The Memory Trap (21 page)

There was much more whisky in the glass this time. ‘If I drink this I’ll need a bed too, Sophie.’

She let him take the glass from her. ‘There’s a camp-bed … if you have time—? But you said—?’

‘I’ll be leaving early.’ He couldn’t risk saying
we
, even now. ‘But … I’m not as young as I was.’ Let them all worry—the others! From Paul and Jake to General Lukianov and Others (always supposing
they
were still worrying, by God!) ‘If I don’t get a few hours … then I won’t be able to think straight tomorrow.’ He felt only slightly guilty at disturbing two middle-aged love-birds (which, under pressure and without any sign or mention of poor old John, to whom they had once been so faithful, they probably were now, at last). ‘Is it very inconvenient?’

‘Not at all, David.’ She sounded almost relieved. ‘Peter didn’t really expect you tonight. He thought it would be tomorrow night, more likely. If at all.’ Her mouth tightened suddenly. ‘No—he didn’t say “if at all”—I did.
He
was almost certain that you
’
d come.
’
She touched her lips with her glass.
‘
But he was afraid someone else might come with you.
’

‘He thought I’d be careless.’ That was disappointing.

‘No.’ She closed her eyes for an instant. ‘He just wasn’t quite sure that they’d let you come alone.’ She sighed. ‘After what had happened on Capri.’

‘That’s all in the past.’ He shook his head reassuringly at her. ‘How long will he be?’

She glanced at the candle. ‘Not long, I shouldn’t think. It all depends on whether he’s on top or down below at the moment. He said he was just going to stretch his legs … and take Buster for a night-jaunt.’ She came back to him. ‘You’re quite right: I didn’t have a dog, that time you came. I only got one three years ago, when … after John died.’

The poor devil had lasted all those years! God—small wonder she was grey and stretched! And that, of course, accounted for Peter’s own behaviour over the years, taken together with his own problems.

But he had to think of Peter now—out there somewhere. And not just “stretching his legs and the dog’s”, either: the dark would be his friend equally. And especially with a dog at his side, for “Buster” would be both a useful ally in casing the area for strangers and a splendid cover for such an enterprise: a dog was worth several men, day or night—and a man walking a dog at night would pass for a local man, not a stranger.

‘Either way, he will have seen the car lights anyway, David.’

‘Yes.’ And then he’d be thinking hard, thought Audley. In fact, if he had known near-enough what had happened on Capri, but not
why
…
and also with the name
David Audley
in the forefront of his mind … he’d be thinking very hard indeed—

But she was watching him intently again with that stretched look of hers. Only now that look must have more to do with her living Peter than her dead John. ‘Don’t worry, Sophie. We’re both being careful, that’s all.’

She drew a long breath. ‘It’s easy to say that. But I don’t know why you’re being careful. And neither does Peter. Except he knows that someone wants him dead—and maybe you, too.’

‘Uh-huh.’ Knowing so much, yet so little, no wonder the poor woman was so frightened behind her brave front. ‘Well, that’s why I’m here, my dear: because I don’t know either. And that’s why we’re both in danger. It’s like having poison in your bloodstream—not knowing enough, either of us. But together, you see, we may also have the antidote. That’s what I’m hoping, anyway.’

Another long, almost shuddering breath. ‘It doesn’t make sense.’

‘Why not?’ The heat of the fire and the whisky were getting to him. Only hunger kept him awake.

‘It’s just … ‘ She gestured despairingly ‘ … how did you
know
he’d be here, with me? How could you be so
sure, I
mean?’

‘He was sure, wasn’t he?’

‘Yes. But—‘

‘Why was he sure?’

She pulled herself together. ‘He said you’d remember. He said you never forget anything—that you’ve got a memory like an elephant.’

‘And so has he. I knew he’d remember—he knew I’d remember. It’s the gift the good fairy gave to each of us. Sometimes it’s a mixed blessing. But it gives us an advantage.’

‘Like now.’

‘Like now maybe. But maybe not. Because when we remember the past we recall the bad things just as vividly as the good ones. The saving grace of ordinary fallible memory is that old unhappiness blurs, and then it often becomes a joke before it’s virtually forgotten. But the good times get rosier … like, my wife can never remember it raining when she was a child. And she’s got crystal-clear recollection of her father looking handsome in his uniform, and bringing her sweets and books and toys, even though she knows she was only a tiny tot, and he only saw her a few times … and he was a bit of a rascal—‘ he caught himself too late, knowing he must go on ‘—if not actually a villain.’ He saw from her face that Peter Richardson had come clean with her. So in another moment she would conclude that his
faux pas
had been deliberate. ‘I know that my
temps perdu
really are the lost good old days … But anyway, one reason why Peter and I were first recruited was that we didn’t always have to be looking up the files: we remembered what was in them once we’d read them—‘ Damn! She had made the connection, and was looking even more desolate at the thought of Richardson’s rascality.

‘How much trouble is Peter in? Apart from … this trouble of yours, David?’

‘He isn’t in any trouble in England, Sophie. Apart from
my
trouble, that is.’ He half-smiled at her. ‘What I was going to say was that he and I have a special reason for remembering each other. Or … two special reasons, actually. Because he saved my bacon once, in Italy … But, before that, there was this little experiment our mutual boss set up, you see.’

‘What … experiment?’ She frowned at him.

It was working, his diversion. ‘He ordered me to invite Peter to dinner—to a dinner-party in my home. He—our esteemed master … he implied it was so we could get to know each other. But then, some time afterwards, he offered a crate of champagne to whichever of us could more exactly remember everything that had been said that evening. And the loser was to match the crate with another one—‘ Unbidden, the image of Sir Frederick Clinton superimposed itself on Sophie Kenyon ‘—the wicked old devil! He said if I didn’t want to take part the crate would be Peter’s by default. But he reckoned Peter would win it anyway.’

A dog barked joyously outside the house, at the back in the distance.

‘Go on, David.’ She swam back into focus, strangely relaxed now. ‘Peter has a key—he can let himself in.’

The back had been a jumble of out-buildings and greenhouses full of carefully-wintered plants, he remembered, using the picture to obliterate Fred’s obnoxious self-satisfaction. But could Peter ever exchange his exotic Amain coast for the rigours of even a south-facing Cotswold hillside?

‘Go on, David.’ She was almost serene now that her living man was back under her roof. ‘But … how was it going to be judged, though?’

He could hear other noises now, so that it was hard to concentrate. ‘He said he would leave us to judge ourselves. But if we didn’t agree then we could turn our entries over to the guests.’

The noises resolved themselves into a door clattering and the wretched dog scampering and sliding on the flagstones outside before it started removing more paint from the sitting-room door.

And then the door opened and the creature hurtled through the gap, filling the room with furious uninhibited activity—making for its mistress first, and then happily and incorrectly assuming that any friend of hers must be another friend.

‘Down, Buster!’ She attempted half-heartedly to restrain the animal’s enthusiasm for his new pretended friend. ‘Do you have a dog, David?’

‘He hates dogs.’ Peter Richardson spoke from the doorway. ‘He has geese to protect him. Although he probably has electronic sensors now … Good to see you, David. I never thought I’d say that. But …
autres temps, autres moeurs
, eh?’

‘I don’t actually.’ The years had greyed Richardson, too: he looked like a distinguished Italian nobleman fancy-dressed in someone’s old clothes. (The dead husband’s dothes, maybe?) ‘I am relieved to see you, too, Mr Dalingridge.’

‘Is that a fact?’ The brown well-tanned face and the too-knowing smile on it hadn’t changed. ‘But … as a matter of
fact
…
you’ve just given me a nasty turn.’ Richardson spread his hands out towards the fire. ‘Brrr! I’d forgotten how chilly England can get … ‘ He gave Audley a sidelong glance. ‘The thing outside … You always used to drive a sedate Austin … not your thing at all, I thought.’

The
thing
was the Porsche, of course. ‘No, Peter. Not my thing at all—you’re right.’ He needed to assert himself. ‘I borrowed it. Because it doesn’t have a bug in it.’ He managed to smile at Richardson at last. ‘It belongs to one of your successors actually.’

‘One of my successors?’ Richardson turned to Sophie Kenyon at last, and his face softened. ‘Give me a drink, Sophie … And don’t worry, dear: it’s like I said, isn’t it? It’ll be David. And that means someone else should be worrying a lot more than us.’ He nodded at her, with a half-knowing, half-bitter little smile. Then glanced sidelong again at Audley over his outstretched arm. ‘One of my successors, eh? Well, he never bought that on his pay—thanks, Sophie dear—but then, the Department of Intelligence Research and Development always favoured well-heeled young gentry, didn’t it?’ He sipped his drink. ‘But it did give me a bit of a turn, I tell you. I saw the lights from the copse by the road—that was fair enough, I just thought you’d been quick off the mark. But then I saw the back of the car … very nice, I’d have thought at any other time—like Cardinal Alberoni when he saw Philippe d’Orleans’ backside:
Que culo d
’
angelo
…
but not
your
sort of car, David. And that worried me for a bit
…
Still, he must trust you, to lend you his Porsche. In fact, if he knows how you drive, he must be a friend indeed!
’

There was an edge of bitterness there as well as strain, beneath the old banter: once upon a time Richardson had taken an equally ridiculous car of his own like that for granted. But Audley was not of a mind to soften the contrast by recounting the tale of Mitchell’s purchase of the thing second-hand, for cash, after last autumn’s Stock Exchange debacle. Instead, he let the thump of Buster’s over-worked tail fill the silence between them.

‘David was just explaining … ‘ Sophie moved loyally to break the deadlock, and then faltered ‘ … he was just telling me why he knew you’d be here, Peter … ‘ She faltered again.

‘Oh yes?’ Richardson sank into one of the dog-battered armchairs.

‘But I still don’t see
how
—
?
’
She waited for him to take up the story. Then when he failed her, she turned back to Audley. ‘Which of you won the champagne, David?’

Audley watched Richardson. ‘Peter bought the champagne—the extra crate.’

Sophie recognized the unstraightness of the answer, but couldn’t make sense of it. ‘So you lost, Peter—?’

Richardson was watching Audley. ‘Fred Clinton said I was going to lose.’

‘He said the same to me,’ murmured Audley deliberately. But … typical Fred, to spur them each in the same way!

‘He also told me that David Audley didn’t like to lose.’ Richardson smiled at her suddenly. ‘He omitted to tell me that David Audley was a dirty player.’

‘I didn’t play dirty.’ Audley addressed Sophie. ‘I simply let Peter see my version of the evening, that’s all.’

‘Not all. He advised me that it would be better if I conceded defeat. So I did. But mine would have been the winning entry, if we’d played fair.’

Sophie frowned interrogatively at Audley. ‘I don’t understand.’

To his surprise he didn’t want her to think ill of him. ‘I did give him Fred’s champagne. So the honours were equal in the end.’

‘You had a bad conscience!’ Richardson accused him. ‘You lost.’

‘Not at all, my dear fellow! I was your host that night. I couldn’t let you be out of pocket.’

‘I still don’t understand—‘ Sophie accused them both.

They looked at each other, each waiting for the other to speak.

‘It’s really … quite simple.’ Audley decided that he must break first. ‘We didn’t know about Fred Clinton’s game, of course.’

‘But we played a game of our own, that evening, Sophie. You see.’ Richardson cut in. ‘Or … it was that tame Member of Parliament of yours—the barrister? Sir Laurie Deacon—it was his idea.’ He stared at Audley. ‘But he called it the “Kipling game”. So it may have been yours originally, David—was it?’ He shook his head, as though to clear it. ‘So—‘

Candlelight.

Faint smell of damp beneath the fading dinner smells. (Those were the days when Faith hadn
’
t quite defeated the rising damp; and, of course, the cellar-door had been opened, to bring up another bottle).

Laurie Deacon: ‘
That fellow you
’
ve all been looking for
—
the one who did a bunk
…
The word is that you
’
ve found him, David
—
right
?’

‘
Not me, Laurie. Peter here did the finding.
’

Peter Richardson: ‘
Not me, either. It was Sir Frederick who did the finding
—
like Sherlock Holmes. He said the chap hadn
’
t really done a bunk
—
hadn
’
t defected
…
He
’
d just had a bit of a breakdown. And he wanted to be found
…
only by someone sympathetic, that
’
s all. So it was just psychology
.’