17
THEY RAN TARRANT RAGGED, SENDING HIM FROM ONE RV TO ANOTHER JUST AS he knew they would. They even compelled him to put the Zephyr up on a ramp to check that a bleeper had not been attached to the chassis, and the mechanic at the wayside garage had thought him a crank when Tarrant had insisted on getting into the inspection pit with him to check on a supposed oil leak from the sump. Thereafter, his route had followed no recognisable pattern, and if marked on a map, would have resembled the scribbling of an infant child.
Night had fallen when he drove into the car park of the Cross Keys. His headlights picked out a bold sign on the boundary fence which said ‘Coaches Welcome’. It seemed that the pub was popular; he counted eighteen other cars parked in the yard, but then it was the only sizeable roadhouse on that stretch of the A607, and it was close enough to Leicester to draw trade from the city. Tarrant thought that Drabble had picked a good venue.
Wall to wall carpeting covered the floor of the lounge bar, easy chairs were grouped around low coffee tables, a line of evenly spaced, plastic-covered stools faced the bar and diffused wall lighting gave the room an intimate atmosphere. Tarrant perched himself on one of the vacant stools, ordered a whisky and soda and prepared himself for a long wait. His instructions were clear enough; he was to stay there until he was contacted. Looking around the room, he saw that there were three quite separate groups; everyone else had come in a party, he was the odd man out. He wondered if the contact would arrive alone.
He picked up a copy of the Leicester Mercury which someone had left on the bar and scanned every page, but of course he could find no mention of David, and there was no reason why there should be. Public interest in the continuing search for a missing boy had waned after a day or two and as far as the Press was concerned there had been no new developments. Drabble had wanted it kept out of the papers, which suited Harper, and Tarrant had had no say in the matter, but now he began to wonder whether it had been such a good idea after all. It occurred to him that, as Harper did not have to contend with public opinion, he could handle the situation whichever way he chose, and that did not necessarily mean that he would have David’s interests at heart. Tarrant put the paper to one side and ordered another whisky.
An hour went by without anything happening except that he chain-smoked his way through five cigarettes, and then he began to wonder if they had left a message, but the barman had nothing for him and so he went outside to check on the Zephyr which he found was still in the same parking slot. He tried the doors but they hadn’t been tampered with and it became perfectly obvious that no one had been near the car. He hung around for ten minutes or so, during which time several more cars arrived, and then, weary of the whole business he went back inside and ordered a third whisky and a couple of cheese sandwiches to go with it.
The lounge bar gradually filled until it was standing room only, but not one person in that bar took any notice of Tarrant. Waiting was a demoralising business, and although he knew it was intended, he wished they would get it over and done with. He kept glancing towards the entrance hoping against hope that something would happen.
Suddenly, something did. The woman sitting on the next stool knocked his glass over.
The man with her said, ‘My God, that was careless of you, Ruth.’ He flashed a smile at Tarrant. ‘I hope it missed you.’
‘There was only a drop left. No harm was done.’
A cool hand touched his. ‘I’m dreadfully sorry,’ she said, ‘let me get you another drink.’
‘No, really, it’s quite all right.’
‘Please,’ she said, ‘I’ll feel awful if you don’t.’ Her voice was soft and pleading and it bore just a trace of an American accent.
Tarrant smiled back at her. ‘Well, if you insist,’ he said, ‘I’ll have a ginger ale.’
‘Why not have something stronger?’
‘I’m on the limit now.’
‘Ah yes,’ she said, ‘we can’t have you in trouble with the police.’
She was, he thought, in her early thirties, although it was hard to be sure. She had a long, fine-boned face which ended in a narrow chin, but the blonde hair did much to soften her features. She was wearing a stone-coloured leather suit over a black sweater and she was sitting with one leg crossed over the other. Her thighs were worth a second glance. He noticed that she was wearing a platinum wedding ring but he very much doubted if the man she was with was her husband. Looking at her, Tarrant thought she could have found someone better.
The man flashed him another smile. Nicotine had stained his teeth a dull yellow. ‘I haven’t seen you here before,’ he said.
‘I’m just passing through.’
He pushed the glass of ginger ale towards Tarrant. ‘Going to London?’ he said.
‘Yes.’
‘Thought so.’
‘Why?’
‘Your accent gave you away.’
‘It always does.’
The man raised his glass. ‘Cheers,’ he said.
The salute marked the end of their brief conversation and Tarrant didn’t blame him. If their positions had been reversed he also would have concentrated all his attention on the woman. He toyed with his ginger ale, not really wanting it, but as long as he was forced to sit there waiting for a contact, it was a harmless enough drink to while away the time.
A man behind him said, ‘Hullo Ruth, what a surprise seeing you here. Where’s Paul?’
Tarrant glanced sideways at the woman sitting beside him to see how she reacted to being caught out with another man and he had to admire her composure. She took it all in her stride.
‘You know Paul,’ she said, ‘he’s busy talking to his friend in Johore Bahru. I don’t think you’ve met Steve, have you? He’s spending the weekend with us.’
The mutual introductions started because the newcomer had arrived in a party, and Tarrant caught the names of Burroughs, Calvert and Scotson amongst others. A small crowd gathered and he began to feel in the way. He sat there for about fifteen minutes trying not to listen to their conversation, but it was difficult not to do so, and in the end, he left the bar and played the fruit machines until he ran out of small change.
He didn’t see the Burroughs-Calvert-Scotson party break up, but when next he looked their way, they were no longer there, and he saw that there was only a quarter of an hour to go before closing time. He checked with the barman again to see if there had been a message for him, but as he had half expected, no one had called. It occurred to him then that perhaps they had a duplicate set of keys, and that while he’d been sitting in the pub, they had calmly helped themselves to the gear he’d locked away in the boot. Tarrant went outside again to check on the car.
He had figured that they would try to pull a fast one but it still came as a bit of a shock to find that the Zephyr had been lifted. He felt more than a little sheepish when he walked back into the bar and asked if he could use the phone. The landlord wasn’t too keen on the idea but then the pound note caught his eye and that changed his attitude.
Smallwood answered the phone and he sounded irritable.
He said, ‘About time. What kept you?’
All day long he had been taunted by Drabble and his friends and he had had just about enough. ‘Who the hell do you think you’re talking to?’ he snapped.
Tarrant heard him swallow and then Smallwood said, ‘I’m sorry, sir, I thought it was the station with news of my relief. We’ve gone on to a twelve-hour shift system and he’s overdue.’
‘Had any other calls?’
‘One from Drabble about half an hour ago. Mr Harper would like to speak to you about it, sir. You can reach him at his office.’
‘At this time of night?’
‘So I understand,’ Smallwood said woodenly.
‘Is my wife there?’
‘She went to bed just after the call came through. Would you like to speak to her mother?’
Tarrant said, ‘No, I wouldn’t.’ He hung up and then phoned Harper. H
e didn’t sound any too friendly either.
‘I’ve been expecting you to call,’ Harper said.
‘I gather you’ve heard from Drabble?’
‘About half an hour ago.’
‘And?’
‘Well, as you must know, he’s got the beacon and the recognition panels. He wants the Wessex helicopter positioned at Wyton, which is near St Ives, and he said that he will phone at 1000 hours to give me the compass heading and the wireless frequency.’
‘Is everything set up for him?’
Harper avoided the question. ‘When are you coming back?’ he said.
‘I’m stranded.’
‘What?’
‘They just made their first big mistake, they stole the Zephyr.’
‘Have you informed the police?’
‘Not yet, but I will as soon as we finish this call.’
There was a brief silence and then Harper said, ‘Unfortunately, the police won’t have enough time to trace the car before Drabble calls tomorrow.’
His attitude alarmed Tarrant and he said, ‘About the helicopter?’
‘What about it?’
‘It is okay, isn’t it?’
‘Of course it is. Everything will be fine so long as the pilot can pick up the signal from the beacon. Call me tomorrow morning after ten, all right?’
Tarrant said he would do that and hung up. It wasn’t until he had reported the theft of his car to the police and they were giving him a lift into Leicester, that the significance of Harper’s remark about the beacon sank in. The Wessex was going to take off and fly on the course set by Drabble and it was going to keep on flying right over the pick-up point and afterwards the pilot would report that he had failed to hear the beacon. There were not enough words in the gutter to describe the way he felt about Harper.
*
The height of the Cuban missile crisis had been the last occasion when Harper had found it necessary to sleep the night in his office, and during the intervening years, he had forgotten the narrowness and comparative discomfort of a camp bed. He lay there in the dark cocooned in a nylon sleeping bag, while a too active mind and the sound of thunder in the distance kept him awake.
For all that he had achieved at the end of a long and frustrating day, he could have paid a flying visit to Bisley to watch Vincent and his team going through their paces. There was something very satisfying about seeing a good shot in action, and although most people preferred to watch from the firing point, he liked to stand in the butts listening to the crack of each round passing over his head as it entered the target above. He tried to picture the range in his mind but Drabble kept intruding, and he wondered, not for the first time, why a group of men should have chosen to operate under that name. He recalled Churchill’s dictum that any code name allotted to a future operation should not be pessimistic or over-optimistic or indicate the nature and intention of the plan. He believed now that the significance of ‘Drabble’ lay in the fact that it disclosed absolutely nothing.
The phone trilled sharply in the stillness of the room and he scrambled out of bed to answer it.
A strange voice said, ‘Mr Harper?’
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘who’s calling?’
‘Duty Officer, sir—Section One.’
‘Have you got a name?’
‘I have,’ said the stranger. ‘Can we go to secure speech?’
Harper said, ‘Wait.’ He groped his way around the desk, felt for and found the button on the scrambler. ‘All right,’ he said, ‘go ahead.’
‘My name is Illingworth, sir. I’ve been trying to contact Mr Julyan on a rather urgent matter. I’ve rung him at home but there was no answer, and so I decided I had better call you.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I understand you are an old friend, and your wife thought you might know where I could find him.’
‘My wife?’
‘Yes. I’m afraid I disturbed her for nothing but I thought you would be at home.’
‘Normally I am.’ Harper was suddenly conscious that he was being unreasonable and he changed his tone of voice. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘but I don’t know what to suggest. Perhaps his phone is out of order?’
‘No, sir, the GPO have checked it and the local police tell me they can’t get him to answer the door either. It seems the house is empty.’
‘The police? How are they involved?’
‘I’m afraid they have some distressing news. Mrs Julyan and her son were killed in a traffic accident outside Lyon earlier this evening.’
‘Oh God,’ Harper said quietly. He tried to put himself in Julyan’s place because he knew that such a shocking piece of news would break him completely. ‘What happened to the little girl?’
‘I understand she has been seriously injured. That’s why it’s essential I get in touch with Mr Julyan as soon as possible. They want him to fly out there straight away.’
‘I see.’
‘Yes, I’m afraid it’s a bad business all round. There was another man with her—an American smuggler, who was killed outright.’
‘What’s this about a smuggler?’ Harper said quickly.
‘He was carrying a large number of uncut diamonds in a money belt.’
‘Jesus Christ.’
‘Sir?’
Harper said, ‘I’ll meet you at Julyan’s house in twenty minutes.’
‘I can’t leave the office.’
‘You can, and you will, and you’ll make sure that the police are there too. Your Mr Julyan is about to defect.’
‘I don’t believe it.’
‘You’d better,’ Harper said grimly. He hung up before Illingworth had a chance to question him further.
He experienced a sense of personal betrayal which left a nasty taste in his mouth. If a man like Edward Julyan was not to be trusted, who could he trust? They had been close friends for many years and it had never entered his mind to question Edward’s loyalty. A man with a record such as his was beyond doubt. Christ, he’d become a legend in his own lifetime, collecting a DSO and the Croix de Guerre for his work with the French Section during the war, and he had earned those medals twice over for the risks he’d taken in the so-called years of peace.
His hand reached for the telephone. The Minister would be distressed but there would be no quibbling over small details. Although he was now free to handle the situation the way he saw fit, Harper felt there was little cause for satisfaction.
The storm was right overhead now and the rain began to fall, lightly at first but then with increasing severity.
Saturday
SEVENTH DAY
18
THE HOUSE WAS CALLED DOWNDALE AND IT STOOD IN PRIORY ROAD OPPOSITE the Upper Chine Girls’ School, and the curious thing was that he had no recollection of ever having visited it before because he knew that his aunt had sold the place in 1943 when he was still a child, and in those days the Isle of Wight was virtually a prohibited area and visitors from the mainland were discouraged. And yet he was there with Alex in his aunt’s house and their bedroom looked out over the sloping lawn and the huge tulip tree blotted out most of the sunlight. And Alex was in white satin and there was a lace veil over her face, and that too was crazy because they had been married in Bradford. And he had stood there with his back to the window and he had watched her remove the veil, and then suddenly it wasn’t Alex but her mother who was there in the room with him, and her cold grey eyes behind the rimless glasses seemed to mock him. And then the scene changed and he was walking down to Apley steps towards the crowded beach, and he knew he was supposed to be looking for Alex, and for some obscure reason he asked the candyfloss man on the promenade if he knew where she was, and the man had smiled and said, ‘Didn’t you know? She’s away at a funeral in Lake.’ And he had run all the way to the cemetery and he had found her standing alone above the open grave, and he had tried to tell her that it was no one’s fault that Sarah had been killed, and then she had looked at him in a strange way and said, ‘
I’m here because today we are going to bury David.’
He woke up in the dark, and although his body was bathed in sweat, he shivered convulsively as if in the throes of malaria. A sickening feeling that there was little he could do to help his son now gnawed at him and slowly and insidiously sapped his resolution. He thought about Alex and wished that they could face the long day ahead together. He lay there, his arms folded behind his head as he waited for the first light of morning to come shafting into the room and with it, the sounds of a city coming to life. If Alex had been at hand, she would have counselled rest, but he was alone in a hotel bedroom and his unquiet mind posed one complex fantasy after another.
If he was going to foul things up through the helicopter pilot, Harper had to have some plan in mind. The Wessex pilot would have them pinpointed the moment he homed in on the beacon and located the recognition panels marking the landing site, but he wouldn’t be able to radio back the information because Drabble would be monitoring that frequency. He couldn’t hover over the landing site either, if the excuse for not making the contact was that the beacon was malfunctioning. So he would have to circle the area while reporting over the air that the beacon signal was too weak to pinpoint. Drabble wouldn’t answer him because he would be running the risk of having his position fixed by intercept, but every RAF Station within fifty miles could pick up the transmissions from the Wessex and get a radar bearing. Harper would end up with a triangle of error but he would know that his quarry was somewhere in the centre of it.
The question was, would Drabble believe that the beacon was malfunctioning? Bad weather was something which neither party could anticipate, but an unserviceable beacon wasn’t in the category of an unexpected hazard. In his own mind, Tarrant felt certain that Drabble would never swallow it.
The first light of day began to filter into the darkened room and Tarrant rolled out of bed, strode over to the windows and drew back the curtains. The weather would not be an ally this day; the thunderstorm had veered away before it had reached the Midlands, and it looked as if it was going to be warm and close again.
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