A Prospect of Vengeance (3 page)

‘”Planted”—?’

‘Buried.’ Nod. ‘In a hole.’ Another nod. ‘He didn’t fall out of the sky, or tip over an’ hit his head, or shoot himself, or have a heart attack.’ Final nod. The way some of the stories go, there was this pond, an’ he was
in
it. So … I thought he could have fallen into it—or maybe even jumped into it … But that isn’t the way it was, apparently. Because these children
dug him up
, it seems.’

‘Why—
how
… did they do that?’ Both questions pressed equally.

‘God knows! But it seems that they did. So … someone buried him. So someone killed him first—that’s what the barmaid said. And I paid her £50 not to tell anyone else. Although it’s even money that I may have made her greedy, so I can’t be sure that I haven’t wasted …
your
money, my lad—eh?’

Ian winced inwardly at Tully’s final bill, which would pile his VAT on Reg Buller’s VAT, to complicate matters even if they could finally claim it back; although Jenny’s friendly accountants would sort that out for them, also at a price. But he mustn’t think of such mundane things now. ‘And that was all you got?’

Reg Buller looked offended. That was all I thought it safe to try and get, the way things smelt. Besides which, I rather thought I had other fish to fry, on instruction. Or rather … not other fish—
another
fish … other than Masson, I mean … ’ He tailed off.

‘
Another
…
fish?’

‘Well … not a fish, exactly.’ Buller drew deeply on his pipe. ‘More like a shark, if you ask me—‘ he breathed out a foul cloud of smoke ‘—like, in that film: something you go out to catch … but you end up trying not to get caught yourself, maybe.’ He drew on his pipe again.

‘You mean the man Audley? David Audley?’ Ian remembered Jenny’s original proposition: she had come to him late at night—or, more precisely, early in the morning, after one of her socialite nights-on-the-tiles—getting him out of bed when he was at his lowest ebb—

‘
Darling, I think I
’
ve stumbled onto something really quite interesting
—
have you got a drink
?’ (Jenny bright-eyed, even at that unearthly hour, happily burning her candle at both ends and only a little tousled even now, having progressed from a day’s work to an embassy party, and then to an elongated dinner, and finally to some flutter ‘on the tables’ in some hell-hole; except that Jenny had the stamina of a plough-horse and an alcoholic capacity rivalling Reg Buller’s, so it always seemed.)

‘
Jenny
!’ (At least he had been halfways respectable, face quickly washed, hair quickly brushed, dressing-gown carefully and decently adjusted: only Jenny dared to burst in on him in the smallest hours—she had done it before, and he was half-prepared for such eventualities now.) ‘
For heaven
’
s sake, Jen! Couldn
’
t it wait until the morning
?’ (But, strictly speaking, it had been the morning, of course.)’
You shouldn
‘
t be walking the streets now
—
they
’
re not safe. I
’
ll ring for a taxi
—
‘

‘
I
’
ve got a taxi
—
it
’
s parked outside. The dear man said he
’
d be quite happy to wait, darling
—
he said just the same thing
.’ (Running taxi-meters aside, Jenny could get round any man to do her will if she put her mind to it.) ‘
So
…
just get me that drink. Or do I have to make it myself
?’

‘
I
’
ll get you a coffee
—
‘

‘
Don
’
t be such a fuddy-duddy, Ian darling! But first
…
have you ever heard of a man named Audley, Ian?
’

‘
Who
—
?’ (If she was determined to drink alcohol, then he would pour it.)

‘
Audley. AUDLEY
—
Audley? Christian name
“
David
”
—
?
’

‘
No
.’ (He had recognized the sign then: those innocent eyes weren’t alcohol bright, but excited; even, possibly, she hadn’t had a drink since that sudden stumble-onto-something, whenever it had occurred; and all the rest of the evening-into-night-into-morning had been cold hard professional Jenny; which was why she needed a drink now.)

‘No.
But you have heard of Philip Masson, maybe
?’

‘
Yes
.’ (That had been insulting—and deliberately so! But now he was hooked.) ‘
And who is
… “
David Audley
”
, then
?’

‘Mr David Audley—yes. Or, to give him his proper title,
Doctor
David Audley.’ Reg Buller sniffed, wrinkling the hairs on his drinker’s nose. ‘But not a medical doctor—a
philosophy
doctor … Cambridge “Ph.D”—or “D.Phil”, whichever it is.’ The big red-and-blue veined nose wrinkled again: Reg Buller had a huge dislike-and-contempt for Oxbridge products, derived from bitter experience of Whitehall and Westminster in his policeman days. ‘Only, not a philosophy doctor, either—a
history
doctor—‘ The nose seemed to swell as its rounded blob-end lifted ‘—
ancient
history, too.’

But Ian had progressed since Jenny’s untimely descent on him. ‘Medieval history actually, Reg.’

‘Oh aye?’ Buller accepted the correction as a further confirmation of cause-for-contempt. ‘Looked him up in
Who
’
s Who
, have you? But what about his book on the
Latin
kingdom of Jerusalem, eh? Because, in
my
book, “Latin” is bloody ancient—right?’

‘No. “Wrong” actually. The Latin Kingdom of Jerusalem was eleventh to twelfth century, as it happens. Not that it matters.’ Compared with Philip Masson it certainly didn’t matter. But a long passion for getting facts right, and for sorting the golden nuggets of truth from Jenny’s loaded conveyor-belt of hearsay, rumour and gossip, forced him to react before he could stop himself. And then he had to put matters straight, into their priorities. ‘He’s a shark, is he, Reg?’

Buller’s face worked, as he came back from what didn’t matter to what did, which he had presumably uncovered during his second day of fish-frying for Tully and Jenny. And that also transformed Ian’s own imagery, from dusty manuscripts in university libraries to that fearful triangular dorsal fin cutting through the water, and then submerging as the killer disappeared, rolling underwater to open its razor-sharp jaws as it came to dine on its prey.

‘He could be. Or … seeing how he’s a big bugger—six-foot-two, or six-foot-three, in his stocking feet … and a rugger-player when he was young … maybe one of those bigger ones—black-and-white, and
clever
with it … not sharks, though—?’

‘Killer whales?’ Black-and-white were the Death’s Head colours, he dredged the memory up from his subconscious: not only of killer whales, or of the murderous magpies which killed small birds outside his windows in the country cottage where he always put the finishing touches to each new book; black-and-white had been the colours of all those famous regiments, with skull-and-crossbones badges, like military pirates—and even of Audley’s medieval Knights Templar, in his crusading Latin Kingdom; and, for that matter, the young men who squired Jenny to perdition on her late nights wore the same non-colours too, damn it!

But something had intruded into the sequence: he had heard the bell, and Buller’s face had closed up as he heard it. And he cursed himself for not reacting more quickly to Buller’s warning, now that Tully had arrived—or Jenny, or Jenny and Tully together—now that
someone
was interested in what they were up to—

‘
Damn
!’ He tossed his head irritably at Buller. ‘I should have put them off, Reg! We could have met somewhere else.’

Buller shook his head. ‘Wouldn’t have done any good. If they’re on to you, they’ll be on to them … Just so they’re not on to
me
.’ He grinned. ‘And even if they are, I can lose ‘em any time. And, what’s more … they won’t even know it: they’ll think they’ve been careless.’ The grin became confiding. Then it vanished. ‘Mr Tully and your lady don’t know how—they’d only give the game away. Better not to tell them straight off.’

‘I’ve got to tell them, Reg.’ Ian felt increasingly uneasy as he spoke. Because while Tully was sensible enough to be scared, this news would only strengthen Jenny’s suspicion, turning it into a certainty.

‘Wait! Hold on a mo’—‘ Reg Buller sidled sideways to block his passage again ‘—all this rabbiting on about Latin Kingdoms, and sharks—‘ The bell rang again ‘—let ‘em ring—
hold
on
’

‘What?’ Ian stopped. ‘What—‘

‘Just listen.’ Buller almost pushed him back. ‘You’ve tipped me off, on occasion … And you’ve recommended me—given me custom—
I
know
…
So, then, I owe you—right?’

‘You don’t owe me anything.’

‘Okay. So all the bills have been paid, for the tax-man, and the VAT man.’ Buller nodded. ‘And in a minute I’ll be on my usual rate—okay … See?’ He ignored the angry ringing behind him. ‘But
this
minute I’m still on my own time. So this is for free, then—right? And just between the two of us.’

Ian frowned at him. ‘You’d better be quick. Or they’ll think—‘

‘This bloke Audley—‘ Buller overbore him. ‘—I’ve got a feeling in my water about him. You want to watch yourself. And don’t let the Lady push you where you don’t want to go—not this time. That’s all.’ He stared at Ian for a moment, and then tossed his head. ‘Let ‘em in, then—go on!’

Ian sprinted towards the now-continuous bell, which meant that it was Jenny out there, without a doubt.

‘Sorry, Jen—‘ He caught sight of Tully beyond her—‘—hullo, John.’

‘I should think so!’ She pulled her headscarf and shook a tangle of half-combed red hair. ‘You look positively guilty, too.’ She scrutinized him momentarily. ‘In fact, if I didn’t know you better, Ian Robinson—and if I didn’t know that it was Sunday … it
is
Sunday, isn’t it?’ She sniffed Reg Bullet’s tobacco appreciatively.

‘It is for me.’ He returned the scrutiny. Without makeup, but with dark smudges under her eyes, she presented a curious mixture of innocence and depravity. ‘But you look like you’ve had your weekend already, Miss Fielding-ffulke. And lost it.’

‘Very funny.’ She turned to Tully. ‘As I was saying … if I didn’t know him better, I’d say he’d got a girl in the bedroom, hunting desperately for her knickers right now. But—‘

‘No such luck.’ Buller spoke from the sitting-room doorway. ‘Sorry to disappoint you, madam. But all he’s got is me. And I’m only hunting for beer.’

‘Reg!’ The night before seemed to drop away from her. ‘John said you might be here—that you’d agreed to come to our aid at short notice. It’s great to see you again! And … we do
need you
.’

‘Always a pleasure, madam.’ In Jenny’s presence, Buller always took refuge in the practised insincerity of his long-lost police constable self: for some reason her charm had always been lost on him, Ian remembered from the past. Which was all the more curious because in his case the charm was not consciously turned on, she had a genuine regard for his skill, and a huge soft spot for him to go with it. And now he himself must take account of that unrequited admiration in assessing the worth of Buller’s warning.

‘Don’t keep calling me “madam”, Reg, for God’s sake!’ She made a face at Buller.

‘No, Miss Fielding-ff—‘

‘And
don
’
t call
me that, either.’ She cut him off quickly. ‘If “Jenny” is too much for you … I’m not responsible for the absurdities of my ancestors … so I’ll settle for “Fielding”. Okay?’ Under the soft, almost pleading tone, there was the steely ancestral Fielding-ffulke voice of command, at which generations of Bullers (and Robinsons too) had jumped to obey. ‘Okay. So what have you got for us on Philip Masson and David Audley?’

‘I have prepared a report, Miss Fielding.’ Buller looked at Tully. ‘A written report.’

‘It’s all right, Mr Buller.’ Immaculate as ever and secure in his Winchester tie, Tully nevertheless jumped no less smartly. ‘Just the salient points now.’

Jenny caught Ian’s eye. ‘Reg would probably like a drink, Ian. And I certainly would. The last lot of church bells I heard, I counted to twelve.’

‘No.’ It wasn’t just that the Robinsons no longer obeyed the Fielding-ffulkes automatically, it was also to suggest that Buller hadn’t been with him for long. ‘I want to hear what Reg has to say first. Go on, Reg.’

‘Right, Mr Robinson.’ Buller played back to him exactly the correct note of disappointment. ‘Masson was murdered—and Audley works for the cloak-and-dagger brigade. Ours, that is.’

‘But Reg … we
know all
that—‘

‘No you don’t, Miss Fielding. At least, you may know about Dr Audley—someone may have told you. But it’s not written down anywhere. Officially, he’s a civil servant on contract, serving on a liaison committee of some sort—no one seems to know quite what—advising various ministries on research projects. And no one knows quite what they are, either. Right, Johnny?’

Tully nodded. ‘Yes. More or less.’

‘Yes. Well, I’m telling you that he works for intelligence
for a fact
.’ Buller paused only for half a second. ‘And the same goes for Masson: the rumour’s all round The Street—and down Murdoch’s place in Wapping—that he was murdered. But the Police haven’t said any such thing, they’ve been shut up tight from the top now. Believe me, I can read the signs. So I’m just giving you what they’d be saying if they hadn’t been shut up.’