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
and his
'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
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
'Yes.' So it hadn't been some re-write man, or some sub-editor: someone had got at
'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
'Yes?' It was time to assert himself — even though he was also actually thirsty. 'You bloody-knew, Reg — come on,then
— '
'So . . . what
'
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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),
'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,
— all high tech stuff . . . half of which was on the blink, see
— ?'
'But they knew O'Leary was there, somewhere — ?'
'
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