Requiem (99 page)

Nick motioned him silent with a sharp movement of his hand, and handed the roll of papers through the window. The man in the car spoke into his walkie-talkie, listened for a moment, then signed off. Throwing the radio on the seat, he reached forward to engage the gear lever. At about the same time he also opened his mouth to speak but before he could say anything Campbell, seeing treachery in the movement, roared, ‘An’ where d’you think you’re goin’?’ and, elbowing Nick aside, pushed a hand through the window.

But the other man’s reflexes were quicker; he had the gear engaged and his foot down before Campbell could get at the keys. The car jumped forward, Campbell was nearly pulled off his feet. For a few surreal moments he managed to stay with the accelerating car, his legs wheeling and kicking into the air like a racing cyclist’s, before his feet got mixed up and he nosedived towards the gravel. He saved himself with an astonishingly effective roll, all roundness and no arms like a barrel, and was already struggling to his feet as he came out of it.

Nick loped forward, eyes on the disappearing car, choking with disbelief and fury. He was about to bawl at Campbell, to give him a small but furious taste of his mind, when the blare of a horn had him twisting round and jumping instinctively to one side as a car tore past, shooting out a heavy wedge of spray. It was the dark saloon.

Nick ran back to the Mercedes and, jumping in, roared after the others, rocking briefly to a stop to let Campbell scramble in beside him.

‘Who’re that?’ gasped Campbell, barely articulate.

Foot hard down, Nick blasted towards the exit without replying. Slowing to negotiate the bend at the entrance he shot out into the circle in time to see the tail of the dark car disappear through the gates, turning left. He accelerated across the circle and slewed out into the Albert Bridge Road as a car nosed its way across the junction from the opposite direction, turning south. Missing it by a couple of feet, feeling a brief surge of fear, Nick ignored the agitated bleats of the car’s horn and, straightening up, accelerated once again.

The rain and spray mingled into curtains of moisture which closed in and lifted like drifting fogs. The dark saloon, lost one moment, reappeared the next. He saw that it was jammed up behind the Vauxhall’s bumper, flashing its lights. At the corner of the park, the two cars swerved in beside the closed gates.

‘Who is it?’ demanded Campbell.

‘Morgan,’ Nick said, adding firmly to crush any argument: ‘My idea. I asked him along.’

By the time they pulled in behind the dark saloon, Morgan and his men had the driver out of the Vauxhall and into a tight box of tall backs. As Nick ran up the man was showing his driver’s licence and protesting rapidly: ‘Just delivering a message, lads! That’s all! Just doing a favour for a friend. Listen, the name’s Biggs, ex-Notting Hill CID.’ Turning to Morgan he added with forced camaraderie: ‘Don’t I know you?’

‘The message,’ Nick interjected, shouldering his way past the coppers and pushing his face close to Biggs. ‘What was the message?’

‘The message?’ Biggs had a ghastly smile on his face.

‘What you were meant to tell me!’

Biggs looked at the waiting policemen imploringly. ‘I was just pickin’ up and deliverin’. I didn’t know what it was about. I was just told to – ’

‘The
message
.’

‘Yeah, well. It was “Albert Bridge”, wasn’t it? That’s all I know. Just doing a favour …’

Nick didn’t hear the rest. He was already running back to the car.

Susan threw the swatches of fabric onto the sofa and paced over to the window. Restlessly she turned away and went down to the kitchen to make another cup of coffee, then changed her mind and poured herself a drink. Only midday, but what the hell.

It was the waiting that was killing her. Would Nick ring as soon as he’d retrieved this beastly file or whatever it was? On the whole she thought not; he was too puffed up with wounded pride, too self-obsessed, too self-righteous. Should she try Cramm’s man then? God only knew what sort of a reception she’d get from him. Or Schenker himself? No, she hated the thought of grovelling, and however mildly she couched her request, it would be self-abasement of an odious kind.

Taking her drink, she went up to the bedroom and combed her hair and repencilled her eyebrows. The sound of a closing door echoed up from the hall. The front door? It couldn’t be. The daily had gone for the day. Camilla was away at college. She strode out and hung over the stairwell. ‘Who’s there?’

‘It’s me.’ Tony’s voice, flat and sombre.

Balancing her drink, she hurried down the stairs. ‘Good God, what are
you
doing home?’

He was very still, his face set, his eyes black and staring.

‘
Well?
’ she demanded, suddenly irritated at him for taking her by surprise.

‘I have to talk to you.’

There was something about his tone and the oddness of his expression that infuriated her. ‘What
is
it?’

He dropped his gaze, ran a hand up his cheek and over his forehead, and turned towards the drawing room. He walked untidily, as if he had just got out of bed.

She followed at his heels. ‘
Well?
’

He reached for a drink, lifting the gin bottle then letting it fall again. ‘I’m afraid – it’s bad news,’ he said with difficulty. ‘I’ve made rather a foolish mistake.’ He made the effort to look at her, but his gaze slid away again. ‘A stupid error of judgement.’

Susan clutched at his arm. ‘What?
What?
’

He looked back at the bottle and began to unscrew it slowly. Stopping again, he said suddenly: ‘There was a girl. It was nothing, absolutely nothing, believe me. She was just … Well anyway, it all got out of hand, I’m afraid.’ Abandoning the bottle, his hand dropped wearily to his side and he said in an abject tone: ‘I’m sorry, Susan.’

‘What do you mean? What’s happening?’ In her agitation she yanked on his lapel, pulling the shoulder of his jacket awry.

‘I’ll have to resign.’

‘
Resign?
’ She heard the shriek in her voice. ‘But why,
why
?’

Grasping the gin bottle again, he poured himself a large one. ‘No choice. Money changed hands. She was a tart. They know all about it.’ He took a large swig.

Before Susan could think, she had exclaimed: ‘But it wasn’t you! It wasn’t
you
who gave her the money!’

Tony’s head jerked back, he almost spilled his drink. He stared at her in astonishment.

‘You mustn’t resign!’ she rushed on. ‘Why should you! Lots of people have women, half the cabinet are bloody divorced, for God’s sake – why should
you
have to resign?’

He couldn’t take it in. ‘You
knew
?’

‘Of course I knew! Of
course
I knew! Just as I know that you
don’t need to resign
!’ She spaced the words out so that he would understand. ‘It’s all under control, you see. It’s not going to come out after all. By the end of the day we’ll have all the evidence back – all of it!’ She saw the amazement in Tony’s face. In her anxiety to convince him she gave an odd laugh, almost a shriek. ‘Trust me, trust me! All of it –
back here
! Every single bit. Then no one can touch you! No one!’

She went on – she couldn’t stop – while he stared at her half in shock, half in something like wonder. Finally, keeping his eyes on her face, he put his drink down. ‘Susan.
Susan!
’ He touched her hand. She fell quiet, gripped by a fear she couldn’t name. ‘Susan … it was the
press
who called.’

She felt a stab of terrible cold, for a moment she couldn’t speak. ‘
Why? How?
They couldn’t! They
couldn’t!
Was it that woman? But it’s just her word against yours! It’s just – ’

‘They’ve got the whole story.’

‘How
can
they? How
can
they?’ Susan heard her voice rising and knew her face was ugly. ‘She’s just making things up, she’s got no proof!’

‘They’ve got details of hotels.’ His tone dropped to one of near despair. ‘And of three separate payments. And …’ His face creased into a mask of anguish. ‘A hospital visit.’

‘No! No!’ She pulled her hand free with a jerk and in her rage almost punched him. ‘No! They can’t! They
can’t!
It’s all in the file! All in the file!’ She gave a cry and stumbled away, making for the hall.

He caught her at the telephone. ‘Susan – don’t!’

‘I’ll call that bastard Schenker! How
dare
he?
Bastard, bastard!
’

‘Susan – don’t. It’s all over.’ He grasped the receiver and for a moment they both pulled at it before she released her grip and burst into tears. ‘It’s not fair!’ she cried. ‘It’s not fair!’

He put the receiver firmly back in its cradle and put an arm round her shoulders.

But her rage was vast and inconsolable and, punching him on the chest, she struggled free and screamed at him. She was still hurling invective as she ran up the stairs and raced into the bedroom and fell raging onto the bed.

The towers of the Albert Bridge rose like ornate candles out of a damp mist. The rain had eased a little, more of a steady drizzle than a downpour, and the wind had died right away, although as they came onto the bridge it produced a last fleeting gasp that pattered the rain against the side of the car.

The traffic was heavy and when Nick slowed down he got an impatient horn from behind. There were a couple of pedestrians and a jogger braving the pavement on this side of the bridge. All of them were men. The tooting car overtook, sounding its horn again as it passed.

They went on steadily, they crested the rise of the bridge. Campbell made a sound and pointed to the far end of the bridge on the opposite side, to an old-fashioned red telephone box just visible beyond the neat hexagonal band box which housed the cable anchor. A figure stood huddled against the box. Jeans, jacket, slight build, hair flat against the head. A boy. Or maybe not a boy. With shoulders hunched high and head dropped low as if to ward off the rain, it was hard to tell. Then the figure moved, folding its arms together as if in disgust and there was something in the movement that was so completely Daisy that Nick jabbed the accelerator, pulled out into the fast lane and roared towards her.

She saw him coming. She straightened up, she bent to peer at the car, she moved forward and, reaching the kerb, began to gesticulate or wave or both. Nick stopped in the middle of the road, indicating right, and met a fresh volley of abuse from the vehicles behind. Seeing a tight gap in the oncoming traffic he stepped on the throttle and bolted across, causing one driver to stand on his brakes and flash his lights in rage.

He shot onto the pavement ahead of Daisy and had to brake suddenly as she ran towards him, swerving round the bumper. He jumped out and they nearly cannoned into each other. She was already talking: she must have been talking even as he opened the door. If he hadn’t been so alarmed by the look of her he would have laughed. Her skin was very pale, her eyes dark with shadows, her hair plastered onto her head by the rain.

He grasped her tightly by the shoulders. ‘God – are you all right?’

But she was gabbling insistently: ‘You didn’t give him the files, did you? You didn’t, did you?
Did
you?’

‘Slow down! Slow down! It’s all right.’ She was shivering under his hands.

‘You didn’t, did you?’ Her voice was wobbling dangerously.

He spread his lips into a grin. ‘Not quite everything.’

‘Not everything?’

‘I gave them what we didn’t need,’ he said truthfully. ‘And kept the rest.’

‘Kept the rest, kept the rest.’ She was taut as a wire, humming with a furious electricity. ‘Maynard – he took it all back, everything. I couldn’t stop him. I couldn’t – ’ She broke off. Her eyes had a dark and empty look.

‘Morgan’ll be after him by now.’

‘Morgan?’

‘From Scotland Yard.’

She seemed to take that in. ‘Alan Breck – is he all right? Is he – ’

‘He’s all right.’

‘Must get to him. Must get to Scotland. Must – ’ She tugged at his sleeve in agitation and looked around as if some airborne transportation might at any moment manifest itself.

‘Daisy, it’s all right. Slow down.’

She froze. She had caught sight of Campbell getting out by the passenger door. For an instant she stared at him blankly, then she hissed: ‘Campbell!’ and from her tone one might have thought she was cross with him.

She looked back at Nick and then at Campbell and her expression folded inwards. She dropped her head against Nick’s chest and gave a great shudder and said: ‘Oh, I’m so tired.’

Hillyard’s hands were wet on the wheel. Furiously he rubbed them one at a time on the side of the seat. Turning a corner into the Wandsworth Bridge Road, he almost clipped a parked car. Christ, he thought, I’m falling apart. Get it together, get it together. The cow won’t talk, not when her big friend has form, not when she herself could get debarred or whatever they did to lawyers caught breaking and entering.

No, she wouldn’t talk. But hearing himself repeat this, he realized he was far from persuaded.
Christ
. He must think this through, must get his story fixed up. He’d say that if the cow got trapped in the flat then it must have been accidental. He’d say that on discovering the burglary he’d taken a quick look around, repaired the door – the hammering would have covered any sounds from upstairs – and gone to Beryl’s to sleep. He would flatly deny the rest. Beryl would back him up. She’d provide an alibi for the evening. Biggs and his lunch companion would cover for the earlier part of the day.

Would it be enough? Yes, yes, of course it would be enough. The girl could never prove otherwise, not without incriminating herself. The thought calmed him, and he indulged in a different scenario, one in which he was above all suspicion, and the police, on the strength of his evidence, were forced to charge the Field bitch with burglary.

Approaching Battersea, he tried Biggs on the walkie-talkie but either he was out of range or he was already back inside the office because there was no answer. Parking, he looked for Biggs’ car but couldn’t see it. He approached the door in the wall and saw that the door which he’d wedged tightly shut was now slightly open. He prodded it with his finger. It swung open further. He listened. Somewhere upstairs, Beji began yapping, but without enthusiasm.