Here Be Monsters (3 page)

As usual, he knew too much for his own good.

‘All right.’ He misread her silence and her expression, nevertheless: with people, and perhaps with her in particular, he was fallible. ‘They took me off. And they took David Audley off. And they took
you
off. Which I know because I have this access to the computer, to pick its brains, and they haven’t cancelled it. So I tried to pick
yours
a couple of days ago. And you just weren’t available. See?’

Even with her limited experience, Elizabeth saw. Anyone armed with those rights of access and his knowledge of how the department worked (never mind his insatiable curiosity) could probably elicit a great deal of information. For a start it might be mostly negative, but he would surely have more sophisticated methods than counting the cars in the car park to find out more.

The very thought made her cautious. ‘And what did you conclude from that, Dr Mitchell?’

‘It didn’t start with you.’ He shook his head. ‘I was engaged in something quite interesting, not to say important.’ The shake became almost an apologetic shrug. ‘I thought maybe I could find a substitute.’

Again, Elizabeth saw—and saw also how he had reached this pass: he had cast around for someone else to do the job he’d been given—someone engaged on less important matters—before making a fuss. And, naturally enough, he’d tried to hang the albatross on her neck first—the most junior, if not the newest, recruit.

Oh,
typical
Paul! ‘And came up with a dusty answer?’

The corridor door behind them
swished
and she saw his eyes flick past her, and then come back to her almost pleadingly.

‘Miss Loftus—‘ She just caught the last of Mrs Harlin’s frown at Paul as she turned ‘—the Deputy-Director has asked for you again. I cannot reasonably invent another excuse, unless you actually wish to be indisposed. At the moment he insists that either you are here, or you aren’t.’ She gave Elizabeth the benefit of the doubt, just. ‘I do think you ought to come now.’

Tripod masts
! thought Elizabeth. Or, to get away from their ridiculous naval code, from a past which she preferred to forget, here was a
snake
or a
ladder
, and she could choose whether to go up or down.

Thank you, Mrs Harlin. Please tell the Deputy-Director that I’ll be with him as soon as I’m free.’

Mrs Harlin very nearly replied. But then she didn’t, and Elizabeth watched the door
swish
, and lock.

‘This had better be good, Paul—Dr Mitchell.’ That he was regarding her with that ridiculous expression only irritated her more, sharpening her voice: on his face it was a positively unnatural look, quite alien to his character. ‘And it had better be quick, too.’

‘Oh—it’s good.’ Far too late, he erased the expression. ‘That is, it’s good intelligence. But it’s bad news for you. Because I think Fatso is going to send you into the field.’

‘Why—‘ She just caught the wrong question in time -the
Why do you think that
’
s bad news
? question. ‘
How
d’you know I’m going into the field?’ Besides, damn it, it wasn’t bad news at all—it was good news!

‘Because Jim Cable is taking your job, as of now. And you’ve got an appointment with Fatso in minus five minutes. And because I can read the signs when they’re in big flashing neon lights.’

He knew more than he was saying. All that stuff about using his SG rights might be true, but that also was window-dressing, concealing some other source of information which he was not about to reveal. So she must push him.

‘You haven’t really told me anything I couldn’t deduce from the cars down below.’ She gave him Admiral Varney’s down-the-nose look.

‘Is that so?’ She got a Mitchell-ancestor look in return—maybe from his 1918 grandfather, of whom he was so inordinately proud, who had died on the far side of the Hindenburg Line. ‘And you counted David Audley’s car too, did you? And that didn’t worry you, then?’

‘Why should that worry me?’ But it did now, all the same.

‘Oh—come on, Elizabeth! Jack Butler’s on leave, because he has to take
some
leave,
some
time … So he made bloody sure that David wasn’t around, when Fatso Latimer was running the shop. And Fatso wouldn’t have summoned David back if there wasn’t an emergency—he may be a basket-hanger, but he isn’t an idiot.’ He glowered at her. ‘And I’m being sent back to Cheltenham. Though there’s precious little I can do there in David’s absence.’

When he delivered the final emphasis she knew that he wasn’t going to tell her any more. But, because of his weakness (and however badly that made her feel, for pressing that unfair advantage), it was worth one more push—even if she had to lead in with that wrong question, which she had managed to avoid.

‘All right. So maybe there is some sort of emergency. And maybe the Deputy-Director is going to give it to me.’

‘No “maybe”—‘

‘All right—no “maybe”.’ She concealed her pleasure, but thought that he was a fool not to allow for it. But then, where she was concerned he was quite often foolish, they were agreed on that. ‘And I’ll even grant you the field-work hypothesis—though you haven’t supported it with a single hard fact.’ That was the first element of the push. Now for the second. ‘But why should that be bad for me?’

He pursed his lips. But, of course, he wasn’t
that
foolish: he knew when he was being pushed.

‘For heaven’s sake!’ She acted out a pretense of irritation by settling her handbag under her arm and swaying towards the door. ‘I’ve had practically two years here—even allowing for the instruction courses, and the information seminars, and all the rest of it … I know we are “Research and Development”, and not an active department. But we do undertake field-work on occasion -I do know
that
too.’

What she also knew was that she didn’t need to elaborate on that. He had been engaged in field-work when they had first met. And she had been the field in which he had been working.

‘Yes.’ He couldn’t escape from his own memories. ‘We do field-work.’

‘So what are you complaining about?’ The truth about Paul was that although he was reputedly very good in the field, he had several very bad experiences among those memories, which were probably warping his judgment now. Nevertheless, the more he agonized, the more certain she was that he had something more than hypothesis to go on.

A tiny muscle twitched in his cheek, betraying the clenched teeth beneath.

Field-work
, thought Elizabeth happily. ‘You’re just wasting my time.’ She settled her handbag under her arm, and started to make the beginning of her turn towards the door.

‘Elizabeth—!’

So much “for the running of the Sun and the rising of the Moon! thought Elizabeth. But this wasn’t the moment to remind him of their already-forgotten treaty—not when he was cracking.

‘Well?’

‘I can’t tell you what I think you’re going to do. But you mustn’t do it.’ For a moment he was lost for words. ‘Field-work is always a matter of choice—we’re not contracted to do it.’

Those were the wrong words, even though accurate. Because they both knew that she couldn’t refuse, even if she had wanted to. Which she didn’t.

‘Why can’t you tell me?’

‘Because … if I’m right—‘ He damn well knew he was right! ‘—it’s a secure classification. And I can’t buck that. Not even for you.’ He shook his head.

God! No wonder he’d been treading like a cat on hot bricks! And—if he was on a knife-edge with the Deputy-Director, as he well might be, being Paul—those bricks would have been more like red-hot if he’d accidentally stumbled on a secure classification! Because—because, if he even
mentioned
it to her (having once been cleared for it himself), and then she let it slip, she would have to account exactly where and how she’d got it. And that would be all nine lives at one go for the cat.

Poor old Paul! she thought, with all the tolerance of pleasure: to be admitted to such a classification was a mark of professional confidence—not a snake, but a ladder. So he couldn’t have told her in advance anything better calculated to encourage her to accept whatever was offered—he’d got it all dead-wrong again!

‘Ah!’ Now she could afford to be merciful. ‘Yes—of course.’ Nod to him—she owed him that, at least: he’d come in far too close for safety already, knowing already that those tripod masts were there in harbour, waiting for him.

But now he was fumbling in one pocket after another, to find something. ‘But I suppose there’s no reason why you shouldn’t have read the newspapers.’ He was fiddling with a tiny fragment of newsprint, to prise it out from his wallet. ‘David always says that half our work starts in print somewhere, long before we get a tip-off. So you could have read this, from last week’s
Telegraph
.’ He looked at her as he offered it. ‘And that will establish whether I’m right, anyway.’

Elizabeth took the fragment. It must have filled a hole somewhere, at the bottom of a column: just one small paragraph, with a little two-line heading. It was, she remembered from the Newspaper Course, what they called a ‘filler’. And the
Telegraph
liked fillers—those tiny bits of news which might, or might not, see the light of day, according to the space left by more important stories above.

Just a matter of chance, in fact—
Pointe du Hoc
—

And chance, and Paul (who had been trained by David Audley, and who was cleared for this particular
secure classification)
, had rescued this fragment from oblivion.

‘I’d like it back, please.’ After the half-minute he generously allowed, he reached for the evidence of his indiscretion. ‘Have you ever heard of the Pointe du Hoc, Miss Loftus?’

He had remembered the Sun and the Moon. Perhaps the indiscretion had sharpened up his memory.

‘No,’ she lied, with false innocence. ‘It’s in Normandy, somewhere—?’

‘Or Thaddeus Parker?’

‘Who?’ She had maybe been a shade too innocent with that ‘Normandy, somewhere?’, when it was obvious from the text where the Pointe du Hoc was. But she didn’t have to pretend this reaction: that wasn’t the name in the text. ‘Who?’

‘They got it wrong—“Edward Parker”.’ He held up the cutting for an instant, before slotting it back among his credit cards. ‘He ought to have been “Tad”, but for some reason he was always “Ed”. So they made him “Edward” somewhere along the line.’ As he replaced the plastic folder in his pocket, ‘You’ve never heard of Thaddeus Parker—Major “Ed” Parker?’

‘No.’

D-DAY VETERAN
IN DEATH FALL

A 70-year-old American veteran of the D-Day landings, Edward Parker,
fell to his death from the 100-foot cliffs of Pointe du Hoc yesterday—

‘—never.’

The door clicked again behind her, and then
swished
, as they stared at each other.

‘Miss Loftus,’ said Mrs Harlin.

‘Well, if I’m right, you will in about two minutes, Miss Loftus,’ said Paul.

Elizabeth hardly had time to think, as Mrs Harlin swept her on, tripod masts erect and guns trained, doors clicking and
swishing
at her touch.

‘I don’t think he’s very pleased with you—‘
Click-swish
‘—Miss Loftus, Deputy-Director.’

‘Ah!’ At least he didn’t look too displeased. ‘Thank you, Mrs Harlin.’

Swish-click.

‘Please do sit down, Miss Loftus—Elizabeth.’ At the moment he wasn’t looking at her at all—he was studying the display on his screen, which she couldn’t see. But that was her first time as ‘Elizabeth’ with him. So did that make him ‘Oliver’ with her?

On balance
no
, she decided. Because … he might be ‘Fatso’ to Paul, and something more polite, but even ruder, to David Audley … But he was God’s viceroy to her at this moment, and if he ordered her to jump over the cliff at Pointe du Hoc she would at least think about doing so.

Also, if Paul was right, she was about ten seconds away from Thaddeus Parker,
alias
Major Ed. And close to a secure classification thereafter.

‘You’ve been rather elusive this morning. Have a chocolate?’

The only object on the desk itself was a large box of Thornton’s chocolates, which had already been extensively plundered. What they said about Oliver St John Latimer was that when he was unhappy he went on a diet to make himself even more miserable. So he must be very happy now.

‘Thank you, Mr Latimer.’ The truth or a lie?

‘Yes?’ He looked at her, and waited.

Mrs Harlin had been angry, so Mrs Harlin might have sneaked, Elizabeth decided. ‘I was delayed by Dr Mitchell. I’m sorry.’

‘Oh yes?’ He still didn’t look displeased—and he certainly didn’t seem surprised. In fact, he looked almost sympathetic. ‘Is Dr Mitchell being difficult, Elizabeth?’

So he knew about Dr Mitchell and Miss Loftus, and their little difficulty. But then, it was his business to know about such things, because he was the Deputy-Director—indeed, at this moment, the
Acting
Director, wearing Colonel Butler’s metaphorical red coat, even if it was a size too large for him.

‘No, Mr Latimer.’ It occurred to Elizabeth almost simultaneously that he
might
actually be trying to be sympathetic, but also—and for sure—that he was enjoying the feel of that metaphorical coat across his shoulders. So now a lie with icing on it was indicated. ‘I appreciate your—concern.’
Look grateful but embarrassed, Elizabeth
! ‘But that problem is … contained now.’ It wasn’t difficult to look embarrassed, particularly with a chocolate in her mouth.

He nodded, and reached across to the box himself. ‘So what did he want, then?’ He gave the box a little push. ‘Have another one?’

Did a weakness for chocolates suggest truthfulness in other matters? She wondered. ‘I shouldn’t—but I will.’ But she also had to remember that he was an extremely clever man. ‘It seems that he sent me an SG after I was detached from the daily movements analysis. And he wasn’t happy with the answer he received.’ She would have to brief Paul about this.