The Old Vengeful

them—and Del Andrew's eyes too (less cautioning, more frankly curious) in passing—she still felt like the little girl who had found the answers in the back of her book, but still couldn't make her sums add up right—

'Elizabeth—Detective Chief Inspector Andrew, Special Branch— 'Del' to us, apparently, according to my husband . . . Chief Inspector—Miss Elizabeth Loftus—

Elizabeth to us.'

First, he was too young—or not first, since she had never met a Chief Inspector of any sort, let alone of the Special dummy3

Branch ... So first, was this the type—more like the young gipsy who'd come up the drive last month, trying to sell a load of asphalt 'left over from a job'?

'Hullo, Miss Loftus.' The sharp gipsy look was there too, sizing her up unashamedly.

'Chief Inspector.' She couldn't quite expel the surprise from her acknowledgement, and was embarrassed to observe the flicker of amusement in his dark eyes.

'And I'm Mitchell.' Paul drew the eyes away from her. 'I don't believe we've met before, Chief Inspector. But I've heard about you from Colonel Butler.'

'No.' There was the merest suggestion of an East London naow there, just as there had been the slightest hesitation in the aspirate of hullo, and the eyes were frankly appraising now, with a hint of wariness. 'And I've heard about you too, Dr Mitchell.'

'Nothing derogatory, I hope?' Under the light tone Paul also sounded just a touch wary.

The Chief Inspector smiled. 'You've just given two of my sergeants a lot of paper-work.'

'I think I'd better see to the ruins of dinner,' murmured Faith. 'Are you staying the night, Del?'

'I don't know, madam.' The Chief Inspector glanced towards Audley, while Elizabeth envied Faith's ability to handle eccentric situations gracefully.

'I think he is, love.' Audley waited until his wife had dummy3

departed before continuing. 'To be exact, Paul . . . they've been tidying up your depredations of yesterday to make them fit for any god-fearing coroner.'

'I wouldn't call them 'depredations'.' The Chief Inspector cocked his head at Paul. 'In fact, I got some mates down my old nick who'd buy the first round for you, Dr Mitchell—and all the other rounds, and see you safe home when you couldn't stand up straight. They'd reckon you done them a favour.'

'Which reminds me—' Audley moved towards an array of bottles in the corner of the room '—it's Irish whiskey, isn't it, Del?'

'Thank you.' The Chief Inspector wasn't overawed by Audley. 'All the same, you chanced your arm with Steve Donaghue, Dr Mitchell. Very quick on his feet was old Steve—

for a man his size.'

'Steve Donaghue—' Paul swallowed. ' Was?'

'Patrick Lawrence Donaghue—'Steve' to his friends, of whom there can't have been very many, because he had a nasty temper . . . yes, we've lost him, Dr Mitchell—to your second bullet though, so we'll count that as self- defence, because he'd 'ave broken your back if he'd reached you. But he doesn't matter—he was just a thick heavy, and somebody would have done 'im sooner or later . . . And much the same goes for little Willie Fullick—someone would have done him sooner, rather than later, because he wasn't nearly as good as he thought he was—lots of talk, but no bottle . . . He reckoned dummy3

he was Steve's brains—and God knows, Steve needed some brains . . . but he wasn't.'

'Willie . . . Fullick?' Paul repeated the name softly.

'Thank you—' the Chief Inspector took his glass from Audley, and sipped, and nodded '—very nice . . . yes . . . of course, there was no time for introductions—William Harold Fullick was the look-out man you put down yesterday in the garden . . . But at least he gave you the shooter, and that makes things easier for us to prove self-defence, like it made it easier for you with Steve.' Another sip, and a cold smile to go with it. 'Funny really—Willie was warned not to carry firearms, that it'd be the death of'im . . . and it was . . . but it'd 'ave been the death of you, Dr Mitchell, if he hadn't—if old Steve 'ad got 'is hands on you.' He shook his head at Paul. 'Very careless, you were.'

Paul said nothing.

'But they don't matter—no one'll cry over those two . . .

though no one'll buy you a drink for them, either.' The Chief Inspector stared at Paul for a moment, and then turned towards Elizabeth. 'But Julian Oakenshaw—Julian Alexander Carrell Oakenshaw—Bachelor of Arts . . . You are a very lucky lady, Miss Loftus, if I may say so—a very lucky lady.'

For the first time ever, Elizabeth wished she had a strong drink in her hand, like yesterday.

'But I think you probably know that—I shouldn't be at all dummy3

surprised—'

'She knows it,' snapped Paul. 'So what?'

'So I shouldn't explain to her how lucky she is?'

'If she knows it—no.'

'Ah! You're worried because he didn't have a shooter—'

'I don't give a damn what he had—'

'He didn't need a shooter.' Suddenly Chief Inspector Andrew was all chief inspector, and a thousand years older than Paul Mitchell. 'Steve Donaghue maybe killed a couple of men in his time—he