But the line was dead. Harry had been summoned. And the possibility that he might refuse to answer the summons was simply not allowed for.
Chapter Forty
CHIPCHASE DEVOTED MOST of the short journey to Didcot to an unconvincing explanation of how he would have extracted more in the way of solid information from Erica before agreeing to meet her. ‘You’ve danced to her tune a sight too long, Harry. She’s going to be disappointed if she expects old Chipchase to be as meek and mild as you’ve been.’
It was futile to point out that Chipchase was in no position to say how meek or mild Harry had been. It was futile, indeed, to speculate what Erica wanted with them – what for that matter she had wanted all along. They would find out soon enough. Shaken by their experiences of the night before, Harry for one was content to wait until they did.
It was 12.30 when the train reached Didcot. Harry and Barry got off, trailed through the subway and followed a knot of people obviously bound for the car park as they headed along the main platform, then took a path that led to a footbridge over the lines, beyond which serried ranks of commuter cars filled the tarmacked expanse of what had once been a goods yard.
‘How are we going to find her in the middle of that lot?’ Chipchase demanded as they crossed the bridge.
‘Maybe she’ll find us.’
‘She could have found us at the Glue Pot. Why we’ve had to come to this godforsaken hole for the privilege of a chat with Miss High and Bloody Mighty I don’t—’
‘Neither do I, Barry. OK? Ask her, not me.’
‘I will. If I get the chance.’
The people ahead of them peeled off to their vehicles. Doors slammed. Engines started. Cars nosed out of parking bays. Harry and Barry wandered towards the farthest, emptiest corner of the car park, drawing ever closer as they did so to the huge, squat, gently steaming chimneys of the nearby power station.
A black four-by-four with reflective windows stood conspicuously alone near the distant boundary fence. Its headlamps flashed once as they approached. The passenger door opened and a tall, barrel-chested, broad-shouldered, dark-haired man dressed in jeans and windcheater climbed out. He lit a cigarette, then wandered slowly away from the car, leaving the door open behind him.
‘Who the bloody hell’s that?’ muttered Chipchase.
‘Never seen him before.’
‘Looks like a bloody bouncer.’
‘Well, just as long as he’s not planning to bounce us.’
‘Think he’d give me a fag? I could just do with one.’
‘You really want to find out?’
Chipchase thought for a moment. ‘Maybe not,’ he said with a sigh. ‘The poor sod’s probably only lit up now because Her Nibs told him he couldn’t inside the car.’
They covered a few more yards towards the four-by-four in silence. Harry caught sight of Erica, seated behind the wheel, dressed casually in jeans and fleece. She glanced coolly at him, her face expressionless.
‘That definitely her?’ whispered Chipchase.
‘Yup.’
‘You really know how to pick ’em, don’t you?’
Harry let the remark pass, despite the fact that he had in no sense picked Erica. If anything, she had picked him. He stopped by the open passenger door and looked in at her. ‘Hello, Erica,’ he said quietly.
‘Hello, Harry.’ Her reply was neutrally pitched, giving away no more than her calm, unflinching gaze. ‘And Barry, I presume.’
‘That’s right,’ growled Chipchase.
‘Get in. Please.’
Harry climbed into the seat beside her. Chipchase opened the rear door and clambered in behind him.
‘Something wrong with your knee, Harry? You seem to be limping.’
‘It’s nothing.’
‘What he means,’ said Chipchase, ‘is that it’s the least of his problems.’
‘Yes. I suppose it must be.’
‘Who’s your chum?’
‘A colleague.’
‘What sort of business do you have to be in to get a colleague like him?’
‘I’m sorry I had to … misrepresent myself … in Aberdeen. And I’m sorry I can’t be specific about what I do for a living. Or the nature of my interest in your … old airmen’s reunion. But there it is. Those are the ground rules.’
‘A bit bloody limiting, aren’t they?’
‘Yes. But they are what I’m obliged to operate within. Why don’t you shut the doors? It’s a little draughty in here.’
The doors closed in a single synchronized clunk. Marlboro Man came into view, prowling the empty parking bays in a slow arc, drawing on his cigarette while never taking his eyes off the four-by-four and its three occupants.
‘You didn’t need to bring a bodyguard, Erica,’ said Harry.
‘I know. But he insisted.’
‘You’re not a psychologist, are you?’
‘An amateur one, maybe. But no. For your purposes, I’m not.’
‘And you’re not with the police.’
‘No.’
‘Some other branch of the forces of law and order, then?’
‘Not exactly.’
‘Secret bloody Service,’ put in Chipchase. ‘That’s what it is, isn’t it? MI bleeding five.’
‘You’re jumping to conclusions, Barry.’
‘Yeah? Well, it beats jumping for your life from a burning house, I can tell you. From personal bloody experience.’
‘You had a lucky escape.’
‘Too true we did, darlin’. So, how about making our day and laying on a lucky escape for us from all our recent troubles?’
‘What exactly did you have in mind?’
‘Who’s been killing our old comrades, Erica?’ Harry asked. ‘And trying to kill us?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Why would anyone want to?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘What makes Operation Clean Sheet so important all these years after the event?’
‘I can’t say.’
‘Significant change of tone there, Harry old cock. Did you notice?’ Chipchase leaned forward between the seats. ‘Some things she doesn’t know. Others she can’t say.’
‘Exactly,’ said Erica softly.
‘You invited me to call you if I needed help, Erica,’ said Harry. ‘Well, I called. Because I do need help. We both do. Badly.’
‘I know. But my freedom of movement’s become … limited.’
‘What the bloody hell’s that supposed to mean?’ snapped Chipchase.
‘It means I can’t help you as much as I’d like to.’ She glanced round at Harry and he held her gaze.
‘How about at all?’
‘That depends.’
‘On what?’
‘How much you know. How much you’ve learned. How much you’ve … deduced.’
‘That’s easily answered,’ said Chipchase. ‘Sweet FA.’
‘For your sakes, I hope not.’
‘We’ve figured out a few things,’ said Harry. ‘But not enough to understand what’s going on.’
‘The fire at Askew’s flat in Cardiff suggests the murderer feared there might be evidence to be found there pointing to his identity. Could the fire at your house in Swindon have been started for the same reason?’
‘Maybe.’
‘Do you mean you have such evidence?’
‘Sort of.’
‘If you can lead us to the killer, I can do something for you. Get the police off your backs. Arrange safe passage … wherever you want to go. We looked after Starkie. We can look after you.’
‘What did Starkie do for you?’
‘What we asked him to.’
‘And Dangerfield?’
‘What have you got for me, Harry? What’s the evidence? It has to be quid pro quo. I’m not authorized to operate any other way. Tell me you have something to trade.’ She looked intently at him, eager, it seemed, to be told a deal could be done. ‘Please.’
‘Askew sent me a c
omputer disk. We’ve been trying to decrypt it. Without success.’
‘Where is it?’
Harry shook his head.
‘It wasn’t … destroyed in the fire?’
He nodded.
‘Oh dear.’ She sighed. ‘How sad.’
‘Is that sad for you, darlin’?’ Chipchase asked. ‘Or us?’
‘Principally you, I’m afraid. There’s nothing I can do without it. Or something like it. My hands are tied.’
‘No chance you could untie them?’
‘None.’
‘So, where does that leave us?’
She did not answer directly. Her gaze shifted. She pursed her lips and stared into the middle distance. Harry exchanged a helpless glance with Chipchase. A silent minute slowly elapsed. Then, at last, she spoke. But all she said was: ‘I’m sorry. I really am.’ Then she started the engine.
‘Are we going for a spin, darlin’?’ asked Chipchase.
‘No, Barry. I’m afraid it’s time to say goodbye. Would you mind getting out? I need to be on my way.’
‘Tell us what’s going on, Erica,’ said Harry, no longer trying to conceal his desperation. ‘Please. I’m begging you.’
‘I can’t.’
‘Rules were made to be broken,’ said Chipchase.
‘Not these rules.’
‘Our lives could be on the line,’ said Harry, the pitch of his voice rising. ‘You realize that, don’t you?’
‘Yes.’ She closed her eyes briefly. ‘I do.’
‘Then—’
‘It’s no good, Harry.’ She raised her hand. It was a prearranged signal to Marlboro Man. He tossed away his cigarette and started towards them. ‘You’re on your own.’
Chapter Forty-one
AS A VENUE for what amounted to a council of war, the buffet at Didcot railway station left something to be desired. But since neither Harry nor Barry had felt able to suggest a smart move in any direction after watching Erica’s four-by-four roar out of the car park, destination unknown, the buffet it had to be. It catered for people in transit, after all: those who had set off on a journey but not yet reached its end; and that was Harry and Barry to a tee.
‘Fat lot of bleeding good coming here did us,’ Chipchase complained, slurping McEwan’s Export between drags on the first cigarette in a newly purchased pack.
‘It was impressive the way you controlled the discussion from start to finish, certainly,’ Harry observed, his tolerance of Chipchase’s reproachful tone wearing thin.
‘What did you expect me to do? She’s some kind of spook. And she had a minder. She said her freedom of movement was limited. Well, it’s better than no bloody freedom at all.’
‘It’s not as bad as that, Barry. Here we are, with money in our pocket and the run of the rail network. Where d’you want to go? Penzance? Pembroke? Pwllheli?’
‘The money’s in your pocket, since you mention it. And, without passports, making a run of it’s a waste of what little time we have to play with before Plod starts twitching on our leash.’
‘True enough.’
‘So?’
Harry leaned back in his comfortless chair and rubbed his eyes, which were still smarting from the smoke they had had to contend with the night before. ‘Meeting Erica wasn’t the total washout you seem to think, Barry.’
‘No?’
‘Well, like you said, she turns out to be a spook. MI5. MI6. One or the other – or similar. The point is, there’s some kind of overlap between Operation Clean Sheet and the Secret Service. God knows what it is. But no one who does know is going to tell us. We’re on our own. She said so, didn’t she? She made that very clear.’
‘If you’re trying to cheer me up, you’re—’
‘I’m trying to tell it like it is. Listen. Erica doesn’t know who the murderer is. Or what their motive is. So, the murders can’t be directly connected with the spy angle to Operation Clean Sheet, whatever that is. They’re about something else. Which means we’re as well placed to figure out the answer as anyone.’
‘Go on, then. Figure it out.’
‘Back at the Pot, you were all for counter-attacking. Was that just the beer talking?’
‘It might have been the humming the chorus. Indecision’s the real bugbear. I can’t decide whether I’m angrier than I am frightened. But on balance …’ Chipchase took a long draw on his cigarette. ‘Probably more frightened. Come to think of it … a lot more. And that makes me angry. That and being left in the lurch by Miss Four-by-Four. It all makes me bloody livid, as a matter of fact.’
‘Me too.’
‘So, I guess I still favour counter-attack.’
‘Good.’
‘But what – or who – do we go after?’
‘Well, I’ll phone Donna as soon as it’s a civilized hour in Vancouver. See if she’s turned up anything on Maynard’s mystery drug – MRQS.’
‘What if she hasn’t?’
‘Then we’ll go back to Enslow. He lied to us about Ailsa Redpath. I’m sure of that. She doesn’t live in Italy. He didn’t want to tell us her real address in case we decided to pay her a visit. Now, why d’you think that might be?’
‘Dunno.’ Chipchase stubbed out his cigarette and smiled manfully. ‘But I’d be willing to try and find out if it involved giving the fragrant Clifford a hard time.’
Thanks to the vagaries of Great Western’s Saturday afternoon connections at Reading and Twyford, it was nearly four o’clock when they reached Henley. The sole advantage of their late arrival was that it was now breakfast-time in Vancouver. Armed with an international phonecard bought before leaving Swindon and a cover story fine-tuned along the way, Harry called Donna from a payphone at Henley station, while Chipchase paced up and down outside and made further inroads into his cigarette supply.
There was something subtly wrong in Donna’s tone even before Harry embarked on his explanation of why he was not ringing from his mother’s. He tried to tell himself he was imagining it, that his guilt about lying to her was getting to him. But he remained, on some level, unconvinced.
‘They’ve disconnected Mother’s phone. God knows why. Some misunderstanding, obviously, but I can’t sort it out over the weekend. My mobile doesn’t seem to be charging either and Barry’s has been cut off. No need to ask why that might be. So, I’m reduced to call boxes. Any news on MRQS?’
‘None at all, Harry. Marvin drew a blank. But he’s volunteered to follow a few more hunches, so he might turn up something yet. He’s horribly eager to oblige. You can count on him doing his best. It might help if you told me how you came to hear of the drug in the first place.’
‘It’s a long story. And these payphones fairly gobble credit. MRQS could be an anti-AIDS drug from a while back. Or it could be for something else altogether. I just don’t know. I don’t even know if it’s important.’
‘But it may be?’
‘Maybes are all I have to go on at the moment.’
‘And you’re being careful? Like you promised you would.’
‘Yes. I’m being careful. I’m practically following the Green Cross Code every time I reach the kerbside. There’s nothing for you to worry about.’
‘I wish I could believe that.’
‘You can. I’ll phone again later. I’ve got to go now. Have a nice day. Love you. And Daisy. ’Bye.’
Still troubled by an inflexion in Donna’s voice that he was not sure had really been there at all and unable to recall anything in her actual words to substantiate his concern, he rejoined Chipchase outside the station.
‘No joy on MRQS,’ he tersely reported.
Chipchase shrugged. ‘Can’t say I’m surprised. Whatever this is about, I don’t see how the battle against AIDS comes into it. In the days of Operation Clean Sheet, there was nothing worse than a dose of the clap to worry about, whichever way you hung your flag.’
‘All right. Let’s go and see Enslow.’
‘That’s more like it. Old crocks we may be, Harry, but I reck
on we can put the squeeze on Cliff. And it’ll be interesting to see what oozes out when we do.’
They took a cautious peer into the Age Concern shop, but there was no sign of Enslow behind the counter. Chipchase popped in for a flirtatious word with the lady in attendance and was rewarded with the information that he had just left.
They agreed it was likely he would go straight home, so made a beeline for Belle Rive. Their route took them past Café Rouge, where they had entertained him to lunch only the day before, though to Harry it felt far longer ago. Everything prior to the destruction of his old home in Swindon had a distant, sepia-tinged quality to it now, as if most of his life had gone up in smoke along with his mother’s bric-a-brac and mementoes of the family’s past.
‘There he is,’ said Chipchase, interrupting Harry’s gloomy train of thought with a grab at his elbow.
Enslow was ambling along a footpath through an old graveyard that was clearly a short-cut to the next street and the lane serving Belle Rive and neighbouring properties. Harry and Barry overhauled him in half a dozen strides.
‘Afternoon, Cliff.’
Enslow started at Chipchase’s words and whisked round. ‘What? Oh. Good God. You two.’
‘Yeah. We just can’t stay away from heavenly Henley.’
‘Really? I—’
‘Actually, it’s you we can’t stay away from.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Got what you might call a supplementary question for you. Arising from our little chat yesterday.’
‘Surely we … covered everything.’
‘Not everything.’ Chipchase grinned. ‘There’s one tiny point we somehow overlooked.’
Harry summoned a grin of his own to match Chipchase’s. ‘You know what they say. There’s no such thing as a free lunch.’
‘We need you to tell us where Ailsa Redpath lives,’ Harry explained after they had piloted Enslow to a nearby bench and settled beside him. ‘But before you do that, I ought to make a few things clear. Firstly, we know she doesn’t live in Italy, so don’t waste your breath on the Tuscan villa cover story. Secondly, you ought to be aware the Grampian police have us in the frame for those murders in Aberdeenshire you’ve read about. We’re due to be grilled by them on Tuesday. We’re not guilty, by the way, in case you wondered. But someone is. And they’re after all of us. If we tell enough people you’re the keeper of Lester Maynard’s secrets, it’s my bet you’ll be added to the hit list. Co-operate with us, however, and we’ll keep your name out of it. All you have to do is point us in your landlady’s direction and stifle any temptation you might feel to warn her we’re looking for her. It really is as simple as that. So, how about it?’
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