A Prospect of Vengeance (19 page)

But that was all also quite ridiculously beside the point now: the point was … he had to get to Abdul the Damned’s Tandoori Restaurant. And to Jenny.

But the point also was that he mustn’t seem to eager—however desperate he felt. So he must ignore the more important second statement in preference for the first. ‘You wished he hadn’t, Mr Mitchell? Why was that?’

Mitchell raised an eyebrow. ‘You are a cool one, aren’t you!’ Then a hint of that original not-smile returned. ‘But then, of course, you
were a
cool one in Beirut, weren’t you? When they snatched your lady-friend, and you negotiated her release—? That was cool—yes!’

Mitchell was Intelligence, not Special Branch: it might be MI5 (it could hardly be MI6) but it was one or the other, to know so much … even though he’d got it quite pathetically wrong, about the coolness. But he mustn’t spoil the illusion. ‘Oh—?’

‘I wondered why you didn’t duck down behind the nearest convenient cover!’ Mitchell nodded. ‘But, of course … you weren’t surprised, were you?’

He had to get away from this total misreading of events. ‘You seem to know a lot about me, Mr Mitchell.’

‘I know all about you, Mr Robinson: Miss Fielding-ffulke asks the questions, and has the contacts, and negotiates the deals … and you sort out the sheep from the goats she brings you, and write the actual books. You are the brains, and she is the brawn … unlikely as that may seem.’ Mitchell took another look over the churchyard wall. ‘Shall we go, then?’

With Mitchell here beside him he was physically safe; that shot-gun, if not Mitchell himself, proclaimed that. So, with this
Mitchell-Paul-Mitchell
in a mood of indiscretion, he must forget Jenny and get all he could, while he could get it … no matter how his guts were still twisting. ‘If I’m “the brains”, Mr Mitchell … then I’d be obliged if you’d tell me what’s going on—?’

Mitchell cocked his head. ‘Are you going to be difficult? After what has just happened—?’ Again he looked towards the Village Green. ‘I think they’ve gone … But let’s not push our luck—eh?’

Because Mitchell wasn’t happy, Ian began to feel unhappy. ‘But I still don’t know who you are, Mr Mitchell—any more than I know who
they
were, actually.’

‘But you ran away from them?’ Mitchell’s mouth twisted. ‘You are being difficult—‘

‘Not difficult—‘ Actually,
not
difficult: for this instant he could be at least partially honest ‘—who were they?’

Mitchell stared at him for a moment, as though deceived by that partial honesty. ‘You don’t know him? Well … maybe you don’t at that! But … you ran like a rabbit, across the Green—?’ The moment of credulity faded into suspicion. ‘Oh—come on, Mr Robinson! I’ve just gone through a very bad time on your behalf: this isn’t when you should be playing silly games with me, for God’s sake!’ He lifted the shot-gun meaningfully across his chest—and then broke it, thrusting it towards Ian. ‘See—?’

What Ian saw was that the man’s face was breaking up as he offered the gun for inspection, the mouth twisting bitterly.

‘Empty.’ Mitchell pushed the gun closer. ‘See!’

Ian had to look at it.

‘Okay?’ Mitchell snapped the shot-gun together again. ‘Father John—Father John whom you’ve met … he
lent
me his gun. But he couldn’t find any cartridges for it—not at short notice, he said—huh!’

That was indeed what Ian had seen: the twin-chambers of the shot-gun had been just like the muzzles which he had imagined he’d faced, both black empty circles—

Mitchell nodded. ‘I’ve just pointed an unloaded gun at Paddy MacManus for you, Mr Robinson. And that means that you owe me far more than you can ever repay: I got you one of your nine lives back—but we’ve
both
just lost one of our nine lives—okay?’

The empty shot-gun unmanned Ian. He didn’t know who the hell ‘Paddy MacManus’ might be; but
Mitchell-Paul-Mitchell
knew—and that smile, if it had been a smile, would have been the Syrian major’s smile, as they’d finally left the car at the rendezvous, of reassurance-pasted-over-fear, when they still hadn’t known whether it was a meeting or an ambush—

He followed Combat Jacket towards the lych-gate.

‘My car’s across the Green, Mr Mitchell—‘ he began. Was it going to be as easy as that, though?

‘We’re not taking your car.’ Mitchell pointed towards the Volvo. ‘You come with me.’

He was still following Combat-Jacket-Mitchell-Paul-Mitchell. But his Rover Vitesse was as much his pride-and-joy as Philip Masson’s Folkboat
Jenny III
had been. ‘But what about my car—?’

‘I’ll send someone for it. If they followed you here, then they’ve bugged it. So we’ll
unbug
it for you—not to worry!’ Mitchell remotely unlocked his big silver Volvo. ‘And we’ll go out the opposite way—just in case?’

They had followed him here. In fact,
they
and
Mitchell-Paul-Mitchell
had both followed him here, when he’d thought himself so clever.

‘How did you follow me here?’ He still didn’t really know who
Mitchell-Paul-Mitchell
was. But it didn’t seem a time for argument.

‘You were easy.’ The Volvo rolled forward smoothly. ‘At least, after Rickmansworth, you were easy.’ The Volvo circled the peaceful square of grass. ‘This way’s longer … but, just in case … we’ll go the longer way, I think.’

They passed the post office side-road, and then the side-road in which his own abandoned pride-and-joy lay. And then accelerated.

‘What did Father John say to you, when you met him in the churchyard?’ Mitchell pre-empted his next question as they began to climb the other side of Lower Buckland’s peaceful valley, in which no one had just been killed.

‘Father John’ must be the old priest whom he’d met, and thought himself so lucky to meet: ‘Father John’, in his long black cassock, High Anglican and old—old Father John, and old black cassock, as he’d thought … But now he had to think of Father John as part of the deception of
Mrs Frances Fitzgibbon
, of which
Mitchell-Paul-Mitchell
was another part.

‘
Can I help you
?’ (The old priest had appeared out of nowhere, so it had seemed to him.)

‘
Sir
?’ (He had been caught looking at the Fitzgibbon grave—
Captain Robert Gauvain and Frances;
and he’d been looking at it too long for comfort, with all the other graves around to look at.)

‘
Are you looking for anyone in particular
?’ (Father John had given the Fitzgibbon stone a little nod—almost a blessing.)

(That had shaken him. He had crossed out
Captain Robert Gauvain
, and concentrated on Frances, beloved wife; because
Frances, beloved wife
—
formerly
Marilyn
, beloved ‘smasher’ of Gary Redwood … and maybe the long-lost, never-born daughter of Mrs Champeney-Smythe—but who, in reality? Only, whatever she had been,
Marilyn/Frances
had almost overwhelmed him then, as he’d seen her name on her tombstone.)

(And that tell-tale concentration on Marilyn/Frances had warned him off her, as Father John had looked at him.) ‘
I
was just looking for Captain Fitzgibbon, sir
.’ (The Father of Lies had jogged his arm then.) ‘
He was in the regiment, sir
.’

(Father John had nodded then, understandingly. ‘
Ah
…
Robbie Fitzgibbon was a splendid chap! The bravest of the brave
…
and a good cricketer, too
.’ (The ultimate accolade!)

‘
Did you know his wife, sir
?’ (The ultimate question.)

‘
Frances? Yes—
‘

He caught a last glimpse of the church far below, and it brought back a memory of the look on the old priest’s face then, which had said it all even before Father John confirmed what he himself already knew. But it hadn’t been the moment to press for more, he had judged.

Or had it been that he had no heart then for more of his own lies? Not where Mrs Frances Fitzgibbon was concerned—?

The car jolted over a pothole as they left the valley behind.

‘I was easy?’ He knew so much about Frances—and yet he knew nothing really. But it was this man Mitchell who mattered now. ‘After Rickmansworth? Why then?’

‘When you came out of that old woman’s house—that boarding house … you looked like the cat who’d found the cream, Mr Robinson.’ Mitchell frowned at him quickly. ‘So then I knew where you were going. But how the blazes did she know where to send you, though? Frances—Mrs Fitzgibbon … certainly didn’t tell her. And I cleaned that place out myself, just in case.’ He frowned at Ian again, but this time with all the underlying arrogance of a man unused to making mistakes.

‘So you were the “brother”.’ It was good to prick that arrogance. And it was also good when things fitted so glove-like: Mitchell had been to Lower Buckland before—and often, surely, to be on shot-gun-borrowing terms with the old priest. But … why did it hurt to think of Mitchell knowing Frances Fitzgibbon so well that her Christian name came to him first? ‘But … who are you, Mr Mitchell? And
what
are you?’ All he could do to soothe that unaccountable pain was to hug his own small secret close. ‘And why were you following me?’ Mitchell drove in silence, still frowning.

Another question occurred to Ian, rather belatedly in view of its importance. ‘Where are we going?’

This time the man grinned. ‘To meet Miss Fielding-ffulke—right?’

That was a nasty piece of logic. ‘Why should I want to do that?’

‘Oh, come on, Mr Robinson! You’ve got a lot to tell her. And she’s probably got a lot to tell you. Plus what Messrs Tully and Buller have rooted out of the dirt.’ The grin faded. ‘And now we both need to see her rather urgently don’t you think, eh?’

The man didn’t know about Reg Buller. But then how—?

‘Come on, man!’ Mitchell lost some of his cool. Those friends of yours back there—they went away smartly enough when they saw me. But that was only because I wasn’t expected, and MacManus doesn’t like the unexpected—not when it’s a gun pointing at him. He didn’t want a shoot-out, he was just paid for
you
, Mr Robinson. But … he isn’t going to go away forever: he still wants his money. Or … if not him, then there’ll be someone else.’

It was simple, really: Combat Jacket had been the unexpected for Check Coat and Grey Suit. But Check Coat and Grey Suit had also been the unexpected for Combat Jacket: the borrowed shot-gun, the
empty
borrowed shot-gun—told all.
God
!

‘What are you, Mr Mitchell? Special Branch? Or Security?’ Ian saw a motorway sign ahead, offering them London or the West.

‘I’m the man who’s just lost one of his nine lives on your behalf, Mr Ian Robinson.’ Mitchell fumbled in his pocket. ‘Which way? London, I presume?’

Away in the gathering murk ahead of them Ian saw innumerable rushing headlights on the M25. Which way?

‘It could be a forgery, of course.’ Mitchell waited as Ian studied the identification folder. It didn’t tell him much more than he’d already guessed, and he’d seen others like it. ‘But then … if it was, you could already be dead, Mr Robinson. Because, by asking all those clever questions of yours, about Philip Masson and David Audley, you seem to have raised the Devil himself between you. Only it seems that the Devil wants you, instead of David, doesn’t he?’

They were approaching the slip roads’ junction.

‘London—yes,’ said Ian.

IAN COULD NEVER
penetrate the labyrinth of Islington without remembering the Monopoly game he had been given on his eighth birthday, and his father, whose present it had been: Dad had been nutty about place-names (among so many other things), and
Islington
had been his own very first purchase, where the dice had transported his little silver car—

‘
”
The Angel, Islington
”
—
buy it, boy! Buy it! Although there aren
’
t many angels in Islington these days, I fear
…
No
—
the
“
tun
”
of the
“
Eslingas
”
once, it would have been
…
the people of some minor North Saxon chieftain,
“
Elsa
”
by name
…
Funny that:
“
Essex
”
for the East Saxons,
“
Sussex
”
for the South Saxons, and
“
Wessex
”
the biggest
—
the West Saxons. And even
“
Middlesex
”
for the Middle Saxons. But no
“
Nossex
”
, eh? Maybe they were Angles there
—
“
Angels
”
, maybe
—
?’ (Dad had thought about that for a moment, then had got up from the game and gone to his study, to ‘look it up’ as was his disruptive custom; and Mum had cried out ‘
Eddie! Come back! We
’
re playing a game
—
and it
’
s your throw
!’ and looked at Ian despairingly; and Dad had shouted back, from far away and quite unrepentant, ‘
Only be a minute, dear! Must look it all up. Because knowledge is power and power is knowledge
—
always set an example
—
only be a minute, dear!
’
;
and then, after a full eternity of five minutes, had returned shaking his head at Ian, as he usually did.) ‘
No angels in Islington, that I can find. But
—
lots of the opposite
—
bad men in Pentonville Gaol, and wicked women in Holloway, my lad
…
And, frankly, I wouldn
’
t rate the Polytechnic much higher
—
I expect the police patrol in pairs there too, at night
…
But you buy it, Ian
—
‘