Thank God, he told himself, that she never called her fashion house by her own name, married or maiden. Thank God for that, at least.
Castleford had pursued her, yes. Castleford had become insanely jealous when he found her drawn towards another man.
He felt himself cheated by Aubrey, insulted by the poorer physical specimen's success, by the junior man's triumph. He had pleaded with Clara, attempted to coerce and blackmail, to bribe — to possess. Castleford needed to possess women, to use and enjoy them, then put them to one side like empty bottles when he had done with them. Clara had loathed him, though Aubrey was certain that, for her own advantage, she would have become Castleford's mistress had he not appeared on the scene. Clara would have had to look after herself. From Castleford she could have obtained papers, food, money, clothes, protection, safety. Instead, Aubrey had supplied those things.
Yes, Castleford had been jealous. At first Aubrey had been jealous of Castleford, suspecting a success the man had not at that time enjoyed. But sexuality was not the motive for Castleford's murder.
No, not sex, nor money, nor power…
'You seem thoughtful, Sir Kenneth?'
Damn—
'Not at all. More claret?' Eldon demurred, covering his glass with his palm. 'Then I'll ring for Mrs Grey. We'll have the dessert.'
I must save myself. Only I can save myself, Aubrey's mind recited to the tinkling of the silver bell in his hand. I have to get to Vienna. I have to destroy that stupid, stupid journal, before…
He looked calmly into Eldon's face.
Before he sees it!
'Come on, Mike — you can tell me how you got onto this chap Murdoch — surely?' Shelley's voice was strained with bluff jollity.
'Look, Pete— I told you. The man came to us. You know it happens all the time.'
'And you believed him?' Shelley, sitting on his sofa, the receiver pressed to his cheek, watched his daughter patiently rolling a growing snowball around the garden. Alison, as if she felt the child required close personal protection, was standing in her fur coat, arms folded tightly across her breasts, intently watching their daughter.
'You don't think we didn't check, old boy?' the jocular, superior, knowing voice came down the line. It was as if the voice mocked not simply Shelley's naivety but also the innocence of the scene through the bay window. The new patio doors seemed suddenly very insecure; too much glass. 'No—'
'Well, we talked long and hard to him. We even cleared it with your people. Not that we had any need to, but we did. They gave us a couple of other names. Common knowledge, old boy. Aubrey and Castleford at it like hammer-and-tongs for months, both trying to crack this Nazi widow. We couldn't trace her, more's the pity. I can't imagine your guv'nor having that much of a yen for a bit of the other, can you?' Mike laughed.
'No,' Shelley replied ruefully. He trusted Mike. He was a journalist SIS had used before, fed or pumped as the need arose. He could be trusted. And he would probably pass on the fact of Shelley's enquiry. And his acceptance of the answers he was given. With luck, Shelley was beginning his professional rehabilitation. I just made a few enquiries for Massinger's sake, he thought with disgust. 'You believe it, then?' he added. 'I do. Don't you?'
'I suppose so. God, it takes some swallowing, though.'
'The most unlikely people can get steamed up over sex, old boy. Your old boss is human after all — I think.' Mike roared with laughter again. He was beginning to irritate Shelley; as if the amusement was directed at his evident disloyalty. 'I suppose so.'
'Any chance of the first hint when they charge him?'
'I — yes, of course.' Shelley felt sweat break out along his hairline. He hadn't even thought of it— Charges. They'd be charging the old man any day now. 'Yes, yes — I'll be in touch,' he added. 'See you.'
He put down the telephone hurriedly. It was growing dark in the garden. Suddenly, he did not want his wife and daughter outside any longer. He crossed swiftly to the patio doors beside the bay window. The Labrador arranged on the rug in front of the fire opened one hopeful eye. Shelley slid back the glass doors. 'Come on, you two,' he called with false jollity. Alison immediately studied him.
'Just a moment, Daddy,' his daughter called, intent upon the snowball, almost as tall and heavy as herself. She heaved at it and it moved towards the rosebed.
'Careful,' he cautioned. Oh, come in, his thoughts pleaded. 'Close the doors,' Alison instructed. 'You'll let all that expensive heat out.'
He slid the doors closed. 'Oh, shit!' he bellowed. He'd established his alibi. Murdoch in Guernsey had reluctantly answered the telephone, spoken to him, confirmed his claims in the paper. Mike, author of the Insight article, had apparently satisfied his curiosity. To all intents and purposes, Shelley was satisfied with the motive for Castleford's death and the evidence for Aubrey's guilt. He had surrendered, made himself harmless; defused himself as a threat to whoever—
He was miserable in his shame. He had abandoned Aubrey for good.
The main highway between Kabul and Jalalabad lay below them, twisted like rope between tumbled, snow- clad cliffs. It seemed to writhe like a living thing. A snow-plough had passed along it since the most recent fall. On the other side of the road, between its embankment and the grey skein of the river which looked as tarred and gravelled as the road itself, the snow-cloaked remains of a burnt-out personnel carrier had returned to innocence. Dawn slid softly down the face of the opposite cliffs.
The patrol had spent the night in a bombed, deserted village rather than risk an ambush in the dark on the highway. Scouts had reported, almost gleefully, the restlessness and the inability to sleep as well as the numbers, vehicles and arms of the patrol. Mohammed Jan had decided to wait until dawn, until the patrol returned to the highway to make its way back to Kabul. The Pathans were now hidden on both sides of the narrow highway, high up in the cliffs. From his vantage point, Hyde was aware of no more than half a dozen of them, and he felt they were competitors in a race. He did not trust any of them to leave a Russian soldier alive for long enough to be questioned. He needed an officer, preferably. But, anyone—
If he was quick enough. Even then, all he could offer the man in exchange for information was a quick bullet rather than execution by mutilation. Thus his tension as he crouched in the rocks. Miandad beside him was, apparently, more diffident and relaxed. Below them, almost directly below, rocks and larger boulders had spilled across the highway, effectively blocking it to traffic. A similar small landslide had been prepared further back down the highway, to block any retreat.
The dark air was bitterly cold. Hyde felt as if he had never been warm since he had boarded the old military transport in Karachi. The cold sunlight slid further down the cliffs. A mirrored light flashed a signal towards their position. Mohammed Jan stood up and waved in reply.
'Less than half a mile away now,' Miandad murmured. Hyde merely nodded. Miandad studied the lightening sky above them. 'I wonder whether they will send a helicopter from Kabul?'
'Do they usually?'
'A year ago, every patrol had a helicopter escort. But now — who can say? This part of the country has been quiet for most of the winter. The Russians assume they control this highway. Perhaps there will be no helicopter — until we have finished our business, anyway.' Miandad smiled, then unconsciously flicked at his moustache, parodying a British officer.
Hyde returned his attention to the road. Less than three minutes later, a green-painted BTR-40 scout car rounded the nearest bend, moving with what appeared to be exaggerated caution. Its small turret and finger- pointing machine gun swivelled from side to side. The vehicle seemed to possess a jumpy tension of its own. Then two caterpillar-tracked BMP infantry carriers, squat and green and heavily armoured, appeared behind the scout car. Each of them was armed with a missile launcher and a 73mm gun. There would be eight men in each, all capable of firing with the aid of periscopes while the vehicle kept moving. The red stars on the flanks of the vehicles were hardly visible in the slow dawn. A second scout car brought up the rear of the small column.
Hyde shivered with cold and tension. Yet, however much he reminded himself of the armour and armaments of the men and the vehicles that contained them, he could not avoid the impression that this slow-moving patrol
