Here Be Monsters

Audley had married a much younger woman too: that was something else she had to remember. 'So you still think he's innocent?' She met his gaze. 'In spite of Major Parker?'

'I think… I think you are supposed to make your own mind up about that, my dear.' He gestured for her to leave the lift. 'So what do you want to do next? Or can I return to my more important work at Cheltenham? You can always use Major Turnbull for your leg-work - his legs are younger than mine.'

She stepped out of the lift, and the decisive click of her high heels on the Xenophon mosaic floor mocked her irresolution.

'Well, Elizabeth?'

If he had wanted to go back to his Cheltenham investigation nothing either she nor the Deputy-Director could have done would have stopped him, decided Elizabeth: Cheltenham was important enough for him to have appealed over both their heads.

Therefore he did not want to go back. And that meant he was more concerned with Haddock Thomas than he pretended to be.

Paul, she thought suddenly. If Paul meant business, then this must be the business he meant -

'Well, Elizabeth?' The question was repeated just a little too casually, confirming her suspicion.

'I need to know more about Thomas before I go to see him, David.' She needed to talk to Paul. 'I'd like to have a look at the Debrecen records.'

'I can tell you all about that.' He relaxed slightly. 'Most of it is what I put into it myself.'

'Who else can tell me about Thomas?' She didn't want him around when she met Paul.

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'Who would you recommend? That we can rely on?'

He stared at her for a moment, as though in doubt. There is someone I can perhaps lay on for you. But it'll need a phone-call or two. And we'll have to go to him.'

She smiled. 'Okay - will you do that, David?' But she must give him more than that to do.

'And will you brief Major Turnbull for me, while you're about it?'

His doubt increased. 'Brief him about what?'

About what? She needed something quite complicated and time-consuming, yet reasonable. *

'About what, Elizabeth?'

She found herself staring past the nearest bank of Xenophon jungle, towards the reception desk and at the beautiful receptionist he had bullied, who was watching them uneasily.

She was beautiful -

'I'd like to know a lot more about Thomas's wife, David. Sir Peter Barrie's ex-fiancee?' The idea expanded as the two sudden deaths telescoped over the many years which separated them. 'Particularly the circumstances of her death.'

He frowned. 'It was an accident, Elizabeth. We did look at it carefully, you know - ?' But he knew he couldn't really question the request. 'All right, if it will put your mind at rest, we'll see what Turnbull can turn up. But he'll be wasting his time.'

Time was what she needed. There was something going on which she didn't understand, but which relegated Cheltenham to the second division. And if anyone knew what it was, Paul would know enough to guess at it. And she could always handle Paul, at a pinch.

'I'll meet you back at the office after lunch, David,' she concluded.

6

It was all according to what you were used to, thought Elizabeth as she paid the taxi-driver.

They were all accustomed to meet in pubs up and down the river, as well as in more respectable places - to meet, and to meet people whom they did not wish to be seen meeting in those too well-frequented respectable places: that was apparently the way dummy2

David Audley had always operated, and Paul emulated him in this, as in other things. But, although she liked to regard herself as entirely liberated and equal to all occasions, there were still pubs and pubs. And the Marshal Ney was quite evidently one of those in the

'and pubs' category.

She could see that the taxi-driver agreed with her as she tipped him. He had been doubtful when she had named the place and specified its location; but now that they were here, surrounded by urban decay and the smell of the river (or of something worse), he was certain that it was not really the sort of destination for a well-dressed lady from Whitehall -

or, at least, a lady whose face precluded any romantic or illicit intention.

'Right, love?' He watched her study the pub sign above the door of the saloon bar. 'The Marshal Ney - right?'

There was no name on the sign, only a representation of what might be the bravest of Napoleon's marshals, although it looked more like a pirate brandishing a cutlass from astride a kangaroo.

Elizabeth's heart faltered. There wasn't a soul in sight, only a lean black cat which paused in its unhurried crossing of the road to eye her. Then she remembered something Paul had once said. 'Do they call it "The Frenchman"?'

He nodded, and engaged the gears, and gave her up for lost. That's right, love - "The Frenchman" it is.'

She watched the taxi move slowly away - slowly, because the cat itself was in no hurry to give it right of way on its own territory - and then pushed at the door. It yielded unwillingly, with an unoiled screech.

If anything, the smell inside was more insistent. But there, to her enormous relief, was Paul, elbow-on-bar, nursing his Guinness, with his ear inclined to a shrivelled little man on the other side.

'Elizabeth!' He straightened up - almost stood to attention. 'What a delightful surprise!'

Her relief, which had almost graduated to gratitude, instantly evaporated. But she could hardly say 'What a dreadful place! Why did you bring me here?' with the possible owner of the dreadful place staring open-mouthed at her.

'Meet my friend Tom.' Paul indicated the little man. 'Tom - Elizabeth.'

'Lizbuff.' The little man climbed on something behind his bar, raising himself to her level, dummy2

and offered her his monkey's paw, the fingers of which were stained bright nicotine-brown.

'Tom.' She shook the paw.

'You don't wanta believe 'im, though.' The little man half-glanced at Paul, screwing up his face, which he was able to do the more expressively because he seemed to have no teeth.

'In what way shouldn't I believe him?' Elizabeth questioned this sound advice innocently.

'I ain't's friend, for starters.' Tom emitted a curious sucking noise. 'An' 'e ain't surprised, neither. 'E was expectin' you.'

'Oh yes?' He had only confirmed her most recent conclusion, but it was still irritating to be computed so accurately. 'And what made you so sure, Paul?'

'I wasn't sure - not quite.' He was unabashed by Tom's betrayal. 'Tom - why don't you just push off to your other bar, like a good chap, eh?'

'Oh yus?' The little man didn't move. 'Lady's teetotal, is she? Ain'tcha got no manners, then?'

'Will you have a drink, Elizabeth?'

'It's a little early for me.' She smiled at Tom. 'If you don't mind.'

'Suit yourself, Miss.' Tom stepped down off his box and shuffled towards a faded curtain at the other end of the bar. But then he stopped and turned back, with his hand on the curtain. 'Prob'ly jus' as well. You wanta 'ave yer wits about yer wiv 'im, Miss. 'Cause 'e's artful.' He nodded. 'Artful - like the other one.' He watched her with sharp little eyes. 'The big fella - okay?'

'Okay.' She wondered how much he knew - or guessed - about their business. 'Thank you, Tom.'

'And thank you too, Tom,' Paul called after the little man as he disappeared through the curtain. 'I'll do the same for you some time.'

Elizabeth studied him. 'Why were you so sure I'd come?'

He returned the scrutiny. 'I wasn't sure. It depended on… oh, several things.'

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'Such as?'

'Does it matter - now you're here?'

Artful. It was a curiously archaic word, but nonetheless accurate. 'Let me guess. You thought maybe I wouldn't get away from David Audley? "For starters", as Tom would say?'

'That was certainly a consideration.' He drank again. 'Let's say, Elizabeth, that I did you the compliment of assuming that you would. And that you would then do what I would do, if I were in your dainty shoes.'