A Prospect of Vengeance (11 page)

‘I meant the cricket.’ Quite deliberately, he decided to keep the man in his place by ignoring ‘Mad Dog’ for the moment. ‘What did your chap on
The People
have to tell you, then?’

‘Huh!’ Buller licked his lips, as though he had just remembered that the pubs were open again (in so far as they ever closed in Fleet Street). ‘He’d just seen his gaffer—Robert Maxwell in person—comin’ down from on high
en route
to his helicopter pad … An’ ‘e looks around—Captain Bob looks around—an’ sez: “Ah! probably the largest electronic newsroom in Europe!”’ He grinned at Ian. ‘Which is what he always says, apparently. An’ no one takes the slightest notice of ‘im—‘ The grin congealed suddenly, as he realized what was happening. ‘You don’t remember “Mad Dog” O’Leary, then?’

‘Of course I do.’ Ian attempted a superior Tully-expression. ‘He tried to blow up the Northern Ireland Secretary in Yorkshire, at some university ceremony. And then they cornered him, and shot him. So what?’

‘So what?
So what
—
?’ Reg Buller spluttered slightly. Then he pointed at the brightly projected headlines. ‘It’s all there, damn it!’

Ian had to study the words again—

Cornered at last in a remote Yorkshire beauty spot,
‘
Mad Dog
’
O
’
Leary died as he lived yesterday afternoon: in a hail of gunfire
—

The only thing odd about that, it seemed to him, was there were too many words in the first sentence, including a subordinate clause, for good tabloid journalism.

Tipped off by informants, British Secret Service agents gunned him down without mercy. But he killed an innocent girl before he died
—

Nothing odd about that, either. Except another subordinate clause, anyway. ‘I don’t see what’s all there, Reg. You tell me—?’

‘Christ, man!’ Reg Buller started rewinding the microfilm at break-neck pace, stopping and starting with other arresting headlines—BREAD: PANIC BUYING—HOME LOANS SHOCK … and OLIVIA NEWTON-JOHN SPEAKS OUT—swearing all the while. Then he stopped rewinding and swearing, and adjusted the focus. ‘There, then!’

They were back to the abortive bombing of the University of North Yorkshire, when the Mad Dog had failed to kill the Northern Ireland Secretary, and half the university faculty with him, ‘
thanks to the selfless heroism of a British Secret Service agent masquerading as a professor, in mortar-board and gown
’
.

‘So—?’ For a guess, it was the same reporter—or the same rewrite man, and the same sub-editor, acting on the same instructions from an editor or proprietor who had either decided that the Security Service needed a bit of favourable PR, or had been successfully lobbied to the same effect; but, either way, that repetition of the legendary ‘British Secret Service’, with all its nuances of James Bond, was a dead give-away. Because no one on the spot would ever have used that description. And now, in the post-Peter Wright era, it wouldn’t have been fashionable: most likely, it would have been ‘SAS marksmen’, if not the Special Branch’s anti-terrorist squad.

Buller was shaking his head, though. ‘You haven’t really looked—have you?’

‘At the papers?’ He had read more responsible accounts than this one, of the same event. There’s more in the
Guardian
, Reg—‘

‘This is the one that matters. This is
my
man, who was there before any of the big ones.’ Buller grimaced at him. ‘But you’re also forgetting what I told you yesterday, before Johnny and the Lady disturbed us—an’ afterwards, when they’d gone off.’

More accurately, when Buller had
ordered
them off, thought Ian: Jenny through the front door, to take off one watcher; and then John Tully, through the back way, to draw away his comrade. And then, after Reg had lunched on bread-and-cheese and a bottle of
Pere Patriach
(the Cologne beer being exhausted), Ian himself had been ordered into the rain (‘although I don’t reckon they’ll have put anyone on you, seeing as you don’t do much at the sharp end anymore … But, just in case, anyway—?’); and, although that had been insulting, he had obeyed; but now he must remember what had passed between them before he had done so.

‘About David Audley, you mean, Reg?’ Buller had talked with ‘a bloke I know’, was what he remembered: with Reg Buller there was an inevitable succession of ‘blokes’, from dukes to dustmen, via policemen and journalists, all of whom seemed to owe him one favour for another; but in this instance it had been almost certainly (‘No names—right?’) one of his old Special Branch
mukkers
—

Buller nodded, only half mollified by such a simple correct answer. ‘Look how it stacks up: “masquerading as a professor”, eh? And “mortar-board an’ gown”—? Who’d they choose for that—that’s got the balls to do it, as well, in cold blood?’

There was more here than either Reg himself or his favourite newspaper had said. ‘In cold blood?’

Another nod. ‘Somebody carried O’Leary’s bomb out of that building—the new library they were opening, or whatever it was … When they didn’t reckon they could get the people away from it, before the bugger pressed his remote control button.’ Buller tapped the ‘selfless heroism’ passage. ‘Who better than Audley? One of his mates was running that show, on the security side, apparently. An’ Audley’s the professor-type—
looks
the part. Wouldn’t need to
play
it, though. Because he’s already a visiting fellow at that Oxford college, see.’ Buller gave him a sidelong look. ‘Wouldn’t need a cover story to be there, either … An’ no shortage of guts, so they say.’

It was all hypothetical, thought Ian. Or, alternatively, Buller knew more than he was saying. ‘Who’s “they”, Reg?’

‘Friend of mine.’ Buller grinned.

‘The one on
The People?
’

‘No. The one I told you about yesterday—the one that tipped me off about him being tricky—Audley … remember?’

What Ian remembered was that Buller had been characteristically vague about his Audley-source. But what was more immediately important was to uncover the foundations on which this hypothesis was built. And those seemed to involve his other friend, the sub-editor on
The People
, rather than the Audley-source.

‘So what was it that your chap on the newspaper told you, Reg?’

Buller tapped his nose. ‘He was there. That’s what.’

Ian looked down at the Yorkshire university bomb story. At a ceremony like that—a routine academic event until ‘Mad Dog’ O’Leary had singled it out for attention—there might or might not have been one or two education correspondents from the London papers, depending on whether they’d been tipped off that an important speech was going to be made. There would certainly have been reporters from all the local Yorkshire papers, taking down all the speeches whether they were important or not, and probably taking down the names of all the local dignitaries too—that was to be expected anywhere, and especially in Yorkshire, with its fierce local pride. And as Buller’s Fleet Street friend had then been a reporter on one of those papers—which was it? But it hardly mattered, anyway—his presence at the ceremony was quite unremarkable. So why was Buller looking as though he’d made some great discovery?

Suddenly the light dawned. ‘You mean … he was at—the
other
place—where O’Leary was shot—?’

‘
My man was there before any of the big ones
’
he remembered belatedly.

‘Your chap … who’s on
The People
now?’

‘That’s right.’ Buller stared at him. ‘He was at Thornervaulx.’

So there was more. ‘And—?’ He tried to look intelligent.

That’s right.’ For once Buller was deceived. ‘
He
was there—
right?
’

‘He—‘ This time the light was blinding. ‘
Audley
—
you’re sure—?’

‘Near enough. “Big ugly fellow—bit like a boxer … or a rugger player. Broken nose—that sort of thing.” Pretty accurate description, actually. Because he did break his nose playing rugger, as it happens.’

‘I thought you said he looked like a professor.’

‘That’s when he opens his mouth.’ Buller amended his own description without shame. ‘Take it from me, that’s him right enough. No mistake.’

And that, of course, validated the bombed-university hypothesis, via the O’Leary connection. The security service must have been tipped off that O’Leary intended to assassinate the Northern Ireland Minister at the opening of the new library and the degree ceremony. They had foiled the bomb attempt, but it had been a close shave. And O’Leary himself had also escaped, only it had been a damn close shave for him, too: in fact, he hadn’t really escaped—he’d simply broken out of the inner ring—?

‘How far is Thornervaulx from the University of Yorkshire, Reg?’ He couldn’t place Thornervaulx on his mental map: it was one of that famous concentration of ruined abbeys in the North … Rievaulx, Jervaux, Byland, Fountains, Kirkstall and Thornervaulx: originally they’d all been in the wilds, and most of them still were, including Thornervaulx no doubt.

‘Not far, as the crow flies. But you’ve got to go round the little roads, and up over the dale to reach it.’ Buller had the facts at his finger-tips, as usual. ‘Takes a bit of finding.’

That fitted, too. With all the main roads blocked, O’Leary would have been forced off the beaten track, and had then been hunted down like the wild animal he was in the wilds. ‘And your man was actually there.’

‘Not at the shoot-out.’ Buller nodded nevertheless. ‘But within minutes of it—aye.’

Again, that wasn’t impossible: a smart local reporter (and Reg Buller’s contacts were always the smart ones) would have his friends in the Police, and could often be so well in with them as to be just behind them. ‘And he saw Audley there—actually
saw
him?’

‘He saw more than that.’ Buller started winding the film forward again from the North Yorkshire bomb to the Thornervaulx gun battle, compressing the last long hunted hours of the ‘Mad Dog’ to ten blurred seconds. ‘Or, rather, there were things that he
didn
’
t
see, you might say.’

‘What d’you mean—“didn’t see”?’

Buller stopped the microfilm, and then adjusted the focus with maddening slowness until DEATH OF A MAD DOG shouted at them again. Only then did he turn to Ian. ‘It wasn’t like that. That’s not what happened.’ He shook his head. Terry—let’s call him “Terry”. Because that’s his name—Terry didn’t write it like that. He flogged ‘em the story—and for a small fortune too. Because he was the only one that was there. So all the other stories are based on his—or, rather, what was
made
of his … and the official statements, of course.’ The big mouth twisted cynically. ‘Which just happened to tally exactly, you see—the
official
statement … and his
edited
story.’ An eyebrow lifted in support of the mouth. ‘Is that plain enough for you?’

‘All too plain.’ So somebody had got at the editor, Reg was saying. But that was a risky thing to do, they both knew. Because contrary to left-wing received wisdom, the D-Notice people couldn’t give orders. ‘You’re sure?’

‘Oh yes.’ Nod. ‘He put that story out twice, Terry did. To his own paper first—the
Northern Gazette
… an’ then he re-wrote it, an’ flogged it to
them
—
‘ He tapped the projected front page. ‘—for the equivalent of two months’ wages an’ the promise of a job with them.’ Buller paused. ‘So that story went to two newspapers independently, the way Terry wrote it … just with a few slight differences. And it came out
not
how he wrote it, but with the same amendments. Okay?’

‘Yes.’ So it hadn’t been some re-write man, or some sub-editor: someone had got at
two
editors. And that meant that someone had been very persuasive indeed, at the highest level. Because editors weren’t nearly as easily persuaded (or bullied, or blackmailed) as the people also liked to think. ‘So what really happened, Reg?’

‘Ah … ’ Having at last arrived where he had always intended to be, Buller relaxed. And, having learnt a thing or two over the years about stage management, and man-management, Ian understood what was happening to him. But knowing that was at least a quarter of the battle, if not half of it.

‘I’ve read all this.’ He gestured into the machine dismissively. ‘And I’m thirsty. D’you know a good pub round here, Reg?’

‘Round here?’ Although it was an almost-insultingly silly question, Buller pretended to consider it briefly. ‘I think … yes, I
think
…
there may be one just round the corner—‘ He looked round the Newspapers and Periodicals room as though it might be conveniently signposted ‘—just round the corner—yes. I think.’

‘Yes?’ It was time to assert himself—even though he was also actually thirsty. ‘You bloody-knew, Reg—come on,then—‘

‘So … what
really
happened, then?’ As he drank thirstily he registered caution. Because this was Abbott beer, and more than two pints would put him into orbit round the planet, while Reg Buller wouldn’t even have lift-off, never mind escape-velocity. And, judging by the barmaid’s greeting, Reg Buller was an old and valued customer here, too.

‘
Ahhh
…
’ Most of that was genuine satisfaction-and-relief, as Buller downed half his pint: the distant swirl of the pipes at Lucknow, the first sight of the sails of the relieving fleet before they broke the boom at the siege of Londonderry, the thunder of the hoofs of the US cavalry—all that, and Mafeking too, and Keats opening Chapman’s
Homer
, and stout Cortez getting his first glimpse of the Pacific Ocean … all that historic experience was relived when Reg Buller opened his throat at Opening Time. But that wasn’t the end of Reg, it was only his beginning.

‘It was accident, of course.’ Buller wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.