On target!
"And it suits me now to remind you that I am in charge here
—"
Shoot!
"—and you are absolutely free to telephone your Chief Constable if you have any doubts about that."
The two men stared across the hall at each other.
"You make yourself very clear, sir."
Target destroyed! No doubt about that, anyway: it was there in the droop of the tweed shoulders and the immobile facial muscles.
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"It's better that we understand each other."
The Superintendent nodded slowly. "I take it you will be putting this in writing—that you have assumed responsibility?"
"Naturally," Stocker nodded back equally slowly. Then he turned towards Richardson. "You can go ahead and make your deal, Peter."
"Right—" In the instant before Richardson's gaze shifted from the Superintendent to the Brigadier he glimpsed a fleeting change of expression, a change so brief that it should have passed unnoticed "—sir."
It was a look of profound satisfaction though, not defeat. . . .
So that was the way of it after alclass="underline" that target had been a false one, no more than an incitement of Stocker to take all the responsibility, and to take it over a formal protest and in black and white. . . . Except for that momentary twitch of triumph it had been neatly done, too.
Not that it would worry the Brigadier, who was as accustomed to carrying the can as he was to breathing. It was simply a reminder that for him the Clarks and their victim were of very little significance.
What mattered was David Audley.
IV
"HULLO, CLARKIE!"
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"Mr. Richardson!" Surprise, relief and then suspicion chased each other across Mrs. Clark's face in quick succession. "Well I never!"
"Never what, Clarkie?" It pained him to see that shrewd, good-natured face so changed: the good nature had been driven out by fatigue, the pink cheeks were pale and the shrewdness had been sharpened into wariness. Standing up to the Superintendent and the Brigadier had not taken the stuffing out of her, but it had pushed her hard nevertheless.
"I never expected to see you, Mr. Richardson, sir. Not just now."
""Never expected to be here, and that's a fact." He turned to the uniformed policeman who stood like a monstrous statue beside the grandfather clock, out of place and out of proportion among the shining brass and polished oak of the dining room. "Very good, officer— you can leave us."
The policeman stared at him doubtfully.
"Out!" commanded Richardson, irritation suddenly welling up inside him. "Go on with you!"
But as the door closed behind the policeman he pinned down the spasm of anger for what it was and took warning from it: either way this thing was hateful, but it was not that which was fraying his nerves. It was that caution and instinct were pulling him in opposite directions.
Something of this must have shown on his face, because there was regret in Mrs. Clark's voice when she spoke.
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"I'm sorry, sir, but I still can't say anything to you. Not unless Sir Laurie Deacon says I can."
"Sir Laurie Deacon?"
"That's right, sir. Sir Laurie Deacon."
Laurie Deacon! Richardson felt laughter—God! It was almost hysteria—rising up where anger had been seconds earlier. No wonder they were wetting their pants out there in the hall!
No wonder Stocker had dragged him all the way from Dublin, expense no object, and was quite prepared to twist the law into knots—and no wonder the Superintendent was only too happy to crawl away into a place of safety!
Deacon—Sir Laurie Deacon, baronet—was not only a barrister of vast experience and a Tory MP of even vaster influence and notorious independence of mind, but also a veteran campaigner on behalf of underdogs all the way from Crichel Down to Cublington.
So they'd leaned on this poor old countrywoman without a penny in her purse, and if she'd summoned up the Archangel Gabriel and all the hosts of Heaven she couldn't have frightened 'em more with the name she'd given 'em back.
"Clarkie—how on earth do you come to know Sir Laurie Deacon?" He couldn't keep the admiration out of his voice and he didn't try to. "You really do know him?"
"I do, sir. But I'm not saying more than that."
Richardson stared at her for a moment, then rose from his chair and began carefully and ostentatiously to examine the dummy2
room. First the flower vases, then under the table and chairs, behind the ornaments, in the fireplace. When Mrs. Clark stared at him in surprise he put a finger to his lips and continued the search wordlessly until he was satisfied that there was nothing to be found. Then he listened silently at the door, bending even to peer through the keyhole, and as a final obvious precaution craned his neck quickly through the open window.
"I think we're clear," he murmured conspiratorially, pulling up one of the chairs from under the table until it was directly opposite where she was sitting.
"Clarkie, you're bloody marvellous. . . . Now, you don't need to say anything if you don't want to. You've got 'em all beaten anyway, I tell you—but I just want you to listen to what I've got to say, and listen carefully."
She watched him intently.
"You're worried about Charlie, aren't you? About what it'd do to him—all the police and the newspapermen and so on, never mind what might be said in court. I know that and I understand it."
Mrs. Clark's lower lip trembled and Richardson reached out and patted her knee.
"Well, don't you worry about that, Clarkie. I can fix that—I give you my word I can fix that, even without calling up Sir Laurie Deacon. He's your second line—I'm your front line.
Because I can fix it so Charlie never has to go to court. If dummy2
you'll trust me—and if you'll both promise never to talk about what happened last night—then they're willing to tell everyone it was an accident. Charlie needn't come into it at all. You just heard the shot and went and called Constable—
what's his name—Yates."
She was frowning at him now, but frowning in evident disbelief. But why should she disbelieve him?
"Don't you believe me, Clarkie?"
That frown had deepened at the mention of Yates, the Constable— the village copper. Richardson tried to project himself into her mind to pinpoint the line in it where trust ended and distrust began.
The village copper . . . could it be as simple as that? Could it be that in a world of fallen idols she still believed that some still stood, neither to be bribed nor bullied? That the law really was the law, though the heavens fell?
Or was it even more simply that his word was not enough and she needed to know why he was able to make a mockery of law and truth so easily?
"I'll tell you why you've got to believe me, Clarkie. You see this— business—is a lot more complicated than it seems. It doesn't involve just you and Charlie. It involves Dr. Audley."
"I don't see as how it can do that, sir."
So David and Charlie ranked equally, each to be protected from outrage, the need to speak up for the one cancelling the need to keep silent for the other.
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"Because he isn't here?" The wrong word now would spoil everything.
She nodded cautiously. She was still with him.
"That's just it, Clarkie. He really ought to be here." This, he judged, had to be the moment: the risk had to be taken now whether he liked it or not. "You know that some of the work Dr. Audley does is very important—" if she didn't know it she would be pleased nevertheless at the importance of her Mr.
David "—and very secret. So secret that I'm not allowed to tell you about it."
He paused. "But when you do that sort of work, Clarkie—
when you do it as well as he does—you make enemies. Like people who don't agree with you, or even people who want your job. You know the sort of people." He nodded towards the closed door. "Like the fat one out there—he's been waiting a long time for David—for Dr. Audley—to make a mistake—"