A Prospect of Vengeance

been long dead, and quite reasonably purged from what were once the agency books, and now the agency computer. But, in any case, that had been more than offset by his outrageous (though deserved) bit of luck, in uncovering the single newspaper reference to 'the dead girl, who worked for an electronics company in Rickmansworth, Hertfordshire'; which, significantly, had appeared only once ('Someone didn't get the message — some copper who'd looked in her bag like, early on, an' didn't know no better . . . See how it becomes just 'A clerical worker on holiday from London'

later on? I'll bet they came down on him like a ton of bricks, poor bugger!'). And that had been enough for Reg (although anyone could have carried on from there, given time; just, Reg was quicker on the ball, as well as off the mark), and then, while he had still been acclimatizing to the prospect of having to dig out information for himself again, at the sharp end, instead of sitting in his ivory tower and putting it all together, Reg had automatically taken charge —

'That inquest, up in Yorkshire, must 'ave been fucking dodgey — evidence of identification, an' getting the paperwork done, an' the right documents and the release for the body, after the post-mortem — somebody took the woman away, an' somebody buried her. So, most likely, somebody passed himself off as next-of-kin . . . That 'ud be the simplest way, if the Police were in on it, an' smoothing things, rather than asking awkward questions . . . Coroners dummy2

aren't so easy — they can be right little Hitlers when they've a mind to ... But the local Police, they wouldn't have liked it, if that was the way it was. An' that's what went wrong with Philip Masson, when they found him . . . But up at Thornervaulx, the top brass were already on the spot —

Audley an' his friends — so they were able to call the tune right from the start — '

Pattern, once again. But not history repeating itself in Philip Masson's case: in Philip Masson's case too much had been revealed too quickly when he'd turned up at last; whereas, in the case of 'Marilyn Francis' . . . apart from Audley's presence on the battlefield, she had seemed to be only a poor innocent bystander, and everyone's attention had been focused on

'Mad Dog' O'Leary —

'So who do you think she really was, Reg?'

'No sayin' yet, Ian lad. But she's got to be one of three things.

Like she could 'ave been just what she seemed: a little nobody — say, a girl that 'ud run away from home years before, an' got herself another identity to keep her nearest an'

dearest off her back. But then, as there weren't any pictures of her in the papers, it couldn't have been them that claimed her. Which leaves . . . either she was there with Audley ... or she was there with O'Leary — and maybe it wasn't him that shot her. Although, again, maybe it was: maybe he reckoned she'd put the finger on him, when he'd thought she was dummy2

fingering his target for him. But it's early days — '

Early days, indeed! All they had known then, just twenty-four hours earlier, was that 'Marilyn Francis' and Michael 'Mad Dog' O'Leary had been killed on November 11, 1978, almost (if not actually) in the presence of David Audley, and that Philip Masson had been dead within a week after that; and that, while those deaths might or might not be linked, they had to start somewhere with their part of the investigation —

'So, if it's all the same to you, Ian lad, after I've had another little talk with old Terry, an' got a few names an' contacts up north from him . . . an' checked up one or two more things down here . . . then I'll just take a little trip up to Yorkshire an' see whether they maybe didn't bury this 'Marilyn Francis'

any deeper than Philip Masson. 'Cause it could be that it was a bit too easy for 'em. In which case they might 'uv been careless round the edges. And as for you, Mr Robinson sir . . .

how would it be if you went an' had a word with British-American Electronics down at Rickmansworth? See, I was thinkin' you might be a solicitor, or something legal like that, tryin' to trace 'Marilyn Francis' to give her a bequest? You could blind 'em with all that legal jargon you learned at college? That was how you used to do it, in the old days, the Lady told me — ?'

Early days indeed! And, indeed, he had more than half-dummy2

suspected that Reg only had the faintest hopes of anything surfacing down at British-American (who quite properly were unprepared to discuss matters relating to former staff over the telephone 'as a company policy rule'); though, to be fair, Reg might also have thought that a gentle wild goose chase within easy reach of London would serve to blow away the cobwebs from those long-unpractised foot-in-the-door skills of those 'old days', and prepare him for sterner tests to come.

But then, quite suddenly, the early days had become interesting.

'Mr Robinson — ?'

'Of Fielding-ffulke, Robinson, Mrs Simmonds.' Her door had boasted the legend 'Mrs Beryl Simmonds, Administrative Personnel Office', so he'd reached the right person in British-American at last. He just hoped that his old nicely-embossed card (Ian D. Robinson Ll. B (Bristol), plus ' Fielding-ffulke, Robinson' with a legal-sounding accommodation address in Chancery Lane) would work its magic again. 'I telephoned from my office, Mrs Simmonds. It's good of you to spare me your time.' He adjusted the small gold-framed spectacles which Jenny thought made him look so absurdly young that he must be what he said he was. 'As I explained then, I am inquiring about a former employee of yours.'

'Yes.' Frowning came easily to Mrs Simmonds: the years had grooved her forehead for permanent disapproval. 'I had dummy2

expected you to write, Mr Robinson. That is the customary practice with such inquiries.'

'Yes, I know.' An instinct suddenly contradicted her appearance: she was frowning, but she didn't want to frown.

Perhaps she had a nephew, or even a son, in the law; or maybe she simply had a weakness for very young men trying to make their way in the world. But, whatever, instinct whispered hard shell, soft centre, so he touched his spectacles again, and gave her the ghost of what he hoped was a disarming smile. 'I am . . . rather trying to cut a corner, Mrs Simmonds. You see, we have a very demanding client from overseas. And ... I also have a demanding senior partner. So I am rather depending on