A Prospect of Vengeance

'It's all right, Jenny.' He took the bottle from her and put his arms around her, brotherly-sisterly, thinking brotherly-dummy2

sisterly — and the first time since Beirut . . . but that had been different: that had been shared relief, not shared fear!

'It's all right, Jen.'

She held him tighter. 'Oh Ian — it isn't all right — it's all wrong! What have I done — for God's sake, what have I done?'

'You haven't done anything.' What mattered was what they were going to do. And with Jenny so completely out of character he realized how much he normally depended on her to answer that question. So he had to straighten her out first — and quickly. 'Whatever's happened, Reg was just as keen to work on this as you were — he was dead-keen — ' he grimaced at the wall behind her as he heard his gaffe, and pushed on hurriedly ' — and so was John Tully — ' he unwrapped her gently: however much he wanted to know about Reg Buller, that would have to wait (and Tully was more important now, anyway!) ' — where is John, Jenny?

Have you been able to get through to him yet?'

'No.' She blinked at him. 'No, I haven't. And . . . and we can't, I mean.'

Stupid, again: she had said something about the police on the phone, and he had automatically assumed their progression from a dead Reg Duller to a live John Tully, and then had clean forgotten that in the press of events.

'But, Ian — '

'No.' Even Tully wasn't the most important thing now.

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'Listen, Jen: there's someone coming to see us — here — ' He tried to keep one ear cocked for the sound of Mitchell on the stair as he spoke, against the sound of his own voice and the faint restaurant hubbub from below ' — any second now.'

'Someone?' Her eyes widened momentarily, and then narrowed. ' Who — '

'Just listen. I went to Rickmansworth today, to check up on the girl — the one who was killed up north, just before Masson disappeared — '

'Yes, I know. John told me you and Reg were off on some wild goose chase somewhere.' She nodded. 'Marilyn-something — ?'

'It wasn't a wild goose chase.'

'Francis — Marilyn Francis.' The nod became contemptuous.

'A typist.'

'Audley was there when she was killed.' She was irritated with him for acting on his own initiative, but he was also angry with her now: angry because she had closed her mind prematurely (which was unlike her) . . . but also angry at her dismissive contempt for Frances Fitzgibbon. 'I thought it was Audley we were after — isn't it?'

'It is.' From below him she somehow managed to look down on him. 'But, according to John yesterday — and John hasn't been wild-goose-chasing — Audley only got back from the States the day they shot that IRA man. And it's Audley and Philip Masson we're interested in, not Audley and Marilyn dummy2

Thingummy-jig, or Marilyn Monroe, or any other Marilyn.

You can put her in as a footnote, if you like — one of Audley's field-work casualties . . . But Philly Masson was top-brass, and nothing to do with field-work: Philly was going to be Audley's new boss, if he'd lived — If he'd lived.' She achieved another amazing contradiction, to match the physical looking-down one: her anger made her almost plain. 'But not for long. Because he'd probably have given Audley the push pretty soon, Philly would have done . . . Maybe a bit of ribbon, and a full fellowship in some Cambridge college, to go with it ... But maybe not even that.' The ugliness vanished.

'But Philly died, of course.'

Was that a creak on the stair — ?

'And so has Reg Buller, Jenny.' Almost, she had weakened his confidence with her Tully-Fielding heart-of-the- matter intelligence safely garnered while he'd been skirmishing so dangerously in Rickmansworth and Lower Buckland. But the ghost of Reg Buller shook his head at him — and there was blood on Reg's face . . . and that had been a sound on the stair. 'And I think I came damn close to following him, just this afternoon, what's more — '

'What — ?' Without any matching distraction, she had taken in every word after he had hit her below the belt with Reg Buller.

He strained his ear into a sudden unnatural silence: even the pots and pans in the busy kitchen below them seemed to have stopped clattering, and the whole of Dad's ancient dummy2

Eslingastun seemed momentarily still.

'Two men came after me, Jen. At least, I think they did —'

Tap-tap — the soft double knock on the door cut him off decisively. And then, as though the silence had been released by it, the pans started clattering again, and a car driver changed gears inexpertly and revved his engine outside. But Jenny was already turning towards the first sound.

Damn! thought Ian. 'And this man probably saved my life then — Come in, Mr Mitchell!'

In the stretched seconds during which the door opened, Jenny came back from it to him, with an angry expression he was glad he couldn't see clearly.

'Hullo there! Ian — ?' Mitchell saw Ian first, and smiled hesitantly at him; then took in Jenny, holding the smile in place; and then swung round, away from them both. 'Thank you, gentlemen — for your help . . .' The smile began