‘Almost.’ Cayle nodded at the Alvis under the trees. ‘What’s going on?’
‘You mean you don’t know?’ the man said, in a flat toneless voice.
Cayle shrugged. ‘Something about an abandoned car, I was told.’
‘Who told you?’
‘I work for a big organization. Better ask them. I just got a phone call telling me to come out here.’
The man stood watching him with muddy eyes. ‘What’s the particular interest?’
‘About the same as yours, I should say. It’s a nice car. The owner must be proud of it. They don’t make them anymore. Seems funny to dump it out in a place like this in the middle of the night.’
‘Any theories?’
‘Maybe he’s a nature fetishist and went for a midnight swim. Or perhaps he’s crept off to smoke pot?’
‘Don’t be cheeky, Cayle.’ One of the flashlights swung round and the man’s complexion showed up hard and lumpy, like cold porridge. ‘I asked you a question. What brought you here?’
‘I told you. A phone call.’
The man sighed and squared his shoulders. ‘You know who the car belongs to?’
‘Should I?’
‘Don’t arse around — this is important.’
‘Yeah, I rather got that impression. You know, you’ll have half Fleet Street swarming all over this place by morning. But we don’t publish till Saturday night.’
‘Meaning what?’
Cayle shrugged. ‘Gives you plenty of time to start slapping on the “D” Notices.’
‘They’ve been abolished, don’t you know that?’
‘Just a figure of speech,’ said Cayle, ‘seeing there might be a Security angle.’
‘Nobody said anything about a Security angle. It’s just a routine check — may turn out to be nothing. One of the gardeners had left some tobacco down here and came back to get it, and found the car about ten-fifty. He reported it to Lady Jameson-Clarke, who notified the police. She’d been expecting her husband back for dinner.’
‘And nobody saw the car drive in here?’
‘We haven’t found anybody yet. It’s all private property round here.’
‘His property?’
The man nodded, and began to turn.
‘What about the hospitals?’ said Cayle.
‘We’ve got a call out. Nothing yet.’
‘And London Airport?’
‘What about London Airport?’
‘It’s less than half an hour away, if you drive fast.’
The man looked at him steadily and said, ‘All right, that’s the lot. Run along.’
Cayle opened his anorak and aimed the Pentax at the Alvis and the dogs under the trees. For a moment he thought the man was going to jump him, but at the last moment he stepped smartly out of the frame, just as the flash went off. Cayle was only able to get the one shot before, the camera was pushed back, against his chest.
‘I could have you for this, you bastard,’ the man said quietly; and Cayle felt a hand close round his arm. It was the Inspector’s. ‘I told you — this is a restricted area,’ he said.
Cayle grinned at the man in the sheepskin coat. ‘What’s the matter, sport? Shy of having your picture taken?’
‘If you’re not away from here in one minute, Cayle, I’ll have you for trespass and obstruction — just for a start. Now bugger off.’
‘Go on,’ said the Inspector. ‘You heard.’
One of them trod on his heels as they followed him back to the Mini Moke. Cayle slipped into reverse and lurched hack from them. They watched him as far as the bend, where he was just able to turn round. The men at the entrance to the track gave him no trouble, and he was back at his flat in Thackeray Mansions, off the North End Road, by 2.30.
He fixed himself a stiff Scotch and rang his editor, who answered at once: ‘Well?’
‘Just as you said. AWOL since before dinner. And his car’s parked down a farm-track on his own land. According to the map, it’s about half a mile from the river. They’ve already got dogs on the job, as well as an SB man who seemed rather less friendly than usual. I took a pic, which he didn’t like at all. So you may hear from someone.’
‘Don’t worry, we look after our own.’ Harry sounded cheerful, even at 2.30 in the morning. ‘How does it strike you?’ he added.
‘A bit odd. I mean, they’ve moved in on it bloody fast. Normally, you’d expect the local fuzz to keep it to themselves for at least twenty-four hours.’
‘And you think it’s something big?’
‘If he doesn’t turn up pretty quick, I’d say it was bloody big!’
There was a pause. ‘Listen, Barry, I think we’d better continue to play this very carefully. I don’t want a word about tonight, or about yesterday at the Ritz — not even to Ron or Bruce — until I say.’
‘What happens if the fuzz start asking questions?’
‘I think we deal with that when it happens. We still don’t know that a crime’s been committed, remember.’
‘What do you think? Do the Russkies still go in for rough stuff?’
‘Highly unlikely. Last case was in Germany back in the early Sixties, I think. But that was a refugee they knocked off with a cyanide bullet. Hardly the sort of thing you’d expect in a quiet country lane in Oxfordshire.’
‘No,’ said Cayle: ‘Any more than you’d expect a traitor to be a member of the Athenaeum.’
The editor chuckled. ‘Good night, Barry, and get a good sleep. You may need it.’
CHAPTER 6
Sir Roger Jameson-Clarke made the BBC’s ‘World at One’ and the front-page leads in both London evening papers: MYSTERY OF MISSING DIPLOMAT and YARD HUNT TOP DIPLOMAT. But from the stories themselves it was clear that
