'Then the man looked up the hillside and saw the rake, and he turned and ran straight towards him. And when he reached the brow of the hill he stopped to catch his breath, looked at the rake, and then staggered on past. And the rake knew very well what he dummy2
had been thinking: "He's a black sinner too – maybe the hounds will stop and take him instead of me".'
The door opened behind Roskill.
'It's Major Butler, David,' said Faith. 'He wants an urgent word with Hugh.'
Roskill swung round. Butler loomed solidly in the doorway, silhouetted against the brighter hall behind him. There was a glitter of raindrops on his head – the weather had broken at last.
'For Hugh?' Audley didn't look at Roskill. 'Well, Butler – we've just reached the brandy stage – allow us to finish that before you take him away. And join us in the meantime – sit down. Your ill tidings can wait a few minutes.'
'No need to take him away, Dr. Audley.' Butler dabbed at the damp red stubble on his head as he sat down. 'A brandy would be acceptable though. As to the ill tidings – your leave's up tomorrow anyway, Hugh. What other sort of tidings can there be?'
Roskill knew then with certainty that he was about to be double-crossed – knew it and was filled with gladness. All that remained was to act out a convincing role: should he struggle in the snare or submit with cold dignity? Which would be more in character?
'Jack, you know darned well when my leave ends.' Struggle, then –
even a rabbit struggled. 'At eight a.m. tomorrow I shall shave off this beard. At ten I'll pick up my mail at the office, and by three I'll be at R.A.F. Snettisham. There's not one thing you can do about it
– it was all settled months ago. I belong to the R.A.F. for the next ten weeks. Not to Sir Frederick, and certainly not to you.'
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He looked round the table for moral support. Faith radiated honest sympathy, but Audley's sympathy was tinged with relief: the hounds had passed him by...
'Ten week's refresher, Jack – that's the agreement. Ten weeks to keep me up to the mark so I'll still have a career when Sir Frederick puts me out to grass. They wouldn't be thinking of breaking that, would they, Jack?'
Go on – break it, Jack.
'The beard.' The suggestion of a perverse smile passed across Butler's mouth. Butler had been due for some leave when Roskill returned, but then the best press gangs were always made up of pressed men. 'That's one reason why I'm here. They'd like you to keep it, even if it does make you look like a pirate.'
'I'm not going to Snettisham with a beard.'
'You're not going to Snettisham at all, Hugh. Not for the time being, anyway.'
'The beard's coming off and I'm going to Snettisham.' Struggle harder and feel the wire tighten.
Butler looked pained. 'Don't be childish, man. If you put your pretty uniform on again tomorrow you'll stay in it. And not at a nice lively place like Snettisham. More likely somewhere like Benbecula – or wherever they send the awkward ones nowadays.
On the ground, certainly. There'd be no more flying.'
They had to want him very badly to spell it out as crudely as that, with what they took to be the ultimate threat. Or so they thought.
That might well be the only thing they didn't know about him –
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that one big, secret ace in the hole. And as long as they didn't know it, it was his strength, not his weakness.
One final protest should be enough for the record..
'They might as well ground me anyway. If they won't let me keep up with my flying they're as good as doing that already. Is this Sir Frederick's idea of a gentleman's agreement?'
Faith pushed her chair back from the table and stood up. 'I think I'll go and make a lot of strong coffee – before I'm sent packing.'
Butler turned towards her hastily. 'Don't go, Mrs. Audley. The brandy's fine – please don't leave us.'
Audley grunted angrily. 'I don't think she likes watching Hugh blackmailed any more than I do. It's too much like old times for both of us.'
'At least hear me out,' Butler looked at Roskill. 'I think you may not want to go back to the R. A.F. quite so quickly then – I mean that, Hugh. And it really is perfectly in order for you to listen, Mrs.
Audley. You may even have something to contribute.'
Faith sat down again willingly enough, and Roskill felt a pang of disquiet. It was like her to be curious, but it wasn't like Butler –
solid, security-conscious Butler, who mistrusted women and hated amateurs.
And of all women, Faith. For Butler had deplored Audley's original involvement with her – 'that over-bred, under-sexed schoolteacher with foam-rubber tits.' It was an uncharacteristically facile assessment, except possibly as regards the foam rubber, but what mattered was that it didn't fit this sudden partiality: Faith wouldn't dummy2
hold her tongue, and Butler would know it.
'Get on with it, then, Jack. I can't wait to hear why I have to keep my beard.'
Butler took a slow breath, almost a sigh. 'On Tuesday night somebody stole a car belonging to a Foreign Office man named Llewelyn.'
Audley sat up. 'Llewelyn? David Llewelyn would that be?'
'You know him?'
'I used... to know him.' Audley began guardedly and ended casually. 'I played rugger against him as a matter of fact.'
'So someone pinched Llewelyn's car,' said Roskill after a moment's silence. Butler had evidently hoped that Audley was going to elaborate on his acquaintance, but Audley's mouth was tightly closed again. 'That's a normal occupational hazard in London these days.'
'It was taken in Oxford.'
'Still close enough for the city gangs.' Butler ignored him.
'He parked the car at six thirty p.m. in Radcliffe square, just next to All Souls – he was having dinner in All Souls that evening. By midnight it had gone. They picked it up at Bicester at seven p.m.
next evening.'
Roskill looked at the map in his mind. Bicester was just north, or maybe north-east, of Oxford. And hardly more than a dozen miles away. There was an R.A.F. maintenance unit there, not far from the American base the F-111's were moving into soon. And an Army camp – a fair-sized ordnance depot.
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'So some jokers missed the last bus home and picked their own transport. It happens.'
Butler nodded. 'It happens – aye. In fact it's what the police suggested. They found the car in an Army depot area, beside a public road.'
Audley began to say something, and then stopped abruptly, and looked down into his brandy glass. And if Butler was normally resistant to Faith's charm, Audley equally could never resist hypothesising. So now they were both acting out of character.
Roskill started to stroke his chin and rather to his surprise encountered his beard: the very idea of preserving it was ridiculous, and also out of character...
Butler was a colleague, a friend even, so he must now be doing simply what he had been told to do. But Audley ranked as a friend too, and there was something which had scared him off – even though the hounds of Hell had passed him by. So there was something very wrong with the idea of some R.A.O.C. private lifting the Foreign Office man's car.
'What sort of car was it?'
'Vanden Plas Princess – the 4-litre one.'
The poor-man's Rolls-Royce, the company director's tax dodging limousine.
'All right, Jack. If you want me to play "spot the deliberate mistake" I'll play it, though you could just as soon have told me.
For starters – the wrong sort of car lifted from the wrong place.
How's that?'
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'Why was it wrong?' asked Faith.
'Too obvious. It's not a popular make. If I wanted to get back to barracks I'd pick something easier to get into and easier to drive.
And something less conspicuous. And I wouldn't lift it from somewhere in the centre of Oxford like Radcliffe Square, if my memory of the place is right. I'd pick up a Mini from a dark side-street. Right, Jack?'