The Labyrinth Makers dda-1 Read online

  'It seems he thinks Steerforth is still interesting, even with a load of rubble.'

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  II

  A cold wind came off the shoulder of the Downs, over the low wall of the churchyard, and straight through Audley's old black overcoat.

  But he preferred the chill of the open air to the mockery of the service in the little church; there had been too many double meanings in the beautiful old words.

  'For man walketh in a vague shadow, and disquieteth himself in vain; he heapeth up riches, and cannot tell who shall gather them . . .'

  It all applied too exactly to Steerforth. And whatever the priest said there was not going to be any resting in peace for him.

  Resurrection was the true order of the day.

  But now at last the wretched business was coming to a close and his work could begin: the official intrusion into private grief.

  He scrutinised the mourning faces again. They were a disappointing lot. A few journalists; the RAF contingent from Brize Norton, with Roskill uniformed and anonymous among them; and a scattering of morbid onlookers. Only Jones represented the Steerforth file, and Jones could hardly avoid his wife's husband's funeral.

  He had hoped for a better catch. But it seemed that not one of Steerforth's crew had come to see his captain's bones committed to the earth at last. Perhaps they didn't read the papers; perhaps they were all dead and buried too.

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  The rest of the mourners were Roskill's concern, anyway. His own lay just ahead: the family group already labelled in his memory, but only glimpsed for a moment in the flesh as they had followed the coffin out of the church. At least his point of contact was obvious, and he weaved his way through the crowd to catch him as he shepherded his family towards the lych-gate.

  'Mr Jones?'

  The man turned slowly. He had a rather heavy, outdoor face. The years had filled it out and lined it, but the dark, alert eyes were still those of the young airman in the file. What the file had not suggested was the uncompromising air of self-possession.

  'My name is Audley, Mr Jones. I'm from the Ministry of Defence.

  Would it be possible for me to have a few words with you later?'

  The eyes and the face hardened. But if there was a hint of resignation there was certainly neither fear nor surprise.

  Jones gestured courteously for Audley to proceed through the gate in front of him, a measured, easy gesture. It might have been two old friends meeting on a sad occasion which did not admit an exchange of words, and it effectively sealed off Audley from the other mourners.

  'Of course. I suppose you people never really give up. I've been half expecting you.'

  Audley was nonplussed. This formidable man was already outrunning the script. No cock-and-bull cover stories would be any use on him, even if Audley had felt able to construct them. Nor would he repay pressure.

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  'If it's inconvenient just now, as I'm sure it is, I could see you this afternoon. But I'd rather not put our meeting off until tomorrow.'

  Jones considered the family group by the line of cars in the lane, as though gauging their mood.

  'No. Better now while they're busy with their thoughts. But I'd rather you didn't bother my wife. And my daughter–I should say my step-daughter–is obviously of no interest to you. If I talk to you now, will you guarantee to leave them alone?'

  They were getting perilously close to the cars.

  Audley felt that nothing but honesty would serve here. 'You know that I can't guarantee anything like that. But I'll do my best.'

  'Fair enough. You can be a Ministry of Defence man charged with deep condolence from the Minister himself. That will please the old girl at least. And then you can come and have a drink with us.'

  Jones's tone implied that he did not consider the occasion one for condolences, which was not really surprising under the circumstances. 'The old girl' could only mean Steerforth's mother, for Jones was not the sort of man who could refer to his wife in such terms.

  Margaret Jones, the Margaret Steerforth of 25 years before, was still an attractive woman — one of those women who fined down with age. Her beauty had not faded, but had mellowed to serenity which not even the present strain had disrupted.

  'My dear,' Jones took his wife's hand in an easy, affectionate way–

  he did everything with the same air of confidence, 'this is Mr Audley, from London. He is representing the Minister of Defence.'

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  Audley muttered a few conventional words awkwardly. He still thought of her as Steerforth's wife, and had to force himself to address her correctly. She looked at him as though she could sense the cause of his confusion, but was far too well-bred to let it disturb her.

  'It's good of you to come, Mr Audley,' she said evenly. 'The Air Force authorities have been very considerate. As you can imagine, this has all been rather a shock to us, the past coming back so suddenly after all these years.'

  Jones took the pause which followed–Audley could think of no appropriate reply–to introduce the older woman who hovered at Margaret Jones's shoulder.

  Audley took in the blue-rinsed white hair and well-corseted figure.

  Not quite grande dame, but trying hard to be, he thought, and mercifully not too sharp-looking.

  'I heard, Martin. As Margaret said, the authorities have been most considerate. And you are connected with the Royal Air Force, Mr Ordway?'

  It seemed simpler to say that he was. Mrs Steerforth dabbed her eye with a handkerchief.

  'It took me back many years to see those young officers carrying the — carrying my son. So young, they were. Always so young.

  Just like Johnnie and his crew. You were too young to take part in the war, Mr Ordway?'

  She looked at him. Then her eyes unfocused, dismissing him.

  'He was such a fine boy, Mr Ordway. And such a good pilot–they dummy4

  all said so. I miss him still. We all miss him.'

  She spoke as though Jones, right beside her, did not exist. Yet clearly she wasn't trying to be offensive: hers was simply the narrowed viewpoint of the elderly, the self-comforting assumption that her feelings would be shared by all sensible people. An assumption in this case probably fed by an obsessive love.

  Jones seemed resigned to her disregard, but her words hung embarrassingly between them and she pressed on to make things worse, focusing on Audley again.

  'And this is my granddaughter,' she said with emphasis, '—my son's daughter.'

  The baby girl of this morning's file was a tall, thin ash blonde, and there was no doubt about her parentage. She had not only her father's fairness and bone structure, but also the same haughty stare. Only it was coloured now by indifference, not discontent: Steerforth's daughter evidently found her father's funeral something of a bore.

  The Jones boys, both in their late teens, were less thoroughbred and more sympathetic. Where their step-sister looked bored they were obviously intrigued with this forgotten chapter from their mother's past.

  'My dear,' said Jones, 'I've invited Mr Audley back to the farm for a drink. I can show him the way and Charles can drive you back. It was rather a squash coming, anyway.'

  The elder Jones boy hastened to protest his ability with the family car and his mother seemed almost pleased by the prospect. It dummy4

  occurred to Audley that she saw him as a target for her mother-in-law's proud memories rather than a welcome guest.

  But the opportunity was too perfect to miss, whatever ulterior motives prompted it, and he accepted with the merest pretence of reluctance.

  As he led the way to the car he caught a glimpse of Roskill talking earnestly with a young man holding a notebook. Prising out the list of mourners. He caught Roskill's eye briefly, and had no time to avoid being snapped by a photographer who seemed to spring up from nowhere.

  'Have you had much trouble with the Press?' he asked.

  'Not more than I expected. None with the locals–I was NFU
r />   chairman last year and I'm well in with them. We had a few chaps from London–they must be damn short of news. But I was civilised with them and they were reasonable enough. There's no story to be had here anyway.'

  They reached the car, and for a moment their eyes met over the roof.

  'He was a good pilot, you know,' said Jones conversationally. 'But I wouldn't have described him as a fine boy in a hundred years. He was a selfish bastard.'

  Obviously, reflected Audley as they drove off, there was little to be gained from a gentle approach either. Jones had accepted him with too little surprise to be trapped into revealing any long-held secrets he still wished to hold.

  'You didn't say that 25 years ago.'

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  'I don't remember what I said 25 years ago. But I had squadron loyalties then. And I hadn't met his widow then, never mind married her.

  'I know I didn't believe that he was dead, certainly–and I didn't say that either. Turn left here.'

  They branched off the secondary road on to an even narrower one which steadily climbed the shoulder of the Downs. Already the plain was flattening out below them.

  'Why didn't you think he was dead?'

  'Don't you think you had better explain what you want? And you can show me your credentials first, just in case. I do remember that there were some rather odd characters asking questions in the old days. I take it you are some form of military intelligence.'

  Audley smiled to himself as he passed over his identification.

  Some form indeed!

  Jones passed back the wallet. 'You don't look the type. But I assume that is to be expected. Not that you aren't big enough.'

  'Why didn't you think he was dead?' Audley repeated.

  Jones was silent for a moment.

  'It's not going to be easy remembering anything fresh,' he said slowly. 'But you'd better get one or two things clear from the start.

  'I had nothing to hide then, nothing personal, and I've got nothing to hide now. I flew with Steerforth that one time only–as a passenger. You've read the record, I'm sure. I'd been stuck in Berlin with food-poisoning. It just happened to be his plane I flew back in. He was always wangling the Berlin flights.

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  'And I hardly knew him. I only went to see his widow because the other chaps were crocked up. I fell for her then, and I married her as soon as it was legal, when Faith was just a tot.'

  Jones paused again.

  'They are two of the four people I love best. I'll tell you now that I'm not going to have them pushed around by anyone. And I'm not going to be pushed either. Not just to set your records straight. I don't care what he did.'

  Audley pulled the car on to the shoulder of the road, on to a patch of smooth, wind-driven turf. He turned the engine off and sat back, wondering how Roskill or Butler would handle this man.

  'You're ahead of me, Mr Jones. A long way ahead of me.'

  'That's where it's always best to be.'

  The wind whipped the downland grass beside the car. It was peaceful, but not in the least still, very much like his own Sussex Downs. He watched the birds wheeling and diving over the fields.

  Down below a toylike tractor was busy.

  If Jones had not believed in Steerforth's death he must have had long years of uncertainty, waiting for the knock on the door. But would that have sharpened his wits so much over the years?

  Sharpened them so much that he was able to identify Audley straight off?

  Jumping to conclusions was what he himself was supposed to be so good at. It was disconcerting to be on the receiving end.

  'Why did you expect me, or somebody like me?'

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  'I didn't. But you didn't surprise me. I'll never forget all those questions at the time. They left a mark on me when I'd been softened up. When I baled out of that Dak I was sure I was going to get killed–I can remember quite clearly thinking how unfair it was to be killed after the war was over. I've always associated Steerforth with trouble ever since, and when he turned up again I was just waiting for it.'

  'You said you hardly knew him. But I'd have to know someone pretty well to call him a tricky bastard.'

  Jones opened the car door. 'Let's get some air,' he said. 'It's easier to be frank in the open.'

  Audley followed him over the springy turf on the hillside until he stopped by a wire fence. Audley experienced the familiar downland sensation which both excited and frightened him.

  Down below him the neat patchwork of fields, the squat churches and neat houses with smoking chimneys–that was the rich, fat, peaceful land of England. Up here on the Downs was a different ambience, more ancient and hostile. The downlands could be creepy on a hot, still day. And in the evenings there always seemed to be things moving outside the circle of a man's vision.

  All right then, he thought, as Jones carefully took a pipe from his pocket, tapped it on a fence post, and sucked it thoughtfully, let us see how frank we can be.

  'Let's start then from your theory that he wasn't dead. Why wasn't he dead?'

  'It was too damn convenient, for one thing. The customs men dummy4

  coming down on the squadron, like that, and Steerforth conveniently missing.'

  'He'd been smuggling?'

  'Christ, man–don't let's play games. You know he'd been smuggling. Half the squadron was up to some little game or other.

  It was an open secret. The only rule was not to overdo things, but Steerforth wasn't the man for rules.

  'What I thought afterwards was that he'd made his killing, just one step ahead of your chaps. And now he'd planned a neat way of getting out, with no one looking for him. It was nicely calculated–

  the squadron got its scapegoat, unofficially of course. And no one bothered to dig very deep. Officially he was just another dead hero.'

  'Who left his wife and family just like that?'

  'Maybe I've done him an injustice. It seems now that I probably did. But I know he didn't give a damn for his wife and family. You can take that for a fact, whatever the old girl says. He'd had babies and nappies right up to the neck–believe me, I know.'

  Jones frowned. 'And that business about baling out–I thought a lot about that, and it never quite made sense. He really was a good pilot, you know. I saw the plane he brought back from the Arnhem drop, and if he could fly that he could fly anything. There were any god's amount of airfields he could have put down on in eastern England when we came back from Berlin that last time. But no–as soon as we made a landfall–out we had to go.'

  'His second pilot explained all that at the inquiry.'

  'His second pilot? What was his name?

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  'Tierney.'

  'Tierney?' Jones thought for a moment. 'Tierney. A ferrety-looking chap, with a little moustache? He was Steerforth's shadow. If Steerforth was up to something, he'd have been part of it.'

  'But you baled out.'

  Jones gestured impatiently. 'When the captain says bale out no one argues the toss. And I'm telling you what I thought later, not what I thought at the time. I can remember a bit now–it started to rain like hell. A thunderstorm. Tierney and the wireless operator yelled for me to jump. The Dak was lurching around as if it had been hit. I was bloody scared. I thought I was going to die.'

  'I see. He disappeared too conveniently and you needn't have baled out at all. But if you thought this later on why didn't you say so?'

  'I only started to think it when everyone began asking us questions.

  It wasn't just the inquiry–that was routine. It was later on.

  'First there were two chaps who said they were Poles. They wanted to know where the plane had gone, if it had been found and so forth. And then they wanted to know what it was carrying–they said that friends had got some of their stuff out of Poland and Steerforth had agreed to carry it out. At a price, of course.'

  'And what did you tell them?'

  'There wasn't anything to tell. There were some boxes in th
e cargo bay, but I thought they were down in the drink with the Dakota–

  that was common knowledge. They seemed pretty upset by it all, as though it was my fault, so I told them to shove off.

  'Afterwards it dawned on me that they must have thought I was one dummy4

  of his crew. Which meant I'd probably have been in on the deal.

  And that made me think. The way they hung around our pub, that made me think, too. So when I went down there again I took a Pole who was in the squadron with me–Jan somebody–with me—'

  '—Wojek. Jan Wojek.'

  That's right. How did you–but, of course, you'd have him in your records like me!' Jones shook his head resignedly. 'All these years, and we're all still in your files, Jan and I. And Tierney and Steerforth, and all the others . . . Once filed, never forgotten.

  Though I suppose you've got it all taped in computers now. It's frightening.'

  'You took Wojek down with you to the pub.'

  'All right. We went down to the pub, and I told Jan to tell these two to bugger off–which he did in no uncertain manner.'

  He paused, and then slipped his fist into his palm.

  'By God, I remember it now! Because I was surprised at Jan getting so angry with them. He came back to me breathing fire.

  'He said they were no more Poles than he was a Scotsman. Bloody Russians, he said they were–and Jan hated Russians as much as Germans. He reckoned his elder brother was at that place–Katyn?–

  where they killed all those Polish officers. We hadn't heard about it officially, but there was a grapevine among the Polish aircrew.'

  So that was how it had all started, thought Audley. The first report had come from Wojek simply because he hated Russians on principle. It had happened before, often. National hatreds were poor sources of useful infomation, but excellent watchdogs.

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  But Jones was almost enjoying his memories now, warming to the task.

  'Then there was another foreigner. A little chap, not at all like the other two–one of them was very sharp. In fact I can remember him–

  the Russian–quite well now. I only saw him properly twice, maybe three times in the pub. But he was one of those people you can't really forget: he had a broken nose–it gave him a sheep-like look from a distance. Not from close up, though.'