‘Downwind of Junior is where I’m sitting,’ One-Eye said. ‘Look at you. You’re a fucking disgrace. How old are you?’
‘Dunno,’ Junior said.
‘He knows sod all,’ Shakes said. ‘He’s simple. I can tell you when I was born, 1952, the year the king died. He doesn’t know shit. He can’t even tell you his name.’
‘Me, I was born the year we landed on the moon,’ One-Eye said as if he’d personally completed the Apollo Eleven mission. ‘When was that?’
‘Don’t ask me,’ Shakes said. ‘And don’t ask him. He wouldn’t know. Work it out yourself.’
‘Where was you before you came to Bristol?’ One-Eye asked Junior, shifting the attention away from himself.
There was no answer.
‘I’d say you’re from round here, going by the way you talk. Brissle, born and bred, you be.’
‘D’you think so?’
‘Bloody obvious.’
With her head feeling divorced from the rest of her, Ingeborg stood at the end of Saville Row near enough to the corner of Alfred Street to back out of sight when necessary. She expected Miss Brie to emerge from Mon Repos before long. The Courvoisier-lubricated meeting had not delivered much, but she was confident there was more to come. She had seen the way the old lady’s mind was working, the paranoia about hidden mikes and tapped phones. In her statements about surveillance, Miss Brie had revealed more than she intended. By denying that she would make a phone call, she had confirmed that she had it in mind to get in touch with somebody. Out of loyalty to her previous employer, she planned to warn the anonymous client as soon as possible about this attention from the police.
How would a paranoid old lady make contact if she was convinced her house was bugged?
She’d go out.
If the client was local she’d visit in person. If not, she’d use a public phone. She was unlikely to own a mobile.
Worth waiting to find out? Ingeborg believed so.
The day had reached that busy time between one and two when office workers were out on the streets along with tourists, students and shoppers. Busy only in the sense of large numbers — No one was especially active. There was much standing about in groups, laughing, gossiping and generally enjoying the spring sun. This suited Ingeborg nicely. If you are tailing someone, you take advantage of every opportunity of cover and the chance to linger unnoticed on street corners.
The alcohol may have had something to do with it, but she was feeling buoyant again. She’d wanted more action and this was it. Tailing an innocent old lady didn’t have the cachet of tangling with an arms supplier, but it beat sitting at a desk in Manvers Street with John Leaman for company.
Fifteen minutes later, some of the elation had drained away. Miss Brie had not made the expected move. Be patient, Ingeborg told herself. Old ladies don’t rush. She’ll be choosing what to wear, dabbing on more of the lipstick and eau de cologne, checking herself in the mirror and making sure all the lights and appliances are switched off before she steps out.
She looked at her watch. Nearly two. The lunchtime crowds were already thinning out. Saville Row was getting into afternoon mode, with just a few window-gazing at the antiques.
Then she took a sharp breath. A petite figure in a grey coat and black straw hat had stepped into the alley and started walking towards her with a firm step. Miss Brie was on the move at last.
Ingeborg backed out of sight a short way along Alfred Street and waited. She expected her quarry to continue straight down the hill towards the centre of the city by way of Bartlett Street, a wider walkway lined with yet more restaurants and antique shops, and she was right. Without a glance right or left, Miss Brie moved on, definitely on a mission. Steady on her feet and with a clear eye, she showed no effect from the several shots of brandy.
So it became a sedate pursuit, suited to a civilised city like Bath, keeping the black straw hat in sight, but remaining alert, ready to step aside into a shop doorway if necessary. At the foot of Bartlett Street, Miss Brie turned into George Street and used the pedestrian crossing. She was still so purposeful that it was tempting to get closer and trust she wouldn’t suddenly look round and realise she was being followed.
Don’t risk it, Ingeborg urged herself.
At the corner of Gay Street, a voice unexpectedly said, ‘Hi, Ingeborg. How are you doing?’
Not what she needed. James, her karate instructor.
‘Sorry. Can’t stop,’ she told him. ‘I’m late for a meeting.’ And she knew how unconvincing she sounded, especially as she was moving at Miss Brie’s plodding rate and couldn’t allow herself to speed up.
‘No problem,’ James said, frowning a little and turning to watch her ambling past.
The hazards of stalking so close to home. Meeting a friend rather undermined the drama of the mission. Back on track, she continued down Gay Street and past the Jane Austen Centre hoping fervently that the man outside dressed as Mr. Darcy and built more like Mr. Pickwick didn’t invite her in. Mercifully he didn’t.
Meanwhile Miss Brie progressed down the hill as true to her line as if she was pushing a surveyor’s wheel. She’d now reached the west side of the most elegant roundabout in Britain, John Wood’s majestic Queen Square, where traffic circulated around lawns, boules pitches, tall trees and an obelisk, all enclosed by railings and bordered by palatial buildings — in the grandest of which Dr. Oliver, the inventor of Miss Brie’s favourite biscuit, had once lived. How galling, the thought crossed Ingeborg’s mind, if it turned out that Miss Brie had come out only to replenish her stock of Bath Olivers.
The dignified pursuit moved on towards the opposite side of the square. Here the route was more open, so Ingeborg allowed Miss Brie to get even further ahead, just in case she had a sudden loss of confidence and looked behind her.
And now, as Ingeborg was crossing Old King Street, behind the back of Jolly’s, someone else she hadn’t spotted spoke up. ‘What’s this, Sergeant Smith? On patrol, are you?’
Of all the people in all of Avon and Somerset, Georgina, in civvies, carrying a large bag that looked like clothes shopping.
You couldn’t cold-shoulder the Assistant Chief Constable — even in the course of duty.
The remark had been pitched in a friendly way. Best be civil and keep it short. ‘I’m on my way back to the station, ma’am. I had to speak to a witness in Saville Row.’
‘One of the people at that auction?’
‘Not exactly, but someone with information.’
‘And how is the investigation progressing?’
Where do I start? Ingeborg thought. What a question to ask, and what a time and place to ask it. She noticed Georgina had manoeuvred the shopping bag behind her ample thighs, but not swiftly enough to hide the name on the side. Honey of Bath, in Lilliput Court, was a well-known boutique. This unnecessary conversation was a deflection, just to cover Georgina’s embarrassment. ‘We’re doing as well as expected, ma’am.’
‘That’s good. I haven’t seen you around the station for a few days.’
‘I had some time off.’
‘Really? In the middle of a major investigation?’
‘Not exactly time off. I was on surveillance.’ At all costs, she must avoid using the word undercover.
‘And was it a success?’
‘In some respects, ma’am.’
‘Well done, then.’ Georgina was sidling past Ingeborg, still keeping the Honey of Bath bag hidden behind her. ‘Keep up the good work.’ And then, glory hallelujah, she moved swiftly on.
Ingeborg breathed a massive sigh of relief — and then discovered that Miss Brie was nowhere in sight.
Damn you, Georgina.
She started sprinting along the side of the square. It didn’t matter any more if heads turned. The one head that wouldn’t turn was Miss Brie’s, because she wasn’t here any more. But which way had she gone? She hadn’t continued around the square or she’d still be in sight. Barton Street was straight ahead, Wood Street to the left, each of them leading towards one of the busiest pedestrian thoroughfares in the city. In that sea of people it would be hopeless trying to pick out the little old lady in the straw hat.