These two behind were taking it easy. They weren’t even playing the game. They made no attempt to pass him when he slowed right down to consult the map again. And they gave him plenty of time to note their number.
He passed the locks, a mock-Tudor tea-house, then the post office, and turned in the lane: but not before he had had time to see the yellow Ford cruise past.
He stopped at the last house and got out. It was the sort of place that he would have expected old MacIntyre to choose for his bachelor retirement.
The man was gaunt, with yellow cheeks stretched taut across his long face; but his eyes were still bright. He clasped Hawn’s shoulders with two strong bony hands. ‘Tommy, me old lad! Come on in.’ He was wearing a knitted fisherman’s hat, gumboots, and a very old tweed jacket. ‘Sorry I was so long — must get a bell fitted. I was out at the back with my tomatoes. I don’t suppose a worldly young man like you would be interested in anything like tomatoes?’
‘I eat them sometimes,’ Hawn said, as his host led him down a dark hall, into a small untidy room full of books. There was a log fire and it was warm.
MacIntyre nodded. ‘Not much fresh air in here. I have to have the fire going to keep my bones dry. Most o’ the time I spend out in the greenhouse.’
‘I hope you haven’t turned into one of those dodgers who go in for giant marrow competitions?’
‘Don’t be daft, man. Tomatoes are my speciality. But last summer I did manage to get some grapes going — though I’m more of a man for the grain, if y’know what I mean?’ He winked and picked an old black pipe out of a rack and began filling it from a plastic pouch. ‘You won’t say nay to a wee drop of the Glen to celebrate?’
Hawn sat down in a lopsided armchair with a broken spring prodding his left buttock. For all his age and frailty, MacIntyre’s movements were surprisingly deliberate, despite his slight limp. He reached into a cupboard and brought out a triangular bottle half full of clear liquid, and two big tumblers.
‘Steady on,’ said Hawn. ‘I’m driving.’
‘Och, it does a man some good to take a few risks. I wish I could.’ He sat down opposite, close to the fire, and pulled at his pipe with a wet crackling sound.
‘Mac, I was followed here. By three cars.’
The old man sipped his drink, sucked his pipe. ‘You’re not a sentimental man, are you, Tommy? You didn’t come down here just to keep an old man happy for a few hours. You’re either in trouble, or you need advice. Well, let’s have it. I’ve got all the time in the world — until the Great Reaper comes for me.’
‘Do you mind if I start back-to-front? How are your connections with the police, Mac?’
‘Friendly. Just the local lads, of course. Nothing grand.’
‘Can you get me the owners of those three cars that followed me here? They all had “T” registration.’ He handed him his A to Z which he had brought in.
‘Shouldn’t be too much trouble. I’ll call them now. But three cars — that’s an awful big detail. What we used to call a “Grand Slam”. You really do seem to be attracting the big battalions.’ He got up and went into the hall; and was back in a couple of minutes. He sat down and got his pipe going again. ‘You have me intrigued, Tommy. Just relax and enjoy your drink and tell me all about it. I don’t suppose there’s much help I can be, at my age, but I’ll give you what I can.’
Over the next forty minutes, and generous refills of malt whisky, Hawn recounted every detail, every impression, from Venice to Kew and the London Library. Mac interrupted only to elucidate the odd point. At the end he took out a crumpled tissue, screwed it up tight and began to clean lumps of black dottle out of the stem of his pipe. He tossed the tissue in the fire, drank from his glass, and said, ‘You’ve been very concise, Tommy. Very methodical. You always were. But what you’re trying to do is look for King John’s treasure in the Wash. It’s been tried. Everybody’s tried it. Nobody’s found it.’
‘Nobody’s tried to fathom the mystery of Hitler’s fuel supplies.’
‘True, true. But you need evidence. It’s no good telling me that a file is missing from the PRO. Or that a bigwig like Shanklin may have killed an embarrassing Intelligence officer called Frisby. That was cleared through the FO, if your information is correct. From then on it’s rather like trying to unravel a ball of string. Or peel an onion.’
‘Am I right in assuming that part of MI14’s job was to evaluate German fuel supplies?’
‘It was.’
‘And did you never have suspicions about where the Germans were getting their oil — particularly in the last year of the war, after Rumania fell?’
‘Laddie, we didn’t deal with suspicions and theories. We dealt with facts. Trouble was, in war you don’t get too few facts — you get too many. Too much information, from too many sources. Statistics galore — and you know what they say about statistics? Lies, damn lies, and so on.’
The phone rang in the hall, and this time MacIntyre was gone about five minutes. He came back, rubbing his hands together with a smooth dry sound. ‘All three hired from a place in Wandsworth called Hamilton Motors. They can check on
