Chapter Nineteen

If Gareth Winstock really had been dead and not merely ‘missing’, as it were, his ghost would surely have haunted no other place, give or take the odd public house, than the basement in St Andrew’s Street for the chair at the head of the table remained respectfully vacant and the progress of the SPU’s investigations continued just as lamely as they had done under his auspices.

Kenny saw to that for he had learned the art of prevarication from a master and had more motive than ambition to delay the case in hand. He still had Stone sitting outside Lombard’s apartment in a radio van and Galbraith, on the hoof, strolling round Manor Park, but Fiona, his beloved sister, was growing short on patience.

‘Are you going to throw it all away, Kenny MacGregor? Is that your intention? You promised me faithfully when you accepted the job that you’d do it to the best of your ability.’

‘This is the best of my ability.’

‘Is it? What happened to the message from Stone that Lombard had picked up a suitcase from his apartment and driven off with it?’

‘I received the message.’

‘What did you do about it?’

‘Logged it, of course.’

‘Why didn’t you instruct Stone to follow Lombard?’

‘I didn’t have to. Besides, Stone’s shift was almost up and I didn’t want to run the unit into overtime.’

‘Overtime! Overtime!’ said Fiona, in her best Lady Bracknell voice.

‘We do have a budget,’ said Kenny, ‘and right at this very moment I’m trying not to exceed it. Good management is very important, Fiona, as you are constantly reminding me.’

‘So are results.’

‘Results will come.’

‘Oh, will they?’

‘Yes, they will,’ Kenny said.

‘You don’t even read my foreign résumés.’

‘I do, when I’m not too busy.’

‘Busy! You’ve been twiddling your thumbs for the best part of a month, Kenny. I’m amazed that Percy hasn’t had you on the carpet.’

‘Percy is otherwise occupied,’ Kenny said. ‘If I’d asked for extra money for overtime, though, he’d have been down on me like a ton of bricks.’

‘My God! What an attitude!’ Fiona said, outraged. ‘When are you going to pick up Manone and the others? I mean, if you were really worth your salt you’d have that damned villain Carfin Hughes behind bars by now and half his high school cronies with him.’

‘Nobody will ever put Hughes behind bars. He’s far too slippery. Besides, he’s a lawyer. Can you imagine the ructions upstairs if we had the audacity to lift an esteemed member of the legal profession for questioning, let alone arrest. In addition to which…’

‘I know, I know: we’ve nothing to go on.’

‘I could lift Flint, I suppose. If you want me to.’

‘It isn’t what I want, Kenneth. I’m nothing around here. I’m just a female civilian who does your typing and wastes time translating material nobody bothers to read. Frankly, if you weren’t my brother I’d resign tomorrow.’

‘Did you bring any scones?’

‘Scones!’ Fiona spat out. ‘Hitler’s trampling all over Europe, Jews are being beaten senseless in the streets of Berlin, the Italians are on the point of signing a pact with Germany, Franco has pulled Spain out of the League of Nations, and all you can think about is scones!’

‘An army marches on its stomach, you know.’

‘Oh, God! Kenny, I ask you!’

‘Instead of nagging me, Fiona, why don’t you ask me why I didn’t send Stone chasing after Tony Lombard and his precious suitcase?’

‘All right then. Why didn’t you send Stone chasing after Lombard?’

‘Because I know where Lombard and his suitcase were going.’

‘Oh!’ Fiona exclaimed.

Kenny savoured a small moment of triumph over his sister. He let her stew for almost half a minute while the ruckus upstairs in the corridor grew louder and Detective Constable Galbraith’s boots clumped on the stairs.

Fiona could contain herself no longer. ‘Where?’

‘Blackstone Farm.’

‘Where?’

‘Out by Breslin.’

‘Doing what?’

‘Printing counterfeit money.’

‘Why don’t you bring him in then?’ Fiona said, glancing at the door.

‘I intend to,’ Kenny said. ‘I’m going to bring him in myself.’

‘When?’

And Kenny said, ‘Tonight.’

*   *   *

Two hundred five-pound notes were laid out on John Flint’s desk like a gigantic hand of Patience. Johnny could hardly keep his hands off them and while Harker talked, lifted a note here, a note there and stroked it, smirking, before returning it to its place in the pattern.

‘Lovely,’ he murmured. ‘Isn’t it a lovely sight.’

‘For Chrissake, stop gloatin’,’ Eddie Harker told him. ‘It’s only the tip o’ the iceberg, Johnny boy. There’s a million more where that came from.’

‘A million, a whole million?’ Johnny said. ‘Is that a fact?’

‘Can you cope with it?’

‘Oh sure, sure I can cope with it.’ Johnny looked up at Harker with the most profound expression he could muster. ‘Money, I can always cope with but I never imagined I’d ever have a million quid lyin’ on my desk.’

‘You won’t,’ Harker said. ‘What you will have are consignments o’ twenty thousand, cash value, at a time. An’ listen, bucko, if one note, one lousy wee fiver slips through your fingers, I’ll know about it an’ you won’t see another tosser.’

‘Of course, I’ll account for every penny,’ said Johnny soberly. ‘I’ll give you a statement of price on every packet in every consignment. But the rate’s bound to vary, Eddie. Nobody’s gonna buy more than five grand’s worth from me at any one time.’ He fingered another note, stroking it with his forefinger. ‘The stuff’s so bloody good, though, I reckon we could get off with not scrubbin’ it at all.’

‘Maybe later,’ said Harker. ‘What we need to do first is test the market. We also need to pull in some honest cash. This operation ain’t been cheap.’

‘I can well believe it,’ Johnny said. ‘I’m just glad to be a part of it.’

‘Keep your nose clean, Flinty,’ Eddie Harker said, ‘an’ you’ll make your fortune along with the rest of the guys.’

‘Along with Dominic, you mean?’

‘Yeah. Dominic.’

‘When can I expect a first delivery?’

‘I’m pickin’ it up tonight,’ Eddie Harker said. ‘I need keys to your van.’

‘My van?’ Flint’s euphoria vanished. ‘I didn’t know you’d be usin’ my van.’

‘You know now, don’t you?’ Harker said.

‘How big is the shipment?’

‘Twenty thousand notes.’

‘A hundred grand, my God!’

‘Packed in two boxes.’ said Harker. ‘I want you here at ten-thirty when the movie show gets out downstairs. There’ll be enough goin’ on in the street so the cops, if there are any cops, won’t notice. I’ll park round back an’ bring the boxes up by the stairs. Have the door open, won’t you?’

‘Smart,’ said Johnny, nodding. ‘Very smart.’

‘You got a safe cleaned out?’

‘All ready an’ waiting,’ John Flint said. ‘Who’s makin’ the collection?’

‘I am,’ Harker said.

‘You an’ who else?’

‘Just me,’ Eddie Harker said. ‘Me an’ my little friend here.’

‘What is that?’ Johnny said. ‘A gun? Is that a gun?’

‘What does it look like?’ Harker said. ‘Chopped liver?’

‘Guns? I dunno about guns. I’m not very clever with guns.’

‘You don’t hafta be,’ said Harker. ‘I’m just takin’ precautions.’

‘Precautions?’ said Johnny, dry-mouthed. ‘Against what?’

‘In case anyone tries to get smart.’

‘You – you wouldn’t actually use it, would you, Eddie?’

‘You bet I would,’ said Harker.

*   *   *

There was no real reason for drinking, none at all. It had been weeks since she’d felt the need to tipple at the gin bottle in the early part of the afternoon. Victor Shadwell had cancelled her morning appointment, however, and she’d felt a little lost and lonely without a lesson to fall back on. If she’d been just a pinch more attentive, a shade more clear-headed she might have noticed tension in the girl. But she was in no mood to dilute her new-found power by helping out with housework or arbitrating in squabbles below stairs.

She was in the front lounge, lying on the big leather sofa listening to dance music on the wireless when Dominic arrived home.

She sat up, slid the highball glass under the sofa and peered at the clock on the mantel above the fireplace. Ten past four. She hadn’t even heard Patricia leave to collect the children. She rose, swaying slightly, and looked towards the window.

The weather was indecisive, bright one minute, raining the next, more like April than May. A blustery wind shook the evergreens and sprinkled blossom petals from the park on to the wet lawn. Polly stood motionless, a hand over her mouth. She heard a car door slam, the front door open, the thump-thud of her children clambering upstairs to the playroom where Patricia would have laid out milk or lemonade and a plate of chocolate biscuits to keep them going until supper.

‘Patricia?’ she said, not loudly.

No answer: voices in the hall sounded furtive and threatening, like plotters. She took a step towards the door, changed her mind, seated herself in the sofa. She reached down and pushed the highball glass further out of sight, tugged down her skirt, clasped her hands in her lap.

‘Dominic,’ she called out, ‘is that you?’

His head appeared around the door.

‘Oh, there you are,’ he said. ‘I thought you’d gone out?’

‘Lesson,’ Polly said, ‘cancelled.’

‘My fault,’ said Dominic. ‘I needed a consult with Victor this morning.’

‘Might,’ said Polly, ‘have told me.’

‘Would it have made any difference?’

‘Probably,’ Polly said, ‘not.’

He didn’t enter the room. Nothing visible but his head peeping around the door-jamb, like the sort of game her nephew Angus might invent to tease her.

‘I collected Pat and the children in the car,’ he said. ‘I was passing the school and it seemed a bit daft not to.’

‘Fine,’ said Polly. ‘Good.’

‘What are you doing?’

‘Having,’ Polly said, ‘a little nap.’

‘Yes, you have been overdoing it somewhat lately,’ Dominic said.

There were sounds upstairs, faint whisperings, muffled thumps to which her husband paid not the slightest attention. She glanced up at the ornate ceiling, saw – or thought she saw – the chandelier sway slightly, followed its motion not with her eyes but her head.

‘Sorry if we disturbed you,’ Dominic said. ‘Finish your nap. I’ll keep them quiet for a while.’ He closed the door before she could think of anything to say. Then he opened it again, showed her his face once more. ‘By the by, I won’t be home for supper. I’m meeting Hughes for dinner in Glasgow.’

‘Should – shouldn’t I,’ Polly said, ‘be there too?’

‘Not tonight, darling,’ Dominic told her. ‘No, definitely not tonight.’

*   *   *

The night was a lot less dark than most of those on Islay. There was a long clear pink afterglow in the sky to the west and a gaseous haze hung over Clydebank and dappled the underbelly of the cloud that covered the small towns and villages.

Kenny had put on a stout pair of boots. He reckoned the rain showers would have left the farmyard muddy and the fields slippery and felt that boots would give him an advantage if a hot pursuit was called for.

Dominic had picked him up outside the picture house at Anniesland Cross. It had still been light then, almost full daylight. They had driven over the Switchback at a leisurely pace.

Rain had hastened the arrival of summer and fruit orchards glowed with blossom and tall trees were in full leaf at last. He didn’t know this side of Glasgow at all well. He had walked the Roman wall with Fiona once or twice and had been dragged along the ridge of the Campsie Fells one sweltering Sunday afternoon some years ago, but it was, for Kenny, terra incognita, and he began to wish that he had studied the large-scale maps of the area just a little more carefully. He had a sense where Breslin was and where the farm lay in relation to the little town but Dominic did not take that route and Kenny was startled when the Wolseley jounced abruptly off the road into what appeared to be a cow pasture.

‘Where are we?’ Almost the first words he’d spoken since Dominic had picked him up: ‘This isn’t Blackstone?’

Dominic switched off the headlights but did not cut the engine.

The car continued slowly up a mud-slicked roadway towards a line of villas on the skyline. Peering from the window, Kenny realised that they were on the edge of a builders’ estate, surrounded by half-finished bungalows.

‘Blackstone’s just the other side of the hill,’ Dominic said. ‘I’m going to take the car through the field and park out of sight of the farmhouse.’

‘Is someone expecting you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Friend or foe?’ said Kenny.

‘That remains to be seen,’ said Dominic.

Kenny thought he knew where they were. The office maps weren’t sufficiently up to date to show the building site but he guessed they were heading for a prominent knoll that overlooked the old farmhouse.

‘Are those the villas that Bernard sold?’ he asked.

‘Yes.’

‘Bonskeet’s must have made a tidy profit on that lot?’

‘Yes,’ Dominic said, ‘but a loss on the rest of the site.’

‘What? Why?’

‘Cancelled reservations. Mortgages hard to come by. Nobody interested in investing in property this close to the shipyards. At Bonskeet’s board meeting last week it was decided to mothball the site, board it up and leave it as it is.’

‘Until after the war?’ said Kenny. ‘If there is a war.’

‘Hmmm,’ Dominic murmured.

Sitting forward, brow close to the windscreen, he eased the Wolseley through a field gate between thorn hedges, across an open field and around the base of a grassy hillock where, almost arbitrarily, he braked to a halt.

‘This is it,’ he said. ‘We’re here.’

‘Where’s the farm?’

‘Down there, dead ahead.’

‘How far?’

‘Quarter of a mile, or less.’ Dominic opened the driver’s door. ‘Are you ready for this, Sergeant MacGregor?’

‘As I’ll ever be,’ said Kenny.

*   *   *

She had been to the toilet three times since supper but the irritating urgency had not been relieved. She was on the point of going to the closet again when Tony called from upstairs: ‘He’s here.’

‘Who? Dominic?’ Penny shouted.

‘I don’t know where the hell Dominic’s got to.’ Tony answered as he ran down the stairs. ‘He should be here. Christ, he said he’d be here.’

‘What will we do if Dominic does not come?’

‘Give Harker the dough, I suppose,’ Tony said. ‘Dougie, is it ready?’

‘All ready.’

Dougie was seated by the hearth with the cat on his knee. He was tickling the back of her ears with his finger and looked absolutely calm except that the cigarette hanging from the side of his mouth twitched and shed little flakes of ash and when he put his hand to his mouth to remove it, his fingers were trembling.

‘Bugger it!’ he said, scowling at his hand. ‘I could fair do wi’ a drink.’

‘Later,’ Penny said. ‘We will have a drink together, later.’

‘I’m goin’ t’ hold you to that, lass,’ Dougie said.

Getting up from the armchair, he opened the window above the sink and eased the cat out on to the ledge. He paused, watching the headlamps of the van buck and flicker as it rounded the hairpin at the top of the track and began the descent to the yard.

He closed the window and turned.

‘It’s him,’ he said. ‘It’s Harker.’

‘Is he alone?’ said Penny.

‘Looks like it,’ Dougie said.

‘Thank God for that,’ said Penny.

‘Now all we need is Dominic. Where the hell is Dominic?’ Tony asked, and a voice just behind him answered:

‘Right here.’

*   *   *

Kenny didn’t dare switch on the electric light or use his pocket torch in case he alerted Harker to his presence in the stables. There was just enough light from the window, however, to illuminate the printing equipment, a ramshackle Heath Robinson device that looked as if it were held together by baling wire and string. He inspected it as best he could, alert for voices in the yard or the sounds of the men entering the stables below where two cardboard boxes were packed and ready to be collected. Sealed with gummed tape and twine, the boxes were not so bulky as he had imagined they would be but it would have cost him several minutes to open one, and he probably didn’t have several minutes. Dominic had timed it to perfection. They had arrived at the side of the farmhouse just seconds before headlights appeared at the top of the track. Dominic had told him to hide himself in the stables and had pushed him towards the door before he could protest. He, Dominic, had gone into the farmhouse through the front door, moving as silently as shadow in his black alpaca overcoat.

Kenny had barely had time to dart across the yard to the stables before the beams of the van’s headlamps spilled over the damp cobbles and Frank Conway – alias Eddie Harker – climbed out of the cab. He wore a jerkin, American style, and a cloth cap; a small man whose massive shoulders and heavy moustache lent him a ludicrous air of menace. He loitered by the vehicle, patted his hip, his breast then leaving the van door wide open, headed towards the farmhouse.

‘Eddie,’ Kenny heard Dominic say, ‘how nice to see you.’

From the window Kenny watched Harker and Dominic shake hands and enter the house: the door closed.

At that moment Kenny knew that Dominic was up to something. He had been deliberately excluded from whatever plotting or negotiation was going on inside. He didn’t even know how many of Dominic’s ‘gang’ were present. He hadn’t seen the blonde girl, the printer, or Tony Lombard. He wondered if Manone had shoo-ed them away or if, as seemed likely, they were all gathered inside.

He had told Manone, ‘no deals’, yet here he was doing exactly what Dominic wanted him to do. He was tempted to charge down the wooden stairs, race across the yard, break into the meeting and arrest the damned lot of them. Instead he clambered back up to the gallery where the machinery was situated. He had no idea how much time he would have before Harker emerged from the farmhouse again.

He just hoped it would be enough.

*   *   *

‘Hiya, kid,’ Eddie said. ‘Miss me, did ya?’

He swaggered across the kitchen, insinuated an arm about Penny’s waist and thrust his face up to hers. She kissed him perfunctorily on the mouth.

Tony, hands in pockets, watched sullenly.

‘No time for jig-jig, sweetheart,’ Harker said. ‘Got work to do.’

He detached his arm from about her, glanced at his wristlet watch.

He said, ‘Where’s the stuff?’

‘What’s the rush?’ Dominic said. ‘Have a drink, a cup of coffee. I assume you’re not delivering the goods directly to your German friends.’

‘What I’m doin’ with it, Dom, ain’t none o’ your business.’

‘I see,’ Dominic said. ‘I’m just the factory foreman, am I?’

‘You got it, son,’ said Eddie Harker. ‘Now, where’s the goddamned stuff?’

‘In the stables, packed and ready to go.’

‘Packed?’ said Harker.

‘I didn’t think you’d want to take it away in a shopping basket.’

‘I wanna see it,’ Harker said. ‘I wanna see the money.’

Dougie was seated in the armchair by the hearth and looked, Penny thought, rather incomplete without the tabby on his lap. The cigarette in his mouth no longer twitched, though, and his eyes were bright and attentive.

‘Do you intend to count it?’ Dominic said. ‘It’ll take all night.’

‘I didn’t say “count it”.’ Harker said. ‘I just wanna make sure it’s there.’

‘Dear God, Eddie!’ Dominic said. ‘You really don’t trust me.’

‘I really don’t trust anybody,’ Harker said. ‘How many boxes?’

‘Two,’ said the girl.

‘I want them opened.’

‘Jesus!’ Tony said, softly.

‘What do you think, Eddie,’ Dominic said, ‘that the boxes are stuffed with newspaper? Why would I want to cheat you at this stage in the proceedings?’

‘I want them opened,’ Harker said.

Dominic signalled. ‘Tony, go and bring…’

‘Tony,’ Harker said, ‘stay right where you are.’

‘I’ll go,’ said Penny.

‘Not you either, sweetheart,’ Harker said. ‘You might be my lovin’ wife but when it comes to hard cash…’

‘So she really is your wife,’ Tony said.

Harker swung round. He glanced first at Tony, then Penny, and, feigning amazement, said, ‘You didn’t tell him? You didn’t show him your ring? I thought you’d’ve shown him your ring. Nice, shiny, new wedding band. Ain’t you proud to be my little wifie? Oh, dear! Oh, my! Looks like somebody round here ain’t been entirely honest. Sure, she’s my wife. We got married in New York and honeymooned at sea. Didn’t see much o’ the ocean, though, did we, honey?’

‘The marriage isn’t legal. It will never stand up in a court,’ Dominic said. ‘Did you forget you already had a wife in Scotland, Eddie?’

‘That was a long time ago,’ Harker said, ‘an’ Scotland’s another country.’

‘It’s this country,’ Dominic said. ‘And you’re back in this country now.’

‘Yeah, but not for long. Soon we’ll be snug in our little love-nest in New York. Won’t we, sweetheart?’ Eddie glanced again at his wristlet watch. ‘Love to stay an’ chat, folks, but I gotta be on my way. Why don’t we all go out to the stable an’ lemme take a look inside those boxes. Okay with you, Mr Manone?’

‘Fine with me, Mr Harker,’ Dominic said and touching Tony’s arm as he passed, moved to open the door.

*   *   *

Kenny had come too far and made too many concessions to let impatience spoil it now: he must wait for Harker to take possession of the money. Once he had Harker bang to rights he would decide what to do with the rest of them. He would keep Harker here as long as possible of course – days if necessary – until Fiona made contact with Home Office authorities and a squad was sent up to take Harker away. He had no knowledge of how the law operated in such cases but had no doubt that Home Office had ‘departments’ trained to deal with enemies of the state and powers much more flexible and draconian than those of any Scottish court.

Crouched by the window, he watched Dominic and Harker cross the yard. He glimpsed Lombard in the doorway, the girl too, the long-legged blonde whose photograph was still in his wallet. Twilight had dwindled, cloud covered the hills, sealing in the night. From the top of the stairs he could only just discern the men below. Fortunately he had an unimpeded view of the cartons.

‘There,’ Dominic said. ‘Twenty thousand pounds. It’s all yours, Eddie.’

‘Open one,’ Harker said.

They stood just inside the doorway, looking down at the boxes.

‘You open it,’ Dominic said. ‘I don’t have a knife.’

For an instant Kenny thought Harker was about to strike Dominic, then, cursing, he hunkered down, cut the twine and ripped off the gummed tape. He peeled away the paper and flipped open the flaps of the carton.

‘It’s bloody dark in here, man,’ he complained. ‘Ain’t you gotta light?’

Dominic took a torch from his overcoat pocket, clicked it on and directed the beam to the box. The tableau suddenly became dramatic, almost theatrical.

Harker thrust a fist into the box and extracted a bundle of banknotes.

‘Closer,’ he said.

Obligingly Dominic focused light on the object in Harker’s hand.

‘Now do you believe me?’ Dominic said. ‘Open the other one too if you like.’

‘Nah!’ Harker said. ‘I trust you. Never didn’t trust you. Just wanted to make sure.’ He stuffed the wad back into the carton, closed the flaps and smoothed the paper wrappings. Stooping, he lifted the box and tucked it under his arm. ‘Bring the other one to the van, will ya?’

‘Of course.’

Dominic allowed Harker go past him into the yard. He looked down at the remaining box then up the staircase to the pitch dark gallery and with a flick of the wrist flashed a signal to Kenny.

Then he switched the torch off and stepped outside.

The gunshot was sharp, not muffled. It rang in steely little echoes between the buildings and left a tingling reverberation hanging in the air. Kenny was on his feet and bounding downstairs before the first crack faded.

‘Manone,’ he shouted. ‘My God! Dominic, what’ve you done now?’ He leapt over the remaining carton and out through the door.

He caught sight of Harker sliding down the side of the van, jerkin thrown open, arm flung wide, a gun in his hand. Then something heavy struck him on the side of the head and he fell forward on to his knees, already blacking out.

The object struck him again, from behind this time.

And Kenny was gone.

*   *   *

Something rubbing against his leg impinged on his consciousness. He had been knocked cold once before, on the boxing mat in the police gymnasium, but on that occasion had been swiftly brought round by a dash of cold water administered by Sergeant Ridley, his opponent. Now he remained addled and mentally numb. He kicked at the creature that was clambering up his leg and heard a grating Glaswegian voice say, ‘Mind the cat, please. Mind the cat.’

Kenny opened his eyes.

Shoals of pink and lavender tadpoles swam in front of him, scattering when a trident of pain drove among them.

Kenny groaned loudly.

‘Here, get this down ye.’

A hand closed on his wrist, a glass was fitted into his fingers.

He inhaled whisky fumes and without further assistance steered the glass to his lips and drank. More tadpoles, black this time, more little tridents of pain as the whisky trickled down his gullet into his chest.

He gasped and sat up.

‘Never fails,’ the voice said. ‘Raise the dead wi’ a good malt, so y’ could.’

‘Wh – where’s Harker?’

‘Gone back where he come from.’

His head felt enormous but when he probed it with exploratory fingers he found no obvious lumps or swellings. Pain radiated down the side of his face, however, and he couldn’t form his words properly. He wondered if this was how Rosie felt when she lost control of her vocal cords and experienced a weepy little rivulet of pity for poor Rosie. He blinked, rubbed his eyes, looked round.

If he had been a touch shabbier then the wee man who stood beside the armchair would have been an ideal model for a Glasgow artisan. In his days on the streets Kenny had encountered hundreds just like him.

‘Who are you?’

‘Giffard.’

‘Are you the printer? You are, you’re the printer.’

‘Aye.’ Giffard generously offered the bottle. ‘Want another one?’

Kenny shook his head: a serious mistake.

‘Wh-what time is it?’

‘Ten t’ ten.’

‘How long have I been unconscious?’

‘Half-hour, give’r take.’

Kenny struggled to hoist himself out of the chair. His head throbbed, his knees were like jelly. He sank back. ‘I’ve got to get to a telephone,’ he said. ‘Is there a telephone here?’

‘Nup.’

Giffard raised the bottle to his lips, took a tiny sip then corked it and slipped it into his jacket pocket.

‘He – he was shot, wasn’t he?’ Kenny said.

‘Who, who’s that?’

‘Harker.’

‘Nobody here by that name,’ Giffard said.

‘I saw him. I saw him, and he was shot.’

‘Don’t know who you’re talkin about.’

‘Conway then. Frank Conway.’

‘Frank’s been dead for years,’ Giffard said. ‘Maybe you saw a ghost.’

‘Someone hit me: was it you?’

‘You fell down the stairs.’

‘All right. All right.’ Impatience made Kenny’s head throb but it also restored his concentration. ‘I suppose you’ll be telling me next that Manone wasn’t here either, or Tony Lombard or – or that girl.’

‘They were,’ Giffard said, ‘but they’ve gone.’

‘Did they take Harker with them?’

‘No, he left,’ Giffard paused, ‘on his own.’

‘He’s dead, isn’t he?’ Kenny said. ‘I can have you arrested as an accessory after the fact, you know.’

‘After what fact?’ said Giffard.

‘You’ve been printing counterfeit banknotes.’

‘Have I?’ said Giffard innocently and then, as if weary of the game, added, ‘Aye, you’ve got that much right. Considerin’ you’ve got the fake plates in your pocket I can hardly deny it, can I?’

Kenny’s hand shot to his chest. He was still wearing his overcoat but it had been unbuckled and unbuttoned. He struggled, wriggling, patting his pockets.

The cat moved cautiously away.

‘Is this what you’re lookin’ for, Sergeant?’ Giffard said.

He held the plates, laid on a towel, in both hands.

Kenny reached out. ‘Give them to me. They’re mine.’

‘I know they are,’ Giffard said. ‘They’re evidence.’ He bent his knee and dragged one of the cartons across the kitchen floor with his foot. ‘An’ so’s this. I mean, you’re not goin’ to get very far wi’out evidence, are ye?’

‘Oh yes, I see,’ Kenny said. ‘What’s in that box? Old newspapers?’

‘Ten grand in new fivers,’ said Giffard. ‘There’s another ten in a box in the van outside.’

‘Harker, Conway, whatever you like to call him, left the van behind, did he?’

‘He departed in kind o’ a hurry.’

‘Whose van is it?’

‘John Flint’s,’ Giffard said. ‘If you’re quick off the mark you’ll find another thousand quid in Flint’s safe at the Stadium Cinema – so Dominic tells me.’

Kenny pushed himself to his feet. The printer was only a messenger whom Dominic had left behind to tie up loose ends and complete the deal that had never been a deal in the first place. He was sure that Harker was dead, the body buried in the woods or, more probably, whisked away to some last resting place where it would never be found. He was sure too that Manone, Lombard and the girl would already be in hiding or en route out of the country. All that was left was a salvage operation. ‘What else did Dominic tell you to tell me?’

‘Not t’ go wastin’ your time.’

‘Pursuing him, you mean?’

‘He gave me this,’ Giffard said. ‘He said this’s what you really need an’ all the rest’s irrelevant.’

Protected by a wallet of alligator hide, the booklet was hardly larger than a warrant card. Giffard handed it over and Kenny opened it.

He knew at once what it was and what it signified: a pass-book for a deposit account in Grant Peters private mercantile bank in Carnarvon Street, London, W1. He saw by the entries that there had already been movements of monies in and out of the account and that the current balance was eight hundred and four pounds. If Giffard’s plan had worked in a week or two that sum would have been swollen by ten or twelve thousand pounds and traffic through the account would have increased tenfold.

‘Where did Dominic get this?’

‘I think Harker left it behind. Dominic said you’d know what t’ do with it.’

‘I do,’ said Kenny. ‘At least I know people who do.’

‘He said if you was to put the twenty thousand together wi’ John Flint an’ this pass-book you’d get everythin’ you need for a promotion.’

Private bank or not, duty of secrecy notwithstanding, the compulsion of law would see to it that Edgar Harker’s contact and his clients stood revealed. If the faceless experts in the Home Office’s secret departments were as devious as they were reputed to be then Adolf’s agents would soon be scooped up.

Kenny closed the book carefully and put it in his inside pocket.

‘Giffard,’ he said, ‘who pulled the trigger, who fired the shot?’

‘Shot? I dunno what y’ mean.’

‘Was it Dominic Manone?’

‘Was it?’ Giffard said. ‘Was it Dom or Tony, or Penny maybe?’ He grinned, showing brown teeth. ‘Or maybe it was me. How do y’ kill a dead man anyway, an’ who’s to blame if you do?’

‘I’ve no answer to that,’ Kenny said.

‘Which is probably just as well,’ said Giffard.

*   *   *

Polly had eaten dinner alone in the dining-room and had spent an hour with the children afterwards, helping them with a big jigsaw puzzle that Patricia had spread out on an oilcloth on the floor. She was sober enough at that point but oddly detached, empty of all longing, all positive thought.

Patricia had returned from her room about half-past eight o’clock to see the children into bed and hear their prayers and had sat with Stuart for ten or fifteen minutes afterwards, talking quietly to the boy.

Bored by her son’s constant need for reassurance, Polly had gone downstairs into the living-room and had mixed herself a stiff gin-and-tonic and, when that was finished, another. She’d left the curtains open for the sky over the park was a pretty colour, tinted pink and lavender. She had no desire to switch on the wireless. The news that May day had been depressing and a word, an odd, exhilarating, zig-zaggy sort of word, Danzig had cropped up again and again, repeated in the solemn orations of news readers and announcers.

No one came near: not Patricia, not Mrs O’Shea. No one came calling: not Babs, not Mam, not Tony. Especially not Tony.

Polly drank a third tumbler of gin-and-tonic and, later, a modest snifter of brandy to settle her stomach and about eleven went upstairs to bed. She lay down and fell asleep instantly, and when she wakened again it was morning.

Sunlight patched the floral curtains. The bedroom looked uncommonly tidy. Clothing she’d dropped on the carpet last night had been picked up and put away. Her housecoat was draped on one of the antique chairs. There was no trace of cigar smoke in the air, no impingement of sound from the bathroom. She lay propped against the pillows listening to the unusual silence, steeling herself to get out of bed. She did not feel bad. Her hangover was mild, a little distemper of the stomach, a slight ache above the eyes. Gin was a safe drink after all. Who had told her that? Tony, was it Tony?

She swung herself out of bed, put on the housecoat, went out of the bedroom and along the corridor to the bathroom. She used the toilet and then, at the sink, splashed water on her face. She opened the mirrored cabinet in search of the aspirin bottle. One aspirin tablet and a glass of water would remove the last traces of her headache. She took down the bottle, then stopped.

The glass shelf on the top row of the cabinet was empty.

Shaving brush and shaving bowl, the razor and even its stand were missing. The elegant jars of male astringent and hair cream were missing too. Toothbrush. Nail scissors. Laxative. Dentrifice. Missing.

Polly went out into the corridor and ran back to the bedroom. She glanced at the dressing-table. His hairbrushes and comb were gone. She pulled open drawers. Shirts, socks, ties, underwear, handkerchiefs, a leather box of cuff-links, two expensive wristlet watches – all missing. She darted to the wardrobe, threw open the doors on empty hangers.

‘Dominic,’ she shouted, her head splitting now. ‘Dominic?’

She ran to the top of the stairs and leaning over the rail, called his name again. By now she expected no answer.

‘Mrs O’Shea, Mrs O’Shea.’

The woman appeared below. She was dressed in her apron but there was no evidence of flour on her hands. She looked up stiffly, frowning.

‘What is it, Mrs Manone?’

‘Where is my husband?’

‘He’s gone, Mrs Manone.’

‘Gone? What – what time is it?’

‘Quarter after seven,’ Cook told her.

She had assumed it was later, much later, well after nine.

Shocked, she spun away from the rail and into the playroom, through it to Stuart’s bedroom. The bed was unmade, his toy-box tilted on its side, his toys strewn on the floor: in Ishbel’s room, the same. She was running now for all her worth, thumping, clumping barefoot on the narrow staircase. She hurled herself into Patricia’s room on the upper floor, saw sunlight and in the pool of sunlight an empty bed, not slept in or remade, the pinewood wardrobe door hanging wide open, its hangers empty too. She turned and ran down the narrow staircase again, battering herself on the walls, and flung herself against the rail.

Cook was just where Polly had left her, below in the hall, looking up.

‘Where are the children?’ Polly said, panting. ‘Tell me where they are?’

‘They went away with Mr Manone.’

‘When?’

‘Six, a wee bit after.’

‘God! God! God! He’s taken my children. He’s taken away my children.’

‘Aye, Mrs Manone,’ Cook told her, ‘and he’s taken Patricia too.’