Blame The Dead

With these new all-figure telephone numbers, you don't have any idea of where in London you're ringing. You could work it out, I suppose, but life's too short.

A woman's voice said, 'Cundall's.'

'Could I speak to Mr David Fenwick?'

'Of course not, not at this time.'

"Oh.' What in hell was this? 'Look, I may sound stupid, but I just had a message to ring Mr Fenwick at this number and I don't know where I'm ringing…'

'Harrow School. Cundall's house.'

Oh Gawd Blimey.

'He should have left more in the message. He can't take any calls until four-fifteen.'

'Sorry. I'll ring back then.'

'Just a moment – is this something to do with his father's death?'

'Probably, but I just don't know. I just got the message.'

'But you must know whether you had any connection with his father.'

'I did,' I said grimly. 'I was there when he died.'

'Oh!' Pause. 'You're that man.'

'I'm afraid so.'

'Hold on a moment, will you? My husband's just come in… I think he'd like to talk Another pause, filled with distant mutterings.

Then a man's voice came on. 'John Hawthorn here. Is that Mr – er, James Card?' It was a slow, confident voice, but maybe a little strained. Probably just a man who didn't like the telephone much.

'I'm Card.'

'I know David Fenwick phoned you – he spoke to me about it.1 'Uh-huh.'

'I know he wants to see you. I'm not sure that I'd advise it, but he seems quite certain that he does…'

'Uh-huh.' Me, I have a great telephone manner.

'I wonder if you could come out here this afternoon and have a word with me first? Say half past three? '

'I suppose so.' Bang went my trip to Kent; I couldn't safely count on getting down to Kingscutt and back up to Harrow in time… Still, at least this was a positive step. It made a change for somebody actually towant to see me – apart from various authorities, of course.

Hawthorn said, 'I'm not prying, you understand, but in a situation like this…'

'I see your problem, Mr Hawthorn. You're the housemaster, are you?'

'Yes.'

'Can I ask one question? I'm a bit surprised the boy isn't at home.'

Pause. Then, 'Yees. We did send him home yesterday – but he came back in the evening. I suppose… well, here, at least we can keep him busy.'

'Sounds like the best thing. Half past three then?' We rang off.

Then I unpacked the fresh suitcase, changed my blue pinstripe for a slightly more swinging number in a chalky mud colour, with fresh shirt and tie to match, and after that there wasn't any reason not to call Jack Morris at the Ministry of Defence.

He wasn't in his room but he can't have been far off because his secretary said, 'Hold on, Mr Card,' in a cool voice and went away and came back and said, 'He wants to see you as soon as possible."

'He can buy me lunch, then. Ask him where.'

She did another round trip. 'He says he's damned if he's going to be seen in public with a disreputable character like you. Be here at half past twelve and he may lend you half a cheese sandwich.'

'Tell him to stuff it up and blow it out.'

Still perfectly cool, she said, 'Half past twelve then, Mr Card.' I was going to be there, and we both knew it.

I parked the car near the St John's Wood taxi rank and took a cab down to Chancery Lane – there's no hope of parking down there – and tucked Bertie Bear up in my safe deposit. On second thoughts, I took out one of my guns – a streamlined little Mauser HSC chambered for -22. Mockby might get more subtle next time, but there would certainly be a next time. With him or somebody.

After that I prowled the bookshops until I found an identical copy of Bertie Bear. Well wrapped; I felt enough of a bloody fool just buying it. Then I dillied and dallied over to Morris's office.

At a conservative estimate, about half of London is Ministry of Defence buildings, ancient, modern, and in-between. This one dated from the thirties and was probably taken over during the war; the oversized entrance hall and exaggeratedly solid stonework gave me the idea it had originally been built for an insurance company or the Masons.

I signed in at the box-office affair in the middle of the hall, was given a chit and an elderly uniformed guide, and we set off down the green-and-cream corridors of power or at any rate secrecy.

I'd first met Jack when I was a captain doing a stint of my own in the Ministry, though not the same building. His job was something rather vague on the civil counter-intelligence side -vague not because it was Above and Beyond Top Secret but because he was mostly supposed to be keeping a finger in whatever everybody else in CI was up to: the DI5 boys, Special Branch, Foreign Office, and all the service intelligence and investigation outfits. He'd actually been on the streets for a time with what was then MI 5, but you don't last long at that. Your face gets known and then you either get slung on the compost heap or transplanted into an office.

He was a shortish, chunky man of around sixty, with smooth grey hair, chubby bunched-up features, thin-rimmed glasses, and a cheery manner. He waved a hand from behind his cluttered desk arid said, 'Hullo, buster – pull up a chair.'

There were two other desks in the office, both the same roundedged green metal jobs, neither occupied. I found a spare chair dating from Ballista Mark I days, dragged it up, and sat cautiously.

Jack took a bite of a sandwich, waved the rest at me, and mumbled, 'Lemme see your licences.'

'Driving, dog, or TV?'

He swallowed. 'You know which, buster.'

I passed them over. He skimmed through the Ministry one, took a little more time over the police one. Then looked up. 'I'm cracking up, my eyes are going. I can't find any Walther PP in short nine-mil here.'

I shrugged. 'I don't have one.'

He chuckled. 'Now you mention it, you don't, do you? You must have been sorry to see that go down the drain.' And chuckled again, then took another bite of sandwich.

I said, 'If you know of one going, I'll apply to have it put on my licence.'

'Last one I heard of was in Arras. Our French chums have asked the Yard to try and trace it, with special reference to you. Now ain't that sweet?' He was a good contact man.

He added, 'No connection proven – so far.'

I was happy to hear it. I hadn't expected anything else, but you can never be dead sure.

He stood up and stretched his back and grunted. He was wearing indoor country clothes – houndstooth-check suit, criss-cross pattern shirt, brown brogues, all in rather light-weight materials. Club tie, but I didn't know which club.

'Now – I know why you were carrying an unlicensed gun around France,' he said, aiming a ham sandwich at me. 'Because your own licences don't mean a thing over there, you couldn't get a French licence, and so you might as well take one that can't be traced back if you used it. I'm not even asking you where you got it and having you tell some bedtime story about it. But-'

'It wasn't in this country.'

He gave me a quick sharp look, then nodded. 'That's something, then. But the French papers have tied that gun to you and the ones here would have done if we didn't have a law of libel. So far as I know none of the newspaper boys has been clever enough to ask if you've got a pistol licence. We wouldn't tell them, and I've made sure the rozzers won't either, but there're plenty of other people who must know. Down at your pistol club and so on. Once that gets printed, there're going to be people asking why we give licences to people who then go running around France playing James Bond with unlicensed Walthers. Are you getting the picture, buster?'

I nodded. 'Why d'you keep calling me "buster"?'

He thought about it. 'Habit, I suppose. I usually only do it to people I like.' He sat down again and rifled through some papers. 'When's the last time we asked you to do a bodyguard job for us?'

'When those Libyans were over here for the oil treaty.'