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He knew what Reg Buller had said. But that had been private. 'No— ?'
She nodded. They say ... "Oh he's something in Intelligence, isn't he?" Or even just "Old David, darling? In one of those MI-somethings — always popping down to that awful secret place at Cheltenham, with all those initials."' She paused, closing her eyes. '"But he does have the most delightful wife and daughter — both perfect sweeties, darling. Whereas, he's a great bear of a man — a perfect Caliban, compared with them, don't you know".'
That sounded more like one of 'Mummy's' friends than
'Daddy's'. But that, of course, was exactly what 'they' had said, word for word, from memory. Given a notebook, Jenny would have either broken the lead in her pencil or supplied herself with a dead ball-point pen; or, if she hadn't, then she wouldn't have been able to decipher her hopeless handwriting. But the gods, to make up for that deficiency, had given her total recall of anything that was said to her, down to the last emphasis.
But she was looking at him again.
'He was connected with that fearful man Clinton.' The concentration was back. 'That I know. And Clinton was "in"
Intelligence — very much in. But he was never one of the directors of any of the big departments — MI5, or MI6, and all that. Because everyone knows who they were . . . Yet he was a bloody-big wheel — a power in the land. That's for sure, too.'
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Was that 'Daddy', being indiscreet long ago with his little darling? Or that source, being infinitely more indiscreet, for some other reason? But he could see that there was more to come.
'Clinton got a successor, at all events. Name of Butler.
Christian name James, but always known as "Jack". Ex-career soldier in some little line regiment. And not too successful even in that, because he went on the General List as a major when he was quite elderly. Then he was made up to half-colonel, and in — in — Intelligence, apparently. But not military intelligence: "one of Fred Clinton's lot", thereafter.' Her face seemed to sharpen as she spoke. '"Nice chap, but rather dull".' Sharper still. 'Which just could be an unreliable assessment, because he's just got his "K" — Sir Jack now . . . Just like Sir Fred, before him.' She nodded wisely. 'Like you're always saying, darling — pattern: "Look for the pattern" . . . okay?'
She wanted to be jogged — or maybe reassured? 'So now he's Audley's boss — ?'
'Yes. But boss of what?' Now she was really there. 'So . . .
remember what old Reg said — "research and advice"? And when Reg picks up vibes, then they're usually right, aren't they?'
She had asked him to remember. So, once again, he remembered what Reg Buller had said out of her hearing.
'Reg is good — yes.'
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'But not quite accurate this time.' Scoring a point always pleased her. 'Because I think the official title of the Clinton-Butler organization is "Research and Development" .
Although, of course, that doesn't really mean anything — it's just a useful bit of jargon, to put you off. Because everyone's got an "R & D" section now — it's like having a "computer facility", with a "systems manager", even if you're putting beans into tins — all flumdiddle, darling.'
'Flumdiddle' must be a new word in Jenny's circle. But.
nevertheless, he was beginning to smell the marrow from the broken bone. 'So what does it mean, then?'
'Well . . . I'm by no means quite sure, darling — as I keep saying.' Knowing him, she was properly cautious still, in spite of all her certainties. 'But suppose — just suppose . . . that alongside all the little old secret services that we know and love by their initials and numbers . . . alongside all of them, there was another one, that we didn't know was there. Like, say, a sort of parallel world, in those science-fiction stories, almost — ?' She cocked an eye at him. 'Not very big — really rather small — ? But more secret, more exclusive — ? Say . . .
just responsible to the Prime Minister — the Cabinet Office?
Of the Intelligence Sub-Committee of the Joint Chiefs? Or —
'
She wasn't beginning to frighten him. She was frightening him. 'Doing what?'
She shrugged. 'Doing whatever it was told to do. Doing what comes naturally — I don't know ... I tell you, I'm not sure dummy2
yet . . . Trouble-shooting? Or maybe trouble-making.' She blew a strand of hair which had fallen across her face.
'Because ... as well as being very secret, I do rather get the impression that it may not be too popular in certain circles, whatever it is — whatever it does, exactly — ' She seized the fallen strand and tried to push it back on top, releasing a whole cascade in the process ' — damn!'
Ian accepted the diversion gratefully. That last revelation at least told him something about her source. Indeed, it fitted into the original dialogue she'd eavesdropped on to make a familiar pattern. In any investigation, the enemies of the subject of the investigation — or even, if the subject was an organization of some sort, any disaffected members within it
— were prime sources of information. And . . . although this source sounded more like an outsider than an insider ... it was hardly surprising that the 'Clinton-Butler' organization had its enemies, even on its 'own' side, never mind among its proper and official opponents.
'Well?' Jenny abandoned the wreckage of her bird's-nest.
'What do you say to all that then, Ian?'
Its opponents! he thought, staring suddenly at the window with a stab of disquiet. He had somehow taken it for granted that those watchers (if they were there — ?) would be Special Branch, if not MI5. But they could be — who?
'Yes.' She grinned happily. 'It does account for our sudden popularity, doesn't it, darling?'
'That's not the word I was thinking of.' At least he hadn't dummy2
betrayed his fear. 'Is this what you told Woodward? Or Parsons?'
The grin twisted. 'Oh, come on, darling! As our Reg might say, "Would I do that, Mr Robinson?" Of course not.'
'So what did you tell them?'
She sighed. 'What did I say to them? Well, I said to Dick:
"Richard, darling ... do you recall that nice Civil Servant named Philip Masson, who was tragically lost at sea, when he fell off his yacht in the Channel nine or ten years ago?" And he said: "Jenny darling, that wouldn't be the same fellow whose body has just turned up in a wood somewhere, without his lifebelt?"' She smiled. 'I was very circumspect, you see.'
'Get on with it, Jen.'
'All right, all right! So I said: "Yes, darling — the one all your chaps are running around in circles trying to find out about, to no avail . . . How would you like the serial rights for our book on what really happened, darling? Or shall I go to Rupert Murdoch instead — ?" And that was when he patted his cheque-book. Plus, of course, darling Clive will put his cash up front, as usual.' The innocent face vanished. 'So what do you say to that, then?'
She was too damn sure of herself. 'I'd say he's wasting his money. And so are we — and our time, too.'
She frowned. 'What d'you mean?'
The trouble was, he wasn't at all sure of himself. 'If what you dummy2
say is true ... if there is a Clinton-Butler operation of some sort, on the level you suggest . . . and if the man Audley was somehow involved with Masson's death ... for heaven's sake, Jen! It's going to be buried deeper than we're likely to be able to dig — that for a start — '
'The hell with that!' She snapped at him. 'Who said we can't?