‘You better stay here, Clive.’ He surveyed the chaos. ‘Try to clear this up with the police when they arrive.’ Then he nodded in Hepton’s direction. ‘I’ll take these two back with me in the car.’
The other man nodded slowly, not looking at all happy with his allotted task, but unable or unwilling to protest.
‘Where are we going?’ Hepton asked as he and Jilly walked to the car. His grip on the knife relaxed.
‘I’m getting you out of this,’ Sanders said, indicating the scene around them. He was shaking too, obviously not used to car chases and crashes. ‘I would have thought that was reason enough for you to be grateful.’
‘It is,’ said Jilly. Even her lips had gone white with shock.
‘How did you find us?’ Hepton asked.
Sanders shrugged. ‘I used a bit of initiative. Besides, what other leads did I have? All I knew about you, Mr Hepton, was that you had a friend in London called Jilly Watson who worked on the Herald. It wasn’t too difficult to find out where Miss Watson lived. Then when I saw you racing away from the scene like that...’
‘Someone tried to kill me back there,’ commented Hepton, seeking a reaction. Sanders raised an eyebrow, nothing more. Hepton decided to try another tack. ‘I lost your first tail, though, didn’t I?’
‘First tail?’ Sanders seemed genuinely puzzled. Hepton beamed. He’d been right: Villiers was using the department for his own ends, without everyone knowing about it. Sanders, for one, didn’t seem to be aware of the tail. He would bear that in mind.
‘I’d still like to know where we’re going,’ he persisted.
‘There’s an old friend who wants to speak to you,’ Sanders answered, his irritation showing.
‘Who? Villiers?’
‘Mr Villiers, yes. Indirectly. But someone else.’
‘Who?’ Jilly asked, wondering herself now; the mention of Villiers bringing with it a renewed sense of menace.
‘A Major Michael Dreyfuss,’ said Sanders, sliding into the driver’s seat. ‘Now come on...’
22
George Villiers was frowning when they arrived at his office. One hand rested on the telephone in a manner suggesting his frown had something to do with a recent call. He looked up as Hepton and Jilly entered. Sanders stayed outside, closing the door on them. The evening light was a deepening orange, casting long shadows in the room and creating a nimbus around Villiers’ head.
‘You really have caused us a great deal of trouble,’ he stated. ‘God knows whether we can keep it out of tomorrow’s papers.’
‘Blame your henchmen,’ said Jilly, sitting down without being asked. She had regained her composure during the drive to Whitehall. Indeed, having realised that she was about to get away with breaking every traffic regulation in the book, she was on something of a high. She crossed her legs and folded her arms. ‘They were like maniacs,’ she explained, studying Villiers. ‘Martin’s life is in danger, and then they came racing after us. What were we supposed to do?’
Villiers’ face showed no emotion. He turned to Hepton, who was about to sit down.
‘Is your life in danger, Mr Hepton?’
‘Oh yes,’ Hepton said quietly.
Villiers appeared to ponder this, then picked up his telephone and waited.
‘A pot of tea,’ he ordered when the line was picked up. Then he replaced the receiver.
‘What’s this about Mickey?’ Jilly asked.
‘Mickey?’
‘Major Dreyfuss,’ Hepton explained.
‘Ah.’ Villiers paused. ‘Sanders told you then.’
‘He wouldn’t say anything other than that.’ Jilly was up on her feet again. She was nervy still; that much was more than obvious. Hepton hoped she could keep in control. It was a kind of madness to have come here, and yet it felt like the right course of action. The questions still needed answering, and who better than Villiers to do it?
‘Right.’ Villiers leaned forward, resting his arms on the desk. ‘Well, it’s true enough. After Mr Hepton called here, I was able to contact our embassy in Washington. Major Dreyfuss is there at the moment, though that must remain strictly between us. Ah...’
Sanders pushed open the door and brought in a tray, the cups chinking together as he moved.
‘I hope you’re a better tea-maker than you are a driver,’ Jilly commented, the hint of a sneer on her face.
Sanders paused, but chose to ignore her. He left the tray on the desk in front of Villiers, then exited again. There was something else on the tray beside tea. It was a sheet of paper. Villiers slid it towards himself, glanced at it, then turned it so that the writing was facing away from him. His right hand went to his inside pocket and came out with a fountain pen, the top of which he removed to reveal a gold nib.
‘Miss Watson?’
‘Yes?’ Jilly stopped pacing and came to the desk. ‘What’s this?’
‘Routine, I’m afraid. I know Mr Hepton has already signed, as was required of him when he started work. If you would just...’
Jilly picked up the form and studied it. It was simple and to the point. It was the catch-all.
‘The Official Secrets Act?’ she said, smiling. ‘Well, why not?’ She snatched the pen from him and scratched her name on the paper, then handed back both paper and pen. Villiers looked satisfied, and slid the sheet into the top drawer of his desk. ‘I don’t mind signing something I’m quite willing to break,’ Jilly said with finality. Villiers’ satisfaction took the slightest of jolts. Jilly had picked up the teapot. ‘Shall I be mother?’
Villiers accepted his cup with what grace he could muster. He was still playing the senior civil servant.
‘So what’s this about Dreyfuss?’ asked Hepton, growing impatient.
‘Ah yes, Major Dreyfuss. Well, he’d like a word with you.’
‘With me?’ Jilly said, hopefully.
‘Alas, no, with Mr Hepton.’
‘Me?’ Hepton could not hide his surprise. ‘Whatever for? He hardly knows me.’
‘Yes, but he knows you by reputation, apparently. The embassy will be calling in another five minutes or so.’
‘But what does he want?’
‘I really can’t say.’ Villiers sat back, lips tightly closed, as though prepared to sit out the time before the phone call in silence.
‘Tell us about the Falklands,’ Jilly said nonchalantly.
Villiers twitched and leaned back in his chair, as though he had just been given a mild but unpleasant electric shock.
No, thought Hepton. This wasn’t the time to give away secrets. He saw why Jilly had done it. She was a journalist, a journalist who knew something about the man before her. Her professional instinct was to go for the jugular, startle him into some kind of revelation, get him worried... but this wasn’t a newspaper story. This was entirely more serious.
‘Jilly,’ he warned, ‘not now.’
‘Why not?’ she snarled. ‘Why not now?’
‘Because I say so.’ His voice was cold and hard, but his eyes were ablaze. She read his thoughts and seemed to understand them. Villiers had a bemused smile on his face.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said to Jilly, ‘what was it you were about to say?’
Her cheeks were red. ‘Nothing,’ she said.
Villiers turned to Hepton. ‘You know I served in the Royal Marines then?’ Hepton stayed silent. ‘You both seem to know a lot about me, Mr Hepton. Now why should that be? Why should a lowly civil servant interest you so much? Hmm?’
But now it was Hepton’s lips that stayed tight shut. Villiers rose from his chair and turned to stare out of his window. Hepton glanced at Jilly, whose face looked pained. She mouthed, ‘I’m sorry,’ at him. He merely winked in reassurance. Villiers turned back to face them.