There was a knock on the door and Sheila, the secretary, looked in. ‘Could you possibly come and see Mr Bellsize, Mr Telmont?’

  Telmont spoke angrily. ‘I told you . . .’

  ‘I know, but Alf’s in real trouble and sent an SOS. Mr Bellsize is being very difficult.’

  Telmont swore, then stood up. ‘Sorry about this, Brady.’

  ‘That’s quite all right, Mr Telmont. And many thanks for the coffee.’

  ‘I’m sure everything will be sorted out and you’ll get shot of this lunatic – but I’m damned glad your wife and kid are out of it.’ He went round his desk to the door. ‘Come in and have coffee, Spanish style, again.’ He left.

  Brady finished the brandy and the last mouthful caught his throat and he coughed repeatedly. He cursed himself for so often apparently acting gauchely when she was around.

  ‘After you’d been blasted awake and discovered you were still alive, did you go outside and look up at the stars and say to yourself that they were shining more brightly beautiful than ever?’ she asked.

  ‘I was too busy,’ he replied shortly. He drew on the cigar which through sloppy smoking was now unpleasantly sodden.

  ‘Were you frightened?’

  ‘Very.’

  ‘I doubt it. I’ll bet that although you were maybe frightened on your wife’s behalf, on your own you were just bloody mad. If you could have grabbed the man, you’d have killed him, wouldn’t you, for daring to threaten your family?’

  He made no answer.

  ‘I’ve never told you that I was very friendly with a racing driver, have I?’ She stared into distance and the tone of her voice altered. ‘He was too brave for his skill and he knew it. And I knew it. And we both knew he was likely to die on the track. I used to lie in bed with him – you can call these my intimate confessions – and because life together might be so short I made every single moment be exquisitely happy. When I touched him, I used to think, tomorrow I may not be able to touch you, so now I’m going to let the feel of your body . . .’ She became silent.

  ‘Did he finally crash?’

  ‘He’d spun off once and was lying last and there wasn’t any point in his trying to do anything but finish. But he drove as if he were battling for the lead. He lost it on a corner, went into the armco barrier, the car flipped over twice, and caught fire. I was in the pits. I saw a column of black smoke and instinctively knew it was Axel who’d crashed and that that was his funeral pyre. I sat, with the lap sheet in my hands, and couldn’t move, couldn’t do anything but feel the ice grow inside me.’

  He pictured the scene and, appreciating the agony of the moment, for the first time he felt sorry for her. ‘How awful,’ he said, knowing the words sounded trite.

  She focussed her gaze. ‘But we’d lived, not cabbaged.’

  She had to be really mentally tough, or a mental masochist, to live at that emotional level, he thought, as he stood up.

  She slid off the desk and in doing so her skirt was momentarily held so that the whole of her thigh was visible. The movement had caught his attention and he looked down without any salacious motive. When he quickly jerked his gaze upwards, he saw an expression of mocking amusement in her face. ‘You haven’t asked me how my car is motoring. But I’ll tell you. It’s going very well. You said you’d come for a drive with me, so we’ll fix a date now.’

  ‘I didn’t say . . .’

  ‘I know you think I’ve got B.O., but I’ll use some very expensive scent and perhaps that’ll cover it up.’

  ‘I’m afraid I’m very busy . . .’

  ‘I’ll call for you at your house, shall I?’

  ‘I doubt . . .’

  She laughed. ‘How about four-thirty tomorrow afternoon? Or will you be on duty?’

  ‘Yes, I will,’ he answered hurriedly.

  ‘Then we’ll make it later in the evening.’

  He wanted to tell her it was quite impossible, yet the words seemed to refuse to form.

  ‘Six-thirty and don’t be late. I’m a stickler for time.’ She reached across and touched him briefly on the arm. ‘Go out and look up the stars tonight and see how much brighter they are now than they used to be when no one was trying to blow you to hell.’

  ‘I’ll be phoning Wendy tonight,’ he said, as if explaining something rather urgent.

  She smiled mockingly.

  *

  Titch Collick – a huge man, hence his nick-name – said sneeringly: ‘Get stuffed.’

  ‘Listen, mate,’ said the D.C., one of the three D.C.s who had been seconded from the county force to help with the investigation, ‘you were in the Bull’s Head with Dusty and George.’

  ‘Don’t know either of ’em.’

  ‘Who was the stranger you saw in town who you’d met sometime recent in the nick?’

  ‘Karl Marx.’

  ‘There’s five hundred quid, for the right information.’

  ‘Get stuffed,’ said Collick, for the second time.

  ‘Then we’re just going to have to play it the hard way. Where were you last in the nick?’

  Sullenly, Collick answered: ‘In this bleeding town.’

  *

  ‘Never been in the Bull’s ’Ead,’ said Dusty Ment.

  ‘Come off it, you were there with Titch Collick and George Hamworth,’ said the D.C. wearily.

  ‘Mister, someone’s mixing me up with someone. I ain’t never been in the Bull’s ’Ead.’

  ‘Next thing, you’ll be telling me you’ve never been in the nick either.’

  Ment was silent.

  ‘Where were you last inside?’

  ‘The Ville. For a job I never did.’

  ‘No doubt there are half a dozen jobs you have done which no one’s managed to pin on you, so you’re still ahead of the game.’

  *

  George Hamworth was a tall, handsome man with a warm, sincere smile. ‘Me? No, it couldn’t’ve been me. I ain’t seen Titch in half a life-time.’

  The D.C. yawned. ‘Who was this stranger you were all talking about?’

  ‘Now how would I know that, me not being in the Bull’s Head?’

  ‘What was your last nick?’

  Hamworth stopped smiling and his mouth settled into lines which showed a little of his brutal nature. ‘Steerington, and if I ever get face-to-face with the bloke what shopped me . . .’

  Chapter Thirteen

  Fusil stood in the garden of number fourteen, as the sun slipped behind the rooflines out of sight, and he studied the flattened fencing, the damaged and earth-plastered walls, the glassless windows, the broken tiles, and the mounds of sieved earth which made the garden look like a miniature lunar landscape. ‘What a mess!’

  ‘It’s that all right,’ agreed Detective Inspector Stevens. ‘One thing, though, there’s surprisingly little structural damage and that’s mostly to the kitchen. It was a small bomb.’

  ‘How small?’

  ‘Maybe only a pound, which would be four sticks.’

  ‘Then accepting that this was some of the gelly which was nicked from the quarry, the bomber could’ve set a very much bigger bomb – he’d around fourteen sticks left . . . I don’t get it. Why go on trying to frighten the living daylights out of Brady?’ He half turned, to face Stevens. ‘Have you turned up anything useful?’

  ‘We’ve recovered a few bomb fragments because the earth acted as a filter. They’re over there.’

  Stevens led the way across to the small paved area outside the kitchen – now swept clear of rubble – on which had been set a wooden table. On the table was a small pile of metal fragments, mostly so twisted and flattened that it was impossible to imagine their original shape.

  Stevens began to search through the fragments. ‘This was a mechanical timing mechanism and it could have been an alarm clock, same as before.’

  ‘Only could have been?’ queried Fusil.

  ‘Can’t say for sure, I’m afraid. Still, we have recovered one fragment which might be of more definite use.’ He found what he had been searching for. It was a piece of metal, once flattish, which had been rolled up, rather like an opened sardine tin lid. ‘As you can see. Bob, it’s without any particular peculiarities which would place its function. But inside there’s some sort of number.’

  Fusil took the fragment and studied the inside of the rolled portion and could just make out some figures, although he couldn’t read them. ‘A part number or serial number, maybe?’

  ‘That’s what I’m hoping. Meaningless on its own, of course. Serial or part number of what? But we identified the make and type of time clock used in the first bomb. So aren’t the odds reasonably good that the bomber not only used the same kind of timing mechanism for each bomb, but also the same type of alarm clock, to make things easier for himself?’

  ‘By God, they are!’ exclaimed Fusil, and there was a surge of renewed vigour in his voice.

  *

  ‘Swabs,’ said the laboratory assistant over the telephone, ‘have I done the swabs? Listen, this is the second time I’ve done so many swabs that I count ’em in my sleep.’

  ‘Have you had any results?’

  ‘Yeah. Eye strain.’

  ‘You’ve got me weeping in sympathy. Listen, have you found any traces of gelly handling?’

  ‘There’s not one of the men you’ve swabbed who’s been within sniffing distance of the stuff.’

  *

  Brady was a man who could normally release inner stress by physical action. When worried about some problem, he’d find something to do which required extended physical effort and before long his worries would begin to ease. But on the Tuesday, a sunny day with a warm wind coming in from the south, he found that no amount of pavement bashing would calm the turmoil in his mind. Instead, as he patrolled the streets at a faster than normal rate, not bothering to stop for lunch, he found that for once the only effect of the exercise was to exacerbate his mental tension and to fuel a simmering resentment against Wendy.

  A policeman’s wife knew that life wasn’t going to be the same as it was for other women. Her husband’s job demanded, amongst other things, that if he saw danger, he went towards it and not away from it. . . . Until the bombs, Wendy couldn’t have supported him more generously in every way. But the bombs seemed to have broken her so that now she lacked the strength of character . . . Angrily, he tried to check his thoughts, calling himself a bloody fool. But he couldn’t stop himself thinking that when he’d most needed her, she had deserted him. He’d explained time and time again that there obviously hadn’t been any intention to kill him . . .

  ‘Well,’ called out Fiona, ‘so the mountain has finally been able to find Mohammed.’

  He was surprised to discover that he had almost reached the entrance to Abbotts Avenue. Fiona, in the open red Jensen-Healey, had come out of Abbotts Avenue and turned left, to go down towards the station.

  ‘No doubt you were hurrying home to change?’ she said mockingly. She was wearing a brightly coloured dress with a deep V neck. Her hair was taken up on to the back of her head and was held in place with a large Victorian tortoise-shell hair comb. ‘You’re a quarter of an hour late.’

  ‘I forgot.’

  ‘I don’t like people who forget a date with me. It’s not flattering and I have the usual woman’s weakness for flattery.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘You should be. I had the car specially washed at the garage in honour of the occasion.’

  ‘I’m afraid it’s been a wasted wash. I’m busy.’

  ‘But you’re not that busy . . . In any case, Tom, you look as though you desperately need a break.’ She studied his face. ‘Has something more gone very wrong?’ There was now sympathy in her voice. ‘D’you want to tell me about it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You know one thing, it’s not your social graces which attract me. Are you going to come right away, or are you going to change into clothing less hot and formal?’

  There was now something subtly appealing about her. She really did care that he looked as worn-out mentally as he felt, he thought. He did not repeat his lie that he was too busy to go out with her. ‘I haven’t had anything to eat all day so I’d better return home and have a quick meal.’

  ‘Are you a good cook?’

  ‘A hopeless one.’

  ‘Then you’re in luck because I’m a really good cook, though you might not think it very likely. So after the drive, if you can wait that long, I’ll cook you a special meal. A cheese soufflé, a kebab, some early – and indigestibly expensive – strawberries and whipped cream. How does that menu sound?’

  It sounded so good that he immediately felt very hungry, more especially as if he had to get his own meal it would consist of the contents of a tin and a bottle of beer. Perhaps even more inviting, though, was the fact that she was offering him company.

  ‘Why not go back and change?’ she suggested.

  He nodded and left. The house felt cold, because no one had been in it all day except to patch up some of the damage, but far worse than the cold was the silence. It was a dead house, he thought, part damaged, all dead, and tonight he needed a living house to jerk him out of his mood of miserable self-pity.

  He went up to the bathroom and washed, changed into sports shirt, light brown trousers and a check sports jacket. He returned downstairs, picked up a pack of cigarettes and slipped them into his coat pocket, and went out. Were lace curtains twitching as he walked towards the Jensen-Healey, now backed into Abbotts Avenue? Surely Mrs Oxspring was watching since, being bedridden, she’d little else to do?

  Fiona proved to be a skilful driver who concentrated on her driving so that on their journey through the back streets of Fortrow there was hardly any conversation between them. He was glad. It was restful, sitting in the open car, watching the world go by and feeling the warmth of the late sun. He began to enjoy some of the peace he had been seeking all day.

  Beyond the town, she chose a road which led up into the hills through tree covered slopes and which brought them out on to the crest of the highest hill, close by the ravine called the Devil’s Dyke.

  She parked in a lay-by. From where they were, they could look out over the surrounding countryside, a patch-work of small fields, hedges, hamlets, woods, and Fortrow, to the estuary of the Fort and the sea.

  ‘I come up her quite often,’ she said quietly, ‘because it’s good for my soul.’ The mocking note returned to her voice. ‘Although I’m quite sure that in reality my soul is far beyond such simple remedies.’ She half turned in her seat to face him. ‘Do you get troubled by your soul?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Only by your conscience, which is a totally different thing?’

  ‘Is it? I wouldn’t know.’

  ‘If you’d put your soul at risk as often as I, but never felt a twinge of conscience, you’d know the answer to that. Axel – the racing driver I mentioned – was always considering his soul. He was really two people. The intrepid, heroic driver, and the rather timid seeker after salvation. He even asked me to put flowers on his grave because all flowers are beautiful and beauty must help a soul.’

  ‘And did you?’

  ‘Only once, because the idea seemed to me to be too cowardly. Like thumbing your nose at life, but quickly running round the corner to burn a candle just in case . . . You’re more like me in that respect, aren’t you? You accept certain standards and honour them, without trying to take out insurance policies – although maybe your standards are too high ever to find an underwriter.’ She laid her left arm along the back of the seats and rested her hand of his shoulder. ‘You’re one of the very few men I’ve met who leads a truly honest life.’

  He was conscious of the gentle pressure of her finger tips on his neck.

  ‘I’ll tell you something, Tom. If I’d been married to you, there wouldn’t have been a bomb big enough to make me leave you.’

  He moved uncomfortably in the bucket seat. ‘It’s not that simple. Wendy saw things in her way and was desperately trying to save us both and if I wouldn’t be saved, then Basil . . .’

  ‘It wouldn’t matter what, it would be you I’d be standing by.’ She traced out a circle on his skin and this took her finger almost up to his ear. ‘Are you frightened at staying in the house, knowing what may happen?’

  ‘You keep asking. Of course I am. I could be wrong in believing . . .’

  ‘I think you’re apprehensive, bewildered because your wife wouldn’t stand by you, but not truly frightened. People like you don’t frighten.’

  ‘You’re talking a load of old cods,’ he said, almost harshly. He jerked his head away so that her fingers could no longer trace patterns on his flesh. ‘I’m just as bloody scared as anyone else would be.’

  She smiled. ‘Did you go out last night and look up at the stars?’

  ‘No.’

  She laughed mockingly. ‘I’ll bet you did, but won’t admit it. There will be a third bomb, won’t there?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘But you expect it? You’ve got to grab life by its tail, then, and twist it hard, whilst you can.’

  ‘I want to go back home.’

  ‘To be there when the bomb goes off?’

  ‘To be there when Wendy phones.’

  ‘I think that’s merely an excuse – and a weak one. Do you see me as a spider, waiting to eat her male companions? I promise you I’ve never been inclined towards cannibalism.’

  ‘I want to go back . . .’

  ‘In case Wendy phones,’ she mocked. ‘But what can the call really mean, if she left you on your own? Merely a duty done.’

  ‘You don’t begin to understand.’

  ‘Of course I don’t. I don’t understand how any wife could desert her husband because he’s been threatened. I would have stayed with you.’

  ‘Only to see me killed.’

  ‘You begin to understand me. And that means you begin to understand yourself.’ She turned the ignition key and started the engine and blipped the motor fiercely so that the revs whipped up into a shrill note before falling back. ‘When Axel blipped his racing engine and the scream pierced my head, I used to feel as if I were going to have an orgasm.’ She saw his expression and laughed. ‘Does that shock you more than anything else I’ve ever said? But don’t you realize how a sound can be life or death, loving or mourning, sex or frigidity? . . . My husband used to make sounds – routine sounds – that were decay and disaster. He was a stockbroker – quite a good one, I expect. He caught the eight-thirty to London in the morning and returned on the six forty-five in the evening. In bed he was so orthodox I often wondered if he was scared of catching cold.’ She blipped the engine again and the shrill scream raised a nearby flock of pigeons which rose, wheeled round, and then flew off south.

 

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