'I give you my word, David–for what it's worth–that we know no more than you do. Probably less, on your past form. Panin is a man with very little past, a big present and an even bigger future. We'd like to know more about him, and this is a great opportunity. We don't want to offend him if we can help it, either!'
Nothing had changed since yesterday.
'I think you should at least admit the possibility, Dr Audley, that he simply wants to recover the Trojan antiquities. He's an archaeologist. He lost them in the first place –and that probably rankles. He's on holiday, too. On his own time, as it were. Taking precautions could be second nature with him. All we can do is to find those boxes for him, show him the sights and send him home happy.'
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Audley felt his irritability returning as he retraced his way to Richardson's room. Stocker must know something else, but he wasn't going to divulge it, even in answer to a direct appeal. It must therefore be a matter of high policy, something relating to the official attitude to Panin, rather than to the Steerforth aspect. All he could do was to obey orders without fully understanding them–
which might suit the field operatives, but didn't suit him at all.
Roskill's large feet propped on the end of Richardson's bed were the first thing he saw. Richardson himself was still stationed by the window; Faith sat in the only comfortable chair and Butler was perched on a stool next to the wash-stand. The overall effect almost restored his spirits: crammed suspiciously into this little room they generated an atmosphere of conspiracy strong enough to set all the bank alarms in sleepy Knaresborough ringing.
He caught Roskill's eye and saw disconcertingly that his thoughts were being read and shared. And there was a slow smile spreading across Faith's face. In another second this council of war would slip into farce while he was still searching for the right words to bring it to order.
Butler saved him: 'You were right about Tierney, Dr Audley. You said we'd get nothing from him, and nothing is exactly what we got.'
Roskill swung upright on the bed.
'Master Tierney's memory is very poor. He remembers exactly what's in his little blue log book–which he still has, incidentally.
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No more, no less. Twenty-four years is a great healer for him. All his harrowing experiences have faded into nothing. He wishes he could help us, but he can't.'
'I prodded him on Steerforth,' Butler took up the narrative again.
'Said we had reason to believe that he was bringing in contraband goods and warned him about certain non-existent regulations. He didn't quite laugh at me, but he obviously knows we can't touch him.'
'Major Butler put on his sergeant-major act,' said Roskill. Then he went to get the car and I told Tierney what a rude bastard Butler was, and how nasty he could get, and how I could smooth things over if he'd just give us a little help. He didn't laugh at me either–
but he wanted to.'
'I expect he recognised the technique,' said Richardson. 'He's been through the mill more than once up here. He's a Fifth Amendment man.'
'I don't think I'd buy my TV set from him, certainly,' said Roskill.
'He's not a man who inspires my confidence.'
Butler snorted. 'The set would be all right. It would be the small print of the maintenance agreement you'd have to read carefully.'
Somewhere in the hotel a clock began to chime. It was midday and Audley was abominably hungry already as a result of a sketchy breakfast and a barbarously early start to the day. But there was still work to be done and he nerved himself to organise everyone.
'What does Tierney do for his Sunday lunch?' he asked Richardson.
'Drinks it at a flashy pub down the road.'
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'Right. Miss Jones and I will approach him there. Then we'll take Maclean.' He glanced down at the list from Roskill's file. 'I see there are only two of the ground crew short-listed. Where are the other two?'
'One died in '54–natural causes. The other emigrated in '50–
Australia.'
'You and Butler can split the others then. I'll see you both tomorrow at 9. I'll be at the Bull, Newton Chester.'
'And the Pole, Wojek?'
'Monday evening for him–if we have time. I'd like to see Wojek myself. One of you can phone him and make an appointment–say I'm writing a history of Polish aircrew in the RAF.'
Richardson broke in suddenly, beckoning him to the window.
'He's coming out.'
Audley moved beside him, following his gaze. Time had accentuated that distinctive ferrety face. The slope of the forehead and the receding chin had not been so apparent in the photograph; buck teeth for gnawing, long nose for sniffing, separated by the same slightly ridiculous toothbrush moustache. The nose was sniffing now as Tierney stood in his doorway quartering the view nervously with the abrupt little movements of the head of an animal in a hostile environment.
It would be awkward if Tierney didn't follow his Sunday routine now. But for all his coolness with Roskill and Butler he'd probably need the reassurance of the pub more than usual.
'Come on Faith,' he said quickly. 'Time for us now!' In a final dummy4
flurry of decision-making he took the Rover's keys and location from Butler and adjured Richardson to continue covering Tierney.
By taking the car he was leaving them a transport problem, but that was their headache.
By the time they reached the street Tierney was a small figure in the distance. But the need for speed was all to the good: Faith had not shown the least sign of nerves so far. She had evidently repaired her make-up while he had been phoning Stocker, and still presented a cool, almost cold, front to the world–the tinted glasses lent her face something of the haughtiness it had without them. The less time she had to think, the less chance there was that the mask would slip.
Tierney's pub was a perfect example of the tarted-up olde worlde style beloved of the breweries, all beams and padded red plastic and bar ablaze with light. The Sunday morning rush had not yet started and Tierney was alone at one end of the bar drinking whisky greedily.
Audley ordered gin for Faith, filled up his own small whisky to the top with water and instructed the barman to fill up Tierney's glass.
Tierney looked up sharply as the barman muttered to him. He had looked them over as they had entered, dismissing Audley but lingering over Faith. But now he was trying to place them both.
He hesitated for a moment, sipping the drink as though to establish its genuineness. Then he sauntered over to their corner.
'I don't think I've had the pleasure?'
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His eyes shifted from Faith to Audley, and back to Faith as he spoke. Neither of them replied, but Faith carefully removed her glasses and stared up at him for a long moment.
'Are you quite sure of that?' she said.
A lot depended on Tierney's memory for faces, and it would still require a remarkable leap of the mind, even after this morning's reminder of things long past. But to Audley, knowing the answer, the resemblance was plainer than ever: she had somehow caught the tilt of the head which had been characteristic of her father's pictures.
It was enough to shake Tierney, but he still failed to make the connection.
'Steerforth is my name. Faith Steerforth. You haven't forgotten John Steerforth, have you?'
'My God!' said Tierney.
'Sit down, Mr Tierney,' said Audley. 'My name's Audley. We'd like to talk to you about old times.'
Tierney tore his glance away from Faith. 'Old times?' He sat down, raised his glass to his lips and then abruptly set it down untasted.
His alarm bells were ringing loud and clear.
'Johnnie Steerforth's daughter! Damn me, but I can see it now.
Margery Steerforth's baby!'
'Margaret,' said Faith levelly.
'Margaret–of course! How well I remember her!'
Faith took a photograph from her handbag.