‘Will she be tried?’
‘Of course not, old boy. We’ll give her back in a month or so, and promise to keep the story quiet . . . after they’ve done us a considerable favour or two.’
‘And me?’
He leaned back, and tried to balance his teaspoon on the surface of his tea. It gave the impression of deep thought. Or psychological detachment to the point of idiocy.
‘You know our American cousins were never all that keen on you, don’t you? Well, they’ll positively dislike you now, won’t they, old boy? What makes it even worse is that within a couple of months they’ll hate the rest of us as well. You won’t even be able to trade on “the special relationship” to keep you out of trouble.’ I disliked the relish with which he pronounced that. It was the first I’d heard of any growing international tension: usually all we argued with the Yanks about was the price of oil, and the taxes they placed on our exports – that was after the bloody accountants had taken over in the Land of the Free, where nothing would ever be free again.
‘What’s about to happen to upset the apple cart?’
‘Wouldn’t know, old boy – they never tell me. I’ve probably said too much already.’ He looked momentarily annoyed.
‘You haven’t said anything.’
‘There you are then, old boy – nothing to report. Weren’t we talking about the American girl who ended up in clink in the Highlands somewhere? Apparently she blames you for her predicament, and doesn’t use your name without attaching several colourful and imaginative expletives. She thinks you took advantage of her, and says you done her wrong.’ He was quoting from either ‘Frankie and Johnny’ or ‘Miss Otis Regrets’. They were popular songs – you could hear them on the radio all the time. ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if the Yanks even sent some people over to teach you a lesson. They’re a simple but unforgiving race.’
‘Will you protect me?’
‘Why should we? We didn’t ask you to go carousing around the glens looking for an illegal and inefficient weapon.’
‘So what do you suggest I do?’
‘I suggest that there are very few Americans on Cyprus at this time of year . . . and those that are, are squarely in our sights. So how about it, old boy?’
His old boys were beginning to get on my nerves. Before we got down to business I asked him, ‘I don’t suppose she was related to the pilot of that crashed plane?’
His smile could have meant anything.
‘I don’t suppose she was, either. More tea?’
I went back to Green’s Hotel and booked in. It was Ozzie’s night off, and he agreed to come out on the skite. His wife said he didn’t get out enough, so it would do him good. They don’t make wives like that any more. We ended up three sheets to the wind in a small club off Soho Square. The dancing girls were uniformly beautiful – young actresses looking for the first step up the ladder. Three fat guys from the film business sat at the next table, and discussed them as if they were meat. Ozzie wanted to thrash them, but I held him down. It was the way of the world these days. It made me think of the Americans again, and the American way of life – how long would it take for the Yanks to realize that it wouldn’t necessarily suit the rest of us?
I treated Fabian to lunch in the Savoy Grill. I was rather taken with the place. It was pricey of course, but not that pricey. They could do you a decent lunch for seven quid, and a bottle of house red for thirty bob. We were greeted by a black jacket who took the inspector’s raincoat, and asked him, ‘Your usual table, sir? It hasn’t been booked today.’
Fabian nodded, and smiled.
‘Thank you, Michel.’ After we had been seated – a small table overlooking the area of Savoy Yard in which the taxis turned – he told me, ‘He’s not French, of course. He came into the world as Michael . . . in Camberley.’
We took the menu à choix, and Fabian chose the wine. He didn’t make a pig of himself. When he asked, bluntly, ‘What is it you wanted?’ I was taken a little by surprise and replied too loudly.
‘To make sure I wasn’t still in the shit before I go abroad again.’ Then I realized where I was, and looked round hurriedly, hoping no one had overheard. The woman at the next table had. She smiled at my discomfort, but it was a big sort of smile that suited her big hair, which fell below her shoulders in glorious auburn waves. It was a film star’s smile that forgave and included you at the same time. She was very beautiful; I’m sure you’ve seen some of her movies. I’d have to tell Dieter about her as soon as I met him. Fabian smiled too.
‘I understand you’re in the clear. You seem to specialize in that, don’t you? Not that I know anything, of course, I’m retired these days.’
‘Of course you are, Inspector. Can you recommend the fish?’
‘Not as good as the fish in Cyprus.’ Then he winked.
Bollocks.
I had phoned Dieter before I boarded the rattler down to the south coast. He asked if he could meet me at the station.
When we met the first thing he said, smiling, was, ‘You’ve lost your new girlfriend, haven’t you, Dad? It’s written all over your face.’ I hate smart-arses.
The first thing I said to him was, ‘When you said you wanted to meet me, I didn’t expect you to be doing the driving.’
He’d
