A Prospect of Vengeance

building — the new library they were opening, or whatever it was . . . When they didn't reckon they could get the people away from it, before the bugger pressed his remote control button.' Buller tapped the 'selfless heroism' passage. 'Who better than Audley? One of his mates was running that show, on the security side, apparently. An' Audley's the professor-type — looks the part. Wouldn't need to play it, though.

Because he's already a visiting fellow at that Oxford college, see.' Buller gave him a sidelong look. 'Wouldn't need a cover story to be there, either . . . An' no shortage of guts, so they say.'

It was all hypothetical, thought Ian. Or, alternatively, Buller knew more than he was saying. 'Who's 'they', Reg?'

'Friend of mine.' Buller grinned.

'The one on The People?'

'No. The one I told you about yesterday — the one that tipped me off about him being tricky — Audley . . . remember?'

What Ian remembered was that Buller had been characteristically vague about his Audley-source. But what was more immediately important was to uncover the foundations on which this hypothesis was built. And those seemed to involve his other friend, the sub-editor on The People, rather than the Audley-source.

'So what was it that your chap on the newspaper told you, Reg?'

Buller tapped his nose. 'He was there. That's what.'

dummy2

Ian looked down at the Yorkshire university bomb story. At a ceremony like that — a routine academic event until 'Mad Dog' O'Leary had singled it out for attention — there might or might not have been one or two education correspondents from the London papers, depending on whether they'd been tipped off that an important speech was going to be made.

There would certainly have been reporters from all the local Yorkshire papers, taking down all the speeches whether they were important or not, and probably taking down the names of all the local dignitaries too — that was to be expected anywhere, and especially in Yorkshire, with its fierce local pride. And as Buller's Fleet Street friend had then been a reporter on one of those papers — which was it? But it hardly mattered, anyway — his presence at the ceremony was quite unremarkable. So why was Buller looking as though he'd made some great discovery?

Suddenly the light dawned. 'You mean ... he was at — the other place — where O'Leary was shot — ?'

' My man was there before any of the big ones' he remembered belatedly.

'Your chap . . . who's on The People now?'

'That's right.' Buller stared at him. 'He was at Thornervaulx.'

So there was more. 'And — ?' He tried to look intelligent.

That's right.' For once Buller was deceived. ' He was there —

right?'

'He — ' This time the light was blinding. ' Audley — you're dummy2

sure — ?'

'Near enough. 'Big ugly fellow — bit like a boxer . . . or a rugger player. Broken nose — that sort of thing.' Pretty accurate description, actually. Because he did break his nose playing rugger, as it happens.'

'I thought you said he looked like a professor.'

'That's when he opens his mouth.' Buller amended his own description without shame. 'Take it from me, that's him right enough. No mistake.'

And that, of course, validated the bombed-university hypothesis, via the O'Leary connection. The security service must have been tipped off that O'Leary intended to assassinate the Northern Ireland Minister at the opening of the new library and the degree ceremony. They had foiled the bomb attempt, but it had been a close shave. And O'Leary himself had also escaped, only it had been a damn close shave for him, too: in fact, he hadn't really escaped — he'd simply broken out of the inner ring — ?

'How far is Thornervaulx from the University of Yorkshire, Reg?' He couldn't place Thornervaulx on his mental map: it was one of that famous concentration of ruined abbeys in the North ... Rievaulx, Jervaux, Byland, Fountains, Kirkstall and Thornervaulx: originally they'd all been in the wilds, and most of them still were, including Thornervaulx no doubt.

'Not far, as the crow flies. But you've got to go round the little roads, and up over the dale to reach it.' Buller had the facts at dummy2

his finger-tips, as usual. 'Takes a bit of finding.'

That fitted, too. With all the main roads blocked, O'Leary would have been forced off the beaten track, and had then been hunted down like the wild animal he was in the wilds.

'And your man was actually there.'

'Not at the shoot-out.' Buller nodded nevertheless. 'But within minutes of it — aye.'

Again, that wasn't impossible: a smart local reporter (and Reg Buller's contacts were always the smart ones) would have his friends in the Police, and could often be so well in with them as to be just behind them. 'And he saw Audley there — actually saw him?'

'He saw more than that.' Buller started winding the film forward again from the North Yorkshire bomb to the Thornervaulx gun battle, compressing the last long hunted hours of the 'Mad Dog' to ten blurred seconds. 'Or, rather, there were things that he didn't see, you might say.'

'What d'you mean — 'didn't see'?'