I tapped in my own home number in the apartment in Pont Square, and pressed Enter, and the screen announced nonchalantly ‘dialing in progress,’ then ‘call accepted,’ then ‘transfer,’ and finally ‘transfer complete.’
Whatever was on the first guarded ‘Quint’ disk was now in my own computer in London. I transferred the other two ‘Quint’ floppies in the same way, and then the disk from box-file № 1, and for good measure another from box 3, identified as ‘Tilepit.’
There was no way that I knew of transferring the BETACAM tapes. Regretfully I left them alone. I looked through the paper pages in the ‘Quint’ box and made a photocopy of one page — a list of unusual racecourses — folding it and hiding it within the zipped pocket of my belt.
Finally I disconnected the electric and telephone cables again, closed the computer compartment, checked that the box files and BETACAM tapes were as they should be, relocked the white cupboard, then unlocked and gently opened the door to the passage.
Silence.
Breathing out with relief, I relocked Mrs Dove’s door and walked along through the row of cabby-hole offices and came to the first setback: the fire-door leading to brown-overalls territory was not merely locked but had a red light shining above it.
Shining red lights often meant alarm systems switched on with depressingly loud sirens ready to screech.
I’d been too long in Mrs Dove’s office. I retreated towards her door again and went down the fire-stairs beside the elevator, emerging into the ground-floor entrance hall with its glass doors to the parking area beyond.
One step into the lobby proved to be one step too far. Something hit my head rather hard, and one of the beefy bodyguards in blue flung a sort of strap around my body and effectively pinned my upper arms to my sides.
I plunged about a bit and got another crack on the head, which left me unable to help myself and barely able to think. I was aware of being in the elevator, but wasn’t quite sure how I’d got there. I was aware of having my ankles strapped together and of being dragged ignominiously over some carpet and dropped in a chair.
Regulation Scandinavian chair with wooden arms, like all the others.
‘Tie him up,’ a voice said, and a third strap tightened across my chest, so that when the temporary mist cleared I woke to a state of near physical immobility and a mind full of curses.
The voice belonged to Owen Yorkshire. He said, ‘Right. Good. Well done. Leave the wrench on the desk. Go back downstairs and don’t let anyone up here.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Wait,’ Yorkshire commanded, sounding uncertain. ‘Are you sure you’ve got the right man?’
‘Yes, sir. He’s wearing the identity badge we issued to him yesterday. He was supposed to return it when he left, but he didn’t.’
‘All right. Thanks. Off you go.’
The door closed behind the bodyguards and Owen Yorkshire plucked the identity badge from my overalls, read the name and flung it down on his desk.
We were in his fifth-floor office. The chair I sat in was surrounded by carpet. Marooned on a desert island, feeling dim and stupid.
The man-to-man, all-pals-together act was in abeyance. The Owen Yorkshire confronting me was very angry, disbelieving and, I would have said, frightened.
‘What are you doing here?’ he demanded, bellowing.
His voice echoed and reverberated in the quiet room. His big body loomed over me, his big head close to mine. All his features, I thought, were slightly oversized: big nose, big eyes, wide forehead, large flat cheeks, square jaw, big mouth. The collar-length black wavy hair with its gray-touched wings seemed to vibrate with vigor. I would have put his age at forty; maybe a year or two younger.
‘Answer,’ he yelled. ‘What are you doing here?’
I didn’t reply. He snatched up from his desk a heavy fifteen-inch-long silvery wrench and made as if to hit my head with it. If that was what his boys-in-blue had used on me, and I gathered it was, then connecting it again with my skull was unlikely to produce any answer at all. The same thought seemed to occur to him, because he threw the wrench down disgustedly onto the desk again, where it bounced slightly under its own weight.
The straps around my chest and ankles were the sort of fawn close-woven webbing often used around suitcases to prevent them from bursting open. There was no elasticity in them, no stretch. Several more lay on the desk.
I felt a ridiculous desire to chatter, a tendency I’d noticed in the past in mild concussions after racing falls, and sometimes on waking up from anesthetics. I’d learned how to suppress the garrulous impulse, but it was still an effort, and in this case, essential.
Owen Yorkshire was wearing man-to-man togs; that is to say, no jacket, a man-made-fiber shirt (almost white with vertical stripes made of interlocking beige-colored horseshoes), no tie, several buttons undone, unmissable view of manly hairy chest, gold chain and medallion.
I concentrated on the horseshoe stripes. If I could count the number of horseshoes from shoulder to waist I would not have any thoughts that might dribble out incautiously. The boss was talking. I blanked him out and counted horseshoes and managed to say nothing.
He went abruptly out of the room, leaving me sitting there looking foolish. When he returned he brought two people with him: they had been along in the reception area, it seemed, working out table placements for Monday’s lunch.
They were a woman and a man; Mrs Dove and a stranger. Both exclaimed in surprise at the sight of my trussed self. I shrank into the chair and looked mostly at their waists.
‘Do you know who this is?’ Yorkshire demanded of them furiously.
The man shook his head, mystified. Mrs Dove, frowning, said to me, ‘Weren’t you here yesterday? Something about a farmer?’
‘This,’ Yorkshire said with scorn, ‘is Sid Halley.’
The man’s face stiffened, his mouth forming an O.
‘This, Verney,’ Yorkshire went on with biting sarcasm, ‘is the feeble creature you’ve spent months thundering on about. This! And Ellis said he was dangerous! Just look at him! All those big guns to frighten a mouse.’
Verney Tilepit. I’d looked him up in Burke’s Peerage. Verney Tilepit, Third Baron, aged forty-two, a director of Topline Foods, proprietor — by inheritance — of The Pump.
Verney Tilepit’s grandfather, created a baron for devoted allegiance to the then prime minister, had been one of the old roistering, powerful opinion makers who’d had governments dancing to their tune. The first Verney Tilepit had put his shoulder to history and given it a shove. The third had surfaced after years of quiescence, primarily, it seemed, to discredit a minor investigator. Policy! His bewildered grandfather would have been speechless.
He was fairly tall, as India had said, and he had brown hair. The flicking glance I gave him took in also a large expanse of face with small features bunched in the middle: small nose, small mouth, small sandy mustache, small eyes behind large, light-framed glasses. Nothing about him seemed physically threatening. Perhaps I felt the same disappointment in my adversary as he plainly did about me.
‘How do you know he’s Sid Halley?’ Mrs Dove asked.
Owen Yorkshire said disgustedly, ‘One of the TV crew knew him. He swore there was no mistake. He’d filmed him often. He knows him.’
Bugger, I thought.
Mrs Dove pulled up the long left sleeve of my brown overalls, and looked at my left hand. ‘Yes. It must be Sid Halley. Not much of a champion now, is he?’
Owen Yorkshire picked up the telephone, pressed numbers, waited and forcefully spoke.
‘Get over here quickly,’ he said. ‘We have a crisis. Come to my new office.’ He listened briefly. ‘No,’ he said, ‘just get over here.’ He slammed down the receiver and stared at me balefully. ‘What the sod are you doing here?’