Jones made an uncertain movement.
‘I’m in a more fortunate position than you,’ he said. ‘There’s no money riding on what I do.’
‘What, then?’ insisted Charlie.
Jones was at the window. He turned at the open question.
‘Just a group of government officials who want to know if Peking put a match to a liner hardly out of American ownership.’
Now Jones was making mistakes, thought Charlie, as the different confirmation came of his earlier assessment. Or was he? Perhaps it was an invitation to Charlie to become more careless.
‘Why should that interest them?’ he pressed. ‘The sale had gone through, after all.’
‘But only just,’ said Jones. ‘Hardly be a friendly act towards America, would it?’
‘And that worries a shipping authority sufficiently to send you all the way here?’
‘You’d better believe it,’ said Jones glibly.
But I don’t, thought Charlie. It would be wrong to let the disbelief be too obvious.
‘So what are you going to do?’ he repeated. It was time to attempt some insurance of his own. Or at least as much protection as possible.
Jones returned to his chair, apparently realising the failure of his wanderings to irritate Charlie.
‘Like you, I’m stuck with the official version,’ said the American.
‘But I don’t accept it. What about you?’
‘I like your story better than Johnson’s,’ conceded Jones.
‘Why not ask Johnson’s help?’ suggested Charlie. ‘He might change his mind if he got a second request so quickly.’
Jones made a dismissive gesture with his well-kept hands.
‘He’d know it originated from you. And he didn’t strike me as a man prepared to change his mind very often.’
‘Perhaps you’re right,’ said Charlie. About now, he decided.
‘We could work together,’ said Jones, promptly on cue.
Charlie maintained his relaxed pose, smiling across at the other man. Jones had realised his earlier mistake.
‘You’re welcome to anything I learn,’ promised Charlie. ‘And if you come up with anything, I’d like to know about it.’
‘I was actually thinking of something closer,’ said Jones.
I know you were, thought Charlie. Aloud, he said, ‘I was never much for teamwork.’
‘We could both benefit,’ Jones argued.
He already had, Charlie decided. Having led Jones into making the suggestion, then rejecting it, he would know from the closeness of the man’s attention just how strong Jones’s uncertainty of him remained. Which was the maximum insurance for which he could hope.
‘Or get in each other’s way,’ said Charlie. ‘I think it’s better we work independently. But perhaps exchange what we come up with.’
‘So you’re a loner?’
‘Every time.’
‘How many times have there been?’
‘What?’ said Charlie, momentarily confused by the question.
‘How long have you worked for insurance companies?’
‘Must be twenty years,’ assured Charlie, wanting to change position in the chair but knowing the other man would recognise the nervousness it would betray.
‘Long as that?’
‘Hardly entrust a?6,000,000 investigation to a newcomer, would they?’
‘Not unless he had particular qualities… like being able to see something that the police don’t regard as unusual.’
‘Seemed obvious, like I told you.’
‘Sure,’ agreed Jones. ‘You told me.’
Charlie waited, but the American didn’t continue. The man was letting the silence build up, trying to disturb him as he had attempted with the pointless meandering around the suite.
Remembering the way the encounter had been forced upon him, to become annoyed would be entirely natural, realised Charlie, just in time.
‘Right,’ he said positively, standing up. ‘If there’s nothing more with which I can help you at the moment…’
‘If you’re quite sure there isn’t?’ interrupted Jones, making his most direct approach since they had begun talking.
‘And I have a funeral to arrange,’ continued Charlie, refusing to respond to the innuendo.
Once more Jones stood, accepting his dismissal.
‘Kind of you to let me barge in like this.’
‘No trouble at all,’ said Charlie.
‘We’ll keep in touch.’
‘Of course.’
‘I’m at the Peninsula.’
‘I’ll remember that.’
‘Damned clever of you, seeing the flaw in Johnson’s case,’ reiterated Jones, shaking his head in feigned admiration and wanting to prolong the meeting as much as possible.
Now it was Charlie’s turn to use silence.
‘I’ll get along then,’ said Jones finally.
‘Yes,’ Charlie encouraged him.
Charlie stood unmoving for several moments after the door had closed behind the American. Then he went to the bar. The bottle vibrated against the glass edge as he splashed the whisky out, drank it in one gulp, then poured a second.
Good, he judged. But good enough? There was no way he could be sure. Certainly Jones had been pressing until the very end. But it would be wrong to read too much into that. It was basic procedure: the sort of persistence he would have shown himself in the same circumstances.
He paused at the thought. As frightened as he had been, there had been something enervating about the confrontation. Perhaps the feeling of a matador facing an insufficiently weakened bull and knowing it could kill him. Charlie snorted, disgusted with himself. That was melodramatic bullshit, he thought; the sort of posturing of which he knew he had been guilty in the past.
He was not fighting bulls. He was fighting for his life. Again.
He wanted to run. The awareness came suddenly, surprising him. He was no more prepared to die now than he had been on the East Berlin border or during the pursuit by the Americans or the British or during any of the missions upon which he’d been sent by the underwriter’s father.
A man who relied so much upon instinct, Charlie recognised his determination to survive as the strongest force within him.
So how could he survive? Certainly not by running. That would provide whatever confirmation Jones needed and start the chase all over again. Resolve everything quickly then. Far quicker than Willoughby was demanding. But how, against Johnson’s official refusal to reopen the case?
‘You’re fucked, Charlie,’ he told himself. ‘Without even being kissed.’
He booked the call to London, stared at his glass considering another drink and then rejected the idea. It never helped.
Willoughby’s response was immediate. The man must spend all his time waiting by the telephone.
‘Nelson’s dead,’ announced Charlie, quietening a flurry of questions from the underwriter.
‘Oh God,’ said Willoughby.
‘Yes.’
‘What happened?’
It took Charlie only a few moments to tell the underwriter. Hardly long enough, he thought. A man’s life, dismissed in a minute or two.
‘And Johnson still won’t help?’ demanded Willoughby, when Charlie had finished.
‘Not upon anything. And to be fair to the man, I don’t suppose there’s any logical, police reason why he should.’
‘But you said…’
‘That I didn’t have any proof,’ Charlie reminded him. If Harvey Jones instituted any investigation in London, Willoughby would collapse, thought Charlie again.
‘I haven’t much more time,’ said the underwriter, defeat etched into his voice. ‘I’ll have to make an announcement soon.’
Perhaps neither of us has got much more time, thought Charlie.
‘I realise that,’ he said.
‘What about Nelson trying to prove the girl’s story,’ said Willoughby desperately. ‘That’s a motive. Cause enough for some sort of police investigation. That and the premium…?’
‘But there’s no evidence of what Nelson was trying to do… apart from my word. Death was by drowning. And he’d been drinking.’
‘So there’s still nothing with which we can dispute the writs?’
‘Not yet.’
‘I was very hopeful.’