The second item was the deposition of a Leading Seaman Campbell who was charged with being drunk and disorderly while on shore leave from Bisley in Milford Haven. He was also accused of discussing, in a manner prejudicial to security and the safety of his ship, the sweep from which Bisley had just returned. After three days on board twiddling his thumbs, Campbell explained that he was disgruntled and resentful, but had not intended to breach the strict security under which he had carried out his recent duties. He claimed to be unaware of the level of security.
He referred, in his deposition, to the breach that had been found in Winnie's Welcome Mat — McBride had been puzzled by the soubriquet until Campbell had referred to it more properly later in his statement. And then he had indulged his delight. A German sweep of the minefield, recently carried out, running north-south between Ireland and France.
McBride, the evening closing in, cloudy and rain-threatening outside the windows, the unshaded lamp throwing a hard, dusty light on the papers and the table, wanted to leave at once, be with Claire as his just reward for successful industry. Evidence of Emerald Necklace — he could open up the whole can of worms with it. He looked around him, and swiftly pocketed the deposition, then closed the file. Hoskins could return it. Hoskins, something about Hoskins—
He grinned. He was seeing links everywhere. It was a popular history, a best-seller he was writing, not the scheme of some mystic philosophy. He laughed, picked up his briefcase, and left.
Outside, Hoskins was watching for him. When McBride headed for the station at London Fields and disappeared from sight in the rainy evening, Hoskins entered the telephone booth beside which he had been sheltering. He arranged his ten pence pieces on the directory, wrinkled his nose at the graffiti scrawled on the small mirror in felt pen, and dialled a number. The hotel switchboard put him through to the room he requested.
"Yes?" It was Goessler.
"He's found something — probably Campbell's deposition, or something like it. Pleased as Punch, he is."
"Good. You've made an approach?"
"Yes. He didn't seem to hear me, though."
"Never mind. Tomorrow will do, Hoskins. Tell him in plainer terms, eh?" Goessler laughed. "Well done, Hoskins. Report on any further progress at the same time tomorrow."
The connection was broken. The telephone purred in Hoskins" ear, and despite his umbrella and trilby, a thin dribble of water which must have lodged in his hair ran down his collar, much to his annoyance.
Gilliatt was dog-tired, the adrenalin having seemingly vanished from his bloodstream, taking energy, willpower, consciousness with it. He watched the map, in the mesmeric pool of torchlight, move in and out of focus, taunting his eyes. Villages, hamlets, no more than spots in front of his eyes—
He rubbed his eyes.
"You OK?"
"Mm, what? Oh, sure," Gilliatt replied, stretching his eyes, stifling a yawn. McBride smiled at him. They had crossed the river Penfeld north of Brest half an hour earlier. It was four in the morning and his own energy reserves seemed dangerously consumed. The weaving, backtracking course he had almost whimsically followed for two hours had thrown off all pursuit — they'd hidden in a stand of trees while their immediate pursuers had flashed by, headlights ablaze, the steel helmets of the platoon in the back of the Opel truck clearly visible. Then, back roads, tracks, lanes, moving north for some time away from Brest and any search or road-blocks, then cutting west. Now, McBride estimated they were no more than a few kilometres north of the fishing village of Ste Anne-du-Portzic, where Lampau's relative, a fisherman, lived. It was time to abandon the van. Gilliatt looked all but finished, out on his feet. But McBride was satisfied with his companion, and this caused him to nudge the other man's arm, and grin.
"Come on, Christopher Robin, almost time for bed."
Gilliatt smiled tiredly. "Where are we?"
"On a very minor road — why am I telling you, you've got the map?" McBride laughed. "Marshy country. We get rid of the van here."
Gilliatt concentrated afresh on the map. "We're some where off the D105, I think." McBride's finger tapped at the map on Gilliatt's knee.
"Just there."
He jolted the van on down the narrow, hedged track for a time, then slowed and tugged on the handbrake. The hedge had given way to open, dyke-like country, almost Dutch. The track was slightly above the level of the fields. McBride got out of the van, and was chilled immediately by the cold, searching wind. Dead reeds rattled eerily below the road. Gilliatt joined him, rubbing his hands together.
"Great country."
"For us, yes. Just tip the old wagon over the side of the road — have to use the headlights for a bit. Shame, that—"
They got back in the van, and McBride switched on the lights. A pale wash of light showed dead reeds, a few spindly trees lining the road at intervals, and the flat marshland smoothly sliding away into darkness. In another minute, McBride stopped again, the van turned so that its nose was at the edge of the road. Below the lights were reeds and bushes, and a dull gleam of water.
"Right, over the side with the old lady."
They got behind the van, and heaved against it. Slowly, with a dignified reluctance, the Citroen toppled nose first down the embankment, tearing through the bushes and reeds, splashing into the water, then settling. McBride shone a torch down the embankment. The Citroen seemed impossibly small, toy-like. It was half-concealed by the bushes, and buried up to the windscreen in marshy water.
"Just some cosmetic work, I think," McBride murmured. "You stay here."
McBride eased himself down the embankment until he could rest his weight against the branch of a bush. Then, removing his clasp-knife from his pocket, he proceeded to cut handfuls of reeds, and scatter them across the rear of the Citroen which now pointed up the embankment. Then he broke a large overhanging branch of the bush, pulling at it until it also helped to conceal the van. Breathing heavily, he clambered back to join Gilliatt.
"Will that do?"
"Have to. Probably no one but a local would find it anyway. And in twenty-four hours, we should be well on our way. Either that, or the discovery of the van won't matter all that much. Come on, we've got a nice walk before you climb into your own little bed again." McBride laughed, thumping Gilliatt on the back.
"Proper caution you are," Gilliatt said in stage-Cockney.
"I am that. You have to admit, with me there's never a dull moment, eh?"
"Too many dull moments would finish you off, would they?"
The wind whistled across the marsh, the reeds argued volubly in the silence before McBride answered.
"That question might be a little too close to the mark, Peter. I think we'll pass on that one, eh?" He increased his pace. "Come on, otherwise we'll have the local cowmen out for early milking and wondering who we are!"
Gilliatt trotted to catch up with him.
McBride was having a shower, whistling tunelessly and happily to himself. Claire Drummond could hear him through the open door between their rooms as she liberally applied talcum powder to herself after her bath. Her hair was tied up with a ribbon, her face devoid of make-up. Her high cheekbones and slanting eyes seemed peculiarly suited to her look of concentration and suppressed anger. Her pale skin was further whitened by powder. She looked, even to herself, curiously dead, marbled, in the dressing-table mirror. She slipped on her robe, feeling suddenly cold. The sexual bout with McBride after he had shown her what he had filched from Hackney had taken a tiring, wearing concentration to achieve the calculated, simulated abandon which seemed required. McBride's rutting was thoughtless, self-satisfied, and he had noticed no reluctance — she was cautiously certain of that.