I can stand being married to a phoney hero. I can just about stand being married to a semi-alcoholic b.u.m who's going broke. What I can't stand is being married to a fool.'

He lay with his eyes closed. She went on: 'I know you think Terry Mason's a dull, wet little man, living his whole life under orders, in his prefabricated married quarters, with a tatty wife and three snotty kids. But I'll tell you something. At this moment he's worth five, ten times what you are! He's got sense. Sense to think the whole thing over and get out while the going's good.

'But not the great Charles Rawcliff. Oh no. Not only does he not have the sense to get out - he doesn't even have the guts. That's the truth of the matter, isn't it?' She was sitting straight up now, glaring down at him. 'You haven't got the guts to face up:to anything. You can't face your financialtroubles. You're scared of your bank manager, scared of the tax-man, scared of the VAT-man, and now you're running scared of a gang of international crooks who are posing as a charity organization. G.o.d, you make me sick!'

His head had begun to ache again. He got up slowly and pulled on a bathrobe.

'I'm going to sleep downstairs.'

'You can sleep on the pavement, as far as I'm concerned. What's the matter with you? We've got a nice house, we've both got jobs, we've got a beautiful child - we've even got two cars. But you're not satisfied. You want to risk your life, and put me and little Tom on the line with you. It isn't fair. It isn't b.l.o.o.d.y fair!'

He turned wearily. 'It's no good, Judith. Even if I wanted to get out of it, I couldn't. Not unless we're both prepared to go into hiding for a long time.'

'Oh G.o.d. So it's as bad as that, is it?'

'It's serious, Judith. They're serious people.' He came towards her and tried to touch her shoulder, but she flinched away.

'Don't you touch me!' she whispered. 'And next time I suppose it won't be just a b.u.mp on the head? It'll be me going down to identify you on some mortuary slab. So I'm not married to a fool, I'm also married to a prospective criminal. And perhaps a dead one, at that!'

'You don't know it's criminal.'

'No. I don't even know the world goes round the sun.'

'Turn out the light. We can talk about it in the morning,' he said, climbing back into bed beside her.

'There's nothing more to talk about. If you go, that's the end V it.'

'Right, let's have it,' said Batsford.

The inspector consulted his notes. 'Eight-ten - accident at the roundabout just before Pinkney's Green, near Maidenhead. Ford Escort full of rugger-b.u.g.g.e.rs collided with a beige Range-Rover, registration ELH 283T.

Escort has a crushed front wheel and damaged fender. No injuries reported. Two other cars stopped, police were called.

'Before the Patrol arrived, the Range-Rover drove off in the direction of the M4. There was a twenty-minute time-lag before we could get a call out, plus a full description of the driver. No pa.s.sengers. Man in early thirties, medium build, brown hair combed straight back, David Niven-type moustache. One of the witnesses said he had staring eyes. Another said the Range-Rover had a scratch down the left side, and what looked like mud. The left side hit Mason, sir.

Forensic are working on the vehicle now.'

'Where was it found?'

'Harvard Lane, between Chiswick High Road and the M4. He must have driven like lightning, sir, down the motorway. Surprising none of the patrols nabbed him.'

'And he got clean away?'

'I'm afraid so. One of the Met boys spotted the vehicle. That was a bit ofluck, at least, in a back-street like that. Parked about two feet from the kerb. Driver must have been in a hurry. Hammersmith are handling it - until the SB muscle in.'

'Thurgood had a moustache,' Batsford said, peering into what was left of his cold tea. 'Though I'd hardly call him the David Niven type. But staring eyes are good. Must be him.'

The phone rang. Batsford listened for a moment and said, 'Thank you.' He put down the receiver. 'Mason's dead. He never regained consciousness,'

Five.

Simon de Vere Suchard stretched back and crossed his long legs. The fan-window illuminated his eccentrically handsome profile. He smiled distantly, fingering the neck of his cashmere cardigan. '1 am sorry, my dear chap, but you're going to be rather put out. Just one of those crosses we .have to bear. It's no bite at the cherry on this one. Not even a nibble, until I say so.'

Addison, of the Special Branch, sat rigidly opposite him, controlling his irritation: at the same time baffled, amazed by the number of books, newspapers, loose doc.u.ments strewn about the room; by the profuse confusion of the place; no order, no apparent security - although 'security', in the most precise and awesome meaning of the word, was what the whole Department was about.

'You people seem to have decided already that it's a case of murder,' he said, 'so why not leave it to the local boys? You've got the evidence. Victim's car's punctured deliberately, probably by someone who knew his way into the camp car park. Murder vehicle in the pound. Forensic checks out, blood matches, plus full description of the suspect. The Met boys pick him up - Thames Valley handle the case.'

De Vere Suchard unfolded himself from the b.u.t.ton-back leather chair. 'Drink, my dear chap?' He moved with the restless agility of a grown-up schoolboy getting the better of one of his duller masters.

'Gin,' Addison said sourly, 'pink.'

Suchard had crossed the s.p.a.cious Georgian room and reached a cluttered antique sidetable, where he stood rummaging amid a pile of papers, row of bottles and decanters, unwashed cut-gla.s.ses, an ancient electric kettle and jar of instant coffee. 'Murder indeed,' he repeated, returning across the room with the drinks; he had poured self a thimble of Strega. 'Murder most foul. And crude,'

he added, sitting down again. 'Nothing for the future connoisseurs in this one, I fear. Some crumby little RAF pilot had a spot of info that someone else didn't want him to have, and he gets knocked down and killed changing a tyre.

Made to look like hit-and-run.' He sipped his drink. 'But as we know, all is not as it appears. This one is as fragile as a Ming vase. Examine, scrutinize, - but don't touch.' He gave his flowery smile and recrossed his legs.

'Flight-Lieutenant Mason is dead, and he is going to be buried. In every sense of the word. I have it from the highest authority.'

'You mean, you went up and twisted their arms?'

'My dear Addison, you sleuths have such literal minds. Let us just say, the decision was reached through due process of discussion and evaluation of thecase. You'll be pleased to hear that I was able to a.s.sure them that I will have your full support. In return, you may call on any facilities you require.

It'll be a grand slam, but with all the covers on. A senior Yard man is to be detailed to do the donkey-work, and you'll back him up with anything he needs.

No skimping on manpower or expense at your end. But hushed as the grave.

Entendu?'

He sat back and steepled his fingers together, the tips touching' his chin.

'We expect you to have this thing tied up in forty-eight hours. Info, that's all. Facts, details. Names and addresses. Times of meetings. Who goes where, stays where. Forty-eight hours of good hard police slogging. And there'll be no mercy for any stragglers, any slipups.'

'Thanks for the tip. And for the drink,' Addison said, putting down his gla.s.s.

'There's only one other problem. I've got to ring that Station Commander, Batsford. He's got to come up with some story for Mason's widow. He can hardly say the man died for his country.'

'He may have died for someone's country. The question is whose?'

The Head of Department faced them across the table. He had a long gloomy face, like an intelligent sheep. A couple of pale green files lay closed in front of him. He spoke from memory, while the others took notes.

'Three weeks ago Staff Section got a DAC report from Germany, stating that six C-130 transports had been purchased from the American Air base at Mildhausen, near Frankfurt. All 1962 models, declared obsolete, but in flying order. The purchasers were a Lichtenstein-registered firm called Tallant and Burg A.C.

This appears to be a subsidiary of Entreprise Lipp, also registered in Lichtenstein, but with strong French connections. Not' - he paused emphatically -'so very far removed from official circles. They specialize, as you may know, in high technology, including some of the latest guidance-systems for the French aeros.p.a.ce industry.'

'Rather a long hop from a C-130 transport,' Suchard put in frivolously.

The Head ignored him. 'We know from our French and German friends that the planes were dismantled and shipped by ca.n.a.l into France, where they were taken in two convoys of trucks, to Le Havre and Ma.r.s.eilles. They were billed to be shipped as spares for non-strategic purposes - from Ma.r.s.eilles to Momba.s.sa, and from Le Havre to Port Harcourt. A routine check established that both the Kenyans and Nigerians knew of the shipments - though, after a few inquiries, it appeared that neither government had actually placed an order for the stuff. And Tallant and Burg had offered the spares gratis, in exchange for what euphemistically pa.s.ses for "commercial goodwill'.'

'We thought there was something fishy about the deal, and so, to do them credit, did the Kenyans and Nigerians. But the French didn't seem worried. It was more or less their pigeon, so we left it to them. Until the two ships disappeared.' He gave what pa.s.sed for a smile: 'The one from Le Havre was called the Delphinia. 20,000 tons, Greek owner and crew, Liberian registration - all properly registered with Lloyd's along with the spare parts - and logged through Gibraltar three weeks ago.' He paused with melancholy emphasis: 'Which would seem to rule out West Africa. As for the second ship, out of Ma.r.s.eilles - same tonnage, same routine. The Suez authorities have no record of either vessel, and Lloyd's have heard nothing. Which leaves us to look round the whole Mediterranean. That, gentlemen, means the Middle East.'

'Or that they're sunk?' said Suchard: 'Scuttled? What was the insurance?' 'The six aircraft were purchased for a total of just over three million dollars, and the two cargoes insured for the same.' He shook his bony head.

'No, not a chance. Lipp are too big for that kind of game. One ship, just possibly, but not both. Anyway, as I said, Lloyds have heard nothing.'

'What about the owners? And the charter company?' asked Suchard.

'The owner is a Greek Cypriot called Kyriades who operates out of Larnaca and Athens. Each office manned by a single secretary, both of whom claim to know nothing. And so far not a trace of Kyriades. The charter company is Entreprise Lipp. Which brings me to the central issue. Lipp's main shareholder is a Frenchman called Pol. He's bad news, in about half-a-dozen countries. We've managed to keep him out so far, but he's got some uneasy relationship with our French friends. Which could make things rather tricky.'

'Oh Lord.' Suchard leaned back, rattling coins in his pocket. 'I suppose the moment we start fishing around, some b.u.g.g.e.r in Brussels or Strasbourg will tell us to lay off?'

'That is precisely why I want you to get to the bottom of this business with the utmost speed, and with absolute secrecy. Now, I would like each of you to give me your a.s.sessment of the situation as Tar as we know it. Suchard, you first.'

Suchard's scrambler rang late that afternoon, Connecting him to the Minister's car which was driving down from his const.i.tuency in the North.

'I'll make it snappy, Simon. I've got a lot of paperwork and a nasty debate tonight. I just hope you're not going to add to my troubles?'

'G.o.d never imposes a duty without giving time to do it.' Suchard grinned into the phone: 'Ruskin, sir.'

'p.i.s.s off. Listen, I've got you a man called Muncaster. "Super" at the Yard, excellent track-record, gets on well with the SB. Politically sound, but dull.

Doesn't like us or Whitehall, distrusts foreigners, and can't even order a cup of tea in French. Be nice to him, Simon. And make sure that the SB don't walk all over this with their big boots and ruin everything. Muncaster's an obedient workhorse, but he moves quietly, so you don't have to worry about him. He's been fully briefed - at least, with as much as he needs to know. I want a complete report from you every twelve hours, and anything hot served up at once. I don't care if you have to interrupt me in the middle of a speech.

It always looks good, anyway. Adds a mysterious dimension to my authority.'

Suchard acknowledged the chuckle the other end, and said: 'Thank you, sir.

Good luck with the debate.'

'You b.l.o.o.d.y hypocrite! Now get on with it.' The line clicked dead, leaving no dialling tone.

The Minister was a slob, but an efficient one. A gritty grammar school boy who played rough but fair - or as fair as anyone in this game. And like most of the players he hated Suchard's guts, but knew a good man when he saw one.

Sooner or later someone was going to stab Simon de Vere Suchard in the back, and make an awful mess doing it; but for the moment the man enjoyed the exhilarating certainty that his talents, not to mention his contacts and knowledge, guaranteed him a comfortable immunity from the civilized in-fighting of Whitehall, and of its arcane inner sanctums through which he moved with such immodest ease and confidence. Detective Superintendent Cyril Muncaster was a small man with a long nose that always looked as though it needed wiping. The man on the Clapham omnibus, Suchard thought. His suit looked at least a couple of sizes too big.

Muncaster had a grubby pocket-book open on his lap, and referred to it like a poor speech-maker reading from notes. 'I decided to use Customs and Excise, VAT division. A young chap and girl. The suspect, Oswald Thurgood, is only an employee - contrary to what he appears to have told Mason. His job is mostly maintenance and repairs. Only he didn't check into work yesterday or today.'

'Of course not.'

'A second man went in under VAT cover - Special Branch, expert in radio and electronics. After a lot of argument the owner opened up his books for the last month. Among the few items which seem to have been transacted legally were six j.a.p hi-fi sets and eighteen pairs of 18K102 loudspeakers - the most powerful on the market - each with an audio-sensor which adjusts the volume according to outside noise. They were bought, at a discount, from the makers three weeks ago, fully paid for, and air-freighted ten days ago to Athens, apparently to equip a new football stadium. Export licence in order.'

'So?' Suchard touched his mouth as though to suppress a yawn. 'What does that tell us, except that the shop may stoop to a straight deal from time to time?'

'They paid just over twelve thousand pounds for the stuff,' Muncaster continued relentlessly. 'On a banker's draft from Geneva and drawn on the company account of Tallant and Burg.'

Suchard inclined his head. 'Thank you. Go on.'

'During further questioning, the owner informed us that the deal was set up by a Belgian called Rebot - Jean Rebot.' He saw Suchard wince at his atrocious accent. 'The Belgian apparently gave the order and Thurgood selected the goods. Rebot also made a down-payment of one thousand in cash. And it shows on the books. Rather as though, on this one deal, they wanted everything to be absolutely above-board. Later, the stuff was collected in a van by a tall blond man. Didn't give a name, just showed the receipts.'

Suchard's eyes were half-closed with thought. 'And Thurgood?'

'No trouble. We traced him to a service-flat near Gloucester Road tube station. I have the address here. Four men, two cars outside, and one man booked into an adjacent room. And all Port Authorities have been alerted, of course.'

'What have you got on him otherwise?'

'He has form. And a medical record. Violent, psychotic. After being tossed out of the RAF, he ran amok in a restaurant in Leicester - got a meat-cleaver from the kitchen and chopped up a few tables, then a.s.saulted a police officer. He was given a two-year suspended sentence, on condition that he underwent regular medical treatment. Didn't finish the course. Hopped over to Canada where he got into trouble carrying a gun. Three months ago he arrived back here. We picked him up a couple of weeks later, on grounds that he'd broken the conditions stipulated by the Leicester Court. His flat was searched and two clips of .38 Magnum ammunition found, but no gun. He was charged, and the magistrate granted bail for five hundred. Case adjourned twice, still pending.' 'Ye G.o.ds.' Suchard had crossed over and freshened his drink. 'And they talk about law and order. Who stood bail?'

'The Belgian gentleman - Rebot.'

Suchard settled back in his chair. 'Yes. I like that.' He sipped his drink.

'And I suppose a high-powered lawyer popped up and tied the magistrate into knots?'

'One of the best, Vincent Colgrave.'

Suchard bared his teeth. 'I see. The Sea-Green Incorruptible himself.

Specialist in international law. My G.o.d, somebody must have slipped him a packet to have him run round clearing up after a nut like Thurgood! At least it proves they look after their employees - providing they toe the line, of course. What else?'

Muncaster turned his long snout down towards his notes. 'The lab are through with the Range-Rover. Covered in Thurgood's prints. But contrary to what Mason originally stated, Thurgood isn't the owner. We traced it to an outfit in Bayswater, called "Overland Motors". It was hired eight days ago. The girl there remembers it well - mostly because the man paid in cash, new twenties, two weeks in advance. Tall blond man, British driving licence, though the girl thought he had a slight accent. The licence was in the name of Dirk Roger Peters.'

Suchard closed his eyes again and nodded. 'I'm still listening.'

Muncaster had Peters' file with him, prepared over several years by the Special Branch. He had emigrated to South Africa in 1957 and had trained as a pilot, while retaining his British pa.s.sport. Ten years ago he was caught having illicit intercourse with a Zulu girl - a crime that was compounded by the fact that he had also indulged his tastes by lacerating her. Despite his British nationality, he was sentenced to a flogging and two years' jail. He had then left the White Republic and signed on as an instructor to the new Air Forces of several Black African governments.

He was known to have committed at least two political murders in Africa; and the Dutch police had arrested him a couple of years ago at Schipol Airport, Amsterdam, on suspicion of smuggling arms. West German Intelligence, the END, had also marked him down as 'surveillance worthy', so far without result. The Italians had no record of him. But the fact that Peters might be too grand for Baader-Meinhof or the Red Brigades gave Muncaster little comfort.

'And we've checked on Ritchie,' he continued. 'He doesn't live in the Barbican, as Mason reported, but has a luxury flat down in Albert Docks. Seems to have plenty of money to splash around. He's a minority share-holder in his company, "Come Fly with Me", which operates out of Lydd. The majority holdings are in Lichtenstein, under the name of Jean Rebot, Belgian nationality.'

Suchard breathed softly and smiled. 'Very neat. Almost too neat for comfort.

Any form?'

'I was hoping that you'd be able to help out there, sir. Your people must have taken the file.'

'The file?'

'From CRO. A couple of young chaps came in and helped themselves to it nearly a month ago".' Muncaster's joke was toneless. 'Usual accreditation - had theMet. jumping to attention. Not good for morale, sir, if you'll permit the comment.'

'I see.' Suchard took a quick sip at his drink. He saw only too well: the sort of small, tiresome misunderstanding between the department and the boys in blue which could so easily lead to an embarra.s.sing break-down in relations.

But worse, it meant that somebody in the department had nearly a month's start on him, and wasn't letting on. Muncaster would know that too. Suchard didn't like playing blind-man's buff any more than did the regular police. 'So you've got nothing on Ritchie?' he added. 'I did make a few inquiries, sir. Whoever it was even took the trouble to wipe the computer at the Peel Centre, Hendon.