A Prospect of Vengeance

'Deluged in the most revolting perfume . . . tight skirts, and transparent blouses — I spoke to her about her blouses. But, of course, there were those who encouraged her — just like they always look at the Sun and the Star in the common room, even now.' Ultimate displeasure. 'Df Page, and Dr Garfield — Dr Page is at Cambridge now . . . and Dr Garfield is in America . . . they thought she was quite wonderful. And even that dreadful Dr Harrison, who ended up in prison — '

She bit her lip suddenly, catching herself too late.

'Dr H—?' He started to repeat the name automatically, still acting his part, because honest curiosity was perfectly in order. But then it echoed inside his memory, attaching itself to British-American in its proper context; and in that instant he knew that he hadn't finished with Marilyn Francis — and also that he too had caught himself too late, because Mrs Simmonds was already registering her surprise. So now he had to extricate himself from his self-betrayal. 'Harrison?

Harrison — ?' Better to pretend to be halfway there first, with a frown. And then embarrassment, for choice? ' Harrison dummy2

— ?'

'He had nothing to do with Miss Francis.' Faced with two unhappy names, Mrs Simmonds chose not to repeat the more offensive one. 'His . . . what happened to him . . . that was some long time after she left our employ.'

He let his frown deepen. Had it been some long time after?

Marilyn Francis had been killed in November, 1978 — the beginning of his final year at university. And the Harrison Case . . .? But, whenever it had been, now was the time for embarrassment. 'Oh! That Dr Harrison — of course.'

Surprised embarrassment. 'But . . . you do a lot of Ministry of Defence work — of course!' What had it been that the

'dreadful' Dr Harrison had betrayed? The guidance system to the Barracuda torpedo, was it? But now he had to let her off the hook. 'No . . . no, of course, Mrs Simmonds.' Smile. 'You wouldn't have given any of your secret work to a temp to copy out — no matter how well she typed!' As he broadened the sympathetically-understanding smile he felt his pulse beat faster. It had been the celebrated Barracuda. And it had not been very long afterwards — weeks, rather than months, for choice.

But meanwhile he mustn't lose Mrs Simmonds. 'I don't want to know about him, anyway — Dr What's-his-name . . .

But . . . Miss Francis had a — ah — a weakness for the male sex, you were saying, Mrs Simmonds.' Losing her fast, in fact.

'Did she have a particular boyfriend?'

'I have not the least idea of Miss Francis's private life.' She dummy2

broke eye-contact, and picked up one of the files on her desk at random. Which was a sure sign of his impending dismissal.

Damnation! 'But... is there anyone who might know?' Not losing: already lost, damn it! So now he had to extemporize.

'We think she may have had ... a fiance in this area, Mrs Simmonds.'

The eyes came back to his, as blank as pebbles. 'I said that I have no knowledge of her private life, Mr Robinson. And as she has been dead these ten years, I really cannot see that any useful purpose can be served by relaying tittle-tattle about her.'

God! The old battle-axe did know something! So now was the moment for the Ultimate Weapon in this line of extemporization. 'Mrs Simmonds — '

She started to get up, file in hand. 'I really do not have any more time to spare, I'm sorry.'

'Mrs Simmonds — ' He sat fast ' — now I must betray a confidence — '

She stopped. Betrayal of confidences usually stopped people.

'We think ... we think . . . that there may have been a child.'

This time he broke the eye-contact, to adjust his spectacles.

And that gave him time to decide the imaginary child's sex and appearance. 'A little boy. Fair hair, blue eyes . . . He'd be about ten years old now. And his uncle, who is ... very prosperous . . . and childless . . . would like to find this little dummy2

boy.'

The blank look transfixed him, and for a moment he feared that he had gone over the top with a scenario she must have read in Mills and Boon more times than Reg Buller had said

'Same again' to his favourite barmaid. But having gone so far the only direction left to him was to advance further on into the realms of melodrama: if not Mills and Boon, then maybe a touch of Jane Eyre . . . except that Marilyn didn't sound much like Jane. So perhaps the hypothetical 'fiance' would be a better bet to soften Mrs Simmonds' heart and put her off the scent.

'It's really the father we're trying to trace, Mrs Simmonds.

Because we think he looked after the child. Because . . . Miss Francis doesn't appear to have been very . . . maternal — ?'

He looked at her questioningly.

'No.' She blinked at him. ' That doesn't surprise me.' Then she sighed. 'I'm afraid we don't keep files on our temps, Mr Robinson — certainly not going so far back, anyway. And, of course, Miss Francis lost her life in that dreadful business up north, with that IRA murderer — we read about that. And it was a terrible