And it was, indeed, exactly thirty minutes later that a smart red Bedford van squealed to a halt on the cobbles. KILL-AND-CURE
it promised in bold letters emblazoned on a board fastened to its side panel–'Instant death to wood-borers– relief from rising damp.'
A plump, ginger-haired man in an ill-fitting suit climbed out of the van, accompanied by a younger assistant with trailing hair and a Ringo Starr moustache. They surveyed the house with professional disinterest.
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The ginger man rapped sharply on the kitchen door.
'Kill-and-Cure, sir,' he announced loudly. 'About your request for estimates for our woodworm treatment and electro-osmotic damp-courses. I have your letter here, sir–Dr Audley, it is, isn't it–and my authorisation to make a Sunday call. 'Sunday stipulated' it says here.'
He held open a red folder for Audley to see. It did certainly contain an authorisation, complete with identification. But no mention was made in it of Sunday or woodworm or electro-osmosis, whatever that was.
The ginger man inclined his head slightly towards the van, and Audley followed him outside.
'I'm Maitland, Dr Audley. That's Jenkins with all the hair. Three men, you said. And they had plenty of time in the house.'
Audley nodded.
'But you think it possible they may not know that you observed them.'
'It's possible. I can't be sure.'
'Well, we won't spoil their fun, just in case. Mr Roskill's coming to take you to London, but we'll check the cars first just in case you want to use them. And the cars'll tell us just how good they are.'
He nodded to Jenkins and gestured towards the cars in the barn.
The hairy young man pulled a bag of tools out of the van and trotted off obediently, whistling tunelessly.
'The cars?'
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'No one can resist cars these days, Dr Audley. If they really don't like you they'll have done a little surgery on the steering or the brakes. But that's not very likely–much too chancy. A 'Bo Peep', though–so they can follow you at a safe distance–that's as near a certainty as dammit is to swearing.'
Jenkins had disappeared into Faith's Mini.
'He won't be long,' said Maitland happily. 'There aren't many places in a Mini. Not many clever places, anyway.'
They made their way back into the house.
'Now, sir,' said Maitland loudly again, 'if you don't mind giving us the run of the house while you're out we'll measure up for the damp-course, internal walls included, and let you have our estimate within three days. But if you could spare time to show me round once before you go—'
As they toured the house Maitland treated him to a continuous, detailed and persuasive catalogue of Kill-and- Cure's techniques, services and previous triumphs. Only the fact that at the same time he virtually ignored the tell- tale holes in the beams and rising damp stains on the walls spoilt the illusion; instead he gently poked and pried into drapes and under furniture.
At length, he led Audley back outside.
'Well, if you've been bugged it's been done by experts,' he said.
'There's nothing obvious to be seen.'
Audley experienced a sinking feeling. Nothing could be more humiliating than a false alarm–if his visitors turned out to be innocent locals looking for unconsidered trifles. And it would also dummy4
make a sad comedy of what had passed in the hole . . .
'Maybe Jenkins has struck oil,' continued Maitland.
Audley followed him unwillingly towards the barn. Jenkins had evidently finished with the Mini, which was in itself a bad sign.
His legs protruded from beneath the Cambridge. Beside them a transistor radio blared insanely.
The ginger-haired man casually kicked one of the legs.
'You down there! Any joy?'
Jenkins eased himself from under the car. He had certainly struck oil, which he proceeded to rub off with a filthy rag, without much success.
'That Mini'll never pass its MoT test next time,' he observed cheerfully. 'Shocking state underneath! Never buy an old Mini. Old Minis are like—'
He stopped talking and stared past them.
Audley swung round to find Faith standing in the barn doorway.
But it was a very different Faith from the morning-after one he had last seen–and different, too, from the earlier Faiths, funereal, tweedy and jeaned.
He had asked her to dress for action, and that was exactly what she had done: the sage-green medium mini dress in what looked like suede combined expensive simplicity and provocation. The pale hair was pinned up at the back in a vertical roll — was that what Liz had once described 'as a French pleat? And the blue-tinted glasses completed the tantalising don't-touch look.
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