The Old Vengeful

'What are they like?'

Mitchell shrugged. 'Carefully researched ... he took his time over them. He liked travelling around, staying at good hotels

—he knew his food and drink. Drove a Daimler.' He thought for a moment. 'The books . . . they weren't bad. Maybe they weren't quite one thing or the other—detailed, but not quite scholarly, and not quite popular either.'

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'You don't like them?'

'There's something about them ... a certain irritability ... a preference for blame above praise. I can't quite put my finger on it.'

'Perhaps he was embittered by that premature retirement.'

Audley tapped the picture. 'Those two admirals were his junior officers, after all... But you don't know?'

'I don't think I'd like to have served under him, hero or not, that's all.'

Audley pointed again. 'But they turned up to see him buried.

'The last roll-call'.'

'Yes. I may be doing him an injustice—I probably am.'

Mitchell looked at Audley. 'The point is, for whatever it's worth, he's—he was— absolutely clean. No contacts. No hint of anything.'

'But he's dead.'

Mitchell shook his head. 'Nothing there, either. I had Bannen check that out. He'd had a dickey heart condition for years—his doctor had told him to go easy, but he took not the slightest bit of notice. When his Daimler was boxed in on that car park he tried to manhandle a Ford Escort out of the way. It was a hot day, and he was angry . . . There are plenty of witnesses, and Bannen talked to the owners of both the cars that had boxed him.' He shook his head again. 'Pure as driven snow, both of them.'

'No one is as pure as that.'

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'Then . . . pure enough for Bannen and me. David . . . the man was seventy-one years old—he had a heart attack. Short of digging him up again you're going to have to accept that.

He certainly spent a bit more money than we can readily account for—and he had a big car and a biggish house . . . But that doesn't make him a traitor, or a security risk—and for Christ's sake, the old boy's dead now, anyway! And if he was up to anything he'd have been much more careful about the money angle—'

'I didn't say he was a traitor—or anything else,' said Audley mildly, bending over the picture again.

'Then what the hell have I been doing this past week?'

Mitchell let his cool slip. 'Damn it—you had me pulled off the Czech link with Dublin just when it was beginning to look good!'

'Waste of time!' murmured Audley, without looking up.

'They'll never let you go back to Dublin now your cover's blown . . . Besides which, you were taking too many risks there latterly.'

'I'm only doing research now. I like doing research.'

'More waste of time ... Is this the daughter?'

'Yes.' It was never worth arguing with Audley.

'Not a good likeness ... at least, I hope not for her sake!'

Mitchell fished among the documents on his left, and then slid the enlarged photograph in front of Audley.

Audley studied it for a moment. 'Oh dear! A good likeness.'

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He frowned at the daughter. 'It looks like a prison picture ...

or maybe a 'Wanted' poster?'

'It's from a hockey group. We enlarged it.'

'A hockey group . . . mmm ... the nose is a problem, and so are the teeth—an orthodontic problem, left too late ... I hope she plays hockey well, poor girl.'

'She got a Blue at Oxford. And a First in History, at LMH.'

For no reason, except perhaps his exasperation with Audley, Mitchell felt defensive on the woman's behalf.

'That's good to know.' Audley nodded. 'It's always comforting when nature indemnifies in other ways—even though Miss Loftus herself may not look at the mirror so philosophically.'

'I think she's got an interesting face. Not beautiful, certainly, but. . .' Mitchell searched for a word '. . . but interesting.'

'Plain? 'Homely', the Americans would say . . . Equine is a word that springs to my mind. But no matter!' Audley turned to Mitchell. 'A good hockey player—'Take your girl', they used to shout at Cambridge, as I remember, when I once watched our Blues thrash theirs . . . and ours did seem to take the game much more seriously than they did—when they came off at the end ... I shall never forget it . . . one of them slapped her winger on the back and cried out 'Well played, Anthea, well played—good man, good man!' And I must confess that I did wonder for a moment, when I looked at Anthea, whether we might not have put an unfair one over dummy3