A Prospect of Vengeance

And a sad-sweet memory of Mum and Dad followed on from that: they had never seen his smart Hampstead flat, or his Vitesse (still parked in Lower Buckland). But, in any case, Dad would have enjoyed his reference library more, and Mum would have loved meeting Lady Fielding-ffulke and the Honourable Jennifer, however much they would also have terrified her.

But now — now ... he wished Dad had been right, and that there had been numerous pairs of large Metropolitan policemen flexing their knees on every street corner as Paul Mitchell nosed the silver Volvo into the lucky space outside Abdul the Damned's tandoori restaurant.

But now — now ... he had to trust Combat Jacket — just as Combat Jacket was trusting him not to scuttle away into the rain-swept half-light when he had the chance, instead of guiding him into the space.

'Am I all right — ?' Mitchell poked his head out of the driver's window.

'You've got another two feet — left hand down — right!' There were people here, whom he could see — unlike those he hadn't seen in Lower Buckland, even when they'd been there; but he had to trust Mitchell's confidence in their safety, just as Mitchell was trusting him. 'Steady!'

dummy2

'Phew!' Mitchell locked the car, and then turned on its burglar-alarm. 'Bloody great big tank!' He grinned at Ian.

'Not mine, you understand? But marvellously unobtrusive in the commuter belt — all the wives have got 'em to take the kids to school: and the dogs, wherever they take the dogs.' He looked round, up and down the street with deceptive casualness. 'Ah! There's a phone-box! If it's unvandalized, then I'll phone in from here. You go on in, Ian — be my John the Baptist with Her Ladyship — okay?' The blue neon light advertising Abdul's tandoori delights illuminated his face diabolically. Tell it the way you do in your books, straight from the shoulder — the way it was — okay?'

He didn't want to like Paul Mitchell, for all that they seemed to have Mrs Frances Fitzgibbon in common. But there was something in the man which called out to him, which he couldn't add up, but which came to him across their conflicting interests. And it wasn't just that Mitchell had saved his life — indeed, it wasn't that at all; because that had been duty, so that counted for nothing. But . . . there was something else —

'There's a phone inside, Mr Mitchell.' He indicated Abdul's restaurant.

'Uh-huh?' The street received another up-and-down look.

'You call me 'Paul', and I'll call you 'Ian' — remember?'

Mitchell came back to him. 'If we're on Christian name terms we can exchange home-truths without insulting each other, I always think: 'Fuck-off, Paul' is so much more friendly than dummy2

'No, Mr Mitchell' — eh?' The dark-blue lips curled fiendishly. 'Okay, Ian?'

The curry-smell recalled the street outside Mrs Champeney-Smythe's boarding-house too vividly for him to return the devilish grin. And Mitchell didn't wait for his agreement, in any case.

Then the smell engulfed him, as he opened the door.

And there was little Mr Malik himself, smiling with his own infectious humour and balanced on the balls of his feet like a boxer waiting for him.

' Mister Robinson — you have damn-well been up to no good this time, I think!' Mr Malik signalled towards a group of white-coated waiters, from which the two largest instantly detached themselves. 'But you don't worry. My little brother and my cousin will take a damn-good look outside — make damn-sure nobody is snooping around out there, see?'

The two waiters were already peeling off their white coats, and Mr Malik's gorgeous sister reached under her cash-till to produce two dark windcheaters: when Mr Malik had first launched his business in this tough area there had been several episodes of 'damn trouble', Ian recalled. But Mr Malik had dealt with his problems in a manner which the locals understood and appreciated, without recourse to the forces of law ajid order. So all was peaceful in Cody Street.

'No, Mr Malik — !' The thought of Paul Mitchell having a final snoop outside, and encountering the grinning six- foot dummy2

'little brother' in the process, hit him as the little brother slipped a cosh down his sleeve. 'No!'

'Oh yes, Mr Robinson!' Mr Malik waved him down. 'Miss Jenny says we take damn-good precaution — those are her orders, Mr Robinson.' He carried the wave on to his Search-and-Destroy squad. 'You go!'

'No. I have a friend out there — in the phone-box across the road, Mr Malik — ' In desperation, Ian skipped sideways to block the doorway. When Jenny issued orders, men always jumped. But these two looked like men who had had a boring day up to now.

'A friend?' Mr Malik seemed surprised that Ian had any friends. But he snapped his fingers, and the squad froze.

'But ... we have a telephone, Mr Robinson. And Miss Jenny says to look.'

'Yes.' Jenny really was running scared, to give such orders.

But, then, she was damn-right to run scared! 'My friend didn't want to impose on you. Is the phone okay, out there

— ?'

'Okay?' Mr Malik drew himself up to his full five-foot-five.

'Mr Robinson ... we have no trouble in Cody Street — no damn trouble, sir.' He nodded towards his little brother.

'When Mr Robinson's friend finish his call, you bring him in.

And then you take a damn-good look, like I said — okay?' He amended his cold-hard look of Absolute Monarchy to its original friendliness as he brought it back to Ian. 'Now I take you to Miss Jenny, sir — please?'