Here Be Monsters

eh? So we drop everything else, do we?'

The fat man had emerged again, but she turned to Audley as he did so, frowning. 'But, David - '

'Exactly right, love! If we back-track, to find out what it was about Mrs Thomas that I missed, all those years ago, then we stop doing what we were planning to do. Is that what you want to do?'

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That was it. Killing a field-man in his own country sounded all the alarms, but really solved nothing, because there were others to take his place. All it gained was time, if it drew maximum effort away from what mattered.

'Can I 'elp you, Miss -' The fat man leaned on the car, lowering himself with difficulty, his piggy-eyes travelling up leg and thigh and bosom until they reached her face, and registering inevitable disappointment then ' - Miss?' She watched the eyes shift to Audley, uncomprehending as they took in the whole unlikely mixture: the hard-faced elderly gentleman with the plain woman in the sports car, engaged in a heart-to-heart exchange on his forecourt, maybe father-and-daughter, not bird-and-boyfriend as he had expected from the car.

'I'd like some petrol,' she said.

'Right.' He stood back. 'You'll need the pumps for that.'

'And a telephone?' Audley leaned across her.

'No - ' The fat man caught sight of the note in Audley's hand ' - yes, there's one round the back, in the office.'

Audley looked at her as the fat man walked towards the pumps. 'Moment of truth, Miss Loftus.'

Moment of truth, thought Elizabeth.

In fact, he had more or less told her to do what she had intended to do this morning. And that, oddly enough, was pretty much what the book said too: plans should be adhered to unless compromised. And since no one except David and she herself knew the plan, it could hardly be compromised yet. But it could be the wrong plan, nevertheless.

But the fat man had reached the pumps now.

'Very well, David.'

'Very well?' His expression was made up of doubt and curiosity in equal parts.

'We'll go on as planned, to see your contact first. Then I want to meet the famous Haddock Thomas as soon as possible. And I'll ask James Cable to look after the Major until we get back.'

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He relaxed. 'We'll need transport. Let James look after that, too.' He thought for a moment.

'Tell him to lay on a plane at South Five, Elizabeth. Flight at six A.M. -Marseilles for Monaco. They'll fix the documentation and cover. You might suggest a little gambling party - the big spender can be me, and you can be my PA. And tell him to arrange a car and a driver - tell him to get Dale on to that.' He smiled at her suddenly. 'Decisions, decisions! But, for what it's worth, I agree with you, Elizabeth: going on is usually better than turning back.'

But who was really making the decisions? She wondered, as she rolled the car forward the last few yards to where the fat man was fretting by his pumps.

After a few miles of his instructions, after they had reached the Salisbury road, and used it for another five miles and then left it for another labyrinth of minor roads, she felt able to draw on her account again.

'You're sure we haven't been followed, David?' She looked into her empty wing-mirror.

He shrugged. 'We live in a technological age, my dear. So they may have bugged you somehow. And one day they'll probably have a satellite on your tail, I shouldn't wonder.'

He massaged his knees again. 'But, for the time being, there are reasonable limits we can assume, as to their omniscience.' He stretched his massaged legs in turn. 'Meaning…

anyone could have kept a tail on poor Turnbull, after he asked too many questions in Normandy. But they don't have the resources to follow everyone everywhere.'

'Why did you abort Debrecen, David?'

'Good question!' He touched his wing-mirror idly, as though the previous question still echoed in his mind. 'You know what I did - when old Fred asked me to draw up a list of Debrecen possibles, Elizabeth?'

She had to adjust her imagination, back twenty-six years, to another David in another time.

And she couldn't do it. 'No, David?'

'I made a lot of money, actually - you turn right up here, by the church. I spent some at first

- some of my own money, too… but I made a lot in the end - over there - see?' He pointed.

'And ultimately I made a lot for General Franco too, when I rediscovered Spain.' He nodded. 'Maybe that's stretching it a bit… But I always like to think that I paved the way for the second British invasion, since Wellington.' He nodded to himself. 'Did you know, Elizabeth, that I had an ancestor killed at Salamanca, charging with poor Le Marchant?'

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'What on earth are you talking about, David?'

'What?' One knee came up again. 'Market research is what I'm talking about, love. I funded a friend of mine - half with Her Majesty's funds, half with my funds, I admit - to find out where the British took their holidays-abroad. And then I sold our research to the holiday-business - through my partner, who was the front-man for the enterprise… and he made a fortune too. Which was fair enough, because he did all the real work - he had a diploma in statistics, from Oxford… But, what we found out, between us, was where people went for their holidays in '58 - places and dates and reasons. Although what he found out was in general, and what I found out was in particular. Because we quizzed some particular people about their colleagues - the ones I was interested in, but who hadn't filled in our innocent questionnaire. And some of 'em did fill in the forms, but not always correctly, as it turned out when we started