A Prospect of Vengeance (5 page)

‘Why do you say that, John?’ Jenny watched him over her glass.

‘Don’t you agree?’

‘Back in ‘78-‘79?’ She accepted the challenge casually. ‘Whenever it was, anyway … Philip Masson was more influential than Audley—at least, potentially, anyway.’

‘Was he?’ He let her steel rasp down his blade. Either, they had already rehearsed this for his benefit, thought Ian—or, if they hadn’t, then they were manoeuvring to find out how much the other knew. ‘I would have thought that was … arguable, at the least?’

Jenny shrugged, and refilled her glass: since Tully was their employee now, at his usual rate, she was not minded to play games with him, the gesture implied. ‘Philip Masson’s dead and Audley’s alive.’

‘A very proper conclusion.’ Because he had picked up her signal, Tully agreed with her. But because he was Tully he couldn’t resist talking down to her. “
However,
dead, in precise and gruesome detail, is of no interest, now that Mr Buller has pronounced on it.’ He hardly glanced at Buller. ‘And by
whomsoever
dead—by whose actual
hand
…
that is merely a police matter. And I think it exceedingly unlikely that they will ever put their cuffs on that particular hand … And, if they can’t then we won’t.’ He only had eyes for Jenny now, in proclaiming his limitations. ‘But it won’t have been Audley, anyway.’

‘Why not?’ The question came, surprisingly, from Buller—perhaps because the emptiness of his glass made him irritable.

‘Why not?’ This time Tully gave Buller his full attention. And although there was no surprise in his repetition of the question, there was a matching hint of irritation. ‘I hope you haven’t exceeded your brief, Mr Buller.’

‘Ah! My brief … ’ Buller sucked in his cheeks slightly, and gave Tully back scrutiny for scrutiny, like a man who knows his rights as well as his place. ‘No, I wouldn’t say that, Johnny—no.’

‘No?’ Tully smiled suddenly, almost proprietorially. But then, of course, each of them knew his man, Ian reminded himself: the Tully-Buller relationship went back a long way, to the days when neither of them was engaged in his present avocation. ‘Then … what would you say?’

For a moment Ian was tempted to suspect that he might be a potential client treated to a piece of rehearsed dialogue, to which Buller’s earlier confidences had been a mere prologue. But now that he’d as good as taken Jenny’s hook (and theirs) such dramatics were hardly necessary; and Buller’s thoughtful expression and elongated silence served to remind him of the watchers in the rain outside.

‘What exactly was your brief, Mr Buller—‘ Jenny cracked first ‘—
your
brief, Reg—?’

Buller kept both bloodshot eyes on Tully for another five seconds’-worth of silence before turning to her, as though the sound of her voice had had to travel across some unimaginable distance before it had reached him. ‘Just like always, madam—Miss Fielding: I take off my boot, an’ then my sock … an’ I dip my big toe in the water, to test the temperature.’ He gave her his ex-policeman’s smile of false encouragement. ‘An’ of course, I do all that behind some convenient bush, so no joker can swipe my boot when I’m not looking. As a precaution, like.’

‘I see.’ Even when a client, Jenny was patient in the face of such stone-wailing. ‘And how was the hot water, then—in that pond, where Philip Masson didn’t drown … which you didn’t actually see, you said—?’

‘Warm, Miss Fielding.’ Buller accepted the sharp points of her little claws approvingly, as though not being punctured would have disappointed him.

‘Warm.’ Jenny had drawn blood from harder stones than Reg Buller. ‘Meaning … warm-cooling-down? Or warm-hotting-up, Reg?’

Buller liked that too—her acceptance of his imagery. But that, by some special alchemy, was the effect she always had, even on the most unregenerate chauvinist-pig, one way or another, sooner or later. ‘It may not warm up much down there, now. It could be just the place where he finished up … ’ He shrugged. ‘He didn’t live there. He may not even have died there.’

‘But—?’ She picked up the vibration instantly.

‘Somebody planted him there. So somebody knew it was there—that’s a fair bet.’ Another shrug. ‘All these years … that may be hard to pin down usefully. But if I was running the Incident Room I’d be waiting for that to register on the computer, anyway.’ Nod. ‘Because, although that isn’t so very far from London there, it’s still country—
deep
country … Or, it was then. And it’s amazing what long memories they have, the country-folk. Like, I told you: there was this tale about the soldier who went missing in the war … And
not
Dr David Audley’s war—or even his father’s war, which was the same one—the ‘39-‘45 one. But the one before that, with all the trenches and the barbed wire … And
that
is a long memory for you.’

‘But that was a story, not a memory, Reg—‘ Jenny started, razor-sharp as ever, but then caught herself. ‘But … go on—?’

That’s all. For Masson, for my money, there’s still something down there. But there’s no way we can get at it at this moment—not without crossing the locals, never mind whoever else is nosing around. There just aren’t enough bushes you can hide behind, to drop your boot.’

‘Yes. I see.’ She had what she wanted there. ‘But … you put your toe in … I can’t say “Audley’s water” without seeming indelicate, Reg … but you did take your boot off for him too, didn’t you—yes?’

‘Took it off, aye. Didn’t dip me toe, though.’

‘Why not?’

‘Didn’t need to.’ Buller paused. ‘Didn’t want to, either.’ He cocked his head slightly. ‘Remember that book you and Mr Robinson did a few years back, about the Vietnam business, and all that?’

Jenny frowned. ‘
The Vietnam Legacy
! Yes, Reg—?’ The frown cleared slightly. ‘You and John did some of the leg-work for us, of course. You covered that Chicago reunion I couldn’t get to—and you traced that amazing Green Beret man who ran that mission up in the mountains, out West.’

‘That’s the ticket. The Grand Tetons. Always wanted to see them, ever since I saw ‘em in
Shane
when I was a lad.’ The eye cocked at Ian. ‘Didn’t see ‘em though, did I! Low cloud, there was, the whole time I was there—d’you recall me telling you about it?’

‘I do, Reg.’ What Ian chiefly remembered was Buller’s explanation that ‘Grand Tetons’ meant ‘Big Tits’. ‘But what have the … Grand Tetons to do with Audley, Reg?’

‘Not the Grand Tetons.’ The ghost of a wink accompanied the name. ‘After I’d finished with Major Kasik I had a day or two spare, so I drove up from Jackson Hole to Yellowstone, where there’s this great big National Park, with all the “geysers” spouting and fuming. And it was autumn then, with a nip in the air, like it might start snowing any moment … And there are all these little pools of water, clear as crystal and fresh-looking, with lovely colours—pale blues, and greeny-blues … In the hot summer maybe they’d look cool, but when it’s colder you might reckon they’d be just nice an’ warm, to take the chill off your fingers—or your toes.’ As he spoke, Buller turned back to Jenny. ‘But it ‘ud do a bit more than that. Because it’s bloody boiling, scalding hot, is what it is—one dip, and you’re cooked to the bone. And no saying “Ouch! I won’t do it again!” and “Next time I’ll know better”, and “Now I want to go home”.’ He flicked a glance at Tully. ‘If it’s Dr David Audley you’re after, then it’s in for a penny, in for a pound—no half-measures, Lady.’

For a moment no one wanted to break the silence which followed this latest gypsy’s warning, the truth of which Ian knew that he alone shared with Reg Buller. And, when he thought about it, the only truly curious aspect of it was that, if it was true, Buller himself had turned up at the rendezvous this morning, in spite of his own well-developed sense of self-preservation. But then, when he took the thought further, there were a lot of contradictory aspects in Buller’s character and
curriculum vitae
.

Then Jenny filled her glass again. ‘Ian—?’ She glanced quickly at John Tully’s glass, knowing that it would still be half-full, before returning to Buller. ‘Are you trying to frighten me, Reg?’

Buller held out his empty glass. ‘Would I do that, Miss Fielding?’

‘Champagne, Reg? On top of beer?’ But she poured, nevertheless. ‘
Yes
—
if you thought it would do any good.’

‘Any port in a storm, madam—even fizzy rubbish.’ The bulbous nose wrinkled again. ‘And therefore … no … because I know you’ve already made up your mind.’ He took another gulp, and spluttered. ‘But you have been paying for a “reconnaissance”, and that’s what
I
have given you.’

The emphasis on Buller’s first person singular—and no one, not even John Tully, and not even Jenny herself, was a more singular first person—gave Ian his opening. ‘Are you saying that we’re already blown, Reg?’

‘What?’ John Tully was bristling, before he spoke. ‘You said … we were “already” in for a pound … having spent some of our pennies, Reg.’ He drew Buller’s attention, overriding Tully. ‘Does that mean someone is on to us—
already
?’

Buller concealed any gratitude he might have behind another gulp, and another hiccup. ‘Well … maybe you’ve been up to something I don’t know about, Mr Robinson—like having some young lady in your bedroom, and a jealous husband … like it would have been in the old days.’ He grinned, and then nodded at the typescript on the table. ‘But with the book you’re writing … I don’t see the National Union of Teachers—or the Department of Education, and that Mr Baker—hiring anyone to watch this place, to see who comes in, an’ goes out, of a wet Sunday morning, anyway.’ He carried on the nod towards the window, out of which only well-bred, or well-heeled, or otherwise upwardly-mobile local Hampstead residents might be observed at such times, down Holly Row. ‘But someone is watching you, and that’s a fact.’

To their credit, nobody moved to verify this information; at least, neither Jenny nor John Tully moved—and then Ian realized that, since he ought to be less professional as well as equally shattered by this news, he
ought
to move—

‘
Ian
—
!
’ Jenny admonished him sharply. ‘
Don
’
t look
!’

Ian halted, fixing her first, almost accusingly; and then John Tully, almost angrily; and finally Reg himself, with a mixture of emotions which he couldn’t control, but which only Reg himself could guess at.

‘There’s one at the back, too.’ Buller agreed with all the confusion cheerfully. ‘They’ve got you nicely bracketed … unless you’ve got another exit, up over the roof, an’ down through someone else’s back garden—have you?’

‘John—?’ Jenny cut through Buller’s cackle decisively. ‘You said no one was on to us—?’

Tully stared at her, and then clear through her, as he computed the possibilities, one after another, trying to pin a probability among them. But then he frowned. ‘I don’t understand it, Miss Fielding. Because … I do know a little—a very little—about Audley. So I was damned careful with him: only the people I can
really
trust, I asked—‘ His face closed up tight round his mouth ‘—only the people who owe me.’

‘Well, it wasn’t me.’ Buller knew he’d be next. ‘Unless anyone who appears anywhere near Masson sparks ‘em off—that’s maybe it. But I was careful, too. And they didn’t follow me here, either—you can depend on that: they were here already: I spotted
them
, they didn’t spot
me
—
you can depend on that, too.’

But that was a hard one, thought Ian—estimating the known Buller against the unknown Audley. Because his confidence was only one step away from pride. And pride was always inches away from a fall, remembering Beirut—

‘It might have been me.’ Jenny’s total honesty was one of her greatest strengths. ‘I’ve asked one or two questions, just recently. And I can’t vouch for everyone whom I’ve asked—‘ She embraced Tully with that admission, binding him to her even more securely with it ‘—and then they’d come to Ian, of course … So it might be me, I’m afraid.’

‘Well, it doesn’t matter who it was, Miss Fielding.’ Delivered from all responsibility for failure, Tully became loyal again, as an employee. ‘The question is …
who is on to us?
’
He looked at Buller. ‘Not Fleet Street—?’

‘Sod Fleet Street.’ Buller almost looked sad. ‘I remember a chap on the old
Star
…
and one or two more, on the heavyweights … who’d have had us by now, the way we’ve blundered around … But they’re all into management, and new technology, and colour supplements—the good ones. Or the little magazines … and writing books—‘ The blood-orange eyes took in Ian for half a second ‘—sod Fleet Street!’

‘So that would make it official—?’ Tully wasn’t quite certain.

‘Even after
Spycatcher
—
Peter Wright?’ Neither was Jenny certain.

Buller’s mouth twisted. ‘There’s still a few reporters I rate.’ He held out his glass. ‘If one of them was loose, then I’d be worrying. But I’d also be happy, too.’ He pushed at the neck of the bottle as Jenny poured, until the champagne frothed over the top of the glass and the bottle emptied into it. ‘But I ain’t seen one of ‘em on this lark yet.’

‘So it’s official?’ Tully persisted, patiently.

‘Oh yes.’ Buller sniffed disparagingly. ‘What we’ve got, out there in the wet, is
civil servants
. The only question is … are they
ours
… or are they
someone else
’
s
, who can park their cars, an’ claim “diplomatic immunity”, and not worry about paying the fine—eh?’

That was combining the frightening with the more frightening, rather than the absurd with the ridiculous, thought Ian: whatever heated up the water in his Yellowstone pond it was already on the boil.

‘But … we’re not safe in any case—any more.’ Jenny overtook him, as she always did; and, as it always did, the degree of difficulty and danger only encouraged her, setting her on to go further. ‘Is that what you mean, Reg?’