Gavin Lyall - Blame The Dead

Laurie was his security specialist; it wasn't good news for me, either, because he'd be reaching for work in my field. Still, I liked being on my own. 'No thanks, Dave. But I'll lend you a good book about security.'

'Get knotted, Major. D'you feel like doing a little sub-contract work, then?"

That was more like it. It might even be like picking up a new client or two. Firms that go security-conscious usually stay that way and come back to you when they're making some change. I might persuade them to come back to me. not Tanner.

I waved a friendly sandwich, 'Any time.'

Til let you know – could be soon. Keep in touch, hey?'

'Will do.' I took a mouthful of beer and wondered why I hadn't ordered Scotch on that cold morning. 'You might do something for me, Dave. D'you know what enquiry firms Randall, Tripp, Gilbert usually use?'

'Never worked for them myself… I think they've used Mac-Gill. And Herb Harris. Why?'

'I think they recommended somebody to a client some weeks back. Name of Martin Fenwick.'

He cocked his head and squinted at me curiously. 'Fenwick? Is that the bloke that got killed in France? '

'That's the bloke.'

'Are you still mixed up in that, then?'

'Sort of.'

He munched thoughtfully, then shrugged. 'Well, it's your business. 'I'll ask around.'

'Thanks. And one more thing.' I gave him the number of the green Morris.

'Hell,' he said disgustedly, 'you can pretend to be a copper on the phone as easy as I can.'

'It isn't always that easy.' And I knew Dave didn't work that way anyhow; he had his own private contact with the Central Vehicle Index.

'All right.' He stuck the piece of paper in his wallet. After that we just chatted about the Army until the place jammed up with fashionable young things from the Sunday Times having double-spread four-colour ideas in each other's Cinzanos.

I bought enough food to last me through the weekend and got home soon after two. My faithful green Morris wasn't around, but he turned up half an hour later and parked almost out of sight beside the church. Did I want to go and talk things over with him? No, it was too public and too cold and my left arm was stiffening up again. Let the bastard freeze alone.

Dave rang back in the middle of the afternoon. 'Hope you weren't expecting too much, Major. Hired car.' He named a small firm in West Kensington. 'D'you want us to try and shake something out of them?"

I thought it over. 'No, leave it lay. Thanks anyway.'

'Pleasure. I'm hoping to hear something about a job on Monday, but it's likely to be out of town. Could you make it?'

'What company is that?'

'Come off it, Major; they'remy clients. No poaching. Will you be free?'

I could probably fit it in; Fenwick's affairs weren't exactly developing at a rush. 'Likely enough.'

'See you, then."

I walked to the window and the Morris was still down there. A hired car probably meant a professional. A newspaperman wouldn't need to hire a car in London, and anyway, he wouldn't get a story just by following me around. It looked as if somebody had put a private eye on me. Mockby? He was the obvious thought, but he'd probably have done it on a bigger scale; one man to watch one man was bloody nonsense. In a city, a proper inconspicuous tail job takes thirty men and several vehicles; no kidding, that's what it takes.

When the pubs opened, I strolled up to the Washington fora. jar and a hope of getting a look at my new friend. But he wasn't that sort of fool. The Morris followed me, all right, but he didn't rush into the pub right behind me. Probably he came in some time in the next ten minutes, just to see if I was meeting somebody, but a whole lot of people came in around that time. And when I went out, the Morris had gone.

He was back by the church when I reached the flat. I don't know what time he went to bed, but I made it by half past ten.

Saturday was a crisp, clear day; so far we'd had every sort of March weather except the traditional winds. Now it was blue and bright, but still with snow lying in the Kent fields and the farmers indoors swearing the hop harvest was fruz to hell and they'd have to sell the Rolls if the Government didn't increase the subsidy.

I had company heading down through South London, but he didn't really stand a chance in that Saturday shopping traffic; I lost him by real accident before we reached Bromley. And once I was on clear roads, I let the Escort go. Nothing too chancy, but just holding her on a chosen line through the bends a couple of mph before her back end would start hedge-climbing, the grass brushing the sides. It made me feel… well, maybe in control of something, for once.

A quarter of an hour before Kingscutt I slowed down; my left arm was starting to ache again anyway. I drove in like any sober City gent – apart from the car, my suit, and various purple marks on my neck; I put on my black sling once I'd parked, too.

It was a small village of varying styles up to and including advertising-agency weekend restoration, but the church was genuine Norman and The Volunteer pub, just across a triangular village green, was genuinely open. I took a large Scotch and soda.

A man in a black suit and a gin and tonic asked politely if I was there for the funeral. I said I was, then pinned him down before he could pin me: 'Did you know him in the City?'

'I'm in Lloyd's, yes. On the brokerage side. And you?'

I chose the opposite alibi. 'Just a friend of the family. Terrible business.'

'Yes. And that other chap with him, running away like that. Englishman, as well.'

I shrugged hopelessly. 'I suppose every country has its share of them.'

'Very true, very true. Well, I don't know, about you, but we're certainly going to miss old Martin.'

'Popular chap, was he?'

He chuckled briefly. 'Oh, everybody knew Martin and his little tricks.'

'He… what?'

'The last of the old-style underwriters. In the old building, where we were really crammed together, there was a great tradition of practical joking, you know. Real club-room atmosphere. Just about all gone since we moved to the new place -but Martin did his best.'

'Well, I'm damned.' I stared into my glass, but the dizzy feeling wasn't coming from there.

He smiled knowingly. 'Seemed a bit of a dull dog to you, did he?'

'Well, you know… nice bloke, straightforward… no real hobbies or anything…'

'I suppose that was his way of relaxing – just switching off the power. Rest is as good as a change, eh? But Lloyd's certainly won't be the same without him, and damned if you can say that for most of them. I mean us.' A church bell began to toll and he emptied his glass quickly. 'Sounds like action stations. You had a bit of an accident?'

I went with him to the door. 'Yes. Just met a ditch that was driving dangerously.'

He laughed cheerfully and we marched out towards the church. A convoy of big black cars was just closing up beside it, with a sizeable and well-dressed crowd spilling out and around. There was money in that mob; almost all the men had real black suits, like my brokerage friend, not just 'something darkish' like mine.

'See what I mean?' he said. 'They wouldn't turn out like that for most of us.'

I put on an impressed expression and managed to lose him on the fringes of the crowd. I took my time going in, which was a mistake: I'd forgotten the old English tradition of rushing for the darkest back pew, so I got a nice conspicuous seat in the middle. Paul Mockby spotted me coming past and said 'Jesus Christ', but not the way it usually gets said in church.

The service was the full works, and we sang, not muttered, the Twenty-third Psalm. Somebody with a voice so inbred that it could hardly climb out of his mouth read the lesson, and the vicar – a pleasant-looking fluffy old boy – gave an address.