I got suspicious at the lights just before Parkway itself: a dark-green Morris 1300 didn't pull up beside me where there was room for him. Instead, he slowed and dawdled up behind me. And he stayed there for the next mile. Mind, so did several others: this was a main route towards King's Cross and the City. But there was something in his pattern of driving that looked as if it were based on what I did.
Any other time, I'd have been happy to make his acquaintance; we could have run up a quiet dead end and had a nice cosy chat about who and why and related topics. But right now I had a date, so he'd have to go in the deep freeze. Lose him but make it look pure chance.
For that, you can't do anything fancy – no doubling back or such like. Just stick on a logical route and use the traffic opportunities. I put a big Ford in between us at the turn into St Paneras Road, added a post office van at the Huston Road lights, and a couple of taxis at Guilford Street. After that, it was just a matter of time before he got chopped off by a red light. It happened at the Gray's Inn Road, and I was clear to circle back.
I hadn't given anybody a lesson in road manners, but it hadn't been any worse than you expect from people who drive small, slightly hotted-up cars. Nothing to make him suspicious; he'd be back.
Dave was waiting for me well back in the bar and getting started on a plate of sandwiches and a pint of bitter. I bought myself the same – so much for an invitation to lunch – and sat down.
With the blue suit, the neat, short grey hair, and the well-fed build, you'd have placed him in the Stock Exchange or maybe on the floor of Lloyd's. Except for the face. The face had that shapeless, slightly lopsided look of a small-time pro boxer. Dave had never boxed and I'd never asked him what else had happened; with a military cop you don't need to ask. Some soldier with a grudge had gone for a route march on that face one dark, lonely night. It's never the same after they use the boot.
He grinned at me, then saw the marks on my neck. "You been having fun and games, Major?'
'No, somebody else has. How's business?"
He took a vast bite of a cheese and tomato sandwich,"showing a bunch of teeth that hadn't been improved by that dark night, and spoke around it. 'Full house; we're up to our ears. And that bastard Laurie's leaving me to set up on his own. Do you want to work from an office again?'
Laurie was his security specialist; it wasn't good news for me, either, because he'd be reaching for work in my field. Still, I liked being on my own. 'No thanks, Dave. But I'll lend you a good book about security.'
'Get knotted, Major. D'you feel like doing a little sub-contract work, then?"
That was more like it. It might even be like picking up a new client or two. Firms that go security-conscious usually stay that way and come back to you when they're making some change. I might persuade them to come back to me. not Tanner.
I waved a friendly sandwich, 'Any time.'
Til let you know – could be soon. Keep in touch, hey?'
'Will do.' I took a mouthful of beer and wondered why I hadn't ordered Scotch on that cold morning. 'You might do something for me, Dave. D'you know what enquiry firms Randall, Tripp, Gilbert usually use?'
'Never worked for them myself… I think they've used Mac-Gill. And Herb Harris. Why?'
'I think they recommended somebody to a client some weeks back. Name of Martin Fenwick.'
He cocked his head and squinted at me curiously. 'Fenwick? Is that the bloke that got killed in France? '
'That's the bloke.'
'Are you still mixed up in that, then?'
'Sort of.'
He munched thoughtfully, then shrugged. 'Well, it's your business. 'I'll ask around.'
'Thanks. And one more thing.' I gave him the number of the green Morris.
'Hell,' he said disgustedly, 'you can pretend to be a copper on the phone as easy as I can.'
'It isn't always that easy.' And I knew Dave didn't work that way anyhow; he had his own private contact with the Central Vehicle Index.
'All right.' He stuck the piece of paper in his wallet. After that we just chatted about the Army until the place jammed up with fashionable young things from the Sunday Times having double-spread four-colour ideas in each other's Cinzanos.
I bought enough food to last me through the weekend and got home soon after two. My faithful green Morris wasn't around, but he turned up half an hour later and parked almost out of sight beside the church. Did I want to go and talk things over with him? No, it was too public and too cold and my left arm was stiffening up again. Let the bastard freeze alone.
Dave rang back in the middle of the afternoon. 'Hope you weren't expecting too much, Major. Hired car.' He named a small firm in West Kensington. 'D'you want us to try and shake something out of them?"
I thought it over. 'No, leave it lay. Thanks anyway.'
'Pleasure. I'm hoping to hear something about a job on Monday, but it's likely to be out of town. Could you make it?'
'What company is that?'
'Come off it, Major; they'remy clients. No poaching. Will you be free?'
I could probably fit it in; Fenwick's affairs weren't exactly developing at a rush. 'Likely enough.'
'See you, then."
I walked to the window and the Morris was still down there. A hired car probably meant a professional. A newspaperman wouldn't need to hire a car in London, and anyway, he wouldn't get a story just by following me around. It looked as if somebody had put a private eye on me. Mockby? He was the obvious thought, but he'd probably have done it on a bigger scale; one man to watch one man was bloody nonsense. In a city, a proper inconspicuous tail job takes thirty men and several vehicles; no kidding, that's what it takes.
When the pubs opened, I strolled up to the Washington fora. jar and a hope of getting a look at my new friend. But he wasn't that sort of fool. The Morris followed me, all right, but he didn't rush into the pub right behind me. Probably he came in some time in the next ten minutes, just to see if I was meeting somebody, but a whole lot of people came in around that time. And when I went out, the Morris had gone.
He was back by the church when I reached the flat. I don't know what time he went to bed, but I made it by half past ten.
Thirteen
Saturday was a crisp, clear day; so far we'd had every sort of March weather except the traditional winds. Now it was blue and bright, but still with snow lying in the Kent fields and the farmers indoors swearing the hop harvest was fruz to hell and they'd have to sell the Rolls if the Government didn't increase the subsidy.
I had company heading down through South London, but he didn't really stand a chance in that Saturday shopping traffic; I lost him by real accident before we reached Bromley. And once I was on clear roads, I let the Escort go. Nothing too chancy, but just holding her on a chosen line through the bends a couple of mph before her back end would start hedge-climbing, the grass brushing the sides. It made me feel… well, maybe in control of something, for once.
A quarter of an hour before Kingscutt I slowed down; my left arm was starting to ache again anyway. I drove in like any sober City gent – apart from the car, my suit, and various purple marks on my neck; I put on my black sling once I'd parked, too.
It was a small village of varying styles up to and including advertising-agency weekend restoration, but the church was genuine Norman and The Volunteer pub, just across a triangular village green, was genuinely open. I took a large Scotch and soda.
A man in a black suit and a gin and tonic asked politely if I was there for the funeral. I said I was, then pinned him down before he could pin me: 'Did you know him in the City?'