Czytaj książkę: «The Enemy»
DESMOND BAGLEY
The Enemy
COPYRIGHT
HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk
First published in Great Britain by Collins 1977
Copyright © Brockhurst Publications 1977
Cover layout design Richard Augustus © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2017
Desmond Bagley asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins ebooks
Source ISBN: 9780008211295
Ebook Edition © JULY 2017 ISBN: 9780008211301
Version: 2018-02-16
CONTENTS
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
The Enemy
Dedication
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Thirty-One
Thirty-Two
Thirty-Three
Thirty-Four
Thirty-Five
Thirty-Six
Thirty-Seven
Thirty-Eight
Thirty-Nine
Forty
About the Author
By the Same Author
About the Publisher
THE ENEMY
DEDICATION
To all the DASTards
especially
Iwan and Inga
Jan and Anita
Hemming and Annette
ONE
I met Penelope Ashton at a party thrown by Tom Packer. That may be a bit misleading because it wasn’t the kind of party that gets thrown very far; no spiked punch or pot, and no wife-swapping or indiscriminate necking in the bedrooms at two in the morning. Just a few people who got together over a civilized dinner with a fair amount of laughter and a hell of a lot of talk. But it did tend to go on and what with Tom’s liberal hand with his after-dinner scotches I didn’t feel up to driving, so when I left I took a taxi.
Penny Ashton came with Dinah and Mike Huxham; Dinah was Tom’s sister. I still haven’t worked out whether I was invited as a makeweight for the odd girl or whether she was brought to counterbalance me. At any rate when we sat at table the sexes were even and I was sitting next to her. She was a tall, dark woman, quiet and composed in manner and not very forthcoming. She was no raving beauty, but few women are; Helen of Troy may have launched a thousand ships but no one was going to push the boat out for Penny Ashton, at least not at first sight. Not that she was ugly or anything like that. She had a reasonably good figure and a reasonably good face, and she dressed well. I think the word to describe her would be average. I put her age at about twenty-seven and I wasn’t far out. She was twenty-eight.
As was usual with Tom’s friends, the talk ranged far and wide; Tom was a rising star in the upper reaches of the medical establishment and he was eclectic in his choice of dining companions and so the talk was good. Penny joined in but she tended to listen rather than talk and her interjections were infrequent. Gradually I became aware that when she did speak her comments were acute, and there was a sardonic cast to her eye when she was listening to something she didn’t agree with. I found her spikiness of mind very agreeable.
After dinner the talk went on in the living-room over coffee and brandy. I opted for scotch because brandy doesn’t agree with me, a circumstance Tom knew very well because he poured one of his measures big enough to paralyse an elephant and left the jug of iced water convenient to my elbow.
As is common on these occasions, while the dinner-table conversation is general and involves everybody, after dinner the party tended to split into small groups, each pursuing their congenial arguments and riding their hobby-horses hard and on a loose rein. To my mild surprise I found myself opting for a group of two – myself and Penny Ashton. I suppose there were a dozen of us there, but I settled in a corner and monopolized Penny Ashton. Or did she monopolize me? It could have been six of one and half-a-dozen of the other; it usually is in cases like that.
I forget what we talked about at first but gradually our conversation became more personal. I discovered she was a research biologist specializing in genetics and that she worked with Professor Lumsden at University College, London. Genetics is the hottest and most controversial subject in science today and Lumsden was in the forefront of the battle. Anyone working with him would have to be very bright indeed and I was suitably impressed. There was a lot more to Penny Ashton than met the casual eye.
Some time during the evening she asked, ‘And what do you do?’
‘Oh, I’m someone in the City,’ I said lightly.
She got that sardonic look in her eye and said reprovingly, ‘Satire doesn’t become you.’
‘It’s true!’ I protested. ‘Someone’s got to make the wheels of commerce turn.’ She didn’t pursue the subject.
Inevitably someone checked his watch and discovered with horror the lateness of the hour, and the party began to break up. Usually the more congenial the party the later the hour, and it was pretty late. Penny said, ‘My God – my train!’
‘Which station?’
‘Victoria.’
‘I’ll drop you,’ I said and stood up, swaying slightly as I felt Tom’s scotch. ‘From a taxi.’
I borrowed the telephone and rang for a taxi, and then we stood around making party noises until it arrived. As we were driven through the brightly-lit London streets I reflected that it had been a good evening; it had been quite a while since I’d felt so good. And it wasn’t because of the quality of Tom’s booze, either.
I turned to Penny. ‘Known the Packers long?’
‘A few years. I was at Cambridge with Dinah Huxham – Dinah Packer she was then.’
‘Nice people. It’s been a good evening.’
‘I enjoyed it.’
I said, ‘How about repeating it – just the two of us? Say, the theatre and supper afterward.’
She was silent for a moment, then said, ‘All right.’ So we fixed a time for the following Wednesday and I felt even better.
She wouldn’t let me come into the station with her so I kept the taxi and redirected it to my flat. It was only then I realized I didn’t know if she was married or not, and I tried to remember the fingers of her left hand. Then I thought I was a damned fool; I hardly knew the woman so what did it matter if she was married or not? I wasn’t going to marry her myself, was I?
On the Wednesday I picked her up at University College at seven-fifteen in the evening and we had a drink in a pub near the theatre before seeing the show. I don’t like theatre crush bars; they’re too well named. ‘Do you always work as late as this?’ I asked.
She shook her head. ‘It varies. It’s not a nine-to-five job, you know. When we’re doing something big we could be there all night, but that doesn’t happen often. I laboured tonight because I was staying in town.’ She smiled. ‘It helped me catch up on some of the paperwork.’
‘Ah; the paperwork is always with us.’
‘You ought to know; your job is all paperwork, isn’t it?’
I grinned. ‘Yes; shuffling all those fivers around.’
So we saw the show and I took her to supper in Soho and then to Victoria Station. And made another date for the Saturday.
And, as they say, one thing led to another and soon I was squiring her around regularly. We took in more theatres, an opera, a couple of ballets, a special exhibition at the National Gallery, Regent’s Park Zoo, something she wanted to see at the Natural History Museum, and a trip down the river to Greenwich. We could have been a couple of Americans doing the tourist bit.
After six weeks of this I think we both thought that things were becoming pretty serious. I, at least, took it seriously enough to go to Cambridge to see my father. He smiled when I told him about Penny, and said, ‘You know, Malcolm, you’ve been worrying me. It’s about time you settled down. Do you know anything about the girl’s family?’
‘Not much,’ I admitted. ‘From what I can gather he’s some sort of minor industrialist. I haven’t met him yet.’
‘Not that it matters,’ said my father. ‘I hope we’ve gone beyond snobberies like that. Have you bedded the girl yet?’
‘No,’ I said slowly. ‘We’ve come pretty close, though.’
‘Um!’ he said obscurely, and began to fill his pipe. ‘It’s been my experience here at the college that the rising generation isn’t as swinging and uninhibited as it likes to think it is. Couples don’t jump bare-skinned into a bed at the first opportunity – not if they’re taking each other seriously and have respect for each other. Is it like that with you?’
I nodded. ‘I’ve had my moments in the past, but somehow it’s different with Penny. Anyway, I’ve known her only a few weeks.’
‘You remember Joe Patterson?’
‘Yes.’ Patterson was head of one of the departments of psychology.
‘He reckons the ordinary man is mixed up about the qualities he wants in a permanent partner. He once told me that the average man’s ideal wife-to-be is a virgin in the terminal stages of nymphomania. A witticism, but with truth in it.’
‘Joe is a cynic.’
‘Most wise men are. Anyway, I’d like to see Penny as soon as you can screw up your courage. Your mother would have been happy to see you married; it’s a pity about that.’
‘How are you getting on, Dad?’
‘Oh, I rub along. The chief danger is of becoming a university eccentric; I’m trying to avoid that.’
We talked of family matters for some time and then I went back to London.
It was at this time that Penny made a constructive move. We were in my flat talking over coffee and liqueurs; she had complimented me on the Chinese dinner and I had modestly replied that I had sent out for it myself. It was then that she invited me to her home for the weekend. To meet the family.
TWO
She lived with her father and sister in a country house near Marlow in Buckinghamshire, a short hour’s spin from London up the M4. George Ashton was a widower in his mid-fifties who lived with his daughters in a brick-built Queen Anne house of the type you see advertised in a fullpage spread in Country Life. It had just about everything. There were two tennis-courts and one swimming-pool; there was a stable block converted into garages filled with expensive bodies on wheels, and there was a stable block that was still a stable block and filled with expensive bodies on legs – one at each corner. It was a Let’s-have-tea-on-the-lawn sort of place; The-master-will-see-you-in-the-library sort of place. The good, rich, upper-middle-class life.
George Ashton stood six feet tall and was thatched with a strong growth of iron-grey hair. He was very fit, as I found out on the tennis-court. He played an aggressive, hard-driving game and I was hard put to cope with him even though he had a handicap of about twenty-five years. He beat me 5–7, 7–5, 6–3, which shows his stamina was better than mine. I came off the court out of puff but Ashton trotted down to the swimming-pool, dived in clothed as he was, and swam a length before going into the house to change.
I flopped down beside Penny. ‘Is he always like that?’
‘Always,’ she assured me.
I groaned. ‘I’ll be exhausted just watching him.’
Penny’s sister, Gillian, was as different from Penny as could be. She was the domestic type and ran the house. I don’t mean she acted as lady of the house and merely gave the orders. She ran it. The Ashtons didn’t have much staff; there were a couple of gardeners and a stable girl, a house-man-cum-chauffeur called Benson, a full-time maid and a daily help who came in for a couple of hours each morning. Not much staff for a house of that size.
Gillian was a couple of years younger than Penny and there was a Martha and Mary relationship between them which struck me as a little odd. Penny didn’t do much about the house as far as I could see, apart from keeping her own room tidy, cleaning her own car and grooming her own horse. Gillian was the Martha who did all the drudgery, but she didn’t seem to mind and appeared to be quite content. Of course, it was a weekend and it might have been different during the week. All the same, I thought Ashton would get a shock should Gillian marry and leave to make a home of her own.
It was a good weekend although I felt a bit awkward at first, conscious of being on show; but I was soon put at ease in that relaxed household. Dinner that evening, cooked by Gillian, was simple and well served, and afterwards we played bridge. I partnered Penny and Ashton partnered Gillian, and soon I found that Gillian and I were the rabbits. Penny played a strong, exact and carefully calculated game, while Ashton played bridge as he played tennis, aggressively and taking chances at times. I observed that the chances he took came off more often than not, but Penny and I came slightly ahead at the end, although it was nip and tuck.
We talked for a while until the girls decided to go to bed, then Ashton suggested a nightcap. The scotch he poured was not in the same class as Tom Packer’s but not far short, and we settled down for a talk. Not unexpectedly he wanted to know something about me and was willing to trade information, so I learned how he earned his pennies among other things. He ran a couple of manufacturing firms in Slough producing something abstruse in the chemical line and another which specialized in high-impact plastics. He employed about a thousand men and was the sole owner, which impressed me. There are not too many organizations like that around which are still in the hands of one man.
Then he enquired, very politely, what I did to earn my bread, and I said, ‘I’m an analyst.’
He smiled slightly. ‘Psycho?’
I grinned. ‘No – economic. I’m a junior partner with McCulloch and Ross; we’re economic consultants.’
‘Yes, I’ve heard of your crowd. What exactly is it that you do?’
‘Advisory work of all sorts-market surveys, spotting opportunities for new products, or new areas for existing products, and so on. Also general economic and financial advice. We do the general dogsbodying for firms which are not big enough to support their own research group. ICI wouldn’t need us but a chap like you might.’
He seemed interested in that. ‘I’ve been thinking of going public,’ he said. ‘I’m not all that old, but one never knows what may happen. I’d like to leave things tidy for the girls.’
‘It might be very profitable for you personally,’ I said. ‘And, as you say, it would tidy up the estate in the event of your death – make the death duties bit less messy.’ I thought about it for a minute. ‘But I don’t know if this is the time to float a new issue. You’d do better to wait for an upturn in the economy.’
‘I’ve not entirely decided yet,’ he said. ‘But if I do decide to go public then perhaps you can advise me.’
‘Of course. It’s exactly our line of work.’
He said no more about it and the conversation drifted to other topics. Soon thereafter we went to bed.
Next morning after breakfast – cooked by Gillian – I declined Penny’s invitation to go riding with her, the horse being an animal I despise and distrust. So instead we walked where she would have ridden and went over a forested hill along a broad ride, and descended the other side into a sheltered valley where we lunched in a pub on bread, cheese, pickles and beer, and where Penny demonstrated her skill at playing darts with the locals. Then back to the house where we lazed away the rest of the sunny day on the lawn.
I left the house that evening armed with an invitation to return the following weekend, not from Penny but from Ashton. ‘Do you play croquet?’ he asked.
‘No, I don’t.’
He smiled. ‘Come next weekend and I’ll show you how. I’ll have Benson set up the hoops during the week.’
So it was that I drove back to London well contented.
I have given the events of that first weekend in some detail in order to convey the atmosphere of the place and the family. Ashton, the minor industrialist, richer than others of his type because he ran his own show; Gillian, his younger daughter, content to be dutifully domestic and to act as hostess and surrogate wife without the sex bit; and Penny the bright elder daughter, carving out a career in science. And she was bright; it was only casually that weekend I learned she was an MD although she didn’t practise.
And there was the money. The Rolls, the Jensen and the Aston Martin in the garages, the sleek-bodied horses, the manicured lawns, the furnishings of that beautiful house – all these reeked of money and the good life. Not that I envied Ashton – I have a bit of money myself although not in the same class. I mention it only as a fact because it was there.
The only incongruity in the whole scene was Benson, the general factotum, who did not look like anyone’s idea of a servant in a rich household. Rather, he looked like a retired pugilist and an unsuccessful one at that. His nose had been broken more than once in my judgement, and his ears were swollen with battering. Also he had a scar on his right cheek. He would have made a good heavy in a Hammer film. His voice clashed unexpectedly with his appearance, being soft and with an educated accent better than Ashton’s own. I didn’t know what to make of him at all.
Something big was apparently happening in Penny’s line of work that week, and she rang to say she would be in the laboratory all Friday night, and would I pick her up on Saturday morning to take her home. When she got into the car outside University College she looked very tired, with dark smudges under her eyes. ‘I’m sorry, Malcolm,’ she said. ‘This won’t be much of a weekend for you. I’m going to bed as soon as I get home.’
I was sorry, too, because this was the weekend I intended to ask her to marry me. However, this wasn’t the time, so I grinned and said, ‘I’m not coming to see you – I’m coming for the croquet.’ Not that I knew much about it – just the bit from Alice and an association with vicars and maiden ladies.
Penny smiled, and said, ‘I don’t suppose I should tell you this, but Daddy says he can measure a man by the way he plays croquet.’
I said, ‘What were you doing all night?’
‘Working hard.’
‘Doing what? Is it a state secret?’
‘No secret. We transferred genetic material from a virus to a bacterium.’
‘Sounds finicky,’ I remarked. ‘With success, I hope.’
‘We won’t know until we test the resulting strain. We should know something in a couple of weeks; this stuff breeds fast. We hope it will breed true.’
What I knew about genetics could be measured with an eye-dropper. I said curiously, ‘What good does all this do?’
‘Cancer research,’ she said shortly, and laid her head back, closing her eyes. I left her alone after that.
When we got to the house she went to bed immediately. Other than that the weekend was much the same as before. Until the end, that is – then it changed for the worse. I played tennis with Ashton, then swam in the pool, and we had lunch on the lawn in the shade of a chestnut tree, just the three of us, Ashton, Gillian and me. Penny was still asleep.
After lunch I was introduced to the intricacies of match-play croquet and, by God, there was a vicar! Croquet, I found, is not a game for the faint-hearted, and the way the Reverend Hawthorne played made Machiavelli look like a Boy Scout. Fortunately he was on my side, but all his tortuous plotting was of no avail against Gillian and Ashton. Gillian played a surprisingly vicious game. Towards the end, when I discovered it’s not a game for gentlemen, I quite enjoyed it.
Penny came down for afternoon tea, refreshed and more animated than she had been, and from then on the weekend took its normal course. Put down baldly on paper, as I have done here, such a life may be considered pointless and boring, but it wasn’t really; it was a relief from the stresses of the working week.
Apparently Ashton did not get even that relief because after tea he retired to his study, pleading that he had to attend to paperwork. I commented that Penny had complained of the same problem, and he agreed that putting unnecessary words on paper was the besetting sin of the twentieth century. As he walked away I reflected that Ashton could not have got where he was by idling his time away playing tennis and croquet.
And so the weekend drifted by until it was nearly time for me to leave. It was a pleasant summer Sunday evening. Gillian had gone to church but was expected back at any moment; she was the religious member of the family – neither Ashton nor Penny showed any interest in received religion. Ashton, Penny and I were sitting in lawn chairs arguing a particularly knotty point in scientific ethics which had arisen out of an article in the morning newspaper. Rather, it was Penny and her father doing the arguing; I was contemplating how to get her alone so I could propose to her. Somehow we had never been alone that weekend.
Penny was becoming a little heated when we heard a piercing scream and then another. The three of us froze, Penny in mid-sentence, and Ashton said sharply, ‘What the devil was that?’
A third scream came. It was nearer this time and seemed to be coming from the other side of the house. By this time we were on our feet and moving, but then Gillian came into sight, stumbling around the corner of the house, her hands to her face. She screamed again, a bubbling, wordless screech, and collapsed on the lawn.
Ashton got to her first. He bent over her and tried to pull her hands from her face, but Gillian resisted him with all her strength. ‘What’s the matter?’ he yelled, but all he got was a shuddering moan.
Penny said quickly, ‘Let me,’ and gently pulled him away. She bent over Gillian who was now lying on her side curled in a foetal position, her hands still at her face with the fingers extended like claws. The screams had stopped and were replaced by an extended moaning, and once she said, ‘My eyes! Oh, my eyes!’
Penny forced her hand to Gillian’s face and touched it with her forefinger, rubbing gently. She frowned and put the tip of her finger to her nose, then hastily wiped it on the grass. She turned to her father. ‘Take her into the house quickly – into the kitchen.’
She stood up and whirled towards me in one smooth motion. ‘Ring for an ambulance. Tell them it’s an acid burn.’
Ashton had already scooped up Gillian in his arms as I ran to the house, brushing past Benson as I entered the hall. I picked up the telephone and rang 999 and then watched Ashton carry his daughter through a doorway I had never entered, with Penny close behind him.
A voice said in my ear, ‘Emergency services.’
‘Ambulance.’
There was a click and another voice said immediately, ‘Ambulance service.’ I gave him the address and the telephone number. ‘And your name, sir?’
‘Malcolm Jaggard. It’s a bad facial acid burn.’
‘Right, sir; we’ll be as quick, as we can.’
As I put down the phone I was aware that Benson was staring at me with a startled expression. Abruptly he turned on his heel and walked out of the house. I opened the door to the kitchen and saw Gillian stretched on a table with Penny applying something to her face. Her legs were kicking convulsively and she was still moaning. Ashton was standing by and I have never seen on any man’s face such an expression of helpless rage. There wasn’t much I could do there and I’d only be in the way so I closed the door gently.
Looking through the big window at the far end of the hall, I saw Benson walking along the drive. He stopped and bent down, looking at something not on the drive but on the wide grass verge. I went out to join him and saw what had attracted his attention; a car had turned there, driving on the grass, and it had done so at speed because the immaculate lawn had been chewed up and the wheels had gouged right down to the soil.
Benson said in his unexpectedly gentle voice, ‘As I see it, sir, the car came into the grounds and was parked about there, facing the house. When Miss Gillian walked up someone threw acid in her face here.’ He pointed to where a few blades of grass were already turning brown. ‘Then the car turned on the grass and drove away.’
‘But you didn’t see it.’
‘No, sir.’
I bent and looked at the wheel marks. ‘I think this should be protected until the police get here.’
Benson thought for a moment. ‘The gardener made some hurdles for the new paddock. I’ll get those.’
‘That should do it,’ I agreed.
I helped him bring them and we covered the marks. I straightened as I heard the faint hee-haw of an ambulance, becoming louder as it approached. That was quick – under six minutes. I walked back to the house and rang 999 again.
‘Emergency services.’
‘The police, please.’
Click. ‘Police here.’
‘I want to report a criminal assault.’
THREE
They got Gillian into the ambulance very quickly. Penny used her authority as a doctor and went into the ambulance with her, while Ashton followed in a car. I judged he was in no condition to drive and was pleased to see Benson behind the wheel when he left.
Before he went I took him on one side. ‘I think you ought to know I’ve sent for the police.’
He turned a ravaged face towards me and blinked stupidly. ‘What’s that?’ He seemed to have aged ten years in a quarter of an hour.
I repeated what I’d said, and added, ‘They’ll probably come while you’re still at the hospital. I can tell them what they need to know. Don’t worry about it. I’ll stay here until you get back.’
‘Thanks, Malcolm.’
I watched them drive away and then I was alone in the house. The maid lived in, but Sunday was her day off, and now Benson had gone there was no one in the house but me. I went into the living-room, poured myself a drink and lit a cigarette, and sat down to think of just what the hell had happened.
Nothing made sense. Gillian Ashton was a plain, ordinary woman who lived a placid and unadventurous life. She was a homebody who one day might marry an equally unadventurous man who liked his home comforts. Acid-throwing wasn’t in that picture; it was something that might happen in Soho or the murkier recesses of the East End of London – it was incongruous in the Buckinghamshire countryside.
I thought about it for a long time and got nowhere. Presently I heard a car drive up and a few minutes later I was talking to a couple of uniformed policemen. I couldn’t tell them much; I knew little about Gillian and not much more about Ashton and, although the policemen were polite, I sensed an increasing dissatisfaction. I showed them the tracks and one of them stayed to guard them while the other used his car radio. When I looked from the window a few minutes later I saw he had moved the police car so he could survey the back of the house.
Twenty minutes later a bigger police gun arrived in the person of a plain clothes man. He talked for a while with the constable in the car, then walked towards the house and I opened the door at his knock. ‘Detective-Inspector Honnister,’ he said briskly. ‘Are you Mr Jaggard?’
‘That’s right. Won’t you come in?’
He walked into the hall and stood looking around. As I closed the door he swung on me. ‘Are you alone in the house?’
The constable had been punctilious about his ‘sirs’ but not Honnister. I said, ‘Inspector, I’m going to show you something which I shouldn’t but which, in all fairness to yourself, I think you ought to see. I’m quite aware my answers didn’t satisfy your constable. I’m alone in Ashton’s house, admit to knowing hardly anything about the Ashtons, and he thinks I might run away with the spoons.’
Honnister’s eyes crinkled. ‘From the look of it there’s a lot more to run away with here than spoons. What have you to show me?’
‘This.’ I dug the card out of the pocket which my tailor builds into all my jackets and gave it to him.
Honnister’s eyebrows rose as he looked at it. ‘We don’t get many of these,’ he commented. ‘This is only the third I’ve seen.’ He flicked at the plastic with his thumbnail as he compared me with the photograph. ‘You realize I’ll have to test the authenticity of this.’
‘Of course. I’m only showing it to you so you don’t waste time on me. You can use this telephone or the one in Ashton’s study.’
‘Will I get an answer this time on Sunday?’
I smiled. ‘We’re like the police, Inspector; we never close.’
I showed him into the study and it didn’t take long. He came out within five minutes and gave me back the card. ‘Well, Mr Jaggard; got any notions on this?’
I shook my head. ‘It beats me. I’m not here in a professional capacity, if that’s what you mean.’ From his shrewd glance I could see he didn’t believe me, so I told of my relationship with the Ashtons and all I knew of the attack on Gillian which wasn’t much.
He said wryly, ‘This is one we’ll have to do the hard way, then – starting with those tracks. Thank you for your co-operation, Mr Jaggard. I’d better be getting on with it.’
I went with him to the door. ‘One thing, Inspector; you never saw that card.’
He nodded abruptly and left.
Ashton and Penny came back more than two hours later. Penny looked as tired as she had the previous morning, but Ashton had recovered some of his colour and springiness. ‘Good of you to stay, Malcolm,’ he said. ‘Stay a little longer – I want to talk to you. Not now, but later.’ His voice was brusque and he spoke with authority; what he had issued was not a request but an order. He strode across the hall and went into the study. The door slammed behind him. I turned to Penny. ‘How’s Gillian?’
‘Not very good,’ she said sombrely. ‘It was strong acid, undiluted. Who would do such a barbarous thing?’
‘That’s what the police want to know.’ I told her something of my conversation with Honnister. ‘He thinks your father might know something about this. Does he have any enemies?’
‘Daddy!’ She frowned. ‘He’s very strong-minded and single-minded, and people like that don’t go through life without treading on a few toes. But I can’t think he’d make the kind of enemy who would throw acid into his daughter’s face.’
Somehow I couldn’t, either. God knows some funny things go on in the economic and industrial jungles, but they rarely include acts of gratuitous violence. I turned as Benson came out of the kitchen carrying a tray on which were a jug of water, an unopened bottle of whisky and two glasses. I watched him go into the study then said, ‘What about Gillian?’
Penny stared at me. ‘Gillian!’ She shook her head in disbelief. ‘You’re not suggesting Gillian could make that kind of enemy? It’s preposterous.’
It was certainly unlikely but not as impossible as Penny thought. Quiet homebodies have been known to lead exotic and secret lives, and I wondered if Gillian had done anything else on her shopping trips into Marlow besides buying the odd pound of tea. But I said tactfully, ‘Yes, it’s unlikely.’
As I helped Penny get together a scratch meal she said, ‘I tried to neutralize the acid with a soda solution, and in the ambulance they had better stuff than that. But she’s in the intensive care unit at the hospital.’
We had rather an uncomfortable meal, just the two of us because Ashton wouldn’t come out of the study, saying he wasn’t hungry. An hour later, when I was wondering if he’d forgotten I was there, Benson came into the room. ‘Mr Ashton would like to see you, sir.’
‘Thank you.’ I made my excuses to Penny and went into the study. Ashton was sitting behind a large desk but rose as I entered. I said, ‘I can’t tell you how sorry I am that this awful thing should have happened.’
He nodded. ‘I know, Malcolm.’ His hand grasped the whisky bottle which I noted was now only half full. He glanced at the tray, and said, ‘Be a good chap and get yourself a clean glass.’
‘I’d rather not drink any more this evening. I still have to drive back to town.’
He put down the bottle gently and came from behind the desk. ‘Sit down,’ he said, and thus began one of the weirdest interviews of my life. He paused for a moment. ‘How are things with you and Penny?’
I looked at him consideringly. ‘Are you asking if my intentions are honourable?’
‘More or less. Have you slept with her yet?’
That was direct enough. ‘No.’ I grinned at him. ‘You brought her up too well.’
He grunted. ‘Well, what are your intentions – if any?’
‘I thought it might be a good idea if I asked her to marry me.’
He didn’t seemed displeased at that. ‘And have you?’
‘Not yet.’
He rubbed the side of his jaw reflectively. ‘This job of yours – what sort of income do you make out of it?’
That was a fair question if I was going to marry his daughter. ‘Last year it was a fraction over £8000; this year will be better.’ Aware that a man like Ashton would regard that as chickenfeed I added, ‘And I have private investments which bring in a further £11,000.’
He raised his eyebrows. ‘You still work with a private income?’
‘That £11.000 is before tax,’ I said wryly, and shrugged. ‘And a man must do something with his life.’
‘How old are you?’
Thirty-four.’
He leaned back in his chair and said musingly, ‘£8000 year isn’t bad – so far. Any prospects of advancement in the firm?’
‘I’m bucking for it.’
He then asked me a couple of questions which were a damned sight more personal than digging into my finances but, again, in the circumstances they were fair and my answers seemed to satisfy him.
He was silent for a while, then he said, ‘You could do better by changing your job. I have an opening which is ideal for a man like yourself. Initially you’d have to spend at least one year in Australia getting things off the ground, but that wouldn’t hurt a couple of youngsters like you and Penny. The only trouble is that it must be now – almost immediately.’
He was going too fast for me. ‘Hold on a moment,’ I protested. ‘I don’t even know if she’ll marry me.’
‘She will,’ he said positively. ‘I know my daughter.’
He evidently knew her better than I did because I wasn’t nearly so certain. ‘Even so,’ I said. ‘There’s Penny to consider. Her work is important to her. I can’t see her throwing it up and going to Australia for a year just like that. And that’s apart from anything I might think about the advisability of making a change.’
‘She could take a sabbatical. Scientists do that all the time.’
‘Maybe. Frankly, I’d need to know a lot more about it before making a decision.’
For the first time Ashton showed annoyance. He managed to choke it down and disguise it, but it was there. He thought for a moment, then said in conciliatory tones, ‘Well, a decision on that might wait a month. I think you’d better pop the question, Malcolm. I can fix a special licence and you can get married towards the end of the week.’ He tried to smile genially but the smile got nowhere near his eyes which still had a hurt look in them. ‘I’ll give you a house for a dowry – somewhere in the South Midlands, north of London.’
It was a time for plain speaking. ‘I think you’re going a bit too fast. I don’t see the necessity for a special licence. In fact, it’s my guess that Penny wouldn’t hear of it, even if she does agree to marry me. I rather think she’d like to have Gillian at the wedding.’
Ashton’s face crumpled and he seemed about to lose what little composure he had. I said evenly. ‘It was always in my mind to buy a house when I married. Your offer of a house is very generous, but I think the kind of house it should be – and where it should be – are matters for Penny and me to decide between us.’
He stood up, walked to the desk, and poured himself a drink. With his back to me he said indistinctly, ‘You’re right, of course. I shouldn’t interfere. But will you ask her to marry you – now?’
‘Now! Tonight?’
‘Yes.’
I stood up. ‘Under the circumstances I consider that entirely inappropriate, and I won’t do it. Now, if you’ll forgive me, I have to go back to town.’
He neither turned nor made an answer. I left him there and closed the study door quietly behind me. I was at a loss to understand his driving insistence that Penny and I should marry quickly. That, and the offer of the job in Australia, had me worried. If this was the way he engaged his staff, not to mention picking a son-in-law, I was surprised how he’d got to where he was.
Penny was telephoning when I entered the hall. She replaced the receiver and said, ‘I’ve been talking to the hospital; they say she’s resting easier.’
‘Good! I’ll be back tomorrow evening and we’ll go to see her. It might make her feel better to have someone else around, even a comparative stranger like me.’
‘I don’t know if that’s a good idea,’ said Penny, doubtfully. ‘She might be … well, self-conscious about her appearance.’
‘I’ll come anyway and we can decide then. I have to go now – it’s late.’ She saw me to my car and I kissed her and left, wondering what kind of bee was buzzing in Ashton’s bonnet.
FOUR
Next morning, when I walked into the office I shared with Larry Godwin, he looked up from the Czechoslovakian trade magazine he was reading and said, ‘Harrison wants to see you.’ Harrison was our immediate boss.
‘Okay.’ I walked straight out again and into Harrison’s office, sat in the chair before the desk, and said, ‘Morning, Joe. Larry said you wanted to see me.’
Harrison was a bit of a stuffed shirt, very keen on formality, protocol and the line of authority. He didn’t like me calling him Joe, so I always did it just to needle him. He said stiffly, ‘On checking the weekend telephone log I found you had disclosed yourself to a police officer. Why?’
‘I was at a house-party over the weekend. There was a nasty incident – one of the daughters of the house had acid thrown in her face. She was taken to hospital and, when the police pitched up, I was alone in the house and they started to get off on the wrong foot. I didn’t want them wasting time on me, so I disclosed myself to the officer in charge.’
He shook his head disapprovingly and tried to hold me in what he supposed to be an eagle-like stare. ‘His name?’
‘Detective-Inspector Honnister. You’ll find him at the cop-shop in Marlow.’ Harrison scribbled in his desk book, and I leaned forward. ‘What’s the matter, Joe? We’re supposed to co-operate with the police.’
He didn’t look up. ‘You’re not supposed to disclose yourself to all and sundry.’
‘He wasn’t all and sundry. He was a middle-ranking copper doing his job and getting off to a bad start.’
Harrison raised his head. ‘You needn’t have done it. He would never seriously suspect you of anything.’
I grinned at him. The way you tell it co-operation is a one-way street, Joe. The cops co-operate with us when we need them, but we don’t co-operate with them when all they need is a little setting straight.’
‘It will be noted in your record.’ he said coldly.
‘Stuff the record,’ I said, and stood up. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me I have work to do.’ I didn’t wait for his permission to leave and went back to my office.
Larry had switched to something in Polish. ‘Have a good weekend?’
‘A bit fraught. Who’s pinched our Who’s Who?’
He grinned. ‘What’s the matter? Wouldn’t she play?’ He fished out Who’s Who from among the piles of books which cluttered his desk and tossed it to me. Our job called for a lot of reading; when I retired I’d be entitled to a disability pension due to failing eyesight incurred in the line of duty.
I sat at my desk and ran through the ‘A’s and found that Ashton was not listed. There are not many men running three or more factories employing over a thousand men who are not listed in Who’s Who. It seemed rather odd. On impulse I took the telephone directory and checked that, and he was not listed there, either. Why should Ashton have an ex-directory number?
I said, ‘Know anything about high-impact plastics, Larry?’
‘What do you want to know?’
‘A chap called Ashton runs a factory in Slough making the stuff. I could bear to know a little more about him.’
‘Haven’t heard of him. What’s the name of the firm?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You don’t know much. There might be a trade association.’
‘Great thinking.’ I went to our library and an hour later knew there were more associations of plastics manufacturers than I wotted of – there was even one devoted to high-impact plastics – but none of them had heard of George Ashton. It seemed unnatural.
Gloomily I went back to my office. It’s a hard world where a man can’t check up on his prospective father-in-law. Ashton, as of that moment, knew a hell of a lot more about me than I knew about him. Larry saw my face and said, ‘No luck?’
‘The man keeps a bloody low profile.’
He laughed and waved his hand across the room. ‘You could ask Nellie.’
I looked at Nellie and grinned. ‘Why not?’ I said lightly, and sat at the console.
You don’t have to cuddle up to a computer to ask it questions – all you need is a terminal, and we called ours Nellie for no reason I’ve ever been able to determine. If you crossed an oversized typewriter with a television set you’d get something like Nellie, and if you go to Heathrow you’ll see dozens of them in the booking hall.
Where the computer actually was no one had bothered to tell me. Knowing the organization that employed me, and knowing a little of what was in the monster’s guts, I’d say it was tended by white-coated acolytes in a limestone cavern in Derbyshire, or at the bottom of a Mendip mineshaft; anywhere reasonably safe from an atomic burst. But, as I say, I didn’t really know. My crowd worked strictly on the ‘need to know’ principle.
I snapped a couple of switches, pushed a button, and was rewarded by a small green question mark on the screen. Another button push made it ask:
IDENTIFICATION?
I identified myself – a bit of a complicated process – and Nellie asked:
CODE?
I answered:
GREEN
Nellie thought about that for a millionth of a second, then came up with:
INPUT GREEN CODING
That took about two minutes to put in. We were strict about security and not only did I have to identify myself but I had to know the requisite code for the level of information I wanted.
Nellie said:
INFORMATION REQUIRED?
I replied with:
IDENTITY
MALE
ENGLAND
The lines flicked out as Nellie came back with:
NAME?
I typed in:
ASHTON, GEORGE
It didn’t seem to make much difference to Nellie how you put a name in. I’d experimented a bit and whether you put in Percy Bysshe Shelley – Shelley, Percy Bysshe – or even Percy Shelley, Bysshe – didn’t seem to matter. Nellie still came up with the right answer, always assuming that Bysshe Shelley, Percy was under our eagle eye. But I always put the surname first because I thought it would be easier on Nellie’s overworked little brain.
This time she came up with:
ASHTON, GEORGE – 3 KNOWN
PRESENT ADDRESS – IF KNOWN?
There could have been two hundred George Ashtons in the country or maybe two thousand. It’s a common name and not surprising that three should be known to the department. As I typed in the address I reflected that I was being a bit silly about this. I tapped the execute key and Nellie hesitated uncharacteristically. Then I had a shock because the cursor scrolled out:
THIS INFORMATION NOT AVAILABLE ON CODE GREEN TRY CODE YELLOW
I looked pensively at the screen and tapped out:
HOLD QUERY
Dancing electronically in the guts of a computer was a whole lot of information about one George Ashton, my future father-in-law. And it was secret information because it was in Code Yellow. I had picked up Larry Godwin on a joke and it had backfired on me; I hadn’t expected Nellie to find him at all – there was no reason to suppose the department was interested in him. But if he had been found I would have expected him to be listed under Code Green, a not particularly secretive batch of information. Practically anything listed under Code Green could have been picked up by an assiduous reading of the world press. Code Yellow was definitely different.
I dug into the recesses of my mind for the coding of yellow, then addressed myself to Nellie. ‘Right, you bitch; try again!’ I loaded in the coding which took four minutes, then I typed out:
RELEASE HOLD
Nellie’s screen flickered a bit and the cursor spelled out:
THIS INFORMATION NOT AVAILABLE ON CODE YELLOW TRY CODE RED
I took a deep breath, told Nellie to hold the query, then sat back to think about it. I was cleared for Code Red and I knew the information there was pretty much the same as the code colour – redhot! Who the hell was Ashton, and what was I getting into? I stood up and said to Larry, ‘I’ll be back in a minute. Don’t interfere with Nellie.’
I took a lift which went down deep into the guts of the building where there lived a race of troglodytes, the guardians of the vaults. I presented my card at a tungsten-steel grille, and said, ‘I’d like to check the computer coding for red. I’ve forgotten the incantation.’
The hard-faced man behind the grille didn’t smile. He merely took the card and dropped it into a slot. A machine chewed on it for a moment, tasted it electronically, and liked the flavour but, even so, spat it out. I don’t know what would have happened if it hadn’t liked the flavour; probably I’d have been struck down by a bolt of lightning. Strange how the real world is catching up with James Bond.
The guard glanced at a small screen. ‘Yes, you’re cleared for red, Mr Jaggard,’ he said, agreeing with the machine. The grille swung open and I passed through, hearing it slam and lock behind me. ‘The coding will be brought to you in Room Three.’
Half an hour later I walked into my office, hoping I could remember it all. I found Larry peering at Nellie. ‘Do you have red clearance?’ I asked.
He shook his head. ‘Yellow is my top.’
‘Then hop it. Go to the library and study Playboy or something elevating like that. I’ll give you a ring when I’m finished.’
He didn’t argue; he merely nodded and walked out. I sat at the console and loaded Code Red into Nellie and it took nearly ten minutes of doing the right things in the right order. I wasn’t entirely joking when I called it an incantation. When faced with Nellie I was always reminded of the medieval sorcerers who sought to conjure up spirits; everything had to be done in the right order and all the right words spoken or the spirit wouldn’t appear. We haven’t made much progress since then, or not too much. But at least our incantations seem to work and we do get answers from the vasty deep, but whether they’re worth anything or not I don’t know.
Nellie accepted Code Red or, at least, she didn’t hiccough over it.
I keyed in:
RELEASE HOLD
and waited with great interest to see what would come out. The screen flickered again, and Nellie said:
THIS INFORMATION NOT AVAILABLE ON CODE RED TRY CODE PURPLE
Purple! The colour of royalty and, possibly, of my face at that moment. This was where I was stopped – I was not cleared for Code Purple. I was aware it existed but that’s about all. And beyond purple there could have been a whole rainbow of colours visible and invisible, from infrared to ultra-violet. As I said, we worked on the ‘need to know’ principle.
I picked up the telephone and rang Larry. ‘You can come back now; the secret bit is over.’ Then I wiped Nellie’s screen clean and sat down to think of what to do next.
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