Red Crystal (26 page)

‘Is this working?’ He was indicating the telephone.

‘I think so. I paid the bill.’

He put the phone to his ear to check. Satisfied, he held the receiver against his chest and stared at her. She realized he was waiting for her to leave.

She smiled. ‘I’ll go and try to get the camper started. See you outside!’

She closed the back door loudly behind her, so that he would hear it and know that she respected his privacy. There was a very secret side to him, she had to admit, and it took some getting used to. But she was determined not to resent it. This phone call, for instance: it would be very easy to imagine that he was calling another woman. But that would be childish. It was much more likely that he had a meeting to arrange or important matters to discuss with some of his friends. In which case he was merely being discreet and trustworthy, which was admirable.

She jumped into the van, full of optimism. She was certain that this was the start of a wonderful new phase in her life, and that the key to making it a success was to think positive. Even when the starter produced a low strangulated moan and lapsed into deathly silence, she wasn’t disheartened.

Whistling cheerfully, she went in search of some jump leads which, if she remembered correctly, should be under a pile of junk in the tractor shed.

Gabriele could hardly believe her ears. ‘Who
is
this girl?’

There was a pause and Gabriele could almost feel Giorgio making a face at the other end of the line. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said, ‘she’s fat, stupid and rich.’

‘So? What the hell are you doing there?’

‘I tell you. She has a van.’

‘But I told you to hire one.’

He sighed heavily. ‘But this way there is no connection. She drives the van – a nice little English girl –
innocent
, you understand? And she is not stopped by the Customs. I go through later. More safe, more simple.’

Gabriele thought for a moment. She hated to admit it, but he was right. ‘Maybe it’s a good idea,’ she conceded reluctantly. ‘But for God’s sake be careful. She mustn’t know anything.’ She added coldly, ‘And when she’s done the job, drop her completely.’

‘Yes, no problem,’ he said immediately, and she could hear the scorn in his voice. He was bored then. He didn’t like this girl. She was glad.

When he’d rung off, she thought for a while. She hated the idea of having someone new involved. Especially this kind of girl. She could imagine the type only too well. British upper class. Not a brain in her head, not a seriously-considered thought in her repertoire of upper-class trivia, effortlessly patronizing to the rather quaint but not to be mixed with lower classes. How on earth had Giorgio got involved with her?

Yet it was worth the risk of using her. Giorgio was right.

Going into the kitchen she turned on the radio for the one o’clock news in case there was anything more about the demonstration. The newsreader began to drone through the first item about a wildcat strike at Ford’s. She put on the kettle for some coffee and paused to admire the latest additions to her cuttings display. Two newspapers had printed shots of the heavily bandaged Max swaddled in the hospital bed, and three had sent reporters to get a story.

Not great, but a lot more mileage than she’d expected.

Suddenly she stiffened.

The newsreader’s voice was saying, ‘In a statement to the House of Commons this morning, the Home Secretary said that Saturday’s demonstration in Russell Square had been the scene of unprecedented violence in which the police were subjected to deliberate and vicious provocation. The Home Secretary went on to state that there was some evidence of a conspiracy to blacken the reputation and good name of the Metropolitan Police. He added that such attempts to undermine public order would not be tolerated, and those responsible would be dealt with most severely.’

Gabriele went cold. She thought: They
know
.

Then she decided it was impossible. They
couldn’t
. It was just a suspicion. It
must
be.

Suddenly she listened again.

‘In answer to a question the Attorney-General, Sir Henry Northcliff, stated that, as a result of the Russell Square demonstration, a total of thirty-five people had been charged. He confirmed that the most serious charge brought so far was that of causing an affray.’

She turned off the radio and sat, thinking rapidly. They
couldn’t
be sure about the conspiracy – they didn’t even know about Giorgio. And they hadn’t charged Max.

Or had they?

Uneasy, she went out and bought an early edition of the
Evening Standard
. She leafed quickly through it.

‘The following appeared at Bow Street Magistrates’ Court this morning charged with causing a breach of the peace …’ There was a long list, then: ‘Paul John Reardon of no fixed abode was remanded in custody on a charge of causing an affray.’

She walked thoughtfully up the mews.

They must have spotted Reardon stirring up trouble, that was all. There could be no proof of a conspiracy. Reardon knew nothing damaging. So even if he talked, no real harm would be done.

No. These accusations in Parliament were a great big guess. A shot in the dark to make up for the Establishment’s humiliation. What else could they be?

There was no need to worry. It was going to be all right.

All the same, it was time to move on to the next event. Time to let this one go.

As she let herself into the house, the feeling of unease persisted and, before stepping inside, she looked over her shoulder.

Nick wondered if conversations with Wheatfield were always one-sided. Probably.

Ignoring the other man’s silence, he continued with the story of his life. ‘I went to work in the foundry, like my father,’ Nick said. ‘Then I organized a stoppage and got fired. Of course, the bastards were out to get me from the beginning. The union didn’t protect me either. Just as bad as the bloody employers.’

None of the facts was true, except for Nick’s father working in the foundry. But they
could
have been.

Wheatfield said nothing. Most of the bandages had come off to reveal a bloated purple face. Beneath the bruises his expression was impenetrable.

Nick said, ‘Now I’m a mature student.’ And then he thought: That’s a mistake. Wheatfield would have contacts at all the universities and polytechnics and could check. He thought rapidly. ‘I mean, I’m
meant
to have started at Newcastle this term. But I want to transfer down here, to the North London Poly.’ Nick added, ‘There’s more happening down here, isn’t there? By way of action, I mean.’

Wheatfield murmured something like, ‘Sure’, and seemed preoccupied.

‘Something the matter?’

Wheatfield seemed to be struggling with a decision. Finally he said, ‘They’ve charged a friend of mine with affray. D’you know if that’s serious?’

Nick frowned, as if thinking hard. ‘Wait, let me think … Um, there was a mate of mine who – what
was
it? Yes, yes … It
was
that charge. It’s serious, I think. Goes before a Crown Court rather than a magistrate. Could carry a couple of years.’

A look of bitter hatred crossed Wheatfield’s face. He hissed, ‘God, the bloody bastards.’

Nick said casually, ‘Mind you, they’ve still got to prove it, haven’t they? And it’s a difficult one to prove.’

Wheatfield shot him a suspicious glance from his bloodshot eyes. ‘How d’you know?’

Nick decided to go the whole hog and paint himself black. ‘Oh, I’m – well acquainted with the ways of the law. From
this
side, you understand.’

Wheatfield waited for him to continue.

Nick shrugged. ‘I took a car once. No – twice, I suppose. But the owners were rich. They didn’t miss them. And then there was a bit of trouble about going into a house uninvited. I only wanted to stay the night.’ Nick hoped he’d got it right. He didn’t want to appear like a common criminal, but as someone who considered himself above the law.

Wheatfield nodded slowly. ‘And you think he might get two years?’

‘Or he might get off altogether. You never can tell.’

Wheatfield got out of bed and taking off his pyjama top, pulled on a shirt.

With alarm, Nick realized he was planning to leave. ‘You off?’ he asked.

There was a slight nod.

It was now or never. Nick said smoothly, ‘I’m running a bit short … You don’t know where I could doss down for a while, do you?’ He paused. ‘I mean, you wouldn’t have a few feet of floor to spare?’

Wheatfield was reaching into the bedside cupboard and taking out a sweater. Eventually he replied, ‘I’ve no room.’

‘Oh.’

A pause. ‘There are places … Try 43 Tulip Street. In North Kensington.’

‘Thanks.’

Wheatfield was pulling on the sweater.

‘They’re letting you out, are they?’ asked Nick.

Wheatfield snorted, ‘How should I know? Who cares. I’m off anyway.’

‘Yeah. Not a bad idea.’ Nick got to his feet. ‘Well, see you again some time. These are friends of yours in Tulip Street?’

Wheatfield nodded briefly.

‘See you around then.’

Nick sauntered back to his bed, then hurriedly threw on his clothes. Sister came pounding up to him. ‘Where do you think you’re going?’ she demanded. ‘You’ve got a fractured skull!’

‘Home, Sister. And it’s only a hairline fracture.’

‘Now, don’t be ridiculous!’

He didn’t have time to argue and pushed firmly past her. When he got to the corridor he saw a nurse come striding purposefully out of Wheatfield’s room. He intercepted her. ‘Is he there, nurse?’

‘No!’ she exclaimed indignantly. ‘I think he’s just walked out!’

Nick ran along the corridor and pounded down the stairs. A sharp pain shot through his head and he felt a moment of nausea.

He came to the last flight. The main hall of the hospital was visible below. He ground to a halt.

Wheatfield was emerging from the lift.

Nick stayed still, ready to dart back out of sight if Wheatfield should look round. But Wheatfield walked straight towards the main doors and went out.

As Nick emerged into the street and picked up Wheatfield twenty yards ahead, he wondered if the man would be watcher-conscious. If so, he hadn’t a hope in hell of keeping on his tail. Not on his own, not without any back-up. But Wheatfield was no professional. With a bit of luck he’d never know.

Wheatfield turned into Tottenham Court Road. Nick guessed he was heading for Warren Street Tube station. In which case he would have to close the gap. Risky.

He quickened his step a little. So far so good. Wheatfield hadn’t looked back once.

But now Wheatfield was stopping at a crossing and glancing back. Nick looked into a shop window.

Suddenly a small warning bell sounded in his mind. A nasty nagging little feeling that made him uneasy.

He looked behind him.

There
.

On the other side of the road.

He groaned inwardly and thought: I should have known.

A watcher.

He looked back. There was another, further behind, walking faster, coming up to overtake. Nick recognized him. The man was from his own section.

Nick thought furiously. But he knew it was no good. There’d be a hornets’ nest if he went on.

He stopped and leant against the shop window. The one on his side was coming up fast. As he approached he gave Nick a long look and, passing close to him, said out of the corner of his mouth, ‘Conway wants a word with you.’

Nick thought: I bet he does.

Wheatfield had reached the station and disappeared into the darkness of the ticket hall followed by the first watcher and then the second.

Nick waited. After a few moments an unmarked car slid to a halt by the kerb. Nick went over.

Conway wound down the window. ‘Why aren’t you in bed like a good boy?’

‘Couldn’t sleep. Look, do me a favour. Don’t tell Straughan.’

Conway looked doubtful. ‘Well, all right. But piss off home, will you? I can do without the extra aggravation.’

‘How long’s the watch on for?’ Nick asked quickly.

‘Until we know where our friend lives.’

‘That’s all?’

‘Yeah, for the moment.’

‘Another favour. Give me the info when you’ve got it. I’ll phone later.’

Conway groaned, ‘Now what would you want to know that for?’

‘Come
on
.’

‘All right,’ Conway agreed reluctantly. ‘But don’t go and get into trouble, for Pete’s sake. Oh, and as far as I’m concerned, we never even saw each other, right?’

The headache was a stinker, the sort that makes you feel heavy, bad-tempered and sick. Nick regarded his bed longingly. It looked very tempting. But it would be a mistake to lie down. He’d only sleep for hours. Instead he found some aspirin in the kitchen and washed three tablets down with a cup of bitter strong coffee.

He put on a record of
Carmen
and, massaging his temples, wished the aspirins would take effect. He felt so damned
fuzzy
…

He risked sitting down for a moment. He wondered if Conway had found Wheatfield’s abode yet. Even if he had, it wouldn’t achieve very much. It wouldn’t establish who his friends were … Only a proper surveillance would do that …

Nick considered phoning the boss and making a request for a proper observation, but immediately discounted it. He’d only get bawled out for not taking sick leave. Of course, if he was really stupid he could watch Wheatfield on his own, but it would be impossible to do a good job.

What else was there?

His eyes were trying their best to close. He fought them open and, turning up the music, walked backwards and forwards across the floor.

Photographs.

Damn. He’d forgotten to ask Conway what ‘makes’ – positive identifications – he’d got from his shots at the demo. Perhaps there was something on Black Beard.

He suddenly remembered the pictures taken by the girl journalist. They had been very good. He wondered if any of the lads had checked the rest of her shots, the ones that hadn’t actually been published.

He thought for a moment. It would give him something to do …