Tomorrow's ghost (20 page)

‘That means within the limits of the job.’

‘Then—it’s within the limits.’

‘I’m afraid it isn’t, Mrs Fisher. Colonel Butler is your concern—Colonel Butler and his lady—not Pearson Cole. I’m sorry, but that’s the way it is.’

His voice was very gently chiding, almost silky, so far as she could make out, and once again it struck a chord in her memory which she still couldn’t identify. The telephone was worse than last night’s darkness, in which she had at least been able to pick up Sir Frederick’s tone without distortion, even with heightened perception.

‘Unless I can prove otherwise, you mean?’

‘That would change things, naturally.’

It was a Catch-22 situation, thought Frances bitterly. ‘And Trevor Bond?’

‘You can have his file, I’ll have it sent to you—or a flimsy of it … But you haven’t really justified your obsession with him, either, you know.’

‘It isn’t an obsession.’ Frances’s resolve to keep her own counsel weakened: although he hadn’t said as much he obviously didn’t rate her chances. ‘If he wasn’t a contact, then of course it doesn’t matter … But if he
was..
.’

‘That’s a very big if. Do go on though—if he was?’

‘Then he wouldn’t have made any mistake about the time of day. It would have been pointless. So on November 13 he lied—deliberately.’

She paused to give him time to work out the different interpretations of that: if it was a lie, then it hadn’t done Butler any harm—on the contrary, if he had confirmed it, then it would have given him an alibi for the time of his wife’s disappearance.

But in fact the Colonel had rejected any idea of an alibi with his own detailed—but unsubstantiated—account of his own movements that morning.

And yet, if it was a lie, then it also hadn’t done Bond himself any good—on the contrary, it had put him at risk again by bringing the Special Branch back to him when he ought to have been keeping his head down; which would only have been justified if it had done Butler harm.

Which it hadn’t… (Indeed, if Bond had actually stuck to his original lie, and had cast doubt on the Colonel’s own account by insisting on giving him an alibi, that might have been more embarrassing. But he hadn’t done that, either.) The possibilities went round in circles, but they always came back to the same point: not one of them made any sense.

*   *   *

Suddenly, a vivid memory of Dr David Audley surfaced in Frances’s mind. David—theorising on the pitfalls of action based on faulty intelligence in the lecture room of Walton Hall-David—dear David, with his expensive suit typically in disarray, one fly-button undone (‘Dishevilled urbanity’, whispers Paul Mitchell, already star pupil in the awkward squad)—Dear David—typically illustrating bitter experience from the advice of ‘my old Latin master’ on the hazards of translating the Orations of Cicero:
Since Cicero can be relied on to make sense and your translation does not make sense, then it
is prudent to assume that the e
rror is yours, not Cicero
’
s.

*   *   *

‘Hmm …’ Extension 223 sounded sceptical, but cautious. ‘So … why should he do that, Mrs Fisher?’

In short, nonsense must be wrong
…
And by the same token, even though our adversaries are
rarely men of Cicero
’
s
calibre, when your interpretation of their actions does not make sense it is
prudent to assume that
the error is yours
—
and that you have been taken for a bloody ride
according to plan. Until proved otherwise, therefore, nonsense must be wrong.

*   *   *

‘I haven’t the faintest idea—I don’t know.’ But what she did know, thought Frances, was that she missed David Audley’s counsel now; and more, that in the matter of Colonel and Mrs Butler she missed it twice over. ‘But I think that nonsense must be wrong until proved otherwise.’ For a moment there was no sound from the telephone, and then it emitted an odd crackling growl, as though the source of the nonsense theory was known, and disliked.

‘All right, Fisher—‘ Extension 223’s voice was strangely harsh: the growl had definitely been his, not the phone’s ‘—but I think that you’re clutching at straws—‘

‘Straws are all I’ve got,’ said Frances.

‘Don’t you believe it! Keep plugging at Mrs Butler, that’s my advice. But I’ll do what I can with Bond in the meantime.’ The harshness was gone, like a distant rumble of summer thunder only half-heard and far away, and the voice was all velvet encouragement again. ‘The flimsy of the Bond file I can get to you today … and I think I’ll run a quick present-whereabouts-and-status check on him too, just in case—so as not to risk wasting your time. The last one we’ve got is nearly three months old, I see.’

Frances felt complimented—so as not to risk wasting her valuable time, indeed!—and then the last words registered as significant.

They had never proved anything against Trevor Bond, but they had nevertheless run PWS checks on him for nine whole years—three-monthly checks for nine blameless years. And although PWS checks could safely be left to the local police that confirmed what she had already begun to suspect about Pearson Cole from Extension 223’s reluctance to talk about him: that whatever he’d been up to once upon a time, all those years back, it must have been something red-hot—and so hot that it had even kept the dull Trevor Anthony Bond file warm, so it would seem.

And that was decidedly interesting—‘And Pearson Cole?’ Nothing venture, nothing gain.

‘I can’t promise anything there. Fisher. The odds are against, but I’ll pass the word on … That’s the most I can do, and the best … just for you. Fisher, I’ll do that.’

‘Thank you,’ said Frances meekly. David Audley would know because he knew almost everything, but David was out of bounds; and Paul Mitchell
might
know, because he often knew what he wasn’t supposed to know, but he was out of reach, at least temporarily. And if Extension 223 really was doing his best for her such thoughts were treasonable, anyway.

‘You just concentrate on Colonel Butler in the meantime. And on the wife.’ Pause.

‘On this hunch of yours, whatever it is.’

Promotion, riches and fame, the voice promised her:
not a witch
-
hunt
—
perish the thought!—
but if you bring Colonel Butler
’
s head on a platter, Fisher, the world is at your feet.

‘I’ll do my best.’ Frances felt seduced, on her back.

‘That’s fine, then. And now I have one little bit of good news for you: those expensive gloves of yours have been found.’

Gloves?

Those expensive gloves of yours?

Those expensive gloves of yours have been found?

‘Oh—‘ The white-washed wall blazed in front of her. ‘Oh?’

Gloves? She had a pair of black gloves at home, bought for Robbie’s funeral and never worn since; she could remember clenching ice-cold hands in them as the rifles fired over the grave. Once she had had a pair of grey woollen mittens, when mittens were all the rage in the Fifth Form … And Robbie had bequeathed her a pair of dirty white-and-green cricket gloves and a well-worn Fives glove…

She never wore gloves.

‘Yes?’ She stared at her left hand, with its short life line on the palm. Mustn’t be superstitious—and don’t let him ask her to describe them until she knew more about them, these expensive gloves of hers which had been found, but never lost, never even possessed.

‘Young Mitchell found them … somewhere in the Library, in the Common Room, I think he said. Khaki-colour—are those the ones?’

Frances looked at her sleeve. Paul had seen this suit yesterday, and it would be like a man—and particularly like Paul—to describe this beautiful new Jaeger green so insultingly.

‘Green—yes.’ She committed herself to Paul and the gloves.

‘Good. I’ll get him to post them on to you—not to worry.’

Frances worried furiously. That couldn’t be what Paul intended with the mythical gloves. But what the hell did he intend?

It could only be communication. Since he couldn’t know where she was, he had to tell her where he was.

‘Where are they?’ Was that the right question?

‘Where are they?’ For a moment he was thrown by the sheer triviality of the present-whereabouts-and-status of Mrs Fitzgibbon-Fisher’s expensive khaki-green leather gloves. ‘They’re in his hotel—the Royal Europa, Harrogate. But I’ll get him to post them.’

‘No. I can make time to pick them up tomorrow.’ Frances curbed her excitement: if it wasn’t the right question it had been near enough. But what she had to do now was to reinforce its triviality. ‘Those are my very
best
gloves. They cost a
fortune
—
‘ (That was safe. Anything made of leather cost a fortune) ‘—and the colour-match is
perfect
…
I’m not trusting them to the Post Office. I shall pick them up
myself.
’

‘All right. Fisher—if you must!’ He chuckled.
‘
Mulier est hominis confusio.
‘

‘What?’ She pretended not to understand the chauvinist jibe.

‘Nothing … As I said, just so you concentrate your energies on Colonel Butler, m’dear. Because … none of this has gone on record, but we’re relying on you to come up with something, make no mistake about that. Understood?’

Promotion, riches and fame—or demotion, penury and oblivion.

‘I understand.’

Click.

Wait ten seconds.

*   *   *

‘Directory inquiries, please … I’d like the number of the Royal Europa Hotel, Harrogate, please.’

She rummaged in her handbag for her wallet. With phone charges what they were at peak times, how much did she owe Isobel?

*   *   *

‘Royal Europa Hotel.’

‘May I speak to the Head Porter, please.’ (For a guess, Paul would start at the top.)

‘Head Porter. Can I help you?’

‘My name is—‘ (Frances experienced a moment of confusion: what was her name?) ‘—Fitzgibbon. I believe you have a pair of gloves for me. Left by a Mr Paul Mitchell?’

‘Ah… Miss Fitzgibbon—yes… And that would be Miss
Frances
Fitzgibbon, I take it?’

‘Yes.’ Frances licked her lips. ‘You have my gloves?’

‘Yes, madam. We have your… gloves.’ He placed a curious emphasis on
gloves,
turning the word into a conspiracy between them, and a pass-word too. Suddenly Frances felt hand-in-glove with him, and part of all the rendezvous in which he had played the role of go-between—his discretion and loyalty bought for a blue fiver—for other Paul Mitchells and Frances Fitzgibbons over the years.

And, just as suddenly, the knowledge was painful to her, that there was no one now who would wish to buy that discretion for her and anyone else, for what Paul would have led this Head Porter to believe: a night in one of his double rooms—
Where love
throbs out in blissful sleep/Pulse nigh to pulse, and breath to breath/Where hushed awakenings
are dear
…

If that had been the case, what would she say now?

‘Was there a message… with the gloves?’

‘Ah… Would you hold the line for a minute, madam?’

What was he doing? Turning on the tape? Putting the extension through? Or moving the Receptionist out of ear-shot?

‘Thank you, madam… Now, if you please, on one side of your fireplace there is a book-shelf—am I right?’

‘What?’

He cleared his throat. ‘I am instructed to ask you, madam: on one side of your fireplace there is a book-shelf. What sort of books would there be on that shelf, now?’

Frances closed her eyes. The fireplace—to take precautions like this Paul had to be scared—the fireplace had books on each side of it, she’d made the bookcases herself during Robbie’s second tour in Ulster … Robbie’s books on one side, hers on the other—her Faulkner and Hardy and Fielding, and all her poetry anthologies—
God knows
‘
twere better to be deep
p
illowed in silk and scented down
—
but why was she thinking of those lines, from one of Robbie’s favourite poems, and of all poems that one, the death one?

She opened her eyes. Paul had only noticed Robbie’s books at his side when he had sat at that fireside, in the empty chair.

‘Fairy stories and folk-lore.’

‘Fairy tales—that’s correct. Thank you, madam.’ He drew a five-pound breath of relief. ‘If you have a piece of paper and a pencil handy, I have a message for you, madam.’

There was a pad by the phone, with a biro on a string.

‘Yes?’

‘”Ring 0254-587142”. Have you got that, madam?’

It may be he shall take my hand/And lead me into his dark land
—
Damn! ‘Yes. 0254-587142’.

‘”Ask for the Adjutant”.’

‘Yes. Ask for the Adjutant.’

‘”Exercise caution”.’

Paul really was scared. And as of this moment, since Paul didn’t scare easily—never had been scared in her experience—then Frances was frightened, thought Frances.

‘Yes?’

‘That’s all, madam. Just that.’

‘Thank you.’ She waited, but he didn’t seem inclined to hang up. ‘Yes?’

‘The gloves, madam. What shall I do with them?’

‘Oh.’ So there really was a pair of gloves. But of course there was: Paul wouldn’t make that sort of error. And, by the same token, she must play her part in the charade.

‘I’ll be coming by to pick them up, probably tomorrow.’

‘Then I’ll leave them in Reception for you … And … good luck, madam.’

Click.

*   *   *

One good thing about being frightened, thought Frances analytically, was that it dissolved both poetry and feminine vapours—that would be Wing Commander Roskill’s famous adrenalin overriding the central nervous system, making a superwoman of her.

0254-587142. Poor Isobel’s phone bill!

‘Guard Room.’