There would certainly have been reporters from all the local Yorkshire papers, taking down all the speeches whether they were important or not, and probably taking down the names of all the local dignitaries too — that was to be expected anywhere, and especially in Yorkshire, with its fierce local pride. And as Buller's Fleet Street friend had then been a reporter on one of those papers — which was it? But it hardly mattered, anyway — his presence at the ceremony was quite unremarkable. So why was Buller looking as though he'd made some great discovery?
Suddenly the light dawned. 'You mean ... he was at — the other place — where O'Leary was shot — ?'
' My man was there before any of the big ones' he remembered belatedly.
'Your chap . . . who's on The People now?'
'That's right.' Buller stared at him. 'He was at Thornervaulx.'
So there was more. 'And — ?' He tried to look intelligent.
That's right.' For once Buller was deceived. ' He was there —
right?'
'He — ' This time the light was blinding. ' Audley — you're dummy2
sure — ?'
'Near enough. "Big ugly fellow — bit like a boxer . . . or a rugger player. Broken nose — that sort of thing." Pretty accurate description, actually. Because he did break his nose playing rugger, as it happens.'
'I thought you said he looked like a professor.'
'That's when he opens his mouth.' Buller amended his own description without shame. 'Take it from me, that's him right enough. No mistake.'
And that, of course, validated the bombed-university hypothesis, via the O'Leary connection. The security service must have been tipped off that O'Leary intended to assassinate the Northern Ireland Minister at the opening of the new library and the degree ceremony. They had foiled the bomb attempt, but it had been a close shave. And O'Leary himself had also escaped, only it had been a damn close shave for him, too: in fact, he hadn't really escaped — he'd simply broken out of the inner ring — ?
'How far is Thornervaulx from the University of Yorkshire, Reg?' He couldn't place Thornervaulx on his mental map: it was one of that famous concentration of ruined abbeys in the North ... Rievaulx, Jervaux, Byland, Fountains, Kirkstall and Thornervaulx: originally they'd all been in the wilds, and most of them still were, including Thornervaulx no doubt.
'Not far, as the crow flies. But you've got to go round the little roads, and up over the dale to reach it.' Buller had the facts at dummy2
his finger-tips, as usual. 'Takes a bit of finding.'
That fitted, too. With all the main roads blocked, O'Leary would have been forced off the beaten track, and had then been hunted down like the wild animal he was in the wilds.
'And your man was actually there.'
'Not at the shoot-out.' Buller nodded nevertheless. 'But within minutes of it — aye.'
Again, that wasn't impossible: a smart local reporter (and Reg Buller's contacts were always the smart ones) would have his friends in the Police, and could often be so well in with them as to be just behind them. 'And he saw Audley there — actually saw him?'
'He saw more than that.' Buller started winding the film forward again from the North Yorkshire bomb to the Thornervaulx gun battle, compressing the last long hunted hours of the 'Mad Dog' to ten blurred seconds. 'Or, rather, there were things that he didn't see, you might say.'
'What d'you mean — "didn't see"?'
Buller stopped the microfilm, and then adjusted the focus with maddening slowness until DEATH OF A MAD DOG
shouted at them again. Only then did he turn to Ian. 'It wasn't like that. That's not what happened.' He shook his head. Terry — let's call him "Terry". Because that's his name
— Terry didn't write it like that. He flogged 'em the story —
and for a small fortune too. Because he was the only one that was there. So all the other stories are based on his — or, dummy2
rather, what was made of his ... and the official statements, of course.' The big mouth twisted cynically. 'Which just happened to tally exactly, you see — the official statement . . .
and his edited story.' An eyebrow lifted in support of the mouth. 'Is that plain enough for you?'
'All too plain.' So somebody had got at the editor, Reg was saying. But that was a risky thing to do, they both knew.
Because contrary to left-wing received wisdom, the D-Notice people couldn't give orders. 'You're sure?'
'Oh yes.' Nod. 'He put that story out twice, Terry did. To his own paper first — the Northern Gazette ... an' then he re-wrote it, an' flogged it to them — ' He tapped the projected front page. ' — for the equivalent of two months' wages an'
the promise of a job with them.' Buller paused. 'So that story went to two newspapers independently, the way Terry wrote it ... just with a few slight differences. And it came out not how he wrote it, but with the same amendments. Okay?'
'Yes.' So it hadn't been some re-write man, or some sub-editor: someone had got at two editors. And that meant that someone had been very persuasive indeed, at the highest level. Because editors weren't nearly as easily persuaded (or bullied, or blackmailed) as the people also liked to think. 'So what really happened, Reg?'
'Ah . . .' Having at last arrived where he had always intended to be, Buller relaxed. And, having learnt a thing or two over the years about stage management, and man-management, Ian understood what was happening to him. But knowing dummy2
that was at least a quarter of the battle, if not half of it.
'I've read all this.' He gestured into the machine dismissively.
'And I'm thirsty. D'you know a good pub round here, Reg?'
'Round here?' Although it was an almost-insultingly silly question, Buller pretended to consider it briefly. 'I think . . .
yes, I think . . . there may be one just round the corner — ' He looked round the Newspapers and Periodicals room as though it might be conveniently signposted ' — just round the corner — yes. I think.'
'Yes?' It was time to assert himself — even though he was also actually thirsty. 'You bloody-knew, Reg — come on,then
— '
'So . . . what really happened, then?' As he drank thirstily he registered caution. Because this was Abbott beer, and more than two pints would put him into orbit round the planet, while Reg Buller wouldn't even have lift-off, never mind escape-velocity. And, judging by the barmaid's greeting, Reg Buller was an old and valued customer here, too.
' Ahhh . . .' Most of that was genuine satisfaction-and-relief, as Buller downed half his pint: the distant swirl of the pipes at Lucknow, the first sight of the sails of the relieving fleet before they broke the boom at the siege of Londonderry, the thunder of the hoofs of the US cavalry — all that, and Mafeking too, and Keats opening Chapman's Homer, and stout Cortez getting his first glimpse of the Pacific Ocean ...
dummy2
all that historic experience was relived when Reg Buller opened his throat at Opening Time. But that wasn't the end of Reg, it was only his beginning.
'It was accident, of course.' Buller wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
'Accident?' It wasn't that the man ever lied, when he was on the payroll; it was just that he always doled out the truth bit by bit, to keep the client eager for more. But then (and what made the technique bearable), more was usually worth the extra money in the end.
'Yes. Because . . . after that bomb went off, at the university, they didn't know their arse from their elbow. An' it wasn't this bloke who was a friend of Audley's — Colonel Butler . . .