Noose (27 page)

‘I don't think he'd talk in front of you – suppose he's going to talk plain at all, which is doubtful.'

‘I'll stay in the car and keep an eye on things from the street.'

‘There are already people keeping an eye on things from the street.'

‘Yes, but they won't be interested in
you.
They're present to chart what Skeeth does, and where he goes, and who his visitors are.'

‘I'll be one of his visitors.'

‘I meant dubious visitors.'

‘I'll be a dubious visitor. Very dubious.'

‘Not as dubious as some.'

They drove to Chelsea. ‘Might Emily's daughter be here with him?' Lucy said.

‘I don't know who might be. He did say “we”.'

In opulent-looking Feder Road they saw several high-priced and elegant parked cars and a silver van that nominally belonged to ‘Gerald Smart and Sons, Carpet Merchants and Fitters' according to red lettering on its side. There appeared to be nobody in the driving cabin. Ian would have liked to get closer and check whether any of the wordage disguised observation holes – the o in Sons and all those a's. For now, he'd assume they did. He drove the length of the road slowly, then went around the block and came back. Nothing seemed to have changed during this absence, no sign they'd been noted, no adjustments made.

He decided not to go to the house at once. It was well-lit. He wanted to watch for a while. And he needed to prepare some sort of plan to deal with all the possibilities – Skeeth in the house alone, Skeeth with Jeff and perhaps the other hunters, Skeeth with Daphne West, Skeeth not there at all. He and Lucy waited. It was a midwinter evening and dark. Lucy said: ‘Will Gerald Smart and his sons be inside one of the big houses doing a bit of carpet laying?'

‘Perhaps Gerald Smart lives there. Carpets might be booming. He can afford Chelsea.'

‘They wouldn't like him leaving his work van in a street like this.'

‘Perhaps Gerald doesn't care.'

After about ten minutes, a taxi turned into the road and stopped outside number twelve. Only the driver was in the car.

‘This doesn't seem right,' Ian said.

The driver left the cab and was about to go through the front garden and knock on the door. Before he reached it, though, all lights in the house were switched off simultaneously, as if by a mains switch. The driver paused. After a moment the door was opened by a man who must be Skeeth, of middle height, slim, grey-haired, nimble. He seemed dressed in outdoor clothes. ‘He's very, very ready,' Lucy said.

Alongside Skeeth was a young woman Ian did not recognize. She, too, had a street coat on. The driver picked up two large suitcases. Skeeth carried two more, the woman one. Skeeth pulled the front door to and with a key locked what seemed to be a mortise. He looked up and down the road, perhaps taking in Gerald Smart and Ian's Ford with the known Malc-retrieved number plate. They loaded the taxi and climbed in. At once, it moved swiftly away.

Immediately, the rear doors of the Gerald Smart and Sons van opened and a couple of men emerged from the back. Gerald and a Son? Unlikely. One of them closed the doors and they both ran around to the driving cabin. The vehicle started up and seemed to follow the taxi.

‘Skeeth's baling out,' Lucy said. ‘He's decided he doesn't need to meet you. He knows enough already.'

‘Panic.'

‘He's become certain they're in danger,' Lucy said, ‘either from Emily or Dill or both.'

‘Who's the woman?' Ian replied. ‘Not Daphne West.'

‘It's Fay Doel, isn't it?'Lucy said. ‘I've seen her face on film posters. And wasn't she in that
Importance Of Being Earnest
we saw last year? She's mentioned in the file, I think, as “actress, a sometimes companion” of Skeeth – meaning, I imagine, sometimes Fay Doel, sometimes Daphne West, sometimes who knows?'

‘He's more scared of Dill and crew than I thought.'

‘Should you try to get after them?'

‘No, I'll hear where they've gone. The airport, probably. Gerald Smart and Sons will report to Emily and Ray Bain. We'll hang on here a while.'

‘God, but so masterful. I think you really, really
have
turned into a secret agent.'

After about half an hour a much older and more battered van than Gerald Smart's, with no lettering on the side, drove into Feder Road and pulled up about twenty yards from number twelve. You could imagine terrier dogs travelling in this kind of grubby banger. The distance must be a tactic: they wanted to reach the house without a warning noise directly outside. Dill and Malcolm Ivins came from the front and walked as though casually back towards the house, chatting, arms swinging in true relaxed style, though not truly relaxed. The absence of lights in twelve would probably unsettle them. Did it speak of finality? A man Ian recognized as Norman Vernon Towler got out from the back of the van and ran down a service lane, obviously to reach the rear of the house, perhaps to try for entry there, or to stop anyone from escaping that way.

This seemed the same sort of swift, planned, coordinated operation as that badger hunt, but lacking terriers. Dill went to the front door and rang the bell. Ivins stood back on the pavement looking at the upper storeys. When nobody answered the door Dill stepped over a low fence and stared in through a downstairs window. He and Ivins spoke together, not chat now, something more urgent and committed. Dill came back over the fence and he and Ivins returned to their van. Ten minutes later Towler reappeared and climbed into the vehicle. It didn't move off.

‘They've decided Skeeth is out somewhere and they'll wait and surprise him,' Lucy said.

‘Weeks? Months?'

‘You think he's abandoned the plan – afraid too many know about it, such as you and those who sent you, and scared also of Dill?'

‘Like that, yes.'

‘Would it be courteous to go and tell them Skeeth will not be back for an indefinite while?' Lucy said.

‘It
would
be courteous, but we won't.'

‘You should sit low,' Lucy replied. ‘They might spot you. This is a sensitive street tonight. Parked vehicles will get attention now. Dill wouldn't like it at all, would he, if he finds you waiting near Skeeth's house? It will confirm everything.'

‘I don't think it needs confirming.'

‘All the more reason to sit low and unobserved. But it's awkward for me to sit low with this belly bump.' She did a minor groan as she tried to ease herself out of sight.

‘We'll move soon, I promise. Only, I'm wondering where the fourth one is.'

‘Which fourth one?'

‘By my count, a chap called Len Gale, who was one of the hunters, is missing tonight.'

‘So?'

‘So, I worry about him.'

‘Why?'

‘He might have been rumbled.'

‘As Attila or Jimmy or even Ivor?' she said. ‘Yes, that's bad. Potentially bad.'

‘Yes. We bring trouble. Or Emily does. Always.'

‘Just the same, I think you've delivered Britain from a putsch in this year of uncertain grace, love,' Lucy said. ‘I know Skeeth and Dill etcetera would only be part of it, but very likely an important part, a crucial part. You should get an OBE to accompany the Sword of Honour.'

‘We undercover people don't go in for that kind of decorativeness.' So, neither Mivale nor Mountbatten would be getting the summons to power. Regardless of Skeeth and
Look Back in Anger
and Jeff Dill, things would drift on as ever. Ian couldn't be sure whether that was good or not. He drove out of Feder Road and gave continual squinting to the mirror. But the ancient van didn't appear there.

At home he took a call from Emily. ‘You were in Chelsea,' she said. ‘That wasn't really scheduled you know. We don't like loose cannons.'

‘Which we is that?' Ian said.

‘But probably no serious damage done.'

‘We didn't have time to say hello to Gerald. Lucy thinks the threat is over, if Skeeth was a central, substantial part of it. They probably won't be able to go on without him. They'll imagine the whole thing is known about. Well, it
is
known about, isn't it?'

‘Yes. We believe it's
kaput
, too,' Emily said. ‘Skeeth's waiting for an air flight to South America.'

‘Down Argentine way?'

‘Vamoosed. He thinks you're on to him. Incidentally, does Lucy want a job, after maternity?'

‘
You're
on to him,' Ian replied. ‘I go where pointed.'

‘Not always.'

‘It leaves me with nothing to write about,' Ian said.

‘Something else is bound to show, isn't it?' Emily said. ‘That's one of the first principles of journalism.'

‘Perhaps.'

‘But some things are bound
not
to be shown. Or not in full.'

‘Oh? Which?'

‘We think we lost a very valuable informant tonight. Or very valuable at least until this Skeeth project collapsed – and of which, in fact, we think the particular informant did much to cause the collapse. We're waiting for identification of the body, but I'm fairly certain who he is. Beaten to death in a country churchyard, not all that far from the pub where you bumped into Dill and so on, thanks to the dogs. You can't write about this death either, though, not the confidential background. A brief elegy would be OK. There's a precedent for that.'

‘Who?' Charteris said.

‘We called him Attila the Hun. You'll have seen his name in the file.'

‘Len Gale?' Charteris said.

‘Attila the Hun.'

‘My God,' he said.

Lucy was listening to his side of the conversation. ‘What?' she said.

He covered the mouthpiece: ‘The fourth man I mentioned tonight.'

‘What about him?'

‘Killed. Murdered.'

‘Get out of this line of work, will you, please, Ian?'

‘Are you there?' Emily said.

‘Did he have family?'

‘We'll look after them, of course,' Emily said.

Charteris said: ‘Emily, as to family …'

‘You wonder about Daphne?'

‘Skeeth's exited with another woman, hasn't he?'

‘That's how it looks.'

‘What will she make of it?'

‘Yes, I've been wondering,' Emily said.

‘Was it a serious thing with her?'

‘Yes, very serious.'

‘She might harm herself.'

‘We must hope not.'

‘I worry,' Ian said, and almost added ‘as a brother', but didn't.

‘I know you do,' Emily said. ‘We both do.'

A
s Skeeth said, Ian often took on freelance work for the
Daily Mirror.
He had a call from Percy Lyall on their News Desk. ‘Here's a possible tale that's very much your sort of thing, Ian – a poignant mix of near tragedy, possible thwarted romance, glamour. Can you get over there? Needs sensitive but, of course, dramatic treatment. And, it goes without saying, so I'll say it, depth. I immediately thought of you.'

‘How right you were.'

‘Daphne West,' Lyall said. ‘Heard of her?'

Ian Charteris paused for a moment, or a moment plus. Yes, say three moments. The shock deserved that.

‘Heard of her, Ian?'

Well, yes, sort of. She might be my sister.

Emily had it right and some other usable news topic would always show.