Enslow was in fact sifting through nothing when Harry and Barry entered the Henley branch of Age Concern ten minutes later. A tall, thin, gaunt-featured man with a dusting of white hair on his half-bald, half-shaven head, he was dressed in what might once have been donations to the shop and was standing listlessly behind the counter, sipping from a mug and staring into space. It appeared that they had caught him at a quiet time.
‘Remember me, Cliff?’ Chipchase launched in. ‘Barry Chipchase. Old friend of Lester’s. This is Harry Barnett, ditto.’
‘Chipchase?’ Enslow frowned. ‘Ah yes. I do remember. Two or three years ago.’
‘Any chance of a word in private? There are a couple of things we, er …’
‘Were you at the reunion in Scotland?’
‘Sorry?’
‘At Kilveen Castle.’ Enslow looked sharply at them. ‘I had a letter from a Mr Dangerfield a couple of months ago. Well, it was addressed to Les, but I dealt with it. Then, earlier this week, I saw a small piece in the paper reporting that two people attending the event had died in mysterious circumstances.’
‘It’s three now,’ said Harry.
‘What?’
‘Johnny Dangerfield’s dead too.’
‘Good God.’
‘We’re trying to get to the bottom of it. Making what enquiries we can. We’d really like to talk to you about Lester.’
‘What’s Les got to do with this? It’s eighteen years since …’ A shadow of half-buried grief crossed Enslow’s face. ‘He’s been gone a long time.’
‘We know, but even so …’
‘Well, I can’t talk to you now. And frankly I fail to see what I could tell you that would be of the slightest value.’
‘Let us be the judge of that, Cliff,’ said Chipchase.
‘Why don’t you allow us to buy you lunch?’ Harry suggested, eager to take the edge off Chipchase’s faintly threatening tone. ‘It’s the least we can do. In return for a little information.’
‘Lunch?’ Enslow’s expression brightened. ‘Well, I suppose …’
‘Excellent. Where and when would suit?’
Chapter Thirty-six
ENSLOW’S CHOICE FOR lunch alighted upon Henley’s very own Café Rouge. Harry and Barry would naturally have preferred to be tucking into pie-and-pint pub fare. Chipchase had ample opportunity to complain about the salad-oriented menu while they waited for Enslow to join them. But he was all smiles when their guest arrived promptly at 12.30, ordering a bottle from the expensive end of the wine list with an alacrity that suggested he intended Harry to pay for it.
‘I was sorry to hear Lester had died,’ Harry said after they had started on the wine. ‘You and he … were together a long time?’
‘Twelve years.’ Enslow sighed. ‘Looking back, it seems hardly any time at all.’
‘Did he ever mention any of us? Peter Askew, for example.’
‘Wasn’t he one of the two who died last weekend?’
‘Yes. He was.’
‘Well, I don’t remember the name cropping up.’
‘They might have been close,’ said Chipchase. ‘At some point, you know. Before you and Les …’
‘They might,’ Enslow coolly agreed. ‘I wasn’t in the habit of interrogating him about … earlier attachments. Nor he me.’
‘So,’ said Harry, ‘he never talked about the RAF – or Operation Clean Sheet?’
‘I didn’t say that. As a matter of fact …’
‘What?’
‘It’s all so long ago. It can’t have any bearing on …’ Enslow shook his head. ‘I’m sure there’s no connection.’
‘Why don’t you run it past us?’ said Chipchase. ‘Then we’ll see whether there’s a connection.’
‘Oh, very well.’ Enslow took a healthy swallow of wine. Harry topped up his glass. ‘Les told me about Operation Clean Sheet after hearing of the death of someone who’d been involved in it with him. This would have been in … 1983.’
‘Leroy Nixon,’ said Harry.
‘That’s correct. Nixon. Drowned, evidently. Lost overboard from a ferry off the coast of Scotland.’
‘Any idea what route the ferry was on?’
‘None. I’m not sure I ever knew. I wasn’t particularly interested and frankly I couldn’t understand why Les was. But it became for him … something of an obsession. He went up to Scotland that autumn. And again the following year. I offered to go with him, but he insisted on travelling alone. And he refused to tell me where exactly he was going. But I know he met the old professor at Aberdeen who’d set up the experiment.’
‘Professor Mac? Les visited McIntyre?’
‘Yes. He did. Les was ill by then. Further travelling became impossible. And McIntyre died, of course. Of old age. Unlike poor Les. When I think of what he went through …’ Enslow looked away. ‘I’m sorry. It still upsets me. They could save him now, you know. They could give him back a normal life. But not then. Then he was doomed. He used to spend hours on his computer – all day sometimes, all night – searching for a cure. At least, I suppose that’s what he was searching for. When I looked through the material he’d stored – after his death, I mean – I couldn’t make any sense of what he was working on. It didn’t seem to have any relevance to his illness at all. He was researching a drug I’ve never heard of before or since called MRQS.’
‘What does that stand for?’
‘I don’t know. It was never spelt out. Even if it had been, I doubt it would have meant anything to me. He was in touch with a laboratory in Reading about preparing a sample of the stuff when he … went into his final decline.’
‘Have you still got this … material, Cliff?’ asked Chipchase.
‘No. There was so much. I got rid of it. Well, I had to, really, with Belle Rive passing into other hands. Oh, here’s lunch, I think.’
Their meals had indeed arrived. A hiatus ensued, while the waitress served them and Chipchase blithely ordered a second bottle of wine. An oddity remained lodged in Harry’s mind during this period, which he raised as soon as he was free to.
‘Who inherited the house, Cliff?’
‘Ailsa Redpath. She’s been very kind to me. I pay much less rent than the other tenants.’
‘How was she related to Les?’
‘She wasn’t, as far as I know. Not as such.’
‘Really?’ Harry judged from the frown on Chipchase’s face that he too had counted the letters in Ailsa Redpath’s name without arriving at the magical figure of nine. ‘What was their connection, then?’
Enslow gave a sheepish little half-smile. ‘I don’t really know.’
‘Come again?’ Chipchase stared quizzically at him.
‘It’s true. In fact, I’ve never actually met her. The whole thing was handled through solicitors. And an agent deals with everything concerning the house. Mrs Redpath never comes down here.’
‘Down from where?’ asked Harry.
‘Did I say down?’ Enslow looked briefly discomposed, as if caught out, not necessarily in a lie, but certainly in a misrepresentation. ‘Over would be more accurate. She lives abroad.’
‘Whereabouts?’
‘Er, Italy. Why do you—’
Suddenly, The Great Escape was under way – at least musically. Chipchase plucked out his phone. ‘Hello? … Yes … Sorry? … Oh, hello … Yes. Just hold on.’ He looked across at Harry and Enslow. ‘Sorry. I’ll have to take this call. You carry on without me.’ The sidelong grimace he gave Harry as he rose from the table failed to convey whatever meaning was intended. He headed for the exit, phone clamped to ear.
‘I hate mobiles,’ said Enslow, watching Chipchase go. ‘I hate the false urgency they confer on mind-numbingly insignificant exchanges.’
‘Me too,’ said Harry, sensing Enslow was keen to deflect him from the subject of Ailsa Redpath. The name sounded Scottish to him; distinctly so. ‘You don’t think Les met Mrs Redpath during his trips to Scotland, do you?’
‘It’s possible. I r
eally couldn’t say.’
‘You must have been curious, though. About how they knew each other.’
‘I was. I still am. But the lady values her privacy. And I’m her tenant. On very favourable terms. I’m sure you can understand why I’m disinclined to rock the boat.’
‘Of course.’
‘It’s as I warned you. There’s nothing I can tell you that will shed any light on these recent deaths.’
‘Lester’s, er … researches …’
‘Yes?’
‘Did he … safeguard them in any way?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Well, with a … password or somesuch?’
‘Password?’
‘On his computer.’
‘Oh, I see what you mean. Mmm.’ Enslow considered the point while assembling a forkful of Caesar salad, which then remained poised between plate and mouth as he continued. ‘Well, yes, he did. But I knew what it was, of course.’
‘And, er … what was that?’
‘It hardly matters now.’ Enslow swallowed his forkful of salad. ‘You should be able to guess, anyway.’
‘Should I?’
‘Sorry about that, chaps,’ Chipchase announced, startling both of them with his uncharacteristically soft-footed return to the table. ‘Irritating bloody things, aren’t they, these mobile jobbies? But handy in emergencies.’ He flopped down onto his chair. ‘Where were we?’
‘Cliff was just about to tell us the password Les used in his computer.’
‘Oh yeah?’ Chipchase stiffened alertly.
‘Apparently we should be able to work it out ourselves.’
‘You might be overestimating us there, Cliff. Brain teasers aren’t our Trust House. Know what I mean?’
The blank look on Enslow’s face suggested he did not. ‘Forte,’ Harry explained.
‘Wordplay evidently is your speciality,’ said Enslow drily. ‘Les’s password was his RAF nickname.’
‘Piggott.’
‘Exactly. Conferred by your good selves, perhaps. Or some other rapier wit you served with. But, as I explained, the files are long gone. Along with the computer. And Les too, of course.’ Enslow sighed. ‘A long time gone. So, the password is utterly unimportant.’ He looked narrowly at them. ‘Which makes your disappointment all the harder to fathom.’
‘Disappointed?’ Chipchase prodded himself in the chest. ‘Us?’
‘I’d say so, yes.’ Enslow gave them a thin, faintly puzzled smile. ‘Palpably.’
Chapter Thirty-seven
‘DO YOU WANT the good news or the bad news?’ Chipchase whispered to Harry as Enslow took himself off to the loo straight after placing an order for dessert and coffee.
‘Are they both connected with that phone call you took?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Give me the good, then. I could do with some after drawing a blank on the password.’
‘Helen Morrison is more than ever convinced we’re innocent and Plod’s barking up the wrong tree.’
‘That was her on the phone?’
‘It was.’
‘She didn’t call just to say that?’
‘No. That’s where we get onto the bad news.’
‘OK. Spit it out.’
‘She’s in Cardiff with her mother. When she heard about it on the local news this morning, she double-checked, so there’s no—’
‘Heard about what?’
‘I’m trying to tell you. There was a fire at Askew’s flat last night. The place was gutted. Everything destroyed.’
‘Good God.’
‘The Fire Brigade suspect arson. So do I, come to that. The question is—’
‘Who did it? And why?’
‘We shook Tancred’s tree yesterday. Cause and effect, do you reckon?’
‘Could be. Then again—’
‘Hold up. Cliff’s back. Smile, Harry. You’re on Enslowvision.’
Harry and Barry said little as lunch drifted to a close. Enslow took up the conversational slack with his less than riveting observations on the changes he had seen in Henley over the years. Eventually, even these petered out. Harry paid. Enslow thanked them. They left.
Harry walked out with Chipchase onto Henley Bridge. They gazed up the regatta course and watched Enslow’s beetling progress along the riverside in the direction of Belle Rive. The sun was out, making a pretty scene of the lawns and the weeping willows and the graceful sweep of the Thames. But gloom had settled on Harry. Every question they asked either went unanswered or raised more questions. With every step they took, they slipped back at least as far.
‘Well, he got a free lunch out of that,’ growled Chipchase, pointing with his thumb at Enslow’s receding figure. ‘What did we get?’
‘You got a free lunch as well, Barry. Since you ask. I got … precious little.’
There was a pause, during which Chipchase apparently decided to ignore the reference to his freeloading. ‘Nixon and Maynard were both after the same thing in Scotland, weren’t they?’ he asked.
‘Probably.’
‘But we haven’t a clue what that was.’
‘Oh, we’ve got a clue. On disk. We just can’t get at it.’
‘Do you think Askew’s flat was searched before it was torched?’
‘Who knows? Maybe that’s why it was torched. To destroy the evidence of a break-in.’
‘But the disk is what they were after?’
‘Has to be.’
‘Then we’ve got to find out what’s on it.’
‘If you know how to do that without the password, Barry, now’s the time to say.’
‘I don’t.’
‘Somehow, I thought you didn’t.’
‘But I know a man who might.’
Chipchase’s ‘man who might’ was Andy Norrington, former fellow inmate of Channings Wood Prison. A bank clerk who had siphoned money from clients’ accounts to fund his cocaine habit, his credentials as a manipulator of computer technology were undeniable. Released several months before Chipchase, he had written to his old cell-block neighbour urging him to make contact when he got out. ‘But that was the last thing I wanted to do. He’d only have reminded me of the whole ghastly bloody experience just when I was trying to forget it.’ So, Norrington had gone uncontacted. Until now.
Four trains and three hours later, they arrived at the Beckenham bungalow of Norrington’s parents, fervently hoping he had not moved on to a place of his own. The mobile-phone number he had given in his letter was no longer active and his e-mail address was of little use to the low-tech pairing of Harry and Barry. Tracking him down was more than a little hit or miss.
The door was answered by an elderly, gentle-voiced lady who confirmed that she was Mrs Norrington. When Chipchase mentioned Andy, however, her face froze. All she managed to say was, ‘Oh dear, oh dear. Oh Lord.’ Chipchase was halfway through a stumbling explanation of how he knew her son when Mr Norrington, a stooped and shuffling old man with vast, greasy-lensed spectacles as thick as milk bottles, appeared in the hall.
‘You’re a friend … of Andy’s?’ he wheezed.
‘That’s right. From … Well, er, we met … inside, if you know what I mean. He may have mentioned me. Barry Chipchase.’
Norrington looked blankly at his wife and she looked blankly back at him. ‘I … don’t think so,’ he said.
‘Oh dear, oh dear. Oh Lord. You tell them, Perce. I can’t …’ With that Mrs Norrington turned and tottered away out of sight.
‘Tell us what?’ Harry prompted.
‘Well …’ Norrington swayed slightly and placed one hand against the door to steady himself. ‘Thing is … Andy’s no longer … with us.’
‘He’s moved away?’ Chipchase responded.
‘No, no. I mean … he’s …’
‘No longer with us,’ Harry whispered into Chipchase’s ear, having already grasped what the old man meant. ‘Passed away. Gone to a better place. Dead.’
‘It was the drugs,’ said Norrington. ‘H
e went back on them … when he couldn’t … get on as he’d hoped. Only it … was worse than before and … one day he …’
The exact circumstances of Andy Norrington’s fatal overdose were never spelt out. They hardly needed to be. He would not be cracking codes for anyone. Harry and Barry made their way back to the station with nothing to show for their visit.
‘A waste of time, I’m afraid,’ said Harry, for no very good reason beyond breaking the silence that had settled glumly upon them.
‘And bloody depressing too,’ said Chipchase. ‘I’d have backed Andy to make it on the outside. I thought he had what it took. I thought I had what it took. I’m not so sure any more, Harry. I’ve got the skids under me. Maybe the bastard who did for Danger would be doing me a favour if—’
‘For God’s sake, Barry, it’s not that bad.’
‘Isn’t it?’
‘While there’s life, there’s hope.’
‘Yeah. Trouble is, it’s false hope every bloody time.’
The journey back to Swindon did nothing to boost Chipchase’s spirits. The rush hour’s encroachment into early evening made it sweatily crowded as well as agonizingly slow. Conversation was ruled out by the seats they managed to find being widely separated and none was stimulated by their weary trudge from the station to Falmouth Street. Chipchase stopped short at the Glue Pot, where Harry undertook to join him after phoning Donna.
He caught her on her mobile at the University, as he had banked on doing.
‘Do you think your colleagues in the chemistry department will have heard of a drug called MRQS, Donna?’
‘What does it stand for and what does it do?’
‘No idea on both counts.’
‘It’s going to be a tough call, then. I’d have to persuade one of them to spend a chunk of time checking their databases.’
‘What about that guy Samuels? Isn’t he a chemist? The way he was looking at you at the Christmas party, I’d say he was eminently persuadable.’
‘I don’t actually want to encourage Marvin, Harry. How important is this?’
‘Could be very.’
There was a lengthy pause before Donna said: ‘Oh God. All right, then. I’ll see what I can do. On one condition.’
‘Which is?’
Never Go Back Page 18