'I just know he's a sort of troubleshooter–someone like Stocker, I suppose, except that he usually deals with internal affairs,' said Audley, trying to gloss over what appeared to be a gaffe. 'Once he dummy4
was an archaeologist, or something like that. A professor, anyway.'
He hadn't said anything in the least funny, but Fred was laughing nevertheless.
'Like Stocker? I must tell Stocker that. He'd be flattered. And he'd also be impressed, because you seem to know quite a lot for a Middle Eastern man. It was his idea that we should give you Panin, too. If you can do half as well with him as you have with Rabin and Mohiedin, there'll be no complaints.
'But you wish to know his connection with Steerforth. It's quite simple: he's only been in England once, and that was to look for Steerforth 25 years ago. He was the fly-by-night attache who turned up at the Newton Chester airfield.
'When he became more important he was edited out of the Steerforth file, which is an open one.'
Mrs Harlin entered noiselessly, carrying a red folder as though John the Baptist's head rested on it.
'Actually,' continued Fred, 'we know very little about the man. But we do know that every year he spends a month in the spring excavating a site in ancient Colchis. Keeping his hand in, as it were. It's the only sacrosanct date in his calendar.
'Or it was sacrosanct.' Fred stared at Audley. 'This year he packed in after only four days and flew back to Moscow the day before yesterday. And for once we know why.
'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
