A Prospect of Vengeance (2 page)

He looked at her seriously. ‘Dustmen have got a lot to answer for.’

‘You can say that again.’ The weekly struggle to manhandle—or, all too often, to womanhandle—the dustbins from the kitchen door to the roadside for collection was a sore trial to her. But at least he was changing the subject from a delicate area to a safe one. And, until she had had time to consult Larry—or at least to stop him putting his foot in it—the further away, the better. ‘What’s all this got to do with the old Griffin place, darling? You know more of it has fallen down since you went away for the summer term? It was in that dreadful storm we had in May—the one that brought down the old plum tree in the orchard.’

‘Yes, I know. I had a look not long ago.’ He brushed back his hair from his eyes, and looked the image of his father. ‘Yesterday, in fact.’

‘Yes, darling?’ There had been a time when she would have worried about such an exploration, and when it would have been strictly Against the Rules in fact; although, in fact, that had been one rule which the children had never broken. But now he was a big boy. But now, also, she was interested. ‘Why did you do that?’

He stared at her for a moment. ‘Dustmen, Mother—Rachel. I told you—dustmen. That’s the point.’

Rachel could hear her husband clumping finally from the bathroom to the bedroom upstairs. In a moment or two he would be on the back stair, coming down past the little arrow-slit window from which the surviving chimney of the old Griffin place was still just visible through the trees. ‘Well, the point eludes me, darling. Because no dustman ever came within half a mile of old Mrs Griffin’s dustbins, if she had such things—that’s certain.’

‘
Yes
, Mother.’ He looked at her a little sadly. ‘That
is
certain.
She
didn’t—and
they
didn’t. And
that
is the whole point.’

Still unenlightened, Rachel took refuge in interested (if not intelligent) silence.

And her silence broke him finally. ‘It’s all still there. For the finding.’

That broke her. ‘What is?’

‘Everything. Or, anyway, everything she ever broke, or threw away. Or lost.’ Suddenly his voice was eager. ‘Remember that old pewter candle-stick I picked up there, years ago? That’s still in my room?’

The light dawned, even blazed, suddenly illuminating all his designs. ‘But … it’s a horrible place, Christopher—a
nasty
place—‘

‘No, it isn’t, Mother. It’s the ruin of an old farm cottage. And there probably has been a farmhouse hereabouts since medieval times. And … maybe the site of the old Griffin place was the original farmhouse, because it has its own pond—the Cambridge chap said it might be. But, anyway, because there weren’t any dustmen and garbage collectors in the old days, and it’s way off the beaten track—
everything
’
s still all there, you see!
’

‘What is all there?’ Larry spoke from the open doorway of the back staircase, stooping automatically so as not to knock his head on the beam, years of practice having made him perfect.

‘All the accumulated refuse of old Mrs Griffin, dear.’ Rachel felt her lips compress. ‘And your son wishes to dig it up.’

‘Not “dig it up”, Mother.
Excavate
it.’ Christopher turned to his father. ‘Archaeology isn’t just Roman and Anglo-Saxon—and prehistoric, and all that. It’s anything that’s in the past and in the ground. Or above the ground—
like
…
like industrial archaeology.’

‘It’s a perfectly horrible place,’ snapped Rachel.

‘People excavate Victorian rubbish dumps. And they find quite valuable things,’ countered Christopher.

Damn
‘
the Cambridge chap
’
, thought Rachel. ‘And get tetanus, probably.’

Dr Laurence Groom considered his wife and son in turn, and came to a scientist’s conclusion inevitably, as Rachel knew he would. ‘It sounds interesting.’ But at least he had the grace to look at his wife apologetically. ‘And … I’ve always wanted to clear that place up. That pond is undoubtedly the breeding place for our mosquitoes.’ Then he smiled at his son. ‘I doubt that we’ll cast any fresh light on the past, to upset the experts. But you never know what we’ll find, I agree.’

That, as it transpired, was an understatement. Because, as regards the past and the experts Dr Laurence Groom was wholly wrong.

IAN ROBINSON AND
THE GHOSTS OF ‘78

IAN KNEW
that there was someone in his flat the moment he opened the door. And then, almost instantly (and with a mixture of relief and distaste outweighing surprise and fear), not
someone
, but Reginald Buller. Once smelt, the special mixture of cowdung, old tarred rope and probably illegal substances which Reg Buller smoked was unforgettable.

As he moved towards the living-room door he wrinkled his nose again, and knew that it wasn’t altogether because of the tobacco, but also because Jenny had undoubtedly conned him, he realized. Not only were they already spending good money, but with her instinct for winners and the Tully-Buller reputation for getting results, the pressure to go ahead would likely be irresistible. Even while seeming to meet his doubts she had painted him into a corner as usual.

‘Hullo, Reg.’ He observed simultaneously that Buller had helped himself to a beer from the fridge and that he was busy examining the typescripts on the table. ‘Picked the lock, did you?’

‘Would I do that?’ Buller replaced the papers without haste, but not very neatly. ‘You’ve got a nice Chubb lock, in any case.’ He grinned at Ian. ‘Beyond me, that is. When it comes to breaking-and-entering, I’m strictly amateur.’

‘Well, you certainly didn’t climb in.’ There was something utterly disarming about Reg Buller, although he had never been able to pin it down. But perhaps that was all part of the man’s stock-in-trade. ‘The back’s burglar-proof, I’m reliably informed by the local crime prevention officer. And the front’s a bit public on a Sunday morning. Apart from which, the wistaria isn’t strong enough—you’ve put on weight, Reg.’

Buller shook his head. ‘Not weight—prosperity, this is. Like the Swedish lady said to me, “Much to hold is much to love.” Sheer prosperity, my lad.’

‘It looks more like sheer beer-drinking to me. How
did
you get in.’

‘Ah … ’ Buller lifted his beer-glass. ‘I hoped you wouldn’t mind. It’s almost sun-over-the-yardarm time, and I was thirsty. Besides which, you always have stocks of this good Cologne beer—I remember that from last time. And … I am working for you again after all.’ He drank. ‘Always a pleasure, that is.’

The beer or the work? ‘Have another. I’ll have one too. When you’ve told me how you got in, that is.’

‘This is the other. But I’ll have a third—they are
little
ones … I used my key.’

‘Your …
key
?’

‘That’s the ticket. You lent me a spare last time, when I was in an’ out, dropping stuff off. So I had another one cut, just in case.’

Ian felt himself being shepherded towards the kitchen. ‘In case of what?’

‘In case I had to come calling again. Like, for a rainy day. An’ today is rainy, and I knew you’d be at church this morning, like always … an’ … I wanted to catch you before Mr Tully arrives. An’ he said 12.30. An’ … ’ He gave Ian a sidelong look.

‘And?’ Ian knew that look of old.

‘I wanted to make sure the coast was clear.’ Buller studied his beer for a moment. Then drank some of it. Then studied what remained with regret. ‘What I always like about Cologne … apart from the art galleries, an’ the museums, an’ all the culture, of course … is that, every time your glass gets down to the last inch or so, they just automatically bring you another full one. An’ that’s what I would describe as a very
civilized
custom … Providing you’re not driving—because the police are something cruel there, if you’ve had a couple.’

Ian opened the fridge door. ‘Ein Kölsch, Herr Buller?’ He waited uneasily while another bottle from his fast depleting stock disappeared. ‘What d’you mean—making sure the coast is clear, Reg?’

Buller drank. ‘You don’t know you’re being followed? But then, you wouldn’t of course! The Lady might know better … but you’d just go walkabout without another thought—I know you!’

Ian thought bitterly of the ‘Lady’ and her instincts. But he only thought of her for a moment. Then he started thinking of himself. ‘I’m being followed?’ He tried to imply a mere wish for confirmation, rather than the actual consternation he was experiencing.

‘Oh yes.’ Buller nodded. ‘Meaning … I wasn’t
quite
sure. But I looked up the time of your morning service on the board outside the church. An’ then I had a careful look-around … using a couple of my thousand disguises, naturally … An’ it seemed to me that you had one at the front, an’ one at the back, trying to blend into their surroundings … In fact, I nearly phoned up the local nick and tipped ‘em off, to see what would happen. But then I thought, we can always do that in future—because I’d have to do it anonymously, see? But you can get the old girl downstairs to do it. An’ then we can see whether they do anything about it or not, as the case may be. But we won’t have revealed our own guilty interest, if it’s official.’ This time, as he drank, he rationed himself to one swallow. ‘Which I’d guess it is. But it ‘ud be nice to be sure, for starters. When you’re ready—when you’re ready, eh?’

Jenny had been right. But it was all happening too quickly, nevertheless. Which, of course and on second thoughts, made her even more right, damn it! ‘What makes you sure—now?’

‘When you went out, the chap in the front called up the chap at the back. It’s like he’s plugged into one of these bloody “Walkman” things—but he’s two-way plugged … So they both met up at the corner, down the road. An’ then I nipped inside.’ Duller put his glass down on the kitchen table. ‘Of course, they could have in-depth cover. So that could have blown me, too. But, I thought, if they’ve got that sort of cover, then I’m probably already blown to hell, anyway—so what the hell!’ He grinned again. ‘Besides which, it was beginning to rain, an’ I haven’t got an umbrella—‘ he shrugged ‘—an’ I remembered about your beer supplies, too. An’ I’m not charging for Sunday work. Not until 12.15. Plus travel expenses. So … so, actually, you’re still on my private time now, without the meter running.’

Ian’s thoughts had become cold and hard as he listened, like thick ice over bottomless Arctic water: it had been like this in Beirut, when Jenny had been doing the leg-work as usual in the misplaced belief that the fundamentalist snatch-squad didn’t rate women (or, if they did, they couldn’t handle the indelicacies of kidnapping one), and he had been holed up in the hotel.

‘They’re back in place now, getting nicely soaked. So you’ll have to go out again later on, with your lady and my Mr Tully to draw ‘em off.’ Buller nodded into his silence. ‘Which the three of you all together certainly will, goin’ out all together—
no! For fuck
’
s sake don
’
t go and have a look
—
!
‘ Buller slid sideways, to block his path. ‘Let’s be nice and innocent for as long as we can, eh?’

Questions crowded Ian’s mind. ‘What made you … suspicious?’ It was an inadequate word, knowing Buller. But it was suitably vague.

‘Huh!’ Short of another beer, Buller produced an immense gunmetal lighter with which to set fire to the foul mixture in his pipe, which surely resisted conventional combustion methods. ‘As soon as Mr Tully mentioned Masson’s name, I thought “Aye-aye! Watch yourself, Reg!”’

‘Why?’ Ian remembered what Tully had said the first time he’d mentioned Reginald Buller’s name: that, whatever you do, wherever you wanted to go, Buller was halfway there before you started towards it.

‘I never did rate that much—a senior civil servant lost at sea: “what a terrible tragedy!” … I never rated that, not even at the time.’ Buller shook his head. ‘I thought … here we go again, I thought—‘ A foul smoke-screen enveloped him momentarily, so that he had to wave his hand to disperse it ‘—I thought
aye-aye!
’

‘But there was nothing ever known against Philip Masson, Reg.’

‘Nor there was. And that was what I thought next—quite right, when that was all there was.’ This time, a nod of agreement. ‘But when he turned up again … an’ miles from the sea, an’ dry as a bone—‘ From shake, through nod, to shake again ‘—what sort of tragedy was that, then?’

That had been what Jenny had wanted to know. Or, anyway, it had been the beginning of what she had wanted to know. ‘You tell me, Reg—?’

‘Hmm … ’ Somehow they had progressed out of the dining room and past the study door (and Reginald Buller would have examined all the ‘Work in progress’ there, too, for a certain guess), into the living room again; but Reg was blocking off the approach to the glorious bow-window, just in case.

‘Well?’

‘No bugger’s saying anything. And you can’t get near where they dug him up.’ Buller scratched the back of his head. They’ve got the local coppers out, both sides of the place, guarding it. There are a couple on the back road to it, never mind the front … And it was two kids who found the body. But you can’t get to them, either. And the parents aren’t talking to anyone.’ Another shake. ‘And I had to be bloody careful, because there were one or two people there I know, sniffing around, buying drinks—from the
Guardian
, and the
Mirror
…
and so maybe from the big Sundays, too. And the
Independent
, could be … But, the point is, there’s a
smell
about it—about Masson—is what there is.’

‘So you didn’t get anything—?’ He knew Reg Buller better than that.

‘Oh … ’ Buller bridled slightly, on his mettle ‘ … there was this barmaid I chatted up, who knew someone in the coroner’s office. And
she
said … that
he
said … that Masson was
planted
. And—‘