'But what makes you think it happened at East Firle?'
'I don't know where it happened. But we have to start there.'
Roskill sighed. Alan would most likely have spent part of his leave at home – like Harry, he had had a strong homing instinct. It was unarguably his assignment: he was cornered. But a beastly assignment, for of all places he least relished snooping around that one, where he had once been happy.
'Very well, David. I'll go to Firle. And you haven't the least idea what I'm supposed to be looking for?'
'At this moment not the slightest. But we may pick up a clue or two in a short while.'
'From whoever's waiting for us in the Queensway? But they're going to be obsessed with Arabs and Israelis, whichever of 'em had the biggest down on Llewelyn. And that's not going to help us dummy2
much.'
Or was it? He looked searchingly at Audley. Jenkins's death, botched or not, had not been a small-time operation. It had involved manpower and equipment and murderous determination.
And information – above all information. There would hardly have been the time to acquire the relevant intelligence about Llewelyn and Jenkins simply to set up the operation, therefore the likelihood was that the killers had merely used what was already known to them.
And that eliminated all the jealous boyfriends, wronged husbands and vengeful fathers Jenkins might have left in his wake; it narrowed the field to the professionals, beyond all doubt – the very men who could have killed Llewelyn if they had wanted to do so.
'Let's just wait and see for the moment, Hugh – let's see what they've got in Room 104. But first let's find out what they don't want
Roskill frowned at him across the Triumph's bonnet. What the hell was the man playing at now?
Audley's eyes glinted behind his glasses. 'One of your little jobs on the side is going to be to keep an eye on me, you know. At least, I hope it will be, because then we needn't worry about anyone else from the department dogging us. So I want to have time to recruit you.'
Roskill tried to immobilise his face. The one and only time he had actually worked with Audley, that had been his job exactly; it dummy2
wasn't Audley's loyalty that had worried them then either, but simply his unwillingness to explain what he was up to until after he'd been up to it. Secretiveness was apparently the man's besetting sin.
One couldn't blame them, but he hadn't liked the job then and he didn't relish it now, with its insane subdivision of loyalties mocking the real job in hand.
Audley mistook his exasperation for honest reluctance.
'I know how you feel, Hugh,' he apologised. 'It isn't quite cricket, is it? But we didn't make the rules and we have to play the game their way.'
Alan and Harry and East Firle – and now Audley was making a game of it all, damn him! For the first time Roskill almost regretted the chance that had allowed him to escape from flying. The sooner he could pick those tricky brains clean, the better.
IV
OF THE FIVE faces which turned towards him as he entered the room Roskill recognised only two. Worse, the friendly one was scowling angrily and the dangerous one welcomed him with a smile.
'Ah, Roskill,' said Stocker. 'I'm glad you were able to come.'
Butler's scowl deepened. But that at least was understandable: the night before he had loyally obeyed orders he disliked, and had dummy2
appeared to fail. Obedience, ambition and incongruously active conscience had been fighting inside Butler for years, each one baulked by the other two.
Roskill looked coldly at Stocker. What was it Audley had said they thought him to be – 'an overgrown ex-fighter pilot with a crafty streak'? Best to oblige them then.
He shrugged. 'I can't say I'm glad. But Jack's very persuasive when he puts his mind to it.'
'And Audley?'
It was the big man sitting in the easy chair in the corner who spoke.
The other two were nondescripts, Special Branch or Stacker's Joint Intelligence. Committee understrappers. But the big man's rather battered face and unquestionable air of authority would have identified him even without the faintest suspicion of Welsh intonation.
'Mr. Llewelyn, I presume?'
'Is Audley coming?' Stocker echoed the question this time, and he was no longer smiling.
'He should be here any moment.'
The smile came back. So it had been Stocker's idea – and sure enough there was a suggestion of surprise crossing Llewelyn's face. One up to him: he had judged Audley better than Stocker, even after all these years. Two of a kind, evidently.
'You are very persuasive too it would seem, Squadron-Leader Roskill,' said Llewelyn softly.
'I had moral support from another quarter.' They had counted on dummy2
Faith so he might as well throw her into the scales. 'But I wouldn't say he's any happier than I am.' Casually, now. 'In fact neither of us go much for your methods.'
'Needs must when the devil drives, Roskill.' Stocker could afford to be conciliatory now. 'And to be fair you must admit that we wouldn't have got you both any other way. The situation was not –
