by Bill James
This seemed the same sort of swift, planned, coordinated operation as that badger hunt, but lacking terriers. Dill went to the front door and rang the bell. Ivins stood back on the pavement looking at the upper storeys. When nobody answered the door Dill stepped over a low fence and stared in through a downstairs window. He and Ivins spoke together, not chat now, something more urgent and committed. Dill came back over the fence and he and Ivins returned to their van. Ten minutes later Towler reappeared and climbed into the vehicle. It didn’t move off.
‘They’ve decided Skeeth is out somewhere and they’ll wait and surprise him,’ Lucy said.
‘Weeks? Months?’
‘You think he’s abandoned the plan – afraid too many know about it, such as you and those who sent you, and scared also of Dill?’
‘Like that, yes.’
‘Would it be courteous to go and tell them Skeeth will not be back for an indefinite while?’ Lucy said.
‘It would be courteous, but we won’t.’
‘You should sit low,’ Lucy replied. ‘They might spot you. This is a sensitive street tonight. Parked vehicles will get attention now. Dill wouldn’t like it at all, would he, if he finds you waiting near Skeeth’s house? It will confirm everything.’
‘I don’t think it needs confirming.’
‘All the more reason to sit low and unobserved. But it’s awkward for me to sit low with this belly bump.’ She did a minor groan as she tried to ease herself out of sight.
‘We’ll move soon, I promise. Only, I’m wondering where the fourth one is.’
‘Which fourth one?’
‘By my count, a chap called Len Gale, who was one of the hunters, is missing tonight.’
‘So?’
‘So, I worry about him.’
‘Why?’
‘He might have been rumbled.’
‘As Attila or Jimmy or even Ivor?’ she said. ‘Yes, that’s bad. Potentially bad.’
‘Yes. We bring trouble. Or Emily does. Always.’
‘Just the same, I think you’ve delivered Britain from a putsch in this year of uncertain grace, love,’ Lucy said. ‘I know Skeeth and Dill etcetera would only be part of it, but very likely an important part, a crucial part. You should get an OBE to accompany the Sword of Honour.’
‘We undercover people don’t go in for that kind of decorativeness.’ So, neither Mivale nor Mountbatten would be getting the summons to power. Regardless of Skeeth and Look Back in Anger and Jeff Dill, things would drift on as ever. Ian couldn’t be sure whether that was good or not. He drove out of Feder Road and gave continual squinting to the mirror. But the ancient van didn’t appear there.
At home he took a call from Emily. ‘You were in Chelsea,’ she said. ‘That wasn’t really scheduled you know. We don’t like loose cannons.’
‘Which we is that?’ Ian said.
‘But probably no serious damage done.’
‘We didn’t have time to say hello to Gerald. Lucy thinks the threat is over, if Skeeth was a central, substantial part of it. They probably won’t be able to go on without him. They’ll imagine the whole thing is known about. Well, it is known about, isn’t it?’
‘Yes. We believe it’s kaput, too,’ Emily said. ‘Skeeth’s waiting for an air flight to South America.’
‘Down Argentine way?’
‘Vamoosed. He thinks you’re on to him. Incidentally, does Lucy want a job, after maternity?’
‘You’re on to him,’ Ian replied. ‘I go where pointed.’
‘Not always.’
‘It leaves me with nothing to write about,’ Ian said.
‘Something else is bound to show, isn’t it?’ Emily said. ‘That’s one of the first principles of journalism.’
‘Perhaps.’
‘But some things are bound not to be shown. Or not in full.’
‘Oh? Which?’
‘We think we lost a very valuable informant tonight. Or very valuable at least until this Skeeth project collapsed – and of which, in fact, we think the particular informant did much to cause the collapse. We’re waiting for identification of the body, but I’m fairly certain who he is. Beaten to death in a country churchyard, not all that far from the pub where you bumped into Dill and so on, thanks to the dogs. You can’t write about this death either, though, not the confidential background. A brief elegy would be OK. There’s a precedent for that.’
‘Who?’ Charteris said.
‘We called him Attila the Hun. You’ll have seen his name in the file.’
‘Len Gale?’ Charteris said.
‘Attila the Hun.’
‘My God,’ he said.
Lucy was listening to his side of the conversation. ‘What?’ she said.
He covered the mouthpiece: ‘The fourth man I mentioned tonight.’
‘What about him?’
‘Killed. Murdered.’
‘Get out of this line of work, will you, please, Ian?’
‘Are you there?’ Emily said.
‘Did he have family?’
‘We’ll look after them, of course,’ Emily said.
Charteris said: ‘Emily, as to family …’
‘You wonder about Daphne?’
‘Skeeth’s exited with another woman, hasn’t he?’
‘That’s how it looks.’
‘What will she make of it?’
‘Yes, I’ve been wondering,’ Emily said.
‘Was it a serious thing with her?’
‘Yes, very serious.’
‘She might harm herself.’
‘We must hope not.’
‘I worry,’ Ian said, and almost added ‘as a brother’, but didn’t.
‘I know you do,’ Emily said. ‘We both do.’
FIFTEEN
As Skeeth said, Ian often took on freelance work for the Daily Mirror. He had a call from Percy Lyall on their News Desk. ‘Here’s a possible tale that’s very much your sort of thing, Ian – a poignant mix of near tragedy, possible thwarted romance, glamour. Can you get over there? Needs sensitive but, of course, dramatic treatment. And, it goes without saying, so I’ll say it, depth. I immediately thought of you.’
‘How right you were.’
‘Daphne West,’ Lyall said. ‘Heard of her?’
Ian Charteris paused for a moment, or a moment plus. Yes, say three moments. The shock deserved that.
‘Heard of her, Ian?’
Well, yes, sort of. She might be my sister.
Emily had it right and some other usable news topic would always show.
