Denison told all of it.
When he had finished Carey’s expression was a mixture of perturbation and harassment. He heard everything Denison had to say but made no comment; instead, he lifted the telephone, dialled a number, and said, ‘George? Ask Ian to come in here for a minute.’
He came from behind the desk and patted Denison on the shoulder. ‘I hope you don’t mind waiting for a few minutes.’ He strode away to intercept the man who had just come in and they held a whispered colloquy before Carey left the room.
He closed the door on the other side and stood for a moment in thought, then he shook his head irritably and went into McCready’s office. McCready looked up, saw Carey’s expression, and said, ‘What’s the matter?’
‘Our boy has rolled clean off his tiny little rocker,’ snapped Carey. ‘That’s what’s the matter. He started off by telling cock-and-bull stories, but then it got worse - much worse.’
‘What did he say?’
Carey told him - in gruesome detail.
Ten minutes later he said, ‘Discounting a lot of balls about mysterious attackers,
something
happened up there on top of the Spiralen which knocked Meyrick off his perch.’
He rubbed his forehead. ‘When they wish these eggheads on us you’d think they’d test them for mental stability. What we need now is an alienist.’
McCready suppressed a smile. ‘Isn’t that rather an old-fashioned term?’
Carey glared at him. ‘Old-fashioned and accurate.’ He stabbed his finger at the office wall. ‘That…that
thing
in there isn’t human any more. I tell you, my flesh crawled when I heard what he was saying.’
‘There isn’t a chance that he’s right, is there?’ asked McCready diffidently.
‘No chance at all. I was facing Meyrick at the original briefing in London for two bloody days until I got to hate the sight of his fat face. It’s Meyrick, all right.’
‘There is one point that puzzles me,’ said McCready. ‘When I was with him at the police station in Drammen he didn’t speak a word of Norwegian, and yet I understand he knows the language.’
‘He speaks it fluently,’ said Carey.
‘And yet I’m told that his first words were to the effect that he spoke no Norwegian.’
‘For God’s sake!’ said Carey. ‘You know the man’s history. He was born in Finland and lived there until he was seventeen, when he came to live here in Oslo. When he was twenty-four he moved to England where he’s been ever since. That’s twenty-two years. He didn’t see a rugby ball until he arrived in England, and I’ve studied his dossier and know for a fact that he never boxed in his life.’
‘Then it all fits in with his story that he’s not Meyrick.’ McCready paused for thought. ‘There
was
a witness at Spiraltoppen who said she saw a gun.’
‘A hysterical waitress,’ sneered Carey. ‘Wait a minute - did you tell Meyrick about that?’
‘I did mention it.’
‘It fits,’ said Carey. ‘You know, I wouldn’t be surprised if the story Meyrick gave to the police wasn’t the absolute truth. He was razzled by a few kids out for a joyride in a stolen car and the experience knocked him off his spindle.’
‘And the gun?’
‘You told him about the gun. He seized that and wove it into his fairy tale, and added a few other trimmings such as the knife and the cosh. I think that in the Spiralen he felt so bloody helpless that he’s invented this story to retain what he thinks is his superiority. At the briefing I assessed him as an arrogant bastard, utterly convinced of his superiority to us lesser mortals. But he wasn’t very superior in the Spiralen, was he?’
‘Interesting theory,’ said McCready. ‘You’d make a good alienist - except for one thing. You lack empathy.’
‘I can’t stand the man,’ said Carey bluntly. ‘He’s an overweening, overbearing, supercilious son-of-a-bitch who thinks the sun shines out of his arse. Mr Know-it-all in person and too bloody toplofty by half.’ He shrugged. ‘But I can’t pick and choose the people I work with. It’s not in my contract.’
‘What did you say he called himself?’
‘Giles Denison from Hampstead. Hampstead, for Christ’s sake!’
‘I’ll be back in a minute,’ said McCready. He left the room.
Carey loosened his tie with a jerk and sat biting his thumbnail. He looked up as McCready came back holding a book. ‘What have you got there?’
‘London telephone directory.’
‘Give me that,’ said Carey, and grabbed it. ‘Let’s see - Dennis, Dennis, Dennis…Dennison. There’s a George and two plain Gs - neither in Hampstead.’ He sat back, looking pleased.
McCready took the book and flipped the pages. After a minute he said, ‘Denison, Giles…Hampstead. He spells it with one “n”.’
‘Oh, Christ!’ said Carey, looking stricken. He recovered. ‘Doesn’t mean a thing. He picked the name of someone he knows. His daughter’s boy-friend, perhaps.’
‘Perhaps,’ said McCready non-committally.
Carey drummed his fingers on the desk. ‘I’ll stake my life that this is Meyrick; anything else would be too ridiculous.’ His fingers were suddenly stilled. ‘Mrs Hansen,’ he said. ‘She’s been closer to him than anybody. Did she have anything to say?’
‘She reported last night that she’d met him. He’d broken a date with her in the morning and excused it by pleading illness. Said he’d been in bed all morning.’
‘Had he?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did she notice anything about him - anything odd or unusual?’
‘Only that he had a cold and that he’d stopped smoking. He said cigarettes tasted like straw.’
Carey, a pipe-smoker, grunted. ‘They taste like straw to me without a cold. But he recognised her.’
‘They had a drink and a conversation - about morals and religion, she said.’
‘That does it,’ said Carey. ‘Meyrick is ready to pontificate about anything at the drop of a hat, whether he knows anything about it or not.’ He rubbed his chin and said grudgingly, ‘Trouble is, he usually talks sense - he has a good brain. No, this is Meyrick, and Meyrick is as flabby as a bladder of lard - that’s why we have to coddle him on this operation. Do you really think that Meyrick could stand up against four men with guns and knives and coshes? The man could hardly break the skin on the top of a custard. He’s gone out of his tiny, scientific mind and his tale of
improbable violence is just to save his precious superiority, as I said before.’
‘And what about the operation?’
‘As far as Meyrick is concerned the operation is definitely off,’ said Carey decisively. ‘And, right now, I don’t see how it can be done without him. I’ll cable London to that effect as soon as I’ve had another talk with him.’ He paused. ‘You’d better come along, George. I’m going to need a witness on this one or else London will have me certified.’
They left the office and walked along the corridor. Outside the room where Meyrick was held Carey put his hand on McCready’s arm. ‘Hold yourself in, George. This might be rough.’
They found Meyrick still sitting at the desk in brooding silence, ignoring the man he knew only as Ian who sat opposite. Ian looked up at Carey and shrugged eloquently.
Carey stepped forward. ‘Dr Meyrick, I’m sorry to…’
‘My name is Denison. I told you that.’ His voice was cold.
Carey softened his tone. ‘All right, Mr Denison; if you prefer it that way. I really think you ought to see a doctor. I’m arranging for it.’
‘And about time,’ said Denison. ‘This is hurting like hell.’
‘What is?’
Denison was pulling his sweater from his trousers. ‘This bloody knife wound. Look at it.’
Carey and McCready bent to look at the quarter-inch deep slash along Denison’s side. It would, Carey estimated, take sixteen stitches to sew it up.
Their heads came up together and they looked at each other with a wild surmise.
Carey paced restlessly up and down McCready’s office. His tie was awry and his hair would have been tousled had it not been so close-cropped because he kept running his hand through it. ‘I still don’t believe it,’ he said. ‘It’s too bloody incredible.’
He swung on McCready. ‘George, supposing you went to bed tonight, here in Oslo, and woke up tomorrow, say, in a New York hotel, wearing someone else’s face. What would be your reaction?’
‘I think I’d go crazy,’ said McCready soberly. He smiled slightly. ‘If I woke up with your face I would go crazy.’
Carey ignored the wisecrack. ‘But Denison didn’t go crazy,’ he said meditatively. ‘All things considered, he kept his cool remarkably well.’
‘If he is Denison,’ remarked McCready. ‘He could be Meyrick and quite insane.’
Carey exploded into a rage. ‘For God’s sake! All along you’ve been arguing that he’s Denison; now you turn around and say he could be Meyrick.’
McCready eyed him coolly. ‘The role of devil’s advocate suits me, don’t you think?’ He tapped the desk. ‘Either way, the operation is shot to hell.’
Carey sat down heavily. ‘You’re right, of course. But if this is a man called Denison then there are a lot of questions
to be answered. But first, what the devil do we do with him?’
‘We can’t keep him here,’ said McCready. ‘For the same reason we didn’t keep Meyrick here. The Embassy is like a fishbowl.’
Carey cocked his head. ‘He’s been here for over two hours. That’s about normal for a citizen being hauled over the coals for a serious driving offence. You suggest we send him back to the hotel?’
‘Under surveillance.’ McCready smiled. ‘He says he has a date with a redhead for dinner.’
‘Mrs Hansen,’ said Carey. ‘Does he know about her?’
‘No.’
‘Keep it that way. She’s to stick close to him. Give her a briefing and ask her to guard him from interference. He could run into some odd situations. And talk to him like a Dutch uncle. Put the fear of God into him so that he stays in the hotel. I don’t want him wandering around loose.’
Carey drew a sheet of paper towards him and scribbled on it. ‘The next thing we want are doctors - tame ones who will ask the questions we want asked and no others. A plastic surgeon and - ‘ he smiled at McCready bleakly - ‘and an alienist. The problem must be decided one way or the other.’
‘We can’t wait until they arrive,’ said McCready.
‘Agreed,’ said Carey. ‘We’ll work on the assumption that a substitution has been made - that this man is Denison. We know when the substitution was made - in the early hours of yesterday morning. Denison was brought in - how?’
‘On a stretcher - he must have been unconscious.’
‘Right!’ said Carey. ‘A hospital patient in transit under the supervision of a trained nurse and probably a doctor. And they’d have taken a room on the same floor as
Meyrick. The switch was made and Meyrick taken out yesterday morning - probably in an ambulance at the back entrance of the hotel by arrangement with the management. Hotels don’t like stretchers being paraded through the front lobby.’
‘I’ll get on to it,’ said McCready. ‘It might be an idea to check on all the people who booked in on the previous day, regardless of the floor they stayed on. I don’t think this was a two man job.’
‘I don’t, either. And you check the comings and goings for the past week - somebody must have been watching Meyrick for a long time.’
‘That’s a hell of a big job,’ objected McCready. ‘Do we get the co-operation of the Norwegians?’
Carey pondered. ‘At this time - no. We keep it under wraps.’
McCready’s face took on a sad look at the thought of all the legwork he was going to have to do. Carey tilted his chair back. ‘And then there’s the other end to be checked - the London end. Why Giles Denison of Hampstead?’ His chair came down with a thump. ‘Hasn’t it struck you that Denison has been very unforthcoming?’
McCready shrugged. ‘I haven’t talked to him all that much.’
‘Well, look,’ said Carey. ‘Here we have this man in this bloody odd situation in which he finds himself. After recovering from the first shock, he not only manages to deceive Mrs Hansen as to his real identity but he has the wit to ring up Meyrick’s home. But why only Meyrick? Why didn’t he check back on himself?’
‘How do you mean?’
Carey sighed. ‘There’s a man called Giles Denison missing from Hampstead. Surely he’d be missed by someone? Even if Denison is an unmarried orphan he must have friends - a job. Why didn’t he ring back to reassure people
that he was all right and still alive and now living it up in Oslo?’
‘I hadn’t thought of that,’ admitted McCready. ‘That’s a pointer to his being Meyrick, after all. Suffering from delusions but unable to flesh them out properly.’
Carey gave a depressed nod. ‘All I’ve had from him is that he’s Giles Denison from Hampstead - nothing more.’
‘Why not put it to him now?’ suggested McCready.
Carey thought about it and shook his head. ‘No, I’ll leave that to the psychiatrist. If this is really Meyrick, the wrong sort of questions could push him over the edge entirely.’ He pulled the note pad towards him again. ‘We’ll have someone check on Denison in Hampstead and find out the score.’ He ripped off the sheet. ‘Let’s get cracking. I want those cables sent to London immediately - top priority and coded. I want those quacks here as fast as possible.’
Giles Denison stirred his coffee and smiled across the table at Diana Hansen. His smile was steady, which was remarkable because a thought had suddenly struck him like a bolt of lightning and left him with a churning stomach. Was the delectable Diana Hansen who faced him Meyrick’s mistress?
The very thought put him into a dilemma. Should he make a pass or not? Whatever he did - or did not - do, he had a fifty per cent chance of being wrong. The uncertainty of it spoiled his evening which had so far been relaxing and pleasant.
He had been driven back to the hotel in an Embassy car after dire warnings from George McCready of what would happen to him if he did not obey instructions. ‘You’ll have realized by now that you’ve dropped right into the middle of something awkward,’ said McCready. ‘We’re doing our best to sort it out but, for the next couple of days, you’d do well to stay in the hotel.’ He drove it home by asking pointedly, ‘How’s your side feeling now?’
‘Better,’ said Denison. ‘But I could have done with a doctor.’ He had been strapped up by McCready, who had produced a first-aid box and displayed a competence which suggested he was no stranger to knife wounds.
‘You’ll get a doctor,’ assured McCready. ‘Tomorrow.’
‘I have a dinner date,’ said Denison. ‘With that redhead I told you about. What should I do about that? If she goes on like she did yesterday I’m sure to put my foot in it.’
‘I don’t see why you should,’ said McCready judiciously.
‘For God’s sake! I don’t even know her name.’
McCready patted him on the shoulder, and said soothingly, ‘You’ll be all right.’
Denison was plaintive. ‘It’s all very well you wanting me to go on being Meyrick but surely you can tell me
something.
Who
is
Meyrick, for instance?’
‘It will all be explained tomorrow,’ said McCready, hoping that he was right. ‘In the meantime, go back to the hotel like a good chap, and don’t leave it until I call for you. Just have a quiet dinner with…with your redhead and then go to bed.’
Denison had a last try. ‘Are you in Intelligence or something? A spy?’
But to that McCready made no answer.
So Denison was delivered to the hotel and he had not been in the room more than ten minutes when the telephone rang. He regarded it warily and let it ring several times before he put out his hand as though about to pick up a snake. ‘Yes?’ he said uncommunicatively.
‘Diana here.’
‘Who?’ he asked cautiously.
‘Diana Hansen, who else? We have a dinner date, remember? How are you?’
Again he caught the faint hint of America behind the English voice. ‘Better,’ he said, thinking it was convenient of her to announce her name.
‘That’s good,’ she said warmly. ‘Are you fit enough for dinner?’
‘I think so.’
‘Mmm,’ she murmured doubtfully. ‘But I still don’t think you should go out; there’s quite a cold wind. What about dinner in the hotel restaurant?’
Even more convenient; he had just been about to suggest that himself. In a more confident voice he said, ‘That’ll be fine.’
‘Meet you in the bar at half past seven,’ she said.
‘All right.’
She rang off and he put down the telephone slowly. He hoped that McCready was right; that he could manage a sustained conversation with this woman in the guise of Meyrick. He sat in the armchair and winced as pain stabbed in his side. He held his breath until the pain eased and then relaxed and looked at his watch. Half past five. He had two hours before meeting the Hansen woman.
What a mess! What a stinking mess! Lost behind another man’s face, he had apparently dropped into the middle of an intrigue which involved the British government. That man, Carey, had been damned patronizing about what had happened on top of the Spiralen and had not bothered to hide his disbelief. It had been that, more than anything else, that had driven Denison into disclosing who he was. It had certainly taken the smile off Carey’s face.
But who was Carey? To begin with, he was obviously McCready’s boss - but that did not get him very far because who was McCready? A tight little group in the British Embassy in Oslo dedicated to what? Trade relations? That did not sound likely.
Carey had made it clear that he had warned Meyrick not to move far from the hotel. Judging by what had happened on the Spiralen the warning was justified. But who the hell was Meyrick that he was so important? The man with the title of Doctor or perhaps Professor, and who was described on his passport as a civil servant.
Denison’s head began to ache again.
Christ!
he thought;
I’ll be bloody glad to get back to Hampstead, back to my job and the people I…
The thought tailed off to a deadly emptiness and he felt his stomach lurch. A despairing wail rose in his mind -
God help me!
he cried silently as he realized his mind was a blank, that he did not know what his job was, that he could not put a name to a single friend or acquaintance, and that all he knew of himself was that he was Giles Denison and that he came from Hampstead.
Bile rose in his throat. He struggled to his feet and staggered to the bathroom where he was violently sick. Again there was that insistent beat in his mind: I AM GILES DENISON. But there was nothing more - no link with a past life.
He left the bathroom and lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling.
You must remember!
he commanded himself.
You must!
But there was nothing - just Giles Denison of Hampstead and a vague mind picture of a house in a halfforgotten memory.
Think!
The scar on his shin - he remembered that. He saw himself on the small child-size bicycle going down a hill too fast, and the inevitable tumble at the bottom - then the quick tears and the comfort of his mother. I remember that, he told himself in triumph.
What else? Beth - he remembered Beth who had been his wife, but she had died. How many years ago was it? Three years. And then there was the whisky, too much whisky. He remembered the whisky.
Denison lay on the bed and fought to extract memories from a suddenly recalcitrant mind. There was a slick sheen of sweat on his brow and his fists were clenched, the nails digging into his palms.
Something else he had remembered before. He had come back from Edinburgh on June 17, but what had he been doing there? Working, of course, but what was his work? Try as he might he could not penetrate the blank haze which cloaked his mind.
On June 18 he had played golf in the afternoon. With whom? Of course it was possible for a man to play a round of golf alone, and also to go to the cinema alone and to dine in Soho alone, but it was hardly likely that he would forget everything else. Where had he played golf? Which cinema did he go to? Which restaurant in Soho?
A blazing thought struck him, an illumination of the mind so clear that he knew certainly it was the truth. He cried aloud, ‘But I’ve never played golf in my life!’
There was a whirling spiral of darkness in his mind and, mercifully, he slept.