at the side, Mr Buller — council regulations: orderly damn departure, no panic, one minute.' Then the little man stared at Buller. 'But then you go out the front again.' The stare became a frown. 'Nothing out front, my cousin says. But I send him out again, maybe — '
'No.' Buller shook his head. 'What's out back — gardens?'
'No gardens.' Matching shake. 'Back-yard — back wall. Damn great high back wall, broken glass on top. No back-way, Mr Buller, sir.'
'Back-way over bloody wall, mate.' This time Buller nodded.
'Got a ladder, then? An' a bit of sacking — ?' He grinned at Jenny. 'No problem.'
'Big problem.' Mr Malik shook his head. 'Other side — damn dummy2
railway line, Mr Buller.'
'Railway line? Fine! They keep telling us we should use the railway more often.' Buller sank his big nose into his glass.
'An' I got the car over the bridge down the road, by the cutting. If no one's nicked it.' He returned to Mr Malik.
'Ladder up the wall. An' plenty of sacking on top, over the glass, mind you . . . An' plenty of hot lime pickle an' chilli pickle with the special. An' some eatin' irons, just in case —
an' six bottles of Tiger, my lad. With an opener ... an' all on the Lady's slate — got that?' He advanced on Mr Malik as he spoke, shepherding him towards the door. 'Orderly damn departure — no panic — five minutes from now — ack-dum an' pip-emma — an' then no nasty questions for you, after . . .
see?'
As the door closed on the little man Reg Buller was already heading for the bar again. 'It's a nice motor, the BMW — very easy to drive.' He delivered this intelligence to Ian, over his shoulder. 'So you can drive it, then.' He studied the stock.
Troubles enough we got, without me bein' stopped by some little nipper in blue in the line of duty when we're doin' a bunk, before we can ditch it.' He cocked an eye at Jenny.
'They'll 'ave the number out soon enough. But I reckon we're safe until morning. An' you got your passports and Eurocheques with you, like always? You 'aven't changed your rules, since last time? 'Cause I don't want to 'ave to put those whiskers on again, an' chance my arm going back to your place, I tell you!'
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Ian looked at Jenny unhappily as he heard the odds being so casually raised through the roof in this appalling mathematical progression.
'Are you proposing that we flee the country, Mr Buller?' Even Jenny sounded a bit shaky at Buller's clearly implied proposition.
'Well, you don't want to stay to face the music, do you?' Self-released from the necessity of having to drive his — or the late John Tully's — 'nice motor' while far over the limit, Buller was helping himself to another beer and another chaser. 'You don't think that Mitchell's goin' to let you play games do you?' He poured the beer expertly, with a steady hand. '"P. L. Mitchell" — Doctor Paul Lefevre Mitchell, as ever was — "one of our foremost young military historians", no less — ' he held up the glass for inspection, and sniffed.
And then drank. And then looked at them both. "Ow the 'ell did you let him get on to you, then?' The look became accusing.
The look stung Ian. 'Mitchell saved my life this afternoon, Reg.'
' 'E did?' Another drink — another sniff. 'Or was 'e like the man who saved a maiden from a fate worse than death — 'e changed 'is mind?'
That was the maggot in the apple: it all depended on whether Mitchell was telling the truth. 'Does the name "MacManus"
mean anything to you, Reg, "Paddy MacManus" — ?'
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'Never 'card of 'im. But then I never 'card of Dr Paul Lefevre Mitchell 'till this morning. So that don't mean anything. So ...
who's he then, when he's at home? MacManus?'
'He's a contract killer, Mr Buller. Ex-IRA — ?' Jenny had seen the maggot too. 'So Paul Mitchell says.'
'Does he, now? Well ... he should know, I suppose.' As tell-tale as the maggot was Buller no longer dropping his aitches: the seriousness of their situation and the drink together reverting him momentarily to his more educated self.
'Mitchell . . . mmm . . .'
Ian looked at Jenny. 'He's a historian ... as well as—?'
'Oh, yes.' Buller fielded the question. 'And he's done time in Ireland, in Dublin. Watch by the Liffey — "A history of the Irish Guards in the Great War" . . . and I'll bet he wasn't just researching the Guards when he was watching the Liffey.' He looked at Ian. 'And then The Forgotten Victory — same war, but a different river. The Ancre, in France. But you can look at that in the car — and that's £14.95 on your bill, too.
"Necessary expense", that comes under. I had to buy the hardback.' Buller's features creased. 'How d'you think I recognized him? It's got his picture on the back flap. "P. L.
Mitchell", it says, for all to see.'
There was more to it than that. More in Buller's face than he could read — and more in everything Buller had said and done since he'd arrived. And more, not least — more most —
in his insistence on their using the 'back way' to leave the Taj Mahal.
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'"P. L. Mitchell", Reg—?'
'Funny that — putting his picture in.' Buller nodded. 'Like . . .
careless? But then, they're all a law unto themselves, they are, in "R & D". They make their own rules, it seems.'
'He's supposed to be finding a safe house for us at the moment, Reg.' Jenny had also been reading the signals. 'He said we weren't safe here.'
'He did?' Buller almost seemed preoccupied. 'Well, I'd say he's right there. If I thought of here . . . when you didn't go to your dad's place — as maybe you ought to have done . . .' He crossed over to the door and applied a big blunt finger to the bell, leaning on it unmercifully. 'He couldn't have touched you there.'
Ian didn't look at her. 'What d'you know about Mitchell that we don't know, Reg?' But then he looked at her. 'Or what do you know, Jen?' He struggled for an instant with his own knowledge. 'He's a colleague of Audley's — or maybe a friend, even?'
She was staring at Reg. 'He's up-and-coming — isn't he? Jack Butler and St John Latimer . . . isn't he one of their blue-eyed boys?' Now she turned to Ian. 'I rather think we should be flattered — or, you should be, anyway, darling: they put one of their top men on your tail today.'
' Huh!' Buller chased down the last of his beer with one hand, and then stabbed the bell again. "Top Gun" is more like it, Lady! Come on! Come on!' He edited his face as he returned dummy2
it to them. 'You'd think little Abdul 'ud be glad to see the back of us!' He gave Ian a mildly inquiring look. 'An' what
'appened to this Irish bloke — Paddy MacWhats-it — ? Did you actually set eyes on 'im, then?'
'Yes.' Where Jenny sweated, he felt cold, contrariwise. And now he was freezing. 'But only at a distance — '
'An' now 'e's playin' 'is Irish 'arp — like on the Guinness labels — ?' The inquiry became harder. 'But you don't look that scared, I must say!'
The door opened before Ian could reply, just as what Reg Buller was plainly implying and what had actually happened at Lower Buckland began to diverge confus-ingly, and Buller himself sprang away from it to one side, with surprising agility.
'Madam — ' Mr Malik addressed Jenny, and then flinched from Reg Buller as he became aware of him ' — Madam —
you come, eh?'
'We come.' Buller gestured at them both. 'Double quick, we come!' And double-quick, they came, with Reg Buller's urgency transmitting itself to them, into the warm happy curry-smells on the landing, and round the banisters, and down the stairs.
'Your coat, sir — your hat . . . your — ' The false whiskers baffled Mr Malik ' — Mr Buller, sir — !'