For the Good of the State Page 7

  How could he be so damned cold-blooded? thought Tom irritably.

  ‘Thirty-nine years, to be exact.‘ Audley’s eyes glazed at the memory. ’And I was also sniped at several times in Normandy, the year before—Jerry loved to pick off silly fools who poked their heads out of their tanks … But, of course, I never heard a bloody thing—no—there was one time … ‘ He focused on Tom, and dropped the rest of the irrelevant anecdote instantly. ’About a hundred yards, the end of the garden, anyway. So if he had a Brown Bess, and this was Waterloo, that’s about what I’d expect. Because the French skirmishers shot at Mercer in front of his battery for about half an hour—and from considerably less than a hundred yards, too—also without hitting him.‘ He nodded at Tom, as though childishly pleased with himself at the thought. ’ ”So long as they were aiming at me I wasn’t worried“—didn’t he say something like that?‘

  Tom smelt bonfire again. And now there was a wisp of smoke to go with the smell. But, much more confusing, was the thought that any competent marksman, let alone a professional, could have missed anything, at any practical range, with a modern rifle; or … had Audley moved—or had he himself moved—at that precise instant, when the finger had squeezed so gently—?

  ‘You said … from the hillside?’ Tom felt his anger well up. ‘And bugger Waterloo!’

  ‘Yes—quite right!’ Audley mistook anger for urgency. ‘My dear boy—I’m only talking because I’m shit-scared—I’m sorry! You may be used to this sort of thing, from the Lebanon, or wherever … ’ Audley closed his eyes and screwed up his face. ‘Im only trying to reassure myself … that he isn’t coming down the garden right now, to spit in my eye, for God’s sake!’ He kept his eyes closed. ‘But … there’s a track up the hillside—it goes diagonally from left to right, with bushes on the outer edge for cover … And that would give him a nice clear long shot on to this terrace … God only knows the distance, downhill—more than a quarter of a mile, but less than half, so say about six hundred yards.’ He opened his eyes again. ‘Easy access from the road down the bottom—quick getaway. The bugger must be kicking himself now, missing at that range, whether he’s still there or not—eh?’ He watched Tom. ‘But how long do we wait for him to get cold feet? Until I get rheumatism?’

  ‘No.’ At that range the man shouldn’t have missed, thought Tom. But he certainly wouldn’t miss twice, if he got a clear shot.

  A clear shot! he thought suddenly, staring upwards.

  ‘No,’ he murmured, twisting himself off his hip on to all fours.

  ‘So what—’ Audley’s mouth opened as Tom raised his head above the parapet ‘—for God’s sake, man! Get down!’

  Tom studied the view gratefully. If there was a hedge at the bottom of the garden he couldn’t see it, never mind the hillside beyond. What had deceived him had been Faith Audley’s estimation of the direction of the wind: it wasn’t blowing directly towards the house, but more diagonally, so that they were only on the edge of the thick clouds of smoke which were now billowing from the orchard across the lawn.

  He got to his feet. ‘Your wife said you were good with bonfires.’ He grinned happily down at the big man. ‘I can see that she was right.’

  Audley stared at him for a moment, then raised himself quickly. ‘Ouch!’ He rubbed his hip fiercely. ‘Damned old bones!’ Then he considered his handiwork. ‘Ye-ess … I’d forgotten about that.’ He nodded at Tom. “That’ll be the damp stuff on the top catching—smoke … The trick is to get the driest material underneath, with an access for air to windward—that makes for a hot heart, and then you can burn anything if you’ve graded it properly. But you must get the ash straight on the flower beds, when it’s properly cooled, and before it has a chance to rain—it’s useless once it’s been rained on, you know.‘ He climbed stiffly to his feet, to tower over Tom.

  ‘Is that so?’ said Tom politely.

  ‘Yes. The rain washes out the potash.’ Then Audley gestured towards the archway. ‘Do you think it might be advisable to run like hell now, while we can? Before I exhibit unbecoming twitches of fear—?’ He started to move before Tom could reply. ‘In fact, I think I’ll lead the way, just in case you’ve forgotten it.’

  Tom followed him back into the kitchen passage, and watched him lock the back door and shoot a massive iron bolt.

  ‘There now!’ Audley turned to him. ‘I observe that you are unarmed. But I take it that you have your armament in your car?’

  ‘As a matter of fact … no, Dr Audley.’

  ‘What?’ Audley started to move again. ‘But I thought you fellows were all armed to the teeth—’ He flung the words over his shoulder ‘—apart from which, I had the impression that you said that you had come to babysit me—?’

  ‘Yes—’ Tom had to trot to keep up with him as they reached the kitchen ‘—but we weren’t expecting—’

  ‘Not expecting?’ Audley cut him off as he prised a 12-bore shotgun off two wooden pegs on the wall above the fireplace. ‘Now where the hell are the cartridges—?’ He frowned around the enormous kitchen.

  ‘They’re on the table,’ said Tom, pointing.

  ‘Ah!’ Audley broke the 12-bore and loaded it. ‘That comes of having a good wife, by God! Not that she isn’t going to give me hell for this!’ He snapped the gun together. ‘Not expecting? I thought that was what girls say, whose mothers didn’t teach them the facts of life, Sir Thomas Arkenshaw.’ He thrust the gun into Tom’s hands. ‘Here—you take it—you’re the ruddy expert! And your reflexes are evidently better than mine. And so they should be.’ He waited while Tom examined the weapon. ‘Do you think he’ll have another try?’

  It was no good saying that he didn’t know, so Tom shrugged. ‘I wouldn’t have thought so. But if he’s stupid enough to miss, then perhaps he’s stupid enough to try.’ But first things first. ‘I don’t want to wait for him on the ground floor, anyway.’ He looked around. ‘And … where’s your wife—and your daughter?’

  ‘You don’t need to worry about them.’

  ‘I’ll be the judge of what I’ll worry about, Dr Audley. Where are they?’

  ‘They’re safe. That’s all you need to know.‘ Audley made an obstinate face. ’This is an old house. It’s got nooks and crannies in it that it would take you hours to find. You let me worry about their safety, Tom Arkenshaw—you just worry about me. Because that’s who I’m worried for.‘

  So that was what ‘Limejuice’ had signified—Take cover!—thought Tom. And that was why Audley had relaxed once the family codeword had been transmitted, and his family was safe. ‘Very well, Dr Audley. Then I want to get you one floor up. And I want some back-up before I get you away from here. So I need to make a phone-call.’

  Audley shook his head. ‘You don’t need to worry about that, either. Faith will have made that call. That’s the first half of Limejuice—she knows what to do.’ He pointed towards the door through which they had first entered the kitchen. ‘I’ll lead the way—’

  ‘No.’ Tom pushed past him. ‘Which way at the top of the stairs?’

  ‘Right.’ Audley nodded submissively. ‘The door at the end of the landing is the one you want.’

  ‘Close all the doors behind you as you go.’

  ‘Okay—I know the rules.’ Suddenly there was a note of weariness in Audley’s voice which made Tom pause. The man might know the rules, but it was probably a long time since he had had to apply them, so there were allowances which had to be made. Indeed, he had said as much—I’m not in practice for this sort of game‘, he had admitted.

  He grinned at the big man—big old man, was what he had to remind himself: considering that the last time Audley had been shot at (or the last time he was admitting to it, anyway) had been before he, Tom, had been born … and considering also that the man had now just been shot at with his family around him and his garden bonfire smouldering peacefully—considering all of that … he could have been a lot more troublesome. ‘It’s just a precaution, Dr Audley,’ he said reassuring
ly. ‘Almost certainly quite unnecessary. Because I think he’s long gone. I wouldn’t have put my head up if I’d thought otherwise.’

  ‘Aye.’ Audley gave him an old-fashioned look, as though he understood exactly what Tom was doing. ‘And you’d never be able to face your dear mother if you’d lost me, would you?’ Then his expression hardened. ‘So let’s get on with your unnecessary precautions, shall we?’

  The old house was wrapped in stillness ahead of him, so that every sound he made echoed for an instant and was then extinguished as the silence damped it down. But at least that made their passage easier, the more so since the man at his back really did remember the rules, standing still whenever he stopped, and moving again only when he signalled, until they reached the room at the end of the landing.

  Suddenly the carpet was thick underfoot, after the stone flags of the ground floor, which had seemed to have the whole world under them, and then the solid oak of staircase and landing, with only the occasional rug from Bokhara or Tabriz which (with everything else around him) had served to remind him that Audley did not depend on his pay for his lifestyle.

  This was the master bedroom, with a duvet-covered bed tailored to Audley’s size and the loneliness of the long-distance runner before finding any other occupant. But, more importantly, there were windows on three sides of it, with views of front and back.

  ‘Wait!’ Audley’s voice had recovered its note of command during their journey.

  Tom watched him fumble beside the bed, observing his bedtime reading at the same time with a sense of unreality: on the oak table in the hall below there had been the whole morning’s take of newspapers, from the Sun to Pravda; but here was Patrick Wormald’s Festschrift for his old tutor, Wallace-Hadrill, of early medieval fame; and Ideal and Reality in Frankish and Anglo-Saxon Society somehow weakened his hold on more pressing matters.

  ‘What are you doing?’ He forced himself to check the terrace first, through an arrow-slit window alongside a very twentieth-century en suite bathroom which had been built into one corner of the vast bedroom.

  ‘I’m … I’ve just switched on the bloody alarm system—’ Audley straightened up cautiously, as though he well knew how close his head came to the beam directly above him ‘—is what I’ve just done. So now … any exterior visitor will be welcomed with a klaxon loud enough to wake the dead.’

  Tom commenced the long walk to the dormer window at the other end of the bedroom. ‘So you’re used to this sort of thing, then?’

  ‘No—’ Audley followed him with his eyes ‘—no, we damn well are not!’

  The sweep of gravel at the front, with his black Rover in the middle of it, was equally empty. But Ideal and Reality in Frankish and Anglo-Saxon Society had hardened Tom’s heart. “Then why such a sophisticated alarm system?‘ He turned back towards Audley, setting the butt of the shotgun on the carpet.

  Audley’s face became brutal. ‘There are such people as burglars—they wear masks and striped jerseys, and have bags over their shoulders labelled “Swag”—don’t you have them in London?’ Audley paused. ‘Or Beirut? Or Athens? Or Cairo and Alexandria and Khartoum?’ Another pause. ‘Or is your brand of security purely political, and not capitalist?’

  Tom admired the view from the third side, across open fields in which sheep were busy recycling grass on the edge of the downland ridge for half a long mile, up to a fence beside a road which climbed the ridge. That would be the road which connected with the track … but there was nothing on it now, of course.

  ‘I used to keep geese, to do the same job much less expensively. And I ate the ones I didn’t sell at a profit,’ said Audley bitterly. ‘I rather like geese. They treat human beings with proper contempt. But Faith doesn’t fancy them—either as geese or goose. And … she’s a scientist by training, so she has to believe in electronic gadgets.’

  Tom thought of the Persian carpets, which would roll up very easily, and of some of the other objects he’d seen. So burglars was fair enough—except for one thing. ‘And what is “limejuice”, then?’ He tore himself away from Audley’s rural tranquillity. ‘And why “limejuice”, anyway?’ He injected pure curiosity to soften the sharpness of the question with a half-smile, remembering that he must make allowances.

  Audley blinked. ‘I once had the doubtful honour of serving with an armoured regiment which couldn’t really protect itself properly when it ran into Germans.’ He blinked again. ‘In great big tanks.’

  Tom waited. And then restrained himself, and continued to wait.

  ‘Eighty-eights were fortunes of war—misfortunes, rather … And Mark IVs were about even-steven—’ Audley looked clear through him ‘—the only trouble was, the Germans were better than we were, like the First XV playing the Second XV … On a good day, with the wind in our favour, and some of them sick, we could maybe take them, with a bit of luck—like, if we mixed up with a good infantry battalion, who had things under control … and a couple of 17-pounders to blunt Jerry’s enthusiasm—’ Suddenly he was looking at Tom. ‘But T-Tigers—Mark V’s—and especially King T-Tigers … that was like playing the All Blacks—we really couldn’t handle them at all. You just had to hope that you were in the reserve troop that day, on the touchline cheering the team on.’ He nodded. ‘Because then—then if you were lucky, and spotted them first … then you could call up your little spotter plane, who was stooging up and down in the clouds up above, trying to be unobtrusive at about the speed of an invalid tricycle, and hoping he’d be lucky too … And then, if it really was your lucky day and his, there’d be a squadron of rocket-firing Typhoons within call.’ He drew a long breath. ‘Some days there wasn’t—or not quickly enough for the lead troop … Some days the spotter bought it … But that was Limejuice anyway: it was there to protect us from our just deserts.’

  And genuine history it was, too, thought Tom—like Mamusia remembering dead Uncle Henryk; and, also, perhaps not something Audley was normally so garrulous about, except that now he was in mild shock from the terrace. It was a phenomenon Tom had observed before, and most recently on the part of an elderly Palestinian Arab, who had regaled him with his memories of the King David Hotel bomb in ‘46, in gory detail, after that last Beirut massacre.

  ‘But Limejuice now—’ Audley caught his expression ‘—our duty man will pass it on to Special Branch liaison. Which means we’ll have the nearest police unit in the first instance. Then an Armed Support Group—or whatever they call it now—’

  ‘The police arrive unarmed?’

  ‘God knows!’ Audley had evidently accepted his ‘merely a precaution’ reassurance at face value. ‘But it’s certainly an “Approach with extreme caution” job … And finally, in God’s good time, a couple of our own people will appear—it’s all laid down in the Contingency Book … Which Jack Butler updated not long ago, as it happens.’ He sniffed. ‘Which is why I’ve got it all off pat —I had to sign that I’d read it … You don’t think this is an everyday occurrence, do you?’

  Tom had drifted back to the front window. ‘I was beginning to wonder.’

  ‘Well—you can stop bloody wondering. It isn’t. At least, not to me, by God!’

  The square of gravel was still empty. ‘Not ever?’ He turned towards the open field with the sheep, deliberately not looking at the man.

  Audley didn’t reply to the question, and Tom remembered his Arab again as he crossed to the arrow-slit window. ‘Not ever?’

  ‘In twenty-five years … ’ Audley spoke against his better judgement, just like the Arab ‘ … I’ve had trouble three times here.’

  The old Arab had had constant trouble since the 1930s. So Audley had been damn lucky, thought Tom: he was still living in the same house. And the terrace was as empty as the forecourt, so he was still lucky. ‘Three times—?’

  ‘Only once … ’ Audley searched for the right word, committed now to his indiscretion ‘ … genuinely.’

  Now what the hell did he mean by that? wondered Tom.

  ‘
The other two were illegitimate intrusions. And heads rolled because of them, on the Other Side, I can tell you!’

  ‘They did?’ Tom was disappointed in his man suddenly.

  ‘They did.’ Just as suddenly all the heat went out of Audley’s voice. ‘You think I’m bull-shitting you, Tom Arkenshaw—I can see that. Right?’

  ‘No—’

  ‘If you want to think that, then you do that. And if you think I’m trying to impress you … well, you can think that too.’ Audley paused. ‘The last time was ten years ago. And I was in Italy at the time. It was about the time your section was formed.’ Another pause. ‘And if you care to check the record you’ll find that it was formed on my recommendation. You were in your second year at university at the time. You were secretary of the Anglo-Polish club and treasurer of the Wine and Food Society, which must have been a lot more enjoyable.’ Another pause. ‘And would you like me to give you the name of the woman who recruited you?’

  Harvey had been right—sod the bastard! ‘Not especially, Dr Audley. But I would like to know why you’re assuming this is the Russians.’

  ‘I’m not assuming any such thing. And for God’s sake call me David—otherwise I’ll have to call you “Sir Thomas”. It’s bad enough that I’ve had to explain to my daughter what a baronet is, without having to do that.’

  ‘Yes?’ Tom grabbed the diversion gratefully. ‘What did she say?’

  ‘She was quite relieved.’ Audley fell for the diversion like any doting father. ‘You had confused her somewhat, I think.’

  ‘If it’s any consolation to her, she’d confused me too, you can tell her—David.’

  ‘Yes?’ Then Audley saw through him. ‘I’m not assuming any such thing.’

  He’d better not go on underrating Mamusia’s old admirer. ‘No?’ Besides which, he had to keep checking the windows—not so much for some mad bugger with a rifle as for some poor devil of a policeman saddled with an “extreme caution” order. And that meant the forecourt again. ‘Then who else could it be? Who have you offended?’