an’ had a word with British-American Electronics down at Rickmansworth? See, I was thinkin’ you might be a solicitor, or something legal like that, tryin’ to trace ‘Marilyn Francis’ to give her a bequest? You could blind ‘em with all that legal jargon you learned at college? That was how you used to do it, in the old days, the Lady told me—?’
Early days indeed! And, indeed, he had more than half- suspected that Reg only had the faintest hopes of anything surfacing down at British-American (who quite properly were unprepared to discuss matters relating to former staff over the telephone ‘as a company policy rule’); though, to be fair, Reg might also have thought that a gentle wild goose chase within easy reach of London would serve to blow away the cobwebs from those long-unpractised foot-in-the-door skills of those ‘old days’, and prepare him for sterner tests to come.
But then, quite suddenly, the early days had become interesting.
‘Mr Robinson—?’
‘Of Fielding-ffulke, Robinson, Mrs Simmonds.’ Her door had boasted the legend ‘Mrs Beryl Simmonds, Administrative Personnel Office’, so he’d reached the right person in British-American at last. He just hoped that his old nicely-embossed card (Ian D. Robinson Ll. B (Bristol), plus ‘Fielding-ffulke, Robinson’ with a legal-sounding accommodation address in Chancery Lane) would work its magic again. ‘I telephoned from my office, Mrs Simmonds. It’s good of you to spare me your time.’ He adjusted the small gold-framed spectacles which Jenny thought made him look so absurdly young that he must be what he said he was. ‘As I explained then, I am inquiring about a former employee of yours.’
‘Yes.’ Frowning came easily to Mrs Simmonds: the years had grooved her forehead for permanent disapproval. ‘I had expected you to write, Mr Robinson. That is the customary practice with such inquiries.’
‘Yes, I know.’ An instinct suddenly contradicted her appearance: she was frowning, but she didn’t want to frown. Perhaps she had a nephew, or even a son, in the law; or maybe she simply had a weakness for very young men trying to make their way in the world. But, whatever, instinct whispered hard shell, soft centre, so he touched his spectacles again, and gave her the ghost of what he hoped was a disarming smile. ‘I am … rather trying to cut a corner, Mrs Simmonds. You see, we have a very demanding client from overseas. And … I also have a demanding senior partner. So I am rather depending on your help—in strictest confidence, of course. And I will send you a confirmatory letter, naturally: I do appreciate that there must be company policies in these matters.’ He allowed the ghost to materialize more visibly for an instant, and then exorcized it with a dead-serious-pleasing expression.
‘I see.’ She was holding the frown now only with considerable effort. ‘A
nd about whom, among our former employees, do you wish to inquire, Mr Robinson? How long ago?’
‘About ten years ago—‘ Even before he observed her expression harden again it occurred to him that if she had any sort of weakness for young men she probably had the reverse for the young women who preyed on them. And that decided him to add doubt and embarrassment to what was coming ‘—my inquiry relates to a certain Miss Francis, Mrs Simmonds. Miss—ah—Miss Marilyn Francis—?’ Would she remember the papers, from 1978?
The hardness became granite. ‘But … Miss Francis is … deceased, Mr Robinson.’
Deceased? Or, more likely, dead—and bloody good riddance!—this time instinct shouted at him. So she knew more than either he did, or what the papers had said. ‘Yes. I do appreciate that also.’ He tried to imply that he also knew a lot more than that, even as he prayed that she wouldn’t ask him why, if he knew so much, he wanted to know more.
‘Why do you want to know about her?’
He hadn’t really expected his prayer to be answered. ‘I was hoping you wouldn’t ask that. Because, quite honestly, I’m not at liberty to say. But … all I can say … is that I would appreciate frankness—and I will respect it, so far as I am able.’ All the old Rules of Engagement flooded back. ‘What I do promise, is that nothing you say here will be attributed to you, Mrs Simmonds. I simply want to know about Miss Francis—that’s all.’
She was on a knife-edge. So it was the moment to lie in what he must hope was a Good Cause. ‘I have spoken to others before you.’ Whatever he said, it mustn’t sound like a threat. ‘I’m sorry to sound so mysterious, but I have to respect confidences and I do respect confidences. It’s just that I do need reliable confirmation of what I already suspect.’ As he delivered this flattery he screwed up his face with youthful embarrassment.
‘Yes.’ She pursed her lips. ‘You do appreciate, Mr Robinson, that Marilyn—Miss Francis—was a temp … . That is to say, a temporary secretary, supplied by an agency. I did not appoint her.’
‘Of course.’ He decided not to congratulate himself on the return of his old skills: although she liked him, and believed him, she was more concerned to exculpate herself from the Marilyn Francis appointment. ‘But you do remember her—?’
‘I do indeed.’ The purse shut tightly.
Marilyn Francis had been memorable. In fact, even assuming that Mrs Beryl Simmonds had a good personnel manager’s memory … Marilyn Francis had been very memorable. ‘She was incompetent, was she—?’
Sniff. ‘On the contrary. Miss Francis was highly competent, actually.’
Ouch! thought Ian. For a man who knew all about Marilyn Francis, that was a mistake—even allowing for the fact that Auntie Beryl would shy away from speaking ill of the dead, which he should have reckoned on. But the rule was to capitalize on one’s mistakes. ‘Well … you do rather surprise me, Mrs Simmonds. But I’m extremely grateful for being corrected—‘
‘As a secretary, she was competent.’ She had done her duty. But now she didn’t want him to get her wrong. ‘Her shorthand was excellent—she must have had over 140 words per minute. Even with Dr Cavendish, who had no consideration for anyone … This was before we went over to full audio-typing, you understand—and when we still had old fashioned typewriters … But her typing was also excellent—quite impeccable.’ Duty still wasn’t done, the nod implied. ‘And her filing. And her paperwork in general: she had been well-trained … and she was … an intelligent young woman—of that I’m sure. Appearances to the contrary.’ Something approaching pain twisted her displeasure at the memory. ‘I blame the schools: they have a lot to answer for—doing away with the grammar schools, and letting children run wild—especially the girls. Especially girls like Miss Francis, in fact.’ Nod. They can’t even spell these days. But, of course, we have a spell-check now, so they don’t have to.’ Sniff. ‘Rarefy, liquefy, desiccate, parallel, routing—and the Americanisms we have to cater for: focused, protesters, advisers … But Miss Francis could spell, I will say that for her. Except those dreadful Americanisms. And she only had to be told once, even with them, when Dr Cavendish was writing to America … No, as a secretary she was perfectly competent. It was her behaviour—and her appearance … both absolutely disgraceful, they were.’
‘Yes?’ Ian’s heart had been sinking all the while she had lectured him: poor little Marilyn’s defects were personal and moral, and she had been an innocent bystander at Thornervaulx, by whatever unlikely chain of events. So this really was a wild-goose-chase.
‘It was so tragic—how she died. We all thought so.’ Curiously, she was on his own wavelength. ‘But, the truth is … and I’d be a hypocrite not to say as much … she was quite man-mad, was Marilyn.’
All he wanted to do now was to get away, back to London.’Yes—?’
‘Anything in trousers.’ Nod: duty done, now the truth. ‘Deluged in the most revolting perfume … tight skirts, and transparent blouses—I spoke to her about her blouses. But, of course, there were those who encouraged her—just like they always look at the Sun and the Star in the common room, even now.’ Ultimate displeasure. ‘Df Page, and Dr Garfield—Dr Page is at Cambridge now … and Dr Garfield is in America … they thought she was quite wonderful. And even that dreadful Dr Harrison, who ended up in prison—‘ She bit her lip suddenly, catching herself too late.
‘Dr H—?’ He started to repeat the name automatically, still acting his part, because honest curiosity was perfectly in order. But then it echoed inside his memory, attaching itself to British-American in its proper context; and in that instant he knew that he hadn’t finished with Marilyn Francis—and also that he too had caught himself too late, because Mrs Simmonds was already registering her surprise. So now he had to extricate himself from his self-betrayal. ‘Harrison? Harrison—?’ Better to pretend to be halfway there first, with a frown. And then embarrassment, for choice? ‘Harrison—?’
‘He had nothing to do with Miss Francis.’ Faced with two unhappy names, Mrs Simmonds chose not to repeat the more offensive one. ‘His … what happened to him … that was some long time after she left our employ.’
He let his frown deepen. Had it been some long time after? Marilyn Francis had been killed in November, 1978—the beginning of his final year at university. And the Harrison Case … ? But, whenever it had been, now was the time for embarrassment. ‘Oh! That Dr Harrison—of course.’ Surprised embarrassment. ‘But … you do a lot of Ministry of Defence work—of course!’ What had it been that the ‘dreadful’ Dr Harrison had betrayed? The guidance system to the Barracuda torpedo, was it? But now he had to let her off the hook. ‘No … no, of course, Mrs Simmonds.’ Smile. ‘You wouldn’t have given any of your secret work to a temp to copy out—no matter how well she typed!’ As he broadened the sympathetically-understanding smile he felt his pulse beat faster. It had been the celebrated Barracuda. And it had not been very long afterwards—weeks, rather than months, for choice.
But meanwhile he mustn’t lose Mrs Simmonds. ‘I don’t want to know about him, anyway—Dr What’s-his-name … But … Miss Francis had a—ah—a weakness for the male sex, you were saying, Mrs Simmonds.’ Losing her fast, in fact. ‘Did she have a particular boyfriend?’
‘I have not the least idea of Miss Francis’s private life.’ She broke eye-contact, and picked up one of the files on her desk at random. Which was a sure sign of his impending dismissal.
Damnation! ‘But … is there anyone who might know?’ Not losing: already lost, damn it! So now he had to extemporize. ‘We think she may have had … a fiancé in this area, Mrs Simmonds.’
The eyes came back to his, as blank as pebbles. ‘I said that I have no knowledge of her private life, Mr Robinson. And as she has been dead these ten years, I really cannot see that any useful purpose can be served by relaying tittle-tattle about her.’
God! The old battle-axe did know something! So now was the moment for the Ultimate Weapon in this line of extemporization. ‘Mrs Simmonds—‘
‘Mrs Simmonds—‘ He sat fast ‘—now I must betray a confidence—‘
She stopped. Betrayal of confidences usually stopped people.
‘We think … we think … that there may have been a child.’ This time he broke the eye-contact, to adjust his spectacles. And that gave him time to decide the imaginary child’s sex and appearance. ‘A little boy. Fair hair, blue eyes … He’d be about ten years old now. And his uncle, who is … very prosperous … and childless … would like to find this little boy.’
The blank look transfixed him, and for a moment he feared that he had gone over the top with a scenario she must have read in Mills and Boon more times than Reg Buller had said ‘Same again’ to his favourite barmaid. But having gone so far the only direction left to him was to advance further on into the realms of melodrama: if not Mills and Boon, then maybe a touch of Jane Eyre … except that Marilyn didn’t sound much like Jane. So perhaps the hypothetical ‘fiancé’ would be a better bet to soften Mrs Simmonds’ heart and put her off the scent.
‘It’s really the father we’re trying to trace, Mrs Simmonds. Because we think he looked after the child. Because … Miss Francis doesn’t appear to have been very … maternal—?’ He looked at her questioningly.
‘No.’ She blinked at him. ‘That doesn’t surprise me.’ Then she sighed. ‘I’m afraid we don’t keep files on our temps, Mr Robinson—certainly not going so far back, anyway. And, of course, Miss Francis lost her life in that dreadful business up north, with that IRA murderer—we read about that. And it was a terrible shock. But that’s why I remember her so well, even though it is something one would like to forget.’
She was implying that, if there had been a file, it would have been purged. So there probably had been a file. And she had purged it.
A Prospect of Vengeance Page 10