Desmond Bagley - Flyaway / Windfall

‘How much more?’ asked Billson.

‘Quite a piece – maybe thirty kilometres. We’ve got to get you round the Algerian border post.’ He turned to me. ‘You’ll have a walk, too; around the Niger border post.’

I didn’t look forward to it.

The next night I tackled Paul again, this time not about what he’d been up to in North Africa, but about the puzzling circumstances of his life in England. I could have questioned him as we drove but I didn’t want to do it in front of Byrne. Paul might unburden himself to a single interrogator but he might not before an audience.

I dressed his wound again. It was much better. As I rewrapped the bandage I said, ‘How much did you earn at Franklin Engineering, Paul?’

‘£200 a month.’

‘You’re a damned liar,’ I said without heat. ‘But you always have been, haven’t you? You were on £8000 a year – that’s nearly four times as much. Now, tell me again – how much did you earn?’ He stayed sullenly silent, and I said, ‘Tell me, Paul; I want to hear it from you.’

‘All right. It was £8000 a year.’

‘Now, here comes the £8000 question,’ I said. ‘Do you consider that you were worth it to Franklin Engineering?’

‘Yes – or they wouldn’t have paid it to me.’

‘You don’t really believe that, do you?’ Again he maintained silence. ‘Do you know that Mr Isaacson wanted to fire you ten years ago, but the managing director wouldn’t agree?’

‘No.’

‘Do you know that Mr Stewart wanted to fire you when he arrived from Glasgow to reorganize the accounts office, and again the managing director wouldn’t have it?’

‘No.’

‘Who is your guardian angel, Paul?’

‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘For God’s sake!’ I said. ‘You were doing work that any sixteen-year-old office boy could do. Do you think that was worth eight thousand quid a year?’

He avoided my eye. ‘Maybe not,’ he muttered.

‘Then how come you were paid it? There must have been some reason. Who were you blackmailing?’

That got him angry. ‘That’s a damnable thing to say,’ he spluttered. ‘You’ve no right …’

I cut in. ‘How did you get the job?’

‘It was offered to me. I got a letter.’

‘When was this? How long ago?’

Billson frowned in thought, then said, ‘Must have been 1963.’

‘Who sent the letter?’

‘A man called McGovern. He was managing director of Franklin.’

McGovern! Then managing director of Franklin Engineering, later Chairman of the Board, now Chairman of the entire Whensley Group and knighted for his services to industry. Sir Andrew McGovern, who ran like a thread through Billson’s life and who wanted to run his own security operation as soon as Billson disappeared.

I said, ‘What was in the letter?’

‘McGovern offered me a post at £2000 a year.’ Billson looked up. ‘I grabbed it.’

He would! £2000 wasn’t a bad salary back in 1963 when the average pay was considerably less than £1000. ‘Didn’t you wonder why McGovern was offering that?’

‘Of course I did.’ Billson stared at me. ‘But what did you expect me to say? I wasn’t going to turn it down because it was too much.’

I had to smile at that. Billson might be stupid, but not stupid enough to say, ‘But, Mr McGovern; I’m not worth half that.’ I said, ‘So you just took the money and kept your mouth shut.’

‘That’s right. I thought it was all right at first – that I’d have to earn it. It worried me because I didn’t know if I could hold down that sort of job. But then I found the job was simple.’

‘And not worth £2000 then or £8000 now,’ I commented. ‘Now tell me; why was McGovern grossly overpaying you?’

‘I don’t know.’ Billson shrugged and said again, almost angrily, ‘I tell you – I don’t know. I’ve thought about it for years and come to no answer.’ He glowered at me. ‘But I wasn’t going to ask McGovern.’

No, he wouldn’t; he’d be frightened of killing the goose that laid the golden eggs. I laid that aspect aside and turned to something else. ‘How did Alix come to work for Franklin Engineering?’

‘There was a vacancy in the typing pool,’ said Billson. ‘I told her about it and she applied. She got the job but she wasn’t in the typing pool long. She became McGovern’s secretary and he took her with him when he moved to London. Alix is a clever girl – she has brains.’

‘Did McGovern know she’s your half-sister?’

‘I don’t know. I didn’t tell him.’ He gave a deep sigh. ‘Look, it was like this. I hardly saw McGovern. I wasn’t in the kind of job where you hob-nob with the managing director. During the first six years I don’t think I saw McGovern as many times, and I haven’t seen him at all since. That’s when he moved to London.’

Very curious indeed! I said, ‘Now, it’s a fact that you kept your enhanced pay a secret from your sister. Why did you do that?’

‘Oh, hell!’ Billson suddenly grabbed a handful of sand. ‘I’ve just told you – Alix is smart. If she knew she’d ask me why – and I couldn’t tell her. Then she’d dig into it and perhaps find out.’ He wagged his head. ‘I didn’t want to know.’

He was afraid that Alix would shake all the leaves off the money tree. Billson might be a stupid man in many ways but he had cunning. Before he started work for Franklin Engineering he had already lived for many years at low pay and was quite content to continue to do while he amassed a small fortune. But to what end?

‘You’ve acted the bastard towards Alix, haven’t you, Paul?’ I said. ‘You must have known she was in financial difficulties and had to borrow money from the bank. And it was to help you, damn it!’

He said nothing. All he did was to pour fine sand from one hand to the other. I suppose a psychologist would call that a displacement activity.

‘But the psychiatrist didn’t help much, did he? You had a sudden brainstorm.’

‘What the hell do you know about it?’ he said petulantly. ‘You don’t know why I’m here. No one does.’

‘Do you think I’m a damned fool?’ I demanded. ‘You’ve come out here to find your father’s aeroplane.’

His jaw dropped. ‘How do you know that? You couldn’t … no one could.’

‘Jesus, Paul; you’re as transparent as a window-pane. You read that article by Michael English in the Sunday supplement and it sent you off your rocker. I talked to English and he told me what happened in the editor’s office.’

‘You’ve seen English?’ He dropped the sand and dusted off his hands. ‘Why have you been following me? Why come out here?’

It was a good question. My original idea had just been to ask a few questions in Algiers and let it go at that. I certainly hadn’t expected to be on my way to Niger in the company of one Targui, one pseudo-Targui and one man who was half way round the bend. It had been a chain of circumstances, each link not very important in itself, excepting perhaps when we found Billson half dead.

I said wearily, ‘Let’s say it’s for Alix and leave it at that, shall we?’ It was the truth, perhaps, but only a fraction of it. ‘She worries about you, and I’m damned if you deserve it.’

‘If I hadn’t been shot I’d have found it,’ he said. ‘The plane, I mean. I was within a few miles of it.’ He drove his fist into the sand. ‘And now I’m going in the opposite direction,’ he said exasperatedly.

‘You’re wrong,’ I said flatly. ‘That crashed aircraft in Koudia is French. Byrne knows all about it. Ask him. You went at that in the way you go about everything – at half-cock. Will you, for once in your life, for God’s sake, stop and think before you take action? You’ve been nothing but a packet of trouble ever since you left Franklin.’