The Memory Trap

I'd ... had a long run. And I should have quit long ago, I suppose. But there it is — I didn't ... It gets to be a habit, you know.'

'Making money? Taking risks? Having two separate lives, very different from each other? But that didn't matter right now. The Mafia was after you.'

'And the Guardia di Finanze ... I was about to take a trip, anyway . . . when these people turned up, asking for me. Not the Guardia — and not the Mafia either, my people thought.

Only, when they didn't find me they left a message, with something they knew I couldn't resist in it. But then . . .

fortunately — very fortunately — I got your message.' The stare became bleak. 'And I don't believe in coincidences, David. Not when they involve you.'

'So what did you do?'

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'I thought I'd put matters to the test. I have a good friend on Capri, with a house just near the Villa Jovis. So I invited you both up there, to see how coincidental you were.'

God Almighty! 'I see. And we weren't.' Audley cut his losses.

'What was this thing you couldn't resist, Peter?'

'Does it matter? I decided you were my best bet. So I'm here

— and you're here. And we've made a deal. Isn't that enough?'

'No.' He could never rest easy with that Borgia smile at his back.

'It's personal. It doesn't concern you. And you wouldn't understand, anyway. You of all people.'

Given time he might be able to extrapolate from that insulting clue to the truth. But with Buster out there wolfing his dinner, time was what he didn't have. 'There's no such thing as 'personal' — you should know that from the old days. 'Personal' is what causes avoidable accidents —'

'Accidents?' Richardson cut him off, then stopped. And there was something about his mid-winter expression which warned Audley not to push into the man's silence, but to let it work itself out.

'I had an accident once.' Richardson was as unmoving as a statue, and as cold. 'Remember?'

'Yes. But it was after . . .' Suddenly, it was like being on a high place, from which he could see everything but had been looking in the wrong direction '. . .it was after you left us.'

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'I was in a hospital bed, chatting up the nurses, when I got the telegram telling me my mother was dead.' The statue swallowed, but still didn't come to life. 'I discharged myself.'

Another swallow, almost painful. 'She took an overdose. By accident, they pretended. They were . . . very understanding, you might say. Did you know that?'

Audley waited until the ensuing silence forced him to answer.

'Not at the time, no.' But he could see that wasn't enough.

'Not in that detail, I mean.'

'Yes. Of course.' Something flickered in Richardson's eyes. 'I had left you by then, of course. So it was only personal.'

Audley realized why he, of all people, was not expected to understand any of this painful litany. Richardson had adored his legendary Principessa-mother, who had returned to her sunny palazzo after her husband's death — that was common knowledge. Whereas he himself had no memory of his mother, only of a succession of his father's colourful woman-friends. And, presumably, that bit of personal information had reached Peter Richardson somehow, never to be forgotten, like every other uncon-sidered trifle.

But the hell with that! 'Peter —'

'They calculated it exactly right, the Russians did: nobody was going to ask any questions, after that — not even me.

Least of all me, the way things were. You've got to admire them for that.' Richardson nodded at last, almost as though he was relieved. 'But, anyway, the message was . . . that if I really wanted to know how my mother died, they were ready dummy1

to meet me.' Once he started to nod he couldn't stop. 'And then up you popped, David. Only then I didn't need to know how. What I was interested in was who . . . and why. Which of course, is what you want. So you can have what I know for free.' Now he actually almost smiled. 'It's only a spade, David. Just a spade.'

The almost-smile had also been almost-Borgia. 'A ... spade?'

'That's right.' The almost-smile was there again. 'I have the spade. You have the grave-diggers. Between us we should be able to manage a grave or two to my satisfaction, I reckon.

Eh?'

PART THREE

No Trouble

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It wasn't quite true that Paul Mitchell had eyes only for Peter Richardson when they met at last: he had one eye for Richardson but the other for his Porsche. And, having more-or-less satisfied himself about the near side, he walked slightly sideways with a curious crab-like bias, so that he could also take in the back as well, to make sure