THIRTY-THREE

Hard by Carshalton Pond stood the Greyhound Inn, a mellow-bricked Georgian watering hole. In its bar, as thinly populated at noon on a Thursday as might be expected, Harry and Barry sat by a window, drinking Young's bitter and debating the credibility of local worthy Gilbert Tancred.

'He might be telling the truth,' said Harry. 'His explanation made a certain amount of sense.'

'Then again,' said Chipchase, 'he might be lying through his teeth.'

'There's no way to tell, is there?'

'Yes there bloody is. He was a merchant banker, wasn't he? So it stands to reason you can't believe a word he says. Besides, you were adamant: one out of him, Fripp and Judd had to be in on the plot.'

'I was, wasn't I? But, thinking about it, Fripp's a non-starter. He didn't know about Chipchase Sheltered Holdings.'

'One out of two, then. And Tancred's the one who's had to cobble together a cover story.'

'But we can't prove it's a cover story, Barry. We can't prove a damn thing.'

'What are we going to do, then?'

'I don't know. Any suggestions?'

'Well, we could ... rattle Judd's cage. See how he responds to some… gentle pressure.'

'I can't see him being mixed up in murder.'

'Neither can I. But…'

'It's worth a try?'

'Yeah. Particularly when there's nothing else to try.'

—«»—«»—«»—

Epping was at the far eastern end of the Central line. The journey there from Carshalton was long and slow enough to prompt numerous doubts about its wisdom. A walk of a mile and a half from the station to Judd's large mock Tudor house on the edge of Epping Forest converted those doubts into grumblings of outright discontent on the part of Chipchase, who falsely claimed that he had recommended phoning ahead, whereas Harry's recollection of the plan hatched at the Greyhound was quite otherwise.

A short-haired, snub-nosed woman of middle years dressed in a velour tracksuit was power-hosing a behemoth-proportioned Jeep on the driveway as they limped in off the road, Harry still bothered by his injured knee, Chipchase by rank unfitness and thin-soled shoes. The woman switched off the hose as they approached and semi-rural quietude suddenly descended.

'Afternoon,' said Harry. 'Judder about, is he? Er, Bill, I mean.'

'Sorry, no,' she replied. 'What did you, er…?'

'We're a couple of his… old RAF chums, luv,' panted Chipchase.

'Oh, right. You must have been at this thing in Scotland, then.'

'We were,' said Harry. 'Reckoned we might drop by and see what he made of it.'

"Fraid you've had a wasted trip. He and Mum flew to Fuerteventura yesterday. They've got an apartment there. They won't be back for a week or so.'

'A week?'

'At least. Could be longer. Well, they're free agents. That's the beauty of retirement, isn't it?'

'Oh yeah,' said Chipchase. 'There's just nothing to beat it.'

—«»—«»—«»—

Their dishevelled, footsore appearance moved Judd's daughter to offer them a lift to the station, which they gratefully accepted. Slumped aboard a lumbering Tube as it bore them back into London, they found nothing to say. Even recriminations were beyond Chipchase now. Somewhere in the vicinity of Snaresbrook, he fell asleep. And somewhere not much further on, so did Harry.

—«»—«»—«»—

They woke at Ealing Broadway, roused by the sputtering death rattle of the train's motor and the draught from its open doors. Chipchase looked much as Harry felt, which was a long way short of top form. 'Where are we?' he growled as they grabbed their bags and stumbled out onto the platform. And Harry's answer was grimly apt. 'The end of the line.'

—«»—«»—«»—

It seemed pointless to backtrack to Paddington now they had come this far west, so they caught a stopping train to Reading and carried on from there to Swindon. Their arrival on a grey, chill, drizzly evening was altogether about as miserable as Harry had feared it might be.

Accordingly, he raised no objection when Chipchase suggested stopping off at the Glue Pot en route to Falmouth Street. It had to be more than thirty years since they had last drunk there together. They went in and toasted old times with best bitter.

'Who'd have thought it, hey? The two of us back in the Pot.' Chipchase managed a weary smile. 'We've sunk a good few pints here between us.'

'I've pulled a few too. I had to take a job behind the bar when you and Jackie skipped to Spain.'

'Bloody hell. We're not going to go over that again, are we?'

'Just making an observation, Barry. That's all.'

'Well, try making a bloody cheerier one.'

'None springs to mind.'

'Pity.'

They said no more, but drank on in silence as the pub gradually filled around them.

—«»—«»—«»—

The door of 37 Falmouth Street did not open with its normal fluidity when they made the short transit there from the Glue Pot two hours later. Harry had to yank a tangle of letters out from beneath it to complete their entrance.

Most of the letters were junk mail for Mrs Ivy Barnett, the computers that had generated them remaining stubbornly impervious to her death. But one was for Harry, a surprise which registered even through the beery blur that fogged his mind. It was a padded envelope, addressed by hand in large, jagged capitals. He tugged it open and a computer disk slid out into his palm. He peered inside the envelope in search of an accompanying note. But there was none.

'What the bloody hell's that?' asked Chipchase, peering over his shoulder.

'What it looks like.' Harry held the disk up. 'Shame I haven't got a computer to run it on.'

'Is this something… you were expecting?'

'No. I wasn't expecting any post at all. Other than a bill from the undertaker. Which somehow I don't think this is.'

'Who sent it?'

'I don't know.' Harry peered at the envelope. 'Posted in… Edinburgh… last Friday.'

'Know anyone who was in Edinburgh last Friday?'

'Yeah. So do you. Me, Askew, Lloyd, Fripp, Gregson, Judd and Tancred. Our train stopped at Waverley station for about ten minutes.'

'Long enough to post a letter if you looked lively?'

'Probably. But only two of us got off.' Harry replayed his encounter on the platform with Askew in his mind. Askew had been breathing heavily. Had he just run to and from the nearest post box? It was possible. It was definitely possible. 'Only two of us. Me and Peter Askew.'