Under-Secretary at the Department of Trade and adviser to the EEC Commissioner for the Regularization, Standardization and Uniformity of Processed Food Products. Meaning fish fingers.'
'Good Lord, how did you find that out?'
'Holborn Public Library's latest copy of Who's Who. So we've got some muscle. And we're going to use it tonight.'
'Tonight? But we'll never drive all the way to Virginia Water...I mean it'll be after midnight by the time we get there.'
'I can't think of a better time to break the news,' said the Countess, and drove back to the Amusement Park.
Chapter 23
In fact it was almost 2 a.m. when they parked the car at the end of Pine Tree Lane and rang the doorbell of The Cones. A light came on upstairs and presently the door opened on the chain and Mr Clyde-Brown peered out. He'd had a hard evening listening to his wife argue that it was time they called in the police, and had only managed to get to sleep with a cup of Horlicks laced with yet more whisky and two Mogadons.
'Who is it?' he mumbled.
'Me, Dad,' said Peregrine stepping under the porchlight. For a moment Mr Clyde-Browne was prey to the ghastly thought that two Mogadons and a quarter of a bottle of Scotch didn't mix too well. Certainly he had to be hallucinating. The voice sounded horribly right but the face, and in particular the hair, didn't gel with his memory of Peregrine. The last time he'd seen the lout he'd been fair-haired and with a fresh complexion. Now he looked like something the Race Relations...He stopped himself in time. There was a law about saying things like that.
'Where the hell have you been?' he asked instead, and undid the chain. 'Your mother's been at her wit's end worrying about you. And who '
The Countess and Glodstone stepped through the doorway after Peregrine. 'Let's hit the lounge,' said the Countess, 'Somewhere nice and private. We don't want the neighbours in on this.'
Mr Clyde-Browne wasn't sure. The arrival of his son with black hair in the company of a woman in dark glasses and a tall haggard man who looked vaguely familiar and definitely sinister, and this at two in the morning, seemed to suggest he might need every neighbour within shouting distance. The Countess's language didn't help. With the feeling that he had stepped into a Cagney movie he went into the sitting-room and turned on the light.
'Now what's the meaning of this?' he demanded, trying to muster some authority.
'Tell him, baby,' said the Countess, checking the curtains were closed to unnerve Mr Clyde-Browne still more.
'Well, it's like this, dad,' said Peregrine, 'I've been and gone and shot a professor.'
Mr Clyde-Browne's eyes bulged in his head. 'I'm not hearing right,' he muttered, 'It's those fucking Mogadons. You've been and gone...Where the hell did you pick up that vulgar expression?'
'His name was Botwyk and he was an American and we thought he was a gangster and I shot him through the head,' said Peregrine. 'With a .38 from the School Armoury.'
Mr Clyde-Browne's knees buckled and he slumped into a chair. 'I don't believe it,' he moaned. 'This isn't happening.'
'No, not now,' said Peregrine. 'But it did. It's in all the papers. I shot a Russian too, but he didn't die. At least, he hasn't yet.'
Mr Clyde-Browne shut his eyes in an attempt to convince himself that he was having a nightmare. It failed. When he opened them again Peregrine and these two awful people were still there. The Countess handed him a copy of The Times.
