Blame The Dead

'You've been monopolising Mr Card, dear. Now run along and see if anybody wants a drink.'

David said dutifully, 'Yes, Mummy,' and pushed off. Around her, he seemed to drop a couple of years. But maybe most children do around most mothers.

Mrs F sat firmly but elegantly on a long bench sofa and patted the space beside her. 'Do you want to tell me what happened that day?'

And that was as much choice as I got about speaking to her or not. So I told her – most of it, anyway. I left out Bertie Band some of the colourful bits when Fenwick died, but she got the rest pretty straight.

She sipped her gin and tonic and listened carefully, nodding occasionally. When I'd finished she just said, 'I'm sure you did everything you could.'

It was nice to hear, but a bit unexpected. 'He obviously wasn't expecting anything like that,' I said defensively.

'I'm sure he wasn't,' and she smiled reassuringly. It was a nice, easy, little-girl smile, and she looked as if she could laugh out loud without spoiling anything. Most women look either as if they're acting or trying to call the fire brigade.

I asked, 'Have you any idea of who could be involved?'

'I'm afraid not.' A rather sad smile this time. 'He didn't talk about his work much. If it was anything to do with the syndicate, Willie might know. Mr Mockby certainly would.'

'Yes, and what he'd tell me you could write on a pin-head and leave room for all those angels, too.'

'You don't like Mr Mockby?' She looked almost mischievous.

'Only on first and second impressions.'

She nodded. 'I sometimes wish he hadn't joined the syndicate. Of course, he did bring in a lot of money…'

That was as good a cue as I was ever likely to get. I ahetned and asked, as politely as I could, 'Are you… going to have any problems that way?'

For a moment her face went blank again, like when she'd first found out who I was. But then she smiled again. 'Oh, I think I'll manage. David's schooling will be covered by insurance… I may leave this house; it seems a bit of a waste to keep on such a big place… and Martin's deposit in Lloyd's will come back to me, of course.'

'Of course.' Then I realised what she'd said. 'Come "back", was that?'

The smile got a little wistful. 'Oh, yes. It was always mine to start with. You have to be born with money these days, and Martin wasn't.'

I picked my words like a man pulling thorns out of a lion's paw. 'You helped start Mr Fenwick up in Lloyd's, then?'

'He was already a broker there when we married, but he wanted to become an underwriter and they have to have capital, you see. So of course he had to have mine.'

I'd've liked to know what thatof course meant, but maybe I'd gone far enough in the thorn country. 'How long have you been living in England, Mrs Fenwick?'

'About sixteen years now. Are you going on trying to find out what happened to Martin?'

'Well, sort of. You haven't heard anything about why he was going to France? What he was taking, or anything like that?'

She looked at me for a moment, then said, 'No. I haven't heard a thing, I'm afraid.'

I just nodded, letting the lie sink in. It had been beautifully done; if I hadn't known it was there I'd never have felt it hit.

'I'm not really being much help, am I?' she asked kindly.

'Oh, I don't know-'

'Had you thought he could have been being blackmailed?'

I paused and just looked at her sweet smile. She sipped her gin calmly.

'No,' I said slowly. 'I hadn't really thought that. Why should I?'

'Well, it does sound so much like it. He's taking something to a secret rendezvous to hand over to strangers… that was right, wasn't it?'

'Blackmailers aren't killers. The golden goose and all that.'

'I suppose not.' She sighed, as if sorry to see a good theory go down.

'Anyway – blackmailed for what?'

'How would I know? What do men with a flat in town get up to?'

'I don't know," I said carefully.

'Have you met Miss Mackwood? '

I suppose if she'd painted it on a board and then hit me over the head with it, I might have got the message stronger. Just might.

I nodded.

'Pretty little thing, isn't she?'

I nodded again.

'Have you got a cigarette?'

'Sorry. Don't smoke.'

'Clever you.' She stood up with an easy flowing movement. 'I'll just… would you like Willie to run you back down the hill?'

Upon the command 'Dismiss!' you execute a right turn, a normal salute, then break off and proceed in an orderly fashion back to your quarters.

I said, 'That would be very kind.'

Fourteen

I hadn't had any lunch and it was too late for any pub to have anything edible left, so I'd just have to live on the canapés I'd lifted. For the first half hour I drove fast – not because of the Scotch, or at least I didn't think so – but because if I went slow I'd have time to think and that would muddle me even more.

But past Sevenoaks the train slowed me anyway. And maybe it was time I really tried to remember the Fenwick I'd known. No, not 'known'; just met.

He'd picked me up at the put-down place for Huston station. My idea; it's a one-way underground street so you can easily spot if somebody's being followed by a car that doesn't stop or doesn't let anybody off. But nobody was.

My first impression was of a man near fifty who'd probably stand up at just under six feet. Neatly dressed in a checked country suit (abroad counts as country to some people), with shortish greying hair and trim slight sideboards as his one concession to fashion. Generally fit-looking and tidy: you'd think he was Something in the City and you'd be right. And seemed a nice bloke. Had I ever learned anything more?

Driving south he'd told me as much as he ever did about the job: just that I was to be there at a rendezvous in Arras in case somebody or bodies unknown turned nasty. I should have asked more, of course, and a couple of times I'd probed gently, but… had he headed me off? Would he have told me if I'd asked him head on?

Then we'd chatted about the weather, the Common Market, a bit about cars – neither of us knew or cared much, but it's standard masculine manners – and rugger. He'd said he was married and I'd said I wasn't, not any more, and we'd left it at that. Maybe he'd seemed a little concerned – preoccupied – but most clients in this work are ready to climb the walls.

We went Folkestone-Boulogne instead of Dover-Calais -just because it seemed less likely – and I bailed out before we reached the boat. Then we 'met' in the bar after I was pretty sure nobody had picked him up. He took water with it, I took soda. Significant?

The drive to Arras was quiet; I suppose both of us were thinking ahead. One thing, though: halfway along, he'd asked, 'Are you carrying a gun?' Most people wouldn't say 'carrying'; it's more or less a professional word. I said, 'Yes.'

'What type?'

'Are you interested in pistols?'

'Not all that much, but I met a lot in the Army: Control Commission in Germany in forty-five. Even had to carry one, at times."

'Walther PP chambered for short nine-mil.'

'The old.380 round? Not too common, are they?'

'They are now. Standard gun in a lot of British police forces. Small enough to hide, doesn't shoot into the next county, makes a nice big bang. For me, the idea's to scare them, throw them off their aim. I don't usually get a chance for a really careful shot; the assassin gets that.'

I'd picked the word carefully; my last attempt to probe. But he just gave a grunt of laughter. 'Oh, there won't be anything like that.'