The Memory Trap

one told thee that all had been betrayed, what wouldst thou do? — I would run away. It might be dummy1

true!

Now she smiled again at him. 'He wanted a breath of air, he said. But . . . he's been watching all day, through John's old field-glasses, out of the attic windows front and back.' The smile trembled slightly, and the corner of her unpainted lip turned down. 'He said that, if anyone came in daylight, it wouldn't be you. But he didn't think you'd be so quick — or so careless.' She looked down at his glass. 'Would you like another drink, David?'

He looked down at his glass, which had somehow emptied itself. 'Only if I'm not driving — and if you've got enough supper for three — ?'

'I always make too much.' The smile turned up again.

'Although Peter's done most of the cooking: we're having spaghetti bolognese. Only with a lot more meat than is proper, apparently. So there'll be enough, I'm sure.'

There was much more whisky in the glass this time. 'If I drink this I'll need a bed too, Sophie.'

She let him take the glass from her. 'There's a camp-bed ... if you have time — ? But you said — ?'

'I'll be leaving early.' He couldn't risk saying we, even now.

'But . . . I'm not as young as I was.' Let them all worry — the others! From Paul and Jake to General Lukianov and Others (always supposing they were still worrying, by God!) 'If I don't get a few hours . . . then I won't be able to think straight tomorrow.' He felt only slightly guilty at disturbing two dummy1

middle-aged love-birds (which, under pressure and without any sign or mention of poor old John, to whom they had once been so faithful, they probably were now, at last). 'Is it very inconvenient?'

'Not at all, David.' She sounded almost relieved. 'Peter didn't really expect you tonight. He thought it would be tomorrow night, more likely. If at all.' Her mouth tightened suddenly.

'No — he didn't say 'if at all' — I did. He was almost certain that you'd come.' She touched her lips with her glass. 'But he was afraid someone else might come with you.'

'He thought I'd be careless.' That was disappointing.

'No.' She closed her eyes for an instant. 'He just wasn't quite sure that they'd let you come alone.' She sighed. 'After what had happened on Capri.'

'That's all in the past.' He shook his head reassuringly at her.

'How long will he be?'

She glanced at the candle. 'Not long, I shouldn't think. It all depends on whether he's on top or down below at the moment. He said he was just going to stretch his legs . . . and take Buster for a night-jaunt.' She came back to him. 'You're quite right: I didn't have a dog, that time you came. I only got one three years ago, when . . . after John died.'

The poor devil had lasted all those years! God — small wonder she was grey and stretched! And that, of course, accounted for Peter's own behaviour over the years, taken together with his own problems.

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But he had to think of Peter now — out there somewhere.

And not just 'stretching his legs and the dog's', either: the dark would be his friend equally. And especially with a dog at his side, for 'Buster' would be both a useful ally in casing the area for strangers and a splendid cover for such an enterprise: a dog was worth several men, day or night — and a man walking a dog at night would pass for a local man, not a stranger.

'Either way, he will have seen the car lights anyway, David.'

'Yes.' And then he'd be thinking hard, thought Audley. In fact, if he had known near-enough what had happened on Capri, but not why . . . and also with the name David Audley in the forefront of his mind . . . he'd be thinking very hard indeed —

But she was watching him intently again with that stretched look of hers. Only now that look must have more to do with her living Peter than her dead John. 'Don't worry, Sophie.

We're both being careful, that's all.'

She drew a long breath. 'It's easy to say that. But I don't know why you're being careful. And neither does Peter. Except he knows that someone wants him dead —and maybe you, too.'

'Uh-huh.' Knowing so much, yet so little, no wonder the poor woman was so frightened behind her brave front. 'Well, that's why I'm here, my dear: because I don't know either.

And that's why we're both in danger. It's like having poison in your bloodstream — not knowing enough, either of us. But together, you see, we may also have the antidote. That's what dummy1

I'm hoping, anyway.'

Another long, almost shuddering breath. 'It doesn't make sense.'

'Why not?' The heat of the fire and the whisky were getting to him. Only hunger kept him awake.

'It's just . . .' She gestured despairingly '. . . how did you know he'd be here, with me? How could you be so sure, I mean?'

'He was sure, wasn't he?'

'Yes. But —'

'Why was he sure?'

She pulled herself together. 'He said you'd remember. He said you never forget anything — that you've got a