Part 5 (1/2)

I can stand being married to a phoney hero. I can just about stand being married to a semi-alcoholic b.u.m who's going broke. What I can't stand is being married to a fool.'

He lay with his eyes closed. She went on: 'I know you think Terry Mason's a dull, wet little man, living his whole life under orders, in his prefabricated married quarters, with a tatty wife and three snotty kids. But I'll tell you something. At this moment he's worth five, ten times what you are! He's got sense. Sense to think the whole thing over and get out while the going's good.

'But not the great Charles Rawcliff. Oh no. Not only does he not have the sense to get out - he doesn't even have the guts. That's the truth of the matter, isn't it?' She was sitting straight up now, glaring down at him. 'You haven't got the guts to face up:to anything. You can't face your financialtroubles. You're scared of your bank manager, scared of the tax-man, scared of the VAT-man, and now you're running scared of a gang of international crooks who are posing as a charity organization. G.o.d, you make me sick!'

His head had begun to ache again. He got up slowly and pulled on a bathrobe.

'I'm going to sleep downstairs.'

'You can sleep on the pavement, as far as I'm concerned. What's the matter with you? We've got a nice house, we've both got jobs, we've got a beautiful child - we've even got two cars. But you're not satisfied. You want to risk your life, and put me and little Tom on the line with you. It isn't fair. It isn't b.l.o.o.d.y fair!'

He turned wearily. 'It's no good, Judith. Even if I wanted to get out of it, I couldn't. Not unless we're both prepared to go into hiding for a long time.'

'Oh G.o.d. So it's as bad as that, is it?'

'It's serious, Judith. They're serious people.' He came towards her and tried to touch her shoulder, but she flinched away.

'Don't you touch me!' she whispered. 'And next time I suppose it won't be just a b.u.mp on the head? It'll be me going down to identify you on some mortuary slab. So I'm not married to a fool, I'm also married to a prospective criminal. And perhaps a dead one, at that!'

'You don't know it's criminal.'

'No. I don't even know the world goes round the sun.'

'Turn out the light. We can talk about it in the morning,' he said, climbing back into bed beside her.

'There's nothing more to talk about. If you go, that's the end V it.'

'Right, let's have it,' said Batsford.

The inspector consulted his notes. 'Eight-ten - accident at the roundabout just before Pinkney's Green, near Maidenhead. Ford Escort full of rugger-b.u.g.g.e.rs collided with a beige Range-Rover, registration ELH 283T.

Escort has a crushed front wheel and damaged fender. No injuries reported. Two other cars stopped, police were called.

'Before the Patrol arrived, the Range-Rover drove off in the direction of the M4. There was a twenty-minute time-lag before we could get a call out, plus a full description of the driver. No pa.s.sengers. Man in early thirties, medium build, brown hair combed straight back, David Niven-type moustache. One of the witnesses said he had staring eyes. Another said the Range-Rover had a scratch down the left side, and what looked like mud. The left side hit Mason, sir.

Forensic are working on the vehicle now.'

'Where was it found?'

'Harvard Lane, between Chiswick High Road and the M4. He must have driven like lightning, sir, down the motorway. Surprising none of the patrols nabbed him.'

'And he got clean away?'

'I'm afraid so. One of the Met boys spotted the vehicle. That was a bit ofluck, at least, in a back-street like that. Parked about two feet from the kerb. Driver must have been in a hurry. Hammersmith are handling it - until the SB muscle in.'

'Thurgood had a moustache,' Batsford said, peering into what was left of his cold tea. 'Though I'd hardly call him the David Niven type. But staring eyes are good. Must be him.'

The phone rang. Batsford listened for a moment and said, 'Thank you.' He put down the receiver. 'Mason's dead. He never regained consciousness,'

Five.

Simon de Vere Suchard stretched back and crossed his long legs. The fan-window illuminated his eccentrically handsome profile. He smiled distantly, fingering the neck of his cashmere cardigan. '1 am sorry, my dear chap, but you're going to be rather put out. Just one of those crosses we .have to bear. It's no bite at the cherry on this one. Not even a nibble, until I say so.'

Addison, of the Special Branch, sat rigidly opposite him, controlling his irritation: at the same time baffled, amazed by the number of books, newspapers, loose doc.u.ments strewn about the room; by the profuse confusion of the place; no order, no apparent security - although 'security', in the most precise and awesome meaning of the word, was what the whole Department was about.

'You people seem to have decided already that it's a case of murder,' he said, 'so why not leave it to the local boys? You've got the evidence. Victim's car's punctured deliberately, probably by someone who knew his way into the camp car park. Murder vehicle in the pound. Forensic checks out, blood matches, plus full description of the suspect. The Met boys pick him up - Thames Valley handle the case.'

De Vere Suchard unfolded himself from the b.u.t.ton-back leather chair. 'Drink, my dear chap?' He moved with the restless agility of a grown-up schoolboy getting the better of one of his duller masters.

'Gin,' Addison said sourly, 'pink.'

Suchard had crossed the s.p.a.cious Georgian room and reached a cluttered antique sidetable, where he stood rummaging amid a pile of papers, row of bottles and decanters, unwashed cut-gla.s.ses, an ancient electric kettle and jar of instant coffee. 'Murder indeed,' he repeated, returning across the room with the drinks; he had poured self a thimble of Strega. 'Murder most foul. And crude,'

he added, sitting down again. 'Nothing for the future connoisseurs in this one, I fear. Some crumby little RAF pilot had a spot of info that someone else didn't want him to have, and he gets knocked down and killed changing a tyre.

Made to look like hit-and-run.' He sipped his drink. 'But as we know, all is not as it appears. This one is as fragile as a Ming vase. Examine, scrutinize, - but don't touch.' He gave his flowery smile and recrossed his legs.

'Flight-Lieutenant Mason is dead, and he is going to be buried. In every sense of the word. I have it from the highest authority.'

'You mean, you went up and twisted their arms?'

'My dear Addison, you sleuths have such literal minds. Let us just say, the decision was reached through due process of discussion and evaluation of thecase. You'll be pleased to hear that I was able to a.s.sure them that I will have your full support. In return, you may call on any facilities you require.

It'll be a grand slam, but with all the covers on. A senior Yard man is to be detailed to do the donkey-work, and you'll back him up with anything he needs.

No skimping on manpower or expense at your end. But hushed as the grave.

Entendu?'

He sat back and steepled his fingers together, the tips touching' his chin.

'We expect you to have this thing tied up in forty-eight hours. Info, that's all. Facts, details. Names and addresses. Times of meetings. Who goes where, stays where. Forty-eight hours of good hard police slogging. And there'll be no mercy for any stragglers, any slipups.'

'Thanks for the tip. And for the drink,' Addison said, putting down his gla.s.s.

'There's only one other problem. I've got to ring that Station Commander, Batsford. He's got to come up with some story for Mason's widow. He can hardly say the man died for his country.'

'He may have died for someone's country. The question is whose?'

The Head of Department faced them across the table. He had a long gloomy face, like an intelligent sheep. A couple of pale green files lay closed in front of him. He spoke from memory, while the others took notes.

'Three weeks ago Staff Section got a DAC report from Germany, stating that six C-130 transports had been purchased from the American Air base at Mildhausen, near Frankfurt. All 1962 models, declared obsolete, but in flying order. The purchasers were a Lichtenstein-registered firm called Tallant and Burg A.C.

This appears to be a subsidiary of Entreprise Lipp, also registered in Lichtenstein, but with strong French connections. Not' - he paused emphatically -'so very far removed from official circles. They specialize, as you may know, in high technology, including some of the latest guidance-systems for the French aeros.p.a.ce industry.'

'Rather a long hop from a C-130 transport,' Suchard put in frivolously.