A Prospect of Vengeance (14 page)

‘Yes?’ Ian’s heart had been sinking all the while she had lectured him: poor little Marilyn’s defects were personal and moral, and she had been an innocent bystander at Thornervaulx, by whatever unlikely chain of events. So this really was a wild-goose-chase.

‘It was so tragic—how she died. We all thought so.’ Curiously, she was on his own wavelength. ‘But, the truth is … and I’d be a hypocrite not to say as much … she was quite
man-mad
, was Marilyn.’

All he wanted to do now was to get away, back to London.’Yes—?’

‘Anything in trousers.’ Nod: duty done, now the truth. ‘Deluged in
the
most revolting perfume … tight skirts, and transparent blouses—I spoke to her about her blouses. But, of course, there were those who encouraged her—just like they always look at the
Sun
and the
Star
in the common room, even now.’ Ultimate displeasure. ‘Df Page, and Dr Garfield—Dr Page is at Cambridge now … and Dr Garfield is in America …
they
thought she was quite wonderful. And even that dreadful Dr Harrison, who ended up in prison—‘ She bit her lip suddenly, catching herself too late.

‘Dr H—?’ He started to repeat the name automatically, still acting his part, because honest curiosity was perfectly in order. But then it echoed inside his memory, attaching itself to British-American in its proper context; and in that instant he knew that he hadn’t finished with Marilyn Francis—and also that he too had caught himself too late, because Mrs Simmonds was already registering her surprise. So now he had to extricate himself from his self-betrayal. ‘Harrison? Harrison—?’ Better to pretend to be halfway there first, with a frown. And then embarrassment, for choice? ‘
Harrison
—
?’

‘He had nothing to do with Miss Francis.’ Faced with two unhappy names, Mrs Simmonds chose not to repeat the more offensive one. ‘His … what happened to him … that was some long time after she left our employ.’

He let his frown deepen. Had it been some long time after? Marilyn Francis had been killed in November, 1978—the beginning of his final year at university. And the Harrison Case … ? But, whenever it had been, now was the time for embarrassment. ‘Oh!
That
Dr Harrison—of course.’ Surprised embarrassment. ‘But … you do a lot of Ministry of Defence work—of course!’ What had it been that the ‘dreadful’ Dr Harrison had betrayed? The guidance system to the Barracuda torpedo, was it? But now he had to let her off the hook. ‘No … no,
of course
, Mrs Simmonds.’ Smile. ‘You wouldn’t have given any of your secret work to a temp to copy out—no matter how well she typed!’ As he broadened the sympathetically-understanding smile he felt his pulse beat faster. It
had
been the celebrated Barracuda. And it had not been very long afterwards—weeks, rather than months, for choice.

But meanwhile he mustn’t lose Mrs Simmonds. ‘I don’t want to know about him, anyway—Dr What’s-his-name … But … Miss Francis had a—ah—a weakness for the male sex, you were saying, Mrs Simmonds.’ Losing her fast, in fact. ‘Did she have a particular boyfriend?’

‘I have not the least idea of Miss Francis’s private life.’ She broke eye-contact, and picked up one of the files on her desk at random. Which was a sure sign of his impending dismissal.

Damnation
! ‘But … is there anyone who might know?’ Not
losing
: already
lost
, damn it! So now he had to extemporize. ‘We think she may have had … a fiancé in this area, Mrs Simmonds.’

The eyes came back to his, as blank as pebbles. ‘I said that I have no knowledge of her private life, Mr Robinson. And as she has been dead these ten years, I really cannot see that any useful purpose can be served by relaying tittle-tattle about her.’

God
! The old battle-axe
did
know something! So now was the moment for the Ultimate Weapon in this line of extemporization. ‘Mrs Simmonds—‘

She started to get up, file in hand. ‘I really do not have any more time to spare, I’m sorry.’

‘Mrs Simmonds—‘ He sat fast ‘—now I must betray a confidence—‘

She stopped. Betrayal of confidences usually stopped people.

‘We think … we
think
…
that there may have been a child.’ This time he broke the eye-contact, to adjust his spectacles. And that gave him time to decide the imaginary child’s sex and appearance. ‘A little boy. Fair hair, blue eyes … He’d be about ten years old now. And his uncle, who is … very prosperous … and childless … would like to find this little boy.’

The blank look transfixed him, and for a moment he feared that he had gone over the top with a scenario she must have read in Mills and Boon more times than Reg Buller had said ‘Same again’ to his favourite barmaid. But having gone so far the only direction left to him was to advance further on into the realms of melodrama: if not Mills and Boon, then maybe a touch of
Jane Eyre
…
except that Marilyn didn’t sound much like Jane. So perhaps the hypothetical ‘fiancé’ would be a better bet to soften Mrs Simmonds’ heart and put her off the scent.

‘It’s really the father we’re trying to trace, Mrs Simmonds. Because we think he looked after the child. Because … Miss Francis doesn’t appear to have been very … maternal—?’ He looked at her questioningly.

‘No.’ She blinked at him. ‘
That
doesn’t surprise me.’ Then she sighed. ‘I’m afraid we don’t keep files on our temps, Mr Robinson—certainly not going so far back, anyway. And, of course, Miss Francis lost her life in that dreadful business up north, with that IRA murderer—we read about that. And it was a terrible shock. But that’s why I remember her so well, even though it is something one would like to forget.’

She was implying that, if there had been a file, it would have been purged. So there probably
had
been a file. And she had purged it.

She blinked at him again. ‘As I recall, Mr Robinson, she left our employ in November, just before Armistice Day. And I do remember that because I was working with her in the same office: I was acting as Dr Garfield’s secretary at the time, and she was temping for Dr Cavendish’s secretary, who was on leave of absence.’

He observed her lips tighten at the memory. And it was ‘tittle-tattle’ that he wanted. ‘Yes.’

‘Yes.’ Slight sniff. ‘I remember that because when … when the person selling the British Legion poppies came round she insisted on his pinning her poppy on her blouse. Which was … quite improper. But quite typical, also.’

Tittle-tattle
. ‘Typical, Mrs Simmonds?’ He cocked his head innocently, deliberately forgetting Mrs Simmonds’ earlier reference to Marilyn’s blouses.

Half-sniff, half-sigh. ‘One of Miss Francis’s affectations was to wear as little as possible. I could never understand why she didn’t get pneumonia.’

Ian opened his mouth. ‘Ah … ’

‘She left us shortly after that. She received an urgent telephone message … apparently her mother had been taken ill. So she left us immediately. And I remember
that
too, because it was mid-week, and I let her have £5 from the petty cash as an advance on the money due to her, for her fare home. Which I never saw again, of course—though I suppose I can hardly blame her for that, in the circumstances … Although what she was doing up in Yorkshire a few days later I’ll never know—
I
thought her home was in London.’

‘But you don’t know where?’ Instinct stirred: she didn’t know, but something had occurred to her, nevertheless. ‘Did she commute back home every day?’ That would have been easy enough from Rickmansworth. But London was a big place.

‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘I believe she had digs somewhere down here.’ Slight frown. ‘She never minded working late, I will say that for her. But that may have been because she was trying to ingratiate herself with Dr Cavendish, in case Miss Ballard didn’t come back. And she’d stay to cover for anyone else—Dr Page, or Dr Garfield, or—or anyone else.’

Like Dr Harrison, maybe?

‘She said she needed the money, so the extra hours were useful.’ Mrs Simmonds pressed on. ‘But she was a nosey young woman. Always chatting the men up, trying to insinuate herself where she had no right to be—‘ She snapped her mouth shut on herself suddenly, as if she’d heard herself. ‘But there, now: I’m being unkind, aren’t I—‘ She cut herself off again.

‘No.’ Maybe she’d misread his expression. But, at all costs he mustn’t lose her again. ‘No. You’re just being honest, Mrs Simmonds. And I respect you for that. Because … not many people are honest.’

She stared at him. ‘Honest?’ The word seemed to hurt her.

‘Yes.’ If he could hold her now, when her defences were down, she’d give him everything she’d got. ‘Thanks to you, I understand much better now what others have said. And what they haven’t said.’

‘Do you?’ The pain showed again. ‘I wonder.’

‘Wonder … what?’

‘Perhaps I should have tried harder to understand her. After what you’ve told me.’ She looked away from him for a moment. ‘It’s a long time ago … ’

‘Yes. It is.’ He waited.

‘And yet … of all the temps we’ve had … I remember her so well—so well!’ She looked away again. ‘Better than any of them, you know.’

Was that surprising? Apart from Marilyn’s see-through blouses, not many of Mrs Simmonds’ temps could have been shot by the IRA. But, more likely, the doting mother/kind auntie inside her was now torturing her with visions of Marilyn Francis working long extra hours not to chat up the men, but to support the fair-haired, blue-eyed baby he’d invented. And that, in turn, didn’t exactly make him feel a great human being.

She looked at him. ‘Deep down I think she was sad.’

‘Sad?’ The word took him by surprise.

‘Yes. And a little desperate, perhaps … But I can understand that now, of course.’ She nodded wisely.

‘Many of these young women make the most terrible messes of their lives. Early marriages, or unplanned babies—just like Marilyn … We try to help them, naturally. And some of them take it all in their stride—quite amazingly resilient, they are … It’s as though they never expected anything different.’

‘Yes?’ He controlled his impatience. ‘Are you saying … Marilyn wasn’t resilient?’

She thought about that for a moment. ‘Perhaps I am—yes. Some of the most intelligent ones have the biggest problems—the ones who realize that it could have been different: they are the sad ones.’ Another wise nod. ‘They don’t like what they’ve become, so they pretend to be someone else. And now I think about Marilyn … yes, I’m sure that she wasn’t really like that. She was just playing a role—‘ She blinked suddenly. ‘But that isn’t helping you, is it?’

‘On the contrary—‘

‘No.’ She sat up very straight. ‘As regards Miss Francis, Mr Robinson, I think your best bet would be a certain Gary Redwood.’

‘Gary—‘ His repetition of the absurd Christian name seemed to tighten her mouth. ‘A boyfriend?’

‘No.’ Her expression belied the question even before she’d rejected it. ‘Whatever Gary was to her, he most certainly wasn’t that.’ She turned away from him abruptly, to stare at a pair of steel filing-cabinets which seemed oddly out-of-place in an otherwise computerized office.

‘Who is he?’ It disconcerted him oddly that she didn’t move to consult the cabinets’ contents, but merely stared at them, as though their entire contents were already on disc in her memory.

‘
Was
, as far as this company is concerned, Mr Robinson. Yes.’ She switched back to him. ‘He
was
our messenger boy, while Miss Francis was with us … and for a brief time after that. Gary Redwood—his mother, who was a perfectly decent woman, worked in our canteen. They lived in Albion Street, near the railway line. But you won’t find him there.’ She looked at her watch. ‘If he has continued to stay one jump ahead of the Police, you should find him in Messiter’s timber yard, Mr Robinson—‘

‘
Redwood
—?’ He cupped his hands round his mouth to direct his shout at the man over the shriek of the circular saw.

‘
Eh
?’ The man tapped his protective ear-muffs.

This wasn’t Gary Redwood, he was too old by a dozen years: even now the former Brit-Am messenger boy would only be in his mid-twenties. ‘
Gary Redwood
?’ Ian’s voice cracked.

An uneven piece of mahogany fell away from the saw. The man picked it up and pointed with it towards a stairway before tossing it aside.

The noise fell away behind Ian as he ascended the stair. He still wasn’t at all sure what he was really doing; or, at any rate, whether it really had any bearing on what had happened to Philip Masson. For the link between Marilyn Francis and Philip Masson was hardly more than a tenuous sequence of November days in early November, with David Audley in the middle of it. Dr Harrison, of British-American, had been jailed for passing high-tech secrets to one of Russia’s East European colonies—Hungary, was it? Or Bulgaria? And Marilyn Francis had quit Brit-Am (and Dr Harrison) on November 7, 1978, to keep an appointment with ‘Mad Dog’ O’Leary’s bullet (or somebody’s bullet) in Dr Audley’s presence four days later; and, as things stood at present, Audley was playing Macbeth to Philip Masson’s Banquo, his victim, if Jenny had heard more than a rumour. But there lay a full week between those two deaths, and a week was a long time not just in politics.

‘Mr Redwood?’ There was only one person in the timber-loft, so it had to be Gary. And as the man turned towards him from the pile of planks he was sorting the identification was confirmed: the acne-ravaged face and the stocky build filled Mrs Simmonds’ 1978 description to the life.

‘Yeah?’ Gary straightened up, balancing himself among the planks.

‘I believe you may be able to help me, Mr Redwood.’ He returned Gary’s empty gaze with a smile of encouragement. ‘You used to work at British-American Electronics just down the road, didn’t you?’

‘Yeah—‘ A fraction of a second after he began to answer, as though his brain was slower than his tongue, Gary’s expression changed from the blank to the wary ‘—who says?’