War Game (28 page)

“Qualifications for what?”

“For working out that the gold wasn’t the Standingham treasure at all—that it
couldn
’
t
be the real thing.”

Jaw, eyes and mouth this time: Weston wasn’t hiding anything.

“What d’you mean—the real thing?”

“It’s horribly simple, man. You want to know why I’ll always have Henry Digby on my conscience? Not because I was wicked, but because I was stupid, that’s why. Because I had all the information too, that’s why. I saw where Charlie Ratcliffe found the treasure. I suspected Charlie Ratcliffe of murder, even though I didn’t know the KGB did the job for him. And I also know that Oliver Cromwell was one hell of a smart man—“ Audley thrust the copy of the alleged copy of Nathaniel Parrott’s letter to John Pym under Weston’s nose. “If he knew—and I mean
knew
—there was a ton of gold in Standingham he’d have found it. And I’m betting he did find it, like the experts always said.”

Weston waved the letter to one side. “That’s … theory. You don’t kill men for theories like that. Never in a million years.”

“Right. Exactly right.” Nothing would make Henry Digby’s death less than bitter. But this was the beginning of the expiation. “And that’s why the gold isn’t the real thing: because it was found in the wrong order.”

Weston frowned. “Wrong order? What wrong order?”

“Man—he had James Ratcliffe killed before he could possibly have known the gold was there. He had to bring in a bulldozer and grub up a damn great stone monument and two fully-grown apple trees—and even then he had to dig down fifteen feet before he reached it. So he couldn’t possibly have known it was there to start with, it had to be just a theory. He couldn’t have been sure.”

Weston’s frown deepened. “But … he could have used one of those metal detectors. All the treasure-hunting people have them now, we’ve had complaints from landowners about them tramping over likely sites using the things—“

“At fifteen feet?” Audley shook his head emphatically. “No way, Superintendent. There isn’t a detector made that can sniff metal at that depth, most of them don’t get below the surface topsoil. Even the very latest induction-balance units—or pulse induction ones, come to that—they can’t manage more than five feet, and they’re tricky to handle if there’s damp around or the temperature’s wrong. He’d have needed proper mining equipment, and he’d never have got through the paving round the monument without making one hell of a mess—which the old gardener would have seen. I tell you, no way.”

Weston stared at him, still unwilling to commit himself.

“It had to be a theory,” Audley met the stare. “And you’ve made the rule for that yourself: you don’t kill men for theories. Not even the KGB kills men on the off chance. They don’t like off-chances—they like certainties. And there was only one way they could make it a certainty: they could supply it themselves. And that’s what they did.”

Still Weston wouldn’t speak. The psychology of a ton of raw gold was too heavy for him. And that, thought Audley, was the measure of the KGB’s shrewdness: figures with pound signs and dollar signs were mere abstractions, meaningless as the paper on which they were printed. Spend a hundred million pounds on a dying industry, or ten million on tarting up an obsolete warship, or strike as much off for a trade union squabble, and no one saw tons of gold flushed down the lavatory. But slap a single sovereign on the counter and you could catch everyone’s eye: that was money.

So now it was beyond this shrewd man’s understanding, that ton of gold. Spanish gold, still the rightful property of the Spanish people, stolen twice from them— and stolen before that from the poor sweating Indians who had hacked it out of the ground; Russian gold, a small price to pay for sowing subversion between the decks of America’s biggest aircraft carrier, still moored unsinkably off Europe.

Charlie Ratcliffe’s gold.

Weston surfaced with an effort of will. “It was planted.”

“Right. First dig the hole—then add the gold. Because with one ton of gold Charlie Ratcliffe can spread tons of trouble. And with what the Russians can feed him, plus what they can arrange for him, that’s good business for them. The First Division of the Second Directorate spends ten times as much every year, with not a tenth as much chance of being believed.”

“I see … or I’m beginning to see.” The measure of Weston’s intelligence was the speed with which he was adjusting himself to the new mathematics. “So—you had a deal for me.”

“Yes. I don’t want you following up Digby’s death the way you might have done—I want them to think they’ve got away with it this time.”

“For how long?”

“Until after the storming of Standingham Castle, no longer. If I fail … then you can do your best to prove what I’ve told you.”

Weston nodded. “That seems fair enough. So I agree.”

“And I shall want your help at Standingham. With no questions asked.”

Weston looked at him sidelong. “I won’t break the law. Not even for Henry Digby.”

“I wouldn’t dream of asking you to. I just need you to soften someone up for me, that’s all.”

“I can do that any time.”

“Just this time, is all I want.

“To what end?”

“The other end of the deal, you mean?” No smile this time. This was a matter of vengeance. “I’m going to try and give you Charlie Ratcliffe—on a plate.”

“How?”

“History, Superintendent Weston. They used history against us—now we’re going to use it against them.”

TEN
MINUTES
, Weston had said. Half a day, or maybe never, for a guilty man, but for an innocent one only ten minutes.

There was a moral in that somewhere.

Audley watched the empty road ahead and wondered what it was like to be leaned on by Superintendent Weston. Probably it would be like being leaned on by an elephant, a remorseless pressure made all the more irresistible by the certainty that resistance was in vain: either the beast would stop of its own accord or that would be the flattening end of everything.

A movement at the roadside caught his eye. Police Constable Cotton was emerging from the Police House for his evening tour, majestic in his tall helmet, his height emphasised by the cycle-clips which tapered his trousers to drainpipes. A dull ache of guilt stirred in Audley’s soul as he watched the constable cycle away. Less than a week ago he had sat at this very spot with Henry Digby, and those few days had been the rest of Digby’s life. But nothing would change that now, the death sentence for Digby and the life sentence for Audley; not even vengeance, if he could manage it, would reverse those verdicts.

He locked the car and strolled down towards the Steyning Arms. At the corner there was a new temporary signpost, a handsome little poster on gold paper bearing a red hand pointing up the road and a boldly-printed legend in black:

Standingham Castle
Civil War Siege 1643, 3 p.m.-5.30 p.m. 17th Century Fair, 11 a.m.-7 p.m
Adults 30p; children 15p Sat August 30 & Sun August 31

It wasn’t the first of such signs he had noticed, there was a rash of them for miles around. Nor indeed was it the only sign of the approaching hostilities and festivities. Stacks of POLICE—NO PARKING cones were dotted in readiness round the village, balanced by cruder posters directing motorists to roped-off fields which were obviously about to yield their owners unexpected cash crops.

Even outside the Steyning Arms itself the coming siege was evident in a fresh notice:

NO VACANT ROOMS
CAR PARK RESERVED STRICTLY
FOR PATRONS AND GUESTS
ONLY

Audley pushed through the hotel entrance door and advanced towards the reception desk.

The girl sitting in the office behind the desk didn’t bother to look up from her nail polishing. “We’re all booked up until Monday,” she said to her left hand in a bored little pre-recorded voice.

“I don’t want a room. I believe you have a Professor Stephen Nayler staying here,” said Audley.

“Eh?” She stared at him as if he had made a lewd suggestion.

“What number room is Professor Stephen Nayler in?” said Audley conversationally.

“Oh … Number 10, up the stairs and turn left—“ she answered before she realised what she was saying, then frowned at herself for being so unnecessarily helpful. It was a happy thought that next day several hundred rapacious cavaliers would be descending on her. He hoped they would behave with proper attention to historical authenticity, as they had done at Easingbridge, only more so.

The deep murmur of Weston’s voice behind the door of Number 10 was stilled by his knock, but for a moment no one answered. Then another voice, high and familiar, answered.

“Come!”

The room had been a small one with no one in it. With Nayler it had grown smaller and with Weston it had become smaller still. But with the large detective sergeant who had accompanied Weston— a man with a marvellously brutal bog-Irish face which looked as if it had been carved out of soft stone and then unwisely exposed to the elements for a century or two—it must have been claustrophobic for those ten long minutes.

And now, as Audley eased the door shut behind him, it was the Black Hole of Calcutta.

“Audley!” Surprise and relief were mingled fifty-fifty in the exclamation. And for sure the elephant was the right animal: Nayler’s aura was the shape and consistency of a Shrove Tuesday pancake.

“Good evening, Professor.” Audley reserved his sharpest look for Weston. “Superintendent Weston—what brings you here?”

“Sir.” Weston straightened up deferentially. “We’re pursuing inquiries into certain matters.”

This was a new Weston, subtly altered: it was Weston playing himself on television, not as he really was, but as the viewers might imagine him.

“Well, I didn’t think you were paying a social call.” Role for role, Audley played back. “The ‘certain matters’ are Sergeant Digby, I take it.”

“That’s correct, Dr. Audley.”

Audley pointed towards Nayler. “And just what has Professor Nayler got to do with him, may I ask?”

“That’s for us to decide, if you don’t mind, sir.”

“But I do mind. I mind very much.” It occurred to Audley that he was overplaying more than Weston was, but there was no help for it. “I’m not having you trampling around in this matter like a bull in a china shop. And I’m not having distinguished scholars like Professor Nayler bullied like this, either.”

Weston gave a half-strangled grunt, the sort of baffled noise which Jack Butler produced in moments of excessive official stupidity. The brutish sergeant’s face was a picture of perplexed ferocity: nothing like this had ever happened to him.

“I’m sorry, Professor,” Audley turned towards Nayler. “There seems to have been some misunderstanding somewhere down the line. These officers will be leaving now.”

Nayler was having the same trouble as the sergeant in adjusting to events; for once words failed him.

“Well, sir … we have our duty to do.” Weston was retreating in good order with his face to the foe, but clearly retreating nevertheless. “I shall have to consult my superiors about this … Sergeant!”

The sergeant gave him an appalled look and backed unwillingly out of the door which Audley held open for him.

“You do that, Superintendent,” said Audley. “And you’d better tell them they should consult the Home Office before they try this sort of tactics next time.”

He closed the door on them and lent against it thankfully, watching Nayler through half-closed eyes as he did so. This was the moment when the casting of his next role would be decided: it was up to Nayler to reward his deliverer or to remember old enmities.

“What an extraordinary bizarre episode,” said Nayler to no one in particular. “I wouldn’t have thought it possible.”

No sign of gratitude, thought Audley. The man was quickly adjusting his self-esteem again as though nothing had happened, putting Weston’s visit out of his mind as though it had been no more real than a nightmare.

“Yes. …” Nayler wrinkled his nose and compressed his lips. “Quite extraordinary. And now, what do you want, Audley?”

No gratitude for sure. Time had dealt too kindly with the bastard: where better men had lost their figures and their hair, Nayler’s lankiness had aged into an acceptable scholarly stoop to which his thick pepper-and-salt thatch added distinction. Only that petulant mouth and the words which came out of it were unchanged.

“Well, Audley?” Nayler raised an eyebrow interrogatively. “I haven’t got all night.”

The hard way, then. And it was going to be a rare pleasure.

“You haven’t got any time at all.” Audley came away from the door. “You’re in trouble, Nayler.”

“What?” Nayler frowned. “What?”

“I said you’re in trouble. Big trouble.”

“And I don’t like your tone.” The lips compressed tighter. “You are beginning to sound like those—those two thugs masquerading as policemen, Audley.”

“Oh, I’m not the same as them, don’t make that mistake.”

“I don’t intend to, I assure you. Now— say what you came to say and get out.” Nayler waved his hand in a jerky, insulting little gesture of dismissal. “I have work to do.”

“Very well. I believe you spoke to Henry Digby recently.”

“I spoke to the fellow—yes—if that’s his name.”

“It was his name. Sergeant Henry Digby. He’s dead now.”

“So I gather. But that’s absolutely no concern of mine. I spoke to the fellow about purely academic matters.”

Audley felt his blood pressure rising, heated and reheated by the repetition of
fellow
.

“You spoke to Sergeant Digby about Standingham and the gold.” With an effort Audley kept his voice neutral. “Now … could you please tell me what you told him, Professor?”

Nayler gazed at Audley for a moment, old memories flickering in his eyes. “Frankly, Audley, I don’t see why I should.”

“I see.” Audley nodded humbly. “Professor, I explained that I wasn’t the same as the police—“

“You did indeed.” Nayler came in before he could continue, his confidence now fully restored. “And in consequence I can think of no reason why I should give you even the time of day.”