‘Miller may be a liar or he may not. But whichever he is I’m giving you the chance to get on your hind legs tomorrow as soon as the session starts and get in your version to Harrison before the letter is produced. And don’t think I’m doing it for you. I’m doing this for Liz.’
‘Some chance,’ sneered Charlie. ‘You cooked up this, Ballard; you and McGill between you.’
‘I know the truth of that,’ said Ballard quietly. ‘And so, I think, do you. And another thing — I don’t know how you stopped Liz coming here but if you’ve hurt her you’ll be responsible to me.’
Charlie stood up suddenly. ‘You bloody bastard, no one is responsible for Liz except me, and no pommy son of a bitch is going to get near her least of all anyone called Ballard.’ He looked around the crowded lounge and then jabbed out his finger. ‘I tell you, if I catch you anywhere I can get at you, you’ll wish you’d never heard of the Peterson family.’ He turned on his heel abruptly and walked from the lounge.
‘I almost wish that now,’ said Ballard softly, and turned his head to look across at Stenning who looked back at him with an expressionless face.
McGill worked late that night, mostly in a photographic darkroom at Deep Freeze Advanced Headquarters. It was finicky and exacting work, involving fine measurement, but he was greatly helped by a US Navy photographer. Even so, it was long after midnight before he finished and all he had to show was an envelope containing some eight by ten glossies and a few transparencies.
He drove back to the hotel and parked his car in its slot next to Ballard’s car and got out, taking the envelope with him.
He turned to go into the hotel, and then hesitated before walking around to look at Ballard’s car. It was empty and the door was locked. He shrugged and was about to turn away again when he heard a thread of a sound so weak it would have been obscured had he moved his feet on the gravel. He stood very still and listened, straining his ears, but heard no more.
He walked to the other side of Ballard’s car and stepped on something soft and yielding in the darkness. He stepped back and flicked on his cigarette lighter and peered downwards, then he drew in his breath sharply and, turning on his heel, he ran to the hotel entrance as fast as he could.
The night porter looked up in alarm as McGill burst into the foyer and skidded to a halt. ‘Phone for a doctor and an ambulance,’ said McGill breathlessly. ‘There’s a seriously injured man in the car park.’ The porter was immobile with early morning stupidity, and McGill yelled, ‘Move, man!’
The porter jerked and reached for the telephone and a minute later McGill was hammering on Stenning’s door. ‘Who is it?’ Stenning’s voice was muffled and sleepy.
‘McGill. Open up.’
Presently Stenning opened the door. His white hair was tousled and his eyes still sleep-filled, and he was knotting the cord of a dressing-gown about his waist. ‘What is it?’
McGill was curt. ‘You’d better come with me and see the result of your goddamn meddling.’
‘And what do you mean by that?’ Stenning was coming awake quickly.
‘You’ll see. Come on. It’s not far so you needn’t dress.’
‘Slippers,’ said Stenning. ‘I’ll need slippers.’ He went back into the room and reappeared seconds later.
As they went through the foyer McGill called out, ‘What about that doctor?’
‘On his way with the ambulance,’ said the porter.
‘Can you turn on the lights in the car park?’
‘Yes, sir.’ He turned and opened a door behind him and snapped switches. ‘A car accident?’
McGill didn’t answer that one. ‘You’d better rouse the manager. Come on, Stenning.’
They hastened across the car park which was now brightly lit. Stenning said, ‘Someone hurt?’
‘Ian — and he’s hurt bad. Over here.’
A startled exclamation was torn from Stenning as he looked down at the bloody body of Ballard. ‘Oh my God! What happened?’
‘It was no car accident, that’s for sure.’ McGill took Ballard’s wrist, ignoring the blood. ‘I think he’s still alive — I’m not sure. Where’s that goddamn doctor?’
‘What do you mean — it isn’t a car accident? It looks bad enough to be one.’
‘How in hell could he be hit by a car here?’ McGill waved. ‘The space between these cars is only three feet.’
‘He could have crawled in here.’
‘Then where’s the trail of blood he left?’ McGill stood up. ‘What you’re looking at, Stenning, is a man who has almost been beaten to death — and I’m not sure about almost. It’s what happens when a man gets walked over, Stenning.’ His voice was harsh and accusing.
Stenning’s face was white. McGill said in a shaky voice, ‘You sit in your plush offices in the City of London and you manipulate men, and you set up what you call experiments, for God’s sake, and you talk of people being walked over.’ His finger stabbed down at Ballard’s body. ‘This is the reality, Stenning. Look at it, damn you!’
Stenning swallowed and his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down in his skinny throat. ‘There was no intention of...’
‘No intention of murder?’ McGill laughed and it was an ugly sound in the quiet night. ‘What the hell else do you expect to happen when you interfere with a maniac like Charlie Peterson?’
Stenning was a lawyer and his mind worked on tracks as precise as a railway engine. ‘I saw Charlie Peterson and Ballard in the hotel tonight. They had a long conversation and it wasn’t amiable — but that’s not proof of anything.’ He turned his head and looked at McGill. ‘Do you know it was Peterson?’
‘Yes,’ said McGill bluntly.
‘How do you know?’
McGill paused. He suddenly realized he was still holding the envelope of photographs. He looked at it for a moment and his mind worked fast. ‘I know,’ he said, lying deliberately. ‘I know because Ian told me before he passed out.’
In the distance a siren wailed as the ambulance approached.
The Hearing
Last day
Thirty-one
At ten o’clock Harrison walked into the hall and sat on the rostrum flanked by Rolandson and French. He waited until the rustling had stopped, then said, ‘I have to report that Mr Ian Ballard was seriously injured in a car accident in the early hours of this morning and is at present in Princess Margaret Hospital. He is in a coma and Dr McGill is, quite understandably, with him.’
There was a surge of noise. In the Press gallery Dan Edwards frowned, and said, ‘Damn! I wonder if that affects the story?’
‘What story?’ asked Dalwood.
‘Oh, nothing. Just something I was getting a line on.’ He nudged Dalwood. ‘Look at Charlie Peterson. He’s laughing fit to bust a gut.’
Harrison tapped with his gavel to restore order. ‘We are now at a stage of the Inquiry when the evidence of Mr Ballard and Dr McGill is not absolutely essential, so there is no need to adjourn. Call the first witness, Mr Reed.’
Twenty-four hours after the avalanche the number of those still missing had been cut down to twenty-one. All the others had been accounted for — dead and alive. Ballard said glumly, ‘There’s still no sign of Joe Cameron.’
Jesse Rusch said, ‘A friend of yours?’
‘I suppose so. I hadn’t known him long. I don’t suppose there’s much hope for him now, but perhaps it’s better that way. His daughter was killed.’
‘There’ve been too many people killed here,’ said Rusch, thinking of Baker. ‘And some of those deaths were unnecessary.’