A Prospect of Vengeance

That was indeed what Ian had seen: the twin-chambers of the shot-gun had been just like the muzzles which he had dummy2

imagined he'd faced, both black empty circles —

Mitchell nodded. 'I've just pointed an unloaded gun at Paddy MacManus for you, Mr Robinson. And that means that you owe me far more than you can ever repay: I got you one of your nine lives back — but we've both just lost one of our nine lives — okay?'

The empty shot-gun unmanned Ian. He didn't know who the hell 'Paddy MacManus' might be; but Mitchell-Paul-Mitchell knew — and that smile, if it had been a smile, would have been the Syrian major's smile, as they'd finally left the car at the rendezvous, of reassurance-pasted-over-fear, when they still hadn't known whether it was a meeting or an ambush —

He followed Combat Jacket towards the lych-gate.

'My car's across the Green, Mr Mitchell — ' he began. Was it going to be as easy as that, though?

'We're not taking your car.' Mitchell pointed towards the Volvo. 'You come with me.'

He was still following Combat-Jacket-Mitchell-Paul-Mitchell.

But his Rover Vitesse was as much his pride-and-joy as Philip Masson's Folkboat Jenny III had been. 'But what about my car — ?'

'I'll send someone for it. If they followed you here, then they've bugged it. So we'll unbug it for you — not to worry!'

Mitchell remotely unlocked his big silver Volvo. 'And we'll go out the opposite way — just in case?'

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They had followed him here. In fact, they and Mitchell-Paul- Mitchell had both followed him here, when he'd thought himself so clever.

'How did you follow me here?' He still didn't really know who Mitchell-Paul-Mitchell was. But it didn't seem a time for argument.

'You were easy.' The Volvo rolled forward smoothly. 'At least, after Rickmansworth, you were easy.' The Volvo circled the peaceful square of grass. 'This way's longer . . . but, just in case . . . we'll go the longer way, I think.'

They passed the post office side-road, and then the side-road in which his own abandoned pride-and-joy lay. And then accelerated.

'What did Father John say to you, when you met him in the churchyard?' Mitchell pre-empted his next question as they began to climb the other side of Lower Buckland's peaceful valley, in which no one had just been killed.

'Father John' must be the old priest whom he'd met, and thought himself so lucky to meet: 'Father John', in his long black cassock, High Anglican and old — old Father John, and old black cassock, as he'd thought . . . But now he had to think of Father John as part of the deception of Mrs Frances Fitzgibbon, of which Mitchell-Paul-Mitchell was another part.

' Can I help you?' (The old priest had appeared out of dummy2

nowhere, so it had seemed to him.)

' Sir?' (He had been caught looking at the Fitzgibbon grave —

Captain Robert Gauvain and Frances; and he'd been looking at it too long for comfort, with all the other graves around to look at.)

' Are you looking for anyone in particular?' (Father John had given the Fitzgibbon stone a little nod — almost a blessing.) (That had shaken him. He had crossed out Captain Robert Gauvain, and concentrated on Frances, beloved wife; because Frances, beloved wife — formerly Marilyn, beloved

'smasher' of Gary Redwood . . . and maybe the long-lost, never-born daughter of Mrs Champeney-Smythe — but who, in reality? Only, whatever she had been, Marilyn/Frances had almost overwhelmed him then, as he'd seen her name on her tombstone.)

(And that tell-tale concentration on Marilyn/Frances had warned him off her, as Father John had looked at him.) ' I was just looking for Captain Fitzgibbon, sir.' (The Father of Lies had jogged his arm then.) ' He was in the regiment, sir.'

(Father John had nodded then, understandingly. ' Ah . . .

Robbie Fitzgibbon was a splendid chap! The bravest of the brave . . . and a good cricketer, too.' (The ultimate accolade!)

' Did you know his wife, sir?' (The ultimate question.)

'Frances? Yes—'

He caught a last glimpse of the church far below, and it dummy2

brought back a memory of the look on the old priest's face then, which had said it all even before Father John confirmed what he himself already knew. But it hadn't been the moment to press for more, he had judged.

Or had it been that he had no heart then for more of his own lies? Not where Mrs Frances Fitzgibbon was concerned — ?

The car jolted over a pothole as they left the valley behind.

'I was easy?' He knew so much about Frances — and yet he knew nothing really. But it was this man Mitchell who mattered now. 'After Rickmansworth? Why then?'

'When you came out of that old woman's house — that boarding house . . . you looked like the cat who'd found the cream, Mr Robinson.' Mitchell frowned at him quickly. 'So then I knew where you were going. But how the