‘So it’s all over,’ she said, very softly.
‘It could just be coincidence,’ he tried, hopefully.
‘Don’t be damned stupid,’ she said. ‘You can’t believe that.’
She moved at last, going towards the bedroom.
‘What are you doing?’
She stopped at the question.
‘I’m going to pack, of course.’
‘What for, Edith?’ he said. He spoke calmly, trying to reduce her apprehension.
She sniggered, control slipping again.
‘To get out … run … what else?’
‘We can’t run anywhere, Edith.’
She turned fully, to face him.
‘What do you mean, we can’t go anywhere?’
‘Just that.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Charlie.’
‘That’s exactly what I’m not being. I’ve got to go back to Brighton, today.’
‘Charlie! For God’s sake!’
He went forward, taking both her hands in his. Fear was vibrating through her. Poor Edith, he thought, studying her. Poor frightened, abused, trusting, faithful Edith. She’d suffered a great deal because of him, Charlie realised. And never once complained, not even during their most bitter rows. The evidence wasn’t overly visible, not physically. Her body was still firm enough to be exciting; the figure of a woman ten years younger, he often assured her. And meant it, quite sincerely. It was in her face that the anxiety had settled, defying the efforts of successive and increasingly more expensive beauticians, lining the pale blue eyes and around her mouth and furrowing the forehead that had once been so smooth and unworried. It would have shown in the greyness of her hair, too, if she hadn’t constantly had it disguised during those weekly visits to the beauty salons.
‘Edith,’ he said, his voice even and deepened by the sadness. ‘The one thing we could never sustain is any detailed investigation by a civilian police force …’
‘But …’
‘Listen to me, Edith. There’s been a robbery estimated at upwards of a million pounds. What would happen if I don’t go back, the one box-holder they can’t locate? I’ll be the prime suspect, the man who rented the facility to obtain access to the deposit room, to plan the robbery.’
‘But it’s an assumed name,’ protested Edith, desperately.
‘Which would unquestionably establish the guilt,’ he insisted. ‘A box-holder who fails to turn up and is then discovered to have taken out the rental under a phoney name …’
He paused, waiting for the acceptance to register. Her face remained blank.
‘… an assumed name,’ he resumed. ‘That we are currently using on the passports legitimately obtained on forged birth certificates. It would be normal police routine to check for passports, if I don’t show up. From the application forms, they would get our pictures …’
She went to speak again, but he raised his fingers to her lips, stopping her.
‘I know we’ve got other passports, in your vault here. But the photographs are the one thing we can’t alter. If I don’t return to Brighton, our pictures will be circulated by Interpol distribution within forty-eight hours and there won’t be a passport control through which we could pass without identification …’
She sagged, like a puppet whose strings had been cut.
‘Oh, God,’ she said. The lines on her face seemed to deepen.
He led her back to the chair, sitting her down.
‘I’m taking no risks, going to the police,’ he attempted to reassure her. ‘I’m not wanted for anything … not by them, anyway…’
She shook her head.
‘I’m confused, Charlie.’
To a degree, so was he, he thought. How soon would he be able to understand completely what was happening?
‘It’s quite simple,’ he said. ‘All I have to do is return to Brighton and answer whatever questions the police will want to ask.’
‘But the money …’
‘… will be gone,’ he cut in. He hoped, he thought. If it had been left, it would need some explanation.
‘So all I have to do is name the insurance policies, admit to a small sum they will expect me to have had lodged there and that’ll be the end of it …’
The dullness had gone from her face, he saw.
‘You’re forgetting something, Charlie,’ she accused him. ‘Or perhaps trying to make me forget something.’
‘What?’
‘That would be all right if we thought the robbery were a coincidence …’
‘We can’t be sure …’
‘If we thought it were a coincidence,’ she repeated, refusing the interruption. ‘And we both know it isn’t. We both know that you’ve been found, Charlie. Not just found, either. They’ve discovered everything about you, Charlie — everything — we’re not discussing the end of anything. We’re talking about the beginning.’
‘There’s no proof of that. Not yet.’
‘Do you need proof, for heaven’s sake?’
‘I certainly need more than we’ve got so far before I abandon something it’s taken us so long to establish.’
She shook her head.
‘You’re walking right back to them, Charlie … right back to where they can do whatever they like.’
She was right, Charlie accepted. And too intelligent to be persuaded otherwise. And there was not a thing he could do about it. Not a bloody thing. Bastards.
‘The problem is, darling,’ he said, feeling the first surges of real fear, ‘that I’ve got no choice. At least this way I gain time to fight back.’
‘Fight back!’
She spat the words out, face twisted in disgust. She was very frightened, Charlie accepted.
‘Stop it, Charlie,’ she demanded. ‘Stop all this rubbish about fighting back and survival. Do you realise what you’re facing this time?’
‘Edith,’ he said, avoiding the question, ‘we both knew, no matter how much we tried to avoid admitting it, that it could happen, one day.’
Her anger died as quickly as it had erupted.
‘Oh, Charlie,’ she said, ‘I’m so frightened.’
‘I’ll find a way out,’ he promised.
It had been a fatuous thing to say, he realised, seeing the look on her face.
Charlie caught the evening flight to London. He travelled with only hand baggage and was one of the first Swissair passengers through passport control. It was 7.15 p.m.
At 7.35, George Wilberforce received a telephone call at his London flat, confirming the arrival for which he had been alerted by the earlier message from Zurich. He began to hum in time with the stereo and then smiled, in recognition. Delius. He’d played that the night he’d first located Charlie Muffin. And now he’d trapped him. He’d enjoy the satisfaction of the following day’s meeting with the Americans, he decided.
Onslow Smith was waiting at the Albemarle Street hotel in which they were both staying when Ruttgers returned from Zurich.
‘Everything according to plan?’ he greeted the ex-Director.
Ruttgers frowned at the assessment.
‘No,’ he disagreed. ‘He’s still alive.’
THIRTEEN
Charlie had identified the unmarked police car about twenty yards from the house, so he was waiting for the doorbell when it sounded. He paused, briefly, preparing himself and when he opened the door the expectant smile was carefully in place.
‘Yes?’
‘Police,’ identified the taller of the two men. He produced a warrant card, holding it steadily for Charlie to examine it. ‘We …’
‘Of course,’ broke off Charlie. ‘Come in.’
He stood back for them to enter. They were both smart but unobtrusive men, grey-suited, muted ties, polished black shoes. Hendon, guessed Charlie.
‘Why of course?’ demanded the first man, unmoving.
Aggressive, too, decided Charlie. But properly so.
‘The robbery,’ he said. ‘What else?’
‘Ah,’ said the man. Then waited. It was a practised reaction, realised Charlie, leading them into the lounge. So the older man prided himself on his interrogation technique. He had once, remembered Charlie. He’d been damned good. He hoped it hadn’t been too long ago; he felt the tingle of apprehension.