A Prospect of Vengeance

Jenny's lip twisted. 'Audley? Aren't you being a bit sentimental, Mr Buller? His side — our side ... we don't do dummy2

such naughty things? Only the lesser breeds — the KGB and the CIA . . . and the Israelis ... do naughty deeds?' The twist became more pronounced. 'They say Audley's left a trail of bodies behind him over the years — remember?'

'But they were his enemies, Lady, by all accounts.'

Or innocent bystanders, thought Ian bitterly.

'If Masson had been a traitor now — ' Buller started to develop his thesis unwisely.

'Don't be ridiculous, Mr Buller. If you think that then we'll settle your bill here and now. I have my cheque book with me, as well as my passport. You can even have a Eurocheque, if you prefer.'

'I wasn't saying that, Lady. Your bloke was clean. If there'd been any doubt about 'im — any slightest doubt ... I grant you that.' Buller hastily changed his tack. 'What I mean is ... it would 'ave been straight murder, killing him. An' if you think about it, they didn't even arrange for old Peter Wright to 'ave an accident, when they knew 'e was goin' to cause 'em all that trouble — now did they? An' why not?' He paused. 'Because for a private murder you need a private murderer. So Audley would have had to get hisself a man, and a good one —

someone, in fact, like 'Mad Dog' O'Leary — ' He nodded towards Ian ' — or your bloke MacManus. An' there's a lot of risks involved in hiring that sort of talent. You really got to

'ave someone you can trust. And you can't never trust a private murderer, I don't reckon.'

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Jenny shook her head. 'That's a pretty thin argument, Mr Buller.'

Buller made a face. 'I wasn't really talkin' about that, anyway

— not yet anyway.'

'No. You were talking about Philip Masson. And some dirty little slander.' Jenny was like a terrier dropping a dead rat in preference for a larger one whose back she also intended to break before it could get away. 'So what was that, then?'

The door opened suddenly, and the same large young woman entered again, with more drinks. Buller had indeed summoned up spirits from the deep.

They waited until the re-fuelling had been completed, and then Buller turned back to Jenny. 'All that trouble they had up north, at the University, with the bomb, an' then O'Leary turnin' up at Thornervaulx, when Jack Butler was on some other job . . . There's those that might say it was Jack Butler who was being measured for an 'accident' there. Only the woman that was killed an' Dr P. L. Mitchell spoilt the accident between 'em — '

'Mitchell?' Jenny wasn't interested in 'the woman'.

'Oh aye.' Buller nodded. 'Old 'Mad Dog' was a top man in his profession — he was good, Lady . . . Even goin' to Thornervaulx like that, which was a mad thing to do, it seemed . . . But 'e'd got a car waitin' in a barn about a mile away, over the top, complete with a police uniform and identity papers. An' then another car about five miles away, dummy2

with another identity — an' the uniform of a major in the Royal Signals, from Catterick. An' a real major, too — only 'e was on leave at the time. An' the number-plate on the second car was the same as the major's car. They didn't even find those cars for a fortnight, neither. So 'e'd 'ave got away, you can reckon.'

'You were talking about Mitchell, Mr Buller, I thought,'

'I am talking about Mitchell, Lady. Because old 'Mad Dog'

was a real pro. But Dr P. L. Mitchell is another. An' maybe a better one, too.'

'How so? What are you trying to tell us, Mr Buller?'

Buller drew a breath. 'By all accounts, 'e 'ad no more than two seconds flat, that day at Thornervaulx, after O'Leary started shooting. An' O'Leary had a long gun — a rifle of some sort. An' Mitchell — Doctor Mitchell . . . he had a little gun. A hand-gun, that would be. Probably an automatic pistol, that would be, so as not to spoil his jacket . . . But it don't really matter — that it was a little gun. Because it was big enough for what was needed, see?' He looked at them in turn. 'O'Leary gets off one shot — bang!' His free hand came up, with a finger pointing at Jenny. 'An' bang-bang-bang goes the little gun. An' 'e never even got a second shot off —

down like a pole-axed steer, 'e went. . . 'never' as they say in the old westerns, 'to rise again'. A proper little Wyatt Earp, our Doctor Mitchell is. Or maybe more like Doc Holliday.'

As Jenny digested all this in silence, Ian was conscious of a shiver down his own back because of Buller's chance dummy2

imagery. Almost, that might have been how Gary Redwood would have described that shoot-out, with his own dear Marilyn Francis down in the dust — the wet hillside bracken at Thornervaulx — after that first-and-last shot of O'Leary's.

'Who told you all this?' Jenny had indeed noticed the curious imprecision of Buller's account, which ruled out one of his police contacts . . . even supposing that he'd been clever enough and lucky enough to find one so imprudent to say so much. And even then —

'Ah! Now that would be telling!' Buller savoured his memories for a moment. 'You know what I've got — eh?'

'An eye-witness.' Ian snapped the words as they hit him, in the instant he recalled Buller's powers of conversation-recall from past experience, when these could be checked against played-back tapes for comparison.

'And clients paying for your time,' added Jenny tartly, but oddly out of character. 'Come on, Mr Buller — don't piss us around: you've got an eye-witness.'

'Strictly speaking . . . no, Lady.' Buller drank deeply.