Gavin Lyall - Blame The Dead

'Well…' Come to that, Lie might easily have done it; certainly he was an accessory. 'It's more a question of why it was done. Did Nygaard ever tell you what he told Steen?'

She tried to remember, her forehead crinkling into a small frown. With that fine long hair, firm profile, and fair skin, she was quite a looker. Just too much character behind the blue eyes for me. 'I think he talked about the accident… and the rescue.'

Great. Bloody marvellous. They wouldn't have mentioned the weather, as well? Or pollution or politics or the traffic problem?

'Well,' I growled, 'if you can ever get him to tell you more about what Steen knew, it could help.'

'Why should I help you?'

I kept my temper for about the next five yards. 'Because Steen was murdered because oíit! And another man was murdered because of it ten days ago – a man Steen had been talking to! And Lie himself – oh hell's feathers, never mind, just go on being Christian charitable.'

She was staring at me. Left to itself, the Volkswagen jumped like a terrier and snapped at a passing van. Both of us grabbed at the steering wheel.

When we'd got it back on the leash again, she said, 'Do you mean that Engineer Nygaard may be killed also?'

'I don't know. I really don't.' And I really didn't. 'Maybe they're counting on him doing it to himself. Drop me off at the railway station; I want to pick up my bags.'

In the end, she offered to drive me to the airport as well and I accepted out of sheer devotion to duty. If anybody could get through to Nygaard, she seemed the likeliest -if s he wanted to try. And on her side, I think she was feeling a bit guilty about giving me the heave-ho from his room so promptly.

At intervals when it didn't seem likely to distract her from keeping us alive, I learned that she wasstudying history and English, that her parents lived somewhere farther south, that she wasn't engaged. She didn't learn as much from me; I tried to give the impression that I worked for a big legal firm in London.

At the airport, it turned out that the only way I could get home that night was to fly a local to Oslo, change for Gothenburg in Sweden, then pick up the eleven-thirty-five pm for London. The ticket desk thought I was crazy and ma›be insulting their country; besides, the trouble I was going to to get out of it, but they wrote me out a whole pack of tickets.

Then we had half an hour to wait for the Oslo plane, so she took a coffee while I had a beer – despite her disapproving frown. I honestly don't think the girl could help it any more than Nygaard could, by now, help the opposite approach.

I asked casually, 'Did Nygaard ever talk to you about the collision?'

'No – not truly. I asked him, but he said he cannot remember much.'

'How was he rescued?'

'He was on a… a raft, you call it. For all the night and in the day also. Then a fishing-boat found him. I think it, with the burns…' she tapped her forehead. 'Made him forget, you understand?'

'Yes.' I could also understand what impression he'd make in court. But you aren't supposed to pick your witnesses like casting a movie, though I've known it happen. Kari added, 'That is why he drinks so much now, of course.'

'Uh-huh? And who buys him his booze? You?'

I'd've got less reaction from suggesting we stretch out on the cafeteria table and become just good friends. I said hastily, 'All right, all right – you just keep him clean and tidy. But whodoes buy his whisky and aquavit and so forth?'

Now she was just puzzled. 'Himself, of course. He goes out.'

'I mean who pays for it? I know Norwegian pensions are good, but to stay in his condition he's drinking nearly a bottle a day. Over a hundred kroner; maybe thirty quid a week before he's paid a penny for bed and breakfast.'

'Oh, no.'

'Oh, yes. That's what it costs.'

She looked puzzled. Like most teetotallers, she'd assumed that all it took to become an alcoholic was a couple of secretive gulps before noon. But you have to work at it, although it doesn't seem like work at the time.

She said slowly, 'Perhaps Herr Ruud would know…'

'You could ask. But he seems pretty protective about the old boy.'

']a. They were friends on the ship – how do you say that?'

'Shipmates.'

'In the war. When Herr Ruud lost the leg. And after that he could not be an officer, so…'

The loudspeaker crackled something that could be my flight. I stood up and held out my hand. It got a genuine warm shake, and I got a real smile. She said, 'I am sorry I was – too quick, hasty.'

'Never mind.' I gave her one of my cards – the one with my address and phone but not profession on. 'If he tells you anything about Steen – give me a ring, would you? I'll pay you back.'

She nodded.

I hurried out across the wet tarmac and when I looked back from the top of the plane's steps she was standing out in the drizzle herself, waving rather formally.

The best you could say of the trip home was that nobody found my pistols. I had a three-hour break for dinner in Oslo, then an hour's drinking at Gothenburg. I reached Heathrow just before two in the morning, and bed just after three. And stayed there until eleven the next morning.

I rang Harrow first, then tried for Willie. He rang me back before lunch. 'Can you make a board meeting before the end of the afternoon?'

'Er, I think so – d'you mean with young David, too? '

'That's the idea. He's free to go out to local cafés after four-fifteen. I fixed a date for four-thirty.'

'Rather. Jolly good. Would you like me to pick you up?'

'That's not a bad idea.' Then we could leave my car – which just might get recognised – out of it. 'But have you got anything less conspicuous than the Tiger Royal?' He chuckled. 'What about a red Mini-Cooper?' It would have to do. So I arranged to meet him outside the Swiss Cottage pub at four o'clock. Getting over there would give me space to lose an extra shadow I happened to be throwing.

But meantime, there was one extra piece of insurance I wanted to take out. I drove over to my rifle-and-pistol club and conned the resident watchdog into letting me use the pistol range; in winter, it doesn't usually open on weekdays. Then I put fifty rounds through the Mauser HSC and afterthat the rifling marks would be distinctly different from those on any bullet they dug out of Steen's head.

While I was there I also fired the derringer for the first time. The kick and bang were something very extra special – with a barrel that length the cartridge was practically exploding in the open air – but both the waterlogged rounds went off, although God knows where they went off to. I fired another six shots and it wasn't until I'd closed in to ten yards that I could even see where I was putting them: way high to the right. Don't shoot till you can smell the garlic on their breath.

I had a beer and a sandwich on the way home and got in just as the telephone started ringing.

'Major. Where the bloody hell haveyou been?'

Dave Tanner, of course. 'Sorry about that, Dave. Something -came up. I'm back now.'

'Yes?' he asked sourly. 'And for how long?'

'Can't see anything else coming up. Have you got anything for me?'

'I had it last Monday. I don't know if we've still got it. But I'll check and let you know.'

'Thanks, Dave.'

He rang off. I stood there with the phone in my hand, remembering I hadn't asked about Pat Kavanagh; Dave could likely have heard of him. But he didn't exactly owe me any favours and you don't want to build up too much of a debit. It could wait.

Willie was right on time. I folded myself up into the Mini-Cooper's front seat – why a man of his height and income chose that even as a second or third (or ninth, for all I knew) car, I just couldn't guess. We scuttled away up the Finchley Road.