Who Guards a Prince?

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Who Guards a Prince? Page 6

by Reginald Hill


  The older of the two had then begun speaking in measured, educated tones which had spelled it out to him —Mr Connolly, if we publish these photographs and tapes, it will not only mean the end of your public life and most of your social life too, it will also mean that you go to jail.

  They hadn’t wanted money, they hadn’t wanted anything except to help him in his political career. Until I’m President, he had said, scornful at their naive prevarication. Then you’d own me. Go fuck yourselves.

  We’re simple businessmen, he was told. Ninety five percent of what the President does is of no interest to us. And fifty percent of what the President does is due to the influence of various pressure groups in any case. What’s your problem, Mr Connolly?

  And he had allowed the argument to die. The moment of decision was still to come, he told himself.

  “Just who are you people anyway?” he’d asked.

  “Executives,” said the older man mildly.

  “Of what?”

  They exchanged glances.

  “Of legitimate businesses, like this hotel for instance. We specialize in providing unusual services.”

  “What businesses? What’s your names? I could find out easily enough,” he threatened.

  “I’m sure of it, and it wouldn’t matter a damn if you did, Mr Connolly. Only if you’re going to try, be careful who you involve. We’re executives of another less well known business, as you must have worked out. If you pass on even the little you know about us to anyone, you put that person in danger. Just as anyone unauthorized who shares our little bit of secret knowledge about you would be in danger too. Goodnight now. We’ll be in touch. In fact we’ll never be out of touch. Think about it.”

  Yet despite that warning, he’d got drunk that night and confessed everything to his wife. The good Catholic, though long lapsed, still yearns after the cleansing confession. Only this time, instead of absolution, he got an expression of such loathing that it cut through his alcoholic haze like a laser through a morning mist. He had stopped short of telling her about the blackmail. And since that time his desperate efforts to persuade her into some kind of reconciliation had been motivated as much by fear for her life as by self-interest.

  But self-interest was never far away. They had him. He either played their way or left the game. And they were very good. They were politically shrewd, excellent strategists, and had access to an amazing range of inside information. In other circumstances, he’d have been delighted to have them on his team.

  No; correction; honesty, with himself at least, was his new resolution; he was pleased to have them on his team even in these circumstances. He would be pleased with anything that could give him an edge. And they were pushy too. They it was who were keen for him to go for the nomination in two years’ time. They felt sure he could do it. He was beginning to believe them himself.

  Now, as always, they came straight to the point and together they spent nearly an hour mapping out directions for the next month. He was no puppet. They were as willing to listen as to talk. It was strange, when they talked political tactics together like this, he could completely forget the sordid circumstances of their compact.

  When he thought they’d finished and would soon be going, the elder man took him by surprise by saying, “Now, do you have anything to tell us, Mr Connolly?”

  For a heart-choking moment he thought they must be referring to Mary. They’d worked out that he’d confessed to her and were giving him a last chance to admit it before they killed her!

  Then the other man prompted him: “About your grandfather’s will.”

  “Granda’s will?” he said in surprise. “Well, yes, but how the hell do you know?”

  “Just tell us, Mr Connolly.”

  He told them. They examined their notebooks and nodded at each other.

  “You really should tell us this kind of thing without prompting,” suggested the elder.

  “Hell, you seemed to know it already,” laughed Conal. “And it doesn’t mean anything. It must be an illegal trust. And in any case, Deirdre, my sister’s not on the point of running off with this Prince Arthur, is she?”

  “The behavior of young women is impossible to forecast, as are the vagaries of the law, especially when lawyers are being instructed by the Church of Rome,” said the younger of the pair drily.

  The two men rose to go.

  “But what does it mean?” demanded Conal.

  “You’re a good investment, Mr Connolly, but part of your attraction is that you’re self-financing. Never forget that. And never forget to pass on to us all relevant material. Good day to you now. We’ll stay in touch. Close in touch.”

  They left as silently as they’d come and Conal lay down on the crumpled bed with his hands behind his neck and stared sightlessly at the high brown ceiling.

  CHAPTER 9

  After his talk with Old Haystacks, McHarg had thought of returning to the Atlanta to have a word with Davison. But the prospect of more probing about Flora from Heather deterred him so he went straight back to Police HQ and set about tieing up loose ends in preparation for his absence at the Partington trial.

  Just after five o’clock his door burst open and the Chief Superintendent came storming in.

  “That bastard Wainwright!” he snarled without preamble. “I went out of my way for him, rang the University lab, got it from Professor Foster himself that it was definitely a dog’s tongue. But when I telephoned Wainwright, he was bloody abusive. There’s no dealing with some people. He’s a sodding menace.”

  “Just because he’s rude to you?” said McHarg.

  “Oh no. That I’m used to from my subordinates. There’s more. A few minutes ago I got two phone calls in rapid succession. One from Professor Foster, the other from the editor of the Post. That madman’s been at them both. Foster he accused of being a charlatan or a dupe. And the editor was all agog at the notion that we were trying to keep the wraps on a South Coast Ripper story. I’ve just about run out of soothing noises.”

  “You’d better call up your reserves,” advised McHarg. And he described his interview with Old Haystacks. As he talked, Davison frowned and his ill temper seemed to drain visibly from him, to be replaced by something much colder, much more controlled.

  “Douglas,” he said. “I don’t want you doing anything to encourage daft rumors. Wainwright made a mistake. There’s an end to it.”

  “That’s hardly the point,” said McHarg, frowning in his turn.

  “Isn’t it? Well, here’s the point, Inspector. Drop it. You hear me? That’s an order. And no shit about your time, our time. Any time, you drop it!”

  McHarg thought about the conversation the next morning as he prepared for his drive to London. Davison had been as serious as he’d ever seen him. Yet by his own argument, if indeed it had been a dog’s tongue, it was an unpleasant but hardly an important matter.

  McHarg put it out of his mind and packed his grip, rolling a bottle of Scotch up in his pyjamas. It was still very early, but this way he’d miss the worst of the commuter traffic as he got near to the capital. He did a last check of doors and windows round the cold, empty bungalow. As he did so he wondered why he continued to live here. It was not even as if it spoke to him of Mavis. Their life together here had been all too brief. And the pretence that he was keeping a home for Flora had worn as thin as Thursday’s broth.

  It was time to go in every sense.

  As he drove his old Volvo through the empty streets, he tried to shut out the past and think instead of the day ahead of him. But he knew that the past lay waiting for him there too.

  London.

  McHarg had once loved it. Now he hated it.

  If his cold, comfortless bungalow was bearable because his marriage had sunk no roots there, by the same token London was full of pain for there it was that the good years had burgeoned and blossomed.

  There he had met Mavis Finlayson for the first time; he a soldier on leave with nothing to look forward to but a long jo
urney north and a fortnight of sea and sky with aged relatives, she a Scot also, training as a nurse at Bart’s Hospital.

  He didn’t make the journey north, but at the end of his leave he left her as he had left others before, with a kiss, a gift, a promise to write when he had time, nothing more. This felt different, but McHarg was a canny man. Others took risks, he took precautions.

  It took a month back with his unit to convince him. He got a three-day pass, hitched a lift to England on a Dakota carrying mail, and went to see Mavis. One look at her confirmed his feelings. She was the woman for him. It was only after his proposal had been accepted that she told him she was pregnant.

  “It’s as well I’m marrying you,” said McHarg. “It’s clear you’d never have made a nurse.”

  That had been the end of the army for him. Life in married quarters was less than he wanted to offer his wife and child. But life as a civilian proved uncongenial too, until finally he compromised and joined the Metropolitan Police.

  He made slow but steady progress, his evident talent for the work usually tipping the balance against his other talent for making enemies by his forthrightness. Above all, he had a strong and evident respect for the job, which Mavis shared as she shared his pleasure at each step forward, particularly his move into the, to her, hugely glamorous world of the Royal Squad.

  Flora never understood this. Until about the age of fifteen, she had been her father’s greatest admirer. Almost overnight, or so it seemed, she became his greatest critic. Some of the symptoms were conventional. A stage of surly rebellion in her mid-teens manifesting itself in clothes, company and manners, followed in the sixth form and at University by a stage of political radicalism which saw the police as tools of Fascist oppression.

  What was not conventional was the effect of the parallel development of Mavis’s illness. McHarg suspected his daughter saw far more of her mother’s pain than he was permitted to see. But she didn’t seem to see, or wouldn’t let herself see, the deep love, and liking, that existed between Mavis and himself, and this bewildered McHarg.

  But she was right in some respects. His escort duties with the Prince were taking him away from home for longer and longer periods, and what had really got to him was when Flora, recalling stories he had told her in earlier, friendlier days, said bitterly that they’d have had more family life together if he’d stayed in the army.

  So, the move to Sanderton. But too late. Too late. Too late…

  A slight stutter from the Volvo’s engine brought him back to the present. The petrol gauge was banging on empty. He discovered that without any conscious effort he had driven through the town and was now on the main London road. He wondered just how much of a man’s life was spent in such autonomic behavior, as if the conscious and subconscious for a period reversed roles. Years perhaps. He found himself wondering if since Mavis’s death he had not been in such a state ninety percent of the time.

  He pushed the thought out of his mind and started looking for a garage. It was still only 6.15 A.M. and the first two he passed were not yet open, but a few miles further on he spotted a twenty-four-hour sign and pulled in. Beside the pumps and the sales kiosk was a small glass-fronted shack full of vending machines.

  “Fill it up,” said McHarg to the bright-eyed old man who’d come to serve him, and went to get himself a cup of coffee.

  When he tasted it, he wished he hadn’t bothered. Not even two years of catering for himself had inured him to stuff like this. He poured it away and chucked the carton into a waste bin.

  “You should’ve asked,” called the old man. “I’d’ve warned you. I make my own.”

  “Experience is a good teacher,” said McHarg, making a wry face.

  “Right,” said the old man. “And sometimes the sods who warn you are wrong! I went to a Methodist Bible class when I was a lad. Nice folk, but they were wrong about girls and booze!”

  McHarg laughed and enjoyed it, like a rare wine, or a good single malt—he wasn’t much of a man for the grape. Like something, anyway, which you tasted for itself, not for what it would do for you.

  “You were almost dry,” said the man. “Good job you stopped.”

  “It’s the gauge,” said McHarg. “It’s old. You lose track of your capacity with age.”

  “Speak for yourself,” grinned the old man. “Oil OK?”

  “Take a look,” invited McHarg. “Tell me, are you the only twenty-four-hour garage along this road then?”

  “Unless you head for the motorway,” said the old man. “Hardly worth it along here any more except in the holiday season. Not that I’m complaining! It suits me down to the ground, this little job. I had forty years on the night shift and I couldn’t settle to right ways round when I retired. I’ve hit it lucky with this. I just wish there was a bit more business, that’s all. I don’t cost much, but some weeks, it’s hardly worthwhile paying me! You’d better have a pint.”

  He held up the dipstick for McHarg to examine.

  “OK,” said McHarg. “How good’s your memory, Mr…er…?”

  “Flint,” said the old man. “Pretty good. Why?”

  “Last Monday morning, about five o’clock. Did you have any customers then?”

  Now the old man was regarding him with shrewd suspicion. “Might’ve done. Who’s asking?”

  With a sigh, McHarg produced his warrant card.

  “This isn’t official, not yet,” he said. “I just stopped for petrol. Then it struck me…well, look, what I’m interested in is a large, light blue car, might have been a Jaguar, two men in it…”

  “Might have been a Jaguar!” interrupted Mr Flint scornfully. “It was a Jaguar all right, an XJ6, Series Four, four point two litre, automatic, with PAS and speedhold. British and best. I had a good look.”

  “You mean, it stopped? You’re sure?”

  “I could count the cars I filled up that night on one hand,’” said Mr Flint. “That was the same night the fire engines were clanging away going to that big fire out Little Pailey way, right?”

  “Dead right,” said McHarg. “Mr Flint, I’d offer you a cup of coffee if you wouldn’t be insulted! How’s the hot chocolate?”

  “Better, they say. But not for me. I’m diabetic,” said the old man. “I could stand an oxtail soup, though.”

  Over the soup, McHarg discovered that fate had thrown him the ideal witness. Sharp-eyed, intelligent and above all inquisitive, Mr Flint was delighted to have an appreciative audience.

  Yes, there’d been two men in the car. The driver had been youngish, early thirties perhaps, very smart, darkhaired, wore a moustache, not one of your modern droopy things but a proper military moustache. He had looked a bit pale. Mr Flint got the impression that it had been his idea to stop, more in order to use the lav and have a cup of coffee than for petrol, though he did ask for his tank to be filled.

  And the other man?

  Thin-faced, quiet-spoken, hard to pin down anything distinguishing, even his age was doubtful, but definitely the older; wearing a dark suit, expensiv—not as fashionable as the other fellow’s, but certainly expensive. And despite his quietness, he gave the impression of being in charge.

  “What do you mean?” asked McHarg.

  “You can always tell,” averred Mr Flint. “He watched the other fellow, let him drink his coffee (he didn’t complain!), smoked his fag, picked his moment, then they were off.”

  “How did they pay?” asked McHarg.

  “Now that was interesting,” said Mr Flint, warming to his task. “The young fellow started pulling out one of those folders, you know the things, string of credit cards and cheque cards. The other chap, the thin-faced one, he beat him to it, had a wad of notes thick as a Bible in his pocket. He looked the type who’d pay his way.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “You know what I mean. Credit cards are OK, but it’s money in your pocket that counts in a tight corner, isn’t it?”

  “You thought he’d be good in a tight corner?” asked McHarg
with a smile. He was enjoying Mr Flint.

  “Oh yes. What’re they supposed to have done anyway?”

  “‘I wish I knew,” said McHarg. “Were any names used?” The old man considered.

  “They didn’t speak much,” he said. “Hang about, though. When the quiet fellow asked the other chap if he was ready to go, he answered, ’Yours to command, Taylor,’ some such thing, making a joke of admitting the other was the boss.”

  “Taylor? You’re sure?”

  “Sixty percent. Might have been Tyler.”

  McHarg believed in following lucky streaks.

  “And finally, Mr Flint, what was the number?” he asked as if he had no expectation of anything other than a precise and positive answer.

  But he was disappointed.

  “There you’ve got me,” admitted Mr Flint.

  “Never mind,” said McHarg. “You’ve been a great help. How much do I owe for the petrol?”

  Mr Flint took his money and put it in the till.

  “I did notice the letters though,” he offered. “They were something YO. That’s London. And it was a Z registration. Any help?”

  He offered McHarg his change.

  “I’d be honored if you’d buy yourself a dram on my behalf,” said McHarg, rejecting the notes and silver. “Get half-a-dozen drams with this!” said Mr Flint.

  “Half-a-dozen English measures perhaps,” said McHarg. “They’ll just about make a good Scots dram. It’s been a pleasure meeting you, Mr Flint.”

  “Likewise. Call again.”

  “I will,” said McHarg. “I surely will.”

  Flint had given him much food for thought. Work was an analgesic more potent even than alcohol. Suddenly the day ahead began to seem almost bearable.

  CHAPTER 10

 

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