A Prospect of Vengeance

blazes did she know where to send you, though? Frances — Mrs Fitzgibbon . . . certainly didn't tell her. And I cleaned that place out myself, just in case.' He frowned at Ian again, but this time with all the underlying arrogance of a man unused to making mistakes.

'So you were the 'brother'.' It was good to prick that arrogance. And it was also good when things fitted so glove-like: Mitchell had been to Lower Buckland before — and often, surely, to be on shot-gun-borrowing terms with the old priest. But . . . why did it hurt to think of Mitchell knowing Frances Fitzgibbon so well that her Christian name came to dummy2

him first? 'But . . . who are you, Mr Mitchell? And what are you?' All he could do to soothe that unaccountable pain was to hug his own small secret close. 'And why were you following me?' Mitchell drove in silence, still frowning.

Another question occurred to Ian, rather belatedly in view of its importance. 'Where are we going?'

This time the man grinned. 'To meet Miss Fielding-ffulke —

right?'

That was a nasty piece of logic. 'Why should I want to do that?'

'Oh, come on, Mr Robinson! You've got a lot to tell her. And she's probably got a lot to tell you. Plus what Messrs Tully and Buller have rooted out of the dirt.' The grin faded. 'And now we both need to see her rather urgently don't you think, eh?'

The man didn't know about Reg Buller. But then how—?

'Come on, man!' Mitchell lost some of his cool. Those friends of yours back there — they went away smartly enough when they saw me. But that was only because I wasn't expected, and MacManus doesn't like the unexpected — not when it's a gun pointing at him. He didn't want a shoot-out, he was just paid for you, Mr Robinson. But ... he isn't going to go away forever: he still wants his money. Or ... if not him, then there'll be someone else.'

It was simple, really: Combat Jacket had been the unexpected for Check Coat and Grey Suit. But Check Coat dummy2

and Grey Suit had also been the unexpected for Combat Jacket: the borrowed shot-gun, the empty borrowed shotgun — told all. God!

'What are you, Mr Mitchell? Special Branch? Or Security?'

Ian saw a motorway sign ahead, offering them London or the West.

'I'm the man who's just lost one of his nine lives on your behalf, Mr Ian Robinson.' Mitchell fumbled in his pocket.

'Which way? London, I presume?'

Away in the gathering murk ahead of them Ian saw innumerable rushing headlights on the M25. Which way?

'It could be a forgery, of course.' Mitchell waited as Ian studied the identification folder. It didn't tell him much more than he'd already guessed, and he'd seen others like it. 'But then ... if it was, you could already be dead, Mr Robinson.

Because, by asking all those clever questions of yours, about Philip Masson and David Audley, you seem to have raised the Devil himself between you. Only it seems that the Devil wants you, instead of David, doesn't he?'

They were approaching the slip roads' junction.

'London — yes,' said Ian.

6

Ian could never penetrate the labyrinth of Islington without remembering the Monopoly game he had been given on his dummy2

eighth birthday, and his father, whose present it had been: Dad had been nutty about place-names (among so many other things), and Islington had been his own very first purchase, where the dice had transported his little silver car

—

' 'The Angel, Islington' — buy it, boy! Buy it! Although there aren't many angels in Islington these days, I fear . . . No —

the 'tun' of the 'Eslingas' once, it would have been ... the people of some minor North Saxon chieftain, 'Elsa' by name . . . Funny that: 'Essex' for the East Saxons, 'Sussex'

for the South Saxons, and 'Wessex' the biggest — the West Saxons. And even 'Middlesex' for the Middle Saxons. But no

'Nossex', eh? Maybe they were Angles there — 'Angels', maybe — ?' (Dad had thought about that for a moment, then had got up from the game and gone to his study, to 'look it up' as was his disruptive custom; and Mum had cried out

' Eddie! Come back! We're playing a game — and it's your throw!' and looked at Ian despairingly; and Dad had shouted back, from far away and quite unrepentant, ' Only be a minute, dear! Must look it all up. Because knowledge is power and power is knowledge — always set an example —

only be a minute, dear!'; and then, after a full eternity of five minutes, had returned shaking his head at Ian, as he usually did.) ' No angels in Islington, that I can find. But— lots of the opposite — bad men in Pentonville Gaol, and wicked women in Holloway, my lad . . . And, frankly, I wouldn't rate the dummy2

Polytechnic much higher — I expect the police patrol in pairs there too, at night. . . But you buy it, Ian — '