Tomorrow's ghost Read online

  He shook his head at her. ‘But we turned up nothing, of course—as you well know.

  ‘But he was the same: not moving a muscle … Except with the children, and then he didn’t care who saw it. He never pretended for me, right from that first evening, only for them—and if one of them came in while I was with him it was like I wasn’t there. I’ve never seen anything quite like it.’

  ‘He switched on for them.’

  ‘Yes. Switched on is right. He lighted up for them, like a Christmas tree. And each time he did, it damn near fused him.’

  Character assessment, not proof. But then she’d never expected proof, thought Frances. And who better than Hedges to provide the assessment?

  ‘Then he would have done anything for them—his girls?’

  ‘Yes, Mrs Fisher. He would have done anything for them.’ Hedges conceded the possibility with the air of a man who was ready for the question behind it. ‘So long as it didn’t hurt them.’

  There it was, the built-in limitation: three little girls with no relatives, no matter how rich they were, couldn’t afford to lose one parent, never mind two. And that had been the risk, if the deed was Butler’s.

  ‘He’s a clever man, Mr Hedges.’

  ‘Aye. And a hard man too, Mrs Fisher. And a trained man.’

  One of us, he was saying.

  ‘So?’

  Hedges took a slow, deep breath. ‘I was there. I talked to him, I watched him. And I listened to him, what little he said … A very tough customer—and I’ve met some tough customers in my time, believe you me, Mrs Fisher. So if what you wanted to know is could he kill, then the answer is obviously yes. He’s been a soldier, and he’s trained to do it—and he’s had enough opportunities, I don’t doubt. All of which you probably know about already, anyway.’

  True enough, thought Frances. In his time Butler had been nothing if not a fighting soldier, and there were graves in his record to prove it, all the way from Northern Europe in ‘45 to Korea, and back via Aden and Cyprus.

  ‘But killing is one thing—killing under orders—and murder is another. What I saw of him… murder, even under orders…’ His eyes hardened as he stared at her, the moralities of the police and the security service dividing them ‘… I’d say doubtful. Or even very doubtful.’

  The eyes accused her.

  ‘And when it comes to the murder of the mother of those little girls of his, no matter how he may have felt about her, then my answer is no, Mrs Fisher. Not him. Not in a thousand years.’

  He paused.

  ‘I can’t prove that—I never could prove it. But even if you’d got proof that says otherwise, that you haven’t told me about, my advice to you, Mrs Fisher, would be to go back and double-check it. And then check it again.

  ‘And I’ll give you three reasons for that, two other reasons.

  ‘The first is that Patrick Parker did it. I couldn’t prove that either, but for my money it was his work.

  ‘And the second is … if I’m wrong about everything else—about what sort of man he is, and about Parker … then you and I wouldn’t be here now, Mrs Fisher. If it had been premeditated murder—and for him to come back and do it three hours after he drove away it would have to be premeditated—then he’d have fixed it so there wouldn’t be any doubt hanging over him then or now. I’d stake my pension on that. He didn’t know about Parker, and he wouldn’t have left it hanging in the air like that. He would have had an alibi.

  ‘And the third reason … the third reason, Mrs Fisher, is that the second reason is a load of nonsense—the third reason is the best one of all, to my way of thinking.

  ‘I’ve known a lot of villains in my time, young woman. And one or two good men I’d stake more than my pension on. And the Major was one of them.’

  CHAPTER 7

  FRANCES WAITED five minutes after William Ewart Hedges had gone before buying time on Isobel’s private line.

  01-836 20066.

  ‘Whitehall Trust. Can I help you?’

  The voice reminded her unbearably of Mrs Simmonds.

  ‘Extension 223, please.’

  Click. Scrambler on. Clickety-click-click. Wait.

  ‘Extension 223.’ The self-satisfied voice.

  ‘This is Fisher. I’ve talked to Hedges. Have you arranged Brookside House for me?’

  ‘Hullo Fisher. Of course. The Police are there now.’

  ‘The Police?’

  ‘Brookside House has had a break-in. Three houses in one morning in the same area—shocking! Nothing valuable stolen, but as the Colonel is on the list we have to send someone down to liaise with the local Special Branch man. Just a simple matter of following the routine—they called us.’ Smug chuckle. ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to be the one, Fisher dear. Sorry to disturb you, and all that … but you’re not busy at the moment, so it’ll have to be you.’

  ‘Why me?’

  ‘I said—you’re not busy. Officially you are still part of the Colonel’s group. But as he packed you off home you’re twiddling your thumbs. So you are the obvious choice—it stands to reason. Right?’

  As a short-notice cover story it wasn’t bad, but the superiority of the voice roused forgotten memories within Frances—echoes from the past she had never remembered before—

  * * *

  ‘Frances Warren and Samantha Perring—fighting in the gym.’ (Miss Widgery’s voice had been as sexlessly superior as Extension 223’s.)

  ‘I am aware that you did not strike the first blow, Frances. But violence is always inadmissible. And in a young lady it is unpardonable.’

  But Frances Warren had learnt differently since then.

  ‘It doesn’t sound simple to me.’

  ‘Don’t be awkward. Fisher. It’s the best we can do in the time available, with the housekeeper there.’

  ‘I want her out. I want the house first, and then the children. I want to be alone there.’

  ‘Like Greta Garbo … You know, you don’t ask for easy things, Fisher. The housekeeper is like a limpet, she never leaves the children on their own except on her day off. And then the cleaning woman stays with them—stays the night, too.’

  Frances waited.

  ‘All right—so we’ve managed something … just so you don’t think it’s easy, that’s all.

  And it will still require some ingenuity on your part. Or some respectability, I should say—you’re not still blonde, are you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Thank God for that.’ Extension 223 sniggered knowingly, as though he had the bikini snapshot of Marilyn before him. ‘It’s cost us a favour, too—quite a sizeable one.’

  ‘Yes?’ Frances just managed to take the waspish note out of her voice. There was no point in letting old angers betray her.

  ‘All right.’ He sounded disappointed at her subservience. ‘You must be there shortly after 1400 hours, as our representative—the Police will meet you. Right?’

  ‘Yes.’ After the first time it was easy.

  ‘At about 1430 the housekeeper will receive a phone-call—they call her “Nannie”, by the way … Butler striving for bourgeois respectability, I shouldn’t wonder, eh?’

  ‘Yes.’ Now it was harder again.

  ‘ “Nannie” will receive a call from the Matron of the Charlotte Tyson Nursing Home, a Miss Prebble -‘

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Miss Prebble. Just listen, Fisher. Matron Prebble is Nannie’s best friend, they nursed together in the QARANCs years ago, when Nannie was an army wife. Prebble runs this nursing home, and on her day off Nannie takes over—it’s on Nannie’s day off too, and night off … Just a small place, run on a shoestring. And at the moment it’s badly understaffed, so Matron Prebble has no one she can hand over to except Nannie—at short notice. And that’s what we’ve arranged: short notice. Nannie will have to take over tonight.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘The home is nearly bankrupt. We’ve arranged for the Ryle Foundation to offer Prebble a grant—they’re an Anglo-Arab g
roup, and they owe us a favour. And they’ve got money to burn.’

  Frances had heard of the Ryle Foundation, it had been one of Hugh Roskill’s responsibilities.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Prebble will phone Nannie. She’s got to go to London, and there’s no one else she can turn to at short notice, we’ve made sure of that, too. So that’s where you come in.

  Fisher—you have to convince Nannie you can baby-sit for her. You have to earn your keep, Fisher.’

  The voice stung Frances. ‘I’ve already earned my keep—‘ she caught herself. ‘I’m just afraid Butler will be suspicious, that’s all.’

  ‘Of course he’ll be suspicious. It’s his business to be suspicious. But he’s got a lot on his plate with O’Leary at the moment, and it seems he approves of you. Fisher.’ The voice was smugly approving. ‘And I like that—I like that a lot, it’s good for us. And I also like the sound of you earning your keep—I like that even more if it means you obtained something from that awkward policeman of yours.’

  That was interesting. Whether Hedges had originally been awkward because he hadn’t been allowed to do his job properly, or because he hadn’t done his job properly anyway because he liked his Major Butler, she hadn’t time to decide. Nor, for that matter, could she decide whether he hadn’t been awkward with her because he liked her, or because he hadn’t changed his mind about the Major in nine years.

  But that was something she could think about. What mattered now was to sting Extension 223 into confirming her suspicions of him.

  ‘He thinks Colonel Butler’s clean.’

  ‘Oh?’ Extension 223 sounded sceptical. ‘Indeed?’

  ‘He liked him, too.’

  ‘Don’t we all! The Thin Red Line in person, of course! But what did he give you, the policeman?’ Extension 223 didn’t quite slaver over the inference that William Ewart Hedges had revealed something to Colonel Butler’s disadvantage, but it was plain to Frances that whatever it might be, it would be received with intense satisfaction.

  So Colonel Butler had an enemy where he ought to expect an impartial judge.

  ‘I can’t say for sure yet.’ That was all the more reason why she must play hard to get: it was the least she could do for Colonel Butler, to offset Extension 223’s bias against him, and it was also what she wanted to do.

  ‘Not sure?’ Now his voice was positively seductive.

  ‘I gave him a dozen chances of saying one particular thing, and he never said it. And then, at the very end, he suggested it—by accident, I think. But I have to be sure, which is why I must get into the house … and talk to the children without the housekeeper being there after that.’

  ‘Now you’re being oracular.’

  ‘I could be mistaken, that’s all.’

  Silence at the other end. If she was right about him he’d be thinking now of a way of encouraging her to come back with Colonel Butler’s scalp, or not at all.

  Still more silence.

  ‘I could be mistaken,’ repeated Frances, rearranging the emphasis to suggest that she didn’t think she was, nevertheless.

  ‘Of course. And we must be absolutely fair—that’s essential.’ The voice changed. ‘This isn’t a witch-hunt. That’s the very last thing it must be.’

  Frances felt confused, even a little disappointed: it was as though another man had taken over, calm and businesslike, and quite unlike the first one.

  ‘We also appreciate that any sort of truth will be difficult to establish now, Fisher,’ the Number Two voice continued. ‘But what you in turn must appreciate is that you’ll never have a more important assignment than this one. I’m sure you do understand that—you must forgive me for sounding pompous after I may have seemed … a little flippant, perhaps.’

  ‘Not at all,’ said Frances.

  ‘And you’re right—absolutely right. We cannot afford to make any mistake about Butler. If we do, we’ll live to regret it. And some of us may not live to regret it, too. It’s up to you—and I shall be at the end of this line twenty-four hours a day to help you. As of now, nothing’s too big and nothing’s too small if you want it. All you have to do is ask.’

  The big league.

  Sir Frederick had said as much the night before:

  As of now you’re a VIP, Frances.

  ‘What’s more, nothing goes on the record until you are ready to put it there. You are the boss, Fisher.’

  Well, there was a Ring of Power, thought Frances. And it was on her finger, to use as she wished.

  ‘You’ve already done well. To have picked up anything at all from that file … and from that policeman. You’re not the first one to have tried, believe me.’

  Frances had the feeling that she’d been tested—

  ‘You are the first one to succeed.’—and that she’d passed the test. No wonder she’d found Hedges so hard to thaw!

  ‘But that’s no accident. You were chosen for this. And what’s more, I recommended you, Mrs Fisher—off the record.’ He made the recommendation sound like an unpaid debt she had contracted, but which he expected to collect, with interest, soon enough.

  ‘So … what do you want us to set up for you next—after you’ve finished in the house, that is?’

  He was already taking for granted that whatever it was she was looking for, it was there and she would find it. And she didn’t know whether to be flattered or frightened by such confidence.

  Also, in a strange way, there was something about this voice that she recognised.

  Although she could still swear to herself that she had never heard it before—even allowing for the distortion of the telephone—there was something in it which jarred her memory. But how could she remember hearing something that she had never heard?

  ‘Fisher?’

  ‘Yes …’ Caution replaced her momentary euphoria. And in any case the prospect of after you’ve finished in the house had a sobering effect: if she found nothing then she was in trouble, yet if her one nagging suspicion was confirmed then Colonel Butler would be in trouble.

  ‘Yes?’ He prodded her gently.

  ‘Yes. Well …’ Frances grasped the nettle. ‘What is Colonel Butler doing at the moment?’

  ‘Why … he’s still pursuing O’Leary, of course.’ There was a frown in his tone, as though he was disappointed in her. ‘Why do you wish to know, Fisher?’

  ‘Up in Yorkshire?’

  ‘Yes. That’s where he thinks O’Leary is.’

  ‘Where, exactly?’

  ‘This morning I believe he is pursuing his inquiries in the town of Thirsk.’ Extension 223 sounded as though he had no great confidence in the inquiries bearing fruit. ‘Why do you have to know exactly where he is, may I ask?’

  He was warning her off. They were keeping tabs on Butler now, naturally, but that was someone else’s job, not hers—hers was Butler in ‘69, not Butler this morning, he was politely telling her.

  And, for a guess, that might be Paul Mitchell’s job, he would be good at that … Paul Mitchell the watcher of Colonel Butler, the pursuer—Butler, in his turn, would be better at that, pursuing rather than waiting in ambushes festooned with computerised electronics. A hunter and a fighter, was Colonel Butler, not a trapper.

  ‘Fisher?’ Extension 223’s patience was exemplary.

  ‘I’d like to see the file on Trevor Anthony Bond.’

  ‘Ah!’

  Frances breathed a sigh of relief. There was a file on Trevor Anthony Bond, she knew that because it had been cross-referenced in the file on Colonel Butler. What she hadn’t known was whether it was an active or a passive file—it might well have been passive with effect from 11.11.69, from . the afternoon when Butler had first and last quizzed Trevor Anthony on his KGB contacts. Indeed, it might very well have been passive from 11.11.69, but that Ah! told her it wasn’t passive now; that it was—one will give you ten—within reach of Extension 223’s right hand on his desk, maybe.

  ‘He’s still alive, I take it?’

  ‘Oh, ye
s—alive and kicking.’

  ‘And living in Yorkshire?’

  Pause.

  ‘Yes.’

  Pause.

  ‘Thornervaulx Abbey.’

  ‘He’s still there?’ Frances shivered. Why had she assumed—why had she known before she asked—that Trevor Anthony Bond still worked for the Ministry of Public Building and Works at Thornervaulx?

  ‘Yes.’

  Fountains, Kirkstall, Jervaulx, Byland, Rievaulx, Thornervaulx—the great ruined abbeys of Yorkshire.

  They were all a blur in her recollection of the things past in another life.

  Fountains, Kirkstall, Jervaulx—

  Fountains had been full of people picknicking on the grass, leaving their Coke cans and sweet papers and tinfoil…

  * * *

  She closed her eyes.

  Frances Warren, aged 10, had had a green-flowered dress with a velvet bow for dinner—dinner with Uncle John in the immense Victorian vicarage—a dress which had flared out gloriously when she pirouetted in front of the mirror … except that she had had no breasts at the time, when the unspeakable, rebarbative Samantha Perring had already owned a bra—

  * * *

  Kirkstall, with the marvellous museum across the road, with the Edwardian street and the penny-in-the-slot machine that reconstructed a murderer’s last hours, right down to the six-foot hanging drop—

  ‘Frances! Stop working that gruesome machine!’

  * * *

  Kirkstall and the Hanged Man.

  Jervaulx had been too ruined and dull, without the carefully manicured lawns of Byland, with its ruined pinnacle; and the wooded beauty of Rievaulx, where they had lunched on the hillside—

  Chicken legs and white wine.

  ‘John darling, don’t give the child another glass—you’ll make her quite tipsy!’

  ‘Nonsense, m’dear. It’s important for a girl to hold her liquor these days. Hold your glass steady, wench.’