For the Good of the State

hills, engaged in great works. But it would all be the same in the end—always the only question was sooner or later?

‘Yes.’ Audley had been quite content for him to go ahead in search of the bright lights of the Three Pigeons public house. ‘Did you ever meet Basil Cole? Or was he before your time?’ Once committed, Audley perked up. ‘Probably not, even if he wasn’t.

Because he worked for Fawcett—Victor Fawcett—? Who worked for “Digger” Wilmot… I don’t think he was still in post when that clever bugger Jaggard came into his inheritance.’

Tom felt Audley’s eyes on him as he searched in vain for bright lights ahead. ‘No.’ But if they were into name- dropping, he’d better drop one or two. ‘ “Digger” Wilmot took me on—he was at school with my father. And I’ve met Henry Jaggard since, of course.’ That was the truth—even if it was the truth naked and ashamed. ‘But I work for Frobisher, David.’

Price, Anthony - For the Good of the State

‘Yes. And he approves of you, too.’ Audley spoke derisively. But, to give him the benefit of the doubt, that might be because he didn’t wish to patronize Danny Dzieliwski’s son too obviously. ‘At least, that’s what he gave Jack Butler to understand. He says you’re a straight-shooter—is that true?’

There were lights ahead. And, because Jaggard had obviously foreseen that Audley would never obey orders exactly, it was so much the opposite of the truth that he couldn’t bring himself to give it a straight lie. ‘Not with that damn thing they gave me, David.’ He felt the discomfort of the police Smith and Wesson, and remembered that he had lied to Cathy Audley too. ‘If we meet your sniper again, for God’s sake don’t rely on me—I’ll most likely shoot myself in the foot.’

‘Hah!’ Audley chuckled, but then pointed suddenly. ‘Turn left by the pub—see the sign?’

Tom hadn’t time to read the sign, only to see that the road was empty behind as they swerved into a narrow side-road. So now, even if there was an unmarked police car behind them, it would end up heading for Winchester and disappointment.

‘I had a driver in Normandy—he was a damn good driver, too…

He tried to shoot himself through the foot… purely by accident, you understand…’

Now they really were lost, thought Tom. Except that there was a church and another pub somewhere ahead now.

‘Not that I blame him. We were in the bocage, you see—’ Audley sat back, oblivious to his surroundings, as Tom strained in the half-Price, Anthony - For the Good of the State light to see where he was going ‘—because I have three nightmares in my old age… One is of taking examinations, on subjects about which I know damn-all… But the other is about the bocage— every two or three years some damn fool asks me to go back to Normandy, to meet the old people whose houses we demolished, and the priests—I demolished a church in Normandy. That was probably my main contribution to winning the war— demolishing a church at point-blank range with 75-millimetre HE.’ Audley nodded. ‘It’s quite simple: you just knock the corners out, and the tower falls into the chancel then, with a bit of luck—’ Another nod

‘—and it was a fine old Norman church too, mine was, I think.’

Sniff. ‘There was a sniper in the tower, who’d just shot a friend of mine. He must have been a brave bastard!’ Pause. ‘There’s our church—do you see it?’

‘Yes.’ Tom caught a glimpse of a squat tower.

‘He missed me.’ Audley dismissed all churches from the conversation. ‘We were the last surviving tank in the troop, that night. And my driver also missed his foot.’

The church came into view. And there, sure enough, was another pub. So turn sharp left now—

‘Shot himself in the boot instead—missed his toes by a whisker.’

Another nod. ‘So we didn’t have to court-martial him, thank God!’

They passed the pub, which Tom thought looked uncommonly inviting, now that the light inside it was stronger than the evening blue outside.

‘So he was killed later on, after I’d left the regiment.’ Audley Price, Anthony - For the Good of the State shook his head. ‘But… Basil Cole, I was asking—?’

There was still a third nightmare outstanding, in Audley’s old age.

But Basil Cole, who had worked for Victor Fawcett, in some Old Testament progression— Someone begat Someone, and Someone-Else begat Someone-Else— was more important than Audley’s nightmares, from the Normandy bocage of forty years ago. Only, what mattered now on the darkening road was that they were only

‘a step or two’ from where Audley wanted to go. ‘Basil Cole—?’

‘Yes.’ Audley rallied under pressure. ‘ “Old King Cole”— you’ll like him, Tom.’ Chuckle. ‘Drunken old bugger!’

Drunken old bugger? thought Tom. ‘Basil Cole?’

‘Uh-huh.’ Audley sounded sure of himself now. ‘It was Old King Cole who sounded the early warning signals on Burgess and Maclean, before you were born—even almost before I was born, professionally speaking… Why are you slowing down?’

‘I caught a glimpse of a church, I thought. Up ahead.’

‘You did?’ Audley sat up, then gestured irritably. ‘Go on, go on!’

The church came into view. If Basil Cole dated from the early days of Burgess and Maclean then ‘ Old King Cole’ was right, thought Tom. ‘Here’s the church, David.’

‘I said a church and a pub. I see no pub. You just drive— I’ll tell you when. Okay?’