The Old Vengeful (15 page)

Elizabeth realised that she had once more been slow on the uptake, like any tiro, and Paul Mitchell was treating her more gently than she deserved. “Yes … I’m sorry, Paul… And now what you’re going to tell me is that there’s a Russian operation which is codenamed ‘Vengeful’—is that it?”

His face was a picture. “No … no, that’s not quite it. Because if that was the case we wouldn’t be interested in any
Vengeful
, from Number One to infinity—and you’d be sitting safe at home in front of the telly now, Elizabeth.”

She had been slow again somehow—slow to the point of stupidity, although she couldn’t see where this time. And he was smiling at her again too; but not his insincere smile, which always revealed a hint of teeth between his lips, but a genuine closed-mouth smile which creased his cheeks.

“This one’s the pay-off, Elizabeth—the difference between Project Status and Operational Status … All you have to do is imagine Winston Churchill writing to Franklin Roosevelt in 1942 or ‘43 …
Dear FDR
—
About the invasion of Europe, we think the Normandy Project is the one we should go for, and henceforth we
’
ll call it Operation Overlord. Yours ever, Winston
…
Don’t look so sad just because you can’t run before you can walk, dear Elizabeth—it’s simply that operational code-names by definition don’t mean a thing, it’s only project names which spill the beans. Just think what Hitler would have done if he’d picked up ‘Normandy’ rather than ‘Overlord’—okay?”

Elizabeth could only nod, still ashamed, because getting anywhere too late was still just as bad as not getting there at all, and not boring him with lack of intelligence was all she had to offer him.

“Getting a Project Name is a very rare occurrence, like winning the pools. What’s much more usual—in fact, what I’ve been doing the last year or two in my own specialisation—is trying to work out in advance what the most likely projects could be, so that we can set about frustrating them.”

“How do you do that?”

He shrugged. “How indeed! It’s a bit like forecasting the future from the entrails of a sheep … we try to identify their project planners first, and then what they specialise in. And then we postulate the information they’re likely to get, and so on.”

“But this time … you got ‘Vengeful’.” Elizabeth hadn’t concentrated so hard since her
viva
at Oxford, when she knew she was on the borderline. “But this time it hasn’t helped you.”

“What makes you think that, now?” He put the question casually, but she could sense the change from boredom to curiosity.

“Practically everything that’s happened to me. Coming to see me was supposed to be just routine, for a start.”

“Everything is routine to start with.” He parried the truth neatly. “Ask any policeman.”

“Researching single-ship actions of the Napoleonic War is routine? That’s what policemen usually do?”

“I’ve done more unlikely things.” This time the teeth showed in the smile.

“I’ve said something that amuses you?” She didn’t like that smile.

“No. I was just remembering that I once said much the same thing to David Audley, years ago—that what I was doing was an unlikely thing to do.”

“And how did he reply?”

“Oh … he said that the past always lies in ambush for the present, waiting to get even.” The smile vanished. “But you are right: I didn’t think your
Vengeful
—or any of your
Vengefuls
—could possibly have anything to do with
their
‘Project Vengeful’.”

“But you do now?”

He looked at her, but not quite inscrutably. “Now … I also think of everything that’s happened—to both of us. And I think of Novikov … because Novikov is real—he’s not a Napoleonic single-ship action, or a crew-member from a jolly boat—Novikov is KGB, and the KGB isn’t a registered charity, or a funny set of initials to frighten the children with when they won’t settle down, or any other sort of imaginary bugbear that doesn’t really matter—“ he caught himself as though he could hear the change in his own voice. “You have to understand what the KGB is, Elizabeth: it’s the militant arm of the Soviet State outside Soviet territory—and inside it as well, but inside doesn’t concern us—
here
concerns us … and I’ve seen it kill
here
— plan to kill, and then kill someone who got in the way of the killing, without a second thought—and that was a bloody ‘project’ too, which became an operation …” Again he caught himself, this time scrubbing his face clean before he continued. “So you’ve got to watch out for yourself now. Don’t depend on Audley—don’t even trust
me
…
Faith is quite right, we’re not really trustworthy, and we’re not safe to know.”

Something had changed about him. The garden, and the quiet of evening, with the smells of honeysuckle and lavender, were the same. But he was different.

“Why are you telling me this, Paul?”

“Orders, Elizabeth. ‘Spill the beans’, David said.”

She shook her head. “No—why are you warning me?”

He looked at her curiously for a second, and then grimaced. “You know too much now, Elizabeth.”

“But you said … David Audley trusts me now—?”

He nodded. “That’s right. And in my experience that’s a damn good reason for not trusting
him
, I’m sorry to say.”

“’
HE SHOT AN
arrow in the air’—or, to be exact, in the correspondence columns of
The Times
, which for his purposes was very much better—and it came to earth in the remarkable memory of Miss Irene Cookridge. Which was not at all what he expected, but much more rewarding,” said Audley. “So you just read her reply for yourself, Elizabeth.”

He reached down the table towards Elizabeth, and she took the letter from him. But although she also caught Paul’s eye between the silver candlesticks, with the flames sparkling on the glitter of the cutlery and glass between them—and Del Andrew’s eyes too (less cautioning, more frankly curious) in passing—she still felt like the little girl who had found the answers in the back of her book, but still couldn’t make her sums add up right—

“Elizabeth—Detective Chief Inspector Andrew, Special Branch— ‘Del’ to us, apparently, according to my husband … Chief Inspector—Miss Elizabeth Loftus—Elizabeth to us.”

First, he was too young—or not first, since she had never met a Chief Inspector of any sort, let alone of the Special Branch … So first, was this the type—more like the young gipsy who’d come up the drive last month, trying to sell a load of asphalt “left over from a job”?

“Hullo, Miss Loftus.” The sharp gipsy look was there too, sizing her up unashamedly.

“Chief Inspector.” She couldn’t quite expel the surprise from her acknowledgement, and was embarrassed to observe the flicker of amusement in his dark eyes.

“And I’m Mitchell.” Paul drew the eyes away from her. “I don’t believe we’ve met before, Chief Inspector. But I’ve heard about you from Colonel Butler.”

“No.” There was the merest suggestion of an East London
naow
there, just as there had been the slightest hesitation in the aspirate of
hullo
, and the eyes were frankly appraising now, with a hint of wariness. “And I’ve heard about you too, Dr Mitchell.”

“Nothing derogatory, I hope?” Under the light tone Paul also sounded just a touch wary.

The Chief Inspector smiled. “You’ve just given two of my sergeants a lot of paper-work.”

“I think I’d better see to the ruins of dinner,” murmured Faith. “Are you staying the night, Del?”

“I don’t know, madam.” The Chief Inspector glanced towards Audley, while Elizabeth envied Faith’s ability to handle eccentric situations gracefully.

“I think he is, love.” Audley waited until his wife had departed before continuing. “To be exact, Paul … they’ve been tidying up your depredations of yesterday to make them fit for any god-fearing coroner.”

“I wouldn’t call them ‘depredations’.” The Chief Inspector cocked his head at Paul. “In fact, I got some mates down my old nick who’d buy the first round for you, Dr Mitchell—and all the other rounds, and see you safe home when you couldn’t stand up straight. They’d reckon you done them a favour.”

“Which reminds me—“ Audley moved towards an array of bottles in the corner of the room “—it’s Irish whiskey, isn’t it, Del?”

“Thank you.” The Chief Inspector wasn’t overawed by Audley. “All the same, you chanced your arm with Steve Donaghue, Dr Mitchell. Very quick on his feet was old Steve—for a man his size.”

“Steve Donaghue—“ Paul swallowed. “
Was
?”

“Patrick Lawrence Donaghue—‘Steve’ to his friends, of whom there can’t have been very many, because he had a nasty temper … yes, we’ve lost him, Dr Mitchell—to your second bullet though, so we’ll count that as self-defence, because he’d ‘ave broken your back if he’d reached you. But he doesn’t matter—he was just a thick heavy, and somebody would have done ‘im sooner or later … And much the same goes for little Willie Fullick—someone would have done
him
sooner, rather than later, because he wasn’t nearly as good as he thought he was—lots of talk, but no bottle … He reckoned he was Steve’s brains—and God knows, Steve needed some brains … but he wasn’t.”

“Willie … Fullick?” Paul repeated the name softly.

“Thank you—“ the Chief Inspector took his glass from Audley, and sipped, and nodded “—very nice … yes … of course, there was no time for introductions—William Harold Fullick was the look-out man you put down yesterday in the garden … But at least he gave you the shooter, and that makes things easier for
us
to prove self-defence, like it made it easier for
you
with Steve.” Another sip, and a cold smile to go with it. “Funny really—Willie was warned not to carry firearms, that it’d be the death of’im … and it
was
…
but it’d ‘ave been the death of you, Dr Mitchell, if he hadn’t—if old Steve ‘ad got ‘is hands on you.” He shook his head at Paul. “Very careless, you were.”

Paul said nothing.

“But they don’t matter—no one’ll cry over those two … though no one’ll buy you a drink for them, either.” The Chief Inspector stared at Paul for a moment, and then turned towards Elizabeth. “But Julian Oakenshaw—Julian Alexander Carrell Oakenshaw—Bachelor of Arts … You are a very lucky lady, Miss Loftus, if I may say so—a
very
lucky lady.”

For the first time ever, Elizabeth wished she had a strong drink in her hand, like yesterday.

“But I think you probably know that—I shouldn’t be at all surprised—“

“She knows it,” snapped Paul. “So what?”

“So I shouldn’t explain to her how lucky she is?”

“If she knows it—no.”

“Ah! You’re worried because he didn’t have a shooter—“

“I don’t give a damn what he had—“

“He didn’t
need
a shooter.” Suddenly Chief Inspector Andrew was all chief inspector, and a thousand years older than Paul Mitchell. “Steve Donaghue maybe killed a couple of men in his time—he certainly crippled a few … and Willie Fullick never killed anyone most likely, because he couldn’t break the skin on a rice pudding— though it wasn’t for lack of trying, and ‘e’d ‘ave managed it sooner or later … with some poor old nightwatchman, or a sub-postmistress maybe … But Julian Oakenshaw killed seven people—six men and one woman—and he killed them slowly, and he enjoyed every minute of it … And each time we couldn’t even prove he was in the same county when he did it, because he was a Bachelor of Arts and he was smart—and that’s why my two sergeants are going to fix that report so you’ll come up smelling sweeter than the biggest bank of roses you ever saw at Kew Gardens, Dr Mitchell—okay?”

The fact that it was all delivered unemotionally, like a traffic report on a Bank Holiday, served to silence Paul.

“I’m sorry, Miss Loftus—“ Del Andrew’s dark eyes clouded sympathetically as he saw that, where Paul was merely silenced, Elizabeth was actively terrified “—but Dr Audley here wants me to make this plain, so you don’t misunderstand anything: this … this man Oakenshaw was a real bad bastard—a psychopath of the most dangerous kind—not just hard, but
bad
, and crafty with it… Not just your ordinary villain, like I was brought up with, but one of your maximum security throw-away-the-key swine, if we could ever have got our hands on him. So you were lucky, Miss Loftus.”

She nodded. “Yes … I think I do understand that, Chief Inspector.”

The eyes—the darkest brown eyes she had ever seen—almost black-brown—darted towards Audley, and then back to her. “Ye-ess … he said you would … So what you want to know now is that for his daily bread Julian Oakenshaw specialised in getting information— like, sometimes, where the really tricky burglar alarms were, an’ the electronic gear … and industrial espionage, that was up his street too—he had a good analytical brain, and when he was briefed right he always knew what to look for … The only thing wrong with ‘im was that, when the moon was full like last night, he preferred people to be difficult, so he could burn a pretty pattern on them first, before they told him what he wanted to know, before he cut their throats—“ Del tensed suddenly “—sorry, dear—but that’s what he would have done, when you’d sung for him. And you would have sung, believe me—that was his stock-in-trade, gettin’ results for carriage clients who weren’t fussy about how he got them, just so they weren’t involved: information was his business, an’ that always came first. But inflicting pain was his pleasure, an’ he liked to mix pleasure with business when the opportunity presented itself and the moon was full, an’ he had a clear run.”

“And was that well known?” asked Paul.

“In the trade it was—we knew about it. But he was too fly to let anyone pin so much as a charity flag on him … like he never used the same talent twice to watch his back, and do his heavy work for him. That pair he had yesterday, that you sorted out… that was their first time as well as their last—an’ the first time he picked two dud ‘uns too, thank God!”

Mitchell looked at Audley. “Then that doesn’t fit, David.”