He replaced the receiver. “Home Office,” he explained for the benefit of the dozen or so individuals watching and listening. “And those two jokers damn well better bomb something tonight, or…”
A dozen or so pairs of eyes stared at him. The SAS captain sniggered. The moment was saved by the ringing of Mackay’s landline. The MI6 man snatched up the receiver. “Hello? Vince? Where are you, mate? Right. And you’ve got… Brilliant! Good man. Hang on, I’ll…”
He covered the receiver and beckoned to Liz. “Price-Lascelles. That headmaster from Wales. Our bloke’s found him. Bad line.”
Liz’s eyes widened. “OK. Don’t transfer it.”
She walked over to his desk. The headmaster’s voice was very faint, and sounded as if it had been strained through several thicknesses of blanket. “… do you do. I understand you… speak to me.”
“I need to know about one of your ex-pupils. Jean D’Aubigny… Yes, Jean D’Aubigny!”
“… remember her very well. What can I…?”
“Did she have any particular friends? People she might have stayed with in the holidays? People she might have stayed in touch with?”
“Have lunch with?”
“WHO WERE JEAN D’AUBIGNY’S BEST FRIENDS?”
“… difficult young woman, who didn’t make friends easily. Her closest, as I recall, was a rather troubled… named Megan Davies. Her people… up in Lincoln, I think. Her father was in the forces. RAF.”
“You’re sure about that?”
“… what they told me. Nice couple. John and Dawn, I think their… pillar to post… Megan very wild in consequence. In the end it turned out that we… permit pupils to bring drugs on to the premises.”
“Did Jean D’Aubigny go and stay with the Davies family?”
“… to my knowledge. She may have done so after Megan left Garth House.”
“Where did the Davies family go after Gedney Hill?”
“Sorry, can’t help you there. They… at the time of Megan’s departure.”
“Do you know where Megan went on to? Which school? Mr. Price-Lascelles? Hello?” But the line was dead. Everyone in the room was staring at her. Mackay and Dunstan wore particularly indulgent smiles.
Was she way off beam here? Was this complete whimsy?
Replacing the receiver, meeting none of the eyes which followed her, Liz returned to her desk. Pulling down the contacts file on her laptop, she rang the Ministry of Defence. Identifying herself to the duty officer, she had herself put through to Files.
“I’m actually just shutting up shop,” a pleasant-voiced young man told her. “It’ll have to be quick.”
“It’ll take as long as it takes,” said Liz levelly. “This is a matter of national security, so if you don’t wish to find yourself outside a job centre this time next week, I suggest that you remain exactly where you are until we are finished, is that clear?”
“I hear you,” said the young man petulantly.
“RAF records,” said Liz. “John Davies, D-A-V-I-E-S, senior officer of some kind, probably admin, wife’s name is Dawn, daughter’s name is Megan.”
“Hang about, I’m just…” There was the sound of keyboard strokes. “John Davies, you say… Yes, here we are. Married to Dawn, née Letherby. He’s over at Strategic Air Command.”
“Did he ever have a posting in Lincolnshire?”
“Yes. He spent, let’s see, two and a half years running RAF Gedney Hill.”
“Is that still operative? I’ve never heard of it.”
“It was sold off in the cuts about ten years ago. It was where they used to do the escape and evasion courses for aircrews. And I think the Special Forces Flight did some Chinook training there too.”
“So where did Davies go after that?” asked Liz.
“Let’s see… Six months’ attachment in Cyprus, and then he was given command of RAF Marwell in East Anglia. It’s one of the American-”
Liz felt her hand tighten on the receiver. Forced her voice to remain level.
“I know where it is,” she said. “Where did he and his family live when he was there?”
“In a place called West Ford. Do you want the address?”
“In a minute. First I want you to look up a man called Delves, Colin Delves, D-E-L-V-E-S, who holds that post at Marwell today. Find out if he lives at the same address.”
Another muted flurry of keyboard strokes. A brief silence. “Same address. Number One, The Terrace, West Ford.”
“Thank you,” said Liz.
Replacing the phone, she looked around her. “We’re guarding the wrong target,” she said.
A frozen silence, utterly hostile.
“Jean D’Aubigny’s dowry. The reason she was fast-tracked to operational status. She knew classified information vital to the ITS-namely, where the RAF Marwell CO was billeted. She stayed there with a friend from her school. She probably knows every secret inch of the place. They’re going to take out Colin Delves’ family.”
Jim Dunstan’s eyelids fluttered. The blood drained from his face. He looked blankly from Mackay to Don Whitten.
The SAS captain was the first to move, punching out an internal number. “Sabre teams scramble for immediate action, please. Repeat-Sabre teams scramble to go.”
“West Ford,” said Liz. “The village is called West Ford.”
A dozen voices at the level edge of urgency. Running feet, the slash of rotors, and the spotlit hangar falling away beneath them.
63
The Green Man was large and plain and beery, with a long oak bar and an impressive array of pumps. There was no jukebox or fruit machine, but the clientele was young and boisterous and noise levels were high. A cloud of cigarette smoke hovered a little above head height. After a brief search, Jean and Denzil found a table against the wall, and Denzil went to buy the first round. At the bar, as he waited, Jean saw him surreptitiously counting his money.
He returned with a pint of Suffolk bitter for each of them. As a Muslim, Jean hadn’t drunk alcohol for some years, but Faraj had suggested that she have at least one drink to show willing. The beer had a sour, soapy texture but was not altogether unpleasant. It gave her something to do with her hands and, equally important, something to look at as they talked. Early in the evening she had made the mistake of looking Denzil in the eye-of meeting his open, inquisitive gaze-and it had been almost unbearable.
Talking to him was harder than she would have believed possible. He was awkward and shy, but he was also sensitive and self-deprecating and kind. He was almost painfully concerned that she should enjoy her evening with him, and she sensed him casting around for subjects of conversation which might engage her interest.
Don’t look at him, look through him, she told herself, but it didn’t do any good. She was sharing a small and intimate space with a young man whom she found herself liking very much. And planning to kill him.
When it was her turn to buy the drinks, she returned with a pint in each hand and gave them both to him. Her first pint was still only half drunk.
“To save time,” she explained. “It’s a bit jam-packed up there.”
“It gets a lot more crowded when the Americans are here,” he told her. “Not to mention making things a lot harder with the girls for us local boyos.”
“So why aren’t the Americans here tonight?”
“Grounded, probably. Apparently there’s been a terrorist scare. There’ve been a couple of murders up towards Brancaster and they think it might be something to do with Marwell.”
“What’s Marwell?”
“One of those RAF bases that the US Air Force use. You know, like Lakenheath… Mildenhall…”
“So what have they got to do with Brancaster? I thought that’s where people went sailing.”