Tomorrow's ghost

'Unless I can prove otherwise, you mean?'

'That would change things, naturally.'

It was a Catch-22 situation, thought Frances bitterly. 'And Trevor Bond?'

'You can have his file, I'll have it sent to you - or a flimsy of it ... But you haven't really justified your obsession with him, either, you know.'

'It isn't an obsession.' Frances's resolve to keep her own counsel weakened: although he hadn't said as much he obviously didn't rate her chances. 'If he wasn't a contact, then of course it doesn't matter ... But if he was.. .'

'That's a very big if. Do go on though - if he was?'

'Then he wouldn't have made any mistake about the time of day. It would have been pointless. So on November 13 he lied - deliberately.'

She paused to give him time to work out the different interpretations of that: if it was a lie, then it hadn't done Butler any harm - on the contrary, if he had confirmed it, then it would have given him an alibi for the time of his wife's disappearance.

But in fact the Colonel had rejected any idea of an alibi with his own detailed - but unsubstantiated - account of his own movements that morning.

And yet, if it was a lie, then it also hadn't done Bond himself any good - on the contrary, it had put him at risk again by bringing the Special Branch back to him when he ought to have been keeping his head down; which would only have been justified if it had done Butler harm.

Which it hadn't... (Indeed, if Bond had actually stuck to his original lie, and had cast doubt on the Colonel's own account by insisting on giving him an alibi, that might have been more embarrassing. But he hadn't done that, either.) The possibilities went round in circles, but they always came back to the same point: not one of them made any sense.

* * *

Suddenly, a vivid memory of Dr David Audley surfaced in Frances's mind. David -

theorising on the pitfalls of action based on faulty intelligence in the lecture room of Walton

Hall-David - dear David, with his expensive suit typically in disarray, one fly-button undone ('Dishevilled urbanity', whispers Paul Mitchell, already star pupil in the awkward squad) -

Dear David - typically illustrating bitter experience from the advice of 'my old Latin master' on the hazards of translating the Orations of Cicero: Since Cicero can be relied on to make sense and your translation does not make sense, then it is prudent to assume that the error is yours, not Cicero's.

* * *

'Hmm ...' Extension 223 sounded sceptical, but cautious. 'So ... why should he do that, Mrs Fisher?'

In short, nonsense must be wrong ... And by the same token, even though our adversaries are rarely men of Cicero's calibre, when your interpretation of their actions does not make sense it is prudent to assume that the error is yours - and that you have been taken for a bloody ride according to plan. Until proved otherwise, therefore, nonsense must be wrong.

* * *

'I haven't the faintest idea - I don't know.' But what she did know, thought Frances, was that she missed David Audley's counsel now; and more, that in the matter of Colonel and Mrs Butler she missed it twice over. 'But I think that nonsense must be wrong until proved otherwise.' For a moment there was no sound from the telephone, and then it emitted an odd crackling growl, as though the source of the nonsense theory was known, and disliked.

'All right, Fisher - ' Extension 223's voice was strangely harsh: the growl had definitely been his, not the phone's ' - but I think that you're clutching at straws - '

'Straws are all I've got,' said Frances.

'Don't you believe it! Keep plugging at Mrs Butler, that's my advice. But I'll do what I can with Bond in the meantime.' The harshness was gone, like a distant rumble of summer thunder only half-heard and far away, and the voice was all velvet encouragement again. 'The flimsy of the Bond file I can get to you today ... and I think I'll run a quick present-whereabouts-and-status check on him too, just in case - so as not to risk wasting your time. The last one we've got is nearly three months old, I see.'

Frances felt complimented - so as not to risk wasting her valuable time, indeed! - and then the last words registered as significant.

They had never proved anything against Trevor Bond, but they had nevertheless run PWS checks on him for nine whole years - three-monthly checks for nine blameless years. And although PWS checks could safely be left to the local police that confirmed what she had already begun to suspect about Pearson Cole from Extension 223's reluctance to talk about him: that whatever he'd been up to once upon a time, all those years back, it must have been something red-hot - and so hot that it had even kept the dull Trevor Anthony Bond file warm, so it would seem.

And that was decidedly interesting - 'And Pearson Cole?' Nothing venture, nothing gain.

'I can't promise anything there. Fisher. The odds are against, but I'll pass the word on

... That's the most I can do, and the best ... just for you. Fisher, I'll do that.'

'Thank you,' said Frances meekly. David Audley would know because he knew almost everything, but David was out of bounds; and Paul Mitchell might know, because he often knew what he wasn't supposed to know, but he was out of reach, at least temporarily. And if Extension 223 really was doing his best for her such thoughts were treasonable, anyway.

'You just concentrate on Colonel Butler in the meantime. And on the wife.' Pause.