'God knows!' He smoothed the map on his knee. 'But he went to the Pointe du Hoc. So maybe they picked him up there.'
'Major Turnbull was researching Mrs Thomas's death, David. And you said that was above board - back in 1958 - ?'
'Uh-huh?' He couldn't deny the most obvious implication. 'Meaning what?' There was an unnatural note to his voice. 'Meaning I missed something, back in the deeps of time?
Perhaps he did have a heart attack.'
Elizabeth remembered what Paul had said about David Audley and Debrecen, when they came together. 'You don't believe that, do you?'
'No,' said Audley. 'I can't say that I do.'
'No.' She felt suddenly outraged at the flatness of his reaction. 'Neither do I.'
Audley pointed ahead, to the left, without warning. 'Over there, Elizabeth - pull in there.'
'Over there' was a sudden line of flags-of-all-nations, waving over an assortment of used cars on the edge of the road, and a trio of petrol pumps set back on a forecourt beyond them, all of which had appeared from behind a small wood suddenly.
Elizabeth slowed automatically, on command, and steered towards the pumps. There was dummy2
an ugly little kiosk behind them, and a ramshackle scatter of garage buildings beyond, with a combine harvester outside them as its main customer.
'Stop,' ordered Audley.
Elizabeth glanced at her petrol gauge, and hated him. The needle was on low, and she ought to have thought of that herself.
'
Elizabeth jammed her foot on the brake.
Audley sat there beside her silently, like an overpowering dummy, while a fat red-faced bald-headed man in greasy blue overalls stepped out of the garage door, wiping his hands on an oily rag, and stared at them questioningly for a moment. And then disappeared back inside the garage.
'Perhaps you're right,' said Audley finally. 'Perhaps I did miss something. Or anyway… if we have to make pictures, it's better to make bad pictures than good ones. I agree with that.'
A knot of anger twisted inside Elizabeth. 'Making pictures' was common departmental shorthand for footling hypotheses. But her picture of the Major on his back among strangers was no hypothesis. 'I wasn't aware that I was making any pictures.' She controlled her anger. 'I was simply asking a question.'
'Huh! This whole operation could be a picture.' Audley tossed his head. 'Just to show me making a whopping mistake back in '58. So now we're seeing the modern details drawn in, for good measure.' He turned towards her. 'A bit more colour here and there, and it'll be ready for the framer. And then Master Latimer can hang it behind his desk - and me with it.'
She stared back at him. 'Are you telling me that Major Turnbull could have been killed just to discredit you, David? And Major Parker before him? And Debrecen - ?'
'If it was disinformation once, it could be disinformation again?' he completed her question. 'That's certainly not beyond the bounds of ingenuity. There's a man on the other side, an old acquaintance of mine, who is undoubtedly capable of it. And if I was in his shoes I know exactly what I'd be doing next, Elizabeth.' He smiled his ugliest death's-head smile at her. 'But that can wait. Because the question is - what are
dummy2
Elizabeth glanced towards the garage buildings. There would be a phone there, so she could report in easily enough, and get all the protection in the world, and all the good advice too. But none of that really answered his question.
The fat man came out of his doors again to stare at her once more.
'Would you rather have someone else alongside you, Elizabeth?' asked Audley gently. 'You can send me packing quite easily, you know.'
She watched the fat man. In a moment or two he would come across and ask her what her trouble was. And she couldn't begin to tell him. 'Did you make a mistake, David - back in 1958?'
The fat man turned his head slightly, his eyes still on her, and spoke to someone inside the garage.
'Not so far as I know.' He paused as the fat man disappeared again into the garage. 'I suppose you could say Major Turnbull could be an end-product of someone's original error… whatever that was. But after so many years I think it would be a little unfair to suggest as much. It's still 1984 which has killed Major Turnbull; Elizabeth - not 1958. So…
even if I made a mistake in 1958, we must not compound it by making another one now.
That is what matters.'
'Even if it ruins you, David?'
'Ruins me?' His voice came closer to her. 'My dear Elizabeth - you've all got it quite wrong!
You - and your Paul, doubtless - and most of all our esteemed Master Latimer, if you think that. The only thing that can ruin me is if I play fast and loose with you now, Elizabeth.
What the hell do my antique follies matter?
'We have to know why he died, David.'
'Okay! But we already know what he was doing. So all we have to do is back-track along his route, for a start -
