"—If only British cars had American windscreens—hold still, Dan—I want to make sure there's no glass in the wound —this wouldn't have happened."
The back yard of Polly's cottage was hemmed in by the walls of the neighbouring houses, leaving no room for an inefficient assassin to finish the job from that direction.
"It was a German car, actually," McLachlan said mildly. "And I thought it stood up to that bridge pretty well. Anyway, I shall live— ouch!"
"Baby. Now go and hold it under the tap and let the water clean it."
The front of the cottage overlooked the Village Green. There were enough people dawdling on it to discourage assassins there too.
"Polly, it's only a scratch. Or it was until I let you get at it."
They were safe enough here until the taxi arrived, anyway.
"Go and wash it."
McLachlan was crossing obediently towards the sink as Butler came back into the kitchen.
"Besides," the young man continued, "if he hadn't known how that windscreen was going to behave, then there might have been something a lot nastier waiting for us. Or for you, rather."
Butler looked hard at McLachlan's back. If it was a guess, then it was a damn good one, even allowing for the fact that he'd said a bit more than he'd intended in the heat of the moment beside the bridge.
Something nastier. But there was still something not quite right about this situation. The KGB did not resort to violence willingly these days, but when they did they seldom made quite such a pair of balls-ups as he had encountered at Eden Hall and Millford bridge.
"Now, will someone kindly tell me what the hell's going on?" Polly regarded him accusingly. "Someone dummy2.htm
shot at us, didn't they?"
"Twice," said McLachlan. "Jesus—this water's cold. Once at the windscreen and once by the bridge."
"But why? And who?"
McLachlan dabbed at his hand with the towel, also watching Butler. "At a guess that first shot was intended to cause a tragic accident. Would that be right, Colonel, sir?"
The boy was trying to needle him. But under the circumstances the boy had every right to needle him.
"An accident?" Polly's brow creased. "I may be dim, but—"
"You are dim, Polly. The speed you go, if I hadn't been there to do my heroic Gaius Mucius Scaevola bit
—" he held up the injured hand.
"Dan, what on earth are you gabbing about?"
"Why, Polly, if I hadn't been there you'd have gone slam into the bridge or splat into the cutting. And if that hadn't finished you, there was a chap with a rifle to make sure."
Polly stared at him, white faced.
"And when they found the pieces of you and your little car they wouldn't have gone looking for any bullets. No, they would have remembered you drove like a malkop, and they would have shaken their heads sadly and said: 'She had it coming to her, silly girl'."
Dan's eyes switched to Butler's face. "Do I get alpha for that, Colonel?"
There could be no lingering doubts about Sir Geoffrey Hobson's assessment of Dan McLachlan. He was inconveniently bright.
"But Dan, why?" Polly bit a knuckle. "And how do you know it wasn't some yob shooting at the first car to come by?"
"I don't know why, Polly. But I'm damn sure it wasn't some yob." McLachlan pounced on the word
"Why not?"
"Because when he knew it was a shot, not an accident—" McLachlan stabbed a finger at Butler—"he wasn't one bit surprised, not one bit."
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Not by that second shot, thought Butler hotly, that was true. But by that first shot he'd been surprised, almost shocked.
"But not to worry," McLachlan went on coolly. "The Colonel's going to tell us what it's all about."
Butler raised an eyebrow. "Indeed?"
"Indeed." McLachlan nodded to the girl. "Remember how he told us not to say anything when we caught the bus—about the shooting? Soon as I sat down it really hit me how topsyturvy things were getting—
positively mind-bending."
"How do you mean, Dan?"
"Why, when somebody shoots at me I get mad. But he doesn't get mad. And when somebody shoots at me twice I get the feeling I ought to be dialling 999 and shouting for a policeman. But he just wants us to keep quiet. And that means one of two things, Polly dear—" he swung accusingly towards Butler "—
either he's the wrong side of the law—or he is the law."
Polly shook her head suddenly, as though she was at last coming awake. "The Lone Ranger!" she murmured.
"The lone—?" McLachlan frowned.
"He is the law, Dan. Or something like it."
"Well—maybe. But he's still got a hell of a lot of explaining to do if he wants me to stop dialling 999."
Polly shook her head again, only more vigorously. "No, Dan—leave it. He's a friend, honestly he is."
"A damn dangerous one, if he is!" The young man eyed Butler more obstinately and aggressively than he had done before. "You've thought of something, haven't you, Polly? I've got nothing against the cops, or the Special Branch, like our dim-witted lefties, but—"
He stopped dead, and Butler knew instantly that he had made the final connection. It had been a wise move to let him run on, working things out for himself as he went, instead of reading the riot act over him and then relying on his political caution and his ambition for a Civil Service career to stop his mouth thereafter.
"Well?" Butler growled. "So you've got nothing against me?"
Wiser too because even bright, pragmatic young men might under pressure lapse into half-baked dummy2.htm
idealism, and he would have enough to contend with at Castleshields without that.
"I'm the dim-witted one." McLachlan nodded at him slowly. "The whole thing's too similar, isn't it... too much of a coincidence?"
"What is?" Polly cut in.
"The tragic accident, Polly. That's what we said about Boozy."
But wisest of all, reflected Butler, because only age and experience gave him the edge over this boy, who probably far surpassed him in intelligence. And experience told him that it was desirable to know just how much intelligence could make of this situation.
"About Neil?" Polly's voice strengthened as the implication of the words clarified itself in her mind. "Do you mean Neil's crash wasn't an accident?"
She looked at Butler appealingly, as though hoping for a denial. And for once he could allow his face to show his feelings, to speak of the regret and sympathy he felt, just as though she had been one of his girls.
Then he saw the opportunity, the damnable, dirty little trick that would do the work of persuasion for him. It was working for him even as he looked at her, without a word being said.
"Oh, God!" she whispered. "They—killed—him!"
It was as easy as that. Butler raised his chin. Duty absolved him, nevertheless—duty and need: he needed the information these children might have, and then their silence. And possibly even a measure of their help. In an earlier age he could have called on patriotism to supply all that, but that age was dead and gone. All he could rely on now was outrage and anger.
"We can't be absolutely sure, Miss Epton," he said soberly. "Until now we've only had our suspicions.
But after what has just happened—well, it's too much of a coincidence."
The girl stared at him, paler now but also more composed. "Why?" she asked simply.
"Why should anyone want to kill you?"
"Not me. Why Neil?"
She had come straight to the point, rightly assuming that her own brush with death was merely incidental to that answer. There were reserves of strength in adversity there as well as common sense: dummy2.htm
she might need the one, but he must beware of the other.
"I can't tell you. I'm sorry."
"Because I mustn't ask any questions?"
"Partly that."
"But that was before—before my car was wrecked. I've more right to ask now."