The Labyrinth Makers dda-1

by Anthony Price

'A lot of strange things happen now — and here, Dr Audley.'

  'Not this sort of thing, inspector. But if it has, we have to know, so I'd like you to make a special effort.'

  Roskill joined them, thrusting out a hand to be shaken.

  'I'm to blame, inspector. Sorry about that, but when you don't like the look of a thing you can't make it look right by thinking about it.'

  The inspector smiled for the first time, and it occurred to Audley that his own confidence over being able to handle the police from a lofty height was misplaced. Everything he had said had been either pompous or stilted, while Roskill had set everything in perspective and at the right level in a couple of easy sentences.

  'Dr Audley's right, of course–this sort of nastiness is out of date now,' Roskill continued. 'But people don't fall downstairs when I want to talk to them either. They run away.'

  He passed over a sheet of paper to the inspector.

  'You'll want to do some checking on us. There are some names and telephone numbers to check on.

  'And just to set your mind at rest I can detail our movements for you. There was a family in here when we left–I can describe the badge on the boys' blazers. And there were two lads outside all the time–from a local secondary school almost certainly. They may have seen something, and they'll remember me. I can give you a full statement.'

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  The inspector relaxed visibly, and it further dawned on Audley that he had equally stupidly overlooked the need to establish not their status, but their innocence. His own assumption of authority and their equivocal position had set an awkward question of protocol, which he had not had the sense to resolve simply because it had never occurred to him.

  The shop doorbell rang.

  'That'll be our surgeon,' said Roberts. 'Are you a medical doctor, sir?'

  Audley shook his head.

  'Well, you won't mind if we get on with things. And I won't detain you long. In fact Squadron Leader Roskill can give us all the necessary details, and you can endorse his statement later if you wish.'

  Which was one way, thought Audley, of saying 'I don't quite know who or what you are, you self-important sod, but I'd much rather deal with your underling anyway'. And fair enough, too.

  Complicated trouble this early on a Saturday, with the evening still stretching ahead, would be enough to set any policeman's teeth on edge.

  Roberts turned away without waiting for an answer, under cover of showing the way for the police surgeon and the photographer who was with him.

  Roskill caught Audley's eye.

  'I got straight through to Stocker. He's going to smooth things down, and he said we'd better clear this end up and then pack it in dummy4

  until tomorrow. But if you like I'll hang on here and see if they find anything–I can give you the details in the morning.'

  'Can they get Butler back?'

  'He'll be back.' Roskill grinned. 'He won't get much sleep, but that'll only sharpen his claws. Oh–and they're sending a man up to Knaresborough to keep an eye on Tierney and another down to Asham to watch over Jones now. Just in case, Stocker said.'

  There seemed to be manpower to spare, certainly. It had never been like this in the Middle East. But he didn't like the way Stocker was manipulating the action, and there was a suspicion now at the back of his mind that Roskill's primary role might well be to keep Stocker informed of the progress of events.

  It was time to assert himself a little, anyway.

  'Very well, Hugh. You stay on here. You can pick me up tomorrow and we'll take Tierney as planned. But I don't think he'll be so easy, so we'll do it in two stages. First, you and Butler can approach him officially. Then—'

  He paused for effect.

  'Then Miss Steerforth and I will have a go.'

  The effect was gratifying enough: he had every bit of Roskill's attention for the first time since tea. But to leave him dangling now would be small-minded. If he was reporting back to Stocker it was only because he had been ordered to. And it was not Roskill's fault that the afternoon had ended so badly: leaving Morrison had been Audley's own mistake.

  'If Tierney's the man he used to be he'll be tricky, Hugh. He'll know dummy4

  more and tell less. So I'd like you to push his good side, and if that doesn't work I'm going to tempt his bad one. We might get somewhere between us.'

  VI

  As he drove homewards Audley felt a black depression settling on him. The familiar countryside, springlike after the previous day's chill, made it all the worse; he should have been driving home to a quiet, secluded weekend. Instead he was driving from trouble towards trouble, with trouble on each side of him.

  Faith Jones had had the best part of a day to pry and fret around his house, and there was no guarantee that she'd be willing to go north with them next day, for all the good that might do. There was no certainty even that she'd still be waiting for him.

  But the girl was the least of his unhappiness. The last two hours had confirmed his fears that he was simply not up to this job–it was all a horrible error of judgment. The breaking of Morrison had been luck, not skill, and he knew in his heart that sending in Roskill and Butler first against Tierney next day was less part of a crafty plan than mere hopeful cowardice. Theodore Freisler had put his finger on the truth: he was afraid of the dirty work.

  Worst of all was Morrison's death. It didn't seem real yet, but when the unreality wore off Audley suspected that he was going to be frightened.

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  But as he turned on to the cobbled forecourt, with the anger of Mrs Clark's geese ringing in his ears, he noticed with pleasure that someone had cut the grass–a bit of Mrs Clark's famous initiative.

  The grass was his invariable Saturday job, and it had nagged at his mind all day.

  And Faith Jones's Mini was still there, in the old barn where he had told her to put it that morning. He pulled in alongside it.

  The stone-flagged kitchen was cool and calm after the uncomfortable afternoon and the sweaty drive home. And Faith Jones, in the blue-jeans-and-shirt uniform of youth, was pouring a beer, just as cool and calm.

  'Your Mrs Clark told me that you always pour yourself a glass of beer when you come home late from the office. She says you can always keep on the right side of a man if you greet him like this, too. Even if he doesn't want it–it builds his self-respect, she says.

  Personally, I think it's a much older custom. I think Mrs Clark has got a racial memory going back to Anglo-Saxon times.'

  She offered Audley the beer with a curtsey that somehow avoided being either serious or mocking.

  He accepted it, nonplussed. 'I didn't know Mrs Clark was aware of my drinking customs. But it's very welcome, Miss Jones.'

  'Don't go formal on me. You agreed to call me Faith last night, and you've been "Mr David" to me so much today that I can't possibly call you "Dr Audley" any more.' She smiled at him, and he took cover in his glass.

  'And as for Mrs Clark not knowing about your drinking habits, dummy4

  there's precious little Mrs Clark doesn't know about you. And what Mrs Clark doesn't know by learning and experience she knows already by instinct I would guess. So since I've spent quite a lot of today with her I'm afraid I know rather a lot about you too now.'

  Audley choked on his beer. The roles had been reversed now, with the proverbial vengeance.

  'But don't worry,' Faith went on airily. 'She thinks quite highly of you. In not quite so many words she told me that you'd be a very good catch for any girl of sense. And she's been busy giving me angling hints all day.'

  Audley floundered, trying desperately to find something to stop the conversation.

  'She must think quite highly of you too, to confide in you after such a short acquaintance.'

  'I took care to tell her that I was a farmer's daughter. But I think it was despair as much as anything. Once she'd made the mistake of taking me for your latest girl friend she clutched at me like a straw.

  She thinks my
predecessors have been too few–and all highly unsuitable!'

  'You shouldn't have led her on, Miss–Faith.' Audley knew he was still floundering. 'You should have explained that we had a–a business relationship.'

  He knew as soon as he had said it that he had made himself more ridiculous, and she made things worse by seeming to take him seriously.

  'I don't think Mrs Clark would quite have understood such a dummy4

  relationship–any more than I do, really.' And then suddenly she was serious. 'I couldn't very well tell her that you're out to prove that my father was a thief, and maybe worse.'

  Audley put down his glass and stared out at the neat, well-cut lawn, with his back to her. Her banter was after all preferable to reality, but because it only concealed her misgivings the truth was better out.

  'I've already proved that. I did it this afternoon. I bullied a little inoffensive shopkeeper who sold toy aeroplanes and who used to be your father's wireless operator. I made him admit it. And now he's dead.'

  'He's–dead?'

  'His name was Morrison. I think he died accidentally, falling down stairs. But one of my colleagues thinks he didn't.'

  'Didn't fall downstairs?'

  Audley turned round. 'Didn't die accidentally,' he said harshly.

  Faith Jones was frowning at him.

  'David–what are you?'

  Audley opened another can of beer and offered it to her. She shook her head and he poured it for himself, carelessly, watching the froth well over the rim of the glass.

  'What are you?' she repeated. 'What do you do? Are you really some sort of cloak-and-dagger person–the sort one reads about and never quite believes in?' She paused. 'But I suppose you wouldn't admit it if you were, so it's a silly question.'

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  Not silly, but unanswerable, thought Audley. At present he was a sheep in ill-fitting wolf's clothing, but she'd never believe that.

  Then his eye caught a slim blue and gold book lying with a browsing pile on the mantelpiece above the boiler.

  'Do you believe in fairies, Faith?'

  She looked at him blankly.

  ' Puck of Pook's Hill is on the shelf behind you. There's a bit in it at the beginning where Puck gets huffy at being called one. Give me the book and I'll show you.'

  He riffled through the pages to find the passage he almost knew by heart. '. . . "What you call them are made-up things the People of the Hills have never heard of" . . .

  'Except of course that we have heard of them. But I know just how Puck felt now. You can't generalise about–the People of the Hills.'

  He turned back a few pages. ' "Giants, trolls, kelpies, brownies, goblins, imps; wood, tree, mound and water spirits; heath-people, hill-watchers, treasure-guards, good people, little people, pishogues, leprechauns, night riders . . ." I'm not a troll or a night rider, certainly. You might call me a hill-watcher.'

  She shook her head in despair.

  'Be serious, David.'

  'But I am being serious. Your step-father wasn't really very close–

  I'm not a policeman. I'm more like a meteorologist, a Middle East weather man. At least, I was until yesterday. I tried to forecast what certain countries were going to do. Does that answer your question?'

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  Faith thought for a moment before answering.

  'The Middle East–that's what all those Arabic papers and things in the sitting room are about.'

  Audley nodded. He'd have to cancel Al Ahram and Al Kuwat al Muslaha and the rest now and wade through Molodaya Gvardia and Ogonyek just as painfully.

  'But my father had nothing to do with the Middle East. He only flew in Europe.'

  'That is true. I'm a little out of my territory.' And out of my depth, he nearly added. 'Which is why I just might need your help. After this afternoon I'm not sure I ought to involve you–or if you're willing to be involved. But you said last night that you'd give a lot to find out just what your father did.'

  She looked at him in surprise.

  'Do you mean there's really something I can do? I wouldn't have thought you–you People of the Hills –would ever use outsiders.'

  'They don't–but I do. I've got all sorts of odd characters digging already. You'd be surprised.'

  She started guiltily, hand to mouth. 'One of them wouldn't be called Esau, would he?'

  'He certainly would.' Esau was Jake's private nom de guerre - it was an ancient joke between them that he grew his own hair shirt, to belie his name.

  'I'm sorry. He phoned just about teatime. But he left a number–it's on the pad by the phone, and it's good until 7.30.'

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  Audley almost ran to his study. Jake wouldn't phone unless he had come up with something worthwhile.

  The number was not one he recognised, and it turned out to be one of the fly-by-night Soho clubs where Jake seemed to spend much of his free time. But they were only too happy to summon Mr Esau.

  'Esau?'

  'My dear David! Your little girl friend–whom you so shamefully neglect–she remembered to give you my message!'

  'She isn't my girl friend.'

  'No, of course not. Your secretary-housekeeper with the county accent. How stupid of me to misplace her!'

  'Come to the point, Esau.'

  'The point? My friend, the point is that I value you so highly that instead of rushing to my morning assignation I put in a call to that other friend of mine.'

  Jake's interest in Panin was evidently more than casual to have galvanised him so quickly. But of course Jake was ambitious.

  'David, you know that your friend has returned to the scenes of his youthful conquest?'

  'I do.' The Israeli Berlin end was good, evidently.

  'I never doubted it, even though you carelessly omitted to tell me.

  But no matter. My friend mentioned it in his acknowledgement. He promises to give the matter some of his valuable time. But in the meantime he did give us a snippet. Have you ever heard of G

  Tower?'

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  'No, I haven't.'

  'Neither have I. But it seems that your friend spent quite a lot of his time there back in the old days. G Tower–you'd better look it up.

  I'm sure you'll have lots of information on it, whatever it was.'

  'I shall give it my earnest attention. And that was all?'

  'All! At such short notice I think that's not at all bad. But, yes. It is all for the time being–except that there is a small matter that I'd like your advice on.'

  The bill, or its first instalment, was about to be presented. With Jake there was always a bill.

  'But I won't burden you with it now. My–secretary-housekeeper is waiting for me, as I've no doubt yours is, David. I'll have a word with you next week some time.'

  'I shall be at your service.'

  Even before he had replaced the phone Audley was weighing the advantages of getting through to the department to have G Tower located quickly against the disadvantages of handing his discovery to others. He rejected the disadvantages almost at once. There just wasn't enough time in the morning for him to do it before driving north. And he knew that secretiveness was another particular occupational vice which he had to watch. Some people tended to become submerged by facts. He always had to fight the urge simply to keep them to himself.

  He nerved himself to override protests. The information service was there to be used, but hardly for apparently esoteric intelligence on a Saturday evening.

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  But when he got through he was surprised at first by the helpful reception, until it dawned on him that the word really was out.

  Stocker must have been as good as his promise. So of course they would establish the identity of G Tower, and with the utmost despatch. And then they would phone him back.

  And then they would pass on the details to whomsoever else it also concerned . . .

  He returned to the kitchen to find Faith laying supper, as domesticated as any of her predecess
ors.

  'Ham and salad again–Mrs Clark says you live on it through the spring and summer . . . Did your Esau deliver the goods?'

  'He may have done. I shall know later this evening.'

  She stopped work and faced up to him.

  'If I'm going to help you, you know, David, you're going to have to take me into your confidence. If that poor man really was killed this afternoon I've a right to know what I'm letting myself in for.

  And I'd prefer to know what I'm doing.'

  'That's reasonable enough. Providing, of course, that I can trust you.'

  'You want me to tell you that I'd fight for Queen and Country no matter what?'

  'Would you?'

  'No, I wouldn't. Would you?'

  Audley shook his head.

  'The same question doesn't apply to me. I'm old-fashioned. But I dummy4

  didn't put the question properly. Can I trust you to trust me?'

  Faith made a sour face. 'That's a hard one, isn't it! And a dirty one, too.'

  'I don't see why it should be. You'd give me answers on much more difficult questions. You'd tell me that the Americans were wrong in Vietnam. You're sure that Porton is as wicked as Aldermaston.

  You think moon rockets ought to be beaten into ploughshares. But it doesn't matter, because I'm not putting the question to you–I have to put it to myself.'

  He took the cutlery from her and continued the work.

  'Who cut my lawn today?'

  She shook her head in disbelief. 'What an odd person you are! I cut your lawn for you. When Mrs Clark came with your groceries this morning and found you gone she practically ordered me to do it.

  She even showed me how to start the mower. What's that got to do with trusting me?'

  'Mrs Clark is a good judge of character. If she trusts you with the mower and the lawn, then perhaps I can trust you in other matters.

  Are you willing to find out exactly what your father did, for better or worse?'

  'I want to. And I can't see the harm in that.'

  'There could be more to it than that. I told you last night that your father took something. There's a Russian who knows what it was.