That's the sort of thing that makes one curious. But the DS have a separate file. They've had Ritchie in twice for questioning in connection with drug-smuggling from the Continent. Soft stuff, apparently. Customs stripped his plane down a couple of years ago when he did a forced landing near Dungeness. He was clean that time. Of course, without the file, I can't tell you about the other times.'

Suchard stroked his jaw. Muncaster, in his nice polite way, was certainly not sparing him. 'What about the Barbican?'

'The only flat to fit Mason's description - the Penthouse, Coleridge Tower - was taken five weeks ago on a six months' lease by the same Jean Rebot.

According to the porter, the lessee was a small, dark, foreign-looking man, expensively dressed, very generous with tips, smelled of perfume.'

'What a lovely witness! I don't suppose you're a gambling man, are you, Cyril?

Any odds on our Rebot also being John Newby?'

'No bets.'

'Right. This Newby-Rebot is the bird we want. Only don't forget to stick to the others like clams. Check the Pa.s.sport Office and Immigration, and have them go through their files until they find him. I don't care how much they squeal about overtime. I want him by tomorrow morning. 'And watch the Barbican - though it's my guess he only uses it occasionally, for meetings. If they've got any suspicions that Mason's talked, they'll keep well away. In fact, they'll probably be preparing to scatter. That's what makes speed imperative.

'Newby sounds as though he prefers the fast life in one of the big hotels.

Check them all. Check casinos, private gaming-clubs all the night-spots - anywhere that a smart, flashy little cosmopolitan picaroon might like to spread his loot. Smart wh.o.r.es, ''cheap tarts, ma.s.sage-parlours, S/M, gays, kids, the lot - we don't know his tastes. And drugs. Concentrate on the top people, pushers and the nostril-gentry. Leave no stone, Cyril. Only I don't want the courts choc-a-bloc next week and the press yelling that it's the biggest vice-putsch since the Night of the Long Knives. So don't trip over too many feet, and don't go breaking anybody's arms. But find him.'

Six.

Ex-Flight-Lieutenant Oswald Thurgood had kept all day to his flat, except for a brief sortie to a nearby pizza-house. He had received no visitors.

Jim Ritchie had been followed to a restaurant in the West End, where he had been accompanied by a coloured girl; he had returned to his flat and had not gone out since. Muncaster stirred the weak office coffee and turned to the report on John Newby, alias Rebot, or vice versa. The Board of Trade had referred inquiries to Kensington and Chelsea Chamber of Commerce. Newby owned two shops, in High Street Kensington and the Kings Road, both specializing in women's underwear - one called 'Knickers Galore', the other 'More Knickers Galore'. Most of his stock was imported from France.

Criminal Records had drawn a blank, both on Newby and Rebot; but the Vice Squad had had their eye on him for some time. At least a couple of s.m.u.t-shops, with film clubs at the back, both registered in the name of Newby, British subject. But they didn't tell Muncaster anything else, except that they had never heard of Rebot.

Muncaster, of course, knew that Suchard hadn't told him the half of it: but either something was up - something really big - or it would come down and land smack in his lap, like a lead balloon. They weren't merciful, his masters. If he didn't turn out the goods on this one, he might even have to forgo that seaside bungalow on retirement. Somewhere up north instead - a place where you had to wipe the grime off the lettuce-leaves with a dishcloth.

He was going after every sc.r.a.p, every crumb and t.i.tbit. If necessary he'd find out what sort of shoes Newby wore,' where he had his clothes made; whether he suffered from nerves, took pills; s.e.xual tastes; did he drink, suffer from constipation, claustrophobia, fear of uniforms?

Find him. Find the little b.a.s.t.a.r.d, then go grovelling to Golden Boy Suchard and await his judicious decision on whether to pounce or not. Tie up a murder case, that was Muncaster's job. He had no time for international politics. The FO might get sweaty hands thinking about half-a-dozen British subjects being recruited for tinpot dictators we all have to be nice to, and even give money to, because they happen to be black or brown. Maybe they were even part of the Commonwealth. And by Jimmy, you couldn't have British mercenaries upsetting our Commonwealth brethren - and having them recruited right under our noses, to boot.

Steady Muncaster. Keep your mind on the job. If there's got to be any international rough stuff, leave that to the Hooray Henries in the SAS. Nice and low-key. Remember they've got Colgrave on the payroll. That meant even a psychopathic killer like Thurgood commanded respect.

The telex began to mutter against the wall. Nothing from the four clearing banks; trying Coutts and h.o.a.re, the fringe houses and the internationals, particularly Belgian, Swiss and French. And the new Arab banks. The credit card firms had also drawn a blank. And the Revenue boys still hadn't come through, lazy sods. Though he hardly imagined John Newby to be a model tax-payer.

One of the outside phones was ringing. Sixty-four hotels so far, without result. Why couldn't the British use the registered card system, like they did on the Continent? We were in the Common Market, weren't we, and they regulated the size of our apples and what went into our icecream? Why did they have to leave a gaping hole when it came to registering international crooks like Newby? The man could have checked in as Harold Macmillan or t.i.tus Gates, for all they cared.

Nothing from any of the hospitals, and the Harley Street boys weren't giving anything away; nor were the big clinics, private nursing-homes, or the nice little hole-in-the-wall, well-laundered clip-joints where they fed you pillslike sweets and charged a hundred pounds a night. So he didn't apparently suffer from corns, trich.o.m.onas or withdrawal symptoms.

Of course, the task was made longer and no easier - much time and effort expended, many awkward questions asked and apologies offered - by the fact that there were many Newbys, and quite a few Rebots; though none of them matched the known facts, even on sus.

Check all car rentals. Another blank. And nothing from the Swansea Folly - Vehicle Registration and Driving Licences - either for Newby or Rebot. Or rather, not the right ones.

But the man couldn't just disappear. Or could he? After all, he could have two dozen aliases, for all they knew, and the moment he got just a sniff of suspicion, he'd shuffle pa.s.sports and redeal.

Muncaster stared through the hard white neon, at the clipboard of the duty-roster, the filing cabinets, rows of telephones, battered typewriters.

Six-forty pm. Sandwiches and more coffee. It looked like being a long night.

There was also a call out for Peters. Hotels, rooming-houses, banks, car-rentals. Same routine, same results. A man like that would almost certainly be operating under an alias too: though Petty France confirmed that he had retained his British pa.s.sport under his own name, and had renewed it for ten years, three years ago. All sea and airports were looking out for him, but so far nothing.

Thurgood was still safely holed up in his Gloucester Road service-flat; and young Jim Ritchie was still apparently dandling his black lady on his knee, in his s.p.a.cious pad in dockland.

Yet time must be getting tight for them. They'd obviously been worried that Mason would talk, though they couldn't possibly have known how much or to whom. And even if Thurgood had tripped up on that roundabout and had to dump the car in a hurry, they still didn't sound the sort of people who could be panicked that easily. Too much money already invested, too much at stake.

At 1.20 Muncaster put on his coat and went out to the local for a quick pint.

When he got back fifteen minutes later, his deputy came up to him and said, 'We've got a line at last, sir. Newby. Seems to fit.'

Muncaster s.n.a.t.c.hed the telex from the officer's hand. Remus Club, Cheval Place, Knightsbridge.

'It's a gaming club, sir. High cla.s.s, very discreet. Mostly Arabs. One of the Special Branch men occasionally gets a whisper, from one of the waiters.'

'Is it clean?'

'As a whistle, sir. Not a chance of a raid. We'd have to break off diplomatic relations with half of OPEC if we did.'

'Forgive my ignorance,' Muncaster said, with muted sarcasm: 'I'm not very well up in these circles. How often does Newby use the place?'

'He drops in most evenings - early. Doesn't usually stay long, but plays high, with cash.'

'Any idea where he hangs out?' 'Not without twisting their arm, sir. But he's booked in this evening - dinner for one, eleven-thirty. They eat late in those places.'

Muncaster had already picked up two telephones. His deputy made the call to Special Branch, Addison direct, while Muncaster used the scrambler to Suchard.

He was out of course, no answer. Call Dealey at the Department and leave an urgent message: it didn't matter where the b.a.s.t.a.r.d was, get him!

Muncaster began to relax. Once they had Newby, the rest should be simple. As long as they played it long and slow. Everything according to the book. One tiny loophole, and Vincent Colgrave would be through it like a snake.

The phone purred by the bed. Simon de Vere Suchard leant out and answered it.

The Minister's voice was thick and rather slow; he'd won last night's debate by a cat's whisker and had obviously been enjoying himself.

'They've found Newby,' Suchard said. 'The SB are staking him out now. We may not have anything positive until after midnight.' He went on to describe his call from Muncaster. Beside him the girl slid closer, curling up her legs and pulling his free hand over her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, down across her belly. He began to manipulate her, gently, skilfully.

The Minister's voice was a small bark through the darkened room. 'Good man, that Muncaster. Wouldn't think it to look at him, but he's obviously as smart as two aces back-to-back.'

'He's turned out all right,' Suchard said, through a yawn. The girl trembled and wriggled her head on the pillow.

'Those two boats, Suchard - the Dolphin, and whatever the other one's called?'

'The Delphinia and the Ilios, sir.'

'Any news?'

'Nothing. We've got the Italians and Greeks working on it, for what that's worth, and we've circulated the report to all friendly navies. I'm sticking to my original theory - that they simply painted out the names, paid the crews off and changed masters. They could be sitting anywhere by now. But my original hunch still stands - Tripoli, Libya. Gaddafi's just the lad to offer big money to a handful of b.u.m contract pilots. The question is, what for?' The girl twisted her head and muttered, 'Ah, comme tu parles!' She drew her legs up further, tucking his agile hand deeper between her thighs, 'If it's Gaddafi,' said the Minister, 'then we're not going to get much b.l.o.o.d.y change out of the Italians or Greeks. They get most of their oil from the b.a.s.t.a.r.d! I still prefer the Lebanon - a PLO job running guns. Heavy stuff. And there's plenty of trouble in Turkey, and Cyprus. Not to mention Iran. That's within range of one o' those planes, isn't it?'

'Oh yes. Even Afghanistan, at a pinch.'

's.h.i.t.'

'You pays your money, you takes your pick, sir.'

'Don't get cheeky with me, Simon. Personally I'm sorely tempted to dump the whole b.l.o.o.d.y business into the lap of the Americans. After all, they sold the planes in the first place - let them run around picking up the bits. Just as long as we don't get the pilots being recruited over here to fly the things -for whatever dirty reason is behind all this.' He paused.

'So what do we do with Newby, sir?'

There was another pause. 'All right, pull him in. But absolutely routine. I leave it to you and Muncaster how you As long as you don't c.r.a.p on my doorstep. And remember, Colgrave will try and get the SB's scalp, so they'll have to have their wits about them.'

'I'll call you as soon as I have any news.' Suchard hung up. The girl shivered against him: 'Ah mon cheri, j'ai joui, j'ai joui!'

Just before one am the unmarked patrol car at the corner of Montpelier Square reported: 'Subject leaving now. Driving Lancia. No pa.s.sengers.'

Muncaster nodded. All according to the book. Earlier that evening the Lancia had been traced to an exclusive hire-car firm in Mayfair who had rented it to a blond man giving his name as Dirk Peters. Address, the Penthouse, Coleridge Tower, The Barbican. Payment by cash, in advance.

All Muncaster had to do now was sit and wait for the word from Lucan Place.

Seven.

Rawcliff had begun drinking as soon as he got to the shop that morning, and by lunchtime he was stinking. Toby Hyde-Smith, with commendable presence of mind, put him to rest on the sofa in the upstairs office, and at five o'clock judged him sober enough to go home, by taxi instead of in his car.

His wife was cooking their baby son's supper. She gave him a fixed stare across the kitchen. 'You look awful. A mess.' She turned, tossing fish-fingers into the pan.

'Hair of the dog,' Rawcliff said thickly. 'Touch of the Dutch courage, if you prefer it. You know that Wellington's sc.u.m-of-the-earth fought at 'Waterloo half-drunk?'

'So what's going to be your Waterloo?' She spoke without looking at him. 'Or have your new gangster friends let you down? No lovely Swiss francs in the kitty for Mummy and Tom? Is that what's worrying you?'

Rawcliff sat down at the table and raked his hair with his fingers. Tom had biscuit all over his face and was grinning at him. Rawcliff grinned back, like a mask; then stood up unsteadily and went over to the cooker. His wife took a step back: 'Don't come near me! Have a bath and shave and clean yourself up.'

'I was just going to make myself some coffee.'

'There isn't any. Remember, you were supposed to buy some this morning.'

He stood clenching and unclenching his fists, looking at the sizzling pan and the soft white nape of Judith's neck. Tom must have sensed something, because he began to cry.

'There you are, you've upset him,' his wife said. 'And he's hardly seen you for two days. By the way there's a telegram for you. I left it in the hall.' 'Thanks for telling me.' He went over and wiped Tom's face and made his Batman gesture, flapping his arms and swooping down over him, and the child burbled with delight. "Back in a moment,' he called and went out to the hall.

The telegram had a red border, international. He snapped it open. Dateline Geneva, 11.00 Swiss time. The message was addressed, prosaically, to CHARLES JAMES RAWCLIFF; the rest was largely gibberish. Rawcliff had no mind for figures, and monetary matters were as obscure to him as hieroglyphics carved in ancient stone. There was the figure of 3.75 i4 , which his dull mind just managed to guess was the current rate of the Swiss franc against the pound; then an astronomical figure, well over 37,525.00, in figures and letters, followed by some convoluted telegramese which he slowly deciphered as meaning that the money would be at his disposal on presentation of his person, equipped with a valid pa.s.sport. The signature was the name of the bank, which was one he had never heard of.

His mouth was dry. He needed a beer, to steady him. He took the telegram back into the kitchen, where Judith was feeding Tom his rice while the fish-fingers cooled. He said nothing, just handed her the flimsy piece of paper. She read it abruptly, frowning. 'Well, you're in it now, aren't you,' was all she said.

He stood by the door, focusing unevenly on her as she coaxed the food into Tom's little mouth. 'Don't you want to celebrate?' he said.'I can open up the shop and get a bottle of the best. That telegram means ten thousand quid, you realize that?'

'I realize that you've had quite enough already. As for the money, you haven't earned it yet.'

'Oh come on, love -'

'Don't love me, Charlie Rawcliff!' she said savagely. 'The great flying-ace, the jet-age superman, all in blue with his gold braid and peaked cap, and half the air-hostesses in Europe lying with their legs open, just waiting for it!'

'You b.i.t.c.h. Don't bother about supper - I'm going out.' Tom began to cry again, watching them both fearfully.

'What do I do if that man calls back?'Judith shouted after him.

He stopped. 'What man? What call?'

'He phoned just after I got in. He didn't give a name. Said he'd call again at seven.'

'And no message, nothing? What sort of voice?'

'Ordinary, London voice, c.o.c.kney. n.o.body I know.'

'Probably somebody in the trade.'

'Then why didn't he ring you at the shop?'

'I don't know why he didn't ring me at the shop. Now for Christ's sake stop interrogating me! I'm going to the pub to have a couple of drinks, and I'll be back by seven.'

He" went out and slammed the door. His mind boggled with a furious, hopeless indecision. Events were carrying him along, destroying all initiative,probably destroying his marriage. If he couldn't handle his wife, how could he hope to handle Newby and Peters, let alone the people above and behind them?

And whoever they were, they certainly wouldn't appreciate it if he went dipping into their ten thousand quid deposit, without having put in even an hour's flying to deserve it.

The pub was a dank shabby place with no carpet and a juke-box and rows of Irish building-workers in knitted pixie-hats and overalls white with cement dust. Its one advantage was that it was near.

He' had a couple of pints of draught Guinness, with a whisky chaser, and felt stronger, but still not strong enough to deal with Judith and the delinquent Newby and the horrific temptation of that Swiss bank.

The clock over the bar said 6.50. But it was always ten minutes fast, as the Irish were slow when it came to drinking up time. And as he looked down the row of k.n.o.bbly, dust-caked proletarian faces, supping their drinks like pigs at a trough, he considered, if the worst came to the worst, that he could always slip one of them a few quid for a bed or a sofa in some decrepit back-room, and talk deformed history and poetry all night. The Irish kept themselves to themselves. Free from Judith, free from guilt, free from importuning telephone calls from international gangsters. Then he saw it.

The man beside him was reading the sports page of the Evening News. What caught his eye was a couple of inches on the front page: POLICE HUNT RAF PILOT'S KILLER Scotland Yard detectives were called in to hunt for a hit-and-run driver who fatally wounded RAF Flight-Lieutenant Terence Mason, aged 35, of Benson Airbase, Oxon.

The accident occurred on Monday night close to the airbase. Flight-Lieutenant Mason was. .h.i.t by a vehicle which failed to stop. He died a few hours later in the Radcliffe Infirmary, Oxford. Today Scotland Yard refused to comment on why they had been called in. A spokesman also refused to confirm or deny that foul play is suspected.

Rawcliff had never been directly responsible for anyone's death before. It gave him a horrible corrupt sense of self-importance, and at the same time an awareness of his own fragility. He was trembling, sweating, as he looked at the clock, which now said nearly seven. He left the pub so fast that several heads turned to stare at him; and he ran the two streets home. The Evening Standard was tucked into the letterbox. He wrenched it out tearing it and his hands were shaking so badly that he could hardly get the key into the door.

Judith was upstairs putting Tom to bed. He started to read the paper as he walked down the hall. It was there on the front page: an agency report, almost the same, word for word. Rawcliff knew little of the journalist's trade, but he could tell when news had been leaked, in drips, still leaving the reader thirsty. He guessed that the police knew a great deal more than they were letting on.