'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 dummy2
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 dummy2
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.'
'Actually, there have been quite a few rumours,' said Tully.
'There was one that he drowned — drowned himself, that is.'
'Oh yes.' Buller nodded. 'I didn't say they haven't said dummy2
anything. First off ... first off it was "probably an ancient burial". Because they're always digging up old bones round there, apparently. Then there was an old local story, that it might be some poor old bloke who'd lived there in the First World War, who'd gone missing in the trenches and laid low.
And then got influenza — there was a lot of that about in the village at the time. So his old woman had just buried him nice and quietly — it's miles from anywhere, on the edge of the marsh there, so she could have done that quite easily, and no one the wiser. But then it all blew up in their faces, of course.'
'They got an identification, you mean?'
Buller grinned. 'Someone blundered, that's what.'
'How d'you mean — "blundered", Reg?' inquired Ian. 'The Police?'
'No, not the Police. Although I think there was rather more tramping around in the first hours than they'd like to admit
— "Isolate the scene", that's Rule Number One. But then, of course, these kids dug up the body, playing about ... so they'd already made a right mess of it.' Buller shrugged. 'After that, it would have all been routine. And they'd have twigged pretty damn quickly that it really wasn't an ancient body, too
— that 'ud put 'em into gear, if they weren't in it already. Not exactly top gear, like with a fresh body, when getting quick off the mark is half the battle, often . . . but putting the forensics to work, and checking the records — B14, Missing Persons . . . Salvation Army, Alcoholics Anonymous — they dummy2
all come into it.' Another shrug. 'Bloody thousands of people missing. So it's always nice to find one.'
'Even a dead one?' Jenny frowned at him.
'Even a dead one. You ask a farmer about his missing sheep: he'd rather find one dead than one missing — leastways, if it's been long gone. At least he knows then. And maybe he can do something about it. And that's the way the Police have to think, to make the best of it.' He stared at her for a moment. '"Missing Persons" is a pretty thankless job, I tell you. And a gut-twisting one too, when you have to tell some poor middle-aged couple that their fifteen-year-old daughter
— or son now, the way things are — is probably out on the streets, earning money the easiest way.' He paused again. 'A lot of heartache in "Missing Persons", Lady.'
Tully stirred, almost as though embarrassed by this revelation of a social conscience where no sort of conscience should be, inside Reginald Buller. 'Who blundered then, Mr Buller?'
'Some civil servant.' Buller brightened at the thought.
'Probably one of your Dr Audley's colleagues, hiding his light under some committee.' He brought his lighter up to his pipe, but then thought better. 'Or maybe someone was on holiday — like Audley is at the moment. And some poor bloody clerk standing in for him didn't get to the bottom of his in-tray before the weekend. And then another load of bumpf went on the top of it on Monday morning. So he's for the chop now — ' He glanced sidelong at Jenny ' — or she is, dummy2
now that we're all equal.'
Jenny merely smiled. 'The identification?'
That's right. Teeth, most like — they're always the best ID.'
Buller returned the smile. 'If you're going to plant someone, Miss Fielding . . . take my tip: cut the hands and the head off, smash the jaw up, and drop the bits off in a few dustbins just before the refuse truck comes round. Then dig a deep hole for the rest, where it isn't likely to be dug up by the kids.' As he spoke the smile utterly vanished. 'But, whatever it was tipped 'em off ... and I don't know it was teeth . . . the identification got out before anyone could sit on it, and that's a fact.' He switched to Tully. 'And that put the newspapers on to it. Masson being in their "Missing Persons" file of course.
And then the fat was in the fire.' The smile returned, but in a thinner form. 'All just routine — getting the right file, or the right print-out. But this time in the wrong order.'
'So where did my drowning rumour come from?' Tully's pale intellectual face was expressionless. 'I thought it came from the Police?'
Buller nodded. 'So it did. But not officially. Seems like it was a "tip-off", from lower down — like one of the DCs feeding one of the local journalists, off the record, supposedly. But it wasn't that at all, of course.'
'Disinformation?' Having been disinformed many times over recent years, Jenny was quick on that particular ball.
'Disinformation — yes.' Buller liked accurate passing. 'Could dummy2
>
have been the same clerk, trying to shut the stable door after the horse was already meat in the knacker's yard, as best he could. Or she could.' Half-smile, half-shrug. There is a lake there ... or a pond, so they say.'
'You haven't seen the place?' Tully pursed his lips. 'Actually seen it — ?'
'Not a chance.' Buller returned slight contempt for this hint of disapproval. 'It's guarded round the clock — an' Special Branch from London as well as the locals. An' it's a bloody isolated spot, too . . . plus I'm not about to display myself, snooping around, to be photographed for the record. That wouldn't be good for business.' He looked to Ian for support.
'Yours as well as mine?'
'He wasn't found in the pond — the lake?' Ian rose obligingly.
'The children dug him up. And ... all the initial rumours were . . . digging-up ones?' Remembering what Buller had said when they were alone, it was easy.
'That is exactly right, Mr Robinson.' Buller nodded formally.
The original story was drowning — "drowned at sea". An'
then the first story was "ancient bones" dug up. An' then his name slipped out — an' then it was "drowning" again. But that won't stick for ever.' He shook his head. 'Maybe, if they'd had time to doctor the evidence ... or, at least, to confuse it ...
then they just might have made a drowning stick.' He looked from one to the other of them. 'Although, with policemen, and coroners, and all the rest . . . that's not so easy, I can tell you. But they might at least have bought more time, anyway.
dummy2
But this time . . . they didn't.' He ended with Jenny. 'He was buried, Miss Fielding. Not very deeply — not deep enough . . .
But buried, for sure.' Single nod. 'And the fact that they first tried to change the story . . . and now they've got the place, and everyone in it, buttoned up like Greenham Common used to be on Easter weekend — all that merely confirms everyone's suspicions that there's some sort of cover-up in progress.' This time, not a nod, but a sly face. 'Oh yes — the vultures are out, as you would expect: I recognized a few old acquaintances, trying to drink the pubs dry on expenses. And there were some young hopefuls, too — '
'And they recognized you, presumably?' Tully's lips tightened again. Then he sniffed. 'Or smelt you.'
Buller looked disappointed. 'Come on, Johnny — would I work for any clients of ours without a cover story? You know me better than that. Not on something like this, that's been in the papers. You're not the only one with a sense of smell.'
Ian caught Jenny's eye, and her smile. The last time Reg Buller had worked for them he had also had a 'cover'. And it had been so genuine that he had happily collected double expenses from it. But as he watched her, he observed that the smile was only on her lips, not in her eyes. And it faded quickly.
'Your old acquaintances, Reg . . . what lines are they following, do you know?' She sounded almost casual.
'I don't honestly know, Lady. I was too busy being not very interested in their business. But I doubt they've got much of dummy2
value as yet, the way things are. Not until the inquest is resumed, they won't have anything to get their teeth into.
And you can bet they'll be delayed as long as possible.' Buller cocked an eye at Tully. 'It'll be the backroom boys digging out the old cuttings on Masson at the moment, in preparation for that. So you'd better watch your step there, Johnny, if you're thinking of asking to have a look at him in your favourite newspaper library. Because they know you've worked for your present clients before.'
Tully touched his tie. 'Don't worry, Mr Buller. That's already all taken care of.' He acknowledged Jenny and Ian in turn. 'I have a very fair dossier on Philip Masson. And there won't be any comeback.'
That was going to cost them, thought Ian. Because, although Tully's own highly-computerized filing system was pretty damn good in its own right (and expensive to get into, also), it still couldn't match the better newspaper libraries. But newspaper librarians wouldn't come cheap either, those of them who could be bought. Or their assistants. Or whoever had access, down the line. But more than that, and regardless of expense, Tully was very certain of himself today: certain, although this had been contractually no more than a quick reconnaissance of a possibility, that he had Fielding and Robinson as fullblown clients again.
He examined them both with professional interest: the well-laundered, Winchester-tied Tully, very confident; and the crumpled, smelly old Buller, no less a pro, albeit in his own dummy2
distinctive style. But now, although Buller had given him the gypsy's warning, they were both equally excited at the prospect of profit and enjoyment.
'Yes.' Tully looked at him, and he realized that all three were looking at him, willing him to show enthusiasm. Even Buller, after what he'd said, was willing it. 'I don't think you need to worry too much about the newshounds at the moment, Mr Robinson.'
'Why not?' In a position of strength he could afford to be awkward.
'Well . . . firstly, because of the timing, I rather think.'
'The timing?'
'Of Masson's death. It occurred at the very end of the Wilson-Callaghan era, in 1978. So they can't pin this on the Tories, in general — or on our present dear Prime Minister, in particular. If there was a cover-up, that is . . .' He smiled thinly. 'That takes some of the fun out of it, you might say.
And the urgency with it.'
There was a flaw in that reasoning, thought Ian: pre-Thatcher shenanigans in British Intelligence could always be dressed up as 'destabilization', post-Spycatcher. But he didn't know enough about Philip Masson yet to undress that possibility.
'And none of them are on to Audley yet.' Tully bowed slightly to Jenny. 'Your ace in the hole is still safe, Miss Fielding.
You're way ahead of them all.' Then he remembered Ian. 'If dummy2
you want to proceed, that is.'
Ian was glad that he had resisted the temptation to look at Buller, whose buttocks were still firmly seated on that unpalatable information about the watchers outside, which would prick Tully's bubble of complacency explosively. But that in turn presented him with an immediate dilemma: because someone was alongside them already, if not actually ahead of them, and that was a damn good reason for exercising his veto, and proceeding with the book they had planned to write, which presented no great problems, reasonable (and certain) profits, and absolutely no Beirut-remembered dangers.
So this was that 'moment-of-truth' Jenny always made him face up to, when they had to decide to go ahead with a project after the first reconnaissance, or to cut their losses and start on something else. Only this was different from all their other investigations — and not different just because of those two men outside in the rain: it was different also because it seemed to matter personally to her, not just financially. So, if he said 'no' she'd not only never forgive him, but she might also go ahead on her own account, without his protective presence — ?
He couldn't have that, no matter how much against his better judgement, not after Beirut.
'I think I'll get that drink now. Dry sherry for you, John?' He didn't need to look at Tully.
'Beer for me.' Reg Buller beamed at him. 'One of those little dummy2
bottles of that German beer? Have you got any of them?'
He didn't need to look at her, either: for her there was their
'moment-of-truth' custom. All he saw was the pile of papers he'd taken out of the study that morning, slightly disarranged as Buller had left them. So now the future of British education would have to wait until this matter of the past of British intelligence had been resolved, he thought sadly.
It was all conveniently in the fridge — John Tally's Manzanilla, Reg Buller's Kölsch, and Jenny's celebratory bottle (even though he didn't feel like celebrating).
'Oh Ian darling!' She pushed through the door just as the cork popped, and the champagne overflowed the glasses messily. 'Thank you, darling!'
'Don't count your chickens, Jen.' He watched the ridiculo
usly over-priced stuff subside. 'I still don't like it. And I think we could be risking our necks.'
'Of course, darling. But . . .' She swayed towards him, both hands full but still holding the door half open with her shoulder. '. . . but — ' her voice dropped to a wide-mouthed whisper, enunciated as though to a deaf lip-reader ' — I-have-got-promises-of-absolutely-marvellous-deals . . . from . . .
Clive Parsons . . . and Woodward — Richard Woodward?'
She read his expression, and nodded triumphantly.
Ian reached out to push the door fully open, knowing that that triumphant nod would have had to be the clincher if he dummy2
had been genuinely still in doubt: with Woodward controlling the serializations on the front page of his heavyweight Sunday's supplement, to coincide with publication, and Parsons' publishers' clout in the American press, they had the necessary ingredients for another best-seller before he had put one word on paper; and if Jenny's rarely mistaken nose for a winner didn't let them down they stood to make a small fortune. Or even a large one. And that was more than could be expected from British education.
'John — Reg — ' She took the two untasted glasses in with a glance ' — I've just been twisting Ian's arm unmercifully — '
She raised her own glass ' — so I think we can now drink to ...
what?' She zeroed in on Reg Buller. 'Murder, for a start?'
Buller drank without answering, keeping his counsel dry as an infantryman's powder.
Tully sipped his sherry, and from the look on his face either approved of its dryness or was thinking of his fees. 'Treason, for choice, Miss Fielding. With murder in a chief supporting role, perhaps — ?' Then (as before) he remembered Ian. ' Pro bono publico, of course . . . But it isn't Masson who is primarily interesting, interesting though he undoubtedly is ...
even very interesting, if I may say so.' He smiled his thinnest, driest-sherry smile at Jenny. 'But Audley is the one who matters.'
'Why do you say that, John?' Jenny watched him over her glass.
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