A Prospect of Vengeance

Another frown. 'Well, that's all there is, lad: they took 'er away — an' O'Leary with 'er . . . An' then they started to make bloody-sure no one ever printed the truth about what happened there.' Buller watched him. 'So what else do you want, then?'

Ian couldn't really say anything. But Jenny saved him from admitting so much. 'But . . . you haven't really told us the ending — have you, Reg?'

Buller picked up his chaser, but didn't drink it. 'Yes . . . But maybe that's the bit you won't like, Lady. An' I'd only be guessin' anyway. An' maybe it's too early to start guessin'?

Not when you've got your cheque-book at the ready?' He looked at Ian.

For once Ian knew that he not only knew more than Jenny did, but also understood better what he knew: knew that he had lost forever what he could never have won anyway —

knew utterly and forever that his best book couldn't be written.

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'Go on, Reg.' His knowledge didn't set him free: it chained him. But he wanted Jenny to feel the weight of those chains.

'Okay.' Buller dropped him. 'Your bloke Masson, Lady — he may have been the greatest thing since bread an' alcohol. But he'd still have played his game the only way he knew — the way the clever buggers in the Civil Service always play it.

Which is only the way everyone else plays it, anyway, if they're clever: you use the weapons you've got, that the other bloke hasn't got — okay?'

The man was trying to wrap up his can-of-worms in pretty paper. 'For God's sake, Reg — tell her!'

'Okay — okay!'

Jenny looked from one to the other. Tell me what — ?'

Out of nowhere, Ian suddenly understood why Buller was delaying. And that was remarkably to Reg Buller's credit, when he was so shit-scared of 'Dr P. L. Mitchell' — enough to make them go over that wall in the rain and the dark into the railway cutting so uncomfortably and so recently. But, for his part, he couldn't let himself identify so exactly with Dr Mitchell — not yet, not yet!

He faced Jenny. 'Philip Masson wanted the job, Jen. And . . .

maybe he didn't think Jack Butler was right for it — ' Partly on impulse, and partly to help her accept what he was about to say, he sugared the bitter pill ' — more likely ... So he fixed a test for Butler to prove himself — handling all the different pressures, up north: not just O'Leary, but the Special Branch, dummy2

and MI5, and the local police up there — and the Chief Constable — right, Reg?'

Buller nodded gratefully. And then faced up to the truth. 'It was a maybe fair test — ' Then he faced Jenny in turn, to repay his debt. ' — but it was a fucking dirty trick, Lady — if you'll pardon my French!'

'It was a fair test.' Ian chose to disagree. 'Because Butler pretty well passed it at the University: he didn't catch O'Leary . . . but O'Leary's bomb didn't kill anyone.' He still tried to sugar the pill — even after Reg Buller's French. 'But then O'Leary went on to Thornervaulx. And . . . Mrs Frances Fitzgibbon died because of that, you see — ?'

'You've got it, lad!' Buller didn't want to owe him more than that. 'But that's where we 'ave to start guessin', Lady. Because it still could be Audley who did for him, after that. Or ... it could be 'e just turned a blind eye — see?'

The blind eye seeing confused her for a second. 'Audley — ?'

' 'E could 'ave turned a blind eye.' Buller emphasized himself.

' 'E could have just pointed Mitchell in the right direction. Or he could have gone to Mitchell straight off, an' said 'This bugger Masson — if 'e fell under a bus now ... or, maybe, if 'e fell off 'is boat, an' drowned, an' no question asked . . .

wouldn't that be nice now?' An' after what 'ad 'appened to the woman 'e wouldn't 'ave needed to ask twice; 'e'd got the perfect murderer. Or almost perfect.'

Jenny stared at them both. ' Mitchell?'

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' 'E's got the balls for it, Lady.' Buller nodded. ' An' she was 'is woman, Lady — don't you see!'

With a terrible certainty, Ian understood why she was so slow now, when she was usually so quick. And then he saw how he could make her understand. 'You want vengeance for Philip Masson, Jen. So Paul Mitchell wanted to even the score for Frances Fitzgibbon.'

She frowned at him. 'But Philly didn't kill her.' She looked at Reg Buller.

''Mad Dog' O'Leary?' Buller shook his head. ' 'E just snapped a shot off — it could 'ave been at anyone — it could 'ave been at Mitchell ... or it could 'ave been at Butler . . . or it could

'ave been some poor bloody copper, Lady: they're the ones who usually get the bullet.' Another shake. 'But it was ' er . . .

an' if it was your bloke Masson who put it all together, then it was ' im that got 'er killed — that's the way I might 'ave seen it, if she'd been my woman, I tell you straight.' He cocked his head. ' 'Ave you ever loved anyone? Your mum and dad, maybe? Or this bloke of yours, Philly — ?'

Jenny had got it: it was pasted across her face, white under falling-down red.

'If it 'ud been my woman I might 'ave done it, anyway,'

repeated Buller simply. 'Or ... if I was 'Dr P. L. Mitchell' —