Buller stopped the microfilm, and then adjusted the focus with maddening slowness until DEATH OF A MAD DOG

shouted at them again. Only then did he turn to Ian. 'It wasn't like that. That's not what happened.' He shook his head. Terry — let's call him 'Terry'. Because that's his name

— Terry didn't write it like that. He flogged 'em the story —

and for a small fortune too. Because he was the only one that was there. So all the other stories are based on his — or, dummy2

rather, what was made of his ... and the official statements, of course.' The big mouth twisted cynically. 'Which just happened to tally exactly, you see — the official statement . . .

and his edited story.' An eyebrow lifted in support of the mouth. 'Is that plain enough for you?'

'All too plain.' So somebody had got at the editor, Reg was saying. But that was a risky thing to do, they both knew.

Because contrary to left-wing received wisdom, the D-Notice people couldn't give orders. 'You're sure?'

'Oh yes.' Nod. 'He put that story out twice, Terry did. To his own paper first — the Northern Gazette ... an' then he re-wrote it, an' flogged it to them — ' He tapped the projected front page. ' — for the equivalent of two months' wages an'

the promise of a job with them.' Buller paused. 'So that story went to two newspapers independently, the way Terry wrote it ... just with a few slight differences. And it came out not how he wrote it, but with the same amendments. Okay?'

'Yes.' So it hadn't been some re-write man, or some sub-editor: someone had got at two editors. And that meant that someone had been very persuasive indeed, at the highest level. Because editors weren't nearly as easily persuaded (or bullied, or blackmailed) as the people also liked to think. 'So what really happened, Reg?'

'Ah . . .' Having at last arrived where he had always intended to be, Buller relaxed. And, having learnt a thing or two over the years about stage management, and man-management, Ian understood what was happening to him. But knowing dummy2

that was at least a quarter of the battle, if not half of it.

'I've read all this.' He gestured into the machine dismissively.

'And I'm thirsty. D'you know a good pub round here, Reg?'

'Round here?' Although it was an almost-insultingly silly question, Buller pretended to consider it briefly. 'I think . . .

yes, I think . . . there may be one just round the corner — ' He looked round the Newspapers and Periodicals room as though it might be conveniently signposted ' — just round the corner — yes. I think.'

'Yes?' It was time to assert himself — even though he was also actually thirsty. 'You bloody-knew, Reg — come on,then

— '

'So . . . what really happened, then?' As he drank thirstily he registered caution. Because this was Abbott beer, and more than two pints would put him into orbit round the planet, while Reg Buller wouldn't even have lift-off, never mind escape-velocity. And, judging by the barmaid's greeting, Reg Buller was an old and valued customer here, too.

' Ahhh . . .' Most of that was genuine satisfaction-and-relief, as Buller downed half his pint: the distant swirl of the pipes at Lucknow, the first sight of the sails of the relieving fleet before they broke the boom at the siege of Londonderry, the thunder of the hoofs of the US cavalry — all that, and Mafeking too, and Keats opening Chapman's Homer, and stout Cortez getting his first glimpse of the Pacific Ocean ...

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all that historic experience was relived when Reg Buller opened his throat at Opening Time. But that wasn't the end of Reg, it was only his beginning.

'It was accident, of course.' Buller wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

'Accident?' It wasn't that the man ever lied, when he was on the payroll; it was just that he always doled out the truth bit by bit, to keep the client eager for more. But then (and what made the technique bearable), more was usually worth the extra money in the end.

'Yes. Because . . . after that bomb went off, at the university, they didn't know their arse from their elbow. An' it wasn't this bloke who was a friend of Audley's — Colonel Butler . . .

Apparently, he was a good sort, even if he was foisted on them at the last moment. All the coppers liked him — said he wasn't at all like the usual run of Sandhurst-types, an'

superior Oxford-and-Cambridge civil servants . . . aye, an'

the cloak-and-dagger brigade, making 'em feel like peasants at a big party . . . No, he was civil to them, an' efficient with it, an' knew his job. But he only arrived at the last minute, to take over. An' there was lots of new surveillance equipment

— all high tech stuff . . . half of which was on the blink, see

— ?'

'But they knew O'Leary was there, somewhere — ?'

' Oh yes.' They knew — someone had double-crossed O'Leary, somewhere down the line.' Nod. 'All these different IRA off-shoots . . . O'Leary was 'ILA' — Irish Liberation Army . . .

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