THIRTY-FOUR

'We're fine. Honestly. Everything's OK. I'll call you tomorrow. There's a kiss coming down the line. And one for Daisy too. 'Bye, Donna. 'Bye.'

Harry put the telephone down and returned to the front parlour, where he had left Chipchase with the Drambuie bottle his mother had made such negligible inroads into since receiving it as a gift on her ninetieth birthday. Chipchase, to his surprise, did not seem to be putting it away with much abandon either. He was, in fact, just concluding a call on his mobile when Harry entered.

'Who was that?' Harry asked.

'Abracadabra Cabs. They'll be here in about ten minutes.'

'You've ordered a taxi?'

'I have. We're off to see the wizard. Or, in this case, the witch.'

'What the hell are you talking about?'

'Ah, well, while you and Donna were billing and cooing, I did some thinking. We need access to a computer to find out what Askew sent you on that disk. Who do we know in Swindon who might let us use theirs? Jackie. That's who.'

'You phoned Jackie?'

'I did. Caught her at a good time. Hubby's away. Out of her life or just out of town I'm not sure, but it doesn't really matter, does it? She's willing to give us the use of her pc, this very night. So, let's high-bloody-tail it over there… and see what we've got.'

—«»—«»—«»—

Jackie had moved house at least once since Harry had last paid her a social call some seventeen years previously. Her new property was smaller but more tasteful, almost Cotswoldian, in fact, as far as he could judge in the exurban depths of a moonless night.

The transition from dolly-bird secretary to mature, elegant businesswoman was one Jackie had managed with greater aplomb than Harry would ever have predicted. Quite why she was dressed in an expensively flattering black trouser-suit for an evening originally destined for domestic solitude was unclear, but her outfit was not the only puzzling aspect of her appearance. Some hints of grey had been permitted to enter her expertly styled blonde hair, but her looks were magically youthful and her figure, as Chipchase eagerly remarked, was a tribute either to her genes or to her gymnasium.

'From what I remember of your mother, darlin', it's got to be the gym that's kept you in such good shape.'

'If your hand slides one millimetre further in the direction it's going, Barry, I'll demonstrate some of my martial arts skills for you. I didn't acquire them from my mother either.'

Chipchase's hand recoiled from her hip. 'Sorry, darlin'. Old habits and all that.'

'How are you, Harry?' Jackie treated him to a more lingering kiss than her ex-husband had received. 'I was sorry to hear about Ivy. She was a lovely lady.'

'Thanks, Jackie. It's, er, good to see you again. And to, er ... see you looking so good.'

'Divorce has put a spring in my step. I recommend it. Not to you, of course, with… Donna, isn't it? … waiting for you in Vancouver. But…' She smiled. 'Generally.'

'Divorce, Jackie?' queried Chipchase. 'Are we to take it Tony's had the heave-ho?'

'You are. He's history.'

'That must make me ancient history.'

'Guess so. Do you two want a drink?'

Neither of them objecting to the idea, Jackie lithely led the way into a spacious, modernistically furnished, spotlit lounge. She had opened a bottle of something straw-yellow from New Zealand, which Chipchase happily agreed to join her in a glass of. For Harry, however, a bottle of ale from Swindon's very own brewer, Arkell's, had been provided.

'Correct me if I'm wrong, but this is what you used to drink in the Plough at lunchtimes.'

'Well remembered.'

'Oh, there's nothing wrong with my memory.' She looked darkly at Chipchase. 'Nothing at all.'

'How's hairdressing?' Chipchase asked after coughing down a mouthful of wine.

'Profitable, thanks. I'm opening a salon in Oxford next month. That'll make six.'

'A real entrepreneuse, aren't we? I taught you well, darlin'. No doubt about it.'

'You were an education, Barry. There's no doubt about that.' She smiled coolly at him, then more warmly at Harry. 'I must say I never expected to see the pair of you together again.'

'Neither did I,' said Harry.

'I'm one up on both of you there, then,' said Chipchase. 'I always reckoned our paths through life would converge again sooner or later. It was written in the stars.'

'Why are you together?' asked Jackie, still looking at Harry.

'Long story.'

'And one you're keeping to yourselves?'

'Safer that way,' Chipchase answered. 'We don't want to get you mixed up in anything dodgy.'

'Or dangerous,' said Harry.

'Shouldn't you be leading quieter lives at your age?'

'Definitely.'

'No bloody choice in the matter, darlin',' said Chipchase. 'We're in a spot of bother. Through no fault of our own.' He grinned. 'Naturally.'

'More than a spot,' added Harry.

'How much more?' Jackie asked.

'You're better off not knowing.'

'But the contents of this… disk… could get you out of it?'

'It's possible.'

'Either way, we need to know,' said Chipchase. 'A.s.a. bloody p.'

—«»—«»—«»—

'When I started work with you two,' Jackie remarked as they entered her study-cum-office, 'high tech meant an electric typewriter. Times certainly change.'

'That they do,' mused Chipchase. '1968: the summer of love. And miniskirts. Micro-mini in your case, Jackie. I bet you'd still look great in one.'

'Well, you're not going to find out. Where's the disk?'

Harry handed it over and watched Chipchase trace in the air with an appreciative hand the curve of Jackie's bottom as she stooped to slide the disk into the tower under the desk. Then she slipped into the economically cutting-edge swivel chair in front of the screen and began clicking the mouse.

'What have we got?' Chipchase asked, craning over her right shoulder while Harry craned over her left.

'First up is some kind of message. See for yourselves.'

Peter: what follows went before us. It is as I clearly remember it. It is the truth. I entrust it to you as I once entrusted my heart. You knew what to do then. You will know what to do now. Tread carefully. But do not tread too fearfully. My love goes with you. Les.

'You know these people?'

'Yes,' Harry replied. 'It's to Peter Askew. From… Lester Maynard?'

'Has to be,' said Chipchase.

'I didn't know they were…'

'You do now.'

'But what follows? What… “went before us”?'

Jackie clicked the mouse. The next message, however, was less revealing. Please enter password to proceed. 'You can only open the attached file if you know the password. And I have this funny feeling you're going to say you don't.'

'We don't.'

'It's nine digits.'

'Might as well be ninety-nine,' growled Chipchase. 'We still bloody don't.'

'You've no idea at all?'

'What about their nicknames?' said Harry. 'Crooked and Piggott.'

'They're both seven letters each,' objected Jackie.

'Alzheimer's setting in, is it, Harry?' snapped Chipchase. 'Didn't you hear what Jackie said? Nine bloody digits.'

'Well, if you can supply them, Barry, be my guest.'

But Chipchase could not. His own surname was one of only two associated with Operation Clean Sheet that fulfilled the nine-digit quota and neither it nor MacIntyre did the trick. This was no surprise to Harry, who pointed out that Professor Mac's name was actually spelt McIntyre and thus contained only eight letters. Combinations and permutations of other names fared no better. Nor did hopeful stabs in the dark. Askew's address in Cardiff and Maynard's in Henley-on-Thames were mined for the answer, to no avail. Altogether, Jackie must have typed in several dozen words, many of them no better than anagrammish gibberish, before, with a heartfelt sigh, she called a halt.

'We're not getting anywhere here, are we, boys?'

Harry shook his head despondently. 'No.'

'Bloody hell,' said Chipchase.

Jackie closed the computer down and removed the disk. 'Find the magic password and you're in business,' she said, handing it to Harry. 'Otherwise…'

'We're sunk.'

'That bad?'

'Could be, Jackie.' Harry nodded. 'Could very well be.'