The Old Vengeful

long.'

The voice was wrong. He was a big ugly broken-nosed boxer running to seed, in an old shirt with a frayed collar and a pair of clean but paint-spotted khaki slacks. But for that tell-tale Oxbridge voice he could have been the gorilla-man of dummy3

hideous memory from yesterday.

'But we've had a lot to do, and Sunday isn't the best day for doing it—please don't get up—' he motioned with his hand as she started to move '—not if you're comfortable where you are.'

Elizabeth rose from the scatter of Sunday papers on the carpet around her. Mr Aske had said his boss was coming, it was almost the only thing he had said. And this gentle-voiced paint-spotted thug was that man, those words and that voice both told her—and therefore more to be feared than any of them.

'I'm afraid you've had a bad time—and I don't suppose we've made it seem any better . . . Do please sit down—' he indicated the one comfortable chair in the bedroom '—and then I shall be able to sit down too.'

Elizabeth pulled the stool from under the dressing table and sat on it. It seemed strange to her, with all she wanted to say, that no words came to her at all. But then, when she began to think about it, silence seemed quite sensible.

The big man sank into the armchair and stared at her for a few seconds.

'No questions, Miss Loftus?' He smiled suddenly. 'But then my colleague, Dr Mitchell, did say that you were a brave young lady. And a resourceful one, too.'

That was so far from the truth as to be laughable, if she had felt like laughing. And praise from Dr Mitchell was dummy3

something she could do without, anyway.

She cleared her throat. 'I asked Dr Mitchell questions yesterday evening, and I protested to Mr Aske last night. But it didn't do me any good on either occasion. Will I do any better now?'

'A fair question.' He nodded. 'But I am neither Dr Mitchell nor Mr Aske. So why not try?'

He was testing her. 'Very well. You could start by telling me who you are, I suppose.'

'That's better!' He rolled slightly sideways in order to fish a small black wallet out of his hip pocket '—my name is Audley, and I work for the government. . . your government, Miss Loftus.' He displayed the contents of the wallet for her.

'This is what you might call my credentials . . . my right to do what I do, as it were—do you see?'

Elizabeth studied the words and the names, but hardly saw them with her attention drawn towards the photograph, in which a pair of fragile metal-rimmed spectacles had been perched incongruously on his nose, just below the break.

'You're a policeman.' She found her voice again. 'A sort of policeman?'

The second sentence was better, less like an accusation, more like a question. But as she said it she thought of Paul Mitchell with a twinge of anger.

'You might say that, yes.' He watched her.

Elizabeth's stomach churned. 'A secret policeman—might I dummy3

say that, Mr Audley?'

'You very well might, Miss Loftus.' To her disappointment, he smiled again. 'And you might be right—a few hundred miles east of here you would be exactly right, in fact . . . But, of course, you wouldn't say as much there, you'd be too frightened. So there could be a difference, don't you think?

Because you don't need to be frightened of me, you see.'

Elizabeth steeled herself against his kindness. Paul Mitchell had been kind yesterday, but with men like this kindness was only one side of a coin which had a very different face on the other.

'You don't believe me?' He spoke gently.

'I wasn't thinking of you, Mr Audley,' she lied. 'I was thinking of your colleague, Dr Mitchell.'

He frowned slightly. 'With disapproval?'

She was committed now. 'Violence frightens me. And he's a violent man.'

For a moment he stared at her without speaking. Then he shook his head. 'No, you're quite wrong there . . . But if he were, you should be grateful for it, rather than disapproving, after what he did for you yesterday. For that was no small thing, Miss Loftus, believe me.'

His mildly chiding tone stung her. 'I'm very grateful for that

—of course.' She was conscious that she'd talked herself into an ungraceful position. 'Though he did actually describe it himself as 'self-defence' . . . But it isn't that, exactly . . .'

dummy3

'What is it, then . . . exactly?'

She didn't want to go any further, ungraceful or not. 'It doesn't matter.'

'It does matter. It matters a great deal, believe me.' He pinned her with a look from which all the mildness had vanished. 'I need to know—exactly.'

The opportunity of revenging herself on Paul Mitchell had presented itself more quickly than she had expected. But now revenge seemed petty, as it always did.

'Come on, Miss Loftus.'

There wasn't time to think of a lie. 'He killed those men—but he didn't seem to care. He said—'