Masson was planted. And — '
''Planted' — ?'
'Buried.' Nod. 'In a hole.' Another nod. 'He didn't fall out of the sky, or tip over an' hit his head, or shoot himself, or have a heart attack.' Final nod. The way some of the stories go, there was this pond, an' he was in it. So ... I thought he could have fallen into it — or maybe even jumped into it ... But that isn't the way it was, apparently. Because these children dug him up, it seems.'
'Why — how ... did they do that?' Both questions pressed equally.
'God knows! But it seems that they did. So ... someone buried him. So someone killed him first — that's what the barmaid dummy2
said. And I paid her ?50 not to tell anyone else. Although it's even money that I may have made her greedy, so I can't be sure that I haven't wasted . . . your money, my lad — eh?'
Ian winced inwardly at Tully's final bill, which would pile his VAT on Reg Buller's VAT, to complicate matters even if they could finally claim it back; although Jenny's friendly accountants would sort that out for them, also at a price. But he mustn't think of such mundane things now. 'And that was all you got?'
Reg Buller looked offended. That was all I thought it safe to try and get, the way things smelt. Besides which, I rather thought I had other fish to fry, on instruction. Or rather . . .
not other fish — another fish . . . other than Masson, I mean . . .' He tailed off.
' Another . . . fish?'
'Well ... not a fish, exactly.' Buller drew deeply on his pipe.
'More like a shark, if you ask me — ' he breathed out a foul cloud of smoke ' — like, in that film: something you go out to catch . . . but you end up trying not to get caught yourself, maybe.' He drew on his pipe again.
'You mean the man Audley? David Audley?' Ian remembered Jenny's original proposition: she had come to him late at night — or, more precisely, early in the morning, after one of her socialite nights-on-the-tiles — getting him out of bed when he was at his lowest ebb —
dummy2
' Darling, I think I've stumbled onto something really quite interesting — have you got a drink?' (Jenny bright-eyed, even at that unearthly hour, happily burning her candle at both ends and only a little tousled even now, having progressed from a day's work to an embassy party, and then to an elongated dinner, and finally to some flutter 'on the tables' in some hell-hole; except that Jenny had the stamina of a plough-horse and an alcoholic capacity rivalling Reg Buller's, so it always seemed.)
' Jenny!' (At least he had been halfways respectable, face quickly washed, hair quickly brushed, dressing-gown carefully and decently adjusted: only Jenny dared to burst in on him in the smallest hours — she had done it before, and he was half-prepared for such eventualities now.) ' For heaven's sake, Jen! Couldn't it wait until the morning?' (But, strictly speaking, it had been the morning, of course.)' You shouldn 't be walking the streets now — they're not safe. I'll ring for a taxi — '
' I've got a taxi — it's parked outside. The dear man said he'd be quite happy to wait, darling — he said just the same thing.' (Running taxi-meters aside, Jenny could get round any man to do her will if she put her mind to it.) ' So ... just get me that drink. Or do I have to make it myself?'
'I'll get you a coffee — '
'Don't be such a fuddy-duddy, Ian darling! But first. . . have you ever heard of a man named Audley, Ian?'
' Who — ?' (If she was determined to drink alcohol, then he dummy2
would pour it.)
'Audley. AUDLEY — Audley? Christian name 'David' — ?'
' No.' (He had recognized the sign then: those innocent eyes weren't alcohol bright, but excited; even, possibly, she hadn't had a drink since that sudden stumble-onto-something, whenever it had occurred; and all the rest of the evening-into-night-into-morning had been cold hard professional Jenny; which was why she needed a drink now.)
'No. But you have heard of Philip Masson, maybe?'
' Yes.' (That had been insulting — and deliberately so! But now he was hooked.) ' And who is ... ' David Audley', then?'
'Mr David Audley — yes. Or, to give him his proper title, Doctor David Audley.' Reg Buller sniffed, wrinkling the hairs on his drinker's nose. 'But not a medical doctor — a philosophy doctor . . . Cambridge 'Ph.D' — or 'D.Phil', whichever it is.' The big red-and- blue veined nose wrinkled again: Reg Buller had a huge dislike-and-contempt for Oxbridge products, derived from bitter experience of Whitehall and Westminster in his policeman days. 'Only, not a philosophy doctor, either — a history doctor — ' The nose seemed to swell as its rounded blob-end lifted ' — ancient history, too.'
But Ian had progressed since Jenny's untimely descent on him. 'Medieval history actually, Reg.'
'Oh aye?' Buller accepted the correction as a further dummy2
confirmation of cause-for-contempt. 'Looked him up in Who's Who, have you? But what about his book on the Latin kingdom of Jerusalem, eh? Because, in my book, 'Latin' is bloody ancient — right?'
'No. 'Wrong' actually. The Latin Kingdom of Jerusalem was eleventh to twelfth century, as it happens. Not that it matters.' Compared with Philip Masson it certainly didn't matter. But a long passion for getting facts right, and for sorting the golden nuggets of truth from Jenny's loaded conveyor-belt of hearsay, rumour and gossip, forced him to react before he could stop himself. And then he had to put matters straight, into their priorities. 'He's a shark, is he, Reg?'
