War Game

but into helplessness. 'He was . . . too young.'

So he was, thought Audley, remembering Digby's threadbare dressing-gown. Too young, but no younger than half the names on the old hot war casualty lists— even older than some of those. Except that they had known the reason why, and Digby—

'What happened?'

He stared at her. 'What happened?' He heard himself repeat the question with a curious detachment. Repeating questions was a stupid habit which had always irritated him.

'Or shouldn't I ask?' She was not far away from sympathy now, and anger was preferable to that; sympathy only emphasised the truth of her earlier reaction.

You've bloody well miscalculated!

'He was shot. It happened somewhere on the Ferryhill Industrial Estate.' He spoke harshly. 'And don't ask me what he was doing there, because I haven't the faintest bloody idea.'

There was a click on the phone at his ear.

'Is that you, Audley?'

'Yes.' Audley steeled himself for what was to come.

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Yet nothing came: there was a vacuum between them as each waited for the other to speak. He had expected Weston to be tightly controlled in his reaction, but silence was a refinement which surprised him. It was pointless to be sorry, anyway: only Faith's question was left to him.

'What happened?'

'It was just bad luck, that's all.'

'Bad luck?' The answer was even more surprising than the silence. It was the wrong answer the wrong tone of voice—

the wrong everything. 'What d'you mean —bad luck?'

'His being there just then.' Weston paused. 'Didn't they tell you?'

Audley just managed to stop himself repeating the question.

If he did that once more it would become a habit. 'No, they didn't.'

He heard Weston speak to someone else —presumably the detective constable— but couldn't make out any of the words.

'I'm sorry Audley.' More indistinct words. 'I'm sorry—I thought you had been told, but it seems they hadn't had the confirmation here until a minute or two back. It was the IRA.' Weston paused. 'I take it he wasn't investigating anything which had an Irish connection—for you?'

'Of course not.' Sheer incredulity roughened Audley's reply.

'I didn't think so. Then that's what it was—sheer accident.

He just happened to run into one of their bomb squads in the act of planting a bomb. He must have caught them planting dummy5

it, and he tried to tackle them. And they shot him.'

Steady. 'You've had confirmation of that?'

'We had a phone call at 10.25—Irish accent and codeword.

They said there was a bomb outside Wessex Electronics and we had ten minutes to clear the place.'

'And there was a bomb?'

'We've just defused it—the Army has. Ten pounds of gelignite and one of those damned American detonators —the ones they lost in Vietnam—that's what they think.' Another pause. 'Look, Audley— as you can imagine, I'm pretty pushed now. We've got a fighting chance of picking the bastards up—this is a largely rural area, outside the estate, not like Birmingham or London. So we've got it sealed off tight now ... so I shall have to hang up on you, you understand?'

'Of course.' Under the circumstances Weston had already shown remarkable courtesy in even coming to the phone.

'Thank you for sparing the time. Good-bye then, Superintendent—and good hunting.'

'Don't you worry about that. We'll get them.' Weston was coldly businesslike. 'I'm sorry about . . . your business. But there's nothing I can do about that at the moment. Goodbye, Audley.'

'It was the IRA,' said Audley.

'Oh,' said Faith. 'Oh ... I'm sorry, David ... I mean—I'm sorry.'

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She turned away.

Audley watched the door close.

Acceptance.

Just say It was the IRA and you receive acceptance. Anger and bitterness and helplessness and bafflement—and acceptance. Even from a total professional, with the evidence served up steaming on a plate, the acceptance was automatic.

Except, to be fair, Weston was still in pursuit at this moment, and the unanswered questions had to wait in such circumstances.