Requiem

by Clare Francis

  On Battersea Bridge they overtook Campbell and came up behind the cab. Daisy checked the registration number and, once her tension had subsided a little, she radioed to Campbell to drop back.

  Over the bridge they survived two more lights before plunging into the web of back streets that was Battersea. There was no order to the streets, just one-way systems with sudden twists and roads squeezed in beside tall railway arches, and row after row of squat two-up two-downs. Daisy relayed the route and street names to the invisible Escort until Campbell, with panic in his voice, declared himself confused, and after a short pause, lost.

  Ahead, the other cab turned into successively smaller streets. ‘Hold back,’ Daisy commanded the driver sharply.

  ‘I’ll lose ’im!’ he declared in an injured tone.

  ‘We’re too close!’

  The driver shook his head and slowed down. Ahead, the cab turned a corner. When, after what seemed a long time, they also turned, it was to find themselves in a road of terraced houses, and to see the other cab fast approaching the far end of the road where it formed a T-junction with a street of shops.

  ‘Too far back now,’ Daisy urged. ‘Get a bit closer.’

  With an admonishing sigh the cabby pushed his foot down. The taxi was starting to accelerate nicely when the vehicle ahead swerved unexpectedly into the left and stopped, just short of the junction.

  ‘Drive past, don’t slow down,’ Daisy said sharply. She drew back from the window and did not look out until they were past the stopped taxi and turning left into the shopping street. Then, glancing quickly back, she saw that the raincoat man had been very quick off the mark; he was already across the pavement and stepping into a doorway set into the side wall of the corner building.

  Daisy stopped the cab a safe distance along the main road and radioed fresh directions to Campbell. Then, paying the cabby off, she walked slowly back and examined the front of the corner building, which at street level contained a cycling shop. On the floor above were some sort of offices. The two windows were labelled Reynard Associates in the sort of gold-block lettering much favoured by solicitors and accountants. This firm, however, gave no hint as to its function.

  She walked on, crossing the side street – its name was Peregrine Road – and continuing along the main street until she was well out of sight of the bicycle shop.

  The Escort appeared soon after, approaching cautiously from the north. Campbell’s head swivelled from side to side as he looked for shop numbers and street names. Spotting her, he broke into a brief grimace, and pulled in.

  They parked the car in a street on the other side of the main road and walked back to a baker’s shop which stood on the corner diagonally opposite the bicycle shop. Daisy, looking obliquely through the double thickness of the baker’s side and front windows, watched Campbell continue alone, crossing into Peregrine Road and ambling down the long side wall of the bicycle shop.

  He paused at the door in the wall, gazed intently at whatever information it had to offer, then, glancing up as if to admire the architecture or perhaps to check for windows, he continued on his way down Peregrine Road. He reappeared five minutes later from a parallel road, having cut across the back somewhere, and, keeping largely out of sight of the bicycle shop, rejoined her, looking for all his tweeds like a thoroughly urban animal. It would be all too easy to think the two of them were getting to be rather good at all this.

  ‘It’s a firm called Reynard Associates,’ Campbell announced, drawing the words out in a long string. ‘Investigation an’ security.’

  ‘But what now?’ she murmured. ‘We can’t very well walk in and ask them to own up, can we?’

  Campbell threw her an odd look, both shrewd and innocent.

  ‘No, Campbell,’ she warned, getting his meaning. ‘Are you nuts? Far too dodgy.’

  He looked away. ‘If you say so.’

  ‘I do. All I need is to see Maynard. That’s all. Just to make sure.’

  Before starting the watch, she went in search of a phone box to call Scotland. As she dialled, a slight heat came into her face, a butterfly of anticipation, and it was with disappointment that she heard the housekeeper answer and say that Nick was out on the estate. The helicopter bringing the party from Glasgow was not expected for another hour. Daisy left a message saying she would try again later, but that she and Campbell might not make it up to Ashard until the morning.

  She found some take-away tea and sandwiches and, making her way back to the baker’s shop, thought of Nick. Thinking of Nick had taken up quite a lot of her time in the last few days. Since he’d left the flat on Tuesday night, they’d spoken, what? – eight or nine times, and met once, for a quick meal. She had gained his support and goodwill, but had she gathered a bit more along the way? Was there something to be read into his willingness to talk when the business was done, his near-confidences, his subtle teasing?

  It was two hours later, as Campbell was preparing to go in search of pizzas, that the raincoat man suddenly emerged from the side door and, striding a short way down Peregrine Road, stopped by a car and got in. When the car drew out from the line of parked vehicles, it was pointing the other way and there was no chance of seeing the registration number as it drove off.

  After that she and Campbell split up. While Campbell stayed by the baker’s window and called in on the walkie-talkie every half hour, Daisy took the Escort and, circling the backstreets, came up Peregrine Road and parked in the slot vacated by the raincoat man, just fifty feet from the doorway. When she leaned across the passenger seat, she had a good view of the side wall and the rear of the property: three storeys of grimy brickwork with a two-storey extension pushing back into the yard to create the long outside wall.

  The stillness of the morning had given way to a sharp breeze and the clear sky to a succession of bold black-rimmed clouds. Daisy pictured Alan Breck and his wife in the warmth of Ashard, perhaps in the room Nick called the library, with a roaring fire and a hot meal, and wondered if Simon would have tried to begin the first session yet. It would be nice to think he wouldn’t rush things, but that might be hoping for too much.

  Would he let Nick sit in on the sessions? She tried to imagine the two of them in conversation, tried to guess what they’d make of each other. Journalists were not among Nick’s favourite people, not even when they were on his side, while Simon would, she guessed, try to be amenable. Like many people who publicly distrusted excesses of money and power, Simon was at the same time fatally attracted to them.

  The day slowly wore on. A couple of dogs met, bristled and briefly scrapped. The traffic increased to a steady trickle, a few residents of Peregrine Road dawdled out, returning with Sunday newspapers under their arms. Regretting the tea, Daisy at one point went in hasty search of a loo, finally inveigling a newsagent into letting her use his.

  Towards four the thin winter sun began to settle over the roof of the bakery, there was a brief flare of rich buttery light, a moment of glory for the houses of Peregrine Road, then twilight came quickly and the streetlamps began their uncertain flickerings. Taking pity on Campbell at his windswept station, Daisy offered to swap places. While they were talking, there was a sudden movement at the door in the wall. A dog appeared.

  The animal was fluffy and low-built, a Pekinese maybe. She wasn’t too good on makes. It seemed to be unaccompanied. It raised its nose to the air then snuffled along the base of the wall, the model of a well-trained pet.

  But we know better, don’t we? Daisy thought with a stab of savage excitement. We know what a vicious little agitator you are! In dark cars, under tower blocks, in well-laid traps. She saw again the white shape as it hurled itself against the glass, the bared teeth, the goggle eyes.

  The walkie-talkie crackled and she realized she was still pressing the transmit button. She released it to hear Campbell repeatedly calling her name. She was about to answer when the dog acquired an owner in the shape of a hunched female figure with high heels and thin legs beneath an over-sho
rt coat that did not quite cover her knee-length skirt. She was pulling the door shut with one hand, locking it with the other. A cigarette hung from her lips. Her hair was blonde or grey – it showed white-rimmed against the shop lights in the main street – and was styled into a tall starched beehive rolled into a sausage at the back, like well-moulded candy floss. But if the beehive was enjoying a fashion revival and could have belonged to a young woman, the legs could not. They were thin and slightly bandy and, in the way of older women who lose weight, her feet looked a little too large for her body.

  The woman dropped the keys into a handbag and stood watching the dog, puffing on the clamped cigarette while she buttoned her coat more closely.

  Campbell’s voice was becoming increasingly agitated.

  ‘I’m okay,’ Daisy whispered. ‘There’s a woman – ’ She broke off as the woman strolled towards her.

  Daisy shifted rapidly across to the driving seat and prepared to engross herself in something on the opposite side of the road. The woman halted alongside the Escort, one foot resting coquettishly out to one side like a model’s in a fashion still, one elbow tucked tightly into her waist as she alternately pulled on the cigarette and let her hand swing wearily away to the side. Her face was long and angular and adorned with heavy makeup; in the fading light, her arched eyebrows and mascaraed eyes were like black ink strokes, and her thin mouth, painted with some deep colour, made a dark gash across her face.

  She stared along the length of Peregrine Road for a minute or two then turned and strutted slowly back, stopping once to call the dog.

  Daisy eased herself back into the passenger seat and watched as the woman paused by the door in the wall, called the dog to her and snapped a lead onto its collar. Then, walking as briskly as her heels would allow, she disappeared around the corner into the main street, jerking the loitering dog after her.

  Daisy gave a report to Campbell. A few minutes later he came over and got into the car beside her. ‘She locked up as she left, did she?’ he asked.

  Daisy didn’t answer. She knew where this was leading. But since she knew it, she had to ask herself why she had allowed this watching exercise to go on for so long, and why indeed the two of them were here at all if she didn’t intend to let Campbell progress the thing to, what was for him at least, its natural conclusion.

  Campbell tried again. ‘No lights at the front. None at the back either, eh?’ He had taken several looks at the rear windows, but now he craned forward to stare again. ‘No one home at all.’

  ‘Campbell, this isn’t like breaking into Portakabins. No talking our way out if things go wrong. No hedges to dive into.’

  ‘Och, I wouldna’ be so sure of that.’ His confidence had driven him to an unnatural heartiness.

  The place seemed crowded suddenly: a couple came round the corner and walked briskly past; a hunched man shuffled slowly over the junction; a lone cat trotted by. The long wall, black with shadows, its upper features lost against the dark mass of the buildings, was beginning to pick up dull reflections from the shop lights, and the door itself, far from getting lost in the gloom, seemed remarkably prominent.

  ‘I don’t like it,’ she said.

  ‘Have I led you wrong in the past?’

  ‘Our criminal partnership hasn’t lasted that long, thank God.’

  ‘But what could happen, eh? No one home. All closed up for the night. And a Sunday at that.’

  ‘Why am I so bloody scared then? My hands are shaking.’ She held them up accusingly.

  He laid a rough hand on hers and patted it briefly. ‘You’ll be all right once we’re in.’

  ‘I’ll be better once we’re out.’

  ‘I could go on my own,’ he suggested.

  She looked up at the dark walls of the building, towards the invisible windows and the offices beyond.

  ‘No …’ she said. ‘You might miss something.’

  ‘Don’t go sayin’ I didna’ offer.’

  ‘I’ll tell the judge,’ she sighed.

  ‘A helicopter? Go on.’ Hillyard removed his gaze from an intriguing smooth-skinned creature on the far side of the restaurant and, addressing his dessert once more, dragged curls of ice-cream off the top with a spoon.

  ‘Couldn’t find out where it was going,’ said Biggs defensively. ‘Tried a touch of financial persuasion, but no go. Too few in the know, and they weren’t talking.’

  ‘So what’s Phillips doing now?’

  ‘Asking around some more.’

  ‘Well, that’s not very bright, is it?’ Hillyard said, larding his voice with exasperation. ‘Glasgow Airport’s a small place. Don’t you think it’s just possible people might notice someone asking the same bloody stupid questions time and again?’ He clicked his tongue and gave a harsh sigh. ‘Pull him off, for God’s sake. Get him on the next plane.’

  ‘But – don’t we need to know? Where they was going?’

  Hillyard slid him a pitying look over his spoon. ‘We do indeed, Biggs. But luckily for you and Phillips it doesn’t take a master brain to work it out.’

  Biggs looked reproachful.

  Hillyard glanced up to see his lunch companion, whose seat Biggs was temporarily occupying, emerging from the gents. An old partner in crime – crime, it had to be said, of a youthful and entirely different nature – he made a face when he saw that Biggs was still in his chair. Hillyard signalled to him to stay away a while longer, and watched him stalk sulkily off towards the bar.

  ‘And the Field girl?’ Hillyard asked Biggs.

  ‘I told you, she wasn’t with them.’

  ‘But she was at the airport?’

  ‘She saw them off.’

  ‘Then what did she do?’

  ‘Drove back to London. Well, I suppose.’

  ‘You didn’t follow her?’

  ‘I tried.’

  ‘Doesn’t make sense.’ Abandoning the delicate scrapings, Hillyard scooped up the last of the ice-cream in a single mound and jammed it into his mouth. He had a sudden certainty that Biggs was lying. ‘She was on to you, was she?’

  Biggs’ eyes gave him away immediately, a sharp dart of resentment. It was a wonder he’d ever made inspector. Not for the first time Hillyard regretted the boom in business that had forced him to take on staff in the shape of incompetents like this.

  ‘On to me?’ bleated Biggs. ‘I told you – I lost her, that’s all. Blimey, what do you expect on me tod? Bloody miracles?’

  ‘When did she suss you?’

  ‘Oh, for Christ’s sake – ’

  He gave a squawk as Hillyard’s hand closed over his wrist, an exclamation of outrage which subsided into a slow hiss as Hillyard’s grip tightened. He looked wildly across to the neighbouring tables to see if people were watching, which one or two of them were, then brought his affronted gaze back to Hillyard. Hillyard could see what Biggs was thinking, that in the Met no one would have dared treat him in this way without dire consequences to their health. Hillyard almost said aloud: But it’s me you work for now.

  Hillyard dug his nails into the other man’s flesh and whispered: ‘Don’t bugger about with me, you little sod.’

  ‘The airport,’ he admitted furtively.

  ‘And then?’

  Biggs wrenched his arm free but made no reply.

  ‘I’ll be grabbing more than your wrist next time.’ Hillyard smiled sweetly.

  Biggs stared morosely at the glass of wine in front of him then, seeming to focus on it for the first time, knocked it back in one. ‘She tried to follow me.’

  ‘Tried?’

  ‘She lost me.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Battersea Bridge.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Sure I’m sure,’ he said, his voice rising with fresh indignation. ‘I got the driver to hook round the houses. No way she could have stayed the course without me clocking her.’

  ‘What was she in?’

  ‘An Escort. Greenish.’

  ‘Got the number?�
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  ‘Oh, no chance,’ he replied with overblown sarcasm. ‘I twiddled my thumbs all the way from Heathrow, didn’t I? Never even looked. Why would I ever think of something that obvious? Christ Almighty …’

  But Hillyard wasn’t listening any more. One section of his mind was rehearsing the call he would be giving Cramm in a few minutes’ time, hatching the phrases he would use to break the bad news of the American scientist’s arrival while managing to convey the impression that there was still plenty of useful work to be done on the ground. Reynard Associates’ turnover – not to mention Hillyard’s lifestyle – wouldn’t look so rosy if there was a withdrawal of Cramm’s very considerable custom.

  The other section of his mind was working on how he was going to tell his lunch companion that the meal was over, and that he was about to leave with this plodder Biggs on rather more urgent business.

  Chapter 36

  DUBLENSKY WALKED DOWN the broad staircase and paused to get his bearings.

  Whatever he’d imagined about his arrival in Britain, it had involved nothing like this. The strange mansion in the northern wilds somewhere; the shadowy servants who slid in and out without a word; and the owner, a singer – a rock singer, for heaven’s sake. Dublensky remembered his songs from college days. They had been all the rage. For all he knew, they still were. The whole thing was very strange.

  The girl Jenny had tried hard to make them feel at home, but with that ring through her nose and her weird makeup and crazy clothes, her appearance only added to his feeling that he had landed in the middle of a TV drama, an Agatha Christie perhaps. In his present mood, maybe even a Munsters.

  He hadn’t asked Anne what she thought of the day so far; he could read it in her face. While Tad, disgusted at not being in London, had decided to sulk in his room.

  He entered the room to the left of the front entrance.

  Simon Calthrop the journalist was there, also Nick Mackenzie. There was no sign of the photographer; perhaps, having got his pictures, he’d left.

  ‘Ah!’ Calthrop jumped to his feet. ‘All ready, Mr Dublensky?’