Gunner Kelly

again when they weren’t battened down—as they would have been if they’d planned it, sir.”

Butler waited, although he already knew what the point was now, from the recent circulars which had passed across his desk as a matter of routine.

“So as a result the Squad picked up three of them who were out in the open—the Provo bagman who was delivering funds in London, and the girl who was setting up that new safe house . . . and the INLA hit-man—a real bad bastard we’ve been after for a long time, that the West Germans wanted too.” Andrew paused. “Which our contacts in Dublin and Belfast both confirm—that the boyos there would like to get their hands on whoever did for the General quite as much as we would, and probably even more.”

That made sense . . . even if the sense it made was the mad and bad illogical sense of terrorism the world over, thought Butler bleakly.

But now was the moment for a straight question.

“So how did you come into this, Andrew?”

This time it was a longer pause. “Ah ... I heard a whisper, sir—that it maybe wasn’t an Irish job at all ... But the bomb was a pro job, like I said.” Pause. “And there was that paper of Wing-Commander Roskill’s on bombs, not long ago ... So I thought this one might end up on our plate— on your plate, sir . . .” Modesty disarmed Chief Inspector Andrew “. . . and I dropped in on the squad anyway, to talk about old times . . . just in case.”

Intelligent anticipation: another plus for the man. “Could you go down there again?” Pause.

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“No, sir. If I go down there again . . . they’re much too fly for that: they’ll know it won’t be just curiosity this time—especially as they’re looking for someone to take it off their hands. They’ve already tried to unload it on the Dorset locals.”

“With what result?” If Audley hadn’t been involved, Butler might have smiled: the experience was not unknown to him of having intractable problems left at his official door like unwanted babies, lusty and demanding.

“The Chief down there—the Chief Constable—he wouldn’t have it. And quite right, too!” Andrew grunted sympathetically. “He said there was no one on his patch who could set a bomb like that—

and if there had been they’d never have set it under the old General. He was the last person anyone would want to blow up. So it had to be political.”

“And you go along with that, do you?”

“I don’t go along with anything . . . sir,” replied Andrew cautiously. “I don’t know enough about it—this was just what I picked up over a few beers. But they certainly didn’t have any local prospects down there with any sort of motive, never mind the know-how, apparently.”

“You mean he had no known enemies down there?”

“That’s right. In fact... no known enemies anywhere, would be more accurate. He was a decent old stick—‘much-loved local figure’, as they say . . . only this time that was the exact truth: they couldn’t find anyone who didn’t have a good word for him. What the local vicar said, was that he disproved the parable about the dummy1

rich man having difficulty getting into heaven: he’d get through the eye of the needle with plenty of room on both sides.”

“He was rich?”

“Rolling in it. Landed money, too—the sort that’s gone through the roof the last few years.”

“Next-of-kin?” He knew part of the answer to that already. But there might be more.

“Just one grand-daughter—who adored him. And most of his wealth was already in trust for her anyway, apart from that.

Nobody stands to gain from his death, if that’s what you’re after.

Most people think they lost by it.” Andrew sniffed at him down the line. “Too good to be true, eh?”

“I said no such thing!” snapped Butler. One thing the years had convinced him of was the existence of pure evil. Fortunately, whatever the hell-fire preachers thought, it was very rare; but its corollary was the existence of pure good, though unfortunately that was even more rare.

“Well, that’s what some of my old mates down the nick thought, having had some disillusioning experiences in that direction.”

Andrew chuckled. “This turned out to be equally disillusioning in its way—for them, actually.”

“How so?” Butler frowned.

“He wasn’t as good as he seemed, was General Maxwell—

‘Squire’ Maxwell—Major-General Herbert George Maxwell, CBE, DSO, MC . . . and Grade VII on the piano, and heaven only knows what else . . . and clever with it, sir.”

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Andrew was clever too, Butler noted. But maybe he needed slapping down. “Don’t waste my time, Chief Inspector. Get to the point.”

“Yes, sir. He wasn’t as good as he seemed—if anything he was better.”

“Better?”

“Yes, sir. No secret mistresses. No strange perversions. All they dug up was a lot of good he was doing by stealth—and a lot of good he’d done in the past, that no one had known about.” Andrew allowed an edge of incredulity into his voice. “You know, there was even a letter—there were two letters— from his official enemies. . . . They intercepted all the letters to his grand-daughter

—”