The Labyrinth Makers (16 page)

'Scrum-half, actually. And it wasn't so long ago that you played either–I was always afraid I might meet you on the receiving end!'

Faith laughed. 'He was brutal, was he?'

'Sheer murder, Miss Jones. It must have been like being run over by a locomotive! Do you know the game?'

'I've got two young step-brothers who are besotted with it.'

They were suddenly like children sharing a joke, and Audley felt he had to call them to order. Their sudden pleasure didn't fit his mood.

'Is Tierney in?' he asked sharply.

'He is,' said Richardson, unabashed. 'By the grace of God he lives in a flat above the shop, with no rear entrance. The flat entrance is just
to
the left there. So I've had it easy!'

'Give me a run down on him.'

Richardson flipped open a notebook.

'Arthur Lawrence Tierney, born Leeds 1922—'

'Not a biography, man. Tell me about him here and now. I know what he was. But what do people think of him here? What's his credit like? Don't read it out. Tell me.'

Richardson looked uncertainly at his notebook.

'There's one thing I should have told you first, sir. They want you to phone the department, extension 28–as soon as you can. Sorry about not telling you right away.'

Audley sat unmoving. Richardson's jumbled impressions would be all the better if he wasn't given time to rearrange and edit them. The department could wait.

'Tell me about Tierney.'

The young man took a breath, stuffing his memory into his pocket.

'A nasty character, for my money. Tricky, certainly. He's a sharp enough businessman–he's respected for that. Always got an eye on the main chance, and not too finicky about what sort of chance it is too. I talked to a detective sergeant –he didn't say so in so many words, but I think he'd like to get his hands on him, and he thinks he will one of these days.'

'What sort of thing has he been up to?'

'Nothing proved–but otherwise, you name it and he's done it.'

'Name it.'

'Receiving mostly. But the sergeant reckoned he'd squeezed out of a nasty dangerous driving charge. And he's beaten the breathalyser.
And
they think there was something very smelly about his divorce. He's had a convenient fire in small warehouses he rented, too–an electrical fire. I tell you, sir, they don't like him at all.'

Tierney hadn't changed; the 'receiving stolen goods' was a shaft in the gold.

'And his credit?'

'That's rather hard to say. The business seems sound enough. But in a small way, and he's a big spender–runs an "E" registration Jaguar, drinks a fair bit. Girl friend in Harrogate, and an expensive one, according to rumour. The same source says that's why the business hasn't expanded: never enough loose money in the kitty.'

Audley felt better now, so much so that he began to regret pushing Richardson. Tierney's nerves would be in middling shape, his sense of public responsibility non-existent and his greed unlimited. That had been the original assessment of him, and it was always reassuring to find leopards with all their original spots in place.

He smiled at them both, wondering as he did so what Faith made of her father's choice of a right-hand man.

'That's well done,' he said. 'You must have sunk a few beers to get that lot.'

Richardson grimaced. 'They all drink whisky in Tierney's circles. It was touch and go at the end whether they were going to tell me about him or I was going to tell them about me! And it's cost the nation a fortune.'

A few minutes later Audley added to that cost with a reversed call to the department. Mercifully the hotel's public telephone was located in an enclosed sentry box of dark varnished wood, with additional privacy provided by a giant plant which flourished aggressively beside it.

Extension 28 eventually brought him Stocker, as he had expected. For the time being, and perhaps permanently, Fred was no more than a friend at court. And at this time of a Sunday morning he would be only just leaving the church he so dutifully attended.

But Stocker beamed insincerely at him down the phone.

'David!'–So he had ceased to be Audley at some point in the last twenty-four hours–'I'm glad you were able to get through to me so soon'–was there a reprimand there?–'I gather you know all about G Tower?'

At least he wasn't prevaricating.

'I do–yes.'

'You must tell me about your private network some time. It appears to have the virtue of efficiency.'

Audley grunted non-commitally. That would be the day.

'And I gather you have also heard about the missing Trojan antiquities.'

It was a statement, not a question. Audley gloated briefly over the vision of Sir Kenneth Allen's reaction at being disturbed twice in one evening to answer the same question.

'You consider it likely that that was Steerforth's cargo?'

'I'm reasonably certain it was.'

'You have corroborative evidence? From the daughter?'

Roskill
was
reporting back everything to Stocker, for no one else had known about Faith until that morning. But it was only to be expected. If he was dealing with someone as awkward as himself he would have done no less.

'Yes.'

'Good. And you consider her involvement in the next stage necessary?'

'I think it may be essential.' Fred had become resigned to monosyllabic answers until he was ready with a full report, but it would be too much to expect the same of Stocker, Audley warned himself. He was already forgetting the tactical errors which had got him into this mess in the first place.

'I don't think Roskill and Butler will get anything out of Tierney,' he elaborated. 'Not unless we let them lean on him hard, and probably not even then. So I'm going to try a different approach and Miss Jones will be my–my passport.'

'Proof of your
mala fides
! I see! And is she a chip off the old block?'

Audley found the suggestion that Faith had inherited anything from her father except that physical resemblance oddly distasteful.

'Not in the least. But she's an intelligent young woman, and she wants to help.'

'Very well–I leave her to your discretion. Now about last night's business. Your three visitors.'

'They put–devices in the cars and they may have bugged the house.'

'They did bug the house. I received an interim report half an hour ago. They're still looking.'

Audley loathed asking questions of his nominal superiors. Apart from their reluctance to give straight answers, which provided him only with negative intelligence, it suggested incompetence on his own part. But he had been pitchforked into this puzzle at such short notice that it would be folly to pretend that he understood what he was about.

'I don't understand why they did it,' he admitted. 'I can't see why it's so important. And I can't see why a man like Panin has involved himself personally in it. I take it we've offered him full co-operation?'

'We have–yes.'

'In that case there must be something I don't know about.'

'I give you my word, David–for what it's worth–that we know no more than you do. Probably less, on your past form. Panin is a man with very little past, a big present and an even bigger future. We'd like to know more about him, and this is a great opportunity. We don't want to offend him if we can help it, either!'

Nothing had changed since yesterday.

'I think you should at least admit the possibility, Dr Audley, that he simply wants to recover the Trojan antiquities. He's an archaeologist. He lost them in the first place –and that probably rankles. He's on holiday, too. On his own time, as it were. Taking precautions could be second nature with him. All we can do is to find those boxes for him, show him the sights and send him home happy.'

Audley felt his irritability returning as he retraced his way to Richardson's room. Stocker must know something else, but he wasn't going to divulge it, even in answer to a direct appeal. It must therefore be a matter of high policy, something relating to the official attitude to Panin, rather than to the Steerforth aspect. All he could do was to obey orders without fully understanding them–which might suit the field operatives, but didn't suit him at all.

Roskill's large feet propped on the end of Richardson's bed were the first thing he saw. Richardson himself was still stationed by the window; Faith sat in the only comfortable chair and Butler was perched on a stool next to the wash-stand. The overall effect almost restored his spirits: crammed suspiciously into this little room they generated an atmosphere of conspiracy strong enough to set all the bank alarms in sleepy Knaresborough ringing.

He caught Roskill's eye and saw disconcertingly that his thoughts were being read and shared. And there was a slow smile spreading across Faith's face. In another second this council of war would slip into farce while he was still searching for the right words to bring it to order.

Butler saved him: 'You were right about Tierney, Dr Audley. You said we'd get nothing from him, and nothing is exactly what we got.'

Roskill swung upright on the bed.

'Master Tierney's memory is very poor. He remembers exactly what's in his little blue log book–which he still has, incidentally. No more, no less. Twenty-four years is a great healer for him. All his harrowing experiences have faded into nothing. He wishes he could help us, but he can't.'

'I prodded him on Steerforth,' Butler took up the narrative again. 'Said we had reason to believe that he was bringing in contraband goods and warned him about certain non-existent regulations. He didn't quite laugh at me, but he obviously knows we can't touch him.'

'Major Butler put on his sergeant-major act,' said Roskill. Then he went to get the car and I told Tierney what a rude bastard Butler was, and how nasty he could get, and how I could smooth things over if he'd just give us a little help. He didn't laugh at me either–but he wanted to.'

'I expect he recognised the technique,' said Richardson. 'He's been through the mill more than once up here. He's a Fifth Amendment man.'

'I don't think I'd buy my TV set from him, certainly,' said Roskill. 'He's not a man who inspires my confidence.'

Butler snorted. 'The set would be all right. It would be the small print of the maintenance agreement you'd have to read carefully.'

Somewhere in the hotel a clock began to chime. It was midday and Audley was abominably hungry already as a result of a sketchy breakfast and a barbarously early start to the day. But there was still work to be done and he nerved himself to organise everyone.

'What does Tierney do for his Sunday lunch?' he asked Richardson.

'Drinks it at a flashy pub down the road.'

'Right. Miss Jones and I will approach him there. Then we'll take Maclean.' He glanced down at the list from Roskill's file. 'I see there are only two of the ground crew short-listed. Where are the other two?'

'One died in '54–natural causes. The other emigrated in '50–Australia.'

'You and Butler can split the others then. I'll see you both tomorrow at 9. I'll be at the Bull, Newton Chester.'

'And the Pole, Wojek?'

'Monday evening for him–if we have time. I'd like to see Wojek myself. One of you can phone him and make an appointment–say I'm writing a history of Polish aircrew in the RAF.'

Richardson broke in suddenly, beckoning him to the window.

'He's coming out.'

Audley moved beside him, following his gaze. Time had accentuated that distinctive ferrety face. The slope of the forehead and the receding chin had not been so apparent in the photograph; buck teeth for gnawing, long nose for sniffing, separated by the same slightly ridiculous toothbrush moustache. The nose was sniffing now as Tierney stood in his doorway quartering the view nervously with the abrupt little movements of the head of an animal in a hostile environment.

It would be awkward if Tierney didn't follow his Sunday routine now. But for all his coolness with Roskill and Butler he'd probably need the reassurance of the pub more than usual.

'Come on Faith,' he said quickly. 'Time for us now!' In a final flurry of decision-making he took the Rover's keys and location from Butler and adjured Richardson to continue covering Tierney. By taking the car he was leaving them a transport problem, but that was their headache.

By the time they reached the street Tierney was a small figure in the distance. But the need for speed was all to the good: Faith had not shown the least sign of nerves so far. She had evidently repaired her make-up while he had been phoning Stocker, and still presented a cool, almost cold, front to the world–the tinted glasses lent her face something of the haughtiness it had without them. The less time she had to think, the less chance there was that the mask would slip.

Tierney's pub was a perfect example of the tarted-up olde worlde style beloved of the breweries, all beams and padded red plastic and bar ablaze with light. The Sunday morning rush had not yet started and Tierney was alone at one end of the bar drinking whisky greedily.

Audley ordered gin for Faith, filled up his own small whisky to the top with water and instructed the barman to fill up Tierney's glass.

Tierney looked up sharply as the barman muttered to him. He had looked them over as they had entered, dismissing Audley but lingering over Faith. But now he was trying to place them both.

He hesitated for a moment, sipping the drink as though to establish its genuineness. Then he sauntered over to their corner.

'I don't think I've had the pleasure?'

His eyes shifted from Faith to Audley, and back to Faith as he spoke. Neither of them replied, but Faith carefully removed her glasses and stared up at him for a long moment.

'Are you quite sure of that?' she said.

A lot depended on Tierney's memory for faces, and it would still require a remarkable leap of the mind, even after this morning's reminder of things long past. But to Audley, knowing the answer, the resemblance was plainer than ever: she had somehow caught the tilt of the head which had been characteristic of her father's pictures.

It was enough to shake Tierney, but he still failed to make the connection.