For the Good of the State (16 page)

‘Thank you …
Sir
Thomas Arkenshaw.‘ She watched him return it to its place. But then she waited.

And she wasn’t scared, thought Tom. So he had to be brutal. ‘How did he die, Mrs Cole?’

‘He fell out of a tree.’

She wasn’t scared. But there was more to it than that. ‘He did
what
—?’

‘He fell out of a tree.’ She repeated the statement so obstinately that he was all the more certain of its inadequacy.

‘What the devil was he doing up a tree, Mrs Cole?’

‘He was cutting off a branch.’ She grimaced at him. ‘All these old trees around the house … the copper beeches … they were planted back in the 1930s, Sir Thomas. And the fool who planted them stuck them too close to the house.’ She reached to turn the percolator off, on the working-surface beside her. ‘So there was this big one, at the back … He had put a ladder up, to get at it. He should have got a professional tree-feller to do it.’

Tom was unbearably reminded of an Irish joke about ‘tree-fellers’, the punch-line of which he couldn’t remember, except that it had something to do with ‘three fellas’ and ’tree-fellers‘. But that had nothing to do with the fixed expression on her face.

Her nerve broke as he tried to remember the end of the joke. ‘When he cut the limb, it knocked him off the ladder … so it seems.’ She uncoupled the coffee percolator from its plug. ‘At least, that’s what the policeman thought … Apparently, people are always killing themselves, messing about with trees.’

Not good enough
! She was a fine-looking woman, high-breasted and with a high IQ to match the lift of the twin-set under the pearls; and she had quite properly defended her mother-in-law from their blundering ignorance in the doorway, when they hadn’t known what was happening.

‘But there is something you can do, Sir Thomas.’ She recognized his doubt, and faced it honestly, breasts and IQ lifting together. ‘I never imagined that I’d ask such a thing. But it seems I can.’

Tom watched her reach towards a line of cups hanging on hooks under an old-fashioned glass-fronted cupboard and then search for matching saucers. ‘Ask what thing, Mrs Cole?’

She looked at him. “There’ll be an inquest, of course.‘

He wondered how much she knew about her father-in-law’s work. Or, if she didn’t know, whether she had guessed. ‘Yes. But with an accident like this, it’ll be pretty much a formality.’

She moistened her upper lip. ‘It may not be, I’m afraid.’

He could legitimately frown now. ‘Are you suggesting it wasn’t an accident, Mrs Cole? But you said . . the policeman said—?’

‘I’m not suggesting anything. But … my father-in-law worked for the Ministry of Defence, I believe—even after his retirement. I am presuming that you have influence. Isn’t that the way the world works?’

Tom frowned again. ‘What do you want, Mrs Cole?’

She stared at him, her mouth primly compressed. ‘It would be better … for my mother-in-law’s sake, it would be better if certain questions weren’t asked at the inquest. It won’t hurt anyone if they aren’t asked—no harm or injustice will be done.’ She drew a deep breath. ‘You see, Sir Thomas, I know exactly how he fell out of the tree—and why.’

Well, that was something
! thought Tom gratefully. But then his gratitude evaporated as he realized that what he’d been thinking and what she evidently thought no longer matched at all. And one of them had to be wrong.

‘WELL?’
said Audley.

Tom caught a last glimpse of the two Mrs Coles in his rear-view mirror: they were standing together in their doorway in a pool of yellow light. Then the dark mass of the rhododendron bushes erased them.

‘Well?’ Audley stabbed the word at him again. ‘What did she want to say to you which she couldn’t say in front of the widow?’

The digital clock registered 7.30, and Tom’s stomach confirmed its accuracy. But now there were more pressing matters than hunger. ‘She wanted me to nobble the coroner before the inquest.’

‘Indeed?’ Audley pointed. ‘Go back to the village and stop at the pub. I want to make a phone-call or two. There’s a call-box just opposite.’

That was convenient. ‘Okay.’ But a little honest curiosity would be natural. ‘May one ask to whom?’

‘One may. When one has answered my first question more adequately.’

‘The old lady didn’t tell you, then?’

‘That he fell off a ladder, do you mean?’

‘No. That he was drunk when he fell.’

‘Ah … No, she didn’t add that ingenious embellishment.’ Audley shifted slightly. ‘But, since he only fell this morning, just how has that been so quickly established beyond a peradventure?’ Audley sniffed. ‘Although I can now well understand why Mrs Cole
junior
might not wish such choice circumstantial evidence to be emblazoned in the local paper.’ Another sniff. ‘But don’t tell me! He smelt like a distillery and had an empty bottle of Johnnie Walker stuffed in his pocket—right?’

‘Substantially right. Except it was twelve-year-old Bunnahabhain malt, and it was only half empty. And it was in his garden shed, complete with a half-f tumbler.’ Tom could see the lights of the village ahead. And there was nothing behind. ‘Christine Cole says it’ll make her mother-in-law very unhappy, if that comes out.’

‘Bunkum! The old girl’s used to what’s always been the truth—it will make Mrs Christine Cole, who is teetotal, and the Reverend Brian Cole, her husband, unhappy … although they might equally have taken the view that the poor old devil ought to be held up as a horrible example of the evils of drink in death, just as he had been in life. That would be what I would have expected, actually—hmmm … In fact, I would have bet on it even, now that I come to think about it.
Damn
!’ Audley thumped the dashboard. ‘
Damn
!’

‘What?’ The man’s sudden vehemence took Tom by surprise.

‘I was just being mildly ashamed of myself for being flippant. He was a drunken, difficult old devil. But—’ He pointed again ‘—the pub’s just ahead, on the corner—remember?’

‘But what?’ They were back to the awkward turning, and there was still nothing behind. ‘But what?’

Audley ignored him.

He negotiated the corner and swung the car on to the pub forecourt.

Audley still didn’t reply, and made no effort to move. ‘Damn!’

Very well
! Tom decided. ‘But that didn’t give anyone the right to kill him, were you going to say?’

Audley turned slowly towards him. ‘Evidence?’

‘I hardly think there’ll be any. Not if it was professionally done. Is that what you think, David?’

Audley opened his door. ‘What I think is that I want to make a couple of phone-calls. Have you got any change?’

‘No.’ Tom knew that his pocket was full of coins. ‘Don’t use the call-box. Go and phone from the pub. They’ll give you change.’

Audley stared at him. ‘Is that minder’s rules?’

‘Just a precaution, nothing more.’

‘Okay. Come in and have a drink. I need one.’

Tom shook his head. ‘I’ll mind the car. Just another precaution—okay?’

He waited for two agonizingly long minutes after Audley had disappeared into the pub before going across to the call-box himself. Only two minutes was a risk, he knew. But more than that opened up a risk later on, depending on how quickly the old man managed to make his own calls. But both risks were now outweighed by a greater one, in any case.

He dialled and fed in plenty of money.

‘Consolidated Slide-Dimmers. Can I help you?’

‘This is Thomas Arkenshaw for Henry Jaggard. And I’m in a public call-box, and I’m in a hurry.’ He had to trust Garrod Harvey’s promise. ‘Put me through.’

‘Putting you through directly, Sir Thomas.’

The only trouble was that Jaggard might well expect him to be phoning from halfway to the West Country, thought Tom. But if Jaggard didn’t ask, then he wouldn’t say.

‘Hullo, Tom!’ Jaggard sounded almost genial. ‘All well?’

Tom changed his mind. ‘I’m in a call-box in Hampshire, just off the A34. And I’ve got maybe three minutes.’

‘What the hell—‘ Jaggard stopped ’Yes?‘

‘Do you know of a man named Cole? Basil Cole? He used to work for one of your predecessors.’

‘What’s—’ Jaggard stopped again. ‘Go on.’

‘Audley wanted to talk to him, about his old comrade. He said Cole was the expert now, not him. Only as of this morning Cole isn’t talking to anyone ever again.’

‘How?’

Well, at least Jaggard was getting the message. ‘He fell off a ladder and broke his neck. Apparently he was drunk at the time.’

‘So—?’ Jaggard evinced neither suprise nor regret. ‘Is that true?’

‘No one saw it happen. Audley doesn’t believe it. And neither do I.’

‘Why not? He was always a drinker.’ Jaggard pressed on. ‘Have you talked to the police? What do they say?’

‘Everyone thinks it was an accident.’ Easy was not going to do it, decided Tom. ‘Christ! We’ve already been shot at! What else do you want?’

‘Steady on, Tom! We’ll check on Cole—’

‘The hell you will! Audley’s in a pub across the road from here doing just that, for a guess. If your people run into his people he’ll know I’ve blown the whistle on him.‘ Tom stared uneasily across the road towards the lights of the pub. ’I want back-up on Exmoor. Because I can’t guarantee satisfaction on my own, not now.‘

There was a fractional pause. ‘Does Audley want help? Has he asked for it?’

The welcoming lights of the pub mocked him. Audley might just be asking for just that now. But somehow he doubted it, after the way the old man had dismissed his police escort—and, for that matter, after he’d been so outraged that anyone should dare to take a shot at him. ‘I don’t know what Audley wants. But
I
want back-up, I’m telling you. Give me back Harvey, at the very least.’

‘No. Harvey was only marked to take you to Audley—and he’s busy now. But in any case … this is strictly a Research and Development matter now.’

‘Is it?’
Steady on Arkenshaw
! Tom admonished himself. ‘Then what am I doing in the middle of it?’

Jaggard made a snuffling sound. Or maybe it was the line. ‘You’ve been seconded, Tom. Didn’t I tell you? Just temporarily, anyway—Frobisher’s agreement. And Colonel Butler’s … So if Audley wants help, or you want back-up, the request must go to Butler through Audley. I’m sorry, but that’s the protocol. Is that clearly understood?’

Tom didn’t think it had been the line. ‘So I don’t have to report to you any more?’
Clearly understood
. ‘Yes.’ Or maybe, on second thoughts,
not so clearly understood
! ‘Just order me who I have to protect: Audley or his old comrade—if it comes to the crunch, and they start throwing punches at each other? Just give me that order.’

‘Panin isn’t after him. He wants to talk to him.’ Jaggard’s tone softened. ‘Look—’

‘Someone’s after him.’ Then Tom came to a much greater fear. ‘And someone already knows too much about what we’re doing.’

The third pause turned him back towards the pub: he had to be on borrowed time now.

‘Who knew you were going to see Basil Cole?’

Jaggard was taking him seriously at last. But now he had only a useless answer. ‘No one. Or … no one except Audley.’

‘Right. Then Cole may actually have had an accident. Because drunks do have accidents But we’ll check up on that—and don’t worry, because we’ll check very circumspectly. Right?’ But again Jaggard didn’t wait for an answer. ‘And as for that bullet of Audley’s … don’t you worry about that.’

Oh, great!
Tom opened his mouth to swear. But then he knew that he was too late.

‘Listen, Tom: Audley’s made a fair few enemies in his time. So we don’t think it came from the Other Side. There are lots of other candidates—’

It was a million years too late: Audley was outside the pub, peering into the car. And in another half-second he would be looking across the road.

‘Are you listening, Tom?’

He turned his back towards Audley. ‘I’m putting the phone down now—I’ll call you again when I get the chance.’ He cut the line, while still holding the receiver to his ear, and stared at the dialling instructions. Then he saw the spare coins he had piled up, which he had told Audley he hadn’t got. But then, that was a minor lie compared with the phone-call itself: he could always have said he’d reversed the charges—

Reversed the charges—!

As the memory came back to him he knew he hadn’t time for arguments. All he could remember, as he fed the coins into the box, was all those reversed charges he had made in his student youth.

The ringing note sounded in his ear. It was a long shot, but he hadn’t had any luck today, so he was in line for some now. And at least Audley hadn’t seen him put the phone down and then pick it up again.

The ringing sound stopped as the phone at the other end was lifted: now he had time only for two quick questions, and two quick answers, and then one quick tapestry of falsehoods which he must hope would be believed—

He opened the door of the phone-box and beckoned across the road. ‘David! Come over here!’ Audley looked up and down the darkened village street, in which the main illumination was from the pub itself. Which was fair enough, since he’d been warned off the phone-box once already.

‘Over here, David!’ Audley’s caution gave him time for a few more words. And then—‘Hold on—here he is now—’ The look of naked and unashamed suspicion on the old man’s face (which his face was well-battered to demonstrate) encouraged him to shout for both of them ‘—my mother would like a word with you, David—’ He thrust the receiver at Audley ‘—here she is now—’

He withdrew a few yards from the call-box, out of pretended tact, but actually because there was nothing he could do now. It all depended on her wits—

(‘Yes
?’ She had addressed the phone peremptorily, as she always did, as though it was an inadequately-trained servant who had disturbed her rest.)

(‘Mamusia
?’ That hadn’t been the first question, but it came out automatically, from his enormous relief, now that he had a chance. ‘
Do you remember an old boyfriend of yours named David Audley? A big chap
—
?’)