‘I never knew he was interested in politics till you mentioned it, Major. As I told you only yesterday, we were both keen ornithologists and usually discussed our hobby.’ Trevor had a pleasantly lilting Welsh accent. ‘Apart from that, mere generalities; the countryside, the weather, music and so forth. We were never really intimate.’
‘So you said, Mr Trevor.’ Dealer’s hands trembled with the effects of the drinamyl he had been taking to keep his brain alert. That was what everybody had said. Not one person had given him a clear picture of James Baylis. A quiet and considerate tenant to his landlady. A slightly eccentric boffin to his colleagues at the research establishment, but certainly not fanatical about anything except his work. A regular attender of St Peter’s church, but one who took no part in any parochial activity except the services. Nobody knew him well.
Someone was lying, though. Somebody had to be lying. A man like Baylis must have let his hair down at times, and confided his beliefs to at least one human being. Dealer’s instinct told him that person was Trevor and he had started to suspect him when they still considered that Baylis had defected.
Because Allan Trevor was just too docile, too co-operative. All the others had been irritated by his first interrogation and infuriated by the second. One and all they fumed and fretted and kept looking meaningfully at their watches. The vicar and Baylis’s landlady had threatened to protest to their M.P., and the bookseller, Fawkes, had promised to write to the newspapers. Dealer rather hoped he would. They’d throw the National Secrets Act at him before he could say ‘First Folio’, and a few months under lock and key would do Mr Samuel Fawkes a power of good.
Only Trevor had not shown any sign of irritation; perhaps he was naturally patient like himself, or perhaps his job had made him so. He had listened meekly to Dealer’s questions, and paused before giving an answer, as if anxious to tell the exact truth. Such a mild and pathetic little man he appeared on the surface: almost as pathetic as Heinrich Himmler had looked.
‘You don’t smoke, do you, sir?’ Dealer lit himself a cigarette and glanced at his briefcase, thinking longingly of the stimulant it contained. If he worked for an intelligence service with less squeamish rules of conducting such an inquiry, it would not take him long to establish Trevor’s innocence, or prove him a liar.
‘Tell me, Mr Trevor,’ he smiled, laying down his cigarette lighter, ‘that tie you are wearing seems familiar, but I can’t place it.’
‘It’s the “National Union of Sailing Clubs” tie, Major.’ Trevor fingered the knot rather proudly. ‘I can’t afford a boat myself, but membership does give me the chance to sail now and then and it costs only five guineas a year.’
‘Very reasonable.’ Dealer’s thoughts tensed behind his friendly smile. Here at least was a lead, an emblem associated with the sea, though a very vague one. An anchor tattooed on the wrist of a middle-aged scientist was suspicious, but the N.U.S.C. must have thousands of members up and down the country.
‘You have wholesome hobbies, Mr Trevor: sailing and bird-watching.’ Across the room he saw Sergeant Jones raise his eyebrows and he tapped the lighter as a signal for him to join the interview.
‘Interesting that, Major. Dr Baylis had some nautical connections too.’ Though they were both Welsh, Jones had a harsh strident accent that contrasted with Trevor’s soft lilt. ‘Did he ever tell you when he had that tattoo done, Mr Trevor? Strange thing for a man like him to have, when you think about it.’
‘I never asked him, Sergeant, because I felt he was rather ashamed of the tattoo.’ Trevor was still fingering his tie. ‘Probably while he was a student, I imagine. He once let slip that he drank heavily when he was young and became frightened of becoming an alcoholic. That was why he was a teetotaller.’
‘I see.’ A reasonable answer and one which might explain a lot, Dealer thought. A neurosis lulled by alcohol might fester into mania when the calming element was withdrawn.
‘But Baylis had other nautical associations too, Major.’ The chair creaked as Jones leaned forward. ‘In that diary we found, there are several references to somebody he called “The Sailorman”. The name means nothing to us, Mr Trevor. Can you remember if he mentioned any such person?’
‘ “The Sailorman”?’ Only mild curiosity showed in the small brown eyes; Dealer was beginning to feel that his instinct was at fault and that Trevor was the complete nonentity he appeared. ‘Obviously a nickname, but I can’t remember him using it.’
‘Well, I shouldn’t think it’s important, sir.’ Dealer prepared himself for the last question which would be partially based upon a lie. If Trevor reacted favourably, the interview would be over.
‘What a secretive man Dr Baylis was, sir. On all your long walks together, he never once mentioned his strong racialist views or that he was a member of Mr Judson’s “Britain for Britishers” Party?’ Dealer was quite certain Baylis must have let something drop, and if Trevor denied it, he would know he was lying.
‘Was he a Judsonite?’ Trevor’s face registered genuine astonishment. ‘I never knew, Major, and if I had . . .’ He broke off and frowned at Dealer.
‘Just a moment, though. You’re correct, and I have been misleading you. Yes, I’m very sorry, Major Dealer. The incident took place a long time ago and I was determined to put it out of my mind. James Baylis had strong racialist views all right – very dangerous views; vile is the only word to describe them.’
‘No need to apologize, Mr Trevor.’ Dealer smiled encouragingly. The answer had almost convinced him that the man was completely innocent. ‘But please tell us about this incident.’
‘Of course; as much as I can remember, that is.’ Trevor paused, as if concentrating to get the facts accurately marshalled.
‘It was two years ago, one August Sunday, I think, and we’d gone out to Pontop Pike to study the curlews. There was a couple lying on the heather and making love; the girl was white and the man an African. Baylis started to shake violently when he saw them and took my arm and we made a long detour across the moor. When I asked him why he was so distressed, he broke into a tirade against coloured people, rather on the lines of Martin Judson; you know the kind of thing.’
‘I think I do, Mr Trevor, but could you be more specific? Were his targets coloured people or people of mixed blood?’
‘No, I’m afraid I can’t remember that. I only listened to a few words and then I told James that I believed in the dignity and equality of all human beings, whatever their race or creed.’ For the first time Trevor’s mild face looked angry. ‘I also told him that if he spoke to me again on the subject, our friendship would end. He never did, and I have put the actual words out of my mind.’
‘Thank you.’ Allan Trevor had passed the test and Dealer edged back his chair and prepared to terminate the interview. ‘That’s that, then. You’ve been most helpful, Mr Trevor, and . . .
‘What do you want?’ He scowled at a young constable who had walked into the room without knocking. ‘I gave orders that we weren’t to be disturbed.’
‘Sorry, sir, but the desk sergeant needs a couple of files from the cabinet over there.’ He started to walk over to it quite unabashed by Dealer’s annoyance. ‘I won’t be a second.
‘Why hullo again, Mr Trevor.’ He smiled in recognition as he crossed the room. ‘Back again, eh. We’ll be charging you board and lodging before long.’
‘What the hell do you mean, constable?’ Irritated by failure, Dealer spoke still more sharply. ‘Mr Trevor has only been asked to come here on two occasions.’
‘No, this is the third time, sir.’ The young man had found what he wanted and closed the filing cabinet with a crash. ‘You came over a few days ago to give evidence about an accident outside the Crown Hotel, didn’t you, Mr Trevor? That poor German gentleman who was knocked down by a delivery van; Lansberg the name was, if I remember aright. Very helpful Mr Trevor was, sir. He was standing right beside Mr Lansberg when he stepped off the pavement, and his statement cleared the matt
er up nicely for us.’
‘Did it?’ Dealer lifted his briefcase on to the desk. By the merest chance his earlier suspicions had been revived. In his mind’s eye he saw a busy street, a man standing on the edge of the pavement; a drunken man named Erich Lansberg who, in his cups, had warned Paul Gordon that something he had discovered in South America had convinced him that Mallory Heights was in danger; who had also said that on his return to London he would make his warnings public.
Just what had Lansberg discovered? ‘God’s True Sailormen’ were thought to be active in South America where populations of mixed blood flourished. Could Lansberg’s forebodings have been based not on any structural weakness in the building, but on plans of sabotage? If that was true, the picture in his mind needed more details added to it. An arm flexing, the palm of a hand shooting forward like a piston against the man’s back, and ‘Auf Wiedersehen, Herr Professor Lansberg.’
‘Get out of here, constable, and see that we’re not disturbed again.’ Dealer opened his case and laid the Russian syringe on the desk. Most probably, pure coincidence had placed Trevor at the scene of the accident. If he did what he had almost decided should be done and his hunch was wrong, he would never become General Dealer. He would lose his job, possibly face prosecution and be ruined for life.
Stephen Dealer stood up and stared at Trevor, thinking of his wife and his three young children and his career. Thinking of the ‘Sailormen’ too. It was a stupid lie to say that Baylis had been a supporter of Martin Judson. ‘God’s True Sailormen’ might sympathize with Judson’s aims, as did many perfectly sane people, but not with his methods. They believed in terror planned and executed in the dark. Burned children, athletes whose bodies had been shattered out of all recognition, faces scoured to the bone by acid, a woman crucified. So far the outrages had been few and far between, but if more successes followed – if Mallory Heights was destroyed, for instance – the movement might escalate. Dealer tried to imagine how it might be. Fanatics who recognized each other by signs and mannerisms and hints as did Freemasons and homosexuals; as the early Christians had done. An army of the insane multiplying in secrecy; rats gnawing through the foundations of a building; worm and wood rot eating away its timbers; a sewer gas suddenly billowing into a great, roaring wind of destruction.
‘Lock the door, Sergeant Jones.’ For a fleeting moment Dealer had seen fear in Trevor’s eyes and he decided to risk his future.
‘You’re a good actor, Mr Trevor,’ he said. ‘But let’s get rid of our inhibitions. Let’s get all hepped-up and have a frank and friendly chat.’ He lifted out the syringe of Pentothal and walked round the desk towards him.
‘A storm of exceptional violence is expected to reach the Randelwyck area within the hour.’ A police van was stationed at the junction and its loudspeaker thundered out the message. Beyond the van Paul and Janet could see the dense ranks of the marchers tramping along the main road to reassemble in Market Square.
‘We can expect heavy rain, gale force winds, and very probably sleet. For all our sakes, please reassemble as quickly as possible and then disperse with the minimum delay.’ The breeze had dropped, it was a gloomy evening, but so far there was no sign of the promised storm. A thin, fine rain, almost like mist, of a type one expects and often gets on the west coasts of Scotland and Ireland, was drifting down from the almost windless sky to lay a damp patina on the street and pavements.
‘How many more of them are there?’ Paul frowned at the car clock and then at the long procession of demonstrators filing past the junction. Many of them carried banners that drooped dispiritedly in the drizzle. ‘We’ve been stuck here for twenty minutes already, and I promised his wife we’d get to them as soon as possible. Strand is still pretty weak and likes to get to bed early.’
‘I never thought he would see us at all.’ Janet wiped condensation from the windscreen. ‘How do you think he is going to take our new warning, darling?’
‘I haven’t a clue. I could hear Mary Strand repeating what I told her and at first the old boy said he was seeing no one. It was after she repeated the derivation of Billon Tor that he changed his mind.’
‘None of us wants a soaking, and you have already registered your protest.’ The loudspeaker roared out again. ‘As soon as you have reassembled, let’s call it a day and get under cover.’
‘What are we going to tell him, Jan? That the shape of the Randel valley is able to create a freak turbulence when a strong wind blows from a certain direction; a wind that only occurs at infrequent intervals? That the Selva valley has the same characteristics and on Lansberg’s recommendation a similar building in La Libertad was lowered and strengthened?’ There was a break in the demonstrators and Paul started the engine, but the police car remained stationary.
‘When I was studying that map and the poster, I felt your worries were justified, Janet, but now I’m not sure. After all, the information was in the Records Office, and Strand must have been given the meteorological history of the district. Data that has been checked by computers as well as technicians.’
‘I’ve just thought of something, Paul: perhaps Strand did not receive all the information. Perhaps it was kept from him.’ Janet watched the final column start to cross the junction: Mr N’genza’s ‘Black Lions’ with rolled banners carried like rifles on their shoulders.
‘Baylis had been told that a wind would destroy the building. He believed that till we persuaded him it was out of the question. But if these people – “The Sailormen” – knew about the Skulda, wouldn’t they regard it as a divine force, a weapon to do the work for them?’
‘They certainly would, Jan.’ Paul swung round and stared at her. ‘You mean that one of them may have been employed on the project; in Strand’s drawing office, perhaps, or for Spender-Wade, or at the town hall? That the data was either withheld from Strand or distorted?’
‘I think it’s a possibility, darling; no more than that. But I do know that we’ve got to put the case to Strand. Even if the shock brings on another stroke, he must be given the facts.’ Once more the loudspeaker started to repeat the announcement, and she looked up at the rapidly darkening sky.
‘Winds of gale force and heavy rain are due to reach the area this evening.’ Rank by rank the demonstrators marched past. Paul switched off the ignition and they waited.
16
‘You’re a right courageous pair, aren’t you? Miss Fane tackles a madman single-handed, and you volunteer to direct the search for a second bomb, Gordon. Aye, bold as brass, both of you.’ Sir George Strand lived in a rambling Victorian mansion six miles to the east of Randelwyck. The sitting-room where he received them was spacious and high-ceilinged, but somehow the man’s bulk and personality made it appear slightly claustrophobic.
‘Takes guts to come and tell an ogre his castle is a public danger, too, and I’ve been described as an ogre more than once. Well, I admire courage, but I won’t tolerate bloody cheek or bone-headed stupidity, so state your case, young man, and be quick about it.’ He sat before a glowing coal fire with his wife stationed on a stool at his side. ‘Just what are you worried about?’
Strand listened in silence while Paul explained. Sometimes nodding, sometimes glancing at his wife, sometimes allowing his eyes to wander round the room and the pictures on the walls: photographs of his past achievements contrasting with a big oil painting of a windmill above the mantelpiece; now and then looking towards a television set with the volume turned down, but the screen alight to show the Fentor Park marchers pouring into Market Square. Behind the set hung another painting: a portrait of a fair-haired girl with full, sensual lips, but an expression as determined as Strand’s own; obviously his daughter, Betty. Janet had heard that she had died abroad some years ago.
‘So, that’s it.’ He grunted after Paul finished and leaned forward to massage his crippled hand before the fire. ‘I could do with a brandy, Mary, and give our friends what they want. Mr Gordon has a reputation for arm-bending.
>
‘Don’t argue with me, girl. I don’t give a damn what the doctor told you.’ He had rounded on her with an angry bark. ‘Get me a large brandy right away and go easy with the soda.
‘Thanks, luv.’ Strand’s ill-humour vanished when she handed him the drink and Janet noted how frequently his accent kept varying between standard English and the Randelwyck burr. ‘And thank you, Gordon. Kind of you to inform me that I’m either gullible or incompetent, and in return I’ll give you a piece of advice.’ He was smiling while he raised his glass, but when he lowered it his eyes seemed to draw back into his head and his whole appearance changed. Strand no longer looked old and tired, but strong and arrogant and completely self-assured: the master builder secure in the knowledge of his craft and ability.
‘Don’t try to teach your bloody grandmother to suck eggs, young man.’ Just as suddenly as it had hardened, his expression became mild and he grinned jovially. ‘If I was younger, I’d have slung you out on your ear, and then told Colonel Wade to give you the sack.’ He smiled again and buried his big nose in the brandy balloon. ‘But I suppose that between ’em old age and thrombosis have mellowed me.
‘Nobody withheld information from me, and naturally I know about the Skulda. I was born in these parts and my people were smallholders near Glettersford for centuries. When we were bairns, my brother and I used to walk on the cliffs below Billon Tor and watch the rocks in the bay. We believed that some day we would see one of them move and show us that it was the dragon. Half hopeful, half scared out of our wits we was. You know how it is with children. My own kids used to do the same; poor little devils.’ He glanced at the portrait behind the television, with a far-away look in his eyes and Janet remembered that Strand had had three children by his first wife. But the two sons had been killed in the war, and there was thought to be some mystery connected with his daughter’s death.
‘Nor do you need to tell me that tourbillon is an archaic French word meaning whirlwind, or that when a wind of gale force blows from the north-west by north, the area between the Tor and Pontop Pike is subject to extreme turbulence. Exactly from the north-west by north it has to be. That’s why the Skulda is such a rare occurrence.’ He smiled again, and as had happened earlier in the town hall, Janet suddenly felt herself stripped naked by his faded eyes. She had never been attracted by old men before and George Strand was old enough to be her grandfather, but there was something about his smile that both excited and disturbed her.
Blow the House Down Page 14
