Audley shook his head.
'Well, you won't mind if we get on with things. And I won't detain you long. In fact Squadron Leader Roskill can give us all the necessary details, and you can endorse his statement later if you wish.'
Which was one way, thought Audley, of saying 'I don't quite know who or what you are, you self-important sod, but I'd much rather deal with your underling anyway'. And fair enough, too.
Complicated trouble this early on a Saturday, with the evening still stretching ahead, would be enough to set any policeman's teeth on edge.
Roberts turned away without waiting for an answer, under cover of showing the way for the police surgeon and the photographer who was with him.
Roskill caught Audley's eye.
'I got straight through to Stocker. He's going to smooth things down, and he said we'd better clear this end up and then pack it in dummy4
until tomorrow. But if you like I'll hang on here and see if they find anything–I can give you the details in the morning.'
'Can they get Butler back?'
'He'll be back.' Roskill grinned. 'He won't get much sleep, but that'll only sharpen his claws. Oh–and they're sending a man up to Knaresborough to keep an eye on Tierney and another down to Asham to watch over Jones now. Just in case, Stocker said.'
There seemed to be manpower to spare, certainly. It had never been like this in the Middle East. But he didn't like the way Stocker was manipulating the action, and there was a suspicion now at the back of his mind that Roskill's primary role might well be to keep Stocker informed of the progress of events.
It was time to assert himself a little, anyway.
'Very well, Hugh. You stay on here. You can pick me up tomorrow and we'll take Tierney as planned. But I don't think he'll be so easy, so we'll do it in two stages. First, you and Butler can approach him officially. Then—'
He paused for effect.
'Then Miss Steerforth and I will have a go.'
The effect was gratifying enough: he had every bit of Roskill's attention for the first time since tea. But to leave him dangling now would be small-minded. If he was reporting back to Stocker it was only because he had been ordered to. And it was not Roskill's fault that the afternoon had ended so badly: leaving Morrison had been Audley's own mistake.
'If Tierney's the man he used to be he'll be tricky, Hugh. He'll know dummy4
more and tell less. So I'd like you to push his good side, and if that doesn't work I'm going to tempt his bad one. We might get somewhere between us.'
VI
As he drove homewards Audley felt a black depression settling on him. The familiar countryside, springlike after the previous day's chill, made it all the worse; he should have been driving home to a quiet, secluded weekend. Instead he was driving from trouble towards trouble, with trouble on each side of him.
Faith Jones had had the best part of a day to pry and fret around his house, and there was no guarantee that she'd be willing to go north with them next day, for all the good that might do. There was no certainty even that she'd still be waiting for him.
But the girl was the least of his unhappiness. The last two hours had confirmed his fears that he was simply not up to this job–it was all a horrible error of judgment. The breaking of Morrison had been luck, not skill, and he knew in his heart that sending in Roskill and Butler first against Tierney next day was less part of a crafty plan than mere hopeful cowardice. Theodore Freisler had put his finger on the truth: he was afraid of the dirty work.
Worst of all was Morrison's death. It didn't seem real yet, but when the unreality wore off Audley suspected that he was going to be frightened.
dummy4
But as he turned on to the cobbled forecourt, with the anger of Mrs Clark's geese ringing in his ears, he noticed with pleasure that someone had cut the grass–a bit of Mrs Clark's famous initiative.
The grass was his invariable Saturday job, and it had nagged at his mind all day.
And Faith Jones's Mini was still there, in the old barn where he had told her to put it that morning. He pulled in alongside it.
The stone-flagged kitchen was cool and calm after the uncomfortable afternoon and the sweaty drive home. And Faith Jones, in the blue-jeans-and-shirt uniform of youth, was pouring a beer, just as cool and calm.
'Your Mrs Clark told me that you always pour yourself a glass of beer when you come home late from the office. She says you can always keep on the right side of a man if you greet him like this, too. Even if he doesn't want it–it builds his self-respect, she says.
Personally, I think it's a much older custom. I think Mrs Clark has got a racial memory going back to Anglo- Saxon times.'
She offered Audley the beer with a curtsey that somehow avoided being either serious or mocking.
He accepted it, nonplussed. 'I didn't know Mrs Clark was aware of my drinking customs. But it's very welcome, Miss Jones.'
'Don't go formal on me. You agreed to call me Faith last night, and you've been 'Mr David' to me so much today that I can't possibly call you 'Dr Audley' any more.' She smiled at him, and he took cover in his glass.
'And as for Mrs Clark not knowing about your drinking habits, dummy4
there's precious little Mrs Clark doesn't know about you. And what Mrs Clark doesn't know by learning and experience she knows already by instinct I would guess. So since I've spent quite a lot of today with her I'm afraid I know rather a lot about you too now.'
Audley choked on his beer. The roles had been reversed now, with the proverbial vengeance.
