A Prospect of Vengeance

by Anthony Price

  Buller shook his head. ‘Not weight—prosperity, this is. Like the Swedish lady said to me, “Much to hold is much to love.” Sheer prosperity, my lad.’

  ‘It looks more like sheer beer-drinking to me. How did you get in.’

  ‘Ah … ’ Buller lifted his beer-glass. ‘I hoped you wouldn’t mind. It’s almost sun-over-the-yardarm time, and I was thirsty. Besides which, you always have stocks of this good Cologne beer—I remember that from last time. And … I am working for you again after all.’ He drank. ‘Always a pleasure, that is.’

  The beer or the work? ‘Have another. I’ll have one too. When you’ve told me how you got in, that is.’

  ‘This is the other. But I’ll have a third—they are little ones … I used my key.’

  ‘Your … key?’

  ‘That’s the ticket. You lent me a spare last time, when I was in an’ out, dropping stuff off. So I had another one cut, just in case.’

  Ian felt himself being shepherded towards the kitchen. ‘In case of what?’

  ‘In case I had to come calling again. Like, for a rainy day. An’ today is rainy, and I knew you’d be at church this morning, like always … an’ … I wanted to catch you before Mr Tully arrives. An’ he said 12.30. An’ … ’ He gave Ian a sidelong look.

  ‘And?’ Ian knew that look of old.

  ‘I wanted to make sure the coast was clear.’ Buller studied his beer for a moment. Then drank some of it. Then studied what remained with regret. ‘What I always like about Cologne … apart from the art galleries, an’ the museums, an’ all the culture, of course … is that, every time your glass gets down to the last inch or so, they just automatically bring you another full one. An’ that’s what I would describe as a very civilized custom … Providing you’re not driving—because the police are something cruel there, if you’ve had a couple.’

  Ian opened the fridge door. ‘Ein Kölsch, Herr Buller?’ He waited uneasily while another bottle from his fast depleting stock disappeared. ‘What d’you mean—making sure the coast is clear, Reg?’

  Buller drank. ‘You don’t know you’re being followed? But then, you wouldn’t of course! The Lady might know better … but you’d just go walkabout without another thought—I know you!’

  Ian thought bitterly of the ‘Lady’ and her instincts. But he only thought of her for a moment. Then he started thinking of himself. ‘I’m being followed?’ He tried to imply a mere wish for confirmation, rather than the actual consternation he was experiencing.

  ‘Oh yes.’ Buller nodded. ‘Meaning … I wasn’t quite sure. But I looked up the time of your morning service on the board outside the church. An’ then I had a careful look-around … using a couple of my thousand disguises, naturally … An’ it seemed to me that you had one at the front, an’ one at the back, trying to blend into their surroundings … In fact, I nearly phoned up the local nick and tipped ‘em off, to see what would happen. But then I thought, we can always do that in future—because I’d have to do it anonymously, see? But you can get the old girl downstairs to do it. An’ then we can see whether they do anything about it or not, as the case may be. But we won’t have revealed our own guilty interest, if it’s official.’ This time, as he drank, he rationed himself to one swallow. ‘Which I’d guess it is. But it ‘ud be nice to be sure, for starters. When you’re ready—when you’re ready, eh?’

  Jenny had been right. But it was all happening too quickly, nevertheless. Which, of course and on second thoughts, made her even more right, damn it! ‘What makes you sure—now?’

  ‘When you went out, the chap in the front called up the chap at the back. It’s like he’s plugged into one of these bloody “Walkman” things—but he’s two-way plugged … So they both met up at the corner, down the road. An’ then I nipped inside.’ Duller put his glass down on the kitchen table. ‘Of course, they could have in-depth cover. So that could have blown me, too. But, I thought, if they’ve got that sort of cover, then I’m probably already blown to hell, anyway—so what the hell!’ He grinned again. ‘Besides which, it was beginning to rain, an’ I haven’t got an umbrella—‘ he shrugged ‘—an’ I remembered about your beer supplies, too. An’ I’m not charging for Sunday work. Not until 12.15. Plus travel expenses. So … so, actually, you’re still on my private time now, without the meter running.’

  Ian’s thoughts had become cold and hard as he listened, like thick ice over bottomless Arctic water: it had been like this in Beirut, when Jenny had been doing the leg-work as usual in the misplaced belief that the fundamentalist snatch-squad didn’t rate women (or, if they did, they couldn’t handle the indelicacies of kidnapping one), and he had been holed up in the hotel.

  ‘They’re back in place now, getting nicely soaked. So you’ll have to go out again later on, with your lady and my Mr Tully to draw ‘em off.’ Buller nodded into his silence. ‘Which the three of you all together certainly will, goin’ out all together—no! For fuck’s sake don’t go and have a look—! ‘ Buller slid sideways, to block his path. ‘Let’s be nice and innocent for as long as we can, eh?’

  Questions crowded Ian’s mind. ‘What made you … suspicious?’ It was an inadequate word, knowing Buller. But it was suitably vague.

  ‘Huh!’ Short of another beer, Buller produced an immense gunmetal lighter with which to set fire to the foul mixture in his pipe, which surely resisted conventional combustion methods. ‘As soon as Mr Tully mentioned Masson’s name, I thought “Aye-aye! Watch yourself, Reg!”’

  ‘Why?’ Ian remembered what Tully had said the first time he’d mentioned Reginald Buller’s name: that, whatever you do, wherever you wanted to go, Buller was halfway there before you started towards it.

  ‘I never did rate that much—a senior civil servant lost at sea: “what a terrible tragedy!” … I never rated that, not even at the time.’ Buller shook his head. ‘I thought … here we go again, I thought—‘ A foul smoke-screen enveloped him momentarily, so that he had to wave his hand to disperse it ‘—I thought aye-aye!’

  ‘But there was nothing ever known against Philip Masson, Reg.’

  ‘Nor there was. And that was what I thought next—quite right, when that was all there was.’ This time, a nod of agreement. ‘But when he turned up again … an’ miles from the sea, an’ dry as a bone—‘ From shake, through nod, to shake again ‘—what sort of tragedy was that, then?’

  That had been what Jenny had wanted to know. Or, anyway, it had been the beginning of what she had wanted to know. ‘You tell me, Reg—?’

  ‘Hmm … ’ Somehow they had progressed out of the dining room and past the study door (and Reginald Buller would have examined all the ‘Work in progress’ there, too, for a certain guess), into the living room again; but Reg was blocking off the approach to the glorious bow-window, just in case.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘No bugger’s saying anything. And you can’t get near where they dug him up.’ Buller scratched the back of his head. They’ve got the local coppers out, both sides of the place, guarding it. There are a couple on the back road to it, never mind the front … And it was two kids who found the body. But you can’t get to them, either. And the parents aren’t talking to anyone.’ Another shake. ‘And I had to be bloody careful, because there were one or two people there I know, sniffing around, buying drinks—from the Guardian, and the Mirror … and so maybe from the big Sundays, too. And the Independent, could be … But, the point is, there’s a smell about it—about Masson—is what there is.’

  ‘So you didn’t get anything—?’ He knew Reg Buller better than that.

  ‘Oh … ’ Buller bridled slightly, on his mettle ‘ … there was this barmaid I chatted up, who knew someone in the coroner’s office. And she said … that he said … that Masson was planted. And—‘

  ‘”Planted”—?’

  ‘Buried.’ Nod. ‘In a hole.’ Another nod. ‘He didn’t fall out of the sky, or tip over an’ hit his head, or shoot himself, or have a heart attack.’ Final nod. The way so
me of the stories go, there was this pond, an’ he was in it. So … I thought he could have fallen into it—or maybe even jumped into it … But that isn’t the way it was, apparently. Because these children dug him up, it seems.’

  ‘Why—how … did they do that?’ Both questions pressed equally.

  ‘God knows! But it seems that they did. So … someone buried him. So someone killed him first—that’s what the barmaid said. And I paid her £50 not to tell anyone else. Although it’s even money that I may have made her greedy, so I can’t be sure that I haven’t wasted … your money, my lad—eh?’

  Ian winced inwardly at Tully’s final bill, which would pile his VAT on Reg Buller’s VAT, to complicate matters even if they could finally claim it back; although Jenny’s friendly accountants would sort that out for them, also at a price. But he mustn’t think of such mundane things now. ‘And that was all you got?’

  Reg Buller looked offended. That was all I thought it safe to try and get, the way things smelt. Besides which, I rather thought I had other fish to fry, on instruction. Or rather … not other fish—another fish … other than Masson, I mean … ’ He tailed off.

  ‘Another … fish?’

  ‘Well … not a fish, exactly.’ Buller drew deeply on his pipe. ‘More like a shark, if you ask me—‘ he breathed out a foul cloud of smoke ‘—like, in that film: something you go out to catch … but you end up trying not to get caught yourself, maybe.’ He drew on his pipe again.

  ‘You mean the man Audley? David Audley?’ Ian remembered Jenny’s original proposition: she had come to him late at night—or, more precisely, early in the morning, after one of her socialite nights-on-the-tiles—getting him out of bed when he was at his lowest ebb—

  ‘Darling, I think I’ve stumbled onto something really quite interesting—have you got a drink?’ (Jenny bright-eyed, even at that unearthly hour, happily burning her candle at both ends and only a little tousled even now, having progressed from a day’s work to an embassy party, and then to an elongated dinner, and finally to some flutter ‘on the tables’ in some hell-hole; except that Jenny had the stamina of a plough-horse and an alcoholic capacity rivalling Reg Buller’s, so it always seemed.)

  ‘Jenny!’ (At least he had been halfways respectable, face quickly washed, hair quickly brushed, dressing-gown carefully and decently adjusted: only Jenny dared to burst in on him in the smallest hours—she had done it before, and he was half-prepared for such eventualities now.) ‘For heaven’s sake, Jen! Couldn’t it wait until the morning?’ (But, strictly speaking, it had been the morning, of course.)’ You shouldn ‘t be walking the streets now—they’re not safe. I’ll ring for a taxi—‘

  ‘I’ve got a taxi—it’s parked outside. The dear man said he’d be quite happy to wait, darling—he said just the same thing.’ (Running taxi-meters aside, Jenny could get round any man to do her will if she put her mind to it.) ‘So … just get me that drink. Or do I have to make it myself?’

  ‘I’ll get you a coffee—‘

  ‘Don’t be such a fuddy-duddy, Ian darling! But first … have you ever heard of a man named Audley, Ian?’

  ‘Who—?’ (If she was determined to drink alcohol, then he would pour it.)

  ‘Audley. AUDLEY—Audley? Christian name “David”—?’

  ‘No.’ (He had recognized the sign then: those innocent eyes weren’t alcohol bright, but excited; even, possibly, she hadn’t had a drink since that sudden stumble-onto-something, whenever it had occurred; and all the rest of the evening-into-night-into-morning had been cold hard professional Jenny; which was why she needed a drink now.)

  ‘No. But you have heard of Philip Masson, maybe?’

  ‘Yes.’ (That had been insulting—and deliberately so! But now he was hooked.) ‘And who is … “David Audley”, then?’

  ‘Mr David Audley—yes. Or, to give him his proper title, Doctor David Audley.’ Reg Buller sniffed, wrinkling the hairs on his drinker’s nose. ‘But not a medical doctor—a philosophy doctor … Cambridge “Ph.D”—or “D.Phil”, whichever it is.’ The big red-and-blue veined nose wrinkled again: Reg Buller had a huge dislike-and-contempt for Oxbridge products, derived from bitter experience of Whitehall and Westminster in his policeman days. ‘Only, not a philosophy doctor, either—a history doctor—‘ The nose seemed to swell as its rounded blob-end lifted ‘—ancient history, too.’

  But Ian had progressed since Jenny’s untimely descent on him. ‘Medieval history actually, Reg.’

  ‘Oh aye?’ Buller accepted the correction as a further confirmation of cause-for-contempt. ‘Looked him up in Who’s Who, have you? But what about his book on the Latin kingdom of Jerusalem, eh? Because, in my book, “Latin” is bloody ancient—right?’

  ‘No. “Wrong” actually. The Latin Kingdom of Jerusalem was eleventh to twelfth century, as it happens. Not that it matters.’ Compared with Philip Masson it certainly didn’t matter. But a long passion for getting facts right, and for sorting the golden nuggets of truth from Jenny’s loaded conveyor-belt of hearsay, rumour and gossip, forced him to react before he could stop himself. And then he had to put matters straight, into their priorities. ‘He’s a shark, is he, Reg?’

  Buller’s face worked, as he came back from what didn’t matter to what did, which he had presumably uncovered during his second day of fish-frying for Tully and Jenny. And that also transformed Ian’s own imagery, from dusty manuscripts in university libraries to that fearful triangular dorsal fin cutting through the water, and then submerging as the killer disappeared, rolling underwater to open its razor-sharp jaws as it came to dine on its prey.

  ‘He could be. Or … seeing how he’s a big bugger—six-foot-two, or six-foot-three, in his stocking feet … and a rugger-player when he was young … maybe one of those bigger ones—black-and-white, and clever with it … not sharks, though—?’

  ‘Killer whales?’ Black-and-white were the Death’s Head colours, he dredged the memory up from his subconscious: not only of killer whales, or of the murderous magpies which killed small birds outside his windows in the country cottage where he always put the finishing touches to each new book; black-and-white had been the colours of all those famous regiments, with skull-and-crossbones badges, like military pirates—and even of Audley’s medieval Knights Templar, in his crusading Latin Kingdom; and, for that matter, the young men who squired Jenny to perdition on her late nights wore the same non-colours too, damn it!

  But something had intruded into the sequence: he had heard the bell, and Buller’s face had closed up as he heard it. And he cursed himself for not reacting more quickly to Buller’s warning, now that Tully had arrived—or Jenny, or Jenny and Tully together—now that someone was interested in what they were up to—

  ‘Damn!’ He tossed his head irritably at Buller. ‘I should have put them off, Reg! We could have met somewhere else.’

  Buller shook his head. ‘Wouldn’t have done any good. If they’re on to you, they’ll be on to them … Just so they’re not on to me.’ He grinned. ‘And even if they are, I can lose ‘em any time. And, what’s more … they won’t even know it: they’ll think they’ve been careless.’ The grin became confiding. Then it vanished. ‘Mr Tully and your lady don’t know how—they’d only give the game away. Better not to tell them straight off.’

  ‘I’ve got to tell them, Reg.’ Ian felt increasingly uneasy as he spoke. Because while Tully was sensible enough to be scared, this news would only strengthen Jenny’s suspicion, turning it into a certainty.

  ‘Wait! Hold on a mo’—‘ Reg Buller sidled sideways to block his passage again ‘—all this rabbiting on about Latin Kingdoms, and sharks—‘ The bell rang again ‘—let ‘em ring—hold on’

  ‘What?’ Ian stopped. ‘What—‘

  ‘Just listen.’ Buller almost pushed him back. ‘You’ve tipped me off, on occasion … And you’ve recommended me—given me custom—I know … So, then, I owe you—right?’

  ‘You don’t owe me anything.’

  ‘O
kay. So all the bills have been paid, for the tax-man, and the VAT man.’ Buller nodded. ‘And in a minute I’ll be on my usual rate—okay … See?’ He ignored the angry ringing behind him. ‘But this minute I’m still on my own time. So this is for free, then—right? And just between the two of us.’

  Ian frowned at him. ‘You’d better be quick. Or they’ll think—‘

  ‘This bloke Audley—‘ Buller overbore him. ‘—I’ve got a feeling in my water about him. You want to watch yourself. And don’t let the Lady push you where you don’t want to go—not this time. That’s all.’ He stared at Ian for a moment, and then tossed his head. ‘Let ‘em in, then—go on!’

  Ian sprinted towards the now-continuous bell, which meant that it was Jenny out there, without a doubt.

  ‘Sorry, Jen—‘ He caught sight of Tully beyond her—‘—hullo, John.’

  ‘I should think so!’ She pulled her headscarf and shook a tangle of half-combed red hair. ‘You look positively guilty, too.’ She scrutinized him momentarily. ‘In fact, if I didn’t know you better, Ian Robinson—and if I didn’t know that it was Sunday … it is Sunday, isn’t it?’ She sniffed Reg Bullet’s tobacco appreciatively.

  ‘It is for me.’ He returned the scrutiny. Without makeup, but with dark smudges under her eyes, she presented a curious mixture of innocence and depravity. ‘But you look like you’ve had your weekend already, Miss Fielding-ffulke. And lost it.’

  ‘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.’