It seemed pointless to backtrack to Paddington now they had come this far west, so they caught a stopping train to Reading and carried on from there to Swindon. Their arrival on a grey, chill, drizzly evening was altogether about as miserable as Harry had feared it might be.
Accordingly, he raised no objection when Chipchase suggested stopping off at the Glue Pot en route to Falmouth Street. It had to be more than thirty years since they had last drunk there together. They went in and toasted old times with best bitter.
‘Who’d have thought it, hey? The two of us back in the Pot.’ Chipchase managed a weary smile. ‘We’ve sunk a good few pints here between us.’
‘I’ve pulled a few too. I had to take a job behind the bar when you and Jackie skipped to Spain.’
‘Bloody hell. We’re not going to go over that again, are we?’
‘Just making an observation, Barry. That’s all.’
‘Well, try making a bloody cheerier one.’
‘None springs to mind.’
‘Pity.’
They said no more, but drank on in silence as the pub gradually filled around them.
The door of 37 Falmouth Street did not open with its normal fluidity when they made the short transit there from the Glue Pot two hours later. Harry had to yank a tangle of letters out from beneath it to complete their entrance.
Most of the letters were junk mail for Mrs Ivy Barnett, the computers that had generated them remaining stubbornly impervious to her death. But one was for Harry, a surprise which registered even through the beery blur that fogged his mind. It was a padded envelope, addressed by hand in large, jagged capitals. He tugged it open and a computer disk slid out into his palm. He peered inside the envelope in search of an accompanying note. But there was none.
‘What the bloody hell’s that?’ asked Chipchase, peering over his shoulder.
‘What it looks like.’ Harry held the disk up. ‘Shame I haven’t got a computer to run it on.’
‘Is this something … you were expecting?’
‘No. I wasn’t expecting any post at all. Other than a bill from the undertaker. Which somehow I don’t think this is.’
‘Who sent it?’
‘I don’t know.’ Harry peered at the envelope. ‘Posted in … Edinburgh … last Friday.’
‘Know anyone who was in Edinburgh last Friday?’
‘Yeah. So do you. Me, Askew, Lloyd, Fripp, Gregson, Judd and Tancred. Our train stopped at Waverley station for about ten minutes.’
‘Long enough to post a letter if you looked lively?’
‘Probably. But only two of us got off.’ Harry replayed his encounter on the platform with Askew in his mind. Askew had been breathing heavily. Had he just run to and from the nearest postbox? It was possible. It was definitely possible. ‘Only two of us. Me and Peter Askew.’
Chapter Thirty-four
‘WE’RE FINE. HONESTLY. Everything’s OK. I’ll call you tomorrow. There’s a kiss coming down the line. And one for Daisy too. ‘Bye, Donna. ’Bye.’
Harry put the telephone down and returned to the front parlour, where he had left Chipchase with the Drambuie bottle his mother had made such negligible inroads into since receiving it as a gift on her ninetieth birthday. Chipchase, to his surprise, did not seem to be putting it away with much abandon either. He was, in fact, just concluding a call on his mobile when Harry entered.
‘Who was that?’ Harry asked.
‘Abracadabra Cabs. They’ll be here in about ten minutes.’
‘You’ve ordered a taxi?’
‘I have. We’re off to see the wizard. Or, in this case, the witch.’
‘What the hell are you talking about?’
‘Ah, well, while you and Donna were billing and cooing, I did some thinking. We need access to a computer to find out what Askew sent you on that disk. Who do we know in Swindon who might let us use theirs? Jackie. That’s who.’
‘You phoned Jackie?’
‘I did. Caught her at a good time. Hubby’s away. Out of her life or just out of town I’m not sure, but it doesn’t really matter, does it? She’s willing to give us the use of her PC, this very night. So, let’s high-bloody-tail it over there … and see what we’ve got.’
Jackie had moved house at least once since Harry had last paid her a social call some seventeen years previously. Her new property was smaller but more tasteful, almost Cotswoldian, in fact, as far as he could judge in the exurban depths of a moonless night.
The transition from dolly-bird secretary to mature, elegant businesswoman was one Jackie had managed with greater aplomb than Harry would ever have predicted. Quite why she was dressed in an expensively flattering black trouser suit for an evening originally destined for domestic solitude was unclear, but her outfit was not the only puzzling aspect of her appearance. Some hints of grey had been permitted to enter her expertly styled blonde hair, but her looks were magically youthful and her figure, as Chipchase eagerly remarked, was a tribute either to her genes or to her gymnasium.
‘From what I remember of your mother, darlin’, it’s got to be the gym that’s kept you in such good shape.’
‘If your hand slides one millimetre further in the direction it’s going, Barry, I’ll demonstrate some of my martial arts skills for you. I didn’t acquire them from my mother either.’
Chipchase’s hand recoiled from her hip. ‘Sorry, darlin’. Old habits and all that.’
‘How are you, Harry?’ Jackie treated him to a more lingering kiss than her ex-husband had received. ‘I was sorry to hear about Ivy. She was a lovely lady.’
‘Thanks, Jackie. It’s, er, good to see you again. And to, er … see you looking so good.’
‘Divorce has put a spring in my step. I recommend it. Not to you, of course, with … Donna, isn’t it? … waiting for you in Vancouver. But …’ She smiled. ‘Generally.’
‘Divorce, Jackie?’ queried Chipchase. ‘Are we to take it Tony’s had the heave-ho?’
‘You are. He’s history.’
‘That must make me ancient history.’
‘Guess so. Do you two want a drink?’
Neither of them objecting to the idea, Jackie lithely led the way into a spacious, modernistically furnished, spotlit lounge. She had opened a bottle of something straw-yellow from New Zealand, which Chipchase happily agreed to join her in a glass of. For Harry, however, a bottle of ale from Swindon’s very own brewer, Arkell’s, had been provided.
‘Correct me if I’m wrong, but this is what you used to drink in the Plough at lunchtimes.’
‘Well remembered.’
‘Oh, there’s nothing wrong with my memory.’ She looked darkly at Chipchase. ‘Nothing at all.’
‘How’s hairdressing?’ Chipchase asked after coughing down a mouthful of wine.
‘Profitable, thanks. I’m opening a salon in Oxford next month. That’ll make six.’
‘A real entrepreneuse, aren’t we? I taught you well, darlin’. No doubt about it.’
‘You were an education, Barry. There’s no doubt about that.’ She smiled coolly at him, then more warmly at Harry. ‘I must say I never expected to see the pair of you together again.’
‘Neither did I,’ said Harry.
‘I’m one up on both of you there, then,’ said Chipchase. ‘I always reckoned our paths through life would converge again sooner or later. It was written in the stars.’
‘Why are you together?’ asked Jackie, still looking at Harry.
‘Long story.’
‘And one you’re keeping to yourselves?’
‘Safer that way,’ Chipchase answered. ‘We don’t want to get you mixed up in anything dodgy.’
‘Or dangerous,’ said Harry.
‘Shouldn’t you be leading quieter lives at your age?’
‘Definitely.’
‘No bloody choice in the matter, darlin’,’ said Chipchase. ‘We’re in a spot of bother. Through no fault of our own.’ He grinned. ‘Naturally.’
‘More than a spo
t,’ added Harry.
‘How much more?’ Jackie asked.
‘You’re better off not knowing.’
‘But the contents of this … disk … could get you out of it?’
‘It’s possible.’
‘Either way, we need to know,’ said Chipchase. ‘A.s.a. bloody p.’
‘When I started work with you two,’ Jackie remarked as they entered her study-cum-office, ‘high tech meant an electric typewriter. Times certainly change.’
‘That they do,’ mused Chipchase. ‘1968: the summer of love. And miniskirts. Micro-mini in your case, Jackie. I bet you’d still look great in one.’
‘Well, you’re not going to find out. Where’s the disk?’
Harry handed it over and watched Chipchase trace in the air with an appreciative hand the curve of Jackie’s bottom as she stooped to slide the disk into the tower under the desk. Then she slipped into the ergonomically cutting-edge swivel chair in front of the screen and began clicking the mouse.
‘What have we got?’ Chipchase asked, craning over her right shoulder while Harry craned over her left.
‘First up is some kind of message. See for yourselves.’
Peter: what follows went before us. It is as I clearly remember it. It is the truth. I entrust it to you as I once entrusted my heart. You knew what to do then. You will know what to do now. Tread carefully. But do not tread too fearfully. My love goes with you. Les.
‘You know these people?’
‘Yes,’ Harry replied. ‘It’s to Peter Askew. From … Lester Maynard?’
‘Has to be,’ said Chipchase.
‘I didn’t know they were …’
‘You do now.’
‘But what follows? What … “went before us”?’
Jackie clicked the mouse. The next message, however, was less revealing. Please enter password to proceed. ‘You can only open the attached file if you know the password. And I have this funny feeling you’re going to say you don’t.’
‘We don’t.’
‘It’s nine digits.’
‘Might as well be ninety-nine,’ growled Chipchase. ‘We still bloody don’t.’
‘You’ve no idea at all?’
‘What about their nicknames?’ said Harry. ‘Crooked and Piggott.’
‘They’re both seven letters each,’ objected Jackie.
‘Alzheimer’s setting in, is it, Harry?’ snapped Chipchase. ‘Didn’t you hear what Jackie said? Nine bloody digits.’
‘Well, if you can supply them, Barry, be my guest.’
But Chipchase could not. His own surname was one of only two associated with Operation Clean Sheet that fulfilled the nine-digit quota and neither it nor MacIntyre did the trick. This was no surprise to Harry, who pointed out that Professor Mac’s name was actually spelt McIntyre and thus contained only eight letters. Combinations and permutations of other names fared no better. Nor did hopeful stabs in the dark. Askew’s address in Cardiff and Maynard’s in Henley-on-Thames were mined for the answer, to no avail. Altogether, Jackie must have typed in several dozen words, many of them no better than anagrammish gibberish, before, with a heartfelt sigh, she called a halt.
‘We’re not getting anywhere here, are we, boys?’
Harry shook his head despondently. ‘No.’
‘Bloody hell,’ said Chipchase.
Jackie closed the computer down and removed the disk. ‘Find the magic password and you’re in business,’ she said, handing it to Harry. ‘Otherwise …’
‘We’re sunk.’
‘That bad?’
‘Could be, Jackie.’ Harry nodded. ‘Could very well be.’
Chapter Thirty-five
JACKIE DROVE THEM back into Swindon that night in her top-of-the-range BMW. Chipchase, banished to the rear, rapidly fell asleep. But Harry, sitting alongside Jackie in the front, remained wide awake.
‘You should have gone straight back to Canada after your mum’s funeral, Harry,’ she said as they cruised through a sprawl of neon-lit suburbia entirely unknown to him.
‘You’re right. I should’ve.’
‘Why not go now?’
‘It’s too late.’
‘Because of him?’ She flicked her head in the direction from which Chipchase’s snores were emanating.
‘Not really. For once, this isn’t Barry’s fault.’
‘He looks as if he’s had a rough few years since I last saw him.’
‘He has.’
‘Poor old sod.’
‘Feeling sorry for him, Jackie?’
‘On a scale of one to ten, it clocks in at two and a half. I’ve got the sentiment well under control. I hope you have too. Want some advice?’
‘Why not?’
‘Go it alone. Whatever the problem, the solution isn’t teaming up with Barry. I learned that the hard way.’
‘If you remember, so did I.’
‘So you did.’ She gave him a rueful smile. ‘Well, then?’
‘I’ve no choice in the matter, Jackie. Barry and I are in this together now. For good or bad.’
It seemed clear to Harry that there was really only one course to follow if they were to stand any chance of learning the secret Maynard had entrusted to Askew. The following morning, over a spartan breakfast, he put it to Chipchase.
‘You said you’d spoken to Maynard’s old boyfriend. That’s right, isn’t it?’
‘Yeah. Pernickety little blighter. Clifford … something.’
‘Why don’t we renew your acquaintance? Henley’s not far. We can go there after registering at the police station. He might be able to tell us the password straight off.’
‘Able isn’t necessarily willing. News of Maynard’s pash for Askew could knock him sideways.’
‘We’ll have to do what Maynard recommended in that message, then. Tread carefully.’ Harry grinned gamely. ‘But not too fearfully.’
The formalities at the police station were brief and painless, though disagreeable nonetheless. Harry resented having to notify the local constabulary of his presence in his home town, while Chipchase was plunged into sour-faced gloom by every aspect of their visit. His mood picked up quickly when they left, however, and by the time they had reached the railway station he had become, if not cheerful, at least less taciturn.
‘Tell me, Harry old cock,’ he said as their train pulled out, ‘did you have any inkling back when we were all together … about Askew … and Maynard?’
‘Not the remotest,’ Harry replied, accurately enough. ‘You?’
‘The same. Despite sharing a Nissen hut with the pair of them. They hid it well. I’ll say that.’
‘You had to in those days.’
‘Even so, I’d have thought we might have … sensed something.’
‘Would you? It seems to me, Barry, that there was an awful lot going on then we didn’t notice. And most of it we still haven’t come close to uncovering.’
‘Funny, ain’t it? The whole kit and caboodle could be on that tape. The answer to every question, nestling in your inside bloody pocket. But we can’t get at it.’
‘I’ve been thinking about that. Why would Askew send it to me unless he thought I could access the information?’
‘Maybe he did it on the spur of the moment.’
‘Exactly. He must have realized he was in danger. And that means he must have been in danger because of the disk. He was killed for it, Barry. I’m sure of it. But his killer went away emptyhanded.’
‘What’s on it must be dynamite, then.’
‘Reckon so.’ Harry thought for a moment. ‘Let’s just hope it doesn’t blow up in our faces.’
Henley-on-Thames was the end of the branch line from Twyford. The house Lester Maynard had owned until his death was a short walk from the station. His partner Clifford had been living there at the time of Chipchase’s futile fundraising visit. The route took Harry and Barry along the riverside and the finishing stretch of the regatta course. They had attended the regatta once, during Barnchase Motors
’ sadly brief heyday, as guests of tyre-trade titan Brian Cosway. They had both drunk far too much of the free-flowing Pimm’s, of course, and the memory of a stripe-blazered Chipchase falling into the river at a late stage of the proceedings was graphically clear in Harry’s mind. Charitably, he refrained from mentioning it. Then Chipchase did it for him.
‘Maynard was probably watching the regatta himself that day we were here, Harry. His pad actually overlooks the river. We might have passed him on the towpath without knowing it. He might even have seen me being fished out of the bloody river. Strange, isn’t it? The past. And the dead people in it. So near and yet so bloody far.’
‘Steady, Barry. That sounds almost philosophical.’
‘Don’t worry. I’ll soon snap out of it.’
Belle Rive was an elegant, gabled, brick-and-render villa, boasting, like several of its neighbours, a boathouse and a lawn running down to the river. The Thameside life of Lester Maynard, comedy writer, had clearly been a pleasant one. Belle Rive had been divided into flats since his death. Chipchase identified the bell labelled C. Enslow as the one they wanted and gave it a good long press.
‘Remember,’ Harry whispered. ‘The disk’s hot stuff. We can’t risk telling him about it directly.’
‘We just ask him the password without explaining what it’s the password to. Yeah. Should be a piece of cake.’
The practicality or otherwise of this tactic was to go untested in the immediate future, however. There was no response from Clifford Enslow to the repeated ringing of his bell. Eventually, one of the windows in the ground-floor bay opened and a clearly irritated woman leaned out.
‘Can I help you?’ she enquired snappishly.
‘Sorry to disturb you,’ said Harry, reprising his multipurpose ingratiating smile. ‘We’re looking for Clifford Enslow. It’s a matter of, well, some importance. I don’t suppose you …’
‘I believe this is one of his charity-shop mornings. You should find him sifting through holey jumpers and dog-eared paperbacks at Age Concern in Duke Street.’
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