Blame The Dead

'That's the Stock Exchange. Now stop being cynical and start using your brains, unless you stuffed them down a drain in Arras. D'you know what Lloyd's is? The biggest betting shop in the world. And people like Martin Fenwick are just high-class bookmakers. D'you know how to make money as a bookie?'

'Set the right odds, I'd guess.'

'That's half of it, and it's what Fenwick did: insured only the right ships at the right premiums. But the other half is simply having as much money as possible so you can take as big bets as possible and make as much profit as possible. Lloyd's formalises these things. The more capital you can showin your own name the more bets you can accept. I mean insurance you can write,' he added sourly.

'So you'd be a bloody fool to put it in your wife's name? It would just be cutting your own profit-making potential? '

'I'll say one thing for you, Jim: as long as it's written in letters of fire ten feet high you do get the message sooner or later.'

'All right, all right. So where did she get her money, then? And why did he buy that house outright?'

'Who says he owned it? Or that she did? No-' he repented hastily. 'Just forget that. And I told younot to go poking into these things.'

'Sorry, Oscar.'

'Now, I'm busy.' And he slapped the phone down.

I suppose I might have asked him about Fenwick hiring a private detective – he wouldn't have picked one from the yellow pages, he'd've asked his solicitor, same as he did about a bodyguard. But Oscar would never tell me, so why tell him I knew it had happened?

Slowly, reluctantly – and rather dazedly – I picked up the bank statements and started analysing them, as far as I could.

The standing orders were easy enough: they'd be payments to the life insurance companies and probably the rent on that flat. Then he seemed to take a regular £20 a week, various odd amounts that were probably clothes or garage bills – and three times in the last year he'd drawn cheques for £259 a time. Why? Why so precise a repetition of such an amount, and why three?

School fees, of course. Harrow would cost around £750 a year in these hard times.

But the real message was that the income and expenditure matched like a foot in a footprint. Yet it was only a one-legged trail I was following: half of Fenwick's life just wasn't there. No cheque that could have covered a new Rover 2000 in the last year; nothing for running expenses on a house big enough to call itself a 'manor' – and nothing for running expenses on a wife for that house, either.

Working just from those figures, it was as if Kingscutt didn't exist – neither did Mrs Fenwick. Except for paying a thousand pounds a year, more than a quarter of his net income, in life insurance for her.

Assuming it was for her, of course. I rang Hawthorn at Harrow.

We said a few polite things; then he asked, 'I suppose you, ummm, want to speak to David?'

'If he's available.'

Til have him shouted for. I rather get the impression that you're, ummm, working for him now?"

His intelligence system was good – but that would be part of his job, too. 'You may be right.'

'I rather feel I stand – and particularly with this boy, now -in loco parentis. I can understand him wanting to know why his father got, ummm, killed, but I'm still a little apprehensive about the effect of him finding out anything detrimental to his father's image.'

'Yes. But I told you: the police in two countries are working on this, too. I can't stop them."

'Quite so. It's, ummm, difficult.'

'They aren't interested in protecting anybody's good name. I just might be.'

'Yes. I'm sure you know your own business… Here's David now.'

He came on the line. 'Mr Card? Have you found out anything?'

'Nothing much. It takes time. But I wanted to ask you something…'

'Yes, sir?'

'Have you heard from any insurance companies just now?'

'Well – yes, sir. There've been three of them.'

'Can you tell me what they said? I mean roughly?'

'Well, just that my father had taken out life insurance in my name. They said it's quite a lot.'

Ah!

'Fine,' I said. 'Good. Well, that's all I really wanted to know.'

'Is it?' He sounded disappointed.

Til be in touch.'

'I hope you'll be coming to the funeral, sir. It's on Saturday, at twelve o'clock.'

'Well, I…' I hadn't expected this.

'You'd have a chance to meet my mother, sir. And the other members of the syndicate.'

'Fine,' I said. 'It's at Kingscutt, is it?'

'At the village church; you can't miss it. Will you come up to the house afterwards?'

Til be there.'

You bet I would. By now I was very curious to meet Mrs Lois Linda Fenwick. There has to be a reason why a man spends a quarter of his income, money he must be hungry to use to build up his career at Lloyd's, just to make sure that, if anything happens to him, his son will be financially independent of his own mother.

Ten

I moved back into my flat that night. The story had dropped out of the day's papers, and I scouted the place three times and found nobody watching, so by half past nine I was home, unpacked, and drinking at a price I could afford.

The phone rang. Oh, hell – that could be tricky. I thought about letting it ring, then decided not. I was going to have to come back to life sometime.

But just in case, I tried to disguise my voice. Scots; it comes easiest. Well, at least I could say, 'Aye?'

The other voice was distant, female, and also stage Scots. 'Would it be posseeble to speak to Meester Card?'

'Who is it wanting him?'

A moment of confused mumbling, then, 'It is Mrs Card.'

'Mother? What the hell are you doing with that accent?'

'It's Jamie? Are you at the flat? I thought you were on the run. I didn't want to give myself away in case the police were there.'

'Ah, it isn't as bad as that. I…'

'It's exciting, isn't it? I'm so glad your job isn't turning out too dull. Security advice sounds sodreary. Your father would have loved this.'

Ummm. Maybe.

She rushed on, T just wanted to make sure you didn't want anything, dear. Like money or a place to hide out.'

'No, it's fine. I just-'

'Well, I mustn't keep you. I expect you're after the men who did it, aren't you? And I won't say any more because they're sure to be tapping this line.'

'No, I don't think-'

'Look after yourself, dear, and don't put anything in writing. Tell me all about it someday. Goodbye, now.'

I put the phone down and slumped. Mother's phone calls always took it out of me. Had I really joined I Corps of my own free will? Had father really chosen to spend the 1930s playing Lawrence of Arabia when he could have stuck to straight regimental soldiering? Or had we both been pushed just a bit?

I spent the rest of the evening tidying up the mess the Mockby boys had left, poured myself a final Scotch, and was ready for bed at about eleven.

So then the doorbell rang. I grabbed up the little Mauser and called,'Who is it?'

A calm voice said, 'Police, sir. Will you open the door please?'

Just like those bastards to come around and start their just-a-few-simple-questions when you've had a long day. Intentional, of course.

I looked around for a place to park the gun, but finally just shoved it in a pocket. No reason for them to have search warrants. I opened the door.

They came in quickly and the first one hit me in the stomach. As I folded over I just had time to see there were at least two, with the flattened faces of men with stocking masks on. Then my hands were grabbed and wrenched behind me and fingers started working on my neck – exploring, then pressing skilfully. The room seemed to fill with mist.

A voice said, 'He's going.'

I tried to choke, but darkness beat me to it.

'My name is James Card. My rank is major. My number is two-five-three-oh-five-one-oh.'

I knew him, didn't I? Must have been in the Army with me.