Chapter Sixteen

The cat was not the only creature at Blackstone Farm who had grown plump on Penny’s cooking. Dougie too had put on weight and sported a nice little middle-class tummy that swelled his shirt-fronts comfortably. He was no longer dependent on whisky. In fact he had almost lost his taste for the hard stuff and preferred a dish of tea or a glass of cream soda by way of refreshment, particularly when he was working over in the stables which, as April ran out, was most of the time. Penny would trot across the courtyard several times a day bearing trays of tea and scones or fizzy drinks in tall glasses, would stay with Dougie longer than Tony liked, for he had a feeling they were gossiping like a couple of schoolgirls about him. And for once Tony was right.

‘Did he bring you them flowers?’ Dougie asked.

‘Yes, he did,’ Penny answered.

‘Bouquets.’ Dougie sighed. ‘Bouquets an’ champagne.’

‘They are only daffodils,’ Penny said.

‘Maybe so,’ Dougie said. ‘But I don’t like it, lass. He’s bein’ far too nice t’ you. He’s up to somethin’.’ Penny no longer had the gall to blush when Dougie added, ‘Besides what goes on upstairs, I mean.’

‘He is wooing me, I believe,’ said Penny.

‘Wooin’ you? What the heck for?’

‘Perhaps he is falling in love with me.’

‘That’ll be the day!’ said Dougie.

Penny was not entirely taken in by Tony’s changed attitude towards her. In bed he was ardent, almost too ardent, though there were no more perverse little acts involving gas-masks. She had a feeling, though, that try as he might his heart was not in it any longer. To compensate he brought her flowers and chocolates. She accepted his attentions warmly enough and applied herself enthusiastically to cooking and cleaning as if she felt obliged to prove herself a good hausfrau as well as a good lover.

Dougie observed the pas de deux with wry amusement. He reminded Penny a little of her grandmother, Oma Keller, who had been her closest friend and confidante. Dougie had a similar air of watchful affection and however much he teased and even criticised her, Penny was sure he would never let her down. In many ways she preferred Dougie to Tony Lombard for Tony Lombard had no wit or sensitivity and cared nothing for the texture of the world.

‘I think perhaps he will ask me to marry him,’ Penny said.

Dougie snorted. He was smeared with oil, hair mussed, shirt rumpled.

‘If he does,’ he said, ‘what’re you goin’ to tell him?’

Dougie was looking at her with a sly questioning expression, exactly like Oma Keller’s when she’d trailed home late from a dinner party or a ball.

‘I do not know what you mean,’ Penny said.

‘Well, it’s either yea or nay, lass.’

‘Yea or nay – or perhaps’ Penny said.

‘If you fancy Tony for a husband,’ Dougie said, ‘I wouldn’t dangle him on the string too long.’

‘Why not?’

‘Unless I’m much mistook Tony can have his pick o’ women.’

‘Ah, but not women like me,’ said Penny. ‘In any case, I did not come to Scotland to find a husband. I came to make money for myself and my mother.’

‘Hard cash is always more dependable than a man.’

‘Do you believe that to be true?’ Penny asked, frowning.

‘Naw,’ Dougie said, ‘but I thought you might.’

‘Do not put words into my mouth or thoughts into my head.’

‘Aren’t you in luh-huve wi’ our Tony then?’ Dougie said.

‘I did not say that I am not.’

‘Make up your mind, lass,’ Dougie said. ‘I’ve got this blessed contraption just about ready t’ roll. When that happens an’ the money flows everythin’ will change again, not necessarily for the better.’

‘Because of Eddie, do you mean?’

‘Aye, an’ the rest o’ them,’ Dougie said.

‘So,’ Penny said, ‘you think they will squabble over the money?’

‘I’m damned sure they will,’ said Dougie.

*   *   *

Polly waited the best part of a week for Dominic to challenge her for she didn’t have the strength to confront him and precipitate the inevitable crisis. She had lived in the shadow of her husband’s secrets for years but adjusting to new secrets made her nervous, more nervous than she had ever been at the height of her affair with Tony.

All she had to do was square up to Dominic and say, ‘Why didn’t you tell me that my father’s alive,’ and he would be on the spot. She could force him to confide in her, expose at a stroke the depth of his deception, his callous indifference to her family, his double standards, his double life. Provided he didn’t know about her call on Flint. She wondered if Flint had told Dominic about it or if greed had kept him silent. If she had known then that her father was involved with Flint – that her father was even alive – she wouldn’t have let Babs talk her into it. The fact remained that Dominic had known that Frank Conway had returned from the dead and had not had the decency to tell her. If the boot had been on the other foot what a song and dance there would have been, as if only Italians were entitled to have family ties and not the humble Scots who dwelled in tenement towns.

She fretted about Janet, about Kenneth MacGregor, about her mother, most of all about poor Rosie who had been so hurt by Dominic’s mendacity. She did not fret for herself, though, for she was almost willing to admit that she had brought calamity upon herself, a victim of her own restlessness, of wanting more without knowing what ‘more’ meant or what having it might entail.

Dominic hadn’t touched her for a week, in bed or out of it. At night he would lie beside her, hands behind his head, so still and silent that she didn’t know whether he was asleep or awake: then, on Tuesday, he suddenly said, ‘I’m taking you out to lunch tomorrow.’

‘Are you?’ Her voice sounded rusty. ‘Why?’

‘Please be ready at ten o’clock. I’ll pick you up here in the car.’

‘Lunch, at ten o’clock in the morning?’

‘I have someone I want you to meet first.’

Oh God! Oh God! My father, he’s taking me to meet my father, Polly thought, and experienced a sickening hollowness within her. She parted her lips to cry out, ‘Is it my father? Is it my Daddy?’ but realised that was exactly how Dominic expected her to react and that by doing so she would give away every last advantage.

She managed to sound calm, almost bored. ‘Someone interesting?’

‘I think you’ll find them interesting, yes.’

‘Ten o’clock, you say?’

‘Prompt,’ said Dominic.

*   *   *

It was a bright spring day but deceptively chilly. Cart horses still wore their canvases and the women about town had not yet shed their furs.

Polly selected her outfit with care, a tailored suit in box cloth, a swagger coat draped over her shoulders. The hat was simple, almost mannish, one that Dominic had never liked. He said nothing about the hat, however, chatted casually to her about the children, the weather and the war while they drove into the city. He parked the car outside the Baltic Chambers, escorted her to a side entrance and into a passenger lift that hoisted them slowly up to the fifth floor.

Polly’s heart was pounding and she had an ache like an unhealed scar just under her breastbone as the lift laboured upward and deposited them in a corridor flanked by offices. Six or eight paces carried them to a door, not glass but oak. Dominic knocked and ushering Polly before him, entered.

There were two men in the room, two faces she recognised, not strangers.

Dominic said, ‘I believe you know Mr Shadwell?’

‘I do indeed,’ said Polly.

Although Victor Shadwell had visited her house many times but she had exchanged hardly a dozen words with him over the years.

‘And Mr Hughes?’ said Dominic.

The lawyer too had visited Manor Park Avenue, had been locked in the front parlour with Dominic while she had kept tactfully out of sight. He was tall, with hawkish features, and emanated such an effortless air of good breeding that Polly was flattered to have him shake her hand.

The room was part of a suite. A single window looked out over slates and chimneys and the odd decorative ironwork that had been all the rage in roof finishing twenty or thirty years ago. There was no desk, only an oval table, four chairs padded in maroon leather and an array of bookcases packed with calf-bound volumes. On the desk was a bronze ashtray, a carafe of water, four glasses, and a pile of box files and ledgers.

‘Well, gentlemen,’ Dominic said, drawing out a chair for Polly, ‘shall we get down to it?’

The ache in her chest eased. She felt ‘floaty’, as if she were recovering from an illness. She’d no idea why Dominic had brought her to the lawyer’s chambers but it was obvious that her father had no part in it. She seated herself at the table and took off her gloves.

‘Dominic,’ she said, ‘may I ask why you have brought me here?’

‘Haven’t you told her yet?’ Victor Shadwell said.

‘Told me what?’ said Polly.

‘I wanted it to be a surprise,’ said Dominic.

Victor shook his head. He was an old man now but age had granted him a dignity that he had not possessed before. He said, ‘I was under the impression that Mrs Manone was keen to participate. Haven’t you even asked her, man?’

‘I didn’t have to,’ Dominic said.

The men discussed her as if she wasn’t there at all. Glancing up, she caught Carfin Hughes’s eye and he gave a little shake of the head and arched his brows as if to absolve himself from discourtesy.

He tapped his knuckles on the table to gain Dominic’s attention. ‘Perhaps,’ he said, ‘we would do better to lay out the proposition and enquire of Mrs Manone what she feels about it and if she is willing to participate.’

‘Hmmm,’ said Dominic. ‘Yes.’

The men seated themselves in a semi-circle facing her. Carfin Hughes leaned forward and clasped his hands as if he were about to lead them in prayer. He paused – a courtroom habit, Polly thought – then said, ‘Dominic has expressed a wish that you be shown the books: that is, the profit and loss accounts of the holdings to which he has access: that is, a listing or tally of all Manone investments, together with portfolios of company stock.’

Polly said, ‘Why are you telling me this, Mr Hughes? Why not Mr Shadwell who, I believe, is our accountant?’

‘There are legal implications,’ Carfin Hughes said.

‘To what?’

‘The transfer of shares, stock, bonds and debentures. The Law of Property Act of 1925 did not make the matter of transfer any less complex. I am here to ensure that you comprehend the law, Mrs Manone, and that the transfer or, more properly, transfers are effected without flaw. Dominic also suggests that I assume full power of attorney. I wish to ensure that you are satisfied with such an arrangement and will give me your confidence when I act on your behalf in matters relating to the holdings and transfers thereof.’

In spite of the flowery language and Carfin Hughes’s rich, soft drawl, Polly grasped at once what he meant: Dominic was giving her a hand in the business: giving her what she’d always wanted and more, much much more. She felt a stab of apprehension, not just that he should have capitulated with her wishes so completely but that she would not be able to cope with the intricacies of ownership. My God, she thought, I don’t even know what ‘business’ we’re talking about.

She lifted her chin and stared haughtily at her husband.

He was toying with an unlit cigar, dabbing it against the table, his attention fixed on the cigar, eyes down. He was smiling, though, that soft, insufferable smile that was sly and sinister and smug all in one. No other man she had ever met smiled like that, expressing so much and revealing so little.

‘Why are you doing this, Dominic?’ she asked.

He went on dabbing the cigar, manipulating it with forefinger and thumb, turning it over and over and over until it seemed to whirr in the air like a little brown baton. Then he lost it, let it fall. ‘It’s what you want, Polly, is it not?’

‘I never asked – never once did I suggest…’

The three of them – Dominic, Hughes and Shadwell – had obviously argued about it and rehearsed what each of them would say, how the proposal could be put to her as a fait accompli.

Smoothly, too smoothly, Carfin Hughes took up the running. ‘Let’s dispense with euphemisms, Mrs Manone, shall we? In the event of a declaration of a war with Germany and preceding any possible pact with Italy, aliens will be stripped of their rights and entitlements.’

‘Dominic isn’t an alien. He was born and brought up in Scotland.’

‘That’s true, but your husband,’ Hughes paused tactfully, ‘has long been a subject of police attention. You must be aware of it, Mrs Manone. By which I mean that you cannot be unaware that he has engaged in the past in activities that in some circles might be considered less than entirely honest.’

The lawyer’s explanation made perfect sense. In the event of war Dominic would be classed as an alien and any defence against such an unjust classification that Hughes might put to a hearing would be bound to expose his less than legitimate activities and might lead to criminal charges. She had never been the sort of wife who saw only good in her husband, a good provider, a loving father and loyal son. She had always known what Dominic was and what he did. What he was and what he did had been a huge part of his attraction.

‘Thank you, Mr Hughes. I do understand. Dominic?’

‘Dearest?’

‘Why are you doing this now? Is there a special reason for ridding yourself, nominally at least, of control of the company?’

‘I prefer you to have control of our affairs under the guidance of men I can trust to deal with you fairly rather than…’ He lifted his hands, palms open, and did not complete the sentence.

She knew: Flint had told him, Flint, or her father. All the deceptions, lies and betrayals were coming home to roost at last. Dominic was punishing her by giving her exactly what she believed she wanted. She stared at him across the table and experienced not triumph but guilt, guilt at not loving Dominic enough, guilt at loving Tony more.

‘It is, however, imperative that you trust me,’ Carfin Hughes said. ‘In the course of the next few weeks Mr Shadwell will steer you through the financial statements and, with your agreement, your husband will assign a majority of the holdings to you.’

‘A majority,’ said Polly, ‘not all?’

‘Some will be sold or traded off,’ Hughes said.

‘Why?’

‘Because,’ Dominic told her, ‘they’ll have no value in wartime.’

‘But others will?’ said Polly.

‘Others certainly will,’ said Carfin Hughes.

‘What others?’

‘That will be explained to you,’ Victor Shadwell said. ‘If you’ll just have a wee bit patience, Mrs Manone, I’ll be pleased to take you through the books page by page and show you what’s what.’

‘Why can’t Dominic do it?’ Polly asked. ‘Why can’t you do it, darling?’

‘Because,’ Dominic said, ‘I may not be here.’

‘Where in God’s name will you be?’ Polly said, sharply.

‘I wish I knew,’ Dominic told her and with that smile and that shaping of the hands again, shrugged off all further questions on that score.

*   *   *

‘Is this where you grill suspects?’ Bernard said.

‘No, this is my office,’ Kenny said.

‘I didn’t know sergeants had offices.’

‘My new office,’ Kenny said.

He was tempted to brag about his recent promotion to head of the Special Protection Unit but responsibility had already begun to affect him and he was more guarded than he had been a week ago.

‘Is it sound-proof?’ Bernard asked.

‘Pardon?’

‘Can anybody outside hear us?’

‘Only if you shout,’ said Kenny.

‘I’m not going to shout.’ Bernard lowered his voice to not much more than a whisper. ‘I just need a few words with you, if you can spare the time.’

‘My time is your time,’ Kenny said, then, ‘Why aren’t you at work, by the way? Half-eleven on a weekday morning, shouldn’t you be at the office in Breslin?’

‘I’m here,’ Bernard put in. ‘That’s all that concerns you.’

They glowered at each other for five or ten seconds, though neither man was by nature surly and scowling did not come easily.

At length Kenny said, ‘Is Rosie okay?’

‘No, Rosie is not okay.’

‘Is she the reason you’re here?’

‘Part of it,’ Bernard said.

‘What,’ said Kenny, ‘is the other part?’

‘I know what’s going on.’

‘Going on where?’

‘What Manone’s up to.’

Kenny tried to appear cool. He had been less than a week in the job and had spent much of it doing little except brood on how he could win Rosie Conway back and at the same time fulfil his professional obligations. He hadn’t been entirely idle. He had posted Galbraith in the radio van outside Lombard’s flat for late evening shifts but so far Lombard hadn’t turned up. He’d sent Stone to loiter in the park opposite Manone’s house but the comings-and-going there had been very ordinary. So far he had done nothing original or adventurous, however, and hadn’t a clue how to progress with the case on his own account. Until now.

‘And what might Manone be up to?’ Kenny asked.

‘I’m not going to tell you,’ Bernard said. ‘You can’t make me tell you.’

‘May I remind you, Bernard, you came here of your own free will, so presumably you had a purpose other than telling me that you weren’t going to tell me anything.’

‘I know a lot of things I didn’t know before.’

‘Bully,’ Kenny said, ‘for you.’

Bernard dropped forward over the desk so abruptly that for an instant Kenny wondered if he, like Winstock, had been struck down by illness. He inched back in his chair, waiting for a fountain of blood: none came of course. Bernard beckoned, drew the sergeant closer so that their brows were almost touching, his voice so low and hoarse that it hardly seemed like a human voice at all.

‘Between you and me,’ Bernard rasped, ‘I don’t give a damn about Dominic Manone. He’s been a bad influence on everybody he’s ever come in contact with. I mean, if he wasn’t married to my wife’s daughter I’d give him over to you right here and now and say good bloody riddance.’

‘But?’ said Kenny.

‘I can’t do that.’

‘Won’t do that, you mean.’

‘Aye, that’s what I mean,’ Bernard said. ‘I won’t do that until we have some kind of agreement, just between you and me.’

‘I can’t make deals,’ said Kenny.

‘Won’t, you mean,’ said Bernard. ‘Who do you answer to upstairs? Sillitoe?’

‘He’s at the top of the pole, yes,’ said Kenny.

‘What would he settle for?’ Bernard asked.

‘I’m not sure I like that question. It smells like a deal to me.’

‘Would it be enough to stop them? Would that satisfy you?’

‘It’s not a question of satisfaction.’ Kenny was tired of craning over the desk. He straightened and sat back. ‘Nor is it a matter of criminal law, Bernard. To be honest with you, it’s gone beyond that.’

Bernard nodded. ‘Treason.’

Kenny hesitated. ‘Possibly.’

‘If what you’re investigating is a treasonable offence then you’ll have all sorts of special powers at your disposal,’ Bernard said.

‘I still can’t make a deal.’

‘Could you make a deal with Manone, perhaps?’

‘Never. I wouldn’t dream of it.’

‘Then,’ Bernard pushed back his chair and rose, ‘I’m going now.’

‘I could have you detained, you know.’

‘On what grounds?’

‘Withholding information.’

‘Rubbish! There’s no such charge.’

‘I didn’t say “charge”,’ said Kenny. ‘Those “special powers” you mentioned do come in handy sometimes.’

Reluctantly Bernard lowered himself back into the chair. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘I’m as keen as you are to have Dominic put away but I don’t want to see him hanged.’

‘What about Rosie’s father, wouldn’t you like to see him hanged?’

Bernard shook his head. ‘It isn’t what I want, or what you want, Kenny. It’s what Rosie wants.’

‘And what may that be?’ said Kenny.

‘To have you for a husband.’

‘Don’t give me that patter, Bernard. She hates me.’

‘No she doesn’t. She’s hurt and confused. In a sense her father means nothing to her. Heck, she can’t even remember him. On the other hand she wants to meet him and see for herself what…’

‘This has nothing to do with Manone,’ Kenny interrupted.

‘It has a lot to do with Manone,’ said Bernard. ‘It has a lot to do with Harker, Frank Conway or whatever you like to call him. All right, I’ll tell you.’

Kenny sat up, raising the upper part of his body.

Bernard went on, ‘It’s an international conspiracy – no, don’t laugh: it is. I know it seems pretty bizarre to say so but we’re at the sharp end of a Nazi plot.’

‘Go on.’

‘Manone and Harker are in it up to their ears. It started somewhere in Germany and moved to America. Carlo Manone was brought in. He got Dominic involved. Harker’s the middle-man, the manager.’

‘Who told you all this? Dominic?’

‘God, no!’

‘Polly?’

‘I’ve seen with my own eyes what they’re up to.’

‘What are they up to, Bernard?’

‘Don’t you know?’

‘No, I don’t.’

‘Not much of a detective, are you?’

‘Detective enough to suspect that it’s a spy ring,’ said Kenny.

‘The spy ring’s out of your reach.’

‘But Harker and Manone aren’t?’

‘Exactly.’

Kenny was still sitting bolt upright like a woodland animal that has caught the scent of danger. ‘Flint, Manone, Lombard, Harker,’ he murmured. ‘They’re funding this spy ring, aren’t they?’

‘Yes.’

‘How?’

‘First I want some guarantees.’

‘I told you, Bernard. I don’t deal.’

‘Not even for Rosie’s sake?’

‘I can’t protect Rosie now,’ Kenny said. ‘Much as I love her she’s just going to have to take what’s coming. I don’t mean to sound harsh but this – this thing is far too important to let personal feelings get in the way. I thought you were a patriot, Bernard.’

‘I’m a husband and father first.’

‘Oh, how gallant!’ Kenny said, sarcastically.

‘If we play our cards right,’ Bernard said, ‘we can collar the agents. I don’t know where they are or who they are or how valuable the information the Germans will glean from them might be, but I do know that Manone’s supplying them with money and at a guess I’d say Harker and Flint are distributing it.’

‘How much money are we talking about? Thousands?’

‘Millions, more like.’

‘Dominic Manone doesn’t have millions.’

‘He will have,’ said Bernard, ‘very soon.’

Kenny let his body slide in the wooden-armed chair. He was tempted to put his feet on the desk as Inspector Winstock had done in times of stress. Instead he shifted his weight on to his spine and stretched his long legs under the desk.

He was pleased, still puzzled but pleased none the less. He had lied to Bernard, of course. He knew a lot more than he had let on, enough to recognise that Bernard was telling the truth. He had read Fiona’s carefully assembled clippings and typed translations, Winstock’s scant correspondence with the Home Office, Harker’s file from the FBI in America; enough, quite enough to have a picture of what was happening and how Manone fitted into it. Now Bernard had given him the key.

‘If you make me one promise, Kenny, I’ll tell you what Manone’s got in hand and where you can find all the evidence you’ll need to make your case.’

‘What promise?’

‘I want you to handle it personally and discreetly, without whistling up forty coppers and a Black Maria,’ Bernard said. ‘If you plan this properly, Kenny, you can cop the lot, not just Harker, Flint and Manone but the agents down south. That’s what your superiors want, isn’t it? They want the spy ring broken before it has a chance to leak information back to Adolf.’

‘All right, Bernard,’ Kenny said. ‘You’ve made your point.’

‘I need a promise,’ Bernard said. ‘Your promise.’

‘I’ll do my best. I can’t promise more than that.’

‘They’re printing counterfeit notes off damned-near perfect plates.’

‘Ah!’ Kenny exclaimed. ‘Ah-hah!’

‘I know where the press is. I can take you there.’

‘When?’ Kenny said.

‘Soon,’ Bernard said. ‘Soon, but not just yet.’

‘Why not now? Why not today?’

‘Because they haven’t start printing yet,’ Bernard said. ‘And if they haven’t start printing then they haven’t started distributing and the agents are safely tucked away and you’ll never lure them out into the open.’

For half a minute Kenny said nothing. What Bernard proposed made sense. If he could somehow tempt the agents into the open then Scotland Yard or Home Office hard nuts could pick them up one by one. Money was the bait, the money that Manone had been commissioned to print and Harker to distribute.

‘All right,’ Kenny said.

‘All right – what?’ said Bernard.

‘I’ll go along with you,’ Kenny said. ‘I’ll give you a week.’

‘It’ll take a lot longer than that,’ Bernard said. ‘I’ll tell you when.’

‘When?’ said Kenny. ‘When what?’

‘When the machines are up and running and Harker’s ready for the drop.’

‘Red-handed,’ Kenny said, nodding. ‘Of course.’

‘Do we have a de … an agreement, Sergeant MacGregor?’

‘I believe we do, Mr Peabody,’ Kenny said. ‘Yes, I do believe we do.’

*   *   *

Polly could not decide whether it was sentiment or convenience that motivated Dominic to take her to lunch at Goodman’s Restaurant.

It had been years since she last she’d eaten there but she hadn’t forgotten that it was in Goodman’s that Dominic had advanced his courtship, in Goodman’s that they had celebrated their anniversaries. Three or four years ago the tradition had lapsed. No reason for it, no decision made to let it go. It had simply withered and faded away. He had taken her elsewhere – to Braggio’s, to Brown’s, to the Delphic – but never again to Goodman’s.

Over lunch they talked business. He imparted a little of Victor Shadwell’s history, more about Carfin Hughes, men whom Dominic trusted and admired.

He told her that the importation of manufactured goods and comestibles from Italy had been seriously affected by the threat of war and warehouse profits had dropped alarmingly. He outlined his arrangements for collecting untaxed ‘interest’ from Clyde coast café owners and explained how in exchange for monthly pay-offs – sums fixed regardless of profits – he provided security and, if asked, loans for expansion. He talked of his share in a plant for making ice-cream and his holding in Bonskeet’s, presented her with a steady stream of facts and figures that, for the most part Polly found quite comprehensible.

It wasn’t until they were driving back to Manor Park, however, that she put the questions that had been troubling her all afternoon.

She began tentatively, almost innocently.

‘Does Tony make the collections from the Clyde coast clients?’

‘He did. Charley Fraser does it now.’

They drove on through sunlight and barred shadow.

‘Are all these clients listed?’ Polly said.

‘Victor Shadwell keeps a special ledger. You can see it if you wish.’

‘Is Jackie’s name in it?’ Polly asked.

‘Jackie? Oh, you mean the salon: no, that’s recorded elsewhere.’

‘Who “collects” from Jackie?’

‘No one. He’s family.’

‘I see,’ Polly said.

The interior of the car was warm. She had drunk wine at lunch. She was unusually aware of the luxury that surrounded her; leather and walnut wood, box-cloth, silk against her skin, the aroma of Dominic’s cigar, his soft, unmuscular body nestling beside her. Approaching mid-life now, he looked smooth and comfortable, almost too comfortable to be real.

‘Are you really thinking of making a run for it?’ she said.

‘I didn’t say I was making a run for it.’

‘Going away. You said “going away”.’

‘For a time. If I have to.’

‘What will be the deciding factor?’

‘What happens next.’

‘Oh, Dominic, for God’s sake!’ she said, not crossly. ‘Stop being so damned enigmatic. Why won’t you tell me everything?’

‘In case you let something slip.’

‘Slip? To whom?’

‘Kenny MacGregor,’ Dominic told her. ‘Bernard.’

‘Bernard?’

‘Tony, possibly.’

He steered the big car through a welter of afternoon traffic, seated well forward, the wheel close to his chest. She thought of Tony who drove casually almost indifferently, bossing the rest of the traffic on the road. She felt safer with Tony at the wheel.

‘I thought Tony knew everything that goes on?’ she said.

‘He doesn’t,’ Dominic said.

‘You have secrets from him too?’

‘Sure. He has secrets from me, doesn’t he?’

‘I wouldn’t know,’ said Polly. ‘I am, after all, quite new to the game.’

She waited for his challenge, a word, a hint that he had learned of her affair. All he needed to do was glance at her and say ‘Are you?’ with just the right amount of inflexion, but he gave her nothing, nothing at all.

After a few moments, she said, ‘Where will you go if you do leave Glasgow?’

‘I don’t know yet.’

‘America?’

‘Not to Philly, not to my father, no.’

‘Would he not make you welcome?’

‘I doubt it,’ Dominic said.

‘Italy then?’

‘Not Italy either.’

‘Where?’

He adjusted position, pulled himself closer to the wheel.

‘That, Polly,’ he said, ‘is not something you need to know.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me that my father was alive?’

He came back at her at once. ‘Why didn’t you tell me you were negotiating with John Flint to take over my business?’

‘It wasn’t a negotiation, not quite.’

‘You worried them.’

‘Good,’ said Polly. ‘I take it you mean my father as well as Flint?’

‘Your father is dangerous.’

‘I think I’d rather worked that out for myself.’

‘He doesn’t want to see you, or your mother, or any of you.’

‘I guessed that too. Sad, isn’t it?’

‘Depends on how you look at it,’ said Dominic. ‘I didn’t tell you, Polly, for the simple reason that I didn’t feel it would benefit you.’

‘No,’ she said. ‘I understand.’

‘If it hadn’t been for that damned interfering aunt of yours…’

Polly laughed, a small sound. ‘Janet, Janet having her revenge.’

‘I’m sorry about your mother,’ Dominic said. ‘And Rosalind.’

‘And I’m sorry I disappointed you by talking with Flint.’

‘I admit it wasn’t what I expected of you,’ Dominic said.

‘Oh, but you expected – something?’

‘Hmmm.’

‘What?’

The car turned into the Avenue. Trees were showing green, new leaves trembling in the breeze from the river. Tulips had replaced daffodils in the border beds and a gang of eight or ten labourers were digging a trench behind the Ibrox gate. She didn’t have to ask what the labourers were doing; signs of preparation for war had become too numerous to be remarkable.

She touched Dominic’s sleeve, said again, ‘What?’

Thirty yards from the gateposts of the mansion, from home, Patricia walked along the pavement, flanked by Stuart and Ishbel. Holding on to the girl’s hands, Polly’s children chatted and skipped happily. The girl looked fresh and confident and – loving: yes, loving, Polly thought, more motherly and loving than she had ever been. When war came Patricia would probably leave to take care of orphans or evacuees or load shells into boxes in a munitions factory; any sort of work was more useful than being paid to mother the children of a woman who was too selfish to mother them herself.

The car sped on down the avenue past the children, past the house. Looking back, Polly saw her son lift his hand in an uncertain wave and then lower it again.

‘That was the children,’ she said. ‘Didn’t you see them?’

‘I saw them,’ Dominic said.

Dominic steered around the long corner of the park, brought the car in against the kerb and braked to a halt. He switched off the engine.

‘Dominic, what are you doing?’

He reached out a gloved hand, drew her gently to him and kissed her mouth.

‘Listen,’ he said, ‘I want to tell you this. Whatever happens, I have not deserted you. I love you, Polly. I always have and I always will and, no matter what, I’ll come back for you. Do you understand?’

‘Yes,’ Polly said.

‘Do you believe me?’

‘Yes,’ Polly said again and for no particularly urgent reason began to cry.

*   *   *

It was late in the afternoon and Tony had been drinking steadily since lunch-time. He was propped in the attic window and not even the stiff little breeze that twisted over the pine trees managed to keep him alert.

The telescope nodded in his hands and his ear, resting against the window frame, was numb. If the guy had shown up five or ten minutes later Tony may not have noticed him at all. He wasn’t drunk though, not even tipsy, just sleepy enough to be inattentive so that the man was in the yard before he spotted him.

Tony opened his eyes, rubbed a hand over his chin then, snapping wide awake, shouted, ‘You. Stop right where you are,’ and fumbled for the rabbit gun.

‘What do you intend to do, Lombard? Shoot me?’ Bernard stood in the centre of the yard with his hands on his hips, overcoat billowing around him, hat tipped back from his face. ‘Is that what the boss ordered you to do, to shoot me and put me out of my misery.’

‘What do you want here, Bernard?’

‘A wee quiet word, that’s all.’

‘Stay where you are.’

Tony closed the attic window, tossed aside the telescope and, with the rifle in both hands, made his way down the narrow stairs and out into the yard.

From the stables the sound of machinery was almost deafening, a fantastical clickety-clickety-clacking, like a gigantic knitting-machine. The wind accentuated it and carried it off in the direction of the roadway. There was no sign of Giffard, of course, and the racket in the stables would render him oblivious to any disturbance outside the thick stone walls.

Penny? Tony had no idea where Penny was; asleep maybe.

Bernard was waiting where Tony had left him, hands still planted on his hips. Easiest thing in the world to cock the loaded rifle, put a bullet through his chest and be rid of at least one complication. Plenty of places to hide a body too. Bury it among the trees or stuff it into one of the pits on the building site and cover it with earth and concrete.

‘Go ahead, Tony, waste a bullet if you really feel like it,’ Bernard said.

‘You’ve got some bloody nerve coming back here.’

Bernard showed no sign of fear. He jerked his head in the direction of the stables. ‘Has your tame printer got it working at last?’

‘None of your business,’ Tony said.

Where was Penny? Where the hell was the girl? He could toss her the rifle, tell her to do it. By God, she’d do it without turning a hair.

‘I want my whack,’ Bernard said.

‘What?’

‘You heard me, Mr Lombard. I want my share.’

Tony laughed uncertainly. ‘You’ve changed your tune.’

‘I’ve been thinking it over,’ Bernard said. ‘Rationally there’s no reason for me not to get in on it. I mean, I’m family, aren’t I?’

‘How much do you want to keep your trap shut?’

‘Fifty a week.’

‘Too much.’

‘Too much, when you’re producing twenty grand?’

‘We ain’t producing anything yet,’ Tony said.

‘Sounds to me like you are.’

‘That’s noise, just noise. Wanna see for yourself?’

‘No, I’ll take your word for it,’ Bernard said. ‘I assume that since you haven’t shot me dead Mr Manone hasn’t made up his mind what to do about me. Gone queasy, has he? Gone a little soft?’

‘Soft or not,’ Tony said, ‘he won’t give you fifty.’

‘Fifty,’ said Bernard. ‘Clean money. None of your counterfeit rubbish.’

‘Why don’t you talk to Dominic?’

‘I would if I could find him.’ Bernard looked past Tony and politely tipped his hat. ‘Perhaps your missus knows where he is?’

Penny was standing in the farmhouse doorway. She wore nothing but a bathrobe and a towel wrapped, turban-style, around her head. Her legs and feet were bare and she had the clean, athletic look that he, Tony, had begun to find more stimulating than any of the paraphernalia with which she teased him upstairs: just out of the bath she looked almost unspoiled.

He glanced behind him then, quickly, back at Bernard.

‘Dominic ain’t here. We haven’t seen him for days. Call him at the warehouse if you want to strike a deal.’

‘No,’ Bernard said. ‘You tell him what I’ve just told you. I’m not going to bother the boss with such a trivial matter as fifty quid a week. Heck, he can take that much from petty cash and never even miss it.’

‘Not these days,’ said Tony.

‘Don’t give me any sob stories.’ Bernard jerked his head in the direction of the stables once more. ‘You’ve got a money machine set up in there and as soon as it goes into production you’re all going to be wallowing in dough. The day that contraption starts to cough out cash I want fifty pounds in a plain brown envelope on my desk at Lyons and Lloyd’s.’

‘Or what?’

‘Or you’re going to have to go to all the bother of shooting me, Tony, all the inconvenience of explaining away my disappearance to Dominic’s wife and Dominic’s mother-in law, to say nothing of the cops. Tell Dom what I want. He’ll see how reasonable I’m being.’

‘I had you figured all wrong, Peabody,’ Tony said.

‘You wouldn’t be the first,’ said Bernard and, with a nod to Penny, turned on his heel and left.