FORTY-TWO

Not Italy. Not even Scotland. Ailsa Redpath lived in London. Harry and Barry left Enslow to make his way home and hurried back to the station, arriving short of breath but in ample time for the 5.20 train.

—«»—«»—«»—

At Paddington, Harry bought his second London A-Z in as many days and traced Ailsa Redpath's address to a chunk of Chelsea between King's Road and Fulham Road. They could be there within the hour.

Enslow had maintained his attempt to mislead them had been motivated by nothing more than a desire to avoid causing his landlady any trouble for fear she might review his rent. Harry was not so sure. He thought it distinctly possible that Mrs Redpath had asked Enslow to divert any enquiries concerning her. He also thought Enslow might already have reported their visit of the day before to her, even though he had denied doing so. But the real question was not whether she had taken active steps to guard her privacy. It was why she might have done. And there was only one way to find out.

—«»—«»—«»—

It was gone seven o'clock on a cool, grey evening when they emerged from the Underground at South Kensington. A stiffish march through quietly affluent residential streets took them within half an hour to Elm Park Road — and a white-stuccoed, black-railinged Victorian terrace of well-worn gentility.

'How are we going to play this, then?' Chipchase asked, pausing before the steps leading to the gleaming blood-red front door of number 27.

'By ear,' Harry replied, striding up the steps and pressing the bell. 'Just follow my lead.'

—«»—«»—«»—

Harry had time for a second, longer press before the door opened. A tall, grey-haired man of middle years, with a fine-boned face, piercing eyes and the dashing looks of an ageing film star, regarded them unsmilingly, almost challengingly. He was dressed casually but expensively, with a glittering chunk of Rolex lolling from the wrist of the hand he had wrapped round the edge of the door.

'Yes?' A faint upward twitch of the eyebrows accompanied the peremptory greeting.

'We're, er… looking for Ailsa Redpath,' said Harry.

'Who are you?' There was the hint of a Scottish accent buried deep in the man's clipped, cosmopolitan voice.

'My name's Harry Barnett. This is my friend, Barry Chip-chase.'

'Never heard of you.'

'There's no reason—'

'I'm Iain Redpath. Ailsa's my wife. I know all her friends … and acquaintances. I don't know you.'

'We've never actually met your wife, Mr Redpath. We are old friends of the late Lester Maynard, however. He bequeathed her a house in Henley, as you'll be aware. It's in connection with Lester that—'

'Ailsa isn't here.'

'No?'

'She's gone away.'

'Really? Where to?'

Redpath's grip on the door tightened. His gaze narrowed. 'None of your business.'

'Are you always this hostile to visitors, squire?' put in Chipchase.

'What?'

'It's not as if Harry's stepped out of line. We're only making a few polite enquiries.'

'This is very important, Mr Redpath,' said Harry, emolliently. 'To your wife as well as us. We need to get in touch with her. Urgently. If you could just tell us—'

'I'll tell her you called. OK? Barnett and Chipchase. Old friends of Lester Maynard. I've got that right, haven't I?'

'Yes. But—'

'Want to leave your number in case she decides to call you?' His tone implied this was so unlikely as to be inconceivable.

'We don't actually .. . have a number.'

Redpath looked them both up and down. 'Why am I not surprised?'

'But we could… come back.' Harry ventured a smile. 'When you've had a chance to talk to your wife.'

'Yes. I suppose you could. But I can save you the bother. There's nothing Ailsa will want to discuss with you. I can guarantee it.'

'If you could just see your way to—'

'Goodbye.' With that — and the faintest of smiles — Redpath closed the door in their faces.

—«»—«»—«»—

'That went well, I thought,' said Chipchase as they wandered away along the street, retracing their steps in the vaguest of default modes.

'He's hiding something,' grumbled Harry.

'His wife, you mean?'

'We'll go back.'

'He's already told us what answer we'll get if we do.'

'We'll go back.'

'OK, OK. We'll go back. For all the bloody good it'll do us. How about a drink in the meantime? I could murder a—'

'Hi.' The door of a rust-pocked Ford Fiesta parked at the kerbside a few yards ahead of them had swung open and the driver had climbed out into their path. He was a podgy, round-faced young man with short, greasy hair, John Lennon glasses and several days' growth of beard. His leather jacket, T-shirt and trousers were a uniform shade of matt black. There was a sheen of sweat on his high forehead and a skittering look of nervousness in his eyes. This last feature Harry found strangely endearing after Redpath's glacial show of contempt. 'You're looking for Ailsa, right?'

'We might be,' Chipchase replied.

'We are,' said Harry definitively.

'Me too,' said the young man. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. 'Her husband's a tight-lipped bastard, isn't he?'

'To put it mildly.'

'What d'you want with Ailsa?'

'We could ask you the same.'

'Yeah.' Another wipe of the mouth. 'I suppose you could.'

'How about we trade answers?'

'Well…'

'Over a drink,' said Chipchase.