A Prospect of Vengeance

while we've both been at the sharp end, eh?'

'There, darling!' She came back to him quickly — too quickly, with the froth from the badly-poured beer cascading over the top of the glass. 'One ersatz Pils!'

'Busy' was an understatement, thought Ian, torn between admiration for her coverage of both Audley and Mitchell somehow — and in a working day which had also included the Reg Buller horror somewhere in it — and irritation with her for blowing the Mitchell part of it unnecessarily. 'Thank you.' On balance the admiration won.

'Spanish state-owned hotels — you were saying, Jenny?'

Mitchell showed his teeth.

'Yes.' She returned the compliment. 'So David Audley has fled the country for the time being, has he? But did he run?

Or was he pushed? That is the first question, Paul.' She cocked her head at him, dislodging some of her hair. 'But, of course, you won't answer that — can't answer that. Because that's a secret, isn't it 'An official secret', well within the dummy2

meaning of the Act. But then, everything is well within the meaning of the Act.' Now she smiled again. 'And everyone, too! All of us — and poor little Mr Malik downstairs — we're all just one big Official Secret now, aren't we? And . . . all to protect naughty Dr David Audley! Who is the biggest Official Secret of all.' She paused. 'But now he's our little secret, as well as your big one — right?'

As she spoke, Ian had been drawn naturally to watch Mitchell, as she moved up the scale of challenges. And Mitchell was watching her very carefully, now that he had been warned.

'He sent postcards, didn't he?' He grimaced at her. But then he frowned. To Willy — ? But no ... Willy knows better than to tell you that.' All her more recent feints, and sharp-toothed threats, were calmly ignored in the search for an explanation for her special knowledge. 'So ... it would be — Mrs Clarke, of course!' Mitchell nodded to himself. 'And she puts them up on her mantelpiece, amongst those lovely old mugs of hers, over the kitchen-oven — ?' He nodded. 'For all to see . . . and he sends them to her because she loves them — because he loves her.' Another nod. But he was only thinking aloud because he wanted her to hear his thoughts, quite deliberately. 'Or were they from Cathy — ?' He stopped suddenly. 'But you went down there, bright and early. And you chatted Mrs Clarke up — ' Mitchell's mouth twisted ' —

and you're pretty, and you're smart . . . and Clarkie's old now, of course.' His expression hardened. There would have been dummy2

a time when you wouldn't have got through that door, Miss Fielding-ffulke: she'd have clobbered you with her rolling-pin first, I tell you!' Then he relaxed again, having betrayed himself momentarily . . . and perhaps not so deliberately this time. 'So ... it was the postcards, wasn't it — ? Fuentarrabia —

Santa Dominigo de la Calzada, Benevente, Ciudad Rodrigo?'

The man's certainty increased as he echoed the drum-roll of names. 'You really are good! Because . . . that's bloody ingenious — just from a collection of postcards? And poor old Clarkie?'

Jenny smiled at Ian. 'Dr Audley has this ancient retainer darling ... his old nurse, I believe she is ... And she's a perfect sweetie.' She transferred the smile. 'Don't worry, Dr Mitchell: I didn't tell her that her 'dear Mr David' was a murderer — it would have been too cruel.'

'And it would also have been wrong, Miss Fielding.'

'Wrong?' Her lip curled. 'He's not a murderer? Of course!'

'Of course.' He nodded, and then considered her for a moment. 'Do you always start your books with preconceived notions about the goodies and the baddies?' Then he shrugged. 'But there! I suppose that's the nature of investigative journalism these days: don't spoil a good story with inconvenient facts, by golly! 'I name this bandwaggon Freedom of the Press, and this gravy-train The Right to Know. And God bless them, and all who crusade on them, and do very- nicely-thank-you while smiting the wicked and putting down the proud', eh?'

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'That's not true,' snapped Ian. 'We don't go about it like that.'

All the same, he didn't want to look at Jenny. 'If Audley isn't

— '

'He isn't.' Jenny interrupted him quickly, but coolly. 'Then he's been quite remarkably accident-prone in his long career.

Or ... other people around him have been, wouldn't you say, Dr Mitchell?'

Mitchell looked at his watch. 'What I would say, Miss Fielding-ffulke, is that . . . now that we've met at last. . . is that I have more work to do this night. So I must leave you temporarily, I fear.'

'Temporarily?' The breath she drew belied her coolness.

'But . . . you were just getting interesting, Dr Mitchell.' The repeated Dr Mitchell, matching Dr Audley, was another straw in the wind.

'I'm always interesting, Miss Fielding-ffulke. But, what I mean is ... it's my duty to protect you, so that you can traduce me in print in due course — if you can find a publisher — if

— ?' This time it was Mitchell's lip which curled. 'But, of course, you have found one — post Peter Wright that's only to be expected, isn't it! And especially with your record of heroic and responsible investigative reporting — ' He embraced Ian in this embittered accolade — foolish of me ...

yes!' The lips straightened and tightened. 'But you can't stay here, is what I mean. You need a safe house — a very safe house, as of Paddy MacManus's appearance on the scene, I'd say.' This time he lingered on Ian. 'Because he's still got his dummy2

fee to earn, as I told you.'