A Prospect of Vengeance

conscience should be, inside Reginald Buller. 'Who blundered then, Mr Buller?'

'Some civil servant.' Buller brightened at the thought.

'Probably one of your Dr Audley's colleagues, hiding his light under some committee.' He brought his lighter up to his pipe, but then thought better. 'Or maybe someone was on holiday — like Audley is at the moment. And some poor bloody clerk standing in for him didn't get to the bottom of his in-tray before the weekend. And then another load of bumpf went on the top of it on Monday morning. So he's for the chop now — ' He glanced sidelong at Jenny ' — or she is, dummy2

now that we're all equal.'

Jenny merely smiled. 'The identification?'

That's right. Teeth, most like — they're always the best ID.'

Buller returned the smile. 'If you're going to plant someone, Miss Fielding . . . take my tip: cut the hands and the head off, smash the jaw up, and drop the bits off in a few dustbins just before the refuse truck comes round. Then dig a deep hole for the rest, where it isn't likely to be dug up by the kids.' As he spoke the smile utterly vanished. 'But, whatever it was tipped 'em off ... and I don't know it was teeth . . . the identification got out before anyone could sit on it, and that's a fact.' He switched to Tully. 'And that put the newspapers on to it. Masson being in their 'Missing Persons' file of course.

And then the fat was in the fire.' The smile returned, but in a thinner form. 'All just routine — getting the right file, or the right print-out. But this time in the wrong order.'

'So where did my drowning rumour come from?' Tully's pale intellectual face was expressionless. 'I thought it came from the Police?'

Buller nodded. 'So it did. But not officially. Seems like it was a 'tip-off', from lower down — like one of the DCs feeding one of the local journalists, off the record, supposedly. But it wasn't that at all, of course.'

'Disinformation?' Having been disinformed many times over recent years, Jenny was quick on that particular ball.

'Disinformation — yes.' Buller liked accurate passing. 'Could dummy2

have been the same clerk, trying to shut the stable door after the horse was already meat in the knacker's yard, as best he could. Or she could.' Half-smile, half-shrug. There is a lake there ... or a pond, so they say.'

'You haven't seen the place?' Tully pursed his lips. 'Actually seen it — ?'

'Not a chance.' Buller returned slight contempt for this hint of disapproval. 'It's guarded round the clock — an' Special Branch from London as well as the locals. An' it's a bloody isolated spot, too . . . plus I'm not about to display myself, snooping around, to be photographed for the record. That wouldn't be good for business.' He looked to Ian for support.

'Yours as well as mine?'

'He wasn't found in the pond — the lake?' Ian rose obligingly.

'The children dug him up. And ... all the initial rumours were . . . digging-up ones?' Remembering what Buller had said when they were alone, it was easy.

'That is exactly right, Mr Robinson.' Buller nodded formally.

The original story was drowning — 'drowned at sea'. An'

then the first story was 'ancient bones' dug up. An' then his name slipped out — an' then it was 'drowning' again. But that won't stick for ever.' He shook his head. 'Maybe, if they'd had time to doctor the evidence ... or, at least, to confuse it ...

then they just might have made a drowning stick.' He looked from one to the other of them. 'Although, with policemen, and coroners, and all the rest . . . that's not so easy, I can tell you. But they might at least have bought more time, anyway.

dummy2

But this time . . . they didn't.' He ended with Jenny. 'He was buried, Miss Fielding. Not very deeply — not deep enough . . .

But buried, for sure.' Single nod. 'And the fact that they first tried to change the story . . . and now they've got the place, and everyone in it, buttoned up like Greenham Common used to be on Easter weekend — all that merely confirms everyone's suspicions that there's some sort of cover-up in progress.' This time, not a nod, but a sly face. 'Oh yes — the vultures are out, as you would expect: I recognized a few old acquaintances, trying to drink the pubs dry on expenses. And there were some young hopefuls, too — '

'And they recognized you, presumably?' Tully's lips tightened again. Then he sniffed. 'Or smelt you.'

Buller looked disappointed. 'Come on, Johnny — would I work for any clients of ours without a cover story? You know me better than that. Not on something like this, that's been in the papers. You're not the only one with a sense of smell.'

Ian caught Jenny's eye, and her smile. The last time Reg Buller had worked for them he had also had a 'cover'. And it had been so genuine that he had happily collected double expenses from it. But as he watched her, he observed that the smile was only on her lips, not in her eyes. And it faded quickly.

'Your old acquaintances, Reg . . . what lines are they following, do you know?' She sounded almost casual.

'I don't honestly know, Lady. I was too busy being not very interested in their business. But I doubt they've got much of dummy2

value as yet, the way things are. Not until the inquest is resumed, they won't have anything to get their teeth into.

And you can bet they'll be delayed as long as possible.' Buller cocked an eye at Tully. 'It'll be the backroom boys digging out the old cuttings on Masson at the moment, in preparation for that. So you'd better watch your step there, Johnny, if you're thinking of asking to have a look at him in your favourite newspaper library. Because they know you've worked for your present clients before.'

Tully touched his tie. 'Don't worry, Mr Buller. That's already all taken care of.' He acknowledged Jenny and Ian