“What is that, pale ale? Frightful stuff, watered down dishwater.”
“Each to his own.”
“Anyway, where was I? Ah yes, what’s the harm in letting elderly convicts out? What’s the downside?”
“For one thing,” Hugo said, “assuming these people are no longer dangerous and assuming they’ve been in prison a few decades, what makes you think they will know how to survive on the outside?”
“Survive?” Pendrith looked at him, wide-eyed. “I don’t give a hoot whether they survive or not! This isn’t some molly-coddling idea to let poor old Joe the Strangler spend his last years on a beach in Clacton-on-Sea. This is a way to save a boatload of money for the government. The only people it could possibly impact negatively are those released and, frankly, I don’t see why we should worry too much about them.”
“I saw the news this morning,” Hugo nodded. “Do you know who Sean Bywater is?”
“Name’s familiar,” Pendrith said. “What of him?”
“A murderer, famous in my line of work, just killed himself after being released. The report basically said he had nothing to live for on the outside.”
“Yes? Good riddance, if you ask me.”
“Maybe. I’m sure many would agree, but do you even think these people will have families to take them in after decades in prison?”
“Look,” said Pendrith, leaning forward. “My point is merely that the spineless weasels in power right now are so afraid of looking soft on crime, they can’t see this for what it is. It’s tough on crime, for Chrissakes. It takes a bunch of decrepit no-goods, makes them fend for themselves, and saves the government a bundle in the process. And yet all they see, because all the reporters will say, is that we’re letting a bunch of murderers into the community.”
Pendrith shook his head and stabbed his stew with a spoon, stirring it and releasing a plume of steam. They ate in silence for a few minutes, Hugo quickly concluding that the two-day-old stew was, as the publican had suggested, still very edible. He wasn’t so sure about the bread, whose brittle crust and chewy interior suggested a vintage very similar to that of the meat. But he ate hungrily and found the room-temperature beer to be a fine accompaniment.
“Speaking of murder,” Hugo said. “How would I get ahold of information about an old case? Information that only the police have.”
“How old?”
“Late 1800s.”
“Ripper stuff? Most of that is in a museum, I think.”
“No, actually it’s not Ripper. Not officially, anyway. A little after, in 1905.”
“I think I can help you.” Pendrith pulled a pen from his jacket pocket and wrote a name and a number on a paper napkin. “Chap’s an archivist, worked at Somerset House and Scotland Yard. Loves all that true-crime stuff. Mention my name and he’ll get you what you need, though it may cost you a bottle of claret.”
Hugo thanked him and tucked the napkin into his pocket.
As they were wiping their bowls with the last of the bread, a movement at the bar caught Hugo’s eye. The man who’d been sitting by himself was walking toward them, a smile on his face and a full pint of beer in each hand.
“Gentlemen,” the man said. “Do you mind if I join you for a minute or two? I come bearing gifts.” He set the beers down on the crowded table, pints of bitter for both men. He offered his hand to them. “My name is Harry Walton. I’m a freelance reporter. Been putting together a piece about the little accident that two of your countrymen had up this way. I saw your big car outside, heard your accent, and I know Lord Stopford-Pendrith from television. So I’m putting two and two together and wondering why you are in Hertfordshire but not particularly close to the scene of the accident.”
“You have a lot of assumptions in there, Mr. Walton.”
“Assumptions and research.”
Hugo sat back. “By research I assume you mean following us. Am I right in thinking you drive a red Mini?”
“Very impressive,” Walton said.
“Red Mini?” Pendrith looked back and forth between the two men. “What the bloody hell does that have to do with anything?” He leaned toward Hugo. “And how did you know he has one?”
“He was following us in London,” Hugo said. “Got a ticket for an illegal U-turn, if I remember right. Then I saw him again on the A1 earlier but didn’t make the connection.”
“Following us?” Pendrith puffed. “What the devil …?”
“Let’s just say we were headed in the same direction.” Walton smiled innocently. “Anyway, I don’t know if you know my name, but lately I’ve been doing more celebrity stuff. It’s crap, most of it, but pays well and isn’t too taxing for freelancers like me. And while you’d think we have to hunt around and nibble away at the privacy of our wonderful celebrities, most of them are media whores and love attention.”
“I’m sure they do,” said Hugo. “I also assume there is something specific we can do for you?”
Walton leaned back as the publican arrived with a tray and began loading it with their empty beer glasses and stew bowls. When the rotund man had gone, Walton cleared his throat. “As you can see I’m no spring chicken, though I could chase you all over Christendom if I wanted. Lately, though, I’ve been finding that the direct approach works best, saves everyone time and effort.” He grinned. “After all, if you tell me to get lost I can still follow you all over Christendom, right?”
“The hell you can,” said Pendrith.
“Anyway, that’s not something I want to do,” Walton said. “I’m here thanks to some well-placed sources who told me that a pair of very famous American guests were being let out of jail and put in the care and custody of the US Embassy.”
“And I don’t suppose you’d care to reveal the identity of those well-placed sources?” Hugo asked.
“Funny thing,” Walton said. “Lord Pendrith here was the one who helped strengthen our press-shield laws so I don’t have to. Nice irony, don’t you think?”
“Very nice,” said Hugo. “You were about to tell us what you wanted.”
“Same thing you do, I expect,” said Walton. “I want to find and have a chat with our friend Harper. Maybe a little interview before you whisk him away into the bosom of the American embassy.”
“And what would you be seeking in return?” asked Hugo.
“I won’t say anything about you having lost him. Seems like that would set off a bit of a frenzy, don’t you think?”
“No can do, old boy,” said Pendrith. “Assuming you got your info from a couple of London reporters I know, then I shall further assume you’d appreciate that I already made that deal with them. So you can follow us all you like, write what you like, and pretty much go to hell.”
Walton sat back and stroked his chin, his head cocked as he stared at Pendrith. “Here’s the way I see it. By telling me about your little escapade in central London, they broke their promise to keep mum. Which means you owe them nothing. And, of course, they won’t know you have a deal with me because I wouldn’t be stupid enough to tell them.” He turned to face Hugo. “I will also assume that finding your lost charge is priority number one and that double-crossing a couple of London hacks wouldn’t be of great concern to the American ambassador. Am I right?”
“You are quite right about that, Mr. Walton.” Hugo leaned toward him, a thin smile on his face. “I can also assure you that the ambassador wouldn’t object in the slightest to a small red car being accidentally crushed by a large American one in the parking lot of a quiet English pub. He would be mildly upset if someone was in that small red car, but he’d get over it when he found out it was a journalist.”
“Mr. Marston, are you threatening me?”