War Game dda-7

by Anthony Price

  —world which he had been mourning a minute or two back this man might have been the leader of his party, rather than a senior member of an embattled flank of it. Half his mind struggled with the printed words and the meanings beneath them—

  . . . treasure trove inquest shortly to be held.

  And in the meantime an inquest of another kind—

  of suspected murder— stands adjourned. Its subject is James Ratcliffe, Charlie's cousin . . .

  —while the other half grappled with the Minister's presence and the meaning beneath that.

  Politics. They were the nightmare grinning on every intelligence chief's pillow; the wild card in the marked pack, the extra dimension in a universe which already had too many dimensions. In his time he had watched the Middle dummy5

  East and the Kremlin as he was watching Washington now, and their politics were to him never more than academic matters to be assessed only in terms of his country's profit or loss.

  But British politics were different. And so were British politicians, even this man for whom he was already half-inclined to break the golden rule of non-involvement.

  . . . however. But country memories are long, and for the price of a pint in the oak-beamed public bar of the Steyning Arms the locals will still tell you the tale of Cromwell's Gold and the bloody siege of Standingham Castle on the hill above—

  the gold for which so many treasure hunters have searched in vain . . .

  He needed time to think. Time to figure the forces required to bring the Minister to a lay-by behind some bushes at the end of a runway.

  But there was no time. He re-read the last three paragraphs as an act of self-discipline before looking up.

  The same stare was waiting for him. One reason the Minister was here was to see in the flesh the man who had been selected for a particular job. There was no substitute for that.

  "I've heard quite a lot about you, Dr. Audley," said the Minister.

  "None of it true, I hope," said Audley.

  "Exaggerated, perhaps. Or it may be that you've had more than your share of luck over the years."

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  "I wouldn't deny it. But then . . . wasn't luck the chief qualification Napoleon looked for in his marshals?"

  "Yes, it was." The Minister nodded. "But I've always preferred Wellington to Napoleon, myself."

  Audley smiled. "As a general, I hope. I seem to remember that he was a deplorable politician."

  "True." The smile wasn't returned. "And the moral of that—?"

  Audley shrugged. "Good generals usually make indifferent politicians. One should stick to one's profession after the age of forty—I think that I should be just as ... unlucky ... if I became involved in politics at my age, don't you think?"

  The Minister regarded him thoughtfully. "Yes, very probably.

  In fact neither of us should seek to meddle in the other's —ah

  —sphere of activity. If we both agree on the broad principles there's a lot that should be taken on trust, wouldn't you say?"

  The oath of allegiance was being put to him more quickly than he had expected, thought Audley. But at least it was phrased in the best feudal spirit, with the acceptance that loyalty was a two-way obligation.

  "For example—" the Minister continued smoothly "—

  whatever political mistakes the Duke made he did lay down one guiding principle for times of crisis, a rule to which I wholeheartedly subscribe: 'The King's government must be carried on'. I intend to see that it is carried on, and that is why I'm here now."

  Audley tried another smile.

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  "I've said something that amuses you?" The Minister frowned.

  "No, Minister. I was smiling at myself for jumping to the wrong conclusion for your being here."

  "Indeed? Which was—"

  "That otherwise I might have gone off to sulk in my tent. I didn't want to go to Washington in the first place—not simply because I don't like to spy on my friends, but because I don't like being buggered about. Because I know why I was sent, in fact."

  Stocker gave a warning cough. "David—"

  "No, Brigadier. If the Minister has heard quite a lot about me he may as well hear this too. I'm a hard-liner in East-West relations, Minister. I dislike the Russians, and I hate Communists. And with the Helsinki nonsense coming up my face didn't fit at all—I'd become an ancestral voice prophesying war. Or if not war then treachery. So I was banished to the New World with the promise of a fortnight's extra holiday after that, and then a choice of research projects on NATO security. Which promise is about to be broken as thoroughly as any of the undertakings the Soviet government may have appeared to give at Helsinki. And Sir Frederick Clinton knows that that just might have been enough to break the camel's back."

  "You're beginning to sound suspiciously like a prima donna, David," said Stocker.

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  "Beginning? Brigadier, I am a prima donna. If you insist on giving me damned difficult arias—like this one—" Audley waved the newspaper cutting "—I've no choice in the matter.

  So if you want someone else to sing this, you get whoever you can. But if you want me to sing it, then you damn well have to put up with me, temperament and all." He turned back to the Minister. "So?"

  The Minister smiled. "So you'll sing for us?"

  "Of course. The Queen's government must be carried on, one way or another. If you're prepared to take me on trust, I'm prepared to take you, Minister. Sir Frederick gave you good advice."

  "That you would trust me face-to-face? Obviously he knows you very well."

  "Too damn well for my own good. And I know him too."

  "He also says that you're good at finding things—that you once recovered a lost treasure for him."

  "I've found a number of things for him. And people. But in this case the treasure appears to have been already found. So what exactly do you want me to find?"

  "What makes you think we want you to find anything?"

  "Well, you surely don't want me to solve a murder for you.

  Because solving murders isn't my forte. Murder is for policemen—just as politics is for politicians."

  Again the Minister smiled, though more coldly this time.

  "Touché, Dr. Audley— I'll try to remember that. But you've dummy5

  read the two cuttings: what do you make of them?"

  "Textually, you mean? You want a comparison between the two?"

  "That would be interesting—for a start."

  Audley looked down at the cutting in his hand. Cromwell's Gold—and now Charlie Ratcliffe's gold—was an incomparable "silly season" story for any newspaper by any standards. It was every reader's Walter Mitty dream come true: a ton of gold uncomplicated by taxes and death duties.

  Besides such a fortune even the biggest football pools win looked like a lucky afternoon at the bingo hall; but more than that it was a quick fortune won not by luck, but by the sweat of the finder's intelligence, and therefore deserved as no chance fortune could ever be. Only sour grapes would disapprove of Charlie's riches.

  Except for one dark suspicion.

  "All right . . . Two cuttings, two papers . . . One a heavyweight Sunday, the other a popular Monday." He raised the second cutting. "But the difference goes deeper than that."

  "How—deeper?"

  "Ratcliffe gave the story to the Sunday. But he didn't give a thing to the daily— there isn't a single first-person quote from him, not a real one. It's all second-hand, or out of their cuttings morgue."

  "Inverted revolutionary snobbery, perhaps?"

  "Perhaps. But also a mistake."

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  "Why a mistake?"

  "Because it never pays to be unfair to the press when you've got a good story. This Ratcliffe—he's not quite as clever as he thinks he is, if that's what he did."

  "I'm still not quite with you, Audley."

  "Well, it's like this, Minister. He gave the Sunday a splendid story about the discovery of a great tr
easure, and that's what their story is about. But he gave the daily paper nothing, so they had to dig up the story for themselves—and they dug up a new story. But it's not a treasure story, it's a murder story."

  He looked towards Stocker. "What about the rest of the daily press? Did they write about treasure—or murder?"

  The Brigadier's expression soured, as though the thought of the British press as a whole was distasteful to him and the only good newspaper was a dead one. Then he nodded.

  "Meaning . . . murder?" Audley smiled. Obviously it wasn't quite the moment to admit that some of his best friends were journalists. "Of course they did. That's where the best story is. But if he'd saved a bit for them, or if he'd been fair all round, they might have felt a tiny bit inhibited about putting his skeletons on display so prominently. But he didn't—so they weren't. Of course, as a revolutionary he might have lost either way, but this way he made it a certainty."

  He passed the cutting to the Minister. "Read it for yourself.

  It's not really about gold, it's about murder. They say that he killed the pair of them, first the son and then the father."

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  "The old man died of cirrhosis," said Stocker.

  "A mere detail. He simply anticipated his murder—and that was why Cousin James had to go first. But Charlie wanted the estate, and Charlie got it, that's what it amounts to."

  "The estate?" Stocker growled derisively. "The estate is little more than the land on which Standingham Castle stands.

  And that—"

  "Is near-derelict?" Audley grinned, warming to the task of imagining the extent of Charlie Ratcliffe's villainies. "And no doubt the old man was up to his neck in debt—don't bother to tell me. It's all there between the lines."

  "It is?" The Minister looked down at the cutting, then back at Audley. "I must say I don't see it."

  "You don't see it, Minister, because you don't need to see it—

  you already know it." Audley paused. "The man who wrote that—the reporter, or the re-write man or the sub-editor, or whoever—I hope they pay him what he's worth. There's not a word in it any lawyer could quarrel with. But what it amounts to is that Charlie found the gold, or at least he established to his own satisfaction where it was. Only he didn't want any arguments about ownership—or problems with death duties, either. And if there was doubt about the ownership, then if the father died before the son he might have to face double death duties—which is why the son had to be killed off before cirrhosis got the father. So he killed the son, waited for nature to take its course with the father, and then came up with the goodies. How's that for size?"

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  "Very neat." The Minister stared at Audley thoughtfully.

  "And substantially correct?"

  The Minister nodded slowly. "Substantially . . . yes, it very probably is. I don't dispute that." He lifted the cutting. "But there's nothing here that says as much. In fact they go out of their way to say that he didn't do it."

  "Oh no, they don't." Audley shook his head. "They most carefully don't say that. What they say—or what they very clearly imply—is that he couldn't have done it."

  "Very well—couldn't. In this context it amounts to the same thing."

  "Not at all. It amounts to the opposite, Minister."

  The Minister frowned. "Are you suggesting that 'couldn't'

  means 'could'?"

  "No. I'm saying that 'couldn't' means did." Audley sat back.

  "Not in law, of course. Otherwise the editor would be in trouble now. But we're not a nation of lawyers anyway, Minister. We're a nation of detective story readers."

  "So?"

  "So we know a perfect crime when we see one—means, motive, but no opportunity. The locked room, the flawless alibi, the unshakeable eye-witness. And Charlie Ratcliffe has seven thousand eye-witnesses to testify that he didn't do it, has he not?"

  The Minister nodded again, clearly puzzled. "Yes."

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  "Right. But everyone knows exactly what Hercule Poirot would say to that: 'Here is a man with seven thousand witnesses to his innocence, so my little grey cells tell me that he is the guilty one, mes enfants. Seven thousand witnesses must be wrong.'"

  Audley was suddenly aware that he was trying to out-shout a jumbo jet which had stolen up on him and now seemed to be passing ten feet above his head. He noticed also that Stocker was smiling.

  The Minister waited until the jet thunder had faded. "So what do your little grey cells tell you?"

  It was time to consult his thumbs again, thought Audley.

  Stocker's smile had faded with the jet engines, but the memory of it still reverberated. "That I'm in the process of being conned."

  "You ... are being conned?" The Minister cocked his head on one side. "I'm afraid I don't understand, Dr. Audley."

  "Murder is for policemen, Minister— I've already said so. If you want me to ... pin the rap on Charlie Ratcliffe I'm afraid you're going to be disappointed. I won't do it."

  "Won't?" The Minister's voice was silky.

  "Can't."

  "You think he's innocent, then?"

  "On the contrary. You've already told me he's guilty. I wouldn't dream of disbelieving you, Minister."

  "And the seven thousand witnesses?"

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  Audley shook his head. "I don't mean he did it himself—as I'm sure you didn't either. But for one per cent of £2½

  million I could put out a contract on anyone you care to name

  —or let's say two per cent, inflation being what it is ... No, I'm sure he's guilty. But I'm also sure that I'm not the man to prove it."

  "Why not?"

  "I've told you. First, it's not my skill. Finding enough proof to convince twelve good men and true isn't something I've ever had to do, I wouldn't know where to start, never mind finish.

  "And second, it's a police job. It is their skill—they know how to do it, and they're damn good at it, too. If it can be done, they'll do it—and if they can't do it then I can't do it." He stared hard at the Minister. "And since you're here now I must assume that they can't."

  The Minister relaxed, with just the ghost of a smile edging his mouth. "A fair assumption. But you haven't taken your logic quite far enough." The smile grew. "And that is your skill, I gather."

  It was an open invitation to go straight to the heart of the matter, thought Audley. But for some reason the Minister was unwilling to spell it out, but wanted Audley himself to deduce it.

  He stared out of the car window at the crab-apple tree in the hedgerow. There was a crab like that in the spinney behind his own kitchen garden wall at home, and like this one it was dummy5

  laden with fruit. The late frost and the bullfinches had played havoc with his carefully tended Blenheims and Cox's Orange Pippins, but the devil himself looked after the crab-apples.

  And if what the Minister said was true then it looked as if the devil had kept a friendly eye on Charlie Ratcliffe too.

  So they were morally certain that Charlie Ratcliffe was the killer, or at least the killer's paymaster, but they couldn't prove it. But that had happened before and would happen again: there were some you won and some you lost, and there was no use weeping about it. Those were the ones you notched up to experience, hoping that the Lord of the Old Testament would keep His promise about repayment in His own time.

  But Ministers of the Crown had no time to worry about such things in any case. Murderers caught and murderers free could only be statistics to them. All murderers were equal before the law.

  Even revolutionary murderers.

  Audley looked back at the Minister as innocently as he could.

  "Tell me about Charlie Ratcliffe, Minister. I'm afraid I'm not very well up in revolution at the moment."

  Stocker fished a yellow folder out of his brief-case. "Charlie Ratcliffe, David," he said.

  Audley accepted the folder. It was crisp and new, like the typescript within it.

  Charles Neville Steyni
ng-Ratcliffe.

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  Interesting, that. Despite battle and murder, and Puritan revolutions and Royalist restoration, and Protestant revolution and Hanoverian succession, and industrial revolution and democratic succession, and the rise and fall of the British Empire, and two world wars and the rise and fall of the Labour Party and Trades Union succession . . . despite all that there was still a Steyning in possession of Standingham Castle after over three centuries of accelerating social change.

  They must be a shrewd, tough line, the Steynings.

  The Steyning-Ratcliffes.

  Charlie Ratcliffe.

  He felt the smooth, thick paper under his fingers. That was interesting too—if anything even more interesting. Not Department paper and not a departmental typewriter. Not a photocopy from the Special Records or a typist's copy of a print-out from the Central Computer. But, for a bet, if he now called for a photocopy on a print-out from anywhere else, then this would be what he would get.

  Well, they had been careless—

  Born April 23, 1949—

  A mere baby, relatively speaking.

  —careless. Which was all the more reason why he must not be careless in his turn and ask them the direct question that was on the tip of his tongue: what had there been in the original file on Charles Neville Steyning-Ratcliffe that wasn't dummy5

  fit for David Audley's eyes?

  Much better to hold on to that question. So long as it remained unanswered there would be an area of uncertainty.

  But there were ways and means of dealing with that, and as long as it remained officially unasked he had a nice little excuse with which to account for future failure.

  Educated at—

  He read the typed pages through carefully. Until the last one they contained nothing of unique, or even very special, interest; Charlie Ratcliffe was no different from his fellow activists among the privileged youth of the West, from the Berlin Wall to the Golden Gate, the product and victim of his age.

  Born a century earlier he might have carried the flag or the Gospel into darkest Africa. Born fifty years later—or twenty-five years after that—he might just have managed to get his name on the village war memorial, with the lost generations of First World War subalterns and Second World War bomber crews.