‘I see. Supposing we jump out at the first red lights?’
‘I wouldn’t advise it, sir. Mr Shanklin is very strict about his instructions.’
Hawn sat back, holding Anna close to him, as they drove down the long underpass towards the M4.
It was a grey-stone farmhouse with a converted barn, standing on the brow of a hill behind a fringe of beech trees; and in a field beyond, a dilapidated windmill in the process of being restored. On the forecourt stood a muddy Range-Rover. The chauffeur nodded at it and said, ‘Mr Shanklin’s at home.’
The door was opened by a large woman with a long pleasant face, her hair tied in a bun. ‘Mr Hawn, Miss Admiral! Welcome! I expect you’re both exhausted? Have you seen a doctor? We’ve got a very good locum here — I’m sure he’d pop over and look at you.’
She led them down a passage lined with gumboots and overcoats and spades, into a high-beamed room with an inglenook in which a log fire blazed between two brass lions. Apart from one or two pieces of expensive furniture, the room was spare and rustic, with a pleasant homely untidiness. On a table in a corner stood a handsome scale model of the windmill Hawn had seen outside.
The woman had led them towards the fire. ‘Miserable weather, isn’t it?’ She rubbed her great hands together. ‘It’s a bit early for a drink, but would you like some tea?’
‘I’d like a whisky,’ said Hawn. ‘Where’s Mr Shanklin?’
‘I expect he’ll be down in a jiffy. He’s probably having a bath. Now, you wanted a whisky? Would Miss Admiral like one, too?’
‘Please.’ Anna sat down in a very old chair and hunched her shoulders.
The woman went over to a Welsh dresser to fetch the drinks. Hawn noticed that the only reading matter in the room was a shelf of leather-bound volumes, each containing three condensed popular novels, and several stout volumes of Debrett’s Peerage and Landed Gentry.
The woman handed them their drinks, just as Shanklin came in. He wore no braces, and his shirt drooped out under a shabby cardigan that was too tight for his shoulders. He was carrying a shotgun.
‘My dear Hawn! How very nice.’ He paused. ‘I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure of meeting your young friend?’
They had both stiffened in their chairs. Shanklin glanced down at the gun, and laughed. ‘Sorry, you mustn’t mind the weaponry! You’re in the country now, you know. I was just oiling it.’ He propped the gun up carefully against the wall, then came forward and sat down. ‘Mind you, I don’t blame you for being jumpy. I would be, if I’d been through what you have.’ He turned to Anna. ‘But we still haven’t been introduced.’
‘Anna Admiral. I’m sure you’ve heard my name before.’
Shanklin gave a robust chuckle. ‘Touché! I’m afraid in my job I get too much into the habit of standing on ceremony. Now, are you hungry? I expect you could do with something after that plastic muck they serve you on BA?’
‘Later,’ said Hawn. ‘We haven’t come down here just to enjoy your hospitality, Mr Shanklin. I want explanations — an explanation for everything.’
‘Of course you do. The trouble is, where to begin? Perhaps I should ask you, where would you like me to begin?’
‘Wouldn’t the best place be the beginning?’
‘Well of course!’ Shanklin’s voice had slid imperceptibly into that soothing tone that was at once intimate enough to be seductive. ‘Indeed, what better place to begin at than the beginning? Trouble is, there are so many beginnings. Are your drinks all right?’ He glanced round. ‘Jane’s left, has she?’
‘Start with Venice,’ Hawn said.
‘Yes, Venice. As I think I recall, you were there on holiday — happened to bump into that unhappy fellow, Grotti Savoia, and then into Logan. Awful ass, Logan, but still, one mustn’t be too unkind — fellow has the most ghastly job which he does very well. Through him, you met that fat Frenchie, Pol?
‘At the same time, you had just had your inspired hunch — a wild pipe-dream glimpsed in the dark waters of the canals, eh? That the bogey-men of the America-Britannic Consortium had been fuelling Hitler’s war machine and reaping rich profits therefrom? Well, here we come to one of the few genuine coincidences of this whole bizarre saga — that at the same time as meeting that villain Pol, you should also have made the brief acquaintance of Mr Robak. Now unfortunately for you — for all of us, really — both these gentlemen took your pipe dream seriously. You may ask why? Not, with respect, because you were the star reporter of Fleet Street. Men like Pol and Robak are not worried by journalists. They were worried by you for a simple reason. Because they knew your pipe dream to be true.’
Without asking them, he fetched the whisky and refilled their glasses; then sat back and folded his mottled, hairy hands together. Hawn again observed that he was not drinking.
‘At this point we must venture some speculation. Robak, who is not the subtlest of men, tried to warn you off. At the same time he contacted me. He seemed to be in a slight panic. He even hinted that if you made any positive moves to try and pursue investigations into your theory, then direct action would have to be taken against you. I told him not to be so primitive — to sit back and wait to see if anything happened. What happened was that you paid me a visit. At that point, I decided to play you along — like a fish on a line, if you’ll forgive the metaphor.
‘I put you on to Norman French, with whom I believe you’d already had dealings? French was a thoroughly horrid little man, but he’d chalked up one achievement to his name
