A Prospect of Vengeance

and I, on that gadget of John's — the phone-thing — ?'

'I was still up north, coming back, on the motorway,'

supplemented Buller. 'And then, after what I told 'em, the Lady was going to check out Dr Mitchell.'

'Yes. And so I did, as far as I could.' Jenny's voice strengthened. 'And you were off checking on that woman —

the one who got shot... so we couldn't warn you about Mitchell. And it never occurred to us that he would be after you, darling.'

'Yes.' It occurred to Ian that Jenny hadn't reckoned too much to 'the woman who got shot' when they'd spoken to each other last night. But maybe it hadn't just been the dogsbody job they'd given him: maybe, more simply, they'd just wanted him safely out of town, where he couldn't come to much harm while drawing off some of their followers on his wild goose chase. 'Go on, Jenny.'

'Well . . . that's all there is to it, as far as I'm concerned, darling: I did get some more, about all of them. Including Dr Paul Mitchell. Including the fact that Willy Arkenshaw thinks he needs the love of a good woman to sustain him — or even just look after him, like Paddington Bear: ' Please look after this Mitchell' — '

'Huh!' Reg Buller emitted an unPaddington Bear-like growl from his own darkness . . .

'And I only got that out of her because she's very pregnant with the next little Arkenshaw baronet, and all dewy-eyed dummy2

about marriage and motherhood. And even so she clammed up then, and started quizzing me about where I'd met him . . . which she'd assumed had been at some party, and that I'd fancied him there. So I had to concoct an elaborate tale which I'm not at all sure satisfied her. Not that it matters now, anyway.' She paused. 'But that's all I got about Mitchell since we talked on the phone, Reg. But now you've got more, obviously — ?'

'No.' Buller remained silent for a moment. 'I had more then. I just didn't want to give it to you over that line, for all to hear.'

The next silence was broken by a clink. 'A lot more.'

Another clink. And then a tiny scraping sound. And then a glugging sound: Reg Buller was at the Tiger beer already.

'Couldn't we go on?' Jenny advanced commonsense tentatively. 'I mean ... we could talk more comfortably in the car, Ian — couldn't we?'

'No.' Buller sounded as though he was more comfortable: Buller's main in-battle worry would have been — and was —

the source of his next liquid refreshment. 'I think . . . maybe we'll leave the car where it is, an' call for a taxi. It might be safer. An' there's a pub I know, not far away. And there's a bloke I can phone from there who's into instant travelling, an' no questions asked, too.' Another glug. 'I reckon we're about as safely lost as we can be, right now. An', whoever's out there ... by the time he comes to ask questions up above, an' gets the wrong answers — ' Buller chuckled ' — 'cause, little Abdul — he'll be good with the wrong answers, to drive dummy2

'em up the wall — ' Another chuckle. Then another glug. And then a soft empty clunk as he dropped the bottle, adding himself to the 'very dirty people' ' — but not our wall . . . his wall, eh?'

'And then?' Jenny just got the question in before the next train.

Buller waited for the noise to hurry after its cause. 'Then they'll get their skates on. Because they'll know we've rumbled 'em. And they'll reckon we've long gone . . . . And there won't be time for committee meetings then: they'll be wetting their britches, an' doubling-up in Hampstead — or at your dad's place, most likely. An' that's really goin' to worry

'em, by golly!'

'Yes?' Jenny sounded doubtful suddenly.

'Right!' Buller caught her doubt. 'That's where you'd have gone, eh? Home to daddy — all nice an' safe? An' then maybe a phone-call to one of daddy's friends in the Government? Or a call from the House of Lords to the Home Secretary — ?'

'You know I wouldn't do that.' Jenny bristled with outrage.

'Wouldn't you? I would — if I was you. Bloody right, I would!'

Buller paused for only a fraction of a second. 'All right — you wouldn't. But they don't know you, Lady: they'll only know that they don't know which way trouble's comin' from, while they're tryin' to find where you've gone — now that they know you're on to them — see?' Another pause. 'If it's Mitchell . . . then he'll be running scared too, I reckon. With dummy2

Audley out of the country, eh?'

'He can always run to Jack Butler.'

'Can 'e though?' Buller paused as though in doubt. 'That's one of the things that doesn't add up — I reckon that, too.'

'Why not?'

'Because Jack Butler — Sir Jack Butler, as 'e is now, from the last Birthday Honours . . . he's not a dirty player, they say.'

'Yes.' Jenny came in quickly. They do say that — yes! But — ?'

'But Mitchell?' Buller came back even more quickly. 'Ah!

Now we're into Mr Peter Wright, an' his dirty tricks, an' his young Turks.' Buller paused. 'An' . . .