him first? 'But . . . who are you, Mr Mitchell? And what are you?' All he could do to soothe that unaccountable pain was to hug his own small secret close. 'And why were you following me?' Mitchell drove in silence, still frowning.
Another question occurred to Ian, rather belatedly in view of its importance. 'Where are we going?'
This time the man grinned. 'To meet Miss Fielding-ffulke —
right?'
That was a nasty piece of logic. 'Why should I want to do that?'
'Oh, come on, Mr Robinson! You've got a lot to tell her. And she's probably got a lot to tell you. Plus what Messrs Tully and Buller have rooted out of the dirt.' The grin faded. 'And now we both need to see her rather urgently don't you think, eh?'
The man didn't know about Reg Buller. But then how—?
'Come on, man!' Mitchell lost some of his cool. Those friends of yours back there — they went away smartly enough when they saw me. But that was only because I wasn't expected, and MacManus doesn't like the unexpected — not when it's a gun pointing at him. He didn't want a shoot-out, he was just paid for you, Mr Robinson. But ... he isn't going to go away forever: he still wants his money. Or ... if not him, then there'll be someone else.'
It was simple, really: Combat Jacket had been the unexpected for Check Coat and Grey Suit. But Check Coat dummy2
and Grey Suit had also been the unexpected for Combat Jacket: the borrowed shot-gun, the empty borrowed shotgun — told all. God!
'What are you, Mr Mitchell? Special Branch? Or Security?'
Ian saw a motorway sign ahead, offering them London or the West.
'I'm the man who's just lost one of his nine lives on your behalf, Mr Ian Robinson.' Mitchell fumbled in his pocket.
'Which way? London, I presume?'
Away in the gathering murk ahead of them Ian saw innumerable rushing headlights on the M25. Which way?
'It could be a forgery, of course.' Mitchell waited as Ian studied the identification folder. It didn't tell him much more than he'd already guessed, and he'd seen others like it. 'But then ... if it was, you could already be dead, Mr Robinson.
Because, by asking all those clever questions of yours, about Philip Masson and David Audley, you seem to have raised the Devil himself between you. Only it seems that the Devil wants you, instead of David, doesn't he?'
They were approaching the slip roads' junction.
'London — yes,' said Ian.
6
Ian could never penetrate the labyrinth of Islington without remembering the Monopoly game he had been given on his dummy2
eighth birthday, and his father, whose present it had been: Dad had been nutty about place-names (among so many other things), and Islington had been his own very first purchase, where the dice had transported his little silver car
—
' "The Angel, Islington" — buy it, boy! Buy it! Although there aren't many angels in Islington these days, I fear . . . No —
the "tun" of the "Eslingas" once, it would have been ... the people of some minor North Saxon chieftain, "Elsa" by name . . . Funny that: "Essex" for the East Saxons, "Sussex"
for the South Saxons, and "Wessex" the biggest — the West Saxons. And even "Middlesex" for the Middle Saxons. But no
"Nossex", eh? Maybe they were Angles there — "Angels", maybe — ?' (Dad had thought about that for a moment, then had got up from the game and gone to his study, to 'look it up' as was his disruptive custom; and Mum had cried out
' Eddie! Come back! We're playing a game — and it's your throw!' and looked at Ian despairingly; and Dad had shouted back, from far away and quite unrepentant, ' Only be a minute, dear! Must look it all up. Because knowledge is power and power is knowledge — always set an example —
only be a minute, dear!'; and then, after a full eternity of five minutes, had returned shaking his head at Ian, as he usually did.) ' No angels in Islington, that I can find. But— lots of the opposite — bad men in Pentonville Gaol, and wicked women in Holloway, my lad . . . And, frankly, I wouldn't rate the dummy2
Polytechnic much higher — I expect the police patrol in pairs there too, at night. . . But you buy it, Ian — '
And a sad-sweet memory of Mum and Dad followed on from that: they had never seen his smart Hampstead flat, or his Vitesse (still parked in Lower Buckland). But, in any case, Dad would have enjoyed his reference library more, and Mum would have loved meeting Lady Fielding-ffulke and the Honourable Jennifer, however much they would also have terrified her.
But now — now ... he wished Dad had been right, and that there had been numerous pairs of large Metropolitan policemen flexing their knees on every street corner as Paul Mitchell nosed the silver Volvo into the lucky space outside Abdul the Damned's tandoori restaurant.
But now — now ... he had to trust Combat Jacket — just as Combat Jacket was trusting him not to scuttle away into the rain-swept half-light when he had the chance, instead of guiding him into the space.
'Am I all right — ?' Mitchell poked his head out of the driver's window.
'You've got another two feet — left hand down — right!' There were people here, whom he could see — unlike those he hadn't seen in Lower Buckland, even when they'd been there; but he had to trust Mitchell's confidence in their safety, just as Mitchell was trusting him. 'Steady!'
dummy2
'Phew!' Mitchell locked the car, and then turned on its burglar-alarm. 'Bloody great big tank!' He grinned at Ian.
'Not mine, you understand? But marvellously unobtrusive in the commuter belt — all the wives have got 'em to take the kids to schooclass="underline" and the dogs, wherever they take the dogs.' He looked round, up and down the street with deceptive casualness. 'Ah! There's a phone-box! If it's unvandalized, then I'll phone in from here. You go on in, Ian — be my John the Baptist with Her Ladyship — okay?' The blue neon light advertising Abdul's tandoori delights illuminated his face diabolically. Tell it the way you do in your books, straight from the shoulder — the way it was — okay?'
He didn't want to like Paul Mitchell, for all that they seemed to have Mrs Frances Fitzgibbon in common. But there was something in the man which called out to him, which he couldn't add up, but which came to him across their conflicting interests. And it wasn't just that Mitchell had saved his life — indeed, it wasn't that at all; because that had been duty, so that counted for nothing. But . . . there was something else —
'There's a phone inside, Mr Mitchell.' He indicated Abdul's restaurant.
'Uh-huh?' The street received another up-and-down look.
'You call me "Paul", and I'll call you "Ian" — remember?'
Mitchell came back to him. 'If we're on Christian name terms we can exchange home-truths without insulting each other, I always think: "Fuck-off, Paul" is so much more friendly than dummy2
"No, Mr Mitchell" — eh?' The dark-blue lips curled fiendishly. 'Okay, Ian?'
The curry-smell recalled the street outside Mrs Champeney-Smythe's boarding-house too vividly for him to return the devilish grin. And Mitchell didn't wait for his agreement, in any case.
Then the smell engulfed him, as he opened the door.
And there was little Mr Malik himself, smiling with his own infectious humour and balanced on the balls of his feet like a boxer waiting for him.