The widows war, p.6
The Widow's War, page 6
‘Mind how you go, Hugh. And remember, if this woman you’ve got staying with you is the person we think she is, you could be putting yourself at serious risk. You mentioned yourself the case of the Mayfair doctor —’ He broke off and glanced quickly round the now almost deserted bar.
‘Cheer up,’ said Ryan. ‘I’m not so old that I get some dago tart to put the frighteners on me. I’ll survive.’ He watched the little man slip away to the toilets, then turned towards the front door.
There were only a few cars left on the forecourt. Ryan peered through the dark and was satisfied that the Cortina was not among them. Nor was a police car, for that matter.
The Lagonda was the last car parked under the trees. It was very dark here, and it took him a couple of seconds to select the keys. He got in, relaxed in the deep leather bucket-seats, flicked on the lights and started the engine. As he waited for it to come fully alive, he saw his guest appear at the door of the restaurant: a small lonely figure in a long overcoat, moving slowly, head bowed, as though sniffing his way through the dark in the opposite direction.
Poor sod, Ryan thought, as he slipped the car into ‘drive’: no pleasures in store for you tonight, chum — just that damp little stone cottage with its herbaceous borders and pristine bookshelves full of the Folio Society; and your foolish old spouse lolling in front of the electric fire with a toothglass of gin and the Reader’s Digest.
Ryan swung the Lagonda round and headed for the lane, without waiting to see the little man get into his own car. He felt relaxed but tired. He just hoped that Madame Achar had stayed tucked up in bed, to spare him any further excitement until the morning.
During the drive, he turned on the car radio and caught the end of a local news-bulletin. There had been a serious rail-crash on the main Western line, not far from Woodstock. The night express had been derailed at high-speed and at least three carriages had been wrecked. There was still no report of casualties, although it was feared these were high.
Ryan switched off. He had no interest in or compassion for the victims of either natural or manmade disasters. He had his own troubles to worry about.
He arrived back at the Farm without incident. For a moment as he parked the car, then let himself into the darkened house and walked along the still corridors, he considered how he might ravish the lovely La Vuelva while she still lay hungover and helpless. But once at his desk, he assumed the air of a professional man: he had ethics and responsibilities. He also had a problem on his hands which was going to require some degree of skill, nerve, and self-control.
He drank a malt whisky, then dialled the local police station and asked for Sergeant Dexter. He was told the man was out; but after giving his name he was put through at once to the night duty officer. Ryan had expected that the incident with the Cortina would have figured prominently on the evening’s log, and was surprised, even angered, to learn that the officer knew nothing of any Cortina or of any hired car with two aliens having been apprehended by Sergeant Dexter or by anyone else. He added, by way of explanation, that earlier in the evening the entire station-force had been called to a serious rail-crash outside Oxford.
Ryan managed to say something polite, then hung up. He felt vaguely cheated. It was not so much the annoyance of having lost the two men in the Cortina as the humiliating thought that the sergeant might not have taken him seriously.
He had just reached into the desk for the bottle of malt, when he felt a delicate pressure on his shoulder. Fingers touched his cheek, as light as a moth. His body was alert, tensed; but he did not at once turn, or indeed make any movement at all. He remembered later being surprised that there was no smell — no trace of scent or tobacco. Ryan was fastidious about smells, particularly those of women: he preferred an uncertain, even obnoxious smell to no smell at all. A woman with no smell was a neuter, a dish without salt or savour.
Cautiously, he brought out the bottle and poured himself a glass, lifted it to his lips and said, ‘It’s well past your bedtime. I should be angry with you.’ His big hand closed round her small cold fingers. ‘I didn’t hear you come in; I’ve known very few people besides myself who could move as quietly as you. But then perhaps I’m tired. I’ve had a busy day.’
His hand squeezed hers, feeling it flinch like a trapped bird. He heard her voice, hoarse, reluctant: ‘How did you know it was me?’
‘After a time, Madame, one tends to have an instinct for these things.’ He jerked forward, twisted round in his chair, and sat smiling brightly up at her. She looked smaller than he remembered her, frail, her shoulders slightly slumped under her loose Chinese-dragoned housecoat; and her neat oval face looked down at him with huge black eyes and bloodless lips. Her hair was pulled back against her scalp and shone in the light from the desk-lamp like rusted metal. He began to laugh quietly, almost tenderly. ‘Should I break all the rules and offer you a drink?’
‘You saw me today. You came into my room.’ It was not a question, and the words were stated without malice or rebuke; they were spoken in that same low voice that now had something dreamy about it, yet it was not the voice of someone who is drugged or drunk.
‘Madame, you did a very foolish thing today. I don’t wish to inquire too closely into the reasons, except to tell you that if this had happened in the case of any of my normal clients, I would have had to ask them to leave.’
‘Since you have ordered me to leave anyway, does it matter?’ Her voice had taken on a tone of tired arrogance.
Ryan stood up, went over to the safe in the back of the hi-fi speaker, swung the little door open, removed the plain paper packet and returned to the desk. ‘Here — you may count them. They have not been touched. I have not even deducted anything for your two nights’ stay.’
Her hand took the packet and let it slap back onto the desktop. ‘Mr Ryan, I must ask you to forgive me. Certain things have been very difficult for me. You understand — a little perhaps?’
Ryan had been smiling all the time while she spoke. He was standing very close to her: he could see the regular movement of her breathing under the darning silk, and it occurred to him that it was like the breathing of someone in a deep sleep. He said, ‘What do you want, Madame?’
Her fingers, easily, without ceremony, untied the housecoat and let the sides fall open. She was as naked as Ryan had seen her that morning. His hand closed round her tiny wrist and he drew her gently aside and down onto the long-haired white rug. He did not speak; nor did he bother to lock the door, or even turn out the light. He was supremely confident, and she yielded to him at once and totally.
‘Don’t you want your money?’ he said; and when she did not answer he got up, took the package off the desk, walked naked with it to the corner and replaced it in the safe, then turned to look at her. She was lying on her side on the rug like a diminutive Venus, eyes closed.
He was not sure whether she were asleep or not. His feet made no sound as he returned across the room and began to dress from his pile of clothes on the sofa. These he had left neatly folded, while he now noticed that her housecoat lay in a crumpled heap of silk where she had let it fall.
He stepped round her and lifted the outside phone on the desk; he paused to watch if the faint ping! disturbed her, but her eyelids did not even flicker. Then he again dialled the local police. ‘Duty Sergeant,’ he said softly, ‘Hugh Ryan of The Hermitage. Is Sergeant Dexter back yet?’ Pause. ‘Then I’ll speak to Inspector Prentice.’
‘You will replace the telephone.’ Her voice was sharp and controlled, more confident than he had ever heard it. He had not even heard her stand up; and her nakedness somehow in no way detracted from her air of authority.
He heard a voice crackle near his ear. ‘Inspector Prentice is not on duty tonight. Can I help you?’
The woman’s eyes had not moved from his face. ‘Replace the telephone,’ she repeated.
He looked straight at her and spoke into the mouthpiece: ‘Will you tell Sergeant Dexter that Mr Ryan will get in touch with him tomorrow?’ And he laid the receiver in its cradle. ‘You would be more impressive if you put on your coat,’ he added, and was relieved to see some colour appear in her cheeks.
‘You told me you are not an informer,’ she said, ‘and now you are ringing the police. To tell them what? What do you have to tell them, Ryan?’ Her voice was no longer steady. ‘You have nothing to tell them. Nothing!’
Ryan sat down behind the desk. The movement seemed to disconcert her; she began to turn, then, conscious of his stare, backed away towards the sofa and retrieved her housecoat. Her cheeks flushed again as she drew the silk cord tightly round her waist and knotted it.
‘I intended to inquire, Madame, after two of your compatriots.’ And he recounted to her the events earlier in the evening with the two men in the Ford Cortina. She seemed neither surprised nor concerned. ‘Now let’s be frank with each other, Madame Achar. I’m prepared to be frank if you are. Why were those two men following me?’
She said nothing.
Ryan tried again. ‘Why did you get drunk today?’ Still nothing. ‘All right.’ He spoke patiently: ‘Tell me what you know about the Rushdale Research Centre near here?’ He pronounced the name carefully, and watched the dull closed look that came over her face. It infuriated him, for like all satisfied lovers in the immediacy of their conquests, he wanted compliance, not blank resistance.
‘You’ve got a map of this whole area —’ his voice had taken on its soft threatening tone — ‘and you’re in cahoots with some lunatic little bastard from your part of the world who likes running around with a gang of psychopathic killers from the Middle East, Germany, Ireland — you name it! You ought to keep your sights on the right target, Señora.’ He came towards her as he spoke. ‘Don’t fuck up with a lot of spoilt middle-class punks who can’t make up their minds who they want to kill, or what governments they want to overthrow, just as long as they’ve got enough guns and plastique, and the newspapers are giving them front-page treatment.’ He paused, came forward and took her hand. ‘Don’t be a fool, Señora. You can hire one of those international psychopaths any hour of the day. Drop him. He’s playing games with you.’
He winced with annoyance as the intercom rasped on his desk, and the green light winked at him, denoting urgency. This time she did not interrupt him. He pressed down the switch and heard Miss McKinley’s measured voice: ‘Sir, there are two police officers to see you. They say it’s a matter of some importance.’
Ryan glanced at La Vuelva and made a quick, enigmatic motion with his thumb. ‘I’ll see them in here in three minutes, Miss McKinley.’ He snapped off the intercom and said, looking at the half-dressed woman, ‘Go back immediately to your room. Don’t argue. I have no more idea of what this is about than you do. That is my word. You will have to believe it.’
She was still pale, her expression mute; and her only gesture was to pull the housecoat more tightly round her as she moved towards the door.
Ryan got two more glasses out of the desk cupboard, refilled his own, and waited. They knocked and came in together. The first was Dexter, who had failed to book him a few hours earlier for speeding through Burford. ‘Mr Ryan — this is Detective Sergeant Sharp.’
Ryan nodded without standing up. The second man was in plain-clothes. His ash-blond hair lay close to his scalp like feathers, and his eyes were grey and ageless, with pale smudges of eyebrows. His voice was toneless, without a trace of accent, class or origin. ‘Mr Ryan, you’ll excuse us for calling on you so late. But as we explained to your secretary, we’re here on a matter of some urgency.’
Ryan picked up the bottle of malt whisky and pushed two glasses across the desk towards them. Neither of them moved. Ryan grinned. ‘What’s the matter, gentlemen? Scared I’ll report you for drinking on duty?’
Sharp said, ‘We don’t have time to waste, Mr Ryan. I’d like you to get your coat and come with us.’
‘You’re joking.’ Ryan sat back and sipped his malt. ‘Got a warrant?’
‘This is not an order, Mr Ryan. It’s a request.’
‘To hell with you, Sharp,’ Ryan said pleasantly. ‘I don’t mind old Dexter stomping about the place in his big boots, but a sleuth from the SB could get me a bad name, if it got out. So what’s so bloody important that it won’t wait till morning?’
‘You know a man called Miles Merton,’ the detective said; it was not a question, but a statement of fact.
Ryan did not bother to answer. He drank his whisky and waited.
‘You had dinner with him tonight, Mr Ryan.’
‘Go on, you’re doing well.’ He lifted his glass to them both.
‘When did you last see him?’ Sharp said.
Ryan grinned again, but without humour. ‘Come on, you know as well as I do. You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t.’
The detective’s mouth tightened; when he spoke he seemed scarcely to move his lips. ‘You had dinner with him tonight at a place about twelve miles from here, called La Reserve. What time did you leave there, Mr Ryan?’
‘Around 11.30.’ A doubt had crossed Ryan’s mind. ‘If you knew I went there, you must have checked the time I left.’ He looked at Dexter. ‘What’s all this about, sergeant?’
It was Sharp who answered: ‘Did you leave at the same time as Mr Merton?’
‘Not precisely.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘It means he went to have a pee, or something. We both left in our own cars.’ Ryan leant forward, his jaw muscles growing hard. ‘Now, what is all this? What’s happened to Miles Merton?’
Sharp spoke as though he had not heard the question. ‘You came straight back here?’
‘That’s right.’
‘You can prove that?’
‘I might be able to. But not before you’ve answered my question. What’s happened to Merton?’
‘He’s dead,’ the detective said. ‘He died of multiple fractures of the skull about an hour and a half ago. He was found in his car by one of the diners. It was still parked outside the restaurant.’
There was silence. Ryan drained his glass, then nodded. ‘Dexter, your chum from Special Branch is obviously rather greener than I thought.’ He was still looking at the uniformed sergeant while he jabbed his thumb in the direction of the blond detective. ‘You know my form. If I wanted to knock off some frail old pensioner from the Civil Service, I’d hardly do it practically in front of a dining room full of witnesses. And I certainly wouldn’t go in for multiple injuries. One would be quite enough.’
The sergeant gave an official frown, but did not reply. Sharp said, ‘What makes you think I’m Special Branch, Mr Ryan?’
‘I’ve got a nose for you, that’s all.’
‘That’s not good enough.’
‘So what’s the SB doing sniffing round an obscure murder in a country lane? It’s not your manor, anyway, Sharp. A common murder case is strictly for the County boys. Unless there’s a lot more to it that I don’t know.’
‘How long had you known Merton, Mr Ryan?’
‘About fifteen years, on and off.’
‘So you knew the sort of work he was engaged in?’
‘Had been,’ Ryan corrected him. ‘He was retired — poor devil.’ He turned to the uniformed sergeant. ‘Did you pass on my tip, Dexter? About those two foreign jokers following me to the restaurant in a grey Cortina?’
The sergeant sat forward, staring at his feet. ‘I mentioned it, Mr Ryan. But as you may have heard, there’s been a very serious train-crash between Woodstock and Oxford. Every available man in the County has been called in to help.’
‘But you were called off? To help the Special Branch investigate a murder?’ Ryan looked hard at each of them. ‘None of that adds up, gentlemen. So perhaps, if you still want my cooperation, you’ll tell me what really is happening?’
‘Perhaps you’ll tell us first, Mr Ryan, why you thought these two men were following you?’ Sharp said.
‘I think they may have been interested in one of my clients, detective-sergeant. But before I go any further, you’ll have to get me on a rack in front of your chiefs. I’m like a doctor or a solicitor, see. Professional confidence.’
There was a pause. ‘When did you last crack a safe, Ryan?’
Ryan shook his head. ‘Now you’re being impertinent, detective-sergeant.’
‘I’ve seen your record.’
‘Then if you’ve done your homework properly, you’ll know that the last job I was alleged to have done was over thirty years ago. And you’d also know that two very important people squared the judge. So be careful you don’t make any rash accusations, Sharp. Dexter here will be my witness.’
Sharp nodded; he looked bored. ‘All right, Ryan, let’s hear what you know about the Rushdale Experimental Research Centre.’
Ryan concealed his surprise, although the question was not entirely unexpected. ‘If you think Merton had anything to do with it, I can tell you I’m pretty certain he didn’t. He knew as much about it as I do. It belongs to the Ministry of Defence — supposed to be top-secret, and as far as the public is concerned they specialize in antibiotics. And as far as people like you and I are concerned, Sharp, they’re building up a stockpile of germ-warfare capable of wiping out most of mankind. Right?’
The detective stood up and said, ‘I think I’ll have that drink now, Mr Ryan.’ He came forward and took both glasses off the desk, handed one to Dexter, and sat down again. ‘I’d better tell you that somebody broke into Rushdale earlier this evening. They cut the wire, shot the dogs with silencers, short-circuited the alarm system, killed two guards, and broke into the high-security laboratory centre.’
‘Some security,’ said Ryan. ‘Were there any other guards?’
‘No.’
‘How were they killed?’
‘Strangled, with steel wire.’
Ryan nodded. ‘Almost as subtle as battering an old man to death with a blunt instrument. But I still don’t see what all this has got to do with me — or with Miles Merton.’
