Dying to Tell
by
Robert Goddard


Also by Robert Goddard

PAST CARING

IN PALE BATTALIONS

PAINTING THE DARKNESS

INTO THE BLUE

TAKTi NO FAREWELL

HAND IN GLOVE

CLOSED CIRCLE

BORROWED TIME

OUT OF THE SUN

BEYOND RECALL

CAUGHT IN THE LIGHT

SET IN STONE

SEA CHANGE

DYING TO TELL

Robert Goddard

BANTAM PRESS

LONDON NEW YORK TORONTO SYDNEY AUCKLAND

TRANS WORLD PUBLISHERS

61-63 Uxbridge Road, London W5 5SA

a division of The Random House Group Ltd

RANDOM HOUSE AUSTRALIA (PTY) LTD

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New South Wales 2061, Australia

RANDOM HOUSE NEW ZEALAND LTD 18 Poland Road, Glenfield, Auckland 10,
New Zealand

RANDOM HOUSE SOUTH AFRICA (PTY) LTD Endulini, 5a Jubilee Road, Parktown
2193, South Africa

Published 2001 by Bantam Press a division of Transworld Publishers

Copyright Robert and Vaunda Goddard 2001

The right of Robert Goddard to be identified as the author of this work
has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the
Copyright

Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to
actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBNs 0593 047583 (cased)

All rights reserved.  No part of this publication may be reproduced,

stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by and
means,

electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without
the prior permission of the publishers.

Printed in Great Britain by Clays Ltd, Bungay, Suffolk

DYING TO TELL

SOMERSET

CHAPTER ONE

That day started just like any other for me: late and slow.

I didn't draw the curtains full back at first.  There looked to be too
much sun out for me to face before a shower and half a gallon of strong
coffee.  It had no business being so bright towards the end of October.
In duller weather, the bills lying on the doormat wouldn't have been so
obvious.  Nor would those shadows under my eyes I found myself studying
as I shaved.

With my thirty-seventh birthday only a few weeks away, I wasn't looking
bad for a forty-five-year-old.  The fact was that I needed to take
myself in hand.  Or find someone to do the job for me.  Neither
eventuality seemed very likely.  If the turn of a millennium couldn't
magic some improving resolution out of me, what could?

My problem's always been that it doesn't take much to make me feel
better.  A bacon sandwich and a clean T-shirt were enough to put me in
a goodish mood that morning.  I left the flat and went round to
Magdalene Street to buy a paper.  The Abbey car park was already full.
Half-term, was it?  There were certainly enough kids around.  One of
them managed to shout to a mate of his so loudly and piercingly as he
roller-bladed past me that I jumped from the shock of it much to his
amusement.

The bar of the Wheatsheaf a few minutes before noon was a blessedly
child-free zone, though.  And dark to boot.  I slid onto my usual stool
under the photo-montage of the pub's last fancy-dress night, sipped a
healing Carlsberg Special and applied my mind to the quick crossword as
a tune-up for trying to pick a winner from the afternoon races at
Chepstow and Redcar.

Les, the landlord, was gently gearing up for the day with some
polishing of pumps and checking of optics.  The only other customers
were a couple of aged regulars not given to talking much called Reg and
Syd.  It was quiet and soothing and safe.  It was absolutely normal and
very far from memorable.

But I do remember it.  In every detail.  Because that was the last time
my life was quiet and soothing and safe.  The door of the pub was about
to open.  And normality was about to slip through the window.

I didn't know that, of course.  I had no idea.  It happened as it
happened.  It didn't feel like fate or destiny or anything very
significant.  But it was.  Oh yes.  It most assuredly was.

I didn't recognize her at first glance.  Winifred Alder had to be
pushing sixty and didn't look much better for her age than I looked for
mine.  She was spare and gaunt, with iron-grey hair cropped jaggedly
short like she'd done it herself with scissors in need of sharpening.
There was no trace of make-up.  The red patches on her prominent
cheekbones were windburn, not blusher.  And make-up would hardly have
been in keeping with her clothes coarse grey sweater, brown shin-length
skirt and a mud-stained mac.  It was her shoes that gave her away.
Clarks seconds, unpopular colour (purple originally, now faded to a
murky mauve), circa 1980.  They were what joined up the memories.  It
had to be her.

Or her sister, of course.  Mildred was a pea from the same pod.  A
couple of years younger, though that was unlikely to amount to much of
a visible difference at this stage in their lives.  But, just as my
mind dithered between the two possibilities, Winifred's direct,
stern-eyed gaze made it up for me.  Mildred had always been more of a
flincher.

"Come in out the rain, have you, luv?  asked Les, grinning at her as
the sunlight twinkled on his swan-necks.

"Are you looking for me, Win?"  I put in.  (There didn't seem to be any
other way to account for her presence; she wasn't likely to have
dropped in for a port and lemon.)

"The waitress in that cafe you live over reckoned I'd find you here,"
Win replied, advancing a couple of cautious steps towards me.

"A lucky guess."

"One you could have put money on, though," said Les.

"Would you like something to drink?"  I ventured.

"I'd like a word with you."

Talking's allowed here," said Les.  "But I don't have a dancing
licence.  You ought to know that."

"A private word."

"Don't worry," said Les.  "I'm noted for my discretion.  And Reg and
Syd have got their hearing aids turned off."

Win's gaze wasn't getting any softer.  In fact, it was a deal more
eloquent than her tongue.  "We could go into the garden," I suggested.
"If it's open."

"Oh, it's open," said Les.  "Shall I bring the drinks out to you?"

"What drinks?"

"Well, you'll soon be needing another.  And for the lady .. . ?"

Win looked round at him, then ran her eye along the bar.  Nitrokegs and
alcopops were clearly a mystery to her.  "A small cider," she finally
announced.  "Not fizzy."

The garden was open in the sense that the door to it wasn't locked.  It
was actually a cramped backyard accommodating two rusty tables divided
by a washing-line sagging under the weight of half a dozen drying bar
mats.

"It could be worse," I said.  "At least it's not Les's day for washing
his smalls."

Win looked at me as if I was speaking a foreign language and made no
move to sit down.  "Have you heard from Rupert?"  she asked abruptly.

"Rupe?  No, I .. ."  Rupert was her youngest brother.  More than twenty
years separated them, Rupe being something of an afterthought on his
parents' part.  He was in fact a few months younger than me.  We'd been
friends at school and university and while we'd both been working in
London.  But I hadn't seen much of him in recent years.  Contrasting
fortunes shouldn't separate the best of friends and in some cases maybe
they don't.  But they had us.  While he'd gone on going up, I'd gone
the other way.  And, to prove it, there I was, out with the empties in
Les's so-called beer garden, while Rupe .. . Well, yes, what about
Rupe?  "I haven't heard from him in a long time, Win."

"How long?"

"Could be ... a couple of years.  You know how '

"Time flies when you're having fun," said Les, his last orders baritone
bouncing back at us from the walls of the yard.  He plonked a bottle
for me and a cloudy glass of cider for Win down on the table between
us.

"Thank you, Les."

"Want me to pick in these mats?"

"No."

"It's no trouble."

"No:

"All right, then.  Please yourselves."  He departed with a theatrical
flounce.

I sat down and pushed out another chair for Win.  She lowered herself
slowly onto it, at any rate onto the edge of the seat, where she
perched awkwardly, a string-bag I hadn't noticed till then cradled
between her knees.  "I'd hoped .. . you might have heard from him," she
said hesitantly.

"Haven't you?"

"No.  Not even .. . indirectly."

What she meant by 'indirectly' wasn't clear.  Rupe's family led a
withdrawn life, keeping themselves to themselves.  His mother had been
alive when I'd first known them, his father long dead.  Penfrith, their
ramshackle home in Hopper Lane, down at the Ivythorn Hill end of
Street, had once been a farm, before old man Alder's death had forced
them to sell their stock cows, I mean and most of the fields.  It still
looked like a farm of sorts, or had the last time I'd seen it.  Rupe
had flown the coop long since by then.  His mother's funeral was his
last visit to Street that I knew of, back in '95.  Since then,
Winifred, Mildred and their other brother, poor simple old Howard, had
lived on at Penfrith, unemployed and unattached to anything much except
one another, without so much as a telephone to maintain contact with
the world.  As a matter of simple fact, I had no idea how Rupe stayed
in touch with them, as apparently he did.  Letters it had to be, from
London or wherever his career took him.

"We should have done, you see.  Should have heard from him."

"How long's it been .. . since you did?"

"More than two months."

"You've written to him?"

"Oh yes.  We've written.  No reply, though."

"Telephone?"  (There were call-boxes, after all.)

"Just the same.  No reply.  Just his ... whatever you call it."

"Answering machine."

"Yes.  That'll be it."  She broke off to drink some cider, gulping down
about half a glassful and wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.
"Well, it can't go on, can it?"

"I expect he's abroad.  You'll hear from him soon."

"Something's wrong."

"I shouldn't think so."

"Someone's got to go to London and find out."

Someone.  Now Win's journey to Glastonbury began to make sense.  Not
sense I much liked the sound of, though.  I tried to talk it down.
"When are you thinking of going?"

"Me?  To London?  I've never been there in my life."

"Never?"  Stupid question, really.  Did I seriously think Winifred
Alder had ever visited the Big Smoke?  A Sunday-school outing to
Weston-super-Mare was probably the limit of her worldly travels. "Well,
it'll be a new experience for you."

"We want you to go."

"Oh, come on, Win, I can't just..  ."

"Drop everything and go?"

"He's your brother."

"He's your friend."

"Even so .. ."

"You won't go?"

I shrugged.  "Can't see the need.  It's not as if '

"There's need."

"Look, why don't you just ... leave it a little longer?"

"We've left it long enough."

"I don't think there's anything to be worried about."

"How would you know?"

"How would you!"

Win stared at me sullenly.  She took another gulp of cider.  Then she
said, "He saved your life."

"Yes.  So he did."  It was true.  Though in another sense you could say
he'd also put it at risk.  Still, facts were facts.  I wouldn't have
been able to make my present contribution to the grand struggle of
mankind but for Rupert Alder.  "His life's not in danger, though."

"It might be."

There's no reason to think so."

"Lancelot..  ."

It took me aback to hear someone use my full name, I don't mind
admitting.  Lance was how everyone knew me.  And just about everyone
thought that's how I'd been christened.  I only wished they were right.
Winifred Alder, of course, knew better.  And she wasn't one for
diminutives.  She called her sister Mil, it was true.  But Mil was a
special case.  Rupe was always Rupert.  And I, apparently, was always
Lancelot.

"He sends us money," she whispered, leaning towards me.  "It's how we
live."

"Don't you get ... social security?"  No, I supposed, reading her
faintly contemptuous gaze, they didn't.  They'd have called that
charity.  And they wanted nothing to do with the world, even its
charity.  But, still, they had to live.  "You don't have to tell me
about it, Win."

"He's stopped."

"Stopped?"

"There's been nothing since the end of August."

"I see."

"He wouldn't do that to us."

"No.  I don't suppose he would."

"Will you go?"  She gave me what I think she intended to be a pleading
look.  "I'd take it as a kindness, Lancelot."

"Have you contacted the people he works for?"

They say he's left.  "Left the company".  That's all I could get out of
them.  And it took me a purseful of coins to get that much.  Most times
I called they just .. . played music to me."

I felt sorry for her then.  I had a sudden mental glimpse of her,
fumbling with her purse in a call-box while trying to make sense of the
computerized telephone system she'd briefly been connected to.  "I'll
phone them," I said.  "See what I can find out."

"You'll have to go up there.  It's the only way."

"I'll phone, Win.  This afternoon.  I won't let them fob me off, I
promise.  If that doesn't work

"You'll go?"

"Maybe.  But I don't suppose it'll be necessary."

"It will be.  There's something wrong.  I know it."

"Let's wait and see."

This afternoon, you say?"

"Without fail."

"Unless you drink too much of that ... lager ... and forget all about
it."

"I won't."  I smiled sheepishly at her.  "Forget, I mean."

"I had to go to your parents for your address."  The remark almost
amounted to light conversation.  They seemed well."

"Oh, Mum and Dad keep pretty fit."

"Your father asked me to send you their regards."

"Did he?"

"Struck me as odd.  I mean, you must see a good bit of them, living so
close."

"Just his sense of humour, Win."  I forced a grin.  That's where I get
mine from."

The day definitely wasn't unfolding as I'd anticipated.  And it was
about to take another unwelcome twist.  I saw Win off on her way to the
bus stop, then made a bee-line back to the bar of the Wheatsheaf, where
the sly sparkle in Les's eyes forewarned me of mischief.

"Lancelot, is it?"

"What?"

"Lance is short for Lancelot.  I'd never have guessed."

I took a slow breath.  "We went into the garden for a private
conversation."

"I was checking the soap in the Ladies'.  Just in case your friend
wanted to powder her nose.  And the windows happened to be open, so
..."

"How long did it take you to check the soap?"

"I did a thorough job."

"Naturally."

"Well, you said your dad has a sense of humour.  Lancelot proves it,
I'd say."

"Would you?"

"Who's this Rupe, then?"  Les lacked the Falstaffian figure of the
classic landlord, but liked to throw himself into the father-confessor
part of the role.  "Never heard you mention him."

"A friend of mine.  I do have some, you know."

"Pity you don't bring them in here.  How's he related to raincoat
woman?"

"Brother.  He and I went to school together in Street."

"Millfield, was it?"

"We were born and bred in Street, Les.  We went to Crispin, like
everyone else."

"How'd he come to save your life?"

"It was a caving accident."

"You, caving?"

"A long time ago."

"What happened?"

"Does it matter?"

"Background colour on my regulars is always valuable."

"I can't see how."  But I could see he wasn't going to rest until he'd
wheedled the story out of me.

Back in the summer of 1985, Rupe had persuaded me to join him on a
caving expedition in the Mendips.  He was a member of a caving club,
but a reluctant one, preferring to go it alone, which he assured me
wasn't as risky as it sounded.  Several times more risky was how it
seemed to me once the two of us were underground.  And negotiating a
couple of ducks short stretches of flooded cave where there was
precious little air space between the water level and the roof -had me
spooked long before Rupe noticed signs that the water level was rising,
presumably because of rain on the surface.  Only then did he reveal
that the weather forecast had mentioned the 'possibility' of heavy
showers.  We turned back, though Rupe said it would probably be safer
to go on and up to some refuge where we could sit out the flood.
Naturally, that didn't appeal to me, whereas the open air did, mighty
powerfully.  So, back we went, in my case in a tearing hurry.

That was my undoing.  Rupe had all the gear ropes, harnesses, lamps,
karabiners and knew how to use it.  If I'd followed his instructions,
there wouldn't have been a problem.  But I was cold, wet and frightened
especially frightened.  I wanted out.  And out involved climbing a more
or less vertical slope, using a flexible ladder.  Rupe went first, but
hadn't finished life lining the rope for my ascent when I started after
him.  Halfway up, I slipped.

"What happened?"  Les's prompts had become repetitious by this stage of
the story.

"I fell."

"How far?"

"Far enough.  There was plenty of slack in the rope thanks to me not
waiting.  I hit the floor."  Les winced.  "Broke an ankle.  And several
ribs.  Can't recommend it."

"Painful?"

"Worse than a hangover from your house red."

Les ignored the jibe, apparently too caught up in the tale to notice.
"Rupe went to fetch help?"

I smiled.  "Not straight away."

"Why the hell not?"

The floodwater.  He realized I'd drown if he left me where I was long
before a rescue party arrived."

"So what did he do?"

"Hauled me back to a higher level."

"That can't have been easy."

"No.  But he did it.  Most of the time, I was no better than a dead
weight.  But we made it.  He put me in a survival bag, waited till the
water had stopped rising, waited some more till it had gone back down
again, then went for help.  The ducks were still flooded by then, of
course, right up to the roof, and for longer stretches.  Diving through
them must have been pretty scary.  The rescue party had oxygen when
they came to get me, but Rupe just had his own judgement to back. Lucky
for me he was a good judge."

"Could just as easily have been wrclucky, though."

"Too right.  Which is why I've never been underground since.  Not even
down the Tube."

"You're joking."

"No.  When I lived in London, the bus was always good enough for me.  I
wouldn't even feel at ease in your cellar."

"No need to worry about that."  Les suddenly put on a straight face.
"There's no bloody way you're going down there."

Les was all for me using his phone to call Rupe's employer, keener than
me as he was by then to find out what was going on.  I claimed (which
happened to be true) that I didn't have the phone numbers I needed on
me.  I went back to the flat to dig them out and decided to take a nap
that turned into an hour or more of solid zizz.  Unexpected visitations
and traumatic recollections can really take it out of a guy.
Eventually, around four-thirty, I made the calls.

I got what Win had got: the answering machine on Rupe's home number and
some politely worded but totally unhelpful spiel from the personnel
department of the Eurybia Shipping Company.  "Mr.  Alder is no longer
with us."  How long had he not been with them?  "I'm afraid I can't
say."  Who did he work for now?  "I'm afraid I don't have that
information."  How could we find him?  "I'm afraid I don't know."
Thanks for nothing.  "Thank you for calling."

But there were resources I had that Win didn't.  (Things really would
have been desperate otherwise.) Simon Yardley had been at Durham with
Rupe and me and was something big or at least well paid in merchant
banking.  The three of us had met for a drink occasionally in London
when we'd all been working there.  And I was pretty sure Rupe and he
had gone on meeting after I'd dropped out of the picture.  I still had
Simon's number, so I rang it.  It was way too early to find a merchant
banker at home, but the message on his answering machine suggested
trying his mobile.  Unlike Rupe, Simon didn't want to be hard to
contact.  And he wasn't.

"Hi."

"Simon, it's Lance Bradley."

"Who?"

"Lance Bradley."

"Oh, Lance.  Well, this is ... How are you?"

"Fine.  You?"

"Never better.  Never busier either.  Listen,"could we do this some
other time?  I'm '

"It's about Rupe, Simon.  Rupert Alder.  Can't seem to get hold of
him."

"Haven't you got his number?"

"He never answers."

"Try his office.  Eurybia Shipping."

"He's left them."

"Really?"

"Have you got a mobile number for him?"

"Don't think so.  Left Eurybia, you say?  He never hinted he was
thinking of moving."

"Have you seen him recently, then?"

"Actually, no.  Not now you mention it.  Sorry, Lance, but I haven't a
clue.  And I've got to run metaphorically, that is.  Next time you're
in town, give me a bell.  Ciao."

Ciao?  It was a new addition to Simon's patter and not exactly easy on
the ear.  Strange how he'd naturally assumed I wasn't in town.  He was
right, of course, rot him.  But maybe not for much longer.  Win wasn't
going to stop tugging at my conscience until I'd done something more
than make a few futile phone calls.

1Q

Did they have to be futile, though?  I rang Rupe again and left a
message, asking him to contact me urgently.  I even gave him the
Wheatsheaf number to try.  My reasoning was that he might be reluctant
to speak to his family for some good reason.  Perhaps he'd been sacked
by Eurybia.  That would explain why the money had dried up.  But he
wouldn't need to worry about speaking to me.  He didn't owe me
anything.  If I was right, he'd probably be in touch.

He wasn't.

CHAPTER TWO

I've never been too sure about chance.  It's a slippery commodity at
the best of times.  That's why I bet on horses, not the Lottery.  I
like the idea that I can think my way to a fortune.  What you win by
pure chance you can just as easily lose.

Take my stress less but far from prosperous existence in Glastonbury.
After losing a good job, a lovely woman and an over-mortgaged house in
London during the recession of the early Nineties, I went to stay with
my parents in Street purely as a stopgap.  Then I met Ria and, instead
of heading back to London, found myself living with her in a flat in
Glastonbury High Street, helping to run Secret Valley, her New Age
joss-stick and Celtic charms shop.  Then Ria chucked in the shop along
with me and buggered off to Ireland with a Celtic charmer of the human
kind called Dermot, Secret Valley became the Tiffin Cafe and I went ..
. nowhere.

With so much evidence to draw on, it naturally didn't escape my
analytical mind that a brief sortie to London in search of a missing
friend might extrapolate itself into all manner of complications.  I
didn't think it likely.  But I was aware of the possibility.  And I
can't deny that it had a certain double-edged attraction.  The question
was: did I want a change as much as I probably needed one?

The answer was still proving elusive the following afternoon, when I
caught the bus down to Street to report my lack of progress to Win.
(Car ownership had slipped out of my life even less ceremoniously than
Ria some time before.)

Glastonbury is ages deep in history and legend.  We all know that, none
better than me, thanks to having for a father a man so caught up in
Arthurian myth that he insisted on saddling me with Lancelot and Gawain
as names to carry to my grave.  (My mother was allowed to name my
sister, which is how she had the good luck to end up plain Diane
Patricia.) The short bus ride took me past Wearyall Hill, where Joseph
of Arimathea is supposed to have landed (most of Somerset being under
water back then), and over Pomparles Bridge, site of the original Pons
Perilis from which the dying Arthur is said to have ordered Bedivere to
cast Excalibur into the lake.  (I was always on Bedivere's side myself.
With the Dark Ages looming and smelting technology about to take a
nose-dive, throwing away a superior specimen of sword craft like
Excalibur made no sense at all.)

Street, by contrast, is distinctly short on legend.  As serious-minded
Quakers, the Clarks were concerned with more practical issues.  And
shoes are about as practical as you can get.  At least, Clarks shoes
always have been.  My father worked for Clarks for close on fifty
years.  So did most Street males of his generation, along with half the
females.  All that changed around the time I came back from London,
with shoe production transferred to Portugal and the works turned into
a shopping centre for 'famous brands at factory prices'.  There were
jobs to be had there, of course, but not for the likes of Winifred and
Mildred Alder or their simpleton brother, Howard.  I'd assumed they'd
been living on the state since then.  But now it looked like Rupe had
been keeping them afloat, which can't always have been easy for him,
however frugally they lived.

Exactly how they did live I was about to find out.  But first I had to
steer a path through various humdrum fragments of my own past.  I
turned off the High Street opposite the Living Homes furniture store,
more familiar to me as Street Junior

School, and headed south.  Soon I was in Ivythorn Road, off which, at 8
Gaston Close, I entered this life one Friday afternoon in November
1963.  At that time, much of the land away to the west was still
orchards and fields.  Penfrith was in the countryside then.  Now the
town had crept out to surround it.  My parents had moved to a Seventies
bungalow in that new stretch of housing.  But the Alders hadn't moved.
They'd stayed exactly where they'd always been, while the world changed
around them.

Hopper Lane still looked stubbornly like a country byway.  There were
modern houses at the Somerton Road end, but the middle course was all
overgrown orchards, weed-choked small holdings and run-down cottages.
The afternoon seemed to grow damper and duller as I pressed on, the air
a mix of rotting apples, leaf mush and drifting bonfire smoke. Penfrith
itself didn't look quite as bad as I'd thought it might.  But that was
mainly because the house was almost completely invisible behind a
rampant forest of rhododendrons.  Logically, they had to be the same
plants I remembered as shrubs.  But that logic was hard to hold on
to.

If Penfrith had been put up for sale in its present state, I'd have
suggested advertising it without a photograph.  With one, it would have
to have been ANY OFFER ACCEPTED.  Enough slates were missing from the
roof to turn it into a colander in wet weather and the apex had an
ominous sag to it.  There was more bare wood than paint on the window
frames and several of the panes were cracked.  Behind them some faded
rags that might once have been curtains hung limp and forlorn.

Bending sideways to avoid a swag of rhododendron, I reached the front
door and tried the bell.  It didn't work no surprise there so I gave
the knocker several heavy raps instead and found myself with a palmful
of rust to wipe away.  Several silent seconds passed.  I could hardly
believe they weren't at home and I was about to try again when I had a
distinct, shivery feeling of being watched.  I turned to my right and
jumped back in surprise at the sight of Howard Alder staring at me
through the front bay window.

"Bloody hell, Howard," I shouted, 'did you have to give me a shock like
that?"  He didn't seem to hear and it was pretty obvious his powers of
comprehension hadn't improved since I'd last met him.  Like Win, Howard
wasn't exactly wearing his years lightly (early fifties in his case).
He was unshaven, with what hair he had hanging lank and grey to his
shoulders.  He was wearing some sort of lumpen grey cardigan over a
grubby Durham University sweatshirt (a gift from Rupe, presumably), and
below that, as far as I could see over the sill, faded
pink-and-white-striped pyjama bottoms.  This definitely wasn't the new
autumn look for men.  "Aren't you going to let me in?"

Howard made a circling motion with his hand that I eventually realized
meant something.  The door wasn't latched.  I turned the knob, paused
to give him the thumbs-up and went in.

My first impression was that nothing had changed from how I remembered
the place.  A narrow hall led towards the stairs.  A very large and
very old barometer hung on one wall, opposite an ancient piece of
furniture combining the roles of mirror, coat-hook and umbrella stand.
The carpet and wallpaper were surely the same.  Then the musty smell
hit me.  That was the point: nothing had changed.  Except that decay is
change.  And that's what was going on in Penfrith: slowly accelerating
decay.

I went into the sitting room and met more of the same.  The hearth rug
the three-piece suite; the bureau; the clock on the mantelpiece; the
Constable print on the wall, wrinkling in its frame; the vintage
television in the corner, tube a lot deeper than its screen was wide:
they'd mouldered in their appointed places.  And they'd gathered dust.
Yes, one hell of a lot of dust.  Mrs.  Alder had kept a clean house if
not a modern one, but her children were clearly of a different mind.  I
couldn't help wondering if Howard's hair was greyer than it needed to
be.

He really was wearing pyjama bottoms, over checked slippers through
which the toes had worn.  He was still standing in the bay window,
trying to smile, it seemed, though with

Howard you couldn't be sure.  Next to him, on the table that had once
supported an aspidistra (that had gone), was a slew of magazines.
Stepping closer, I saw they were his most faithful and just about only
reading material: Railway World.  Not recent issues, of course, but
dog-eared copies from Howard's train spotting days in the Sixties,
before Seeching pulled the plug on the Somerset and Dorset line.
According to Rupe (who must have had it from his sisters), Howard had
never recovered from the closure of the S and D the ripping out of the
tracks, the scrapping of the locomotives, the physical wrenching of the
railway from his life.  By the look of it, he was still trying to get
back to that lost world of 2-6-2s and 0-6-Os chugging across the heath
land from Glastonbury to the sea.  Whether he understood a single word
now of his childhood reading was a moot point, though.  Because Howard
hadn't actually said anything as far as I knew words, I mean, as
distinct from vague noises since August 1977.

That was the summer of his crowning madness.  He was still holding down
some kind of a job at Clarks then.  Rupe and I were thirteen-year-olds,
cycling out across the moors on fishing expeditions.  But Howard was
ranging further afield on his moped.  And in his mind ... Well, who
knows where from (a letter in Railway World, maybe) Howard had got hold
of the idea that there was a mysterious hole in the statistics of steam
locomotives scrapped in the Sixties and that somewhere the Government
was hiding a strategic reserve of them in case of an oil drought or
some such emergency.  (According to Rupe, there really was a hole in
the statistics; but even as a thirteen-year-old he'd had conspiracy
theorist tendencies.) Anyway, rumour in the railway world had it that
these missing lo cos were concealed in a vast cavern under Box Hill, in
Wiltshire, where the Bristol to London railway line passes deep below
an R.A.F base.  Howard took to staging nocturnal expeditions to the
area in search of clues.  One loco in search of a whole lot of lo cos
you could say.  In fact, I may have said precisely that at the time.
But the joke turned sour when Howard fetched up in hospital seriously
injured after somehow managing to fall down a ventilation shaft.  He
was lucky not to be killed, if you can bracket luck with permanent
brain damage.  How he got into the shaft we'll never know.  Even if he
could remember, which is unlikely, he couldn't tell anyone.  His lips
were sealed.  (He'd also been bitten by a dog that night, apparently a
nasty enough wound to be distinguishable from his other injuries, which
naturally were numerous.  A guard dog, Rupe reckoned.  But he would
reckon that, of course.  Personally, I thought Howard was the sort any
self-respecting dog would take a lump out of.)

"It's Lance, Howard," I said, smiling at him.  "Remember me?"

He nodded vigorously and made a sucking noise.  I think he
remembered.

"Where are your sisters?"

He nodded some more and pointed towards the back of the house, then
mimed digging and laughed through a good deal of spittle.

"In the garden?  Thanks.  I'll try there."

I left him to Railway World, went out into the hall and headed for the
kitchen.  Not a happy choice of route for anyone with a sensitive nose.
Quite a few things seemed to be rotting in unwashed pots and grimy
cupboards.  Taking care to avoid glancing into the sink, I cut through
to the scullery and out by the back door.

The rear garden wasn't as neglected as the front.  Although the
boundary hedges were running riot and the grass in the orchard away to
the side was waist-high, the vegetable plot was well tilled and tended.
And there was Mildred Alder, lifting carrots and potatoes with
tight-jawed vigour.  She was remarkably similar to her sister, though
not as erect.  And there was a panicky look in her eyes when she caught
sight of me and stopped digging that Win would never have been prey to.
Mil was wearing a mud-stained navy-blue boiler suit and gum boots  Her
breath misted in the air as she leaned on the handle of the fork and
stared at me.  She said nothing, though I felt sure she recognized me.
And my visit could hardly be a complete surprise.

"Hello, Mil," I said, walking towards her.

"Lance," she said with a frown, sparing me her sister's preference for
Lancelot.  "I didn't think you'd come."

"Well, here I am."

"What you got to tell us?"

"Nothing, really.  I can't get hold of Rupe."

"Didn't think you would."

"No faith in me, Mil?"

"Didn't mean that."  She looked quite flustered.  There might even have
been a blush on her weathered face.  "Look, here's Win."

Win had emerged from the orchard, carrying a bucket filled with apples.
Like Mil, she was wearing gum boots below the same skirt and sweater
I'd seen her in the day before.  (Wardrobes weren't exactly crucial
items of furniture at Penfrith.) "What happened?"  she called as she
walked round the potato patch to join us.

"Nothing," I said.  "I've drawn a blank."

"Only what I expected."

"I know, I know.  You told me."

Win stopped at her sister's shoulder and plonked down the bucket, then
gave me one of her penetrating stares.  "Good of you to come and tell
us, Lancelot."

"Least I could do."

"And is it all you mean to do?"

"No.  I think I'd better go up to London and see what the trouble is if
there is any."

"There's some."

"Well, let's find out.  I'll go tomorrow."

"That's good of you.  We're grateful, aren't we, Mil?"

"Oh yes," said Mil.  "It is good of you, Lance."

"He hasn't moved, has he?  The address I've got for him is Hardrada
Road."  (I'd last visited Rupe in London at a flat in Swiss Cottage.
Since then, he'd gone south of the river.)

"Twelve Hardrada Road," said Win.  That's right."

"And when exactly did you last hear from him?"

"Depends what you mean by "hear from him"."

"Well, a letter, I suppose."

"We don't get letters," said Mil.

"Not from Rupert," put in Win.  "He doesn't write.  There's just the
... money."

"And how does he send that?"

"Straight to the bank.  But there hasn't been any ... since the end of
August."

"Well, when did you last speak to him?"

"Speak to him?"

"Yes, Win.  Speak."

"When Mother died," said Mil.  "Not since."

A glance passed between the sisters at that moment.  But their
communications had been finely honed over many years.  I hadn't a hope
of working out what it meant.  Besides, there was plenty else for me to
try to work out.  Rupe had called in to see me two or three times since
his mother's death, on his way to or from a visit to Penfrith.  At
least, I'd assumed that was why he was in the area.  He may even have
said so, though I couldn't swear to it.  If not, why had he come down?
Not just to sink a few drinks with me, that was for sure.  The thought
led to another.  When did whatever was going on start going on?

"Rupert's been so busy with his work," said Win, apparently feeling
(correctly) that some kind of explanation was due.  But what she
offered wasn't much of one.  "We don't expect to see a lot of him." But
they did expect the money he sent them.  Was that all this was about?
Money to prop up their meagre lifestyle?  Some meat to serve with the
carrots and potatoes?  "We're worried about him, Lancelot. Truly we
are."

"Let's hope there's no need."

"Yesterday you seemed sure there wasn't."

"And tomorrow I'll do my best to find out."  I looked from one to the
other of them.  "OK?"

It was only a fifteen-minute walk from Penfrith to my parents' house.
But it was more like a hundred years in other ways.  The Alders
inhabited an overlooked corner of the nineteenth century.  They were
out of time as well as touch.  Mum and Dad, on the other hand, lived in
the picture-windowed little-box land of the late twentieth, where lawns
were trimmed, cars washed, woodwork painted and appearances maintained.
My father liked to read about the past.  But he had no wish to live in
it.

"Your mother's out," were his first words when he opened the door to
me, somehow implying that I'd only called to see her.  "Scrabble."

"Still keeping that up, is she?"

"Oh yes.  Every Wednesday afternoon."  He plodded off towards the
kitchen and I followed.  The stoop was getting worse, I noticed.  All
those years of bending over account books at Clarks had taken their
toll.  "I was going to make some tea.  Do you want a cup?"

"Why not?"

"Perhaps because you just don't want one."

"Good to know you still take everything I say literally."

"How else should I take it?"

"I would like a cup of tea, Dad.  Thanks."

"As long as you're sure."  He flicked the switch on the kettle and it
came instantly to the boil, as if he'd already boiled it and only
turned it off when the doorbell rang.  "Put an extra bag in the pot,
would you?  The caddy's behind you."

"Oh, bags, is it?"  (I've always had an aversion to the wretched
things.  More to do with Mum's fondness for packing them around her
flower borders as fertilizer than the actual taste of the tea, to be
honest.)

"See what I mean?"  Dad cocked an eyebrow at me.  "I knew we'd have
this carry-on."

"Forget it.  I'll have it as it comes."  I plucked a bag from the caddy
and tossed it into the pot.  Dad poured in the water and squinted at me
through the plume of steam.

"Diane phoned last night."

"Oh yes?"

"Brian's been promoted."

"That's good news."  (And horribly predictable into the bargain.  Brian
was the sort of model son-in-law who came flat-packed by mail order.)

"It is, isn't it?"

"Didn't I just say so?"  (God, this sparring we were always reduced to
was pitiful.)

"Have you got any?  Good news, I mean."

"Not exactly.  I wanted to ask you a favour."

"What might that be?"

"I need to catch an early train to London."

"And you're looking for a lift."

I smiled.  "Yen."

This for a job interview by any chance?"

"No."

"Thought not.  I mean, there'd be no time to have your hair cut, would
there?"

"Good point, Dad.  Well spotted."

"How early?"

"Just early.  I thought you could look up some times for me on the
Net."

"I suppose I could."  He smiled at some irony he detected in this.
"I'll do that while you pour the tea.  I'll have two digestives."

So off he swarmed to his study while I fiddled about with mugs and milk
and opened six cupboards in search of the biscuit tin before I found it
in the seventh.

I took the tea through to the lounge and found the Daily Telegraph
lying on the coffee-table, folded to display the crossword.  Dad had
nearly finished it, but it looked like the last few clues were
frustrating him.  I'd just begun to give them my attention when he
walked in.  There's a train from Castle Gary at ten to eight.  That'll
get you to Paddington at half-past nine.  Early enough?"

"Sounds fine."

"I'll pick you up at seven-fifteen."

Thanks."

"Well, the car needs a run.  And I tend to wake up even before the
crack of dawn these days.  So .. ."  He sat down and drank some tea.
This isn't about a job, you say?"

"No."

"Pity."

"I'm doing someone a favour myself, as it happens.  The Alders.  You
remember them?"

"How could I forget them?"

"They're worried about Rupe.  They can't contact him.  He seems to
have, well, disappeared."

"And you're going to find him?"

That's the idea."

"Really?"  Dad looked distinctly sceptical about my qualifications for
the task.  "Have you considered the possibility that Rupert may simply
have washed his hands of his family?  You could hardly blame him if he
had.  They're a sorry bunch.  Sorrier still when you take their
pedigree into account."

"What is their pedigree?"

"Oh, nothing at all noble.  But there were Alders farming at Penfrith
as early as the seventeenth century."

"You've been researching the Alders?"

"Of course not."  Dad's expression suggested a more idiotic question
would be hard to imagine.  "They merely cropped up in something I was
reading recently.  There was a skirmish at the start of the Civil War
just the other side of Ivythorn Hill.  The Affray at Marshall's Elm,
it's known as.  A Parliamentary force was routed by Royalist dragoons.
Among the dead was one Josiah Alder of Penfrith.  Historically, the
event's something of a curiosity, since the usual date given for the
start of the Civil War is the twenty-second of August sixteen
forty-two, when the King raised his standard at Nottingham.  But the
Marshall's Elm Affray took place nearly three weeks earlier, on the He
broke off and looked sharply at me.  "Are you listening?"

"Yeh, Dad, yeh.  I'm all ears.  There were Alders at Penfrith in
sixteen forty-two.  But I'm not sure there'll be any there come twenty
forty-two."

That'll be because they didn't go on farming the land they were born
on.  If they had a destiny, that was it.  And they abandoned it."

"Circumstances turned against them."

"George Alder dying without a son old or sensible enough to take over
from him, you mean?"

"Yes.  You never knew him, did you?"

"Not at all.  We'd never have known any of them but for you befriending
Rupert."

"George Alder drowned, didn't he?"

"So I believe.  In the Sedgemoor Drain.  It can't have been long after
Rupert was born."

"Before, Rupe's always said."

"You're right."  Dad chomped thoughtfully on his digestive biscuit. "It
was before.  Summer or autumn of 'sixty-three.  Strange.  I'd forgotten
all that."

"All what?"

"Oh, there were some other farming deaths around the same time.
Accidents.  Suicide.  That sort of thing.  People started talking about
a jinx on the land.  The Gazette was full of it.  For a while,
anyway."

The Central Somerset Gazette being full of something hardly made it
earth-shattering news.  But I was still more than a bit surprised that
I'd never heard of the Street farmers' jinx of '63 before.  "How many
deaths?"

"I can't remember.  Two or three perhaps.  Mmm.  Maybe I'll check up on
that next time I'm in the library.  It's an interesting subject."

"Could you let me know what you find out?"

"Certainly."  Dad frowned at me.  "I thought local history bored you
rigid."

"It does.  Usually."

"But not in this case?"

That depends what you find out."  I was more curious than I was letting
on.  Why hadn't Rupe mentioned any of this to me?  He loved mysteries,
great and small.  And this one seemed to involve his own father.
Perhaps he didn't even know about it.  But, if so, that was surely more
mysterious still.  I was going to have a lot of questions for Rupe when
I tracked him down.

"A jinx on the land," Dad mused, leaning back in his chair.  "Or a
curse."  A faraway look I knew of old blurred his gaze.  "It has
Arthurian echoes, don't you think?"

"Since you ask, no."  (Not for me, it didn't.  Not Arthurian, that is.
But echoes?  Yes.  I'd have had to admit it had plenty of those.)

"You won't oversleep tomorrow, will you, son?"  "No, Dad.  I won't."
And I didn't.

LONDON

CHAPTER THREE

The train was half an hour late into Paddington, but I'm not sure
that's why I felt so down as I wandered out of the station into a
London morning that was too warm for autumn but plenty grey enough. The
early start from Glastonbury definitely hadn't helped.  Plus the fact
that I've never been a fan of our not so fair capital.  The old
nickname of the Somerset and Dorset railway the Slow and Dirty suits
London down to the ground and even more below the ground.

Not that I had any intention of descending into the bowels of the
Bakerloo.  It was the number 36 bus for me: a forty-minute trundle past
Hyde Park and Buck Pal, then across the Thames by Vauxhall Bridge to
The Oval.  Why Rupe, a sworn enemy of all team sports, had moved so
close to a major cricket ground was beyond me.  The A to Z put Hardrada
Road within strolling distance of the Hobbs Gates.  Maybe he'd just
enjoyed ignoring the place.

12 Hardrada Road was one of a terrace of three-storeyed yellow-brick
Victorian houses.  Smart but unpretentious, I suppose you'd say.  But
hell for parking.  Number 12 didn't look like its owner had run out on
it, though.  The top-floor windows were ajar.  I rang the bell, feeling
I ought to before trying the neighbours.  Naturally, there was no
answer.  Of course, even if Rupe was still living there, refusing to
respond to letters and phone calls, he'd likely be out at work at
eleven o'clock on a Thursday morning.  But since I had no idea where
work might be now he'd slipped his anchor at Eurybia Shipping, that
thought took me nowhere.

The harassed but helpful mother of two (at least) who opened the door
to me at number 10 hadn't seen Rupe in months.  "Not that we ever saw
much of him.  I thought he was working abroad.  Didn't he tell me that?
I'm not honestly sure.  Ask Echo.  She'll know if he's due back."

"Who?"

"Echo Bateman.  His lodger.  She normally gets home about midday."

A lodger!  I had the sudden impression getting a fix on Rupe was going
to prove easier than I'd anticipated.  Little Miss Echo could sort
everything out for me.  To celebrate this happy thought, I ambled back
to a pub I'd passed on my way from The Oval.  I had an hour to fill and
something was needed to knock out the headache too much coffee and too
little breakfast had given me.

The Pole Star was your usual rag-rolled, stripped-pine piece of
Nineties chic.  A bit bleary and frayed at the edges, maybe, but that's
how opening time found the handful of customers as well as the bar, so
there were no complaints to be heard.  None that weren't drowned out by
the roar of a vacuum cleaner in the food area, anyway.  Fortunately,
hoovering up last night's pizza crumbs turned out to be a token affair.
Before I was halfway through my drink, tranquillity was restored.  I
decided to hedge my bets where the lodger was concerned and tap the
barman for information.

"Do you know Rupe Alder?  He lives just round the corner."

"Rupe Alder?  Yeh.  Not been in for quite a while, though.  You a
friend of his?"

"From way back.  More way back than recently, to be honest.  That's my
problem.  We've lost touch and I don't know where he is at the
moment."

"Can't help you, mate.  But there's a bloke who works here in the
evening who knows him quite well.  Used to, anyway.  You could ask Carl
about Rupe Alder."

"And will Carl be here tonight?"  "If he wakes up in time, yeh."

Things were looking better and better.  They always do when my aimless
ramble through life assumes the fleeting dignity of a plan.  The plan I
left the Pole Star with was to buy a packet of extra-strong mints from
the news agent next door, eat one on the way back to Hardrada Road (in
case Echo was down on lunchtime drinking), hear what Echo had to say
for herself, scout round for a cheap place to spend the night, maybe
take in a film somewhere, then gravitate back to the Pole Star to catch
Carl in mid-shift.

L.G."  as we know, stands in my case for Lancelot Gawain.  But
sometimes I think it could mean Lucky Guy.  Not often, but sometimes.
This was one such occasion.  A young woman was letting herself in as I
hove to at number 12.  Tall and broadly built, with short spiky black
hair and big bush-baby eyes, she was wearing Post Office uniform and
uttered a weary enough sigh in the second before she noticed me to
suggest she'd spent several long hours pounding the pavements of south
London that morning.

"Echo?"

"Christ, you made me jump."  (Indeed I had.  But that's darks' finest
for you.) "Do I know you?"  The bush-baby eyes contracted as she turned
to look at me.

"Your neighbour told me your name.  I'm a friend of Rupe's.  Lance
Bradley."

"Have we met?"

"No.  But '

"Only you do look .. . familiar."

"I promise not to be."

"What?"

"Familiar."  I shaped a grin.  "If you let me in."

"Is that supposed to be funny?"

"Well, yes.  I suppose it is.  Look, could we start again?  I'm from
the sticks.  Blame the hokey line on that.  I'm looking for Rupe.  His
family are worried about him."

"His whatT

"Family.  Most of us have one whether we like it or not."

"First I've ever heard of Rupe's.  Anyway, you won't find him here.
But..."  She looked me up and down.  "All right.  Come on in.  I've got
you now.  You are a friend of Rupe's."

"I did say."

"People say all sorts of things."  She pushed the door wide open and
went in, gesturing for me to follow.

The first thing that caught my eye was a large, garishly coloured oil
painting, hanging unframed on the wall just inside the door.  The
second was another similar painting further along the hall past the
stairs.  They were clearly the work of the same artist.  I'd have put
money on that.  As to what the artist was trying to convey in slashed
lines and violent tones I couldn't have hazarded a guess.

"They're mine," said Echo, catching my gaze as she slammed the door
behind me.  "Don't feel obliged to give an opinion."

"Right."

"Come into the kitchen.  Do you want some tea?"

"Why not?"  (I really was going to have to think of a better response
to offers of refreshment.)

We moved past the Vesuvian canvases and two closed doors to the
kitchen.  That's you, isn't it?"  asked Echo, prodding at a picture
(framed, this time) on the wall to her left.

It was a photo-montage, like the ones Les produced to commemorate
fancy-dress nights at the Wheatsheaf.  Only this montage, I saw as I
looked at it, was a collection of snapshots from Rupe's life.  Some of
places Glastonbury Tor, Durham Cathedral, Big Ben.  And some of people
friends I recognized, friends I didn't.  Echo's prod had landed on a
photograph of me sitting outside a Pennine pub during some weekend
jaunt from Durham circa 1983, a bottle of Newcastle Brown clutched
firmly in my hand.  (OK.  What can I say?  We all have to make our own
mistakes.) "I'm surprised you recognized me from this," I muttered.

"Maybe I wouldn't have if you'd had the good sense to change your
hairstyle."  She filled the kettle and lit the gas.  "Bag in a mug OK
for you?"

"Fine."  (I could only hope the wince hadn't shown.)

"Now, what's this about Rupe's family?  He's never mentioned having
relatives."

"A brother and two sisters.  They live at Street, down in Somerset.
That's where Rupe was born.  Me too.  We went to school together.  And
university."

"Durham?"

"Right.  You're quick, aren't you?"

"No.  Rupe did mention that.  Some time.  But the family ..."  She
shrugged.  "Not a whisper."

"How long have you been lodging with him?"

"About a year.  Not very much with him, though.  He's been abroad most
of the time.  That's really why he suggested me moving in.  I needed
somewhere bigger for my paintings and he needed someone to look after
the place while he was away."

"Away where?"

"Tokyo.  On assignment for the shipping company he works for.  There's
no mystery.  I don't know why his family are worried about him."

"You aren't?"

"He's in Tokyo."  The kettle began to sing.  She took it off the boil
and filled our mugs.  "What's there to worry about?"

"Well, they didn't know about Tokyo for starters.  You have some way of
contacting him there?"

"A phone number.  Actually .. ."  She frowned at me, almost guiltily.
"I've called him a few times lately.  No answer.  And he hasn't phoned
back.  But..  ."

"He's left Eurybia Shipping."

"He has?"

"Yes."

"Oh."  The frown deepened.  "I didn't know that."

"Could I have my tea fairly weak, do you think?"

She seemed puzzled by the request, then suddenly understood.  "Oh,
sure."  She hoiked the bag out and handed the mug to me.

"Got any milk?"

"In the fridge."

I helped myself.  "For you?"

"Yeh."  I poured some into her mug.  Thanks."

"Why have you been phoning him lately?"

Things."  She sipped her tea.  "Odd things."

"Care to share them?"

She crooked her head at me.  "Can I trust you, Lance?"

"Sure."

"Rupe said I could."

"Did he?"

"We were talking once.  About people you could really -really trust. He
named you.  No one else.  Just you.  Something about a caving accident.
Something about .. . going back for a friend you've left behind.  Is
that what you're doing now?"

"Hope not."  I smiled, trying to lighten the mood.  "What about those
odd things?"

"You may as well come through."  She led me back into the hall and
opened the door into the front sitting room.  "My room's upstairs. This
is Rupe's."

It was sparsely but comfortably furnished, with minimal decoration.
There was a well-filled bookcase in one corner, with a model sailing
ship on top.  As far as personal touches went, that was about it.  But
Rupe had never been one for surrounding himself with things.  He'd been
a minimalist before it came into fashion.

There was a desk beneath the window, on which stood a telephone and
answering machine, alongside a neatly stacked pile of letters.  Echo
walked across to it.  "I've got my own phone.  Rupe was adamant I
shouldn't bother to deal with any of his calls.  Or his post.  So, I
haven't.  But '

"What?"

"I think someone's been in here and taken some of the letters.  Maybe
listened to his phone messages as well."

"Somebody broke in?"

"Not broke, exactly.  Slipped a latch on a window at the back, then
took a look around.  I'm pretty sure there are some letters missing.
And the books have been moved.  Dust disturbed.  You know?  Nothing I
can swear to absolutely.  We're not talking about your average
burglary."

"What about the rest of the house?"

"Nothing.  Just down here."

"Have you reported this to the police?"

"What's there to report?  It's not much more than a suspicion."

I leafed through the letters.  Brown window envelopes, for the most
part: nothing exciting.  The only hand-addressed ones were from Win.
The scratchy fountain pen and Street postmark gave her away.  Whatever
else there'd been .. . had gone.  "You said odd things, Echo.  Plural.
What else has happened?"

"You've turned up."

"I don't count as odd."

"If you say so.  Anyway, you're not the first.  Lately I've had three
other blokes round here looking for Rupe."

"Three?"

"Yeh.  And liquorice all sorts they were.  To start with, there was a
bloke from Eurybia Shipping paying what he called a "social call"."

"Didn't he mention Rupe had left the company?"

"Nope.  And he didn't seem to know Rupe was supposed to be in Tokyo
either.  Said he'd been abroad himself."

"Leave a name?"

"Charlie Hoare.  Pretty typical middle-aged London suit.  After him
came the Japanese businessman.  I've written his name down there."  She
pointed to a Post-it note stuck to the answering machine: Mr.
Hashimoto, Park Lane Hilton.  "He called towards the end of last
week."

"What did he want?"

"To speak to Rupe.  I told him Rupe was in Tokyo, but I'm not sure he
believed me."

"And the third one?"

"A couple of days ago.  Some old bloke.  He was pretty rough.  Said he
was looking for Rupe.  Didn't leave a name.  Didn't say much at all.
Shifty.  You know?"

"And all this is what prompted you to phone Rupe in Tokyo?"

"Yeh."

"But no answer.  There ... or here."  I looked round the room, then
back at Echo.  "When did you last hear from him?"

AT.

"When I last saw him.  Some time in early September.  A flying visit to
London, so he said.  He only stayed a few nights.  Then, back to Tokyo
as far as I knew."

"Mind if we play back the messages?"  I tapped the answering machine.

"Suppose not."

I rewound the tape and sat down on the black leather sofa to listen to
what it contained.  Echo joined me.  The first message was from a car
dealer offering Rupe a wonderful deal, the second from a dentist's
receptionist saying his six-monthly check-up was well overdue.  We
ploughed on through several similar pieces of tele-mush.  Then Win's
voice, raised and nervous, was in the room with us.  "We haven't
received anything, Rupert.  Is there something wrong?"  She was on
twice more, the anxiety in her tone stepping up each time.  Next was a
cheese grater cockney saying, You said we were in business.  What's
with the big silence?  Give me a bell.  Or I'll come looking."

That's the old bloke who called round," said Echo.

"Like he said he would."

"Charlie Hoare here, Rupe.  We really do need to talk.  So, if you're
hearing this, get in touch.  Soon."

And that was it.  Apart from one more call from Win.  And one from me,
of course.  "Where are you?"  I murmured as the tape clicked off.  That
seems to be what everyone wants to know."  I stood up, walked over to
the telephone and dialled a number.

"Who are you calling?"  Echo asked.

The middle-aged London suit."

But the suit wasn't in his office.  All I could do was join the long
list of people leaving messages.  "I'll ask him to call you, sir.  What
does it concern?"

"Rupert Alder."

"He's no longer with the company, sir."

"You'd better explain that to Mr.  Hoare.  Just tell him it's
urgent."

"Is it?"  said Echo as I put the phone down.  "Urgent, I mean."

"Not sure."  I wandered back to the kitchen with my empty

A A

mug and she followed.  "Getting that way, though, wouldn't you say?"

I stopped by the photo-montage and looked at a picture of Rupe.  It was
about the most recent one on display.  He was standing on a quay side
somewhere, with a Eurybia container vessel unloading behind him.  The
glaring light and the linen suit he was wearing suggested a tropical
location the Gulf maybe, or the Far East.  A breeze was fanning his
dark hair and his eyes were narrowed against the sun.  His even
features and slight build preserved that look of the eternal schoolboy
I knew so well.  Put him in a Crispin uniform and he could still pass
for a teenager mature just beyond his years, not the
thirty-six-year-old he really was.

"Seems he was always good-looking," said Echo as she took the mug from
my hand.

"Yeh.  Lucky bastard."

"You're the same age as each other?"

"No need to make it sound so incredible."

"Is this bloke his brother or something?"  She tapped a black-and-white
photograph towards the top of the montage.  "I've looked at him a few
times and wondered where he fits in.  I suppose it's the
black-and-white that singles him out."

I gazed at the picture.  It showed a man of thirty or so in jeans and a
reefer-jacket, carrying a bag over one shoulder, standing on a railway
platform.  His hair was short, almost crew-cut, his face pale and
raw-boned, the jaw square and jutting.  He was holding a cigarette in
one hand, in that furtive cup-of-the-palm style between forefinger and
thumb.  He wasn't looking at the camera and maybe, given that he wasn't
in the middle of the picture, the camera wasn't looking at him either.
Centre stage was actually taken by the station name-board, a soulless
piece of precast concrete bearing the words ASHCOTT AND ME ARE  "Bugger
me," I murmured.

"What's wrong?"

"Ashcott and Meare was a station on the S and D a couple of miles west
of Glastonbury."  Seeing her eyes widen uncomprehendingly I added, "The
Somerset and Dorset railway."

"So?"

"It closed in nineteen sixty-six, when Rupe and me were just toddlers.
This photograph must have been taken before then."

"But not by Rupe."

"Hardly.  Howard would be my guess.  His brother.  Not in the picture,
but taking it.  A real rail nut, our Howard."

"Mystery solved, then."

"Yes.  Except..  ."  I looked back at the faintly blurred face of the
man in the reefer-jacket, then around at all the other more recent and
more colourful images.  "I never remember Howard with a camera.  How
did Rupe come across this, I wonder?  And why did he want to keep it?
Ashcott and Meare was just some peat-diggers' halt out on the moors.
Unless it's the bloke waiting there he's interested in.  But I don't
recognize him.  Never seen him before."

"So I'll just have to go on wondering where he fits in."

"You and me both."

I went on peering at the nameless man standing on the bare platform at
Ashcott and Meare thirty-five or more years in the past: a phantom
passenger waiting for a ghost train.  Then, suddenly, Rupe's telephone
started to ring.

"Bet you that's the suit," I said, winking at Echo.

"I never bet," she responded with the straightest of faces.

"Very wise."  With that, I scooted into the sitting room and picked up
the phone.

It was the suit.  "Mr.  Bradley?  Charlie Hoare here, Eurybia Shipping.
You rang a few minutes ago."

"They said you were out."

"Oh, I was.  Just walked in."  The chuckling undertone in his voice
didn't so much disguise the lie as proclaim it.  "You're on Rupe's
phone number, I notice."

"I'm a friend of his.  Trying to track him down on behalf of his
family."

That'd be the family in Street, would it?"

"Yes.  How did '

"Lucky guess.  I dug out his CV.  It gives Street as his place of
birth.  Yours too?"

"Well, yes."

"So, you're an old friend of his."

"Since schooldays."

"Excellent.  Am I to understand Rupe's family haven't heard from
him?"

"Not for a couple of months."

"Worrying for them.  Technically, Rupe's no longer on the strength
here.  But we like to think of Eurybia as a sort of family too.  And
you don't forget about a member of the family just because they walk
out on you.  So, I'd like to help if I can."

"Do you have any idea where he is?"

"No.  But the situation's .. . complicated.  Isn't it always?"  He
laughed gruffly.  "Perhaps we could meet while you're in town."

"How about this afternoon?"

"No time like the present, eh, Mr.  Bradley?  Tell you what, we'll meet
at my club.  The East India, in St.  James's Square.  It's next door to
the London Library.  Can you be there at four?  It'll be quiet around
then.  We can chat in peace."

"All right.  I'll be there at four."

"Excellent.  Ah, one thing, though.  Jacket and tie.  The club does
insist on it."

"I can manage that."

"See you at four, then."

"Right.  Oh But he'd rung off.  I'd been about to ask him if he knew a
Mr.  Hashimoto.  But it could wait.  St.  James's Square wasn't far
from the Park Lane Hilton.

"You're meeting him this afternoon?"  asked Echo, as I put the phone
down.

"Yeh.  At his club."  I rolled my eyes.

"He's keen."

"He is, isn't he?  Suspiciously so, you'd have to say.  But I shrugged.
"We'll see.  Between now and then, I have to find somewhere to stay.
So, I'd better be making tracks."

"You can stay here if you want."

"Really?"  I looked at her in surprise.  This was better than I'd hoped
for.  The sort of accommodation I could afford wasn't the sort I'd
miss.

"I could put some sheets on Rupe's bed.  He won't be wanting it, will
he?"

"That's kind of you, Echo.  Thanks."

"Well, it's only for a couple of nights at most, isn't it?"
"Absolutely."

"And if whoever searched Rupe's belongings creeps back for a second go,
you'll be on hand to sort them out, won't you?"  "Yeh."  I smiled
uneasily.  "There's that too."

CHAPTER FOUR

Clubland isn't exactly my natural habitat.  I'm with Groucho Marx on
joining clubs.  And I was making Groucho's point pretty amply for him
by turning up at the pillared portals of the East India Club in a
crumpled jacket and creased shirt.  (Well, I was no better at packing
than I was at ironing.) At least my tie looked the biz.  (Actually, it
was Rupe's tie, but let's not quibble.)

Charlie Hoare was waiting for me in the lobby.  A mop of grey hair and
a fuzz of slightly less grey beard gave him an aptly maritime look. But
the uncrumpled navy-blue suit, the discreetly striped tie and the copy
of the Financial Times wedged under his arm, folded open at the
commodities page, declared him to be a man of the City.  He fixed me
with a no-nonsense stare and shook my hand so firmly that all feeling
fled my little finger.

"Lance?"

"Yeh.  I '

"Call me Charlie.  After all, this is an informal meeting.  Let's keep
it that way."  (It wasn't clear to me what other way it could be.)
"We'll go upstairs."  He led the way, chuntering on as we climbed the
plush-carpeted treads.  "Handy refuge from the office, this place.  And
a refuge is what I seem to feel the need of more and more.  I offered
to put Rupe up for membership, but he wasn't interested.  Not very
clubbable, our Rupe,

but a good sort, even so.  Sound, through and through.  At least, I
always thought so."

We reached a large second-floor room, where a few members were dozing
the afternoon away beneath gilt-framed likenesses of bewigged nabobs.
Hoare commandeered a pair of armchairs either side of a low table next
to one of the windows, through which I could see the yellowing leaves
of the plane trees in the square, hanging limply in the gathering
dusk.

"Would you like some tea?  Or coffee?"

"Coffee would be nice."

"Or something a little stronger, perhaps?"

"Too early for me."

"Really?  Oh well.  Probably best."  He waved a waitress over and
ordered a pot of coffee, then leaned towards me across the table,
rubbing his hands together as if settling to business.  "So, you were
at school with Rupe."

"And university."

"Sounds like you know him very well."

"I do."

"What line are you in, Lance?"

"I'm sort of between lines."

"Can be a dangerous place that between the lines."

"How long have you been in shipping, Charlie?"  I asked, deciding to
ignore the faint hint of a threat in his smiling remark.

"Far too long.  But let's waste no time on my inglorious career. Eurybia
use me as a kind of ... troubleshooter.  Which brings us to Rupe."

"Is he in trouble?"

"Who knows?  But his family must think he might be.  You too."

"We simply can't contact him."

"Nor me.  Nor anyone, as far as I can tell.  Characteristic behaviour,
would you say, on your old friend's part dropping out of sight?"

"No."  That wasn't entirely true.  He'd never done it before,
certainly, but when Hoare had asked me the question I'd been tempted to
say it didn't entirely surprise me.  There was an unknowable side to
Rupe, though whether Rupe himself was aware of it was another matter
altogether.

Hoare was about to respond, when the coffee arrived.  He paused to sign
a chit, then poured for both of us.  When the waitress had gone, he
said, "I've known Rupe for seven years, Lance as long as he's been at
Eurybia.  But you've known him all your life.  How would you sum him
up?"

I thought for a moment, then tried.  "Clever, relaxed, adaptable.  A
bit of a loner, but a good friend to me.  Quite serious.  Quite hard on
himself.  But with a wry, detached sense of humour."

"Capable of playing the game?"

"Yes."

"But well aware that it is a game."

"I suppose so."

"Mmm."  Hoare sipped his coffee.  "Well, I'd go along with all of that.
It's how he seemed to me.  Good at keeping several balls in the air at
the same time.  And an excellent strategist.  He did some good work for
Eurybia.  Developed some very lucrative business.  Circularity's the
key to profit in shipping, Lance.  It's not just about plying the
oceans.  Our containers are transcontinental as well.  Rupe cracked the
Russian connection for us."

"He did?"

"We have a lot of cargoes finishing in Scandinavia, not many starting.
And it's the other way round in the Far East.  That means empty ships,
which means empty coffers.  Rupe handled a lot of negotiations with
Russian industrialists to close the circle send containers on through
Russia to the Far East.  That's why we posted him to Japan to smooth
out that end of things."

"And did he smooth it out?"

"Oh yes.  At least, he started to.  Then, suddenly, back in the summer,
he resigned."

"Why?"

"No idea."  Hoare gave a crumpled grin.  "Not at the time, anyway."

"But since?"

"Well..  ."  He stirred uncomfortably in his seat.  "That's why I
agreed to meet you, when it comes down to it.  A chap resigns without
giving a reason?  It's a free country.  A freeish world.  It seemed
odd, even a bit curt.  All we had was a fax from Tokyo.  But Eurybia
didn't own him.  We had no choice but to let him go.  As of the
thirty-first of August, he was off our books.  And then .. . things
started to happen.  Weevils started crawling out of the woodwork."

"What sort of weevils?"

"Do you know what a bill of lading is, Lance?"

I shrugged.  "Not exactly."

"It's a document of legal title, representing ownership of a cargo,
issued by the shipper to the customer, who can use it as security
against a loan if they wish.  But where there's a loan there can also
be fraud, if the shipper can somehow be persuaded or bribed to issue
more than one bill of lading per cargo.  Then you might end up with
several loans, all secured against the same cargo.  Like Rupe did."

"You're accusing Rupe of fraud?"

"It's pretty hard not to when there's a Eurybia container sitting out
at Tilbury with eighteen tons of high-grade Russian aluminium inside
it, being wrangled over by lawyers representing half a dozen different
Far Eastern banks, all claiming ownership in default of loans to a
will-o'-the-wisp outfit called the Pomparles Trading Company."

The whatT

"Pomparles.  Does the name mean something to you?"

"Yeh.  It would to any Street boy."  Briefly, I explained the long-ago
Arthurian tale of the Pons Perilis and its connection with the
modern-day Pomparles Bridge.  It brought a grin to Hoare's lips.

"Rupe's little joke," he said when I'd finished.  "He's chairman,
managing director, secretary, treasurer and bloody tea-boy of the
Pomparles Trading Company.  He knows the tricks of the trade as well as
anyone.  He issued multiple Eurybia bills of lading to his own company
for a cargo of aluminium leaving Yokohama, bound for Tilbury.  He used
those bills of lading to raise loans.  Then he resigned from Eurybia,
took the money .. . and ran."

"I don't believe it."

"I wish you didn't have to.  But it's true.  And damned embarrassing
for Eurybia."

"Rupe's no con artist."

"You don't think so?"

"Of course not."  (Rupe had always been honest to a fault in my
experience, pathetically obedient to drugs legislation and parking
regulations.) "He just isn't the type."

"Everyone's the type.  If they need to be.  And that's what I'm
wondering.  Did Rupe need to be?"

"Why should he?"

"You tell me, Lance."

"I can't.  Anyway, like I said, I don't believe it.  Besides .. ."

"What?"  Hoare looked at me enquiringly as my mind tried to make a
series of connections.  What the bloody hell was Rupe up to?  And why,
if he was suddenly awash with ill-gotten cash, should he stop
subsidizing life at Penfrith?

"How much is this fraud likely to have netted?"

"Well, banks tend to be coy about losses, of course, but eighteen tons
of high-grade aluminium at today's prices' he unfolded his FT -
'equates to about .. . twenty thousand pounds.  Multiply that by six
bills of lading and you have ... well, you can work it out."

"How much were Eurybia paying Rupe?"

"You wouldn't expect '

"Come on.  Give me some idea."

"About sixty thousand.  Plus bonuses and expenses."

"And set to rise given how well he was doing?"

"In all probability."

"Then surely it was never worth it."

"Not in the long run.  But something obviously focused Rupe on the
short run.  That's my point.  And I think I can prove it."

"How?"

"I'm going out to Tilbury tomorrow.  Why don't you join me?"  He
lowered his voice mysteriously.  There's someone I'd like you to
meet."

"Who?"

"Someone I reckon can convince you that Rupe really has put his
straight-dealing days behind him.  For good and all."

I didn't buy Charlie Hoare's version of Rupe as arch-fraudster for a
minute.  But I wasn't about to tell him that.  Yes, I'd go out to
Tilbury if he wanted me to.  But I had no intention of letting myself
be turned against a friend by whatever I was told when I got there.
Bills of lading and the price of aluminium didn't turn Rupe into a
villain overnight.  Not in my eyes, anyway.

Still, there was no denying that a lot of people were on Rupe's trail,
maybe all for the same reason.  From St.  James's Square I walked up to
Park Lane and dropped into the Hilton.  Mr.  Hashimoto was still
staying there, but he was out.  I left a message asking him to call me
'in connection with Mr.  Alder' and caught the bus back to
Kennington.

Echo had gone out, leaving me free to search Rupe's sitting room and
bedroom for clues to his whereabouts.  Naturally, there weren't any. If
Rupe was in hiding, he was clever enough to cover his tracks.  And if
he wasn't .. . then he was probably in even worse trouble than Hoare
seemed to think.

I soon gave up and concentrated on putting together a sardine sandwich
instead (hoping Echo wouldn't mind me raiding the cupboard).  I called
my parents to let them know where I was staying.

After writing down the address and phone number, Mum put Dad on, saying
he was keen to speak to me, which had to be some kind of a first.

"I visited the library today, son."

"Oh yeh?"

"Reminding myself of those farming deaths round here back in
'sixty-three.  You said you'd like to know what I found out, so I
photocopied some of the Gazette articles.  Do you want me to send them
on to you there?"

"Is there anything interesting in them?!

"Oh yes.  I think you could say that."

"Such as what?"

"Best you read them for yourself.  I don't want to be accused of
colouring your judgement."

"Give me a break, Dad."

"Well, let's just say there's a surprising connection between two of
the cases."

"Meaning what?"

"Meaning Howard Alder.  He found his father drowned in the Brue near
Cow Bridge, not the Sedgemoor Drain, as I'd always understood."  (Dad
and me both.  The Brue was the river spanned by Pomparles Bridge.  Cow
Bridge was the next crossing upstream, a favourite fishing spot for
boys like Rupe and me.  It was much closer to home than the Sedgemoor
Drain.  But nobody had ever said that was where Rupe's father had met
his end, least of all Howard.) "And he was the first to come across a
farmer called Dalton after the poor fellow shot himself."

This really was surprising.  There was no denying it.  "Could you send
the articles on to me, Dad?"

"I thought you'd want me to.  Your mother has the address?"

"Yeh."

"I'll put them in the post first thing tomorrow."

Thanks.  One other thing..."  I hesitated.  He wasn't going to like
this.  "Could you do me another favour?"

"What is it?"

"Call in at Penfrith and tell the Alders how they can contact me."

"For God's sake."

"They don't have a phone, Dad.  It's either this or I send them a
postcard.  And they're anxious for news."

"Maybe, but..  ."  A slowly yielding silence settled on the line.  "All
right.  I'll, er .. . send your mother."

Echo still wasn't back by half eight, when I headed round to the Pole
Star.  The lights were turned down, the music up.  The place had
slipped into evening mode, with a football match playing on a
big-screen telly and lots of drinking straight from the bottle.

One piece of good news was that Carl wasn't the barman sporting a
tattooed mass of muscles, but his lanky, pasty-faced, hair-gelled
colleague.  "I'm Carl Madron," he said to me as he prised the
bottle-tops off a multiple order of Mexican beer.  "You the guy who was
in earlier?"

"Yeh.  Lance Bradley.  I'm a friend of Rupe Alder's."

That a fact?"

"They tell me you know Rupe quite well."

"A bit."

"Any idea where he might be these days?"

"No."  He broke off to take some money, then gave me a fraction more of
his attention.  "If you're a friend of his, why don't you know where he
is?"

"I thought I did.  But he seems to have '

"Disappeared?"

"That's right."

"Anyway, I'm not a mate of the guy.  He used to come in here quite a
lot.  Early evening, mostly.  We'd chat a bit.  That's about it."

"I had the impression it was, well, more than that."

"Did you?"

"Just an impression."

"As it happens, I'm getting some grief over your friend.  He's let
someone down."

"Oh yeh?"

"Not a nice thing to do."

"Who is this "someone"?"

"What's it matter to you?"

"I'm trying to find Rupe.  His family are worried about him."

"They probably ought to be."

"You think so?"

"You let people down, you get into trouble."

"Look, Carl..  ."

"Tell you what."  He fixed me with a dead-fish stare.  "I could call
that someone I mentioned.  See if he wants to meet you."

"That'd be great."

"OK.  When I get a chance.  You'll hang around?"

"Yeh.  "Course.  Thanks."

"Don't overdo the thanks."  His smile was no livelier than his stare.
"You'll be getting me off a hook."

And myself onto one?  The question hung in the noise and smoke around
me.  And it didn't go away.

But it did get decidedly blurry.  Two idle hours in a pub aren't
exactly good for my clarity of thought.  By closing time, I was having
trouble hanging on, never mind hanging around.  That early start was
still gouging away at me.  Carl, on the other hand, was getting sharper
all the time.  He'd made the promised phone call, with favourable
results.

"Bill' the someone had half a name now 'says he'd like to see you."
(Strangely, I'd thought it was me expressing a wish to see him, but
never mind.) "Wait while we close up and I'll take you round there."

"Is it far?"

"Far enough.  But I've got wheels."

"Chauffeur service, then?"

"That's right, Lance."  Carl grinned at me.  As a chauffeur, he was
well short on deference.  "Door to fucking door."

The car wasn't the sort of thing you saw being lovingly buffed outside
a Mayfair casino.  It was a cramped rust-bucket, with sour-smelling
blankets covering the seats.  For a barman, though, I suppose it had
the advantage that you could always be sure, come closing time, it
would still be where you'd parked it.

We headed east, aiming, so Carl told me, for the Rotherhithe Tunnel.
Bill Prettyman his surname was casually donated somewhere along the way
lived in West Ham.  "An old East End boy," according to Carl.  "He can
tell a few tales, can Bill."

"Tales about what?"

"Vintage villainy.  My dad knows him from way back.  Famous as a hard
man in his day.  And famous as more than that to a few."

"Are you going to let me in on the secret?"

"I'll let Bill do that.  He didn't like me giving Rupe the lowdown on
him, so I'd better mind my manners this time."

"What did Rupe want with him?"

"Different question, same answer.  Don't worry."  Carl winked at me,
which was about as worrying as it could be.  "He sounded as if he was
in a talkative mood."

I fell asleep before we'd plunged under the Thames and was woken,
seemingly no more than a few seconds later, by the car spluttering into
silence.  We'd arrived at the foot of some shabby stump of high-rise
housing called Gauntlet Point.  (Actually, the L had dropped off the
sign, but even in my far from fully alert condition it seemed obvious
what the missing letter was.)

The night air was a shock to the system, I don't mind admitting.  A
badly needed one, in fact.  Carl led me in by a heavily reinforced
side-door, pausing to press a button on the bell-panel.  "Just to let
him know we're here," he explained, before starting up the
urinal-scented stairs.  "It's only the third floor.  And I wouldn't
recommend the lifts."

Bill Prettyman's residence lay at the far end of a concrete-parapeted
landing.  Halfway along, Carl paused for a word to the wise.  "Watch
what you say to Bill.  He can be a bit touchy."

"But not feely, I hope."

"That's another thing.  Sense of humour.  He hasn't got one.  Not a
fucking trace."

"I'll try to remember that."

"You won't have to try very hard.  He's not been in the best of moods
lately.  Thanks to Rupe."

"What did Rupe do to him?"

But the only answer I got was Carl's sodium-lit grin.  Clearly, he just
didn't have the heart to spoil the suspense.

"This him, is it?"  were Prettyman's welcoming words as the door opened
to our knock and his gaze slid past Carl and onto me.  He was a short,
pigeon-chested little man with a round, frowning face and pale blue
eyes that sparkled like two beads of water amidst the arid creases of
his skin.  His head was shaven as closely as his jaw, doing nothing to
soften the mangled jut of his sometime-broken nose.  He was wearing a
grubby vest and even grubbier tracksuit bottoms.  I briefly considered
reassuring him that there'd been no need to dress up for my visit.

"I'm Lance Bradley," was actually my opener.  "Pleased to meet you."

"Carl said you're a friend of Alder."

"Rupe, yes."  (Rupe and Bill not on first-name terms, it seemed.  Was
that good news or bad?) "I'm trying to find him."

"Better come in, then."

We stepped inside and Carl closed the door.  A smell hit me as he did
so that I'd call a stench if I wanted to be unkind.  As to its origins,
my suspicions centred on the large, lank-furred dog eyeing me from the
kitchen doorway at the end of the passage.  I couldn't have named the
breed, but I reckoned I knew what it was bred for.  God help any
uninvited visitors to chez Prettyman.

It was just as well for my peace of mind that the dog didn't follow us
into the lounge.  Not that he was missing much.  Bill Prettyman lived
with bare walls, cheap furniture and a huge wide-screen TV.  Homely
wasn't the description that sprang to mind.  At least the lounge
smelled better than the passage, thanks mainly to a haze of cigar
smoke.  I'd have taken Bill for a roll-up man, but it was a panatella
he'd left smouldering in a giant onyx ashtray on top of the TV.  He
picked it up and took a puff.  "You boys want a drink?"

The choice looked to be Scotch or Scotch.  We both chose Scotch.  "Been
up to anything exciting, Bill?"  Carl enquired as he sat down on the
sofa and sipped his whisky.

"I'm too old for excitement.  All I want is a bit of comfort.  Not too
much to ask, is it?"

"No," I chipped in.  "Not at all."

"Looks like you've got plenty already."  Bill glared at me.  "The
younger generation .. ."  He shook his head in despair at us.  "What a
fucking washout."

"Except for me, hey?"  said Carl.  "Didn't I say I was your best hope
of news of Rupe?"

Bill's expression suggested the point was moot.  "What are you after
Alder for?"  he fired at me.

"His family are worried about him.  I'm trying to track him down."

"Purely out of the goodness of your heart?"

"Something like that."

"And where is this .. . family?"

"Street, in Somerset."

"Street?  You'd have thought I'd said Baghdad by his reaction.  The
frown knotted itself into a scowl.  "He grew up there?"

"Him and me both."

That's how he knew, then.  Fucking hell.  I thought he was too young.
He was, by rights.  But he knew.  He knew a sight more than he was
telling."

"I'm not sure I '

"Where is he?  Bill's shout raised a bark from the kitchen.  "Shut up'
he bellowed.  And the dog obeyed.  Bill returned his attention to me.
"What did you say your name was?"

"Lance."

"Well, where is he, Lance?  That's what I want to know.  Where is he
and what's he up to?"

"That's what I'm trying to find out."

"You've come to the wrong place, then, haven't you?"

"Why don't you let Lance in on what this is about, Bill?"  put in
Carl.

"To save you the trouble later, you mean?  I sometimes wish your dad
had taken my advice and drowned you in a sack the day you were born."

"That's not very nice, is it?  I was only trying to do you a favour."

"Some favour."

We seemed to be moving in a circle, so I tried to square it.  "Does
this have something to do with aluminium?"

They both turned slowly to look at me.  And it was immediately obvious
that this had nothing to do with aluminium.  "What are you on, man?"
snorted Carl.

"The wrong track, obviously."

"Yeh, track," said Carl with a smile.  "That's more like it.  As in
railway track."

"You may as well go ahead and fill him in, boy," growled Bill.  "It's
an itch you just can't stop scratching, ain't it?"

"Uncle Bill here is a big-time criminal, Lance."  (Carl was all eager
garrulousness now the tale-teller off the leash.) "He had a hand in the
most famous heist of the century.  Well, the last century.  The Great
Train Robbery; August 'sixty-three.  You're looking at one of the
blokes who laid his hands on the three million quid in used fivers,
back when three million quid could buy an Arab oil state outright."

"It was nearer two and a half million," Bill grudgingly corrected him.
"And there were a fair few of us to take our whack.  I didn't come away
with more than a hundred and fifty thou."

"Which would probably be worth three million today," Carl went on.  "If
you'd stuck it in the building society and led a sensible life."

"Yeh," said Bill.  "That's right.  Life's full of fucking ifs.  And
smart arses to tell you so."

The Great Train Robbery?  I was struggling to catch up, rather like the
police back in August 1963.  Even those of us still in our mother's
womb at the time knew that was when a gang of soon to be famous thieves
stopped the Glasgow to London mail train one night in the middle of the
Buckinghamshire countryside and robbed it of a medium-sized fortune in
used banknotes that were on their way to the Royal Mint for
incineration.  Most of the gang had subsequently been caught and
clobbered with thirty-year gaol sentences.  Some of them had escaped
and been caught again.  There'd been books and films, rumours of
proceeds never recovered and Moriarty types behind it all never
identified.  It had become part of the nation's folklore.  But Bill
Prettyman?  I'd never heard that name mentioned.  And he certainly
didn't look like a Mr.  Big to me.  Nor was he living like one.  But
that, of course, was exactly what he was griping about.

"Bill had the good sense to keep his gloves on during the divvying up
at Leatherslade Farm," said Carl.  "The ones who were caught got
careless with their fingerprints.  But not our Bill.  He got clean away
with his share of the loot.  Only to have it taken off him by
smooth-talking con men over the next .. . well, how long did it take,
Bill?"  Bill's expression suggested he had no wish to go into details
of his systematic fleecing.  "Let's settle for all too soon," Carl went
on with a weak smile.  "Which is why he finds himself passing his
declining years in this rat-hole, unable even to strike a lucrative
publishing deal in case the police come knocking at his door.  The ones
who were caught have served their time.  The ones who got away .. .
can't afford to come clean."

"Maybe you should do a deal with a publisher," said Bill.  "Gifted with
the gab the way you are."

"And maybe I would.  If I didn't think you'd stick a knife in my gut
before I got to spend the money."

"You're wise to think that, son.  Very wise."

"I don't like to interrupt," I interrupted, 'but what has this to do
with Rupe?"

"Good question," said Carl.  "See, the thing is Rupe got me talking
about the Great Train Robbery one night at the Pole Star and I, well,
gave him the idea that I might know someone who was in on it.  Nothing
specific, mind.  Nothing that laid a trail to Uncle Bill's door.  But
... the hint was there.  And Rupe was interested.  Very interested.  He
knew a bit himself, apparently.  He gave me a name.  Asked me to
mention it to ... whoever it was I knew ... and see if he'd like to
meet up and hear more about what had happened to this guy."

"Who did he name?"

"Fellow called Dalton."  (Dalton?  One of the suicidal Street farmers?
I was way out of my depth now.) "Peter Dalton."

"Know of him, do you?"  Bill looked sharply at me.

"No."  (Well, it was almost the truth.) "Can't say I do."

"Seems he was a member of the gang as well," said Carl, at which Bill
gave a nod of confirmation.  "Also never caught.  In fact, never heard
of again.  Dropped right out of sight after the robbery."  (Out of this
whole vale of tears, in fact, assuming he was the dead farmer.) "And
not just your standard gang member.  No, no.  Dalton was there on
behalf of the gang's prime informant the mystery man who told them
about the train and how much dosh might be aboard.  He took an extra
cut for his boss.  Isn't that right, Bill?"  Another nod.  Then
vanished."

"What did Rupe know about him?"

That he was fucking dead," said Bill.  "Dalton was found with his head
blown off at some farm he owned, apparently.  Near Street.  Less than a
fortnight after the robbery.  Suicide, it was, according to the stuff
from the paper Alder showed me.  Suicide, my arse.  Dead, and no trace
of the money?  Sounds more like he was rubbed out."

"Murdered?"

"So Rupe reckoned," said Carl.  "And he reckoned he knew who'd done
it."

"Who?"

The mystery man.  The source of the info."

"Why would he kill Dalton?"

To cover his tracks," said Bill, with no hint of irony.  "Part of the
plan all along, maybe.  The cops were on to us that fast, boy.  Too
fast for fingerprints to be all they had.  Somebody grassed us up.  And
who could have done it better than the bloke who set us up in the first
fucking place?"

"Whose identity you never knew?"

"Not me.  Not no one.  Except Dalton."

"And Rupe," put in Carl.

"Alder seemed to think he could flush him out," Bill continued.  "He
didn't say how.  Nor how he knew who he was.  He said the bloke was
called Stephen Townley and that he had .. . ways and means ... of
tracking him down.  He reckoned he could force Townley to tell his
story and make us all rich by selling it.  He had a photo of Dalton,
taken from the local rag down in Street.  Once I said yeh, that was the
same Dalton I'd last seen at Leatherslade back in August 'sixty-three,
he seemed sure he could pull it off."

"He had a photograph of Townley as well, "said Carl.

"Said it was Townley," Bill corrected him.

"Was Townley standing on a railway station in the picture?"  I asked.

"Yeh."  Bill gave me another sharp look.  "How'd you know that?"

"It's pinned up in Rupe's kitchen.  The station's not far from

Street.  Well, it wasn't far, when it existed."  (My mind was racing
through sand.  Rupe had no business knowing about any of this stuff.
But he did.  "Sure he could pull it off."  I wondered if he was so sure
now.) "When did you meet Rupe, Bill?"

"It's got to be ... a couple of months."  (That put it during Rupe's
last 'flying visit' to London.) "Which is twice as long as he said he'd
need to sort Townley."

"Maybe Townley proved more elusive than Rupe had anticipated."

"Or maybe he did a deal with Townley and froze me out.  Maybe all he
wanted me to do was ID Dalton and tie the fucking string on his
blackmail package."

"You can see Bill's point," said Carl.  "It does look like that."

"Rupe's no blackmailer."  (But he was, if Bill was to be believed.
That's exactly what he was.  Or what he was going to be, if and when he
tracked Townley down.  Why?  He couldn't be in this for the money.  Not
this and the aluminium too.) "There has to be some .. .
misunderstanding."

There's no misunderstanding," said Bill, with heavy emphasis.  "He
promised me a cut of whatever he made out of Townley."

"Me too," said Carl, which drew a fleeting glare from Bill.

"And now he's done a runner," the old man resumed.  (Bill's conclusion
was much the same as Charlie Hoare's, it seemed.) "So, when you find
your friend, tell him he owes me.  And I want paying."

"Sure.  I'll find him."

"Any leads?"  Carl enquired.

"One or two.  Not very promising, I'm afraid."

"You'll keep us posted, though, if they come to anything?"

"Certainly.  I want to sort this out as much as you do."

That a fact?"

"Yeh."

"But is it a promise?"  growled Bill.

"If you like."

"I do like."

Then it's a promise."

"Good.  I'm partial to promises."  He eyed me through a puff of
panatella smoke.  "I can hold people to them, see?  And I do.  Whether
they want to be held to them ... or not."

"You know, Lance," Carl said some time later, as we started back
towards Kennington in his car, 'for a guy who claims to be Rupe's best
mate, you don't seem exactly .. . over-familiar with his character."

"You're a better judge of it, are you?"  I countered, though Carl's
point was a valid one, God knows.  Good old law-abiding career-ladder
Rupe seemed to have turned to skullduggery with all the enthusiasm of a
late convert.

"I'm just telling it like it is.  My guess is Rupe had a whole load of
stuff on friend Townley.  Bill didn't give him anything except
confirmation of one suspicion."

"What did he tell you and Bill about Townley?  Townley as he is today,
I mean."

"Nothing.  Not a fucking thing."

"Didn't you ask?"

"Bill did.  But Rupe clammed up."

"And you didn't try to prise him open?"

"You've got me all wrong, Lance."  He cast me a leery glance through a
wash of amber streetlight.  "I'm not the heavy type."

That's reassuring."

"It's not meant to be.  The way I figure it, this Townley has to be a
real hard case to have pulled off that stuff in 'sixty-three.  Too hard
for Rupe to tackle any way he chose to go about it.  I don't want to
dash Bill's hopes he's got fuck all else to keep him going but Rupe
isn't coming back with a fat pay-off to share out."

"What do you reckon's happened to him, then?"

Carl gave the question a moment's thought, then said, "Not sure, but ..
. nothing good."

CHAPTER FIVE

Going to bed in the small hours with a lot to think about isn't
anyone's recipe for a sound dose of slumber.  Was Rupe really up to
defrauding Far Eastern banks and blackmailing veteran arch-criminals? I
doubted it.  In fact, I doubted just about everything I'd learned so
far.  More worryingly, I doubted it was wise to get mixed up in any of
it.  Cue a hasty retreat to Glastonbury?  That at least made sense. And
it was a comforting thought that finally lulled me into sleep.

Only to be jolted awake by a noise from the kitchen.  Someone was
moving about.  I checked my watch.  It was just gone four.  Had the
person who'd so carefully searched Rupe's belongings come back for a
second look?  My heart began to pound.

Then the toaster popped and I remembered: postal workers keep early
hours.

"Bloody hell," said Echo as I staggered into the kitchen to find her
munching and slurping.  "Do you normally look this bad in the
mornings?"

"This isn't the morning.  It's still last night."

"When did you get back?"

"Too late.  Far too late."

"Did tea with the suit stretch to supper?"

"No, no.  I was kept up by someone else.  A bloke Rupe knows who works
at the Pole Star."

"Not Carl Madron?"

"You know him too?"

"Difficult for a girl to go into the Pole Star without knowing Carl. He
always tries it on.  Just as well he's the other side of the bar.
Wouldn't have thought he and Rupe had a lot in common."

"Neither would I."  I looked at the photo-montage and tried to focus on
the picture of Stephen Townley.  A name and a face and Bill Prettyman's
criminal past.  What did they really amount to?  "But there are a lot
of things I wouldn't have thought about Rupe that it seems I may have
to."

"Such as?"

"I'll tell you later.  When I've scraped the fur off my tongue."

"All right.  I've got to dash, anyway.  How about you treat me to
dinner at a Portuguese place I know?"  She grinned, something I felt
I'd be unable to manage for quite a while.  "In lieu of rent."

"It's a deal."  I found myself a mug and poured some tea from the pot
Echo had brewed.  "What's the best way to get to Canary Wharf from
here, do you think?"

"Tube, via London Bridge."

"Other than the Tube."  Her eyebrows shot up.  "That's something else
I'll explain later."

The answer involved a trudge to Elephant and Castle, a bus to Shadwell
and another from there to Docklands' nerve centre.  I set off in the
drizzle-smeared dregs of the rush hour and arrived just as the early
starters were taking their mid-morning fag break.  The Isle of Dogs had
been transformed from a building site into a city unto itself while my
back had been turned.  A mall about a mile long led me to a phalanx of
reception desks at the foot of the Canada Square Tower.  A message was
phoned up to Eurybia's perch on the umpteenth floor and ten minutes
later Charlie Hoare emerged from the lift to greet me.

"Glad you could make it, Lance.  I think you'll find the trip
worthwhile.  Shall we go?  Came on the Jubilee Line, did you?
Impressive, isn't it?"

Hoare's questions didn't require many answers from me, which suited my
less than razor-sharp state of mind.  He piloted me to the underground
car park, loaded me into his Lexus, weaved his way out onto the A13 and
pointed the bonnet towards Essex.  He seemed to feel I was in need of a
potted biography of Charlie Hoare, man of the shipping world, and that
took us well past Dagenham before I needed to do more than nod
periodically and throw in the occasional 'uh-huh'.

"I go back to BC in shipping, Lance.  Before containerization  Well
before, as a matter of fact.  Thirty-seven years is a long time.  And
it amounts to a lot of experience."

"Must do," I mumbled.  That means you started work the year I was
born."  
"Sixty-three, yes.  The twenty-second of July.  I started the
same day as the trial of Stephen Ward, you know.  But I've gone on a
hell of a sight longer."  He laughed at that and I made an effort to
join in.  "I was still living with my folks in Beckenham then.  The
train used to run into Holborn Viaduct, as was, and I'd walk to work
from there.  Holborn Viaduct was right next to the Old Bailey, of
course.  The scrum outside that first morning was unbelievable.  The
trial of the century, they called it.  If I hadn't been so keen to
create a good impression in the office, I might have bunked off and
tried to get a ticket for the public gallery.  As it was, they had to
cope without me."  Another laugh.

"Quite a year, nineteen sixty-three."

"Certainly was.  The Profumo affair.  The Kennedy assassination.  And a
damned fine Lord's Test match."

"Not to mention the Great Train Robbery."

"That too."  He frowned.  "Funny you should bring it up, actually."

"Why?"

"Rupe asked me about it quite often: what I remembered, what gossip
there was about it at the time.  Mind you, we probably discussed
Profumo as well.  Rupe's always been curious about the period."

"Has he?"  (It was news to me.)

"Oh yes.  Well, it is interesting, isn't it?  The trial of the century
and the crime of the century, no more than a few weeks apart.  Not that
I have any shattering insights into any of it.  Politicians caught with
their trousers down and East End villains making off with mailbags full
of money.  Entertaining stuff.  Unless you were Harold Macmillan, of
course.  He had to go after all of that."

"So, Rupe's curiosity was .. . purely historical?"

"Suppose so."  Hoare thought for a moment as he slowed for a
roundabout.  "Frankly, I got the impression Rupe knew more than I did.
Especially about the Great Train Robbery."

"Really?"

"Yes.  Odd, when you come to think about it."

But it didn't seem odd to me.  Not at all.

We reached Tilbury and turned in through the dock gates.  Hoare seemed
to be a familiar face to the gate man who waved us past.  Then Hoare
put a call through on his mobile to somebody called Colin and arranged
to meet him at one of the berths.  I gazed around at the ships halfway
through loading and unloading, at the cranes and gantries and Lego-like
towers of containers.  The clouds were low and louring.  It had started
to rain again.  I didn't feel in top form and I certainly wasn't in my
element.

"I love ports," said Hoare, with a lyrical catch in his voice.  "Always
have.  The foreign flags.  The far-flung destinations.  The exotic
cargoes.  "Sandalwood, cedar wood and sweet white wine"."

"They handle a lot of those here, do they?"

"It's a line of poetry, Lance.  Masefield."  He shook his head
despairingly.  "Never mind."

"Isn't this one of yours?"  I nodded at the soaring flank of a berthed
container ship we were passing.  The name EURYBIA slowly disclosed
itself, one huge letter at a time.  "What are they unloading?"

Hoare glanced round.  "Frozen meat, at a guess."

"What would Masefield have rhymed that with, I wonder?"

Hoare frowned, but didn't rise to the bait.  There's Colin, look."

A car was parked ahead, next to a container that was standing somewhat
forlornly on its own, away from the stacked multitude.  A man was
leaning against the driver's door of the car, clearly waiting for us.
He had one of those round, pliable faces that fold naturally into a
smile.  A keen wind was blowing in off the river, tugging at his fair
hair and at the collar of the yellow safety coat he was wearing over
his suit.  Behind him, on the side of the rust-red container, the word
EURYBIA was painted in white.

We pulled up and got out.  "Colin Dibley, Lance Bradley," Hoare
announced with a grin.  Handshakes followed.  "Good to see you,
Colin."

"You too, Charlie.  Though it'd be just as good and a sight drier and
warmer in my office."

"I thought we could entice you out for a drink before we get down to
business.  Lance won't want to stay for that anyway."

"Suits me," said Dibley.  "Charlie tells me you're a friend of Rupe's,
Lance."

That's right."

"He's given us a bit of a headache with this baby."  Dibley crooked his
thumb at the container.

"Is that the famous consignment of aluminium?"

"It is."

"How long's it been here?"

"More than a month.  It arrived a couple of weeks after Rupe paid me a
flying visit.  After the things he said then ..."  Dibley shrugged.  "I
should have known he was letting me in for some kind of trouble."

"Has it been a lot of trouble?"  asked Hoare.  "I mean, for us at
Eurybia, yes, but for you, well, there's no shortage of space, is
there?"

"Space is money, Charlie.  You know that.  Besides, there have been the
lawyers to deal with.  And Customs."

"Suspicious about the contents?"

"You bet.  A high-value cargo from Russia always sets them thinking
about organized crime.  When the owner goes missing .. . naturally they
want to take a peek inside."

"What did they find?"

"Aluminium, so they tell me."

"Any chance of me taking a peek as well?"  I asked, stepping closer to
the double doors at the front of the container.  There were bolts
running from top to bottom, but no sign of a lock.

Hoare gave me a weary look.  "No chance whatsoever."

"Can't see what harm it would do."

"None to you, but plenty to me," said Dibley, reaching past me to
finger one of the small pin-and-socket contraptions that prevented the
bolts being slipped.  "These are Customs seals.  Breaking them's a
hanging offence."

"Just a thought."

"A pretty pointless one, Lance," said Hoare.  "Customs have confirmed
the contents.  Aluminium.  That isn't the mystery.  The mystery is why
Rupe needed to raise so much money on his cargo."

"And mystery's certainly what he was dealing in when he came here,"
said Dibley.

Time we made for the pub," put in Hoare, rubbing his hands.  "I need a
drink if I'm to listen to this one again."

The rain began to get its act together as we left the Docks and drove
out through the dismal margins of Tilbury.  Dibley asked me some
desultory questions about my friendship with Rupe, patently stalling
till he could get his palm round a pint and unfold his tale of Rupe's
more recent activities.  I decided to help him out by throwing in a
question of my own.  "Either of you two ever hear of a guy called
Hashimoto?"

"Don't think so," said Dibley.

"Nor me," said Hoare.  "In our line of business, is he?"

"Not sure.  He called at Rupe's house last week, apparently."

"Did he leave a message?"

"Just that he wanted to speak to Rupe."

"And Rupe's been based in Tokyo this year," Hoare mused.  "This
Hashimoto must know him from there.  Could well be in shipping.  I'll
ask around.  Did he leave a phone number?"

"No," I found myself saying.  "He didn't."  Some instinct told me to
keep a few cards up my sleeve.  I was fairly sure Hoare wasn't being
completely frank with me.  It made sense to return the compliment.

The World's End Inn was aptly named, huddled as it was in the lee of
the dyke where the Essex marshes met the Thames, with so much rain
falling that it was hard to be sure where one ended and the other
began.  Inside, though, was the haven that is every decent pub.  With
drinks bought and lunches ordered, we drew up our chairs at a corner
table and Dibley started to tell me what Hoare seemed to think I needed
to hear.

"I wouldn't claim to know Rupe as well as you obviously do, Lance. He's
always struck me as a buttoned-up sort of fellow.  Even a bit of a cold
fish.  But straight as a die.  No question about that.  He used to be
out here every few weeks or so and we'd generally have a bite to eat
here if we could fit it in.  As far as work went, I'd have said he was
a real asset to Eurybia."

"I'd agree," said Hoare.

"Efficient.  That's what he was.  Bloody efficient.  And that's rarer
than you'd think."

"Rarer than rubies," intoned Hoare.

"Masefield again?"  I asked.  But all I got for an answer was a
glare.

"Anyway," said Dibley, "I'd not seen Rupe for quite a while, thanks to
this Tokyo posting, when he turned up here at the end of August.  It
was the day after the bank holiday.  Pretty quiet.  Lots of people
away.  And he hadn't made an appointment.  He was lucky to find me in
the office."

"Or unlucky," said Hoare.

"Charlie reckons he was hoping I wouldn't be in.  So he could have a
sniff around on the strength of looking for me."

"What would he be sniffing around afterT

"Ah, well, that's the question, isn't it?  What was he up to?  I didn't
know he'd already resigned from Eurybia.  In fact, I assumed Eurybia
had sent him.  It's certainly what he led me to believe.  He said the
company was worried about a client they'd been dealing with: Pomparles
Trading.  Had I heard any whispers about them?  The answer was no.  Of
course, it later transpired that Rupe was Pomparles Trading.  Anyway,
we popped down here for lunch.  That's when I began to notice a few ..
. differences."

"In Rupe?"

"Yeh.  He was drinking more, for a start.  I had trouble keeping up.
It'd normally be the other way round.  And he was .. . well, wilder, I
suppose.  Talking more loudly than usual.  Waving his arms around. Like
he was ... high on something.  I asked him about Tokyo, but he didn't
seem to want to go into it."

"What did he want to go into?"

"The past, funnily enough."

"Nineteen sixty-three," murmured Hoare.

"Exactly," Dibley went on.  "Nineteen sixty-three.  He asked me what I
remembered of it.  Well, I was still at primary school then.  A few
things stuck in my mind, naturally.  All the tobogganing me and my
brother did.  It was a cold winter.  We had a lovely summer holiday in
Cornwall as well.  Then there was the big stuff Profumo, Kennedy, the
Great Train Robbery.  I trotted them out, with what little a tacker
like me understood at the time.  Rupe seemed to be hanging on my every
word.  When I'd finished, he said, "Ever heard of Stephen Townley,
Col?"

Stephen Townley.  So, there he was again.  The face in the photograph.
The figure from the past.  "Had you?"  I asked, to cover my surprise.

"Nope.  The name meant nothing to me.  I asked Rupe if I should have
done, if this Townley had done something notable back in 'sixty-three.
Rupe said, "No, you shouldn't have heard of him.  But, yes, he did do
something notable in nineteen sixty-three.  And you will be hearing
about it.  I'll make sure of that."

"What did he mean?"

"God knows.  He was talking in riddles.  Playing some weird game of his
own.  There's not much that annoys me more than the old "I know
something you don't know but I can't tell you what it is" routine.  I
asked him once what he was getting at and when he dodged the question,
I dropped the subject."

"And Rupe dropped it too?"

"For a while.  But he came back to it as we were leaving.  At least, I
think he did.  It was pretty ambiguous.  "Wouldn't it be good," he
said, "just once, to make a difference?"  "A difference to what?"  I
asked.  But all he did was smile at me.  Then he muttered something I
didn't quite catch "You'll see," I think got into his car and drove
away.  I phoned Charlie when I got back to the office and asked him if
Rupe was, well, all right."

"Not all right, I think we can say now, don't you?"  Hoare raised his
eyebrows at me.  "I told Colin that Rupe was a couple of days away from
serving out his notice to us, that he hadn't gone to Tilbury on Eurybia
business, that as far as we knew he was still in Tokyo and that I'd
never heard of the Pomparles Trading Company.  When I looked into it,
though, I found Pomparles on our system as a new client, with a
container of aluminium on its way here from Yokohama.  I was too busy
to do any more about it at the time.  If Rupe wanted to play silly
buggers, I reckoned that was his affair."  He gave a wry smile.  "Seems
I should have taken it more seriously."  Then he looked at me.  "I'm
having to now, aren't I?"

Charlie Hoare wasn't the only one being forced to take Rupe's obscure
machinations seriously.  Everything was getting very complicated.  And
complications have never agreed with me.  Hoare and Dibley returned to
the Docks for their business meeting, dropping me at the station en
route.  On the slow train ride back to London through the unlovely
innards of Dagenham and Barking, I tried to kick-start my brain into
thinking mode.  Rupe had something something big on Townley.  He needed
money a lot of it to make it count.  "You'll see," he'd said to Dibley.
But we hadn't seen.  Nothing had happened.  Rupe had vanished.  That
was all.  Townley was as anonymous as ever.  Rupe hadn't made a
difference.  Not yet, anyway.  And he surely should have.  Whatever
kind of a difference he had in mind.

It had begun in Tokyo.  That, at any rate, was a reasonable
supposition.  Which pointed to the so far elusive Mr.  Hashimoto.  From
Fenchurch Street I caught a bus to Trafalgar Square and walked across
Green Park through the thinning rain to his hotel.

Mr.  Hashimoto wasn't in.  I was about to ask what the point was of
staying at such a swanky hotel if he was never going to swank around
the place, when the receptionist said brightly, "Are you Mr.
Bradley?"

"Yes.  I am."

"Mr.  Hashimoto left a message for you in case you called."

"What's the message?"

"He can meet you here at ten o'clock tomorrow morning."

"Great.  Tell him I'll be here."

The waiting game didn't seem a bad one to play, given how short of
sleep I was.  To prove the point, I nodded off on the bus to Kennington
and woke up with what felt like a broken neck at New Cross Gate.

I was still in the convalescent phase when I made it back to Hardrada
Road.  Rupe's phone started ringing as I opened the front door and I
was inclined to let the answering machine field the call, but when I
heard Win start stumbling out a message for me I picked it up.

"Hi, Win.  Lance here."

"Oh."  Why she should sound so surprised was hard to say.

"Give me your number and I'll call you back."

This simple suggestion also seemed to throw her, but eventually I got
the number of the call-box out of her and we were soon speaking without
worrying that the pips were about to interrupt.

"I haven't really got any news for you, Win.  I've met a few people up
here who know Rupe, but what none of them seems to know is where he
is."

"Oh."

"I'm sorry, but there it is.  I should find out more tomorrow."  (Not
least, Royal Mail permitting, what part her brother Howard had played
in the discovery of two dead bodies in the Street area, one of them
their father's, back in 1963.  I was tempted to ask Win about that
there and then, but her telephone manner wasn't exactly conducive to
delicate discussion.)

"Oh."

"Why not phone me around this time tomorrow?  I might have something to
report."

"All right.  I'll do that."  She paused, then said, "Lancelot?"

"Yes, Win?"

"It was good of your mother ... to call round."

"Well, she doesn't live far away, does she?"

"No, but..  ."  Another pause.  "It's good of you too, doing all this
for us."

"It's not so much."

"We're relying on you, you know."  (People doing that had to be either
mad or desperate.  I suppose the Alders counted as both.)

"I'll see what I can come up with, Win.  Let's talk tomorrow.  I've got
to go now.  "Bye."

"They're a weird lot, then, are they, Rupe's family?"  Echo put the
question to me a few hours later, as we toyed with some appetizers in
Kennington's foremost Portuguese dining establishment.

"Pretty dysfunctional, yeh."

They sound like Stella Gibbons dreamed them up."

"Who?"

"She wrote Cold Comfort Farm."

"Oh, yeh.  Right.  Well, cold comfort's about all they're going to get
from me, far as I can see."

"Come on.  You haven't done that badly."  She gave me a sparkly smile,
though it failed to out-sparkle the spangles on her eye-shimmying
orange top.  "You've surprised me with what you've found out
already."

"Have I?"

"Aluminium smuggling.  Great Train Robbers.  I had no idea I was
lodging with such a man of mystery."

"It's not exactly smuggling."  (I was beginning to wonder if confiding
in Echo had been a good idea.  But after a couple of drinks I was bound
to confide in someone and Echo had no axe to grind that I knew of.) "As
for Prettyman and this Townley bloke .. ."  I shrugged.  "I just don't
get it."

"Perhaps Mr.  Hashimoto will tie it all together."

"Maybe.  But if he doesn't..  ."

"What?"

That'll be the end of the road.  There's nothing else I can do."

"You'll just give up?"

"I won't have any choice."

"Bloody hell."  She looked genuinely disappointed.  "I thought you
meant to go on and on until you dug out the truth."

"You've got me all wrong, Echo.  I'm a natural quitter."

"Oh yeh?"  Her gaze narrowed.  "I'm not so sure."

"Just you wait and see.  Meanwhile .. ."  I took a big swallow of vinho
verde.  "Why don't you tell me how you got a name like Echo?"

She shook her head.  "Can't do that, I'm afraid."

"Why not?"

"A girl has to have a few secrets."  She teased me with a grin.  "But
don't worry.  I haven't got any that are half as exotic as Rupe's."

"Now it's my turn not to be sure."

"Think about something else, then."  Her grin faded away.  "What am I
supposed to do if you draw a blank?"

"How d'you mean?"

"Well, should I move out of Hardrada Road?  Being lodger to an
international commodities crook could be bad for my health."

"I don't think you're in any danger, Echo."  (Could I honestly say
that?  Rupe had waded into some pretty murky waters waters that might
one day come lapping at our feet.)

"It'd be sensible to move on, though, wouldn't it?"

"Might be, I suppose."

"I reckon I will.  If you pack up and go home to Somerset.  Has to be
the safest option."  Her face crumpled into a frown.  "And then ..."

"What?"

"Well..  ."  She gazed soulfully into her wine.  "Rupe really will be
lost then, won't he?"

CHAPTER SIX

Echo had set off for the sorting office by the time I surfaced the
following morning.  Over a cobbled-together breakfast, I computed that
to be at the Hilton at ten I'd need to be on the bus by half nine.
According to Echo, the post was sure to have been delivered to Hardrada
Road by then, but her confidence on the point didn't seem to square up
to reality.  Regular squints out of the window revealed no approaching
postie as nine o'clock came and went.  Eventually, just as I was about
to make a move for the bus stop, along came Echo's tardy colleague, the
result being that I had to take Dad's letter with me and start sifting
through the contents on the top deck of the number 36 as it lumbered
towards Hyde Park Corner.

Dad had done a thorough job with the cuttings, as I might have expected
a clutch of articles reporting sudden farm-related deaths and
subsequent inquests along with a couple of feature pieces pondering the
meaning of so many fatalities crammed into the summer and autumn of
1963.

The exact number had itself been a cause of dispute.  Four or five,
according to whether you included Reginald Gorton, owner of a
peat-digging business near Shapwick, who'd died of a heart attack early
in September.  If you were looking for jinxes, I supposed you did.  The
sequence had started at the end of July, with Albert Crick falling off
a barn roof.  Then Peter Dalton, none other, had been found dead of
gunshot wounds at Wilderness Farm, near Ashcott.  The date: Monday 19
August.  Within a fortnight of the Great Train Robbery on Thursday 8
August, just as Bill Prettyman had said.

The Central Somerset Gazette wasn't to know of a connection if there
really was one with big-time crime in Buckinghamshire, of course.  They
said Dalton had inherited Wilderness Farm from his father the year
before and was thought by neighbouring farmers to be struggling to make
a go of it.  Shotgun suicide was lightly implied.  The inquest a month
later had gone along with that, despite what the coroner had called
'minor inconsistencies in the disposition of the deceased and the
weapon'.  What did that mean?  The Gazette wasn't in the business of
asking.

As to the discovery of Dalton's body, there was Howard's name in black
and white.  Howard Alder, 15, of Penfrith, Street, was cycling along a
footpath that passes through the yard of Wilderness Farm when he
noticed a figure lying in the doorway of the milking shed.  There was
nothing about just how grisly this discovery must have been.  Nor any
mention of Howard at the inquest.  Just as there'd never been a whisper
of the event in all the years I'd known Howard through Rupe.  Very
strange.

And it got stranger.  Once you bought into Gorton being part of a
sequence, that made three deaths within six weeks.  This point only
seemed to be seriously seized on after a fourth death, late in October.
Andrew Moore, son of the owner of Mereleaze Farm, near Othery, had been
knocked off his motorbike by a lorry and killed in an accident at the
A391 A361 junction on the afternoon of Monday 28 October.  It was the
day after the clocks had gone back for winter.  The early dusk was held
partly to blame.  But with Hallowe'en in the offing, some ghoulish
theories had started doing the rounds.  Dad had copied a few letters to
the editor for me.  There may be no basis to the wilder talk of a curse
on our farming community, but it is difficult to see so many deaths as
coincidental that sort of thing.

The fifth and evidently final death was of George Alder himself, on
Sunday 17 November.  Mr.  Alder went out early in the morning, reported
the Gazette later in the week.  When he did not return by
mid-afternoon, his family grew concerned.  His 15-year-old son, Howard,
cycled to Cow Bridge and began looking for him along the banks of the
Brue, where Mr.  Alder had taken to walking of late.  Howard eventually
found his father's body, tangled in reeds, a short distance west of the
bridge.  Mr.  Alder is believed to have drowned.

It was strange stuff to read.  The Gazette had failed to point out that
Howard now figured in two of the clutch of deaths.  Perhaps they'd
refrained out of sensitivity.  Others must have commented on it.  And
why had George taken to walking by the Brue of late?  No suggestions.
Not even a hint.  What about his wife's pregnancy?  There was enough
tragedy without dwelling on that, apparently.  It wasn't mentioned. The
inquest, just before Christmas, brought in a verdict of accidental
death.  The coroner emphasized that suggestions of a link with other
deaths in the area were 'as absurd as they are unfeeling'.  Bet that
put a stop to them.

Cow Bridge, on a November afternoon, Wearyall Hill and the Tor
darkening to the north while the poplars along Street Drove stood
sentinel to the south, made a spooky setting for a haunting discovery.
There'd have been much less traffic on the Glastonbury to Butleigh road
back then.  It could have been well nigh silent as Howard picked his
way along the bank, peering into the cold grey water until he saw.. .

I was born five days later, at Butleigh Cottage Hospital.  And Rupe was
born the following spring.  We began just as all that ended.  But what
was it that ended?  Forget a curse on the land.  Howard was the
connection the coroner reckoned it was absurd and unfeeling to try to
make.  Dalton and his own father.  Plus Townley.  Two dead bodies and a
photograph.  What did it mean?  What did it amount to then and now?  I
hadn't a clue.  Or rather I had several.  But they were all far too
cryptic for me.

Most cryptic of all was Howard himself.  He'd never seemed the
secretive type.  In fact, he'd never struck me as capable of concealing
anything.  Now I knew better.  He'd concealed plenty.  OK, that could
have been because it was all too traumatic to call to mind.  But then
nobody had ever mentioned that he'd been traumatized.  Rupe had always
told me Howard was weak-minded from birth.  But how would Rupe know?
For the first twenty years of Howard's life the only surviving
first-hand informants were Win and Mil.  They were well aware of how
and when his decline set in.  Finding his father's dead body floating
in the Brue must have speeded him down the slope.  But they'd never
breathed a word about that.  And how had the scene of that death
somehow drifted five miles south to the Sedgemoor Drain?

It was a question that bothered Dad as well as me, as he admitted in a
note attached to the cuttings.

I could swear we had that story about the Sedgemoor Drain from the
Alders themselves.  Why would they make something like that up, do you
suppose?  Howard certainly must have had a bad time of it that summer
and autumn.  But I checked with your mother and she is fairly certain
Mavis Alder never mentioned those experiences as a reason for Howard's
feeble-mindedness.  I do not recall it cropping up while he was at
Clarks either.  I suppose no one was likely to remember if no one
reminded them.  The jinx was a bit of a nine days' wonder.  I had
forgotten it almost completely.  Dalton's death reads oddly to me. Does
it to you?  "Inconsistencies in the disposition of the deceased and the
weapon'.  What was the coroner getting at?  Something other than
suicide?  The police officer mentioned in a couple of the reports
Inspector Forrester is actually Don Forrester, who worked for Clarks
for a few years after he retired from the force.  (Howard had left by
then.) I see Don quite often, pushing a trolley around Tesco.  He must
be eighty-odd now, but looks pretty spry.  Do you want me to ask him
about the deaths Dalton in particular?  It might lead nowhere, of
course.  Who can say?  Let me know.  I have nothing better to do.  And
it is interesting, I have to admit.

My mind was still turning all this over as I hurried through the subway
under Hyde Park Corner and up Park Lane to the Hilton.  I most
certainly did want Dad to put a few questions to Don Forrester.  Did he
think Dalton had actually been murdered, for instance?  If so, who by?
The name of Stephen Townley had never made it into the columns of the
Central Somerset Gazette.  But perhaps it should have done.  And
perhaps it still might.

It was a few minutes to ten as I entered the hotel and headed across
the marbled wastes of the lobby towards the reception desk.
Technically, I was early.  But not too early for Mr.  Hashimoto.  A
figure bobbed into my path short, slimly built and grey-suited.  I
found myself looking into a calm, sad-eyed Japanese face beneath a
school boyish mop of silver-shot black hair, gold-rimmed specs glinting
in the Hilton spotlights.  "Mr.  Bradley?"  he asked, with that slight
but distinctive oriental vagueness around the Rs.  "I am Kiyofumi
Hashimoto."

"Er .. . Pleased to meet you."  We shook hands.  There was a hint of a
bow on Hashimoto's part.  "How did you know who I was?"

"It was obvious, Mr.  Bradley.  Believe me."

"Right.  Is that good news or bad, I wonder?  Being obvious, I mean."

"It is a fact.  That is all."

"Facts?  Well, I could use a few of those."

"Me too."  (Was he being ironic?  I couldn't tell.  What's more, with
Kiyofumi Hashimoto, it was pretty obvious you'd never be able to
tell.)

"I'm a friend of Rupe Alder, Mr.  Hashimoto.  If you can help me find
him .. ."

That is what you are trying to do?"

"Yeh.  His family are worried about him.  He's, er .. ."

"Disappeared."  Hashimoto nodded.  "I am looking for him also.  Perhaps
we can help each other."

"Maybe we can."

"Shall we take a stroll in the park?  It will be ... pleas anter ... to
talk there."

The morning was too cool and damp by my reckoning for strolling, even
if strolling in parks had been a habit of mine, which it wasn't.
Hashimoto didn't exactly seem the outdoor type either, hoisting a vast
Hilton golfing brolly against the drizzle and stepping carefully
through the muddy drifts of leaves in his gleaming lounge-lizard
shoes.

"Are you in shipping, Mr.  Hashimoto?"  I asked, as we wandered vaguely
west towards the Serpentine.

"No.  Microprocessors.  My concern to find Rupe has nothing to do with
business."

"It hasn't?"

"Nothing at all.  The aluminium is ... someone else's problem."

"You know about the aluminium?"

"I have found out about it since coming to London.  But it is ...
ancillary ... to my difficulties."

"Ancillary?"

"Marginal.  Almost irrelevant.  You see..."  He glanced round at me,
squinting slightly through his glasses.  "You are a good friend of
Rupe, Mr.  Bradley?"

"Lifelong."

"Then we should not be so formal.  I shall call you Lance.  OK?"

"Fine by me."

"And you should call me Kiyofumi."

"Right.  Kiyofumi.  You, er, met Rupe in Tokyo?"

"Yes."

"How did that happen?"

"My niece became his girlfriend.  I met Rupe at my sister's home two or
three times last summer."

"Your niece ..."

"Haruko.  A good girl."

"I'm sure she is.  So, she and Rupe ..."

"A typhoon romance."  Hashimoto smiled.  "Her mother was very
pleased."

"Were you?"

"Certainly.  Rupe seemed .. ."  He shrugged.  "Kind.  Charming.  Easy
to like."  (That description fitted Rupe, all right.  Typhoon romancer
was a bit harder to get used to, though.  Still, if he was going to
fall for someone, I supposed it would be headlong.)

"What did Haruko's father think?"

"Her father is not with us, Lance."  (Did that mean dead?  I hadn't the
nerve to ask.) That is why I have to be ... more than an uncle to
her."

"How serious was this romance?"

"For Haruko, very serious.  She hoped to marry Rupe, I think.  That is
what her mother has told me."

"And for Rupe?"

Hashimoto sighed.  "I am sorry to say this, Lance.  You are his friend.
You must think well of him.  But the truth is ... he strung her along.
He did not want to marry her.  He wanted something else.  Once he had
it ... he was gone."

"What was it he wanted?"  (Somehow, I already knew it wasn't anything
obvious.)

"Something that belongs to Haruko's mother my sister, Mayumi."
Hashimoto stopped and looked at me.  "Rupe stole it."

"Stole?  I don't believe it.  Rupe's no I broke off.  No thief?  No con
artist?  No double dealer?  Whatever I'd previously have said you
couldn't accuse Rupe of, his own actions seemed to tell a different
story.

"Rupe used Haruko to get close to Mayumi.  He knew she had this thing
that he wanted.  Eventually, he persuaded Haruko to show him where it
was hidden.  Then he stole it.  And ran away.  Like, as you would say,
the thief in the night."

"What did he steal?"

"A letter.  Let us call it ... the Townley letter."

"Townley?  You know about him?"

"I know.  And yet I do not know.  Mayumi does not tell me more than she
thinks it is safe for me to know.  She is fifteen years older than me.
Always she has thought she is a better judge of what is good for me
than I am.  But her judgement is not as acute as she believes.  She
should not have kept the letter.  She should have destroyed it."

"What's in it?"

"I do not know."  (Was he lying?  It was a fifty-fifty guess.  His
expression gave nothing away.) That is one of the things Mayumi does
not think it is safe for me to know."

"But it's a letter from Townley?"

"No.  About Townley."

"To Mayumi?"

"Yes."

"From .. ."

"I do not know."

"Written when?"

"A long time ago.  Many years."

"Thirty-seven, maybe?"

"Maybe."

"Did Mayumi know Townley?"  (Hashimoto looked to be in his mid to late
forties, which put his sister in her early sixties.  The arithmetic,
such as it was, seemed to stack up.)

"Yes.  When she was very young."

"In Tokyo?"

"Yes."

"What was he doing there?"

"He was a soldier.  American.  Based in Japan."

"And Mayumi was his girlfriend?"

"Not .. . exactly."

"What then .. . exactly?"

"It does not matter."  (It did, of course.  But seeping through
Hashimoto's inscrutability was the implication that he was genuinely
unsure about quite a lot himself.  His sister was holding out on him.
But nothing like as much as Rupe had been holding out on all of us.)
"What matters is that the letter is dangerous to Townley.  It harms
him.  It can be used against him.  That is why Rupe wanted it.  So, can
you tell me why Rupe is interested in harming Townley?"

"Not really.  Something to do with his brother, I think."

"Revenge?"

"Sort of."  (But what sort of?  Even if Townley had murdered Dalton and
made off with some of the Train money, why did that matter to Rupe? Why
did he care?)

"The letter is not just dangerous to Townley, Lance.  It is dangerous
to Mayumi.  I have to get it back.  This is more than honour.  This is
life and death."

"It can't be as bad as that."

"It can.  Rupe has strayed into a very dark place."

"Come off it."  (But the dark was what I was whistling in now.)

"We have to find him."

That could be a problem .. . Kiyofumi.  I haven't the foggiest where he
is.  The consensus seems to be..."  I shrugged.  "Find Townley and you
find Rupe."

"I do not know where Townley is."

"What about your sister?  Does she know?"

"No.  She has not seen him has not heard from him for more than forty
years."

"I thought we settled on thirty-seven."

"You settled on thirty-seven."

"OK.  We can agree on a bloody long time?"

"Yes."

"During which Mayumi has had absolutely no contact with Townley?"

"Correct."

"Then can you explain to me how Rupe knew they'd ever been
acquainted?"

"Ill fortune."

I waited for him to continue, but he didn't, merely gazing solemnly at
me through the shadow cast by the brolly.  "That's supposed to be an
explanation, is it?  Because I '

"Excuse me, gentlemen."

I don't know if Hashimoto was as surprised as me by the interruption.
He certainly couldn't have been more surprised.  A figure had
materialized next to us, his approach screened perhaps by the brolly.
He was a tall, faintly stooping bloke in a dark, neatly tailored
raincoat.  He had short grey hair and a narrow, lugubrious face.  His
voice was soft and precise, matching his gaze, which moved slowly but
studiously from me to Hashimoto and back again.

"My name is Jarvis.  You don't know me.  But I know you.  Mr.
Hashimoto.  Mr.  Bradley."  He nodded politely at us.  "I also know
Rupert Alder.  He is, let's say, an interest we have in common."

"Did you follow us here?"  Hashimoto's question had a tetchy edge to it
and I can't say I blamed him.

"Not just here.  Speaking corporately, that is."

' What?"  The guy's oblique style of speech was needling me as well.

"Forgive me.  Surprise was inevitable.  Antagonism is unnecessary.  My
card."

He plucked two business cards out of his pocket and handed us one each.
Philip Jarvis evidently represented a company called Myerscough Udal,
boasting an address in High Holborn and a clutch of telephone, fax and
e-mail numbers.  The nature of their business went unspecified.

"We handle confidential enquiries," Jarvis continued, anticipating the
question.  "We're one of the largest operations in the field worldwide.
Pre-eminence in such a field is by its nature un trumpeted of course.
We rely very much on personal recommendation."

"And you have been enquiring into us?"  asked Hashimoto.

"Not exactly."

"Then what .. . exactlyT (The guy was definitely getting to me.)

"Mr.  Rupert Alder is a client of ours.  We, like you, are concerned
about him."

"Owe you money, does he?"

"As a matter of fact, yes.  But I think he would pay us if he could.
Even our fees would not gobble up the proceeds of his aluminium fraud."
(Everyone, apparently, knew all about that.)

"What did he hire you to do?"

"Can't you guess?"

"Find Townley," said Hashimoto.

"Precisely."

"And did you?"  I pressed.

"No."  Jarvis allowed himself half a smile.  "You could say he found
us, though.  That indeed is why I'm here."

"Meaning?"

"Let's step down to the Serpentine.  Rippling water calms the mind, I
find.  I'll explain as we go."

We started along the straightest path to the lake.  And Jarvis, as he'd
promised, started to explain.  His soft voice forced us to stick close
to him if we were to catch every word, as I for one was determined to
do.  I wondered if it was a deliberate anti-eavesdropping technique on
his part.  And then I wondered if thinking that was a symptom of
paranoia on my part.

"Strictly speaking, gentlemen, I ought not to be telling you any of
this.  Myerscough Udal's reputation has not been built on sharing its
secrets with third parties.  But these are exceptional circumstances.
Wholly exceptional in my experience, which is far from inconsiderable.
I shall elaborate on that a little later.  To begin at the beginning,
Mr.  Alder engaged our services through our Tokyo office four months
ago to locate one Stephen Townley, using such limited information as
Mr.  Alder was able to give us."

"How limited was that?"  I asked.

"Very, for our purposes.  Mr.  Alder knew only that Townley was an
American, probably in his sixties, who'd served in the US Army and been
based at one point in Japan.  He also supplied us with the names of two
former acquaintances of Townley, one of them deceased."

"Peter Dalton."

"You have him.  The other was '

"My sister," put in Hashimoto.

"Quite so.  I do not know how much Mr.  Hashimoto has told you about
his sister, Mr.  Bradley, so forgive me if I bore you with information
already in your possession.  In seeking to trace Townley, we went back
to his roots and worked forward: standard procedure in our line of
work.  US Army records and other obvious databases yielded certain
simple facts.  Stephen Anderson Townley was born in Tulsa, Oklahoma, on
May seventeenth, nineteen thirty-two.  An only child of a single
mother.  She is long since dead, by the way.  He enrolled in the Army
straight from high school in the summer of nineteen forty-nine, aged
seventeen, and served thirteen years in all,

leaving with the rank of sergeant.  He saw a good deal of action in
Korea at the start of his military career.  After that he was shuttled
around like thousands of other soldiers.  Particularly significant for
our purposes, however, was the year and a bit he spent in West Berlin
in the mid Fifties."

"Why's that?"  I asked, as Jarvis paused, either for breath or
effect.

"Because Peter Dalton, a farmer's son from Somerset, was serving with
the British Army in West Berlin at the same time.  We must assume the
two men became acquainted during that period.  Also because Townley
married a German girl while based there.  Rosa Kleinfurst.  Rosa went
back to the United States with him when he was transferred home early
in nineteen fifty-five.  Later that year, their first child, Eric, was
born.  A daughter followed eighteen months later.  By then, the
marriage seems to have been on the rocks.  The couple separated, Rosa
keeping the children.  Townley transferred to Military Intelligence,
which means there's very limited information on his activities from
that point on.  We believe he was based in Japan for the next two or
three years, during which period he patronized a bar in Tokyo called
the Golden Rickshaw, the proprietress of which was '

"My mother," said Hashimoto.

"Indeed."  Jarvis nodded.  "Who knows, Mr.  Hashimoto?  You may have
glimpsed Townley sipping his beer at the counter on your way home from
school some days."

"It is possible."  The admission sounded painful.

"Your sister entertained the customers?"

"She was young and pretty.  People liked her."

"Quite so.  Innocently so, one might say.  And her daughter has
followed in her footsteps?"

"Yes."

"I understand the Golden Rickshaw's walls are decorated with
photographs of former patrons, taken over the years."

"It is."

"I further understand Stephen Townley appears in one of those
photographs."

"He does."

on

"Which is how Mr.  Alder knew your sister had been acquainted with him,
possessed as he was of another photograph of Townley, taken a few years
later."

"Yes."

(So, an earlier question of mine was answered.  Rupe had known Townley
was an old customer of the Golden Rickshaw and hence likely to be known
to Mayumi Hashimoto.  There were plenty more questions where that one
came from, though.  Had Rupe gone to that particular bar by chance?  Or
had he already suspected a connection with Townley?  And did Jarvis
know what Rupe had stolen from Mayumi?  Did he, in fact, know about the
theft at all?)

"We believe Townley left Japan in the spring of nineteen sixty," Jarvis
continued.  "Frankly, we haven't a clue what duties he was assigned to
for the remainder of his service.  He left the Army two years later.
All official trace of him ceases at that point."  (We'd reached the
Serpentine by now and begun a slow tramp towards the boathouse.  The
wind was raising quite a few ripples on the lake, but I was immune to
their supposedly calming effect.) "Mr.  Alder presented us with a
photograph of Townley, apparently taken by his brother at a railway
station near Glastonbury in August nineteen sixty-three.  The date was
of Mr.  Alder's own computing.  He said Townley had been a friend of
Peter Dalton and our investigations have certainly shown that to be
possible.  Dalton committed suicide on August nineteenth, nineteen
sixty-three.  Mr.  Alder suspected that Dalton was actually murdered by
Townley to cover up his part in the, er .. ."

"Great Train Robbery," I put in.

"Quite so."  Jarvis stifled a wince.  "Since Mr.  Alder declined to
share with us his reasons for harbouring such an apparently outlandish
suspicion, it was difficult to know whether to take it seriously or
not.  He specifically forbade us to approach his brother, for
instance."

"I doubt you'd have got much out of Howard."

"Perhaps so, perhaps not.  Either way, all that can really be said is
that it remains an open question.  I know Mr.  Alder had some contact
with a Sixties villain called Prettyman, but I have

Q1

to tell you Prettyman is a highly unreliable character in his own
right.  It is unclear whether he was actually a participant in the
robbery or not.  What those who definitely were participants seem to
agree on is that the original impetus for the crime came from an
anonymous source who fed them vital information."

"Might that have been Townley?"

"Frankly, Mr.  Bradley, your guess is as good as mine.  The allegation
takes us nowhere in the absence of a single hard fact about Townley's
life after he left the Army.  The 'sixty-three material is fragmentary
and uncorroborated.  It is also the end as far as Townley goes.  When I
say that we know nothing from then on, I mean literally that: nothing.
Townley is a dead man without a death certificate.  A blank.  A void.
If he's still alive, it's in another man's skin.  And we have
absolutely no idea who that man might be."

"What about his wife?  His children?"

"Naturally, we pursued that avenue of enquiry, but it yielded nothing.
Although the Townleys have never divorced, that appears to be because
Mrs.  Townley has had no way of contacting her husband since he left
the Army.  He ceased to pay maintenance to her at that point.  She has
consistently told friends and acquaintances that she believes him to be
dead.  Their children take the same line.  They may be right.  They may
be wrong."

"Or they may be lying."

"That too, of course."  Jarvis smiled faintly.  There are .. .
discrepancies ... in the banking records of all three."

"What sort of discrepancies?"

"The sort that imply financial assistance from an unidentified
source."

"Townley," said Hashimoto.

"It's possible.  Mr.  Alder took the view, indeed, that it was
distinctly probable."

"What did he do about it?"  I asked, as Jarvis came to a halt and
propped himself against the back of a lakeside bench.

"I'm not sure.  That's where this whole matter becomes so confoundedly
delicate."

"You're going to have to tell us what that means."

"Have to?  I think not.  But I will tell you, none the less.  I met Mr.
Alder on thirtieth August to review progress on the case."  (Over
breakfast, I'd studied Echo's kitchen-wall calendar and worked out that
Rupe had visited Tilbury Docks on 29 August.  So, it was the very next
day that he'd pow wowed with Jarvis.) "Considering the little I had to
report, he was surprisingly cheerful.  He took it as certain that Mrs.
Townley and/or her children knew where Townley was and he gave me to
understand that he had procured from your sister, Mr.  Hashimoto, the
means to force them to disclose Townley's whereabouts to him."

"He did not procure," said Hashimoto.  "He stole."

"Really?  I confess I am not greatly surprised.  A letter, he said it
was, the nature and contents of which he did not care to reveal."

"That is right," said Hashimoto.  "I do not know what is in it
myself."

There was the slightest sceptical twitch of Jarvis's right eyebrow,
then he went serenely on.  "Mr.  Alder left me in no doubt that he
intended to use the letter to flush Townley out of his hiding-place.  I
have neither seen nor heard from Mr.  Alder since."

Nobody said anything for a longish moment, so I asked the obvious
question.  "What do you think happened?"

"I think he succeeded, either directly or indirectly, in contacting
Townley.  In fact, I'm sure of it."

"How can you be?"

"Because, within a matter of weeks of that meeting, our offices were
broken into and correspondence and computer disks relating to the
Townley inquiry stolen.  We invest a great deal of time and money in
security, gentlemen.  The break-in was highly professional.  It had to
be.  It was also precisely targeted.  More or less simultaneously, an
anonymous message was passed to us at the very highest level, via a
legal practice that often acts for us."

"What was the message?"

"Drop the case."

"Simple as that?"

"Not quite.  Certain .. . penalties .. . were mentioned in the event of
non-compliance.  Financial penalties, I mean.  It was all very .. .
kid-gloved.  But it was clear that the sender of the message wielded
sufficient influence to ruin us if he needed to."

"Ruin the company?"

"Quite so."

"How could he do that?"

"Myerscough Udal is big and successful.  But there's always someone
bigger and more successful.  I believe our directors were firmly
persuaded that our most valuable clients would be taken from us if we
persisted.  We did not persist."

"You caved in?"

"We had no choice."

"And you think..  . Townley did this?"

"Who else?"

"But he's just one man, for God's sake."

"Of whom we know nothing.  A state of affairs he's clearly determined
to maintain."

"If you ... caved in," said Hashimoto slowly, 'why are you here,
talking to us?"

"An astute question, Mr.  Hashimoto.  Why indeed?"  Jarvis looked
warily to right and left and lowered his voice still further.
"Officially, this meeting is not taking place.  If you visit or
telephone me at our offices, I will decline to speak to you and deny
that we have ever met.  Myerscough Udal does not like to be pushed,
apparent though it is that we can be pushed.  We are seriously unhappy
about it, gentlemen, yet unable to strike back in any way.  We are
fearful for the welfare of a client, yet in no position to aid him.  We
are hamstrung."  He smiled.  "But you are not."

"What are you getting at?"  I asked.

"I tell you things, Mr.  Bradley.  I give you information.  What you do
with it is up to you.  And what I hope you do with it is probably
irrelevant.  Save to say that I sincerely hope you will ... do
something."

"Such as?"

"That really must be up to you.  What I can say is this.  The

QA

Townleys had two children Eric, born nineteen fifty-five; Barbara, born
nineteen fifty-seven.  Barbara lives in Houston, Texas.  She's married
to an oil executive, Gordon Ledgister.  They have one child a son,
Clyde, born nineteen eighty, currently a student at Stanford
University.  Eric meanwhile lives with his mother in Berlin.  She went
back there after the Wall came down.  Eric now styles himself Erich.
He's gay, by the way.  Rosa Townley is sixty-five.  She and Erich share
an apartment on Yorckstrasse.  Number eighty-five.  You may be
interested to know that airline records show a Mr.  R. Alder flew from
Heathrow to Berlin on third September.  There's no record of a return
flight.  And now' he pushed himself suddenly upright "I must be going.
Good morning to you both."

With that he was off, spring-heeled and striding, back the way we'd
come.  I wanted to shout after him.  But shout what?  He'd said
everything he had to say.  And it was as clear as daylight that he'd
say no more.  Myerscough Udal had dropped the case.  And Jarvis had
washed his hands of us.  He hurried on.  But Hashimoto and I stayed
exactly where we were.

It was eleven o'clock by the time we got back to the Hilton -good news
for someone as badly in need of a drink as I felt.  Hashimoto hadn't
said much since Jarvis had dumped us.  I reckoned I could see a lot of
not very productive thinking going on behind his placid face, though,
so I prescribed a drink in his case too and piloted him round the
corner to a cosy little boozer in Shepherd Market.

Halfway through my second Carlsberg Special and his first Glenfiddich,
Hashimoto seemed to come to some kind of decision.  He solemnly lit a
Marlboro cigarette, stared into the first plume of its smoke and
announced, "We must go to Berlin."

"Don't I get a vote on that, Kiyo?"

He looked at me oddly.  Maybe my Carlsberg-inspired invention of an
abbreviated name for him hadn't gone down well.  But, if so, he didn't
dwell on it.  "I must find the Townley letter.  And you must find your
friend."

"I'm not sure about that.  You said yourself he'd strayed into a dark
place.  Could be a dangerous one too, if Townley's as powerful as
Jarvis seems to think."

"It is true.  Mr.  Jarvis invites us to put our heads into the tiger's
mouth.  To see if the tiger will bite."

"I'm sure my mother told me once never to put my head in a tiger's
mouth."

Hashimoto nodded solemnly.  "A mother would."

"Besides, I have to go home next week.  A trip to Berlin's not on."

"Why must you go home?"

"Oh, this and that."  (A fortnightly date with the dole office was the
beginning and end of my commitments, but I wasn't about to admit it.)

"We may not need to be gone for long.  And I will pay all your
expenses."

"Would that include a funeral?"

"Calm yourself, Lance.  Subtlety is everything in such matters.  What
do you lose by accompanying me to Berlin?"

"Depends what happens when we get there."

"Nothing will happen without your consent.  You have my word on that.
We will judge and agree each step before we take it."

"What if I don't agree any steps?"

"We will take none."

"I still can't go."

"Why not?"

"I've left my passport at home."

"How far is your home?"

"A hundred and fifty miles or so."

"Then we will go and get it.  I have the use of a car.  It is in the
Hilton garage."

"When did you plan to set off?"

"For your passport?  Now.  For Berlin?"  He gave the question a
moment's thought, then shrugged.  Tomorrow."

"So soon?"

There has been enough delay.  Why add to it?"

"Well..  ."

I never did come up with much of an answer.  Which is why, apprehension
dulled by several more Carlsberg Specials, I found myself being
high-speed chauffeured along the M4 and down the M5 in a courtesy BMW
through the midday murk.  I didn't doubt Hashimoto's declared
motivation: he reckoned he could best protect his sister and niece by
retrieving what Rupe had stolen from them.  Nor did Hashimoto seem to
question my desire to help a friend in distress.  There was even some
implication that he thought me honour-bound to undo the damage my
friend had done.  That didn't slice any slush with me, of course.  Yet
I was, apparently, going to Berlin.  The truth was that I was excited
by the mystery Rupe had unwittingly dragged me into.  And excitement
was something my life had been distinctly short of for a long long
time.  I'd been well and truly suckered by the thrill of the chase.

We made it to Glastonbury in a shade over two hours.  Hashimoto wasn't
a dawdler behind the wheel.  I thought of suggesting a diversion to my
parents' so that I could ask Dad to tap Don Forrester for information.
But I decided to phone Dad later instead, thereby dodging having to
explain to him what I was up to.  I even thought of proposing a visit
to Penfrith.  But I nixed that as well.  Too much to tell; too much to
ask.  With luck, Rosa and Erich Townley would answer all our questions.
There might still be an innocent explanation for everything.

(Who did I think I was kidding?)

We stopped at Heathrow on the way back and Hashimoto booked us aboard a
Sunday lunchtime flight to Berlin.  (Club class, no less.) Then he
drove me to Kennington.  It was agreed he'd pick me up at ten o'clock
the following morning.  We were all set.

We were also mad, according to Echo.  "You have absolutely no idea what
you're getting into."  (A fair point.) "I thought you said you were a
natural quitter."

"I am."

Then why aren't you quitting?"

"Because that's the thing with quitting, Echo: you have to choose your
moment."

"And this isn't it?"

I had to think about that for several moments.  In the end, all I could
say was, "Apparently not."

QO

BERLIN

CHAPTER SEVEN

Following Rupe to Berlin had its ironical side, since I'd followed him
there once before, when we were inter-railing round Europe in the long,
hot, sweaty summer of 1984.  Berlin had definitely been Rupe's idea.
He'd always had more of a sense of history than me.  I'd not shared his
curiosity about life behind the Iron Curtain and the dismal train
journey across East Germany to reach West Berlin had only strengthened
my view that we'd have been better off going almost anywhere else. We'd
made the standard tourist foray into East Berlin, but I hadn't exactly
been in a receptive frame of mind.  Tacky commercialism on one side of
the Wall and drab uniformity on the other were about the only memories
I'd taken away.

Arriving by plane in a smartened-up, unified capital city with too many
complimentary drinks inside me was a vastly different experience, of
course.  So different that I had some doubts about whether it really
was the same place.  The taxi from Tegel Airport to our hotel sped
through an autumn ally golden Tiergarten with no Wall looming ahead,
crossed the vanished border and whooshed beneath the Brandenburg Gate
into Unter den Linden.  Hashimoto had booked us into the Adlon, which
he'd been told was the best hotel in Berlin.  It looked to me as we
were ushered across the vast and sparkling lobby that he'd been well
informed.  What with club-class travel and grande luxe accommodation, I
was beginning to think that escort to Kiyofumi Hashimoto was a job I
could be persuaded to take on a long-term contract.

High altitude imbibing had left me needing a serious kip.  I suggested
we meet up in the bar at seven o'clock and Hashimoto seemed happy with
that.  So, leaving the unpacking (all five minutes of it) till later, I
stretched out on the enormous double bed in my lavishly appointed room
and let the distant murmur of traffic on Unter den Linden lull me to
sleep.

It was dark outside when I woke, woozily identifying the persistent
warbling in my ear as the telephone ringing on the bedside table.  I
couldn't read the time on my watch, but reckoned the caller had to be
Hashimoto.

It was.  "Lance.  You must come quickly."

"Start without me, Kiyo.  I'll be down in a minute."

"I am not in the hotel.  I am in a call-box on Mehringdamm."

"Oh yeh?"

"Near the Townleys' apartment."

"For Christ's sake.  Couldn't that have waited?"

"You must come here now.  I have an idea."

"What sort of idea?"  (Crazy was my bet.)

"I have no coins left.  I will wait for you outside Mehringdamm U-Bahn
station.  Get here as soon as you can."

"Yeh, but The line went dead.  I allowed myself a heartfelt sigh.
"Great."  (It was, of course, anything but.)

As soon as I made it into a vertical position, a dehydration headache
announced itself with several mule-kicks inside my skull.  And this
mule was a powerful critter, unappeased by a pint of Berlin tap water.
I left the hotel in something short of tiptop condition.

The taxi drive was a short and fast run south along broad and empty
streets.  At some point we passed the site of Checkpoint Charlie and
returned to what had been West Berlin.  Peering at the map I'd cadged
from the hotel receptionist, I could see the Mehringdamm U-Bahn station
was just round the corner from Yorckstrasse.  I found myself wondering
if Rosa Townley's family had always lived in the area.  Checkpoint
Charlie, after all, had been the gateway to the American sector.

Not that I had much time to do a lot of wondering.  We were soon at the
station.  Hashimoto emerged from the shadows round the entrance to
greet me as I stumbled out of the taxi.  "Are you OK, Lance?"  he
asked, squinting at me through the lamplight.

"How do I look?"

"Not particularly good."

"You amaze me."

"There is a cafe at the next corner.  We will talk there."

"We could have talked in the bar at the Adlon."

"But there is more to do than talk.  Come."

He steered me across the road and down to the next junction.  The
turning to the right was Yorckstrasse.  Hashimoto caught my glance at
the sign, but didn't explain until we were huddled round a table in the
cafe, with tea and beer ordered.  (The tea wasn't for me.)

"I decided to see where the Townleys live.  It is a little way along
Yorckstrasse."  He nodded in the general direction.  "An apartment
block.  Expensive, I would say.  The main door opened when I turned the
handle, so I '

"You went in?  You mad impulsive devil, you."

"The Townleys are in flat four.  I thought I would ..."  He shrugged.
"I don't know."

"It might have made more sense for us to plan this together, Kiyo."
(Why I was so calm about it I wasn't sure.  Still half-drunk, I
supposed.)

"You are right, Lance.  I am sorry.  I did not think I could do any
harm."

"And did you?"

"No.  No harm.  Perhaps good.  As I was climbing the stairs towards
flat four, the door opened and a man came out."

"Erich Townley?"

"I think it must be.  Right age.  Right .. . appearance."

"What is the right appearance?"

"You will see for yourself."

"How's that?"

"We passed on the stairs, but I doubled back and followed him out into
the street.  Do not worry.  He did not see me."

"I hope you're right."

"I am.  Trust me, Lance."

"I'm not sure you're making it easy."

"Listen."  Hashimoto lowered his voice and leaned across the table
towards me.  "I followed Townley to a bar a little way down
Mehringdamm.  I think he is still there now.  It is a chance to speak
to him.  To ask him questions when he thinks all you are doing is '

'"You"?"

"It will go better if you approach him, Lance.  I am too ...
conspicuous."

"A second ago you were telling me how he hadn't noticed you."

"But we need him to notice.  You.  Not me.  It will be easier for
you."

"Easier for me to do what?"

"Just talk to him."

Hashimoto gave me what I think he meant to be an encouraging smile, but
it came out as more of an anxious grimace.  Though as far as anxiety
went I reckoned I might soon be ahead of him.  "Your "plan" is for me
to try to chat him up, is it?"

"Chat him up?"

"You know what I mean."

"Ah yes.  I see.  Well..  ."  Hashimoto spread his arms.  "The thing
is, Lance .. ."

"Yeh?"

"I think you might be his type."

The bar was as close as Hashimoto had promised.  Big blank windows
somehow failed to reveal as much as a first glance suggested they
might.  The interior looked dark, half empty and faintly mournful.  (It
was reassuring, in a way, to realize that Sunday evenings in Germany
weren't much jollier than in England.) Hashimoto took himself off to
hover at a bus stop on the other side of the street.  Leaving me, after
some hesitation, to go in.

A bloke matching Hashimoto's description of the man on the stairs was
sitting on a bar stool drinking some colourless spirit or other and
smoking a fat French cigarette.  He was wearing jeans and a white shirt
under a three-quarter-length black coat that the sticky warmth of the
place hadn't persuaded him to take off.  He was tall and thin, knees
jutting, back and head bent like an angle poise lamp.  (The bar was
clearly built for stockier customers.) His face was lined and drawn,
his hair too grey and long for someone so thin on top.  I didn't yet
know if I was his type, but I was already absolutely certain that he
wasn't mine.

The rest of the clientele was scattered around the shadow-cowled
tables.  Several of them looked pretty stoned.  Best way to appreciate
the Gothic decor, I supposed, not to mention the New Age funeral-march
music seeping out of the cobwebbed loudspeakers.  Maybe it got livelier
later.  And maybe I didn't want to be there when it did.

I plonked myself on the stool next to Townley (he was the only customer
sitting at the bar), ordered a Budweiser and ran a few possible chat-up
lines past myself.  I didn't reckon I was going to be able to force any
of them out until I was too drunk to remember Townley's response if I
was lucky enough to get one.  The situation had all the makings of a
grade-one fiasco.  (And whose fault was that?) Then a strange thing
happened.  Townley spoke to me.

"You American?"  (He obviously was, albeit with a clipped vein of
Mitteleuropa in the gravelly drawl.)

"No," I tried to reply, but my throat wouldn't co-operate until I'd
repeated the word twice.  "No, no."

"Can't imagine why anybody who wasn't American would order a Bud.  Real
horse piss."

"I didn't know there was anything real about it."

He laughed at that.  "You're English, right?"

"Yen."  The Budweiser arrived, glassless and gleaming.  I took a swig.
"And you're American."

"I'd have to own to that, yuh.  Half American, anyways."

"And the other half?"

"Local."

"You live here?"

"Yuh.  But you're just visiting, right?  Vacation?"

"Business."

"What kind?"

That was a tricky one.  "Does it matter?"  (I had to hope it didn't.)
"This is still the weekend."

"Not that you'd know it, huh?"  He glanced around.  "Deader than the
Third Reich."

"How long have you lived in Berlin?"

"Quite a while."

"My name's Lance, by the way."

"Pleased to meet you, Lance.  I'm Erich."  He shrugged.  "Born Eric.
Straddling two nations makes you kinda schizo."

"I suppose it must."

"Smoke?"  He offered me one of his cigarettes.

"No thanks.  I, er .. ."

"Believe the Surgeon-General's warning."

"Yeh, but..."  I caught his gaze and tried to hold it.  "Do I look like
I lead a clean and pure life?"

"Not exactly.  No one could in here, though."

"I've got nothing against vice, Erich."  I unveiled a less than
heartfelt smile.  "Nothing at all."

"You've come to the right city, then.  Berlin's got it all, if you
don't mind delving into dark corners."

"Depends what I'm likely to find there."

"Whatever you're looking for."

"Sometimes I'm not sure."

"Maybe you need a helping hand."

"Maybe I do."  (This was all going too fast for my liking.  What had
Hashimoto got me into?) "There are lots of things a guidebook doesn't
tell you."

"Doesn't dare to tell you."

"Worried about scaring people off, I suppose."

Tough on those who like to be scared."  He paused for effect.  And the
effect was quite something.  "Just a little."

"Yeh."

"So, is this a walk on the wild side for you, Lance?  A nibble at
forbidden fruit away from the wife and kids?"

"I don't have any family."

"That's smart of you.  Neither do I. Apart from my mother.  Everyone
has to have one of those."

"Plus a father."

"Technically, I guess."

"Is your mother German?"

"Yuh.  She lives here in Berlin."

"And Dad?"

"He doesn't live in Berlin."  Townley was still smiling, but there was
a hardening edge to that smile.  I was edging close to dangerous
territory.

"But this is where they met?"

"Where people meet isn't important.  It's what they do after they meet
that matters."

True enough."  (Too true, as far as I was concerned.)

"What shall we do?  Now we've met."

"What do you recommend?"

"I'd have to know your tastes."

"They tend to the exotic."

"Right."  Townley took a long, thoughtful draw on his cigarette, then
said, "There's a place I know.  Several places.  I reckon you might
enjoy them.  Interested?"

"Sure."  (Horrified was nearer the mark.)

"Let's go, then."

"OK."

"We'll call in on my mother on the way.  She lives just round the
corner."  (They both did, of course, but I wasn't supposed to know
that.  Maybe Townley didn't think admitting to living with his mother
was likely to impress me.  But we were going to see her, apparently. It
was a puzzle how he meant to deal with that, a puzzle I couldn't help
being drawn by.) "She's expecting me."  (But not me.  No, she
definitely wasn't expecting me.) "Don't worry.  We won't stay long."

We turned left as we exited the bar and headed south away from
Yorckstrasse.  Not that I could share my concern on the

point with Townley.  Nor could I risk looking back to see if Hashimoto
was following us.  I felt stone-cold sober and more than a little
perturbed.  Which meant, given how far from sober I really was, that I
was actually very frightened indeed.

"I had it with the States a long time ago," said Townley.  "Sooner or
later, you have to decide where your soul belongs."

"And yours belongs here?"

"Absolutely.  What about you?"

"Still trying to decide, I suppose."

"Well, you're younger than me, aren't you?  How much younger, I
wonder?"

"Er, that would depend on how old you are, Erich."

"So it would."  Townley chuckled.  "That's what I love about strangers.
There's a whole .. . back-story .. . waiting to be told."

We turned right at the next junction, which was a relief.  Maybe, I
thought, this was the quickest route to the part of Yorckstrasse the
Townleys lived in.  Then again, maybe not, because Townley immediately
crossed to the other side of the street and started along a path that
led straight into the ill-lit heart of a public park.

"We'll cut through here," my companion said, as if it explained
everything.  I had an impression of a wooded slope ahead of us.  Dim,
widely spaced lamps shone thinly on ponds and rock eries  The way was
dark and winding.  Soon, we'd begun to climb.  I dragged my feet, to
little effect.  What I wanted to do was the one thing I couldn't afford
to do: turn back.  "Keep up, Lance.  It'd be easy to get lost in
here."

"Are you sure we aren't already?"

"Oh yuh.  I know my way."

"Glad to hear it."

"What line of work did you say you were in?"

"I .. . didn't, did I?"

"Maybe you didn't at that.  So, let me guess.  Could it be...
shipping?"

"Shipping?  No.  What '

I'm not sure what I saw or sensed first.  A blur of night-shrouded
movement.  A scuff of shoe on asphalt.  Something,

ms anyway, brought almost instantly into focus by a sharp pain as my
right arm was jerked up behind me.  I was pulled backwards, struggling
to stay on my feet.  A hand closed around my throat tight and choking.
Try as I might to prise it away, I couldn't.  Townley was strong far
stronger than me.  I felt the heat of his breath close to my ear and
the steely hardness of his grasp.  I tried to wrench myself free, but
he held me fast, with a sort of practised ease that told me no amount
of struggling would shake him off.

I tried to cry out for help.  But all I managed was a hoarse splutter.
We stopped moving.

"You are one dumb shit, Lance.  You know that?  You sidle up to me, all
dewy-eyed and simpering, thinking I'm about to fall for your
hollow-chested English charm.  Do me a favour.  Do yourself one. You're
looking for your friend Rupe, right?"

His grip relaxed just enough to let me speak.  "All right ... Yes, I
am."

"Well, you're all out of luck.  Because Rupe isn't here.  And you're
never going to find him."  There was a noise behind me, thin and
metallic a blade being flicked from a handle.  "Your search is over,
lover boy."  He released my right arm and in the same instant grasped
my left shoulder and yanked me round to face him.

All I had time to do was crouch forward to protect myself.  It was
nothing more than an instinct.  I expected Townley to come at me with
the knife.  Into my mind flashed the acute but unhelpful awareness that
I was about to be stabbed.  But I never was.

Something struck Townley under his right arm something powerful, moving
horizontally.  He grunted and fell sideways, hitting the ground hard.
As he did so, I straightened up and saw Hashimoto slowly lowering his
left leg.  He'd dealt Townley some sort of judo kick the sort that felt
like a battering ram, to judge by the effect on its victim.  Townley
rolled onto his side, shaking his head as he propped himself up on one
elbow.

"Stay where you are," Hashimoto shouted.  (I couldn't work

out for the moment which of us he meant, so I played safe by standing
stock-still.) "Are you all right, my friend?"

"Yes.  I..  ."

"Who the fuck are you?"  rasped Townley.

"Someone capable of breaking your arm or dislocating your shoulder or
both should you force me to do so."  (Hashimoto sounded hellish
convincing to me, as I reckoned he probably did to Townley.) "You have
an opportunity to walk away.  I suggest you take it."

Warily and unsteadily, Townley scrambled to his feet, breathing hard.
"Interfering bastard," he muttered.

"Go on along the path.  Leave the park on the far side.  We will leave
the way you came in.  Do not attempt to follow us."

"You're a Jap," said Townley.  "A fucking Jap."

"And you are a violent and foul-mouthed man.  It would be no hardship
to knock a few of your teeth out.  Why do you seem intent on giving me
the excuse to do so?"

Townley looked at me, then at Hashimoto, then back to me.  "Do you know
each other?"

"Go now," said Hashimoto, quietly but firmly.

Townley hesitated, taking the measure of himself and his opponent.
There was bluff on both sides.  But who was the bigger bluffer?  I
wouldn't have wanted to bet on it.  And nor, apparently, would Townley.
"Fuckers," he said, almost as a protest.  Then he pocketed the knife,
turned on his heel and strode away, with a parting toss of his head.

It wasn't until we were back in the cafe at the corner of Mehringdamm
and Yorckstrasse that I stopped shaking like a fever case and became
capable thanks to two large brandies of something approximating to
coherent speech.

"He was going to kill me, Kiyo.  Do you realize that?"

"It certainly seemed probable."

"How can you be so bloody calm about it?"

"It is my nature."

Thank Christ you turn out to be some kind of black-belt judoist."

"In truth, I never progressed beyond the pupil classes.  I was a great
disappointment to my instructor.  But I remember how to kick.  For the
rest, it is as well that Townley did not put my technique to the
test."

"Now he tells me."

"Would you have preferred me to mention it in Townley's presence?"

I released a long, sincerely felt sigh.  "I'd have preferred not to be
in his presence at all."

"But, Lance, think how much we have gained."

I did think for a moment.  "I can't see that we've gained a single
bloody thing.  We've learned nothing.  And now he's on to us.  Plus my
shoulder may never work properly again."  I flexed the joint
painfully.

"You are forgetting this."  Hashimoto slipped something from his pocket
and jiggled it in his palm.  It was a silver cigarette lighter.  "See
the engraving?"  He held it up to the light and I made out three
intertwined and curlicued initials on the back: EST.  "Eric Stephen
Townley, I believe."

"Where did you get that?"

"It must have fallen out of his coat while he was on the ground.  He
did not notice it.  But I did."

"I don't remember you picking anything up."

"You were not at your most observant, Lance.  Understandably.
Fortunately..."

"Your night vision's on a par with your kick-boxing."

"It is Townley's lighter.  That is what matters.  It is evidence
against him.  And I can swear that I intervened to prevent him stabbing
you."

"Swear?  What are you talking about?"

"I am talking about how it would look for Townley if we reported this
incident to the police."

"Are you crazy?  How would it look for me!  And how the bloody hell
would it get us what we want the whereabouts of Townley senior?"

"You are not listening, Lance, we reported it to the police.  Obviously
we do not wish to do so.  But it is a question of... pressure."

"Well, I've had enough pressure for one night."

"Likewise Townley, I would think.  Where do you suppose he is now?"

I shrugged.  "Soothing his bruised pride in some bar or other, trying
not to worry about who we are and what we're up to -and what's become
of his precious cigarette lighter."

"Not home with Mother?"

"I doubt it.  He was just leading me on with that story of going round
to see her."

"I doubt it also.  Which means we have an opportunity to apply some
pressure to Mrs.  Townley, before her son can warn her against us."

"You don't mean '

"Yes, Lance."  He had the temerity to smile at me.  "We have a call to
make."

Hashimoto's strategy, so he explained to me, was based on the reality
of our situation.  Rupe had been here before us, enabling Erich Townley
to guess at once what I was up to.  How much Erich knew wasn't clear,
but his crack about Hashimoto being a "Jap' hadn't just been a racist
jibe.  It meant something to him.  It was significant.  And it blew our
cover, such as it was.  Softly, softly consequently wasn't going to
catch our monkey.  Which left what Hashimoto called 'the frontal
approach'.

Number 85 Yorckstrasse was a classy-looking neo-Gothic apartment block,
heavy on balconies, porticoes and reclining caryatids.  The door a
sumptuously carved affair was firmly closed.  (Maybe Hashimoto had just
got lucky earlier, or maybe the time had come for the securing of
entrances; it was gone nine o'clock, after all.) Hashimoto pressed the
Townleys' buzzer, got no prompt reply, then left his finger on it for
just as long as it took half a minute or so for the entry-phone to
splutter into life.

"Ja?"

"Frau Townley?"

"Ja."  (The admission came slowly and cautiously.)

"Is Erich in?"

"He is not here."  (The mixture of German and American in her accent
made her tone hard to interpret.)

"We need to speak to you about Erich."

"Who are you?"

"He is in serious trouble, Frau Townley.  It will become more serious
if you do not speak to us."

'1 do not understand."

Then let us in.  And we will explain."

"Go away."

"If we do, we will go to the police."

"Polizei?  (Now she sounded worried.).

"They will arrest Erich."

"What for?"

"Let us in."

"Why should I?"

"Because you must.  For Erich's sake."

There was a lengthy silence.

"Frau Townley?"

Then the door-release buzzed.

We climbed the broad, marble-treaded stairs past stained-glass landing
windows to a tall, double-doored apartment entrance on the second
floor.  One of the doors stood ajar and peering at us through the gap
as we approached was Rosa Townley.

She was no querulous, quavering old biddy, that was for sure.  She
wasn't as tall as her son, but I'd have bet she towered over most
German women of her generation.  She held herself well too, shoulders
back, jaw square, eyes glaring above high cheekbones and a broad nose.
Hers was the kind of face that actually improved with age.  Her hair
was thick, grey streaked with black, where once it must have been black
streaked with grey and before that a pure raven black.  Her clothes
were black too a polo-necked sweater and trousers (cashmere and silk,
I'd have guessed); simple but far from casual.

"Who are you?"  she demanded, grasping the door handle firmly.

"My name is Miyamoto," said Hashimoto.  (It was as much as I could do
not to flinch with surprise.  Had I missed the announcement that we'd
be operating under aliases?) "This is Mr.  Bradley."  (Ah, so I
apparently wasn't operating under one.)

"You are not friends of my son."

"Do you know all his friends, Frau Townley?"

"I know the type."  (I silently thanked her for the backhanded
compliment.)

"May we come in?"

"You have not stated your business."

"A cigarette lighter."  Hashimoto held it up for her inspection.
"Dropped by your son as he fled after I had intervened to prevent him
stabbing Mr.  Bradley."

"You are lying."

"No."

"What do you want?"

"We want to offer you a way to resolve this matter without reference to
the police."

"Money?"

"No."

"What, then?"

"It is complicated."  Hashimoto smiled at her.  "Let us in and we will
explain."

The drawing room was as elegant and uncluttered as I'd have expected of
Rosa Townley's living space.  Polished wood, soft leather and two
gleaming chandeliers.  You'd have had to call in Forensics to find a
speck of dust.  Even the King Charles spaniel who eyed us from a
cushioned berth on the sofa looked as if he'd been recently shampooed.
I didn't doubt this was Rosa's exclusive domain (shared with the dog,
of course).  Erich probably kept to his own contrastingly styled
quarters.  (I'd been worrying about what might happen if he returned
while we were there, but, oddly, now I'd met his mother, I didn't feel
worried at all.)

There was no invitation to sit.  To do her justice, Rosa didn't show
any inclination to sit down herself.  She stationed herself by the
fireplace and waited to hear what we had to say.

I scanned the mantelpiece behind her for family photographs.  Not a
one.  But the mirror above it looked expensive.  So did just about
everything else in the room.  Whatever the Townleys were short of, it
wasn't money.

"Earlier this evening, Frau Townley," said Hashimoto, 'your son
assaulted Mr.  Bradley in Viktoriapark."  (My God, the man even knew
the name of the park.  You couldn't fault him for thoroughness.) "He
had his reasons, though he would find them difficult to explain to the
police.  They would probably infer ... a sexual motive.  We could
encourage them to do so if we wished.  But we do not wish to do that.
Unless you force us to."

"Tell me what you want."  Her voice was hard and unwavering, her logic
impeccable.

"We want to know where your husband is."

She should have looked taken aback.  But there was no reaction.  Maybe
she'd seen it coming.  "My husband is dead."

"We do not think so."

"He is dead."

"How do you finance your life here, Mrs.  Townley?"  I chipped in. "Not
to mention Erich's?"

"What business is that of yours?"

"You don't work, I assume.  And Erich certainly doesn't seem the
industrious type.  So, where's the money coming from?  Oil-rich
son-in-law?  Maybe.  Or maybe a not-so-dead husband."

"Rupert Alder came looking for your husband," said Hashimoto.  "We know
this.  What did you tell him?"

"I have never heard of Rupert Alder."

"Your son has."

"Eloquent on the subject, he was," I helped out.

"It is simple, Frau Townley," said Hashimoto.  "If your husband is
dead, or if you continue to insist that he is, we will go to the
police.  But if he is alive, as we believe, and you are willing to tell
us where we can find him .. ."

Without taking her eyes off us, Rosa stretched out a hand behind her to
a silver box on the mantelpiece.  She raised the lid on a neatly
columned stack of cigarettes, took one out, put

11 s it to her lips and cocked her eyebrows at Hashimoto.  He
hesitated, then stepped forward, struck Erich's lighter at the second
attempt and lit the cigarette.

We waited.  Rosa inhaled deeply and exhaled with studied slowness.
There was one more, shallower, draw on the cigarette before she said,
"You do not understand."

"Make us," I challenged her.

"Mr.  Alder came here, as you say, wanting to know how he could find
Stephen."

"I thought you'd never heard of Rupe."

"That was untrue.  I apologize.  But your threats ... confused me."
(She had a funny way of seeming confused.) "He came.  Without
threats."

"Really?"

"Without threats to Erich and me.  As for Stephen, how can you threaten
a dead man?  I told Mr.  Alder what I have told you.  Stephen is
dead."

"Did he believe you?"

"No.  No more than you."

"Can't say I'm surprised."

"He wanted me to pass on a message to Stephen."

"What message?"

"He said he had a letter containing damaging information about
Stephen's activities in the summer and fall of nineteen sixty-three. He
refused to say what the information was.  If Stephen wanted to prevent
the contents of the letter becoming public, he was to contact Mr.
Alder."  She shrugged.  "I told him there was nothing I could do. I
told him Stephen was dead.  He asked for proof.  He expressed the same
doubts as you."

"And you could prove it?"

"No.  I have had no contact with my husband of any kind for the past
thirty-eight years."

"Then you can't know he's dead, can you?"

"I know, Mr.  Bradley."  She did her considerable best to stare me
down.  "To my satisfaction."

"Based on what?"

She devoted a lengthy moment to her cigarette, then treated us to a
heavy sigh.  "Very well.  I told Mr.  Alder.  I will tell you.

I have a friend from childhood Hilde Voss.  She came to my wedding. She
knew Stephen well.  She knew him before he ... lost himself."  (I
wanted to ask what she meant by that, but it seemed best to let her
continue.) "Hilde still lives in Berlin.  I see her often.  She is a
good friend.  But there is something you must understand about her. She
has .. . second sight."

"Oh for God's '

"It is true.  It has many times been demonstrated.  Whether you believe
it or not is unimportant.  It is true.  Hilde wrote to me a long time
ago, when I was still living in the United States, to tell me that she
had ... seen Stephen's death."

"Where?"  asked Hashimoto.  "When?"

Rosa looked at him witheringly.  "I did not mean seen literally.  Hilde
has .. . astral vision."

"Well," I prompted, 'what did she see ... astrally?"

"Stephen died.  Violently, nearly thirty years ago."

"Care to be more precise?"

"I cannot be.  Hilde wrote to me ... some time in nineteen seventy-two.
That is all."

"And that's all you told Rupe?"

"There was nothing more I could tell him.  He still did not believe me,
of course."

"Of course."

"So, he went to see Hilde.  She told me later of his visit.  I did not
hear from him again."

"Come off it."

"I did not hear from him again, Mr.  Bradley."

"What did Hilde say about his visit?"

"She said she thought she had convinced him."

"Convinced him?  Come on.  You surely don't expect me to swallow
that."

"I have no expectation either way."

' We will see Frau Voss," said Hashimoto.

"Please do.  I can give you her address and telephone number.  As I
gave them to Mr.  Alder."

"Hold on."  It was all too pat.  And in one important respect it just
didn't fit.  "Why was Erich so hostile if Rupe's visit turned out as
innocently as you say?"

"Perhaps you annoyed him.  Erich is ... easily annoyed."

"He tried to kill me."

"No, no.  He must have meant merely to frighten you.  That is all."

"You weren't there."

"No.  But you are here, alive and well."

"Only because '

"Excuse me," Hashimoto interrupted.  "This is pointless.  We will speak
to Frau Voss.  After that ... I do not know.  We still have Erich's
cigarette lighter.  Do not forget that, Frau Townley.  If you leave us
no alternative, we will go to the police with it."

"I understand."

"I doubt Frau Voss will be able to convince us."

"And I doubt she convinced Rupe," I put in.

"You doubt," said Rosa, giving me a contemptuous glare through a plume
of cigarette smoke.  "Yes.  That is certainly clear."

CHAPTER EIGHT

I made it to the bar of the Adlon in the end.  So did Hashimoto.  As it
happened, he might have been better off leaving me to it, because I was
soon in the mood to tell him how badly I thought he'd managed the
evening.  And he, fair-minded fellow that he was, felt compelled to
agree.

"Rosa Townley is a cunning woman, Lance.  I wanted above all to avoid
giving her time to think.  But that is exactly what she has achieved by
referring us to her friend the clairvoyant.  It is not how I had
expected it to be."

"Nothing's been how I expected since we arrived," I complained.  "I
could have died tonight."

"I would never have allowed Erich Townley to harm you."

"What if you'd lost us in the dark?"

"I did not lose you."

"You promised, before we left London, that we'd do nothing without
discussing it first."

"There is such a thing ... as seizing the initiative."

"In that case, I suggest we go to the police without waiting to hear
what Madame Blavatsky has to say.  How'd that be for seizing the
initiative?"

"It would not be wise."

"He held a knife to my throat, Kiyo.  That's the sort of thing you're
supposed to report to the police."

"He never actually."

"Well, he would have done, believe me."

"But will they believe you?"

"Of course, with you to back I stopped and stared at him.  "You would
back me up, wouldn't you, Kiyo?"

Hashimoto gave me a helpless look that left me feeling more helpless
still.  "We will speak to Frau Voss tomorrow and decide what to do
after that."

"I see."

"I am sorry, Lance."

"Of course."

"I do not believe what Rosa Townley told us."

"I should hope not."

"But even so ..."

"Yes?"

"It is .. . remotely possible."

"What is?"

That she may be' he winced as he spoke 'telling the truth."

Things look better in daylight, so they say.  There was certainly
plenty of daylight around when I surfaced late the following morning.
The Berlin sky was cloudless, the air crisp and clear.  I stumbled down
to breakfast, reflecting that maybe the literal dead end Rosa Townley
had offered us was the truth after all and that maybe it was best it
should be.  Where that left Rupe was a moot point, of course.  But
knife-wielding nutters definitely weren't my company of choice, so it
was tempting to think that moment to quit I'd told Echo hadn't yet
arrived ... was just about to.

It was a surprise to find Hashimoto in the restaurant, sipping tea and
leafing through the European edition of the Wall Street Journal.  I had
him down as a dawn break faster  To be honest, I'd been looking forward
to forking my way through some bacon and eggs with only my thoughts
such as they were for company.  I did my best not to look
disappointed.

"How are you feeling, Lance?"  Hashimoto enquired.

"Not sure.  How do I look?"

"In the circumstances, quite good."  He smiled weakly.  "I have been
busy."

"You surprise me."

"I have spoken to Frau Voss."

"Have you now?"

"Frau Townley had already done so, of course."

"Preparing the ground, no doubt."

"No doubt.  But ... we shall see.  We are to meet Frau Voss for tea
this afternoon."

"I'm sure it'll be a charming occasion."

"Are you being ... sarcastic, Lance?"

"Can't imagine why you should think that."

"Mmm."  He eyed me thoughtfully.  "I know the perfect antidote to
sarcasm."

"You do?"

"Yes.  And between now and tea with Frau Voss ... I think I will
administer it to you."

An hour and a half later, we were clambering out of a taxi in front of
two stone elephants flanking the entrance to Berlin Zoo.  "Animals,
Lance," Hashimoto announced, as we queued at the ticket office.  They
clear our minds of all the nonsense we fill them with."

"If you say so, Kiyo."

"Did you not have a pet when you were a child?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"We just weren't that kind of family."  (I dimly recalled a dog being
debated at some point.  My father vetoed the idea on the grounds that I
was nuisance enough around the house without some pooch to feed and
walk.) "You?"

"No."  Hashimoto shook his head sadly.  "There was no room."

"Domestic quarters at the Golden Rickshaw a bit of a squash, were
they?"

"Oh yes.  But..."  He puffed out his cheeks.  "I still miss those days,
even so."

The tone was set.  Hashimoto veered between nostalgic yearnings for a
lost childhood and rapt gapings at the animals as we trailed around the
zoo.  The thought that flitted across my mind seen one manic ally
depressed tiger aching for a chance to rip your throat out, seen them
all went unexpressed.  As a way to kill time, I supposed it wasn't too
bad, though I could have thought of better.  But there was no magical
mind-clearing of the kind Hashimoto had promised.  I was immune.

But Hashimoto wasn't.  And that, I belatedly realized, was the point.
We were there more for his benefit than mine.  He was particularly
drawn to the orangutans.  Gazing at them as they lolloped around their
enclosure, sometimes hiding under pieces of sacking, sometimes casting
us soulful glances, he suddenly said to me, "What really matters in
life, Lance?"

"Happiness, I guess."

"And what makes us happy?"

"Oh, the usual stuff."

"What would be usual .. . for an orangutan?"

"Oh, I don't know.  Money's out.  Travel too, for this lot.  Drink and
drugs aren't on the agenda either.  There's sex, I suppose ... in the
season.  And feeding time.  At all seasons."

Hashimoto frowned solemnly at me.  "You are confusing happiness with
pleasure, Lance."

"Am I?"

"Do you think they trust each other?"

"Orang-utanishly .. . yeh."

They do not tell lies?"

"Well, they can't, can they?"

"But we can."

"Yeh."

"It is our choice."

"Yeh."

"So, I choose not to."

"Well, that's good."

"I know what is in the Townley letter."

For a moment, I thought I had to have misheard.  "What?"

"I know what is in the Townley letter," he repeated.

"But .. . you said .. ."

"I lied."

"Bloody hell."  I stared at him, genuinely aggrieved.

"I am sorry."

I waited for him to continue, but he showed no sign of doing so,
returning his placid gaze to the orangutans.  "Kiyo," I prompted.

"Yes, Lance?"

"Apology accepted, OK?"

"Thank you."

"What's in the letter?"

"Ah."  He nodded slowly.  "Of course.  That is the trouble with telling
the truth."  Then he smiled.  "It does not always make you happy."

We went to the snack-bar, bought a couple of hot drinks and sat outside
by an ornamental lake.  It was too cold in the milky sunlight for the
other customers.  We had the lakeside seats to ourselves.  Hashimoto
lit a cigarette and huddled down into his coat.  I waited as patiently
as I could for him to tell me what I obviously wanted to hear.

Eventually, he said, "This is the truth, Lance."

"Good."  There was a long pause.  "Well?"

"I cannot tell you."

"What?

"My sister told me.  Because she had to.  She never would have done if
Rupe had not stolen the letter.  She would have kept it secret .. . for
ever."

"Since Rupe did steal it, don't you think I ought to be told?"

"No.  For everyone who knows, there is the danger that they will tell.
I promised Mayumi I would keep her secret.  And I was taught to keep my
promises.  But I do not have to lie to you to do that."

"I'm really glad you're off the hook, Kiyo.  No lie, no tell.  That's
just great."

"Now you are being sarcastic again."

"That surprises you, does it?"

"No.  It disappoints me."

"So, we're both disappointed."

"You should not be.  When Mayumi told me what the letter contained, I
was angry.  I did not welcome the knowledge.  It is a burden I would
prefer not to bear.  I do not want to inflict it on you.  You are
better off you are safer not knowing."

"I'll just have to take your word for that."

"You must trust me, Lance.  We must trust each other.  If we find
Stephen Townley .. ."  He sighed.  "Then I will tell you what is in the
letter."

"Breaking your promise?"

"Yes.  Because then .. ."  He looked past me, into some future he
seemed to see more clearly than me.  "Then I will have to."

Pressing Kiyofumi Hashimoto to reveal what he'd decided to keep to
himself was likely to be about as rewarding as trying to persuade a
captive tiger to look contented.  We called a truce on the subject and
paid a visit to the aquarium before leaving the zoo.

We emerged into the early-afternoon bustle of the shopping centre of
West Berlin.  I recognized the ruined tower of the
Kaiser-Wilhelm-Gedachtniskirche from my 1984 trip with Rupe and took
Hashimoto into the new octagonal church next door to admire the
encircling blue glass walls.  We sat there in silence, lost in our own
thoughts, till our appointment with Hilde Voss drew near and it was
time to go.

As we started down Kurfurstendamm towards the Cafe Kranzler, Hashimoto
glanced back at the bomb-blasted relic and its ultra-modern successor.
"My sister remembers the bombing in Tokyo at the end of the war," he
said.  "She thinks I am lucky not to have been born sooner."

"She's probably right."

"But only probably.  I always tell her: the future will show whether I
was lucky to be born when I was."

"Can't argue with that."

"No one can argue with the future, Lance."

"Just as well we don't know what it contains, then."

"Oh, yes."  He nodded thoughtfully.  "It truly is ... just as well."

Our immediate future lay in the hands of Hilde Voss.  She was waiting
for us when we reached the Kranzler - a small, bright-eyed woman in a
long red coat, with a flowing scarf, a purple beret and far too many
rings and bangles.  Physically, she hadn't aged as well as her old
friend Rosa Townley.  She looked, in fact, about ten years older,
despite the dyed hair visible under the beret.  The cigarettes she was
coughing her way through at a sapping pace had to be one of the
reasons.  Mentally, however, she was in good shape.

"I told Rosa you wouldn't believe me," she announced as soon as our tea
had arrived.  "Why should you?  I am her friend, not yours."

"Tell me about Stephen Townley," said Hashimoto mildly.  "We ... are
open-minded."

"Open-minded?"  She laughed uproariously at that until the cough
doubled her up.

"How would you describe him?"  I asked.

"Stephen?  He was a good-looking boy.  And Americans, here in the
Fifties, well, they were the boys to go for.  But Stephen .. ."  She
shrugged.  "I never trusted him."

"Why not?"

"Because there was darkness in his heart.  I see these things.  I sense
them.  I always have.  Rosa saw only ... the handsome face, the broad
shoulders ... and the passport to the land of cookies and Cadillacs."

"You're saying he was an evil man?"

"He had evil in him.  And it came out.  He did not ... treat her well.
But ... he took her to America, which is what she wanted."

"Except that now she's back here."

"What we want changes as we grow older."

"When did you last see him?"  asked Hashimoto.

"Stephen?  When he and Rosa left for America in nineteen fifty-five."

"Never since?"

"Never."

"Quite a while," I said, not bothering to disguise the thought that led
to.

"A long time, a short time.  For me it makes no difference."

"Come on.  You can't claim to have known him well."

"Nein.  But you couldn't forget Stephen once you'd met him.  He stayed
with you."

"At least until nineteen seventy-two."

"I see people in dreams.  I see events.  It is not my fault.  Believe
me, mein Junge, it is more of a curse than a blessing."

"What did you dream about Townley?"

"His death.  May second, nineteen seventy-two."

"You know the exact date?"

"I looked it up.  I keep a record of my dreams.  You want to see?"  She
pulled a dog-eared diary out of her handbag.  I could see the year
embossed on the cover.  A page was marked.  She held it open in front
of us.  We craned forward as her index finger tapped at the place.
Dienstag 2 Mai.  Below that, in tiny handwriting, was the phrase
Todestraum: ST.  "Dream of death," she said slowly.  "Stephen
Townley."

"Well, that clinches it, of course."

"Believe me or not," Hilde snapped the diary shut.  "I don't care."

"How did you see him die?"  asked Hashimoto.

"Why do you want to know, if you don't believe I did?"

"You may be able to convince us."

"I doubt it."  She put the diary back into her handbag and rattled her
way through another cough.  Oddly, it seemed to calm her down.  Her
gaze drifted out of focus.  "Somewhere hot.  Florida.  Mexico.  I don't
know.  There were palm trees.  And sweat on the faces of the men who
killed him.  It was night there too.  They had ... long knives.  They
cut him deep.  There was much blood.  He died badly.  In much pain. The
hot blood drained out of him, into the hot night.  I saw it."  She
shuddered.  "I felt it."

Hashimoto glanced at me, looking to see what my instinctive reaction
was.  I'm not sure I had one.  It sounded convincing enough, whether
you bought the whole second-sight thing or not.  But Hilde was no fool.
And Rosa certainly wasn't.  They were capable of cooking this up
between them -well capable.

"Is this what you told Mr.  Alder?"  Hashimoto asked.

"Ja.  That is what I told him."

"How did he react?"

"He did not say much.  He listened.  He went away."

"Did he believe you?"

"I think ... he did not want to believe me.  But later ... he may
have."

"Did he contact you again?"

"There was only one meeting."

"When was that?"  I chipped in.

"Early September."

"Can't you be more precise?  A lady who keeps such meticulous records
as you .. ."

She sighed theatrically and fished her current diary out of her
handbag, then propped some half-moon glasses on her nose to consult the
entries.  "The sixth," she announced after a few moments.

"And where did you meet?"

Another sigh.  "Here."

This very cafe?"  I glanced around, as if trying to picture the
scene.

"Ja," growled Hilde, pitching her voice low enough to set off another
cough.

"Where is he now?"  I asked when the cough had subsided.

' Wovon re den Sic?  She stared at me uncomprehendingly.

"I'm asking you where Rupe Alder is now, Frau Voss.  With your powers
of clairvoyance, that should be no problem, surely."

"You think you are funny, mein Jung eT

"Perish the thought."

"I do not order the things I see.  I do not control them.  Your friend,
Herr Alder, he .. ."  She swatted at some invisible fly -or at me.  "He
has not come to me.  Living or dead."

"Pity.  I was hoping you might be able to clear the whole mystery up
for us.  But I was obviously hoping for too much."

Hilde stubbed out her cigarette violently and eyed me across the
butt-choked ashtray.  "Much too much."

"What do you think?"  I asked, as soon as we were out of the cafe,
leaving Hilde to her cakes and cigarettes and astral visions.

"I do not know, Lance," said Hashimoto.  The important question is:
what would Rupe have thought?"

"Same as me.  That she's an old fraud."

"You do not believe she has .. . second sight?"

"Nope."

The diary entry from nineteen seventy-two was .. . impressive."

"Well, it didn't impress me."

"Mmm."

"Kiyo?"

He stopped and looked at me.  "It is less straightforward than you seem
to think, Lance."

"How?"

"Frau Voss may have seen this vision and believed it proved Stephen
Townley was dead.  Frau Townley may have believed it also.  Whether it
is true or not whether he actually died in the way she described,
whether he is dead at all is not really the point.  If they genuinely
believe it, then obviously Frau Townley does not know where we can find
her husband.  In that case

He shook his head, but said no more.  He didn't have to, of course. The
conclusion was as obvious as it was dismal.  In that case ... we were
wasting our time.  And had been since boarding the plane to Berlin.

I didn't see it that way.  During the taxi ride back to the Adlon, I
reminded Hashimoto that Erich Townley had shown every sign of meaning
to kill me in Viktoriapark.  Why unless questions about his father
posed some kind of threat to him?  And what kind of a threat could that
be if Erich genuinely believed his father to be dead?  Hashimoto did
not know any more than I did.

Which left us clean out of bright ideas about what to do next.  We
probably made a disconsolate pair as we plodded into the Adlon and
asked for our keys.  And that can only have been an encouraging sight
for the visitor who was waiting for us.

Rosa Townley was sitting calm and upright in one of the plush-cushioned
armchairs in the centre of the lobby.  She was wearing another black
outfit and was leafing through a copy of Vogue.  A Galaries Lafayette
carrier-bag was propped beside her chair.  She didn't even pretend to
be surprised to see us.

"Is your tea party over so soon?"  she archly enquired as we perched
ourselves on a sofa opposite her.

"How did you know we were staying here?"  asked Hashimoto.

"Modern telephones," she replied with a smile.  "Hilde checked the
number from which you rang her.  And since I was in the area this
afternoon .. ."  She nodded faintly towards the carrier-bag, as if to
draw our attention to the fact that we were merely an add-on to a
shopping expedition.  "I hope Hilde told you what you wanted to
know."

"She told us what you wanted us to know," I said.  "May second,
nineteen seventy-two.  Men with knives down Mexico way.  We got the
message."

"Stephen is dead, Mr.  Bradley.  Long dead.  That is the only
message."

"It's the only one being sent, certainly."

"Do you still not believe it?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because your son wouldn't have been willing to kill me to protect a
dead man."

"Erich has told me exactly what occurred between you and him last
night."

"I'm sure he has."

"If anyone should be going to the police, it is him, not you.  And he
may if you continue to harass us."

"I can hear the echo."

She frowned at me.  "What?"

"Inside the hollow threat."

"Frau Townley," said Hashimoto with sudden decisiveness,

'you have twenty-four hours to consider your position.  If, after that,
you still refuse to tell us where we can find your husband .. ."  He
shrugged, almost apologetically.  "You will leave us no choice."

"Twenty-four hours will change nothing."

"I hope it will change your mind."  (Personally, I doubted twenty-four
years could work that miracle, but I supposed Hashimoto's tactics were
sound enough.) "I am sure none of us wishes to involve the police."

"Then do not involve them."  Rosa made a strange little tossing
movement of the chin, then rose from her chair, prompting us to stand
in our turn like obedient nephews seeing off a respected aunt.  "As I
have tried to explain to you' she picked up the carrier-bag, which
clearly contained nothing much heavier than a pair of gloves, and
slipped her Vogue inside' it is your decision."

"An ultimatum, Kiyo," I murmured to Hashimoto as we watched Rosa's exit
from the hotel a few moments later, following the fetching from the
cloakroom of her superbly cut cream overcoat.  "Nice move."

"The only move," he said expressionlessly.

"Do you reckon it'll work?"

"It might."

"And if it doesn't?"

He looked round at me and spread his hands helplessly.  "At least we
have twenty-four hours to think about it."

If thinking had to be done, I for one had no intention of starting that
evening.  Hashimoto had discovered that The Magic Flute was on at the
Komische Oper and suggested tapping the concierge for tickets.  I had
to explain that several hours of German opera was the last thing I
needed.  Leaving Hashimoto to soothe his mind with Mozart, I took
myself off to the nearest cinema showing undubbed movies.  American
Psycho didn't turn out to be the kind of entertainment a man in my
frazzled state really needed.  It took several drinks afterwards in a
dire pseudo-Irish pub to restore my equilibrium.  Around midnight,

no mind and body on cruise control, I made it back to the Adlon,
confident I wouldn't have to think about anything until morning.  I was
wrong.

A letter had been slipped under the door of my room.  I picked it up
(nearly falling over in the process) and tossed it onto the desk,
reckoning it was probably notification of a fire drill or lift repairs
or some other managerial nicety I could afford to ignore.  Then I
noticed a red light glowing on the bedside telephone.  Message
waiting.

I slumped down at the desk and looked at the letter.  My name was
handwritten in capitals on the envelope MR BRADLEY with my room number
in the top left corner.  I didn't recognize the writing.  I tore the
flap open.  Inside was a leaflet advertising open-top bus tours of
Berlin.  I'd already seen a couple of the green-and-cream vehicles
pictured on the cover cruising round the streets.  There was a
timetable on a separate sheet of paper that slipped out of the leaflet
as I opened it.  It listed the fares and departure times from the
Europa-Center and the Brandenburg Gate.  Someone had circled the 12.15
departure from the Brandenburg Gate in red ink.  Strange, I remember
thinking; very strange.

I went over to the telephone, picked it up and pressed the MESSAGE
button.  A computerized voice told me something (in German, of course).
There was a brief electronic pause.  Then the message kicked in. "What
you've been told is true.  I have the letter.  I am in Berlin. We must
meet.  You and me.  And Hashimoto.  Tomorrow.  I will let you know how.
 Trust me."

I sat slowly down on the bed, pressed the receiver until the line was
dead, then stabbed at the MESSAGE button and listened to the recording
again.

There was no doubt about it.  In fact, there hadn't been from the
moment I heard the first word.  The voice was Rupe's.

CHAPTER NINE

Berlin was locked in perfect weather.  The sky was a flawless blue, the
air crisp, the sunshine as warm as the shadows were cool.  The 12.15
Berlin City Tour bus nudged out from its stand in Pariser Platz and
crawled between the scaffolded pillars of the Brandenburg Gate as the
hyperactive multilingual guide hopped around at the front of the top
deck, microphone in hand, closely attended by a dozen or so tourists of
varied nationality.  Sitting beside Hashimoto at the back, meanwhile, I
gave little thought to the lofty views of historical sites our 25
Deutschmarks had bought.

Where was Rupe?  Nowhere to be seen.  We were where he'd told us to be.
But he wasn't.  "We must meet."  He was dead right there.  "Tomorrow."
Well, tomorrow had come.  And so had we.  But he hadn't.  "Trust me." I
was trusting him, all right.  And Hashimoto was trusting him as well.
But not exactly wholeheartedly.

"How can we be sure it is Rupe on the tape?"  he'd fired as his first
doubting salvo that morning.

"I recognized his voice, Kiyo."

"Voices can be imitated."

"I couldn't imitate yours."

"That is because you are not a trained mimic."

"For God's sake, it's him.  I know it is."

"Let us agree that it probably is.  How can we be sure
he is not being forced to say these things?"

"Why would anyone want to force us to go on a tourist bus trip round
Berlin?"

"I do not know.  It does not make sense."

"Unless it really is Rupe."

"But he could meet us anywhere, Lance.  Why the bus?"

Which was a good question.  And the only answer I'd been able to come
up with was a disturbing one.  The bus was a safe and neutral venue,
with witnesses on hand.  And Rupe could see who was waiting for him
before he got on.  In other words, he didn't trust us.  Or maybe he
couldn't afford to.  But if everything the Townleys and their tame
tea-leaf reader had told us was true as Rupe had said it was why was he
as nervous as he obviously was?  Why the elaborate precautions?

The message had been recorded at 9.27 p.m. Hashimoto had established
that in the process of laying hands on the actual tape.  (The concierge
had clearly thought we were both mad, but had eventually agreed to
extract it from the system for us.) Some time after 9.27 p.m. a letter
had been dropped off for me at reception.  The receptionist had written
my name and room number on the envelope.  (She couldn't actually recall
doing so, but recognized her own writing.) A bellboy had then delivered
it (presumably).  All of which told us ... very little.

But very little wasn't the same as nothing.  Rupe knew we were in
Berlin.  How?  And he knew which hotel we were staying in.  How again?
Maybe he was keeping the Townleys under surveillance.  Or maybe Hilde
Voss was supplying him with information.  She was clever enough to be
playing a double game.  The whys crowded in after that thought, of
course; the whys and far too many wherefores.  If Rupe had been
following us, he'd have known I wouldn't be at the Adlon to take his
call.  Which implied he hadn't actually wanted to speak to me.  The
message had been all that mattered.

But he was going to have to speak to me soon.  And the bus trip gave
him plenty of opportunities.  No need to book, the timetable declared.
Just jump on.  Well, the route map showed a dozen or more stops on our
hour-and-a-half tour.  Rupe could be waiting at any one of them.  And I
had to hope he was.  If he let us down ... If his nerve failed him .. .
What you've been told is true'.  I'd had that from his own lips.  There
was nowhere to go after this.  My search for Rupe ended here.  Even if
we didn't find him.  Whereas for Hashimoto .. . "I have the letter'.

"What's in the letter, Kiyo?"  I'd asked him earlier, as we waited for
the bus.  "You may as well tell me now.  Rupe will, soon enough."

"As you say.  Soon enough."

"Come on.  What's the point in holding out on me?"

"What is the point of a promise?"  he'd countered.

"That you keep it, I suppose you mean."

"No.  The point is that it is freely given."

"You're not going to go all Zen on me, are you?"

He'd frowned at me as if genuinely puzzled.  "My friend," he said with
deliberate emphasis, "I have never been anything else."

Presumably, then, it was some Zen mind-control technique that enabled
Hashimoto to remain so much calmer than me as the bus cruised round to
the Reichstag, where a giant snake of tourists were queuing to visit
the dome, but nobody at all was waiting for the bus.  It started to get
distinctly chilly as we pressed on through Tiergarten, but our guide
was only just warming up, regaling us with tired anecdotes about the
places of interest we were passing in which I took no interest
whatsoever, but which Hashimoto apparently greeted with rapt
attention.

"We're not out here to see the sights," I grumbled as the bus slowly
circled some draughty triumphal column.  "Keep your eyes peeled for
Rupe."

"He will come to us or not, Lance," said Hashimoto.  "Looking will not
force him into view."

This was true, of course, but hellishly if not Zen-ishly -unhelpful.  I
kept my eyes peeled.  (When they weren't blinking away tears brought on
by the cold.  Hashimoto, of course, somehow managed to look warm and
snug compared with me.) I didn't see Rupe.

Once we were out of Tiergarten and back on city-centre streets, the
wind dropped and our pace slowed in the lunchtime traffic.  We stopped
to take on some people at the Zoo, but Rupe wasn't among them.  The
guide wittered on about the new church and campanile at
Kaiser-Wilhelm-Gedachtniskirche and analysed the revolutionary
architecture of the Berlin Stock Exchange.  Then we started tracking
back east along Kurfurstendamm, past the Cafe Kranzler, where we'd met
Hilde Voss, the sunlight flashing at us from the large gold letters of
its sign.  It was pushing towards one o'clock now and the Berliners
were out in force, shopping and lunching and bustling about their
business.  It would be easy, I knew, for one man to lose himself in the
crowd, to watch us drift by on the bus, squinting against the sun.
This, I supposed, was how Rupe had planned it: for us to show ourselves
before he had to decide whether to show himself.

We passed Kaiser-Wilhelm-Gedachtniskirche again, this time on the
southern side, and drew up at a stop a short distance further along
Tauentzienstrasse opposite the Europa-Center, the big shopping complex
that was the other time tabled departure point for tours.  "There'll be
a break here of twenty minutes," the guide announced.  "If you want to
leave the bus to stretch your legs, be sure to be back by one-fifteen,
or you'll have to wait for the next bus, at two-thirty."

Everybody else on the top deck but Hashimoto and me got off.  The guide
went down for a fag and a chat with the driver.  The tourists wandered
off for some window-shopping.  "This could be it," I said, less
convinced than I hoped I sounded.  "Twenty minutes for Rupe to clock us
and come aboard."

"And lots of people to obscure his approach," said Hashimoto, glancing
across at the crowded pavement on the other side of the road.  "You are
right.  It is the likeliest place.  At the moment ... we have the bus
to ourselves."

There were benches spaced along the grassed and flower-bedded central
reservation of Tauentzienstrasse, most of them occupied by workers
snatching a take away lunch.  I craned over the rail and studied each
bench in turn.  There was no sign of Rupe.

"It would also be a strangely appropriate choice," Hashimoto went on.
"You see the sculpture?"

"You mean the pipes?"  Halfway along the central reservation, four
twisted and interwoven metal tubes several feet in diameter reared from
the ground in what I took to be an artistic statement.  (One I couldn't
remember being there in '84 and of what I couldn't imagine.)

"The pipes.  Yes.  Nicknamed "Dancing Spaghetti".  Symbols of the
divided city, according to my guidebook."

"How does it make that out?"

The pipes are intended to represent the severed links of a chain,
planted in the earth."

"Oh yeh?"

"A family is rather like a chain, I think.  Something to cling to in
times of trouble.  But at other times ... it chafes.  Friendship is the
same, is it not?"

"I suppose it is."

"I will treat Rupe leniently, Lance.  I will not try to punish him for
what he has done."

"You don't need to be so generous on my account."

"But he is your friend.  And you are my friend.  Therefore I will help
him.  I hope you would help Mayumi and Haruko .. . for the same
reasons."

I looked round to find Hashimoto smiling at me.  I reckoned this was as
gushing as the guy ever got.  "I'd do my best for them, Kiyo.  Sure."

"It is all I ask.  Oh His smile broadened.  "I nearly forgot the other
appropriate thing about "Dancing Spaghetti".  The tubes are made of
aluminium."

"Aluminium?"

"According to '

"According to your guidebook, yeh."  I looked back at the sculpture.
"Well, you can be as lenient with my very good friend Rupe Alder as you
want, Kiyo, but you'll not have to mind if I tell him exactly what I
think of him.  Where the bloody hell is he?"

"Close, I suspect.  Very '

Something pierced the air just in front of me and

Hashimoto gave a strangled gasp.  I swung round towards him.  The right
lens of his spectacles had shattered.  For a fraction of a second, I
thought he'd been hit by nothing more sinister than some bizarrely
ricocheting pebble.  Then I saw the raw red gap where his eye should
have been.  Before I could reach out to touch him he toppled sideways
into the aisle between the seats, falling face down with a thump that
merged with a crack of metal on metal as a bullet I didn't doubt what
it was struck the rail near my elbow and pinged past me.  I dived for
the deck.

Hashimoto's face drew close to mine as I crawled into the aisle.  His
glasses were askew, his left eye clear and open and staring, his right
lost in a gouge of brain and bone from which blood was seeping onto the
floor.  His lips sagged apart, as if he was still trying to tell me how
close Rupe might be.  But he was never going to tell me or anyone else
anything, ever again.  Kiyofumi Hashimoto was dead and the fact that
he'd been alive and well and talking to me only a second or two before
changed nothing.

Another bullet struck the back of one of the seats beyond and above me.
I saw the foam splay out of the hole in the leather.  Somebody was
trying to kill both of us and they weren't about to stop with the job
half done.  I had to get off that bus.  I had to get away.  I squirmed
past Hashimoto towards the stairs, catching some object on the floor as
I went and dragging it with me.  I reached down and pulled it out from
under me.  It was the tape of Rupe's message.  It must have slipped out
of Hashimoto's pocket as he fell.  Only then did I remember that it was
Rupe who had lured us into this trap.  "Trust me," he'd said.  And I
had.  Suddenly, I wanted to find Rupe more powerfully than I could ever
have imagined.  I closed my hand round the tape, gritted my teeth and
made for the stairs.

Another bullet whined overhead.  Then I was in the relative safety of
the stairwell.  I rolled and scrambled to my feet, leapt down the
treads two at a time and lunged for the open door at the bottom.

People were scattering in both directions along the pavement,

some of them screaming.  I saw the guide and the driver crouched by the
front wheel-arch.  I heard another shot and saw them flinch.  Then the
guide spotted me.  "Get down," he shouted.  "You're safer behind the
bus.  I've called the police."  He held up his mobile for me to see.
"They'll be here soon."

Maybe they would.  And maybe he was safe where he was.  But he wasn't
the target.  I had no intention of waiting to find out what the
marksman's next move might be.  Hashimoto was dead.  And all I could
think about was staying alive.  The bus had stopped just past a turning
and the body of the vehicle would shield me as far as the corner.  At
least, I hoped it would.  I started running.

There may have been another shot as I rounded the corner, clinging
close to the shop fronts  I'm not sure.  By then my senses were
filtering out everything not strictly essential to my survival.  I was
heading south, away from Tauentzien-strasse.  That was all that
mattered.  But not for long.  As I ran, my mind struggled to assimilate
what had happened and put together a response.  What was I going to do?
Where was I going to go?  "This is life and death," Hashimoto had told
me back in London.  I hadn't believed him.  I did now.

The route south ended in a T-junction.  I turned right, breath failing
me, legs aching.  I was in no condition to run as fast or as far as I
wanted to.  But still I had to run.  Where to?  That was the question.
Where the hell to?  We'd been set up from the start.  That was obvious.
Rosa Townley had played for time and we'd given it to her.  And in that
time she and Erich and Rupe too, it seemed, had plotted our execution.
They were in it together.  And they were all my enemies. My only ally
lay dead on the top deck of the 12.15 tour bus.

I had to get out of Berlin.  The realization came to me just as I
spotted a taxi approaching with its light on.  They knew the city.  I
didn't.  If I stayed, I was lost.  The police wouldn't believe me.  I
hardly believed me myself.  If I stayed, they'd get me.  I flagged the
taxi down, ran across the road and jumped in.  "Flughafen Tegel," I
shouted to the driver.

"Flughafen Tegel.  Ja."  He started away.

Then I remembered.  My passport was back at the Adlon.

nx

Without it, I was going nowhere.  "No.  Not the airport.  Hotel I
stopped.  They knew I was likely to go there.  They could be waiting
for me.  But I had to get my passport.  I had to go to the Adlon.  Just
not necessarily by a direct route.  I pulled out my map.  "Komische
Oper," I said, spotting how close it was to the Adlon; I could cut
round from there to the rear entrance of the hotel.  That, of course,
was where Hashimoto had been to see The Magic Flute.  Just last night,
he'd been humming along to Mozart.  And now

"Komische Oper.  OK."  The driver picked up speed.  We were on our
way.

I can't remember much about the taxi ride, except that it wasn't as
fast as I'd have liked.  In another sense, though, it was too fast,
because I'd no better idea of what to do when it ended than when it had
begun.  Get the hell away was all my stunned reasoning process could
come up with by way of a plan of action.  Hashimoto was dead and I was
lucky not to be dead as well.  I wasn't looking for Rupe any more, or
Stephen Townley, or an old letter containing an older secret.  I just
wanted out.

There didn't look to be anyone hanging around the back entrance of the
Adlon.  I ran across Wilhelmstrasse without waiting for the lights to
change, causing at least one car to brake sharply.  Then I rushed into
the hotel and hurried through the function suites, suppressing the
instinct to break into a trot.  I knew I ought to be as inconspicuous
as possible, but I felt anything but.  My shoulder was aching from the
scramble off the bus and there was a stain on my sleeve that was
probably Hashimoto's blood.  I made it to reception without drawing any
looks and tried to make the request for my key sound casual while
keeping it sotto voce.  The lobby and bar were busy without being
crowded.  If anyone was watching the front door, there was a reasonable
chance they wouldn't notice me as I took the key and doubled back to
the lifts.  And you had to have a room key to access the guest floors
(by waggling it in front of a sensor in the lift).  I reassured myself
I was in the clear.  (Well, what else could I do?)

I jogged round the corridor from the lift to my room, opened up and
rushed in, swinging the door shut behind me as I made for the safe in
the corner, where I'd stored my passport and a wad of spare
Deutschmarks Hashimoto had given me.

I was stooping in front of the safe, tapping in the combination, when I
heard a rattle from behind me, as if my shove hadn't been enough to
close the door.  I glanced over my shoulder.  And there was Erich
Townley, pushing the door gently shut and leaning back against it.

"In a hurry, Lance?"  he asked, smiling sourly.

I stood up slowly and turned round to face him.

"Oh, you can go ahead and open the safe.  I'd like to see what you have
inside.  Just in case it includes the letter."

"What letter's that?"

"Trying to be smart when you're as dumb as you are is just pathetic,
Lance.  You know that?  Why'd you come back here?"

"Too dumb not to, I suppose."

"I heard there was a shooting near the Europa-Center.  Some Japanese
tourist's on his way to the morgue."

"Who did the shooting, Erich?"

"Wouldn't you like to know?  Not Rupe.  He's no marksman.  But he's one
hell of a decoy, don't you think?"

"Why did you kill Hashimoto?"

"I haven't killed anyone."  He moved towards me.  "Yet."

"What's in the letter?"

"Maybe you know better than I do.  Open the safe."

"I'm afraid I can't."

"Why not?"

"I've forgotten the combination."

"Not funny, Lance."  He stopped a few feet from me.  "Not funny at
all."  He reached into the pocket of his coat and took something out.
I'd expected it to be a knife.  But it wasn't.  It was a gun.  I stared
with a strange, detached fascination at the barrel as he pointed it at
me.  "Open up."

"As a matter of fact, the combination's just come back to me."

"Amazing."

I turned and crouched down in front of the safe.  I needed the passport
above all else.  Once I had it But I couldn't look more than a few
seconds ahead.  I tapped in the numbers and opened the door.

Take out everything that's inside."

This was crazy.  Why the hell should he think I had the letter?  It
made no sense.  I picked up the passport and the rubber-banded bundle
of cash, holding the handful up for him to see.  "This is all there is,
Erich."

"Stay where you are."  He moved back and crouched down for a view past
me into the safe.  There was nothing for him to see.  "I guess it was
an outside chance anyway," he said, standing up again.  "Worse luck for
you."

"Why's that?"

"Work it out for yourself."  (I tried not to.) "Now, stand up.
Slowly."

I obeyed, turning to face him as I rose.

"Empty your pockets."

That didn't take long.  My wallet; the keys to my flat in Glastonbury;
a grubby handkerchief; some coins; and the tape.

"Where's my cigarette lighter?"

"Hashimoto has it.  Had it, I should say.  It's probably in the safe in
his room."

Erich chewed his lip while he thought about that for a discomforting
few seconds.  It looked like he believed me, even though he didn't want
to.  "Dump that stuff on the desk," he growled.

"OK."  The desk was to my right.  I took one cautious step towards it
and dropped the whole lot on the blotter.

Erich stared at the scatter of objects for a moment, then returned his
gaze to me.  "What's on the tape?"

That tape?"

"Yeh.  That fucking tape."

"Oh, I wondered '

"What's on it?"

"Abba's greatest hits."

He glared at me (it was certain now, beyond a shadow of a doubt: I
wasn't his type), then stepped towards the desk and leaned forward to
pick up the tape.

"Don't say you're an Abba fan too, Erich."

"Shut up."

He looked away for the fraction of a second it took him to grasp the
tape.  And that, I knew, was the only fraction of a second luck was
likely to hand me.  I lunged at him in as good a rugby tackle as I
could manage.  We both went down hard.  I braced myself for the gun to
go off, but it didn't.  Erich hit the floor, grunting as the breath
shot out of him.  I heard a clunk somewhere behind us and rolled round
to see the gun lying several feet away under the desk.  A table lamp
wobbled above me as I came to rest against the cabinet it stood on.
Erich began to scramble back up, his gaze focusing on the gun.  I
swivelled and kicked, catching him on the side of the head.  He fell
against the foot board of the bed, clutching at his ear.  Then I was on
my feet, grabbing the lamp by its heavy brass base.  Erich saw me pick
it up as he rose onto his knees.  But he was too late to block or dodge
the blow.  I brought the lamp down fast, the rimmed base hitting him
somewhere above his left eye.  There was a solid crunch of brass on
bone.

And then there was Erich Townley, slumped and motionless on the floor,
blood oozing from a triangular wound on his brow.  I put the lamp
slowly back down on the cabinet.  My hands were shaking.  My knees were
shaking.  I tried to think, quickly and clearly.  Had I killed him?  I
jammed two fingers under his ear and felt for a pulse.  Yes.  His heart
was still beating.  He was unconscious, but he wasn't dead.  Thank God.
I didn't want to leave Berlin as a murder suspect on the run.  But
leave it I had to, fast.  Someone deadlier by far than Erich had been
responsible for shooting Hashimoto.  He might be on his way to the
Adlon as I stood there, umm-ing and ah-ing.

I rushed to the wardrobe, grabbed my bag and flung in the spare clothes
I'd brought.  Then I threw in my toothbrush and shaving kit from the
bathroom, stuffed the items on the desk into my pocket (tape included,
along with the all-important passport and cash), and made for the
door.

I stopped halfway.  I needed an edge over the enemy; any kind of edge I
could get.  What did Erich have I could make use of?  I stooped over
him and checked his coat pockets.  Some keys he was welcome to keep and
a wallet.  All in all, I reckoned he'd have to live without that.  I
slung it into my bag, closed the zip and headed for the door again.
This time, I didn't stop.

I left the Adlon the way I'd come in, by the back door, and picked up a
taxi within a couple of blocks.  By then I was more or less certain I
wasn't being followed.  (What my certainty on the point was worth I
didn't ask myself.) Mercifully, the route to Tegel Airport didn't go
anywhere near the Europa-Center.  I imagined Tauentzienstrasse had
already been blocked off by the police, investigating what they
probably reckoned was an outbreak of anti-tourist terrorism.  As the
taxi sped through Tiergarten, I seriously wondered if I should divert
to Police HQ and tell them everything that had happened.  But that
would mean questions, questions, questions, and a long stay in Berlin.
I doubted I could convince them I was telling the truth.  I was sure
there'd be nothing to link the Townleys with the shooting.  And I'd
probably end up being charged with assaulting Erich.  No, I had to
go.

But my run-in with Erich had changed something in my mind.  Before, I'd
been high on fear and the instinct for self-preservation.  Now, I was
beginning to feel angry.  Hashimoto was my friend.  He'd said so
himself.  Maybe, despite the short time we'd known each other, he was a
better friend than Rupe had ever been.  He deserved to be avenged.  And
the people who'd killed him deserved to be punished.

But was I the man to do either?  Even I wouldn't have answered that
question with a resounding and unambiguous yes.  Just as well when you
came down to it, then, that I didn't have much choice about
volunteering for the role.  The nameless marksman who'd snuffed out
Hashimoto's life would come after me.  I was sure of that.  I was
unfinished business.  I could go back to England and try to resume a
normal life, but the Townleys wouldn't let me.  Sooner or later, they'd
track me down.

I fished the tape out of my pocket and stared down at it nestled in my
palm.  Had Rupe really sold out?  Or was his message a fake?  I have
the letter.  I am in Berlin.  We must meet."  Short, simple sentences,
comprising a message left only when it was certain he couldn't speak to
me.  A spliced tape, maybe, made up of parts of a previously recorded
conversation.  It was possible.  In the right hands, it was probably
even easy.  An expert would be able to tell.  But I wasn't likely to
run into one of those.  I'd just have to guess.  And wait until I could
prove I'd guessed right.

If the tape was a fake, then it was also a clue to what Rupe had done
in Berlin.  "I have the letter".  "We must meet".  He hadn't been
talking to me.  He'd been talking to the Townleys.  Of course.  They'd
recycled Rupe's blackmail call.  "Trust me' meant You'd better believe
I'm serious'.  And they had believed him.  What they'd done to
neutralize the threat he posed I didn't know.  But it hadn't been
enough, not quite.  They still didn't have the letter.  Erich's
behaviour proved that.  They didn't have it and they were prepared to
kill anyone who stood between them and suppression of the secret it
held.

But what kind of a secret did that make it?  What could it possibly be?
Hashimoto could have told me.  Maybe he would have done, if I'd pressed
him harder.  "You are better off not knowing," he'd said.  "You are
safer."  Well, I didn't feel very safe.  And I wasn't going to, unless
I found some way to expose the Townleys for whatever it was they truly
were.  "For everyone who knows," Hashimoto had said, 'there is the
danger that they will tell."  Too right.  If I ever found out, I meant
to tell anyone who'd listen.

And how could I find out?  There was only one way.  The realization of
what it was seeped slowly into my mind as the taxi headed west out of
Tiergarten.  I unzipped my bag and took out Erich's wallet.  What did
we have here?  Credit cards that were no use to me, tempting though
they were Erich's credit limit had to be higher than mine (probably by
a factor of ten), but plastic leaves a trail and I couldn't afford to
do that.  What I needed was hard cash.  Fortunately, Erich seemed to be
a serious fan of folding money.  He had about three thousand
Deutschmarks on him, plus several hundred US dollars.  "Thanks very
much," I murmured, transferring the cash to my own wallet.  It was
enough to take me a long way.  And I had a long way to go.  What else
was there?  Nothing much that I could see, apart from a clutch of
membership cards for various clubs.

But hold on.  One of them was more of a business card.  Gordon A.
Ledgister, Caribtex Oil, with an office address in Houston, Texas.  He
had to be Erich's brother-in-law the oil executive Jarvis had said
Barbara Townley had married.  You never knew when I might want to
contact him.  That went into my wallet as well.  The rest was destined
for a rubbish bin at the airport.  I had as much of Erich's as I
wanted.

Thanks to Erich's fondness for the crinkly stuff, added to Hashimoto's
generosity with money, I was able to pay cash for my ticket at the
Lufthansa desk.  I'd be travelling economy, of course.  Only two days
before, I'd been downing champagne in club class.  But champagne
complimentary or otherwise -was the last thing I wanted now.

Just about the first was speed.  But that wasn't easily had.  Where I
was going meant changing planes in Frankfurt and an arrival some time
the following afternoon.  Would the police come looking for me before I
set off?  I reckoned not.  They were probably still trying to trace
which hotel Hashimoto had been staying at.  But that didn't mean the
wait for the connecting flight wasn't hard on my nerves.

Sitting in the departure lounge at Tegel, trying to stop my thoughts
whirling in on themselves, I suddenly realized that there were other
people than myself to consider.  And I badly owed a couple of them a
telephone call.

The first was my father, who seemed strangely unsurprised by my urgent
request for him to call me straight back on a Berlin payphone number.

"I spoke to Miss Bateman yesterday," he explained when we were talking
again.  (I had to think for a moment who he meant.) "She told me you'd
gone to Germany.  What's this all about, son?"

"Too complicated to go into, Dad.  We don't want to overload your phone
bill, do we?"

That's true."  (I'd known the point would appeal to him.)

"Why did you contact Echo?"

"Miss Bateman, you mean?"  (So, the crusty old sod was determined to
cling to formality.) "Because you asked me to have a word with Don
Forrester and let you know the outcome."

"And what was the outcome?"

"Well..  ."

"Come on, Dad.  Remember: you're paying."

"All right.  But Don was reluctant to go into it at first, I can tell
you.  It took some doing to talk him round."

"You managed it, though."

"I did, yes."

"And I'm grateful.  So .. . ?"

"Well, apparently the police considered the possibility that Peter
Dalton had been murdered by a friend who'd been staying with him at
Wilderness Farm.  If the friend left before the shooting, he was
obviously ruled out as a suspect, but it was never determined when he
actually left, because he was never traced.  And the pathologist
narrowly favoured suicide as a cause of death, so '

"Was the friend called Stephen Townley?"

Townley?  Might have been.  Don couldn't remember the name.  What he
did remember, though, was that after finding the body upsetting enough,
you'd have thought Howard Alder virtually accused this friend of
murdering Dalton.  The police might never have known about him
otherwise, though neighbours subsequently confirmed his existence.
What's more, Howard showed Don a photograph of the fellow, taken at '

"Ashcott and Meare railway station."

"How did you know that?"

"I've seen the photograph.  On Rupe's kitchen wall.  But that doesn't
matter.  What efforts did Don make to track down Townley?"

"None.  Officially, it was never a murder inquiry.  And Howard wasn't
exactly a reliable witness.  Although '

"What?"

"Oddly enough, he did come up with a motive for murder."

"Really?  What was that?"

"Howard had taken to sneaking around Wilderness Farm that summer,
apparently.  A few days before the shooting, he was in the yard, spying
through the kitchen window, and he saw claimed he saw a holdall full of
five-pound notes standing on the kitchen table.  Well, there was no
holdall full of cash at the farm when the police searched it.  Howard
suggested it was the proceeds of a crime and that ... Townley, as you
call him .. . had stolen it, after murdering Dalton."

"What did Don make of that?"

"He reckoned Howard had dreamed it up.  This was just after the Great
Train Robbery, remember.  The papers were full of speculation about
where the robbers might have hidden the money.  Don's theory was that
Howard got the idea about the holdall from such stories and used it to
blacken Dalton's reputation."

"Why would he want to do that?"

"Ah, well, that brings us to the reason why Howard was hanging around
Wilderness Farm.  In some ways, it's the most surprising part of the
whole thing."  Dad lowered his voice, as if afraid we might be
overheard.  "It seems Peter Dalton was sweet on Mildred Alder.  So
Howard believed, anyway.  And he didn't approve of Dalton as a suitor
for his sister."  (Never mind approval.  I was having difficulty even
imagining the possibility.) That's why he was spying on Dalton.  And
why he was out to discredit him."

"Did Don ask Mil about this ... relationship?"

"Tried to, apparently.  But George told him it was just a fantasy of
Howard's and Don left it at that.  Although he did say that when he
called at Penfrith it was obvious Mildred was upset about something.
Very upset.  Of course, if Dalton really was courting her, it makes
suicide less credible."

"And murder more credible."

True enough.  But it's all a very long time ago.  That's the only
reason Don was willing to tell me about it.  He doesn't believe in the
jinx, of course.  Reckons the deaths were just coincidental."

"And that George Alder drowned accidentally?"

"He's not sure.  He seems to think suicide is a possibility.  That
might explain why the Alders put the idea about later that George had
drowned in Sedgemoor Drain a more likely place for an accidental
drowning than the Brue."

"Why would George want to kill himself?"

"It hardly seems likely he would want to, does it?  Not with a child on
the way.  Don was flummoxed.  Still is, come to that."

"I'll bet he is."  (So was I.)

"That's about all I can tell you, son.  You could always try asking
Mildred about Peter Dalton, of course.  Just don't ask me to."

"I won't.  Maybe I'll do it myself when I get back."

"When's that likely to be?"

"Not sure."

"Do you want your mother to take any kind of message to the Alders?"

"No.  I don't want you or Mum to contact them.  Just ... drop it."

"Drop it?

"The whole thing.  Do nothing.  Say nothing.  It's best, believe me."

"I was just beginning to enjoy myself."

"Then quit while you're ahead.  I wish I could."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing.  I've got to go, Dad.  Don't worry, OK?  I'll be in touch."

"Yes, but ' 
"Bye."  I didn't enjoy putting the phone down on him, but
cutting him off from what I'd become involved in really was the best
way to protect him.

And the same applied to Echo.  I found her at home, resting up after a
long morning on the post round.  She sounded not just pleased to hear
from me, but relieved.

"Is there something wrong, Echo?"

"I had creepy Carl round here last night, asking where you were and
what you were up to."

"What did you tell him?"

"That you'd gone away without saying where or why."

"It's a good line to stick to."

"Didn't make it any easier to get rid of him."

"But you succeeded in the end?"

"Just about."

"Good.  Now, you remember what you said to me Friday night about moving
out?"

"Yen."

"I think you should.  As soon as possible."

"Why?  What's happened?"

"It's better you don't know."

"I hate it when people say that."

"So do I. But it really is better.  Find lodgings somewhere else, Echo.
Forget Rupe.  Forget me too."

"I can't do that."

"Try."

"Are you at the airport, Lance?"

"Yeh.  How'd you know?"

"I can hear the flight announcements in the background."

"Right."

"You're leaving Berlin?"

"I am, yeh."

"And not to come home?"

"No."

"Where are you going?"

"I'll have to pass on that."

"You're not quitting, though, are you?"

"No."

"Don't you think you should?"

"Definitely."

Then why don't you?"

I had to think about that for a moment.  When the answer came, it was
neither illuminating to Echo nor consoling to me.  But it was true.
"Because the time for quitting has come and gone."

TOKYO

CHAPTER TEN

I reached the Land of the Rising Sun just as the sun was setting.  My
confidence wasn't exactly in the ascendant either.  While most of my
fellow passengers had slept through our night over Russia, I'd spent
the blank hours thinking so hard about the bind I was in that my brain
had turned to mush by the time another day dawned.  Then, eventually, I
did sleep, deep and dreamlessly for all of forty minutes before
landing.

Travelling as light as I was at least meant I didn't have to hang
around the baggage hall at Narita Airport.  I made straight for the
bureau de change, swapped my Deutschmarks for yen, then hit the
information desk.  The legendary courtesy of the Japanese is the only
possible explanation for me going away with a street map of Tokyo on
which neat red crosses marked the locations of the Golden Rickshaw bar
and the Far East office of the Eurybia Shipping Company, along with a
note of their addresses in Japanese.  (There'd turned out to be three
Golden Rickshaws in the Tokyo telephone directory, but one in such a
remote suburb that I ruled it out as a former haunt of American GIs and
another, logically enough, was actually a rickshaw-hire firm.)

I studied the map as the N'Ex train sped me into the city.  The Golden
Rickshaw was in a side-street a shortish distance east of Tokyo's
central station.  To that extent, my luck was in.  (Though the wiseacre
I'd sat next to on the plane had assured me that tracking down
addresses in Tokyo was like looking for a haystack in a galaxy.)
Eurybia's office was quite a way to the south-west, however, so Rupe
wasn't likely to have chanced on the Golden Rickshaw while sampling
nearby bars.  Since it was bang in the centre of the city, he wasn't
likely to have lived just round the corner from it, either.  No, he'd
sought it out.  He'd known what he was looking for all along.  Though
exactly what that was..  .

The Tokyo rush hour was in full swing when I got off the train.  It was
the usual big city swirl of bright lights and dim humanity, amped up to
an oriental pitch I was in no state to deal with.  It was also raining
hard enough to soak my map as I battled out of the station through a
swarm of brolly-wielding commuters.  I immediately set off in the wrong
direction, then had to double back and soon lost count of how many
blocks I was supposed to cover.  A department-store doorman eventually
put me right and I found the side-street I was looking for.  There were
several bars along it, all doing a brisk trade, but no immediate sign
of the Golden Rickshaw, so I tried my luck in one of the
friendlier-looking establishments.  A barman wearing sunglasses was a
first in my experience, but the inky lenses didn't stop him studying
the piece of paper on which I had the Golden Rickshaw's address written
down, while opening a beer for me at the same time.

"Seven doors that way, other side," he announced.  "But it's closed."

"Closed?"

"Six weeks now, must be."

The Hashimotos?"

"Yeh.  They run it.  The family, you know, for years.  Closed now.
Gone."

"Gone where?"

"Hey, they don't tell me."  He wrinkled his nose enough to raise the
sunglasses clear of the bridge.  "They just go."

The mother and the daughter?"

"Yeh.  That's right.  Gone.  Like smoke."

Gone like smoke.  And so they were.  The Golden Rickshaw still had its
gilded emblem hanging over the door, but the bar was unlit, its bamboo
blinds drawn.  Thanks to the headlights of passing cars and the glow of
the nearest street-lamp, I could see something of the interior round
the edges of the blinds: a bare counter beyond a jumble of stacked
tables, chairs and stools, and a slew of unopened mail.  They'd gone.
No question about it.  And those photographs of former patrons
decorating the walls?  They'd gone too.  I could see the nails they'd
hung on.  But they hung no more.  I'd come a third of the way round the
world to find a coop the birds had long since flown without leaving so
much as a stray feather behind them.

It wasn't really surprising, I admitted to myself as I trudged back to
the station.  They knew they were in danger.  The had known, ever since
Rupe made off with the Townley letter.  I knew it now too.  If I could
track them down, so could others.  In the circumstances, business as
usual at the Golden Rickshaw would have been verging on the suicidal.

But where did I go from here?  That was the point.  Where exactly did I
go?  There was only one answer, of course.  It was the second address
written on my piece of paper.

After queuing in the rain at the exit on the other side of the station
for ten minutes, I got myself a cab, waved Eurybia's address under the
driver's nose until he gave me the thumbs-up, then sat back and
surprised myself by falling straight to sleep.

When the driver jogged me awake, my first thought, based on the fare
winking at me from the meter, was that it was the following morning.
But no, it was barely twenty minutes later and we were at the foot of
some alp of a skyscraper.  The driver jabbered something at me that
seemed to mean "We're here' and pointed at the steps leading up to the
brightly lit entrance.  I filled his hand with yen and clambered out.

The Chayama Building fulfilled the office needs of several dozen
corporations, listed on the face of a vast gold monolith that formed a
sort of way-station between the door and the distant reception desk.
Eurybia was on the ninth floor.  But making it to the brushed-steel
lift doors meant talking my way past a security man who looked big and
grim enough to be a moonlighting sumo wrestler.  I had my doubts about
whether I looked the part for office visits and it was also according
to a huge clock on the wall behind him, with hands as long as javelins
and a pendulum as big as a supertanker piston suspiciously late.  I
just had to hope Eurybia's staff were a dedicated bunch.

"Hi.  Eurbyia Shipping?"

The sumo tori smiled with surprising warmth.  "Who you seeing?"

"Not sure.  It concerns .. ."  I shrugged.  "Well, Mr.  Charles Hoare
of their London office said I was to call round.  Could you ask them if
I could go up?"

"What your name?"

"Bradley.  Lance Bradley."

"If they ask ... what about?"

"Say ..."  An inspired notion came to me.  "Say it's about the
Pomparles Trading Company."

Tomplees?"

"Pom-par-lees."

"Pomparlees.  OK."

He picked up the phone, pressed a button and had a brief conversation
with somebody in Japanese.  I caught my name, and Charlie Hoare's and
the agonizingly enunciated Pomparlees.  My name was repeated twice.
Then he waited, phone cradled under his massive chin, grinning at me
like this was one big game as it was, I suppose.  After a minute or so,
conversation resumed.  But not for long.

"OK."  He put the phone down.  "They say you go up."  He flapped a hand
the size of a baseball mitt towards the lift.  "Floor nine."

There was a bloke waiting for me when I exited the lift.  Middle-aged,
sober-tied and dark-suited, stocky going on flabby, he had slicked-back
greying hair and a large,

lugubrious, flat-nosed face rather like a bulldog's, with a long
diagonal crease across his forehead so prominent it could have been a
scar.  "Mr.  Bradley?"  he ventured, bowing slightly.

"Yeh.  Thanks for '

"I am Toshishige Yamazawa."  We shook hands.  "Pleased to meet you."

"Me too, Mr.  Yamazawa."  I glanced along the corridor and spotted a
Eurybia Shipping sign above a set of double doors at the end.  It
looked like I still wasn't actually on the premises and Yamazawa didn't
seem to be in a tearing hurry to change that.  "Shall we, er ..."

"Can I see some identification, please?"

"Passport do?"

"Surely."

I handed it over and he looked studiously at my photograph, then handed
it back.

"Rupe spoke about you."

"He did?"  (That was a surprise, I'd have had to admit.) "So, you, er,
worked with him?"

"Yes.  And now I work with Mr' he nodded towards the Eurybia doors
"Penberthy."

"Right."

"Mr.  Penberthy is not a happy man.  He wanted me to send you away."

"How did you talk him round?"

"No need.  He talks himself round if you let him.  But he will soon
leave us to it and then .. ."  Yamazawa winked at me with so little
change of expression that I thought for a moment it was some kind of
muscular tic.  But no.  He was trying to tell me something.  "Then we
talk."  (Ah.  So that's what he was trying to tell me.)

"Mr.  Penberthy is Rupe's successor?"

"Successor, yes.  But not exactly a replacement."  (I couldn't make up
my mind whether his candour was to my advantage or not.  Either way, it
was the last thing I'd have expected of the nose-to-the-grindstone
salary man I took him to be.) "I take you to meet him."

Yamazawa led the way to the doors, where he tapped out a code on a
number-pad to gain access.  Inside, we walked down a short corridor
into a large, stark, grey-furnished office.  A block of desks, about
half of which were still occupied despite the fact that seven o'clock
had come and gone, filled the centre of the room, where assorted
Eurybians nursed telephones and squinted at computer screens.  None of
them paid me the slightest heed.

We pressed on towards a trio of larger, partitioned-off desks, behind
one of which sat a thin, blue-suited European.  He was leaning back in
his chair, conducting a telephone conversation that his frowns and
grimaces suggested wasn't pleasing him.  He had fair, receding hair and
dark shadows round his eyes.  His skin had an unhealthy, yellowish
tinge to it.  All in all, I'd have said his nearest and dearest had
good reason to be worried about him.

"Penberthy-san, this is our visitor," Yamazawa announced as we
approached.  "Mr.  Bradley."

Penberthy slammed the phone down and frowned at it rather than me.
"Bloody Charlie Hoare," he said.  "Not in yet.  Can you believe it?"

"It's only ten-fifteen in London," said Yamazawa (sounding deliberately
provocative to me).

Penberthy glared at him, then turned his attention to me.  "Mr.
Bradley, is it?"

"Yes.  I '

"We've had nothing from Charlie Hoare about a visit from you.  And this
is a pretty odd bloody hour to come calling."

"Mr.  Bradley gave Charlie Hoare some information about the Pomparles
Trading Company," said Yamazawa.

"Only the origin of the name," I explained, grinning to cover my
surprise.  How did he know I'd done that?

"Very considerate of you," snapped Penberthy.  "God, if I ever hear the
end of this bloody Pomparles business I think I'll be dreaming."

"It is a complicated affair," said Yamazawa.

"Don't I know it?  Complicated enough to get me targeted by burglars in
this supposedly crime-free city."

"You've been burgled?"  I asked.

"Oh yes.  And not just once.  But He broke off and eyed me doubtfully.
"Without the say-so from Hoare Who Must Be Obeyed, I'm not sure we
should be discussing Eurybia business with you, Mr.  Bradley."

"I'm an old friend of Rupe Alder's.  I'm trying to find out what's
happened to him, on behalf of his family."

"It's still no can do as far as I'm concerned."

"I would be willing to help Bradley-san as much as I can," said
Yamazawa.

"Why?"  asked Penberthy.

"Why not?"

"Because Charlie mightn't like you to, old man."

"In that event it would be my problem, not yours, Penberthy-san."

"Bloody right it would.  I'd make sure of that."

"Of course."  Yamazawa smiled.  "So would I."  (Penberthy looked as
puzzled as I felt.  What was Yamazawa up to?) "Bradley-san and I can
have little talk at the Nezumi.  Off the record."

"It'll be on the record if this goes pear-shaped.  Your record."

"But if I learn something of importance .. ."

"You'll be in Charlie Hoare's good books.  Fine.  Go on.  I don't care.
Do what you like.  It's not worth the risk for a few brownie points in
my opinion, but, then' he waved one hand expansively across his desk
'when did my opinion ever count for anything around here?"

The Nezumi was a small bar a few blocks from the Chayama Building.
Yamazawa seemed to be well known there, exchanging a strange Japanese
version of high-fives with the barman and several of the customers.
Most of them looked to be salary slaves in his own age bracket.  They
were drinking and smoking at a stiffish pace, inebriation a certain
destination -unless asphyxiation got them first.

Yamazawa lit up and ordered a couple of beers.  "Kampai," he announced,
polishing off half of his in three swallows.  "We drink to health and
happiness for Penberthy."

"We do?"

ISQ

"A pompous hope, of course."

"Don't you mean pious?"

"Not sure."  He flicked his tie back over his shoulder, out of harm's
way, finished his beer and ordered another.  "But I have done my
duty."

'1 get the impression you won't be seeking the presidency of
Penberthy's fan club."

"I couldn't afford to refuse it.  But there are different kinds of
duty.  The office kind.  And our kind."

"You mean friendship?"

"Rupe is my friend and yours, Bradley-san.  He did me ... a great
kindness."

"Oh yes?"

"You could say he saved my life."

"How?"

"A private matter.  We leave it there.  OK?"

"OK.  Though, as it happens, you could say he saved my life too."

"Strange."  Yamazawa peered at me through his cigarette smoke.  "Rupe
is more careful with his friends' lives than his own."

"You think his life's in danger?"

"For sure.  Unless ... it is already over."

"Pessimistic bugger, aren't you?"

"It is in my nature.  Not in Rupe's, though.  He always sees a bright
dawn.  Which is good .. . unless you are dazzled by the brightness."

"Do you know anything about the Golden Rickshaw bar?"

"You have been there?"

"It's closed."

"I know.  My fault, you could say."

"How's that?"

"I introduced Rupe to it.  He used to ask me about Tokyo in the old
days.  Fifties and Sixties.  The American bases interested him.  One
weekend, he got me to drive him round them Yokosuka, Zama, Atsugi,
Yokota.  The whole lot.  A long day of gates and fences and Jeeps and
helicopters.  And Rupe looking .. . for something."

"What was he looking for?"

"He didn't say.  But when I mentioned a bar I'd heard about in Ginza
with a ... strange kind of reputation .. ."

"The Golden Rickshaw?"

"Yes.  The Rickshaw."

"And the reputation?"

"My uncle used to mention it.  He was a fish merchant.  Quite a
successful one.  The American bases were good customers of his.  He got
to know some of the men.  He talked with them.  That's how he heard
about the Rickshaw."

"And what did he hear?"

"Normally the officers used certain bars and clubs, the lower ranks
certain other bars and clubs.  They didn't mix.  Except at the
Rickshaw.  That made it very unusual.  Unique, I should think.  It was
a long way from the bases, of course.  You wouldn't go there without a
reason.  Or an invitation."

"Who issued the invitations?"

"Who knows?  Uncle Sato didn't, for sure.  But he did supply fish to
the American Embassy as well as the bases.  And he heard the Rickshaw
mentioned there also.  Or, to be correct, he was asked about it
there."

"Asked?"

"Yes.  Was the Golden Rickshaw a customer of his?  It seemed important,
so he said.  It seemed like it would make a difference to whether they
went on using him.  He said no, which was the truth.  And they did go
on using him.  But it was strange, he said, being asked, and being
asked at that particular time.  You remember Gary Powers?"

"The American pilot shot down over Russia in a spy plane?"

"May, nineteen sixty.  That is right.  Powers flew his mission from
Atsugi Naval Air Station.  Uncle Sato was asked about the Golden
Rickshaw just a few days after the news broke."

"What's the connection?"

"Who is saying there is one?"

"You are, good as."

"No, no, Bradley-san.  I am just warming up Uncle Sato's stale old
stories, like a loyal nephew should."

"Did Uncle Sato know the Hashimotos?"

"No.  But he knew people who did.  Tokyo was a smaller city then. There
was nothing said against them.  They were a respectable family. They
still are."

"So, you took Rupe along to the Golden Rickshaw?"

"Yes.  We went there."

"What was it like?"

Yamazawa shrugged.  "Like a lot of other places.  Quieter than most,
maybe.  Mayumi Hashimoto was the mama.  She ran it well.  Helped by her
daughter.  There were no Americans.  That time was gone."

"But there were photographs of that time on display, weren't there?"

Yamazawa looked surprised.  "How did you know about those,
Bradley-san?"

"I met Kiyofumi Hashimoto, Mayumi's brother."

"Ah.  He also is looking for Rupe."  Yamazawa nodded.  "Of course."  (I
wondered if I ought to tell him then that poor old Kiyo was looking no
more, but some instinct held me back.) "He came to see me shortly after
Rupe left Tokyo."

"Accusing him of theft?"

"Yes.  And of deceiving Hashimoto's niece, Haruko.  That was a surprise
to me."

"Didn't you know about their engagement?"

"No.  I did not.  I never even knew Rupe had gone on visiting the
Golden Rickshaw after that one time I took him there.  He said nothing
to me about any of it.  He kept his resignation secret too.  I only
found out he was leaving when London faxed us with news of his
replacement."

"That wasn't very friendly of him."

"He apologized to me.  He said there were .. . reasons ... why he had
to be so secretive."

"But he didn't say what those reasons were?"

Yamazawa smiled thinly.  "No."

"Why don't we have another beer?"  I asked, glancing at our suddenly
empty glasses.

"Good idea."  Yamazawa arranged that with little more than a twitch of
the eyebrows.  "You like Sapporo beer?"

"It hits the spot."

"For sure.  Not for Rupe, though."

"No?"

"He was always careful not to drink too much.  I thought it was just ..
. self-control.  Now I wonder if he couldn't risk it.  You know?  In
case he got really drunk and .. . gave something away."

"Some of those secrets?"

"Some.  Or all.  I don't know."

"He stole a letter from Mayumi Hashimoto."

"So her brother said."

"I need to find that letter."

"But you are not the only one looking, I think.  Hashimoto said his
sister and niece were in danger because of it.  That is why they went
away.  To hide.  And since then .. . there have been the break-ins."

"You mean the burglaries Penberthy complained of?"

"He lives in the flat Rupe used to live in.  It is leased by Eurybia.
It has been broken into twice.  Nothing has been stolen.  But
everything has been searched.  Thoroughly.  Of course, Rupe left
nothing there."

"He took all his possessions with him?"

"Not difficult, Bradley-san.  I saw how he lived.  One suitcase would
have been enough.  But you are his friend, so I must be honest with
you.  He did not take everything with him."

"Are you holding something for him?"  I asked, reckoning I'd caught his
drift.

Yamazawa nodded solemnly in confirmation.  "A briefcase.  He asked me
to keep it safe and secret.  I did not tell Hashimoto about it.  But
that was before the break-ins and the Pomparles scandal.  Something is
wrong, I think.  Very wrong.  I have been thinking that maybe the time
has come to open the briefcase and see what it contains."

"I think maybe you're right."

"Yes."  He took a deep swallow of beer.  "We do it tonight."

"Where is it?"

"At my flat."

"How far?"

"An hour on the subway."

That could be a problem for me."

"Why?"

"Claustrophobia."

"We are all claustrophobics on the Tokyo subway."

"No, no.  I mean it.  Really."

"In that case, I have bad news for you, Bradley-san."  He gave me
another glimpse of his thin-lipped smile.  "You will have to pay for
the taxi."

"This is real luxury," he was enthusing twenty minutes later, as our
taxi cruised westwards through the wet Tokyo night, its tyres hissing
on the rain-slicked streets, the raindrops on its windscreen blurring
the passing ranks of neon-lit signs.  "To tell you the truth,
Bradley-san, I don't like the subway either."

"You suffer from claustrophobia as well?"

"Not exactly.  But you've heard of the Tokyo gas attack?"

"Yeh.  A few years ago.  Some doomsday cult released nerve gas on the
subway, didn't they?  Were you caught up in that?"

"Yes."  He smiled, which seemed an odd way to remember such an
experience.  "I did not get a serious dose.  Not of the sarin, I mean.
But I trusted life before that day.  Then I saw how easily it could all
fall apart.  I haven't really fitted in since then.  Maybe that is why
my wife left me.  Maybe that is why I have done a lot of things I
should not have done.  It conics down to chance in the end.  My wife
wanted me to take the day off.  It was a Monday, March twentieth, and
Tuesday was a public holiday for the start of spring, so we could have
had a long weekend.  I was working for one of the bigger shipping
companies then.  Working hard.  I was a dedicated man.  I said I had to
go in.  And that was the day I stopped' his smile broadened 'being a
dedicated man."

I tried to prise out some more details of Yamazawa's brush with death
on the subway, but he artfully diverted me into an account of how Rupe
had led me into danger then got me out of it the very last time I'd
ventured any distance underground.  I had the impression Yamazawa had
already revealed more of himself than he thought wise.  But I also had
the impression he couldn't really stop himself.

His flat was on the third floor of a drab, mid-rise block in a remote
western suburb: one small living room and three windowless cupboards
that the fittings suggested were bedroom, kitchen and bathroom.  (The
modesty of the accommodation didn't stop me being required on entering
to swap my shoes for a pair of mules I could barely squeeze my toes
into.) A couple of large bean-bags and a low table were about it on the
lounge furniture front.  Supplementary decoration was confined to a
framed wood-block print showing snow falling across warehouse roofs on
a moonlit night.  It was beautifully coloured and looked far too good
for its surroundings.

"My proudest possession," said Yamazawa, noticing my gaze linger on it.
"You know the artist?  Kawase Hasui."

"I don't know any artists.  Especially not Japanese ones."

"Ah, but Hasui was a genius.  You can see that, can't you?"

"I suppose so."

"My best investment as well as my proudest possession.  It would
probably bring a bigger price than this flat."

Tempted to sell?"

"Often.  But I have not yet been desperate enough.  Now, to business.
Sit down, please.  I fetch the case."

I lowered myself onto one of the bean-bags while Yamazawa hurried away
into the bedroom.  I heard a cupboard door open and close.  Then he was
back, carrying the briefcase Rupe had entrusted to his care.  It was a
slim, black leather briefcase, with combination locks a standard-issue
executive sandwich carrier.  "I do not think we will find the stolen
letter inside," said Yamazawa, laying it flat on the table and kneeling
down opposite me.

"No.  He'll have taken that with him."

"But something important, for sure.  Something he did not want them to
find if they came looking."

"When they came looking.  I guess it was always a certainty."

"It is not going to be easy to break open."

"Maybe we don't need to break it open."

"You know the combination?"

"No.  But I know Rupe.  He chose the name Pomparles for a reason. It'll
be the same with the combination.  A four-figure number .. . with some
secret significance."  I tried 1963.  But no joy.  "Too obvious,
perhaps.  How about a Wilderness Farm connection?  Peter Dalton died on
the nineteenth of August."  But 1908 didn't work either.  Nor did
0863.

"His birthday, maybe?"

I tried it.  "No."

"His father's birthday?"

"I wouldn't know when that was.  But hold on."  (A thought had suddenly
struck me.) "I do know the date of his father's death.  The seventeenth
of November."  And 1711 did the trick.  The case opened.

To reveal a sheaf of papers and a wallet of photographs.  "What is
there?"  asked Yamazawa, craning over the lid.

"Not sure.  Take a look at these pics."  I handed him the wallet, then
took out the papers and began leafing through them.  They were all
photocopies.  A lot were of the very same Central Somerset Gazette
stories Dad had dug out for me, plus several he hadn't, though all on
the same theme the crop of deaths around Street during the summer and
autumn of 1963.  There were articles from the national press as well,
about the Great Train Robbery and the search for the gang and their
loot TRAIN ROBBERS' HIDE-OUT DISCOVERED, blared an August 1963
headline.  Others were parts of large-scale Ordnance Survey maps of the
Street area, which looked as if they dated from the same period.
Wilderness Farm was picked out in yellow highlighter.  And so was Cow
Bridge.  There was also a copy of a page from an old British Railways
Western Region timetable showing services on the Somerset and Dorset
line, with stopping times at Ashcott and Meare highlighted.  Rupe had
been plotting the past to prepare for the future.  But what sort of
future had it been?

"Does it tell you anything?"  asked Yamazawa.

"Nothing I didn't already know."  I looked up at him.  "What about the
photographs?"

"See for yourself."  He spread them out on the table.

They were apparently unremarkable snapshots, mostly of an attractive
young Japanese woman, sometimes posing as solemn-faced as a priestess,
sometimes smiling radiantly.  Whichever the expression, there was a
trusting intensity in her gaze that convinced me at once that she loved
the person taking her picture to the point of adoration.  "Haruko
Hashimoto?"

"Yes," said Yamazawa.  "A most charming fiancee."

"And this must be Mayumi."  I pointed to a picture of Haruko standing
next to an older woman.  They'd been snapped in front of some kind of
temple with other people wandering past in the background.  Both were
lightly and casually dressed.  It looked like high summer.  There was a
strong family resemblance between the two women and it was pretty
obvious where Haruko had got her looks from.

"Mother and daughter taking a stroll in Ueno Park," said Yamazawa,
recognizing the spot.  "Also charming."

"Until you know Rupe's just stringing them along."

"He stays out of the picture."

"So he does."  I looked for Rupe in vain, then noticed one photograph
that appeared to be black and white, which it obviously couldn't be if
it was from the same film.  "What's this?"

I picked it up to examine, holding it between us so that Yamazawa could
see as well.  The picture was in black and white.  Three men in
lightweight US military uniforms were sitting at a table in a bar.
There were drifts of smoke and blurred figures in the background at
other tables.  One of the three had his back to the camera and was half
in shadow.  He was young and slim, his dark hair cropped just shy of a
crew-cut.  He was looking across the table to his left, the light
catching his chin and cheekbone.  The man he was looking at was facing
the camera, though apparently unaware of its existence.  He was
stockier and slightly older, with a hint of flab around his jaw and
waist and a smile creasing his wide face as he raised a beer bottle in
his hand.  "It is a photograph of a photograph," said Yamazawa.  "One
of the pictures from the wall of the Golden Rickshaw."  He was right.
There were odd patches of sheen on the print that could only be
reflections from the glass in the frame.

"Yeh," I said.  "And I know why he chose this particular picture."  The
third man at the table, also facing the camera, was thinner and
grimmer-faced than his beaming companion.  He was also slightly younger
than in the only other photograph of him I'd seen.  Or maybe that was
just the effect of his trim, pressed uniform.  Whatever the case, there
was no mistaking the way he was holding his cigarette behind his palm,
between forefinger and thumb, just as he had the day he'd been waiting
for a train at Ashcott and Meare station.  "It's Stephen Townley," I
said.

"Who is Stephen Townley?"

"The subject of the letter Rupe stole."

"An important man?"

"Maybe.  Dangerous, for certain."

"Who are the other two?"

"Haven't a clue."

"I think we have."

"I don't see one."

"The smile."  Yamazawa pointed at the grinning bloke with the beer
bottle.  Then he picked up another photograph and held it in front of
me.  "The smile is the same."

And so it was.  Worn by a forty-or-so years older man.  His hair was
still short, but had turned white with age.  The surplus flesh under
his jaw had become a wodge of fat, the sagging stomach a substantial
paunch.  But the smile hadn't altered.  He was standing next to Haruko
Hashimoto, dwarfing her almost, given how much taller and broader he
was, grinning amiably at the camera and hence at Rupe.  "Bloody hell,"
I murmured.  "It's the same man."

"For sure."

"He's still here."

"Not here, actually."

"You can see for yourself."

"Yes, Bradley-san, I can.  But that is not Tokyo."

I looked more closely.  Smiler and Haruko were standing on what was
probably a balcony, its railings visible behind them.

On the other side of the street below was a neatly clipped hedge and,
beyond it, a moat, a stone-block wall and part of what looked like a
castle or palace, high-roofed and ornately eaved.

That is Nijo-jo," said Yamazawa.  "In Kyoto."

"Kyoto?"

"Yes.  The ancient capital."

"Are you sure this photograph was taken there?"

"I took my son to Kyoto for a holiday two years ago.  We saw many
temples.  But Koichi preferred the castle of Nijo-jo, because of its
so-called nightingale floors.  They squeak, however softly you walk on
them an old trick of the shoguns, to warn them of intruders.  Koichi
loved that.  He made me take him several times.  So, I remember
Nijo-jo.  This photograph was taken in somebody's flat, I would guess,
overlooking the castle.  Rupe must be standing in shadow for the light
to be right.  So, he is in the room.  They are on the balcony."

"Whose flat?"

"Not Haruko's or Rupe's, obviously."

"But Smiler's."

"Probably."

"An American in his sixties who was based here as a soldier and stayed
on or came back."

"Could be."

"And he could be sheltering Haruko and her mother.  Now."

"It is as likely as anything else."

"A flat near .. . what was it?"

"Nijo-jo.  Quite a landmark."

"And Smiler's probably a landmark in his own right round there.  Which
means it should be possible to trace him."

"I think you would have a good chance."

"And I haven't got a lot of chances to choose from, have I?  How far's
Kyoto?"

"By one of our famous bullet trains, less than three hours."

I sat back and gazed vacantly at the photographs in front of us.
Chances and choices?  I never seemed to have enough of either.  "It's
the bullet train for me, then."

With my next move decided, we both relaxed.  Yamazawa (Toshi, as I was
calling him by now, even though I couldn't shift him from Bradley-san)
invited me to stay the night, which was more or less inevitable, given
how late it was.  He then opened a bottle of some potent spirit called
shochu, into which we made alarmingly mind-mangling inroads as the
night deepened.

Yamazawa had identified another of Rape's photographs as having been
taken in Kyoto Haruko strolling along a picturesque tree-lined canal;
the Philosopher's Walk, he'd called it.  This and all the other
snapshots of the winsome maiden Rupe had heartlessly strung along led
us into gloomy reflections on the human capacity for deceit, which in
turn plunged Yamazawa into a morbid analysis of the failure of his
marriage, something he admitted to being so ashamed of that he could
only discuss it with a foreigner.

But that was only a detour.  All conversational roads if you could call
our slurred ramblings a conversation led back to Rupe, our loyal friend
who was clearly capable of big-time disloyally where others were
concerned.  That thought got to me in the end and I decided that
Yamazawa deserved to be told the truth.  So, some time around midnight,
I broke the news of Hashimoto's death.

"These are serious people you are mixing it with, Bradley-san," he said
after a lengthy pause.

"Believe me, Toshi, if I'd known how serious ..."

"You never would have got involved."

Too right."

"Then be glad you did not know."

"Glad?

"Yes.  Because you would have done nothing.  You would have turned your
back on your friend.  And that shame that dishonour would have stayed
with you for the rest of your life."

"I could have lived with it."

"For sure.  But living like that' he nodded solemnly to himself 'is a
kind of death."

"It's the other kind I'm worried about."

"No need."  Yamazawa grinned at me.  "Our trains are very safe."

I woke next morning on Yamazawa's lumpy guest futon to a stream of
sunlight through the window and a headache for which the word 'ache'
was pitifully inappropriate.  I felt as if I'd had brain surgery and a
scalpel had been left carelessly embedded in my cerebellum.  Yamazawa
would probably have told me this was what shochu hangovers were always
like, but a tottering exploration of the flat revealed he was in no
position to, since he'd already gone to work long since, for all I knew
leaving a farewell note Blu-Tacked to the inside of the front door.

Bradley-san,

I cannot give Penberthy more to complain about by being late, so I
leave you sleeping like a baby.  (I would not let a baby drink shochu,
of course.) The easiest way to get to Tokyo station for your train to
Kyoto is by subway, but I expect you prefer another way.  So, walk down
the hill to the local station and take a taxi.  To save some yen, take
it to Shin-Kawasaki station.  That is on the main line.  You can travel
into Tokyo above ground from there.  Call me on my mobile (not at
Eurybia) and let me know what happens in Kyoto.  The number is
90-5378-2447.  Good luck and stay well.

Toshishige PS There is nothing for breakfast.

KANS AI

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The Shinkansen super-express lived up to Yamazawa's billing and
delivered me to Kyoto on the button of the timetable just after one
o'clock.  The dawn sunshine in Tokyo had flattered to deceive.  It was
a cold, grey, autumn day in the former capital.

There was nothing in the least venerable about its futuristic railway
station, but the taxi ride to Nijo-jo took me past a couple of ancient
temples and it was pretty obvious the city beat to a less frenetic drum
than its brash young cousin.

There were a couple of tour buses parked at the front of the castle and
a steady stream of visitors filing past the ticket barrier, across the
moat and in through the high-porched gate.  Those nightingale floors
were still pulling in the punters.  But relics of the shogunate weren't
what had brought me.  Clutching Rupe's photograph in my hand, I started
off round the perimeter, following Yamazawa's directions.

It didn't take long to find what I was looking for.  A double-roofed
structure some sort of guardhouse, I supposed -soared above the wall at
its south-eastern corner.  I'd only to cross the road to the south and
look up to match it to the photograph.  And I'd only to turn round to
see several modern blocks of flats with balconies commanding a good
view of it.  I was there.

At any rate, I was close.  But which block exactly did Smiler live in?
I covered fifty yards of the pavement three times before I reckoned I
had the right angle on the guardhouse.  It led me to a six-storey,
ochre-coloured block with railinged balconies.  Among the bicycles
propped near the entrance stood a big old Harley-Davidson motorbike. As
transport favoured by the locals it didn't convince.  But as an exiled
American's token of his easy-riding youth it was a different matter.  I
took a look at the names next to the bells beside the
combination-locked front door.  And standing out like a butte in an
Arizona of Japanese script was LOUD ON M. I pressed the bell.

No answer.  And repetition didn't change that.  Loudon, M."  was
evidently out.  Sans motorbike, but out.  I tried the next bell down,
but only got a Japanese woman who didn't speak any English.  She had
the good sense to cut me off.  I tried another bell, with pretty
similar results.  It looked like I was just going to have to wait for
Loudon to return, as he was bound to, sooner or later.  At least I'd
recognize him when he did.

Half an hour slowly (very slowly) passed.  Traffic trundled by.  Nobody
came or went.  I started to feel hungry and was giving some serious
thought to shoving off in search of food (and drink) when a young woman
cycled to a halt at the roadside and wheeled her bike in towards me.

"Excuse me," I ventured.  "Do you speak English?"

"A little," she said, bowing and beaming at me.

"You live here?"

"Yes.  I live here."

"Do you know Mr.  Loudon?"  I flourished the photograph.  "American
guy.  Here he is.  Loudon?"

"Ah, Miller."  It seemed they were on first-name terms, which had to be
good, even if she didn't pronounce Miller the way they would in
Arkansas.  "You friend of Miller?"

"More friend of a friend."  She gaped at me uncomprehendingly.  "Do you
know where I can find him?"

She frowned.  "He live here."

"But he's not in."

"Not in?"

"Not at home."

"Ah.  Sumimasen.  Sorry."

"Any idea where he might be?"

She thought for a moment, then said, "Probably ... he is teaching."

"He teaches?"

"Yes.  How do you say?  Some of the time?  Part of the time?"

"Part-time."

"Hal Part-time.  Yes."

"Where?"

"Doshisha most, I think."

"Doshisha?"

"University.  Doshisha University."

"Where's that?"

"Ah, two kilometres."  She gestured vaguely behind her.  "This way. But
you can take the subway.  It is near Imadegawa station."

"Right.  Thanks a lot."

It wasn't the subway for me, of course.  I picked up a cab that had
just unloaded a few more visitors to Nijo-jo and took the overland
route.

I tracked our progress on a map I'd bought at the railway station.  We
headed east, then north along a wide, straight road past the old
Imperial Park.  The Doshisha University campus was clearly marked, dead
ahead at the northern end of the park.

The taxi dropped me in a leafy driveway that filtered off into a maze
of red-brick courtyards across which students were hurrying, on foot or
cycle, to their next uplifting class.  I stopped a couple of them long
enough to try the name Miller Loudon and see if it rang any bells. They
talked it over and finally decided that, yes, there was a Loudon on the
staff.

"Faculty of Letters," one of them concluded, pointing towards a
triple-arched entrance to one of the buildings on the other side of the
courtyard.  "Ask inside."

I did.  Happily, the receptionist turned out to speak excellent

English.  "Mr.  Loudon is one of our part-time teachers," she agreed.
"That is right.  American literature."  She studied a timetable, then
the clock.  "He has a class now.  Until four."

"I must see him.  Urgently."

"You can see him.  At four.  I will give you the room number."  She
smiled.  "And you can meet him when he leaves."

She was right, of course.  Bursting in on him in the midst of his
students wasn't a smart idea.  Four o'clock it would have to be.

And four o'clock it was, or a few minutes after, with the first shadows
of dusk gathering in the corridor, when the relevant door opened on the
second floor of the Faculty of Letters and a dozen eager-eyed students
spring-heeled their way out and past me.

I stepped into the doorway as the last of them left.  Miller Loudon,
white-haired and paunchy likeness of his photographed self, was
shovelling papers into an old canvas knapsack.  He was wearing jeans
and a tweed jacket over a checked shirt part academic, part cowboy.

"Miller Loudon?"

"Yuh."  He looked up at me.  "What can I do for you?"

"Not sure.  But I believe you know the Hashimotos.  Mayumi and
Haruko."

"You belie veT He walked over to me with a stiff-hipped limp.  "Who are
you?"

"Lance Bradley.  A friend of '

"Rupe Alder's."  He nodded grimly.  "That's whose friend you are, isn't
it?"

"Yes.  How did you '

"Never mind.  What in God's name are you doing in Kyoto?"

"We need to talk, Mr.  Loudon."

"I was hoping we'd never need to.  But you're right.  We do now.  Not
here, though."

"Where, then?"

"Follow me."

We took the lift down.  "My hip doesn't care for stairs," said Loudon
as we descended.  "I keep asking them to schedule my classes for the
first floor, but at my age you don't have a lot of bargaining power.  I
should be retired by rights, but where else would they find someone who
can see inside Hemingway's soul?"

The patter seemed genial enough, but I had the impression it was just a
holding operation and that something far less genial was simmering
beneath the surface of his remarks.  He led the way out of the
building, across the courtyard and down the drive towards the road that
ran along the northern side of the Imperial Park.

"Mind telling me how you found me, Lance?"  he asked as we went.

In answer, I held up the photograph for him to see.

"Holy shit.  Where's that come from?"

"It was among some things Rupe left with a colleague at Eurybia in
Tokyo for safekeeping."

"What colleague might that be?"

"Name of Yamazawa."

"Never heard of him.  And let's hope no one else has either."

"What do you mean?"

"If you can follow the trail, so can others."

"And that might lead those "others" to Mayumi and Haruko?"

"Shut up until we're off the grounds, can't you?  At least try to be
careful."

"All right."

So, chastened into silence, I said nothing as we crossed the road and
entered the park.  The outer wall was separated from the inner wall
surrounding the old Imperial Palace by a vast expanse of gravel, where
a few dog-walkers and strollers were dotted about blurred figures in
the encroaching twilight.  Loudon took a scarf from his knapsack and
draped it round his neck as a concession to the deepening chill, his
breath misting as he crunched along.

"There's something I have to tell you .. . Miller," I began.  "About
Mayumi's brother."

"Oh, there's plenty, yeh, Lance.  But if you're honing your

breaking-bad-news technique, I ought to let you know that we do get TV
and newspapers in this city."

"You've heard?"

"Take a look at this."  He opened his knapsack and pulled out an
English newspaper.  At least, it looked to be English, but then I saw
the title: The Japan Times.  And a fraction of a second later I saw
Kiyofumi Hashimoto's photograph low down on the front page.  Japanese
businessman slain in Berlin ran the headline.  "The Yomiuri Shimbun
made a bigger splash of it," Loudon went on, reading the surprise on my
face.  "When you're on the run, you really should pay more attention to
the news-stands."

"On the run?"

"Well, what would you call it?"

"Something that doesn't sound so guilty, I suppose."

"But you are guilty, Lance, aren't you?  The German police obviously
think so, even though they haven't come out and said it."

"Guilty of what?"

"What do you think?"

"Look, OK, strictly speaking I should have stayed and helped the police
with their inquiries, but I reckoned Berlin wasn't a safe place to hang
around.  And would you really have wanted me to anyway?  There was
nothing I could do to help Kiyo."

"I'm not talking about Kiyofumi."  He stopped and stared at me.  "Hold
on.  Are you saying .. . you didn't do it?"

"Didn't do whatT

"Kill Eric Townley."

"He's dead?"

"Oh yeh.  Well and truly.  Found battered about the head '

"In my hotel room.  Oh my God."

"So you do know."

"No.  He wasn't dead.  Not when I left.  I mean, I hit him, yes.  With
a lamp.  But '

"That's the trouble with German furniture.  Heavy."

"He wasn't dead, I'm telling you.  Unconscious, but breathing.  And it
was self-defence, for God's sake.  He had a gun."

"No mention of that in the papers."  "What do they say?"

"See for yourself."  He handed me The Japan Times and I held up the
article to read in the dwindling light.

JAPANESE BUSINESSMAN SLAIN IN BERLIN Kiyofumi Hashimoto, 47, a senior
manager with the Fujisaka Microprocessor Corporation, was shot dead on
Tuesday while aboard an open-top tour bus in the center of Berlin.
German Police say the killing appears to have been the work of a
professional assassin.

They believe it is connected with another death in the city on Tuesday,
the apparent murder of Erich Townley, 45, a dual German-American
citizen found dead from head injuries in a room at the Hotel Adlon.
They are trying to trace the person who had been staying in the room,
Lancelot Bradley, 37, a British citizen believed to have been with
Hashimoto at the time of the shooting.

They are also seeking witnesses to both deaths, especially those who
may have seen a man behaving suspiciously in or near the Hotel
Botschafter, opposite the bus stop in Tauentzienstrasse where Hashimoto
was shot.  The hotel has been undergoing refurbishment and its rooms
facing Tauentzienstrasse have been empty during the work.  It is
thought the assassin fired from one of these rooms during the builders'
lunch break.

In Tokyo yesterday, Ryozo Moriguchi, Executive Director of the Fujisaka
Corporation, paid tribute to Hashimoto, saying

"Bloody hell," I mumbled, handing the paper back to Loudon.  "On the
run is right."

"Fraid so, Lance."

"None of this was my fault."

"Reckon not."

"It could just as easily have been me as Kiyo who died on that bus."

"Kiyofumi was a good man.  A loyal brother to Mayumi.  A

loving uncle to Haruko.  I knew him.  I don't know you.  So, you'll
understand if I personally regret that it wasn't you."

"I was trying to help."

"So Kiyofumi said."

"He told you about me?"

"He told Mayumi."

"Where is she?"

"I'm not sure you need to know that."

"But you are sheltering her and Haruko?"

"I'm doing my best to protect them, yuh.  The question is: do I need to
protect them from you?"

"I'm no threat to anyone."

"No?  What happened to Kiyofumi doesn't exactly confirm that, now does
it?"

"It wasn't my fault.  Kiyo was calling the shots."

"Unfortunate choice of metaphor, Lance."

"Look, what I mean is '

"Why are you here?"

' Why?  Because the Townleys have to be stopped.  Can't you see that?
Hiding won't cut it."

"Brave words."

"Desperate ones, actually."

"Yuh.  Well, I can see how you might be desperate.  But not bereaved.
And not betrayed.  Mayumi and Haruko are two up on you there."

"I can't change what Rupe did.  And I can't bring Kiyo back to life."

"True enough."

"But I can do something to stop the Townleys."  (Though God alone knew
what.) "And you can help me."

"How exactly?"

"By telling me what this is really all about.  Beginning with what's in
the Townley letter."

"Didn't Kiyofumi let you in on that?"

"He did not."

"Because Mayumi swore him to secrecy."

"So I gathered."

"Well, it's the same here, Lance."

"For God's sake.  We're in this together.  Whether any of us like it or
not.  I think I'm entitled to know what it is that I'm in."

"You have a point."

"Well?"

"It's not my decision."

"Take me to Mayumi, then."

"No can do."

"Why not?"

"Because that might be just what they want me to do."  Loudon sighed
and cast a glance behind and in front of us.  "Has it occurred to you
that the "professional assassin" who shot Kiyofumi was almost certainly
professional enough to account for you as well?"

"What are you getting at?"

"I'm getting at the disturbing possibility that you were allowed to
escape.  For the specific purpose of doing exactly what you have
done."

"You think I've been followed?"

"Maybe."

"That's crazy.  On the plane?  Everywhere I've been?  No way."

"A professional assassin is a stalker as well as a shooter, Lance.  The
whole point of the operation is that you don't know it's happening."

"I'd know."  (But that was whistling in the wind.  Would I really have
known?) "Besides, if you're right, why did Erich try to stop me?"

"Disobeying orders, maybe.  You and Kiyofumi were putting the squeeze
on him."

"All right."  I shrugged theatrically, more annoyed by the thought that
I could well have been followed than I was prepared to admit.  "In that
case, what do we do?"

"We go to a little bar I know a few blocks from here and talk it
through over a drink."  Loudon grinned disarmingly.  There are some
things I am allowed to tell you."

The bar was a cavernous basement under a dry-cleaner's shop.  Custom
was thin at just gone five on an autumn afternoon and, apart from us,
entirely Japanese.  "They don't speak much English here," Loudon told
me as we entered, before exchanging greetings with the mama and her few
customers in their own tongue.  "And any strangers following us in are
going to stand out like Mount Fuji on a clear day.  This is as
confidential as it gets."

Nobody did follow us in.  We took a pair of stools at one end of the
curving bar next to a papier-mache badger and ordered some drinks.
Sapporo and a shochu chaser for me, Coca-Cola for Loudon.  A surprise,
given that I had him down as a hard-liquor man.

"I'll need to keep a clear head," he explained, without going on to
explain why.  "So, you're Rupe's boyhood friend come to find him and
atone for his misdeeds, right?"

"Something like that."

"Tough assignment."

I smiled less ruefully than I might have done.  "Apparently so."

"Kiyofumi did tell you exactly how your boyhood friend deceived Haruko,
didn't he?  How and why?"

"He made it very clear.  So clear I'd have been tempted to give up but
for the fact that by then it was too late."

"Yuh.  Too late.  A bitchy little point in time, that.  You never see
it coming.  I surely didn't."

"When was it for you?"

"When I got too buddy-buddy with Rupe and let him top me up with
bourbon till I was ready to spill the beans on the Townley letter. Once
bitten, twice shy, Lance.  I'll do right by Mayumi this time round if I
do nothing else."

"How long have you known her?"

"More than forty years.  From my first visit to the Golden Rickshaw,
though I can't exactly recall the occasion.  I can't recall her taking
my picture for the wall either.  But she did.  That's how Rupe traced
me."

This picture?"  I took out the wallet of photographs and showed him the
one of him with Townley and some other guy as young military men.

"Yuh.  That's the one."

"What was the Golden Rickshaw?"

"Just a bar.  A popular one, thanks to Mayumi.  She was .. . radiant ..
. back then.  We came like moths to a lantern.  And, like moths, one or
two of us got burned."  He chewed over the past for a silent moment
before continuing.  "Then again, of course, it wasn't just a bar.
Townley and his outfit made sure of that."

"What was his outfit?"

"Something called a DetMIG Detached Military Intelligence Group. Linked
with the CIA.  Their role was to identify soldiers, airmen and sailors
who had the skills and aptitude to perform special duties during and
after their military service.  They used the Rickshaw as a place to
size people up.  Evaluate them when they were at their most relaxed,
with a view to possible recruitment."

"Did they recruit you?"

"Only as a scout.  I was done a few favours and handed a few greenbacks
in return for acting as a talent-spotter.  I wasn't on the payroll. Not
officially.  But I was in the loop.  You could say I was Townley's
snitch if you weren't in the business of sparing my feelings."

"What sort of talent were you looking for?"

"Oh, the grim, dedicated, intensely anti-communist, faintly manic kind,
of course.  What other kind?"

"To do .. ."

"Dirty work, Lance.  Very dirty work.  I never asked for the specifics,
but I didn't need to.  I understood what the object of the exercise
was."

"I'm not sure I understand.  Exactly."

"Well, you can take it I surely took it that killing people was going
to be on the agenda.  As part of any undercover work the recruit was
deemed fit for.  All in the general and noble cause of defending the
United States of America against its enemies."

"Is this one of those recruits?"  I pointed to the third man in the
photograph.

"Yuh."  Loudon gave a rubbery grimace.  "Reckon he'd have to be counted
as such."

"Spotted by you?"

"Ah, actually, no.  He came by a different route.  But Townley
certainly had his eye on him.  No question about that."  Loudon
squirmed in his seat, as if this particular subject made him
uncomfortable.  "Leastways, I think so.  With only the back of his head
to go by, I may have the wrong guy."  Then he relaxed again.  "Look,
Lance, it pans out like this.  I get drafted in the ranks because I'm
too bloody-minded to join the officer cadet corps while I'm at college.
I soon realize what a frigging idiot I've been, but by then it's too
late.  Like we were saying earlier.  Anyhow, I wind up here in Japan
and Townley and his sinister band of brothers make me feel .. .
important, I guess.  So, I do a few things for them.  I mark a few
cards.  I oil some wheels.  Then I move on.  Out of the Army.  Back to
that privileged existence I should never have left behind as heir to my
uncle's furniture business.  I forget Townley and his DetMIG.  I even
try to forget Mayumi.  I put it all behind me.  I walk away.  End of
story.  Or should be.  But..  ."

"Not the end."

"No.  Nothing like.  Thanks to Rupe."

"He didn't force you to come back here."

"I can't deny that."

"Why did you?"

"Because the country had got its claws into me.  Well, the people had.
They're a beguiling nation.  So gentle, so ... private.  I guess the
American way of life just wasn't for me.  I sure wasn't cut out for the
furniture trade.  When my uncle died, I cashed in my share of the
business and came here to settle.  It's more than a little ironic, let
me tell you, me living in the old Imperial capital and revering
Japanese culture and all, since this gentle race, as I just described
them, were responsible for my father's death when I was only six years
old.  He was killed in the attack on Pearl Harbor, December seventh,
nineteen forty-one.  But .. . well, I've made my peace with them on his
behalf, so to speak.  This isn't my home.  But it is where I belong."

"Townley obviously didn't feel the same way."

"No.  He left as soon as he could and never came back."

"Leaving behind only his face in this photograph, which Rupe spotted on
the wall of the Golden Rickshaw," I began reasoning.  "He recognized
Townley, who he was already interested in because of his connection
with Rupe's own family, then '

"I know nothing about that."

"It doesn't matter.  The point is that Rupe saw his chance to find
Townley by romancing Haruko.  And she no doubt pretty soon let slip
that one of the other people in the photograph was living here, in
Kyoto."

"I got back in touch with Mayumi after leaving the States.  And I've
stayed in touch since.  So, yuh, Haruko mentioned me when Rupe showed
an apparently innocent interest in the picture and the history of the
bar.  Then Rupe suggested a visit.  Well, Kyoto's an attractive
destination in its own right.  Looking me up just seemed to her like a
natural add-on to a tour of the temples.  It seemed that way to me too.
I was pleased to see them."

"Certainly looks like it."  I held out another photograph for him to
see the snapshot of him with Haruko on the balcony of his flat.

"Yuh.  There I am, grinning like the sap he played me for."

"At some point, you told him about the Townley letter."

"I was boasting.  That's the truth of it.  Making myself feel important
and look important to Haruko's future husband, which is what I thought
he was by shooting my mouth off about the old days.  I can't say more
than that without breaking my word to Mayumi a second time.  And that I
will not do.  But, thanks to me and Haruko's blindly adoring trust in
him Rupe was able to steal the letter and make his move on Townley.
Which put Mayumi and Haruko and me, for that paltry matter in more
danger than you can possibly imagine."

"Me too now, I assume."

"Yuh.  That's right, Lance.  You too.  His friends and his lovers and
the friends of his lovers.  Rupe's done a thorough job of shafting
anyone who ever trusted him."

"Not intentionally."  (Was I sure about that?  I certainly didn't feel
it.)

"OK.  Inadvertently, then.  I'm not sure that doesn't make it worse. He
just didn't care what the consequences were.  Oh, he put himself in
danger too, I grant you.  But that was his choice.  We didn't get a
choice."

"What sort of man is Townley?"

"Hard, calculating, ruthless."

"Why does he need to be?"

"Because he isn't in control of this.  It's beyond him.  Beyond all of
us."

"But you're not going to tell me what it is."

Loudon gave a weary sigh.  That's Mayumi's decision, not mine."

"When can I meet her?"

"Not sure.  I have to weigh up the risks, Lance.  If you've been
followed, taking you to her would be the stupidest thing I've ever
done.  And I've done enough stupid things already.  Besides, what sort
of help can you offer that would make the risks worth running?"

"Townley is tied in with a murder in England in August nineteen
sixty-three.  I don't know how exactly.  Or why.  But if I knew what
was in the letter, maybe it would all make sense.  Then we might have
something on him.  The same something Rupe put together."

"And what would we do with it?"

"Go to the authorities.  Make a case.  Strike back at him any way we
can."

"That'd never work."

"Why not?"

"Because Loudon made a swatting gesture with his hand and sipped his
Coke.  "God, I wish there was vodka in this."

"Don't they sell vodka here?"

"Oh yuh.  They sell it.  Sometimes to me.  But not this evening."  He
leaned back on his stool and stretched, then relaxed again.  "OK. Let's
lay it on the line.  Everything we do from here on in is risky. Even
doing nothing is risky.  And a damn sight harder on the nerves than ..
. striking back, as you call it.  Temperamentally, I'm a retaliatory
kind of guy.  Not a skulker in corners.  I'll speak to Mayumi.  She'll
decide."

"When?"

"Tonight.  That's why I'm off the sauce.  It's a long ride."

"You're going to see her?"

"Yuh.  And if I'm followed, well, on that road I'll surely know it."

"And if not?"

"Then I'll come back for you in the morning.  You can bed down at my
apartment.  I'll phone Mayumi from there and set it up."

"When did you decide all this?"  (It certainly seemed sudden to me.)

"Oh, around the time you walked through the door of my class at
Doshisha and introduced yourself."

"Then why have you been giving me such a hard time about risk
assessment?"

"Because there are risks.  And because I wanted to see what you had to
offer in the way of a game plan before I committed myself."

"So, I've persuaded you, have I?"

"No, Lance, you haven't.  Not remotely."  He gave me the same grin he'd
worn in Mayumi's photograph and in Rupe's.  "But I'll do it anyway."

CHAPTER TWELVE

Miller Loudon's flat reflected the divided loyalties of its owner.  One
of the living rooms was a tatami-matted oasis of uncluttered calm, the
other a Mexican-rugged chaos of sagging armchairs, bulging bookcases
and discarded coffee mugs.  Maybe each was a refuge for one half of his
soul.

The biggest and saggiest armchair unfolded into a bed.  (Manufactured,
so a badge on the frame informed me, by the Loudon Furniture Works of
Williamsport, Pennsylvania -circa 1950, I'd have guessed.) Loudon
showed me how to lock it into place, then phoned Mayumi.  He conversed
with her in fluent Japanese, thereby freeing himself (whether
deliberately or not) to say whatever he liked about me; certainly my
name was mentioned several times.  All I actually gleaned was the
affection in his tone.  It seemed probable to me that he loved Mayumi,
though perhaps in a way that had never been openly declared.

He certainly wasn't about to declare it to me.  Pausing only to show me
where I could find the coffee and the bourbon, he shucked himself into
his Harley-Davidson leathers and made ready to leave.  "If I don't
phone at eight tomorrow morning, it'll be because I'm on my way back,
in which case I'll be here by nine.  Got it?"

"Got it."

"You'll know it's me on the phone because I'll give it three rings and
hang up, then call again within a minute.  Don't answer it otherwise.

OK?"

"OK."

"Don't meddle with my papers.  I know the exact location of every
crumpled note."

"There'll be no meddling."

"Good.  If you want some bedtime reading, I have about half a dozen
copies of For Whom the Bell Tolls.  A dip into that could be kind of
appropriate."

"I'll think about it."

"Do that.  Anything else you need?"

"The phone number of Mayumi and Haruko's hideaway -in case of
emergencies."

"Nice try, but no.  I don't want you to have any clues to their
whereabouts that you could pass on to a third party."

"Am I likely to do that?"

"Not voluntarily, no.  But we have to consider the possibility that
circumstances could arise where it's forced out of you."

"A consoling thought."

"I'm not into consolation, Lance.  It's a pragmatic judgement.  Simple
as that."

"Risk assessment."

"Exactly right.  And now I have to get rolling.  While I'm gone ..."

"Yeh?"

"Try to relax."

I watched through the chink in the blinds as he roared away into the
night.  He headed west, which as clues went was pretty meagre.  And
that, by his reckoning, was just as well.

I kept watching for several minutes.  There was no sign of a car going
off in pursuit.  But then, as Loudon would have been sure to tell me,
the only pursuit we were likely to be dealing with was the invisible
kind.

I gave For Whom the Bell Tolls a miss, but I don't think that's why I
failed to nod straight off into dreamland.  I was bone weary and not
far short of brain dead, but sleep just wouldn't seem to come, even
with the help of my absent host's Jack Daniel's.

Solitude by night in a stranger's home isn't a restful experience.  In
this case, it bred the weirdest illusion in my mind: that I was back in
Glastonbury, safe and as sound as I'd ever been, and that none of this
had happened none of it at all.  Win hadn't walked into the Wheatsheaf
and persuaded me to look for Rupe.  Hashimoto hadn't inveigled me into
going to Berlin with him.  There'd been no rifleman lurking in a
half-rebuilt room at the Hotel Botschafter, no fatal struggle with
Erich Townley.  The bullet hadn't smashed into Hashimoto's brain.  The
base of the lamp hadn't thumped into Erich's skull.

Illusion it wasn't, I realized as I came to myself to see daylight
seeping between the slats of the blinds.  Just a dream -albeit one
cruelly inverting the normal rules of dreaming.  I didn't wake to the
reassuring knowledge that the horrors were imaginary.  I woke to bleak
reacquaintance with the awareness that they were all real every one of
them.

There was more than an hour to go to the time Loudon had said he'd
call.  I took a shower and forced myself to eat some toast to soak up
the black coffee.  (Feeling faintly sick, as I'd been doing for most of
the previous two days, hadn't done a lot for my appetite.)

I looked again at the article in The Japan Times, which Loudon had left
behind.  German Police .. . are trying to trace .. . Lancelot Bradley,
37, a British citizen believed to have been with Hashimoto at the time
of the shooting.  How had they worked that out?  How had they known who
I was?  Lancelot, for God's sake.  It had to be airline records, based
on my passport.  But they'd moved fast, no doubt about it, mangling my
age in the process.  My thirty-seventh birthday was still a few weeks
off.  Not that a few weeks were a small matter to me just then.  They
sounded like a lifetime.  Maybe more than the span of the rest of
mine.

That thought led to final abandonment of the toast.  If they knew who I
was, they knew where I came from.  The German Police had probably asked
their British opposite numbers to check my home address by now.  It
could only be a matter of time before they ended up at my parents'
door.  Maybe I ought to warn Mum and Dad before that happened.  But
that would be difficult without explaining what I was doing and why. It
was around half-past ten the previous evening in England.  Mum would
just be making the cocoa, blithely unaware -since Martin's in the High
Street didn't stock The Japan Times of the trouble her son was in.  If
I didn't phone now, I mightn't get the chance for quite a while.

But that chance slipped through my fingers sooner than I'd expected.
Suddenly, the doorbell rang.  I rushed to the window and looked out a
pointless thing to do, since the entrance to the flats was out of sight
two floors below me.  But that wasn't necessarily the case from the
balcony.  I unlatched the sliding door and stepped outside, craning
over the railings for a view.  But the entrance was till obscured by
the porch.  I heard the doorbell ring again, lengthily.  Who the hell
could it be?  Loudon had said nothing about visitors.

I'd just decided to go back in and wait for them to go away when a
figure emerged from the overhang of the porch and looked straight up at
me.  He was a tall, rangy, middle-aged guy, with fair, thinning hair
and a darker-hued moustache, dressed in a short leather jacket, black
T-shirt and jeans.  He smiled, revealing a set of dazzling white teeth,
and held up a hand in greeting.  "Hi."  The accent was American, more
drawly than Loudon's.  "You must be Lance."

"Who are you?"  I responded, trying not to show the shock I felt that
he knew who I was.

"Steve Bryce.  A colleague of Miller's from Doshisha.  He asked me to
pick you up."

"He did?"

"Yuh.  Trouble with his bike.  But what can you expect?  More rust in
the tank than gas.  So, I had my arm twisted.  Your taxi awaits."

"Miller hasn't phoned me about this."

"He'll still be wheeling that behemoth of a bike back to the
farmhouse."

The farmhouse?"

"Yuh.  Where we're going.  It's OK.  I know where it is.  Miller called
me from a payphone.  Out in the sticks, they only take coins.  He did
say he wouldn't have enough to call you as well.  Since he harbours
some antediluvian prejudice against mobiles, we're kind of lucky he
made any contact at all."

"I ... suppose so.  But '

"Now I don't want to hurry you, Lance, but I have to be back at
Doshisha by ten and it must be an hour's drive to the farmhouse, so
could we move this along?  I mean, hell, I am doing you guys a
favour."

So he certainly appeared to be.  But appearances could be deceptive.  I
looked down at his blandly smiling face and asked myself the obvious
question: could I trust him?  Loudon hadn't mentioned any friends at
Doshisha to me and this was the sort of change of plan he'd have been
likely to condemn as too risky if I'd proposed it.  But, if his
motorbike had let him down and time was of the essence (as it was), he
might have felt forced to go for it.  In which case I wouldn't be
helping anyone by sitting tight.  The farmhouse was presumably where
Mayumi and Haruko were hiding.  And I wanted to speak to them badly.

"Is there a problem, Lance?"

"No."  I'd made my choice.  "I'll be right down."

Bryce's small white saloon didn't have any of the glamour of Loudon's
Harley-Davidson.  But, as Bryce pointed out, it had just chalked up a
points victory for reliability.  We drove north-west out of Kyoto,
sunlight dappling the wooded mountains ahead as the cloud thinned.
Bryce asked a stream of questions about my connection with Loudon and
the urgent need for me to be ferried out to the back of beyond.  It
seemed he was pretty much in the dark and he was understandably
curious.  But he got no change out of me and had given up probing for
information by the time we left the city limits.

From then on he was happy to talk about himself a favourite topic of
his, I guessed.  The twists and turns of his academic career didn't
interest me, of course, but I was content to let him sustain a
monologue on the subject while we zigzagged up the ever steeper road
between thick stands of conifers.  Habitations were few and far
between.  We'd left the bustling urban world behind with surprising
speed and were heading deeper and deeper into the backwoods.

Shortly after we'd passed through the second of two long tunnels, Bryce
turned off onto a rough, unmetalled side-road that soon deteriorated
into little more than a forest track.  He assured me it was a viable
short-cut to another main road that would lead us to the farmhouse, but
after nearly breaking the axle of the car in a rut that was deep enough
to have been left by a rocket transporter, he seemed to lose
confidence.

"I guess I'd better check the map," he said, pulling over under the
trees.  "Hold on while I fetch it from the trunk."

He clambered out, walked round to the back and opened the boot.  I
heard him shifting things around, then it went quiet, but the boot
didn't close and he didn't come back.  I wound down the window and
leaned out.  "You OK?"

"Not exactly," he replied.  "You better come and look at this."

"What is it?"

"Just come see."

"All right."  I sighed and climbed out, imagining, I think, that our
encounter with the giant wheel-rut had done some serious damage to the
underside of the car, though what Bryce thought I could do about it was
beyond me.  "So, what's the '

The words died in my mouth as I rounded the rear wing of the car and
glanced into the boot.  Miller Loudon was lying there on his back,
trussed with ropes, his face fixed and staring, with a dark,
blood-clotted bullet hole in the middle of his forehead.

"I thought she wasn't pulling uphill quite right," said Bryce.  "Here's
the reason: two hundred and seventy pounds of dead weight."

I stared at him, still too horrified to speak or act.  That's when I
saw the gun in his right hand, trained on me, and the coil of rope
looped over his shoulder.

"Journey's end, Lance.  Turn round and start walking into the forest.
I'll tell you when to stop."

I didn't move, just looked down at Loudon's body, then back up at
Bryce.  Still no words came.  I felt sick and helpless and shamingly
stupid.

"Come on, Lance.  One foot in front of the other.  You know how it
works.  Get moving."

"Who are you?"

"Just move."  He slammed the boot shut and raised his right arm,
pointing the gun at my head.  I found myself staring at the barrel, a
rock-steady metal extension of his hand.  "OK?"

All my choices had been pared away.  There was nothing left but to do
exactly what I was told.  I turned and started walking.

I'd gone about twenty yards when Bryce told me to stop.  I was near the
foot of a tall, red-leafed maple standing among the pines.  A single
leaf from one of the branches slowly fluttered down to rest among the
pine needles at my feet as I waited.  Was he going to kill me here? Was
this where it ended?  (If so, I reflected, a forest in Japan was going
to be the surprise answer to the question Where did Lance Bradley
finish up?  in a future Wheatsheaf quiz.)

Suddenly, something hard and heavy struck me round the back of neck.  I
don't remember hitting the ground.

Pain and consciousness met up some time later.  Speech and coherent
thought were late for the party, though.  I was sitting at the foot of
the maple tree, my back resting against the trunk, unable to move.
Bryce was standing a few yards in front of me, flicking through the
contents of a wallet.  It looked like .. . my wallet.  Then I became
aware of the ropes holding me tight against the tree.  And Bryce
noticed me make a futile effort to struggle free of them.

"Hi, Lance," he said, smiling at me.  "Welcome back."

"What .. . what the ..."  My words sounded slurred and subdued.

"Now, a few minutes ago you asked who I am.  But it turns out you
already know."  He tossed the wallet aside and held up a small white
card.  "Gordon A. Ledgister, Caribtex Oil.  Pleased to meet you."

"L-Ledgister?"

That's right.  Although, if you asked the agency I hired the car from,
they'd say, oddly enough, that my name is ... Lance Bradley."  His
smile widened.  "With poor old Miller in the trunk, I guess somebody
will be asking them that question sooner or later.  But, hey, let's not
worry about it.  Sufficient unto the day, etcetera, etcetera.  Let's
get back to the needs of this day."

"You .. . followed me from Berlin?"

"Got it in one.  Stifling my grief at the unscheduled demise of my
brother-in-law, I tagged along as you Hawkeyed your way here."

"You shot Hashimoto?"

"Never mind him.  It's the living I want to talk to you about, not the
dead.  Where are they, Lance?  Where are Mayumi and Haruko?"

Clumsily, my thoughts grasped the point that Bryce -Ledgister, as I now
had to think of him was making for me.  He'd followed Loudon to the
farmhouse.  But Mayumi and Haruko hadn't been there.  It was the
hiding-place.  It had to be.  But they'd deserted it.  Why?  There
could only be one answer.  Loudon had told them to clear out in his
phone call the previous evening.  He must have reckoned it was odds-on
I'd been followed, so he'd decided to flush out whoever was doing the
following.  He'd put Mayumi and Haruko out of harm's way.  But not
himself.

"I asked Miller, of course.  You bet I did.  Very ... forcefully.  But
he wouldn't tell me, despite all my blandishments.  In the end, I lost
patience.  Well, you can see how I would, can't you?  All this way,
only to find that the ladies I was so eager to meet .. . weren't at
home.  It was a real disappointment."

"I don't know where they are."

"Don't say that, Lance.  I want you to help me.  I want you to want to
help me.  Then maybe ... I could help you.  That's how relationships
should be.  Quid pro quo.  But if you can't help me ... or won't .. .
then our relationship isn't likely to last very long.  Now, let's try
again.  Where are Mayumi and Haruko?"

"I don't know.  I don't even know where they were."

"Come on.  You don't expect me to believe that."

"No.  But it's true."

"This isn't auguring well for your future, Lance.  You do realize that,
don't you?"

"Yeh, I do."  But there I'd told him my first lie.  Because I'd just
seen a figure threading its soft-footed way through the trees behind
Ledgister - a slim, lithely built Japanese man dressed in a blue
tracksuit.  His hair was short and flecked with grey, his face
raw-boned and pale.  His gaze was fixed on Ledgister.  And he was
carrying a gun, clasped in both hands in front of him as he picked a
silent path through the drifts of pine needles and damp, fallen leaves.
I considered the idea for a moment that he was a hallucination: that
fear and concussion had conjured him up as an imaginary saviour.  But
he looked very real.  And he kept on coming.

"I don't have the leisure to prolong this conversation indefinitely,"
said Ledgister.  "So, maybe I ought to lay it on the line for you.
Unless '

"Put your gun down."  The man in the tracksuit had spoken.  Ledgister
half-turned and saw him and saw also the gun trained on him from no
more than a few yards away.

"Who the..."

"Put it down."

"OK."  Ledgister held up his free hand in surrender as he lowered
himself onto his haunches and laid his gun on the ground.  "No
problem."

"Stand up."

Ledgister did so.  "Now, I don't know who you are, friend, but '

"No kind of friend to you."

"Hey, don't be so sure.  We might get along real fine if we ...
compared interests.  How about money, for instance?  Are you keen on
that?  Earning it, I mean.  As easily as possible."

"Untie Mr.  Bradley."

"Who is this guy, Lance?"  Ledgister glanced round at me.  "Shouldn't
you introduce us?"

"Untie him.  Now."  Tracksuit moved closer still, his gun pointing
straight at Ledgister.

"OK, OK.  I'll do it."

Ledgister walked slowly round to the other side of the tree, Tracksuit
circling after him.  I felt a tugging at the ropes, then they slackened
and fell away.  I rolled away from the trunk and scrambled unsteadily
to my feet.

"I'll bet there's not a single rope-burn to reproach me for.  Isn't
that right, Lance?"

"Sit in Mr.  Bradley's place," said my anonymous saviour, his voice
unwaveringly calm.  Tie him up, Lance."

Ledgister sat flouncily down at the foot of the tree and grinned
defiantly at me.  I gathered up the ropes, settling for the relatively
easy course of dumb obedience while struggling to understand this
sudden turning of the tables.  Ledgister's question had been a good
one.  Who was this guy?

"What goes around comes around, Lance," Ledgister whispered as I tied
his hands behind his back.  "Luck like yours doesn't last for ever," he
added when I looped the second rope around his chest.  "When it runs
out, I'll be waiting."

Waiting was soon about all he was in a position to do.  I tightened the
ropes until I'd forced a grunt out of him, then tied them off.

"Good," said Tracksuit as he checked the knots.  "We go now."  Catching
my questioning look, he added, "Not here, Lance.  I explain at the
car."  Then he stopped in front of Ledgister and checked his pockets,
presumably for concealed weapons.  He didn't find any.  But, as he
looked, Ledgister noticed something.

"Hey, you're missing a pinky, friend."  He was right.  The little
finger on the man's left hand ended at the first joint.  "You're
Yakuza, aren't you?"  He got no reply beyond the briefest glare.
"You've taken out some expensive insurance, Lance.  Let's hope you can
afford the premiums."

"Enough."  Tracksuit stood up and looked at me.  Nothing in his
expression implied that he had heard a single word Ledgister had said.
"We go."

I hesitated, scanning the ground for my wallet.  There it was, not far
from where Ledgister had dropped the gun.  I moved towards it.

"Don't touch it."  I stopped and looked round.  "Leave the gun where it
is."

"He's thinking of fingerprints," said Ledgister.  "Cerebral stuff for a
Yakuza."

"It's my wallet I want."  I pointed to where it lay.

"OK."  (Ledgister's sarcasm didn't seem to have had the slightest
effect.) "Take it and walk to the road."

I did as I'd been told, looking straight ahead as I hurried through the
trees.  I couldn't hear my nameless companion behind me, but I felt
sure he was there.  "Sayonara, guys," called Ledgister.

I stopped when I reached Ledgister's car and turned round.  Tracksuit
was within a stride of me, his gun no longer in view.  "My car is back
along the road," he said softly.  "A short walk."

"Do you know what's in the boot of this car?"  I nodded towards it.

"Yes.  I saw.  I heard.  Do you know where the ladies are?"

"Not a clue.  They were being sheltered in a farmhouse, apparently. But
they're not there now."

"They may return there."

"But I don't know where it is.  Only Ledgister knows that."

"He will not tell us.  Check the car.  There may be something."

I opened the driver's door and checked the side-pocket and dashboard
shelves.  Nothing.  I leaned across and yanked down the flap of the
glove compartment.  There, inside, was a map, folded back on itself.  I
lifted it out and stared helplessly at a jumble of roads and rivers and
contour lines, neatly labelled in Japanese.  Then I saw it: a cross in
red ink, added by hand.  "This could be it."

"Yes."  He peered over my shoulder.  "Near Kamiyuge.  About fifteen
kilometres from here.  Good.  Bring the map with you."

"What about Loudon?"

"He is dead."  The man stared at me blankly.  "We must go."

"Ledgister hired this car in my name."

"But the description the agency give to the police will fit him, not
you.  And a bullet from his gun killed Loudon."

"Yes, but '

"I could have killed Ledgister, but that would make the police think
you killed both men.  You understand?  This is the best way.  We will
call the police and send them here.  OK?"

"Are you .. . YakuzaT

"Yes.  But I'm not here for them.  I'm here for my brother.
Toshishige."

"You're .. . Yamazawa's brother?"

"Yes.  Shintaro Yamazawa.  That is me.  We have to go, Lance.  It is
dangerous for us here.  If we are seen ..."

"All right.  I understand."

I didn't, of course.  Not the half of it.  But leaving made sense. That
I couldn't fail to grasp.  Yamazawa led the way at a trot back down the
track.  His green Range Rover was parked under the trees beyond the
second bend.  We climbed in.  Then he threw it round in a five-point
turn and we drove away.

"How much do you know?"  I asked, wondering just what he and his
brother were up to.

"Toshishige asked me to watch your back.  This is all.  So, I stuck
with you from the station yesterday.  I saw Ledgister.  He didn't see
me."

"Couldn't you have stopped him killing Loudon?"

"If I'd been there, maybe.  But I was in Kyoto.  Watching your back."

"Did Toshishige tell you what this is about?"

"He told me some.  Your friend put the Hashimotos in danger.  The
American, Loudon, was hiding them.  Toshishige was worried about you.
But he should have been more worried about them.  You brought the
danger with you."

It was true.  I'd trailed a line behind me and Ledgister had followed
it.  He'd killed twice that I knew of.  And if it hadn't been for
Loudon's self-sacrifice, it would have been more.  "I have to find
Mayumi and Haruko."

"If they've gone back to the farmhouse, we will find them.  But we
cannot wait there long.  You must not be seen in places that connect
you to this."

"I can't just walk away."

"Better than being carried, I think."

"Look, I'm grateful, but '

"Thank Toshishige, not me."

"He didn't risk his life back there."

"No risk.  I was more careful for me than you."

"Even so '

"I saved your life.  Yes.  I think so.  And I like to finish things I
start.  We still have the death penalty in Japan for murder.  So He
glanced at me without the least flicker of a smile.  "We will go on
being careful."

We rejoined the main road and headed north.  Within a few miles, we
descended into a valley and came to a village, where Yamazawa stopped
at a call-box and phoned the police with his anonymous tip-off.  Then
we carried on, climbing again into the wooded mountains.

"Do you often do Toshishige favours like this?"  I asked, when some of
the shock had begun to drain out of me.

"Never one like this before.  It is a ... special case.  Your friend,
Rupert Alder .. ."

"Yeh?"

"Did not Toshishige tell you this?"

"Not sure.  What was it?"

"Toshishige and I both had a fine education, Lance.  Our father worked
himself to death to make sure we did.  He was specially keen for us to
learn to speak English fluently.  He thought it would help us make good
careers.  You can guess I was a disappointment to him.  He forgot there
are openings for fluent English speakers in organized crime as well as
big business.  He was proud of Toshishige, though.  A respectful son. A
straight, honest guy.  And a hard worker.  That was my brother. Until
he was gassed on the subway.  After that, he changed.  He ... got to
like the wild side.  That is why Yoshiko left him.  She did not approve
of me.  Toshishige started drinking and gambling.  Other women too, I
think the expensive kind.  He needed money.  More than he earned, you
understand?  So, I ... set up a few deals for him."

"What sort of deals?"

"Smuggling, mostly.  A brother in shipping can be useful.  Then .. .
your friend found out."

"Rupe knew?"

"Yes.  He stopped it, of course.  But he didn't report Toshishige.  He
let him off.  It was their secret."

Toshishige said Rupe had saved his life."

"Could be true.  The sack.  Maybe prison.  That would have finished
him, I reckon.  Maybe your friend realized that."

"And I'm the beneficiary of the debt of gratitude Toshishige owed
him?"

"Yes.  That is it.  We Yamazawas believe in honour.  Lucky for you, I
think."

We went through another village, this one smaller and more scattered,
then turned off along a side-road where the going wasn't much better
than on the route Ledgister had taken.  But the woods were thinner, the
views more open and extensive of the hills and mountains around us.
Yamazawa stopped to check the map, drove on a short way, then stopped
again where a track led down off the road.  We were in a shallow
valley, with overgrown fields to either side.

"The farmhouse must be down this track," Yamazawa announced after a
further squint at the map.  "Hidden by the trees maybe."

"It certainly looks like the track's been used recently."  My deduction
was hardly Sherlockian.  There were plenty of tyre tracks and wheel
ruts in the mud.

"OK.  We go in."  Yamazawa nosed the Range Rover cautiously off the
road and we rolled gently through the potholes as the track wound in a
meandering curve round the long-grassed margin of a wood bordering the
fields.

The farmhouse, which had clearly ceased to play host to any active
farming for quite a while, appeared ahead of us.  The roof was partly
thatched, partly tiled, as if the original building had been extended.
There was a veranda out front, with weed-choked flower beds beneath it.
Away to one side was a rusty-roofed barn of some kind.  In its open
doorway stood a Harley-Davidson motorbike.

We pulled up in the yard and got out.  Yamazawa spotted at once that
the sliding door leading into the house was half-open.  We moved
towards it, then stopped at the sight of what were obviously
bloodstains on the planked floor of the veranda, smudged as if the
person doing the bleeding had been dragged across them.

Yamazawa stepped gingerly past the marks and slid the door fully open.
There were more of the same inside.  "Loudon died here, I guess," he
said.  "Then Ledgister dragged him to his car."

"Mayumi and Haruko?"

"Gone.  That is certain.  But I will check.  You stay here."

Yamazawa went inside, leaving me to stare down at the bloodstains and
across at Loudon's abandoned motorbike.  I was partly to blame for what
had happened to him, no question about it.  Not as much to blame as
Rupe, though.  I wasn't thinking kindly of my old friend in that
moment.  "Why didn't you just leave it alone?"  I muttered under my
breath.  "You bloody fool."

Yamazawa was back within a couple of minutes.  "There is no one here,"
he announced.

"Loudon telephoned them last night," I explained.  "I don't know what
he said.  The conversation was in Japanese.  But I think I can guess.
He told them to clear out.  They're hiding somewhere, probably waiting
for a call from him to say everything's all right."

There will be no call."

"No," I agreed, glancing down again at the bloodstains.  "No call."

"If you are right, they will not return here.  They will wait and wait.
And then they will learn what has happened from the TV, the
newspapers."

"We must find them."

"You may be safer on your own."

"I can't just leave them to fend for themselves."  (Besides, though I
didn't propose to mention it, there was still the question of the
Townley letter.  More than ever, I needed to know what was in it.)

"You are determined to look for them?"  Yamazawa frowned at me, as if
weighing me up.

"Yes."

"Then ask yourself: what did Loudon plan?  He must have realized he was
in danger.  So, he must have thought about what would happen to them
without him.  Who would he ask to protect them?"

"There's no one that I know of.  Except me."

"But he did not tell you where he was sending them."

"Of course not.  He was afraid that Hold on."  I stopped and thought.
The only way Loudon could have pointed me in the right direction
without letting me in on what he was planning to do was to give me a
cryptic message that I wouldn't recognize as such until after the
event.  Then, if he didn't come through, I'd be able to work out what
he meant.  "He recommended a book to me.  For Whom the Bell Tolls:

"Ernest Hemingway."

"You know his work?"

"No.  But I am an Ingrid Bergman fan.  Therefore I have seen the film.
It is disappointing, of course, with that terrible haircut she has in
it.  But the story is OK."

"Hemingway's not really my cup of tea.  Frankly, as a Hemingway
specialist, Loudon should have been able to tell that.  The chances of
me actually opening the book .. ."  I stopped.  Of course.  Loudon had
chosen something he'd been sure I'd ignore until I turned his remarks
over in my mind later.  That was the whole point.  "We have to look at
that book.  It's at the flat."

"Going there is too risky."

"I have no choice."

"You have, I think."

"No."  I looked straight at him.  "Believe me, I haven't."

In one of the long tunnels on the road back to Kyoto, we were passed by
a car moving at close to the speed of a bullet train in the opposite
direction, flashing its headlights in warning.  "The murder boys from
Police HQ in Kyoto," said Yamazawa.

"If Loudon has identification on him, it will not take them long to
trace his address."

"I know what you're saying, Shintaro.  But I have to do this."  "Then
we do it quickly, OK?  And I am in charge.

Understood?"  "It's a deal."

Short of time or not, Yamazawa parked two streets south of the
apartment block.  We approached it on foot, from the rear, cutting down
a back-alley and hopping over a low fence into a small compound used to
store rubbish bins.  "We should be doing this at night," Yamazawa
complained, wrenching back the metal door of a service lift.  "I am
breaking all my own rules for you, Lance."

"How did you know this way in?"  I asked, as we started our ascent.

"I didn't.  But Japan is a crime-free country.  There is always a way
in."

We exited the lift into a bare, concrete stairwell, then pushed through
a fire door into a carpeted corridor and followed it round to Loudon's
flat.

Pop music was playing on a radio somewhere nearby, but there were no
other signs of life.  Yamazawa glanced cautiously around, then took out
of his pocket a small, right-angled metal tool.

"What's that?"

"A door opener."  He slid the blade in round the jamb next to the Yale
keyhole and, after no more than a few seconds' manipulation, slipped
the latch.  (The fact that Loudon hadn't given me a key ironically made
it easier to break in, since I hadn't been able to lock the door on the
mortice.)

I made straight for Loudon's bedroom, Yamazawa keeping pace behind me.
A dog-eared old paperback copy of For Whom the Bell Tolls stood on the
bedside cabinet.  As I picked it up, I noticed one page had been folded
down at the top corner.  I opened the book at that page.  In the rows
of print, only one thing stood out.  A name, underlined in pencil
-Maria.  I showed it to Yamazawa.  "Mean anything to you?"

"In the film, Gary Cooper is an American fighting in the Spanish Civil
War.  He falls in love with He broke off.  "Ingrid Bergman plays a girl
called Maria."

"Yeh?  So?"

"There is a hotel called the Maria, in Arashiyama."

That's a big coincidence."  But it was no coincidence at all.  It
couldn't be.

And Yamazawa didn't think so either.  "We go," he said, turning towards
the door.

Arashiyama lay out to the west of Kyoto, where the hills subsided to
the plain on which the city was built.  There was a pretty bridge
across a river, a scatter of temples and a sprawl of trinket shops and
rickshaw pick-up points.  As tourist traps went, it was mightily
effective, since half the Kansai region and his uncle from Hokkaido
seemed to be clogging the pavements.

"Is it always like this here?"  I asked as Yamazawa nudged the Range
Rover through the mobs.

"No.  But the gardens of Tenryu-ji and Okochi-san so are specially
beautiful in the fall.  And this is a public holiday."

"It is?"

"Yes.  Bunka-no-hi.  Culture Day."

"So there wouldn't be any teaching going on at Doshisha University
today?"

"No.  The students will be out with their lovers in the bamboo groves.
Maybe their professors also.  Why?"

"Nothing."  I was thinking of one of the lies Ledgister had told me to
lure me out of Loudon's flat.  "I have to be back at Doshisha by ten."
The irony was that he'd probably been as unaware as me of the glaring
flaw in his story.  "It doesn't matter now."

"Here's the Maria."  Yamazawa pulled into a car park in front of a
medium-sized modern building with whitewashed walls, their glaring
plainness relieved by a dazzling abundance of chrysanthemums, in
borders, rock eries and window boxes.  "Looks like Maria, whoever she
is, is a kiku lover," he added, pausing to flick on a pair of Ray-Bans.
Too bright for me."

"Why did Loudon send Mayumi and Haruko here assuming he did?"

"Because, like you see, Arashiyama's crowded.  Good choice, I think.  A
crowd is safe if you don't want to get noticed."

"Which they don't.  But that also means they may well have booked in
under false names."

"Yes.  But they are not experts at the running game.  They give
themselves away."

"What do you mean?"

"See that Nissan?"  He pointed to a small, mud-spattered red hatchback
in a corner of the car park.  "Tokyo number plate.  And it looks like
it's been down more farm tracks than any other car here."

"It could be theirs, I agree, but We'd surged into motion.  "What are
you doing?"

Yamazawa didn't answer.  He threw the Range Rover round to the left,
then reversed straight across the car park towards the Nissan.

"Hold on.  You're going to We crunched solidly into its rear wing and
stopped.  "What the hell are you doing?"

"Wait here."  Yamazawa opened his door.  "I think I need to report this
to the owner of the car."  And with what, but for the Ray-Bans, I could
have sworn was a wink, he climbed out.

After Yamazawa had vanished into the hotel, I got out too and wandered
round the car park, struggling to prepare myself for the encounter that
was surely about to happen.  I was the best friend of the man who'd
betrayed Haruko and I'd played a part Mayumi couldn't be expected to
understand in her brother's death; a part also (more culpably) in a
second death she didn't yet know about but soon would.  What was I
going to say to them?  What were they going to say to me!

Five minutes passed, according to my watch, though it felt more like
half an hour.  The sun went in behind a cottonwool cloud.  The glare
from the facade of the Hotel Maria faded.  Then the hotel door slid
open and Yamazawa came out with a woman I recognized instantly as
Mayumi.  A small, trim, erect figure in a beige trouser-suit, she had
her grey-black hair gathered in a bun, emphasizing a gauntness I didn't
remember from Rupe's photograph of her and Haruko.  She was frowning
too and looked as worried as she had every right to be.  But still in
her face there was the shadow of her youthful beauty.

They'd reached the cars and were looking at the damage, discussing it
in Japanese, when I came up behind them.  I hesitated for a moment,
then said, "Mayumi Hashimoto?"

I saw her flinch as she turned.  Whatever name she was going under
couldn't stop her responding to the sound of her own.  There was fear
written starkly on her face as she stared at me.

"I'm Lance Bradley," I said, looking her in the eye.  "I'm here to help
you."

She didn't respond.  She just went on staring.  Nothing in her
expression suggested that she believed me.  To be honest, I couldn't
blame her.  But I meant it.  If it was the last thing I did which it
easily could be I was going to help her.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

According to the women in my life (who've all had a habit of leaving
it), I don't understand at some fundamental level that they do what a
close and loving relationship is really about.  Even Ria, whose middle
name certainly wasn't commitment, reckoned I was just too easy to be
with.  By which she meant (I think) that, when the chips were down, I'd
always be inclined to walk away from the table.  Why put myself through
the angst of accepting responsibility for the happiness, or, God
forbid, the material needs, of another?  Why put myself through any of
it?  Because, of course, it's supposed to be worth it.  But is it?  I'd
have liked to debate the point with Rupe that Culture Day afternoon in
Kansai.  I'd have liked to be able to ask some sympathetic listener,
"Do I really need or deserve this anguish?"  (Not to mention the
considerable personal risk.) But sympathy for me was out of stock and
season.  I had, finally and illogically, accepted the responsibility
I'd always tried to dodge responsibility, in this case, for the future
of two women I'd never even met before.  Yamazawa did most of the
talking at first, explaining the grievous realities of the situation to
Mayumi as swiftly and as sensitively as possible.  (I had to take that
on trust, of course, since they conversed in Japanese.) Mayumi scarcely
said a word, glancing often and cryptically at me as he spoke.  I
couldn't have judged from her expression the moment at which she
realized Loudon was dead.  But, after she'd gone to fetch Haruko,
Yamazawa told me he'd held nothing back.

"She is a proud woman, I think.  But frightened also.  More for her
daughter than herself.  She will not let you see how upset she is."

"At least they're not in any immediate danger, with Ledgister under
arrest."

"But Ledgister may not be alone.  She understands that.  That is why
she has accepted my offer of shelter."

"Where are you going to shelter them?"

"At my home."

"You're taking them in?"

"Yes.  You also, Lance.  They cannot stay here.  Neither can you.  And
there is nowhere else to go."  He shrugged.  "It is best."

I didn't have any choice but to trust him, even if I'd not been
inclined to.  Nor did Mayumi and Haruko.  We loaded their belongings
into the Range Rover, leaving the dented Nissan where it was, and set
off, crossing the river and heading south through the western outskirts
of Kyoto.

"We will take the Meishin Expressway to Ashiya," Yamazawa said,
translating for my benefit something he'd already told Mayumi in
Japanese.  "That is where I live.  On the coast, between Osaka and
Kobe."

Mayumi and Haruko sat in the back, saying nothing beyond the odd
whispered exchange between themselves.  I hadn't the nerve to speak to
them at that stage.  I glanced as often as I dared at their reflections
in the mirror on the back of the sun-visor.  Mayumi's composure never
slipped, though her bloodshot eyes and the dark rings beneath them
suggested it was being tested to its limit.  Haruko was less
self-controlled, clutching her mother's hand and dabbing at her eyes
with a handkerchief to staunch the tears of grief and fear.  She'd lost
weight since the summer.  Her face was paler and thinner than in Rupe's
photographs.  The smile she'd worn for him was just a memory.  Her
lover had betrayed her and, because of him, her uncle and her protector
in Kyoto were both dead.  The only people she and her mother had left
to rely on were a cold-blooded, steely-nerved Yakuza .. . and me.

The coastal strip west of Osaka was an undistinguished urban sprawl of
which Ashiya looked to be the most prosperous part.  Yamazawa's house
was in the foothills of the mountains above the town, where high walls,
conspicuous security devices and a total absence of pedestrians
suggested twitchy residents with a lot to be twitchy about.  I spotted
a couple of Rottweilers patrolling the adjacent garden as we waited for
the automatic door leading to the garage to slide slowly up.

"You are thinking that crime pays well," Yamazawa said to me as we
drove in.  "And you are wondering how my neighbours feel about living
next to a YakuzaJ

"It's none of my business."

The answer is that they pretend to believe I lost my finger in a taxi
door and, in return, I do not ask where they got their money from."

"Get-tog ethers round the barbecue not the norm here, then?"

The point of living here, Lance, is not to get together."  It was a
point he pondered for a moment before adding, There is nowhere
safer."

I was happy to believe him.  The house was vast and bare, white-walled
and strangely un-Japanese, the shortage of furniture somehow conjuring
up emptiness rather than simplicity.

A housekeeper evidently hired for her inscrutability talked to Yamazawa
in an oriental language that sounded more like Chinese than Japanese
(it was actually, I later learned, Korean), then took Mayumi and Haruko
off to their quarters.  I was left alone, padding round a tatami-matted
lounge big enough to hold a ball in (which you could have done without
needing to move anything), a pair of fluffy cream guest slippers
muffling my footsteps.

A soaring triangular window looked out on to a well-tended garden
contained by high stone walls.  I noticed the late afternoon sunlight
glinting on broken glass concreted into their tops.  Uninvited visitors
were definitely not welcome.  There didn't seem to be any Rottweilers
on the premises, though -just a four-foot-high bronze panther
bestriding the patio.

I'd been alone there for twenty minutes or so, wondering what was to
happen next, when Yamazawa came in to join me, frowning ominously.

"I have spoken to my contact in the Kyoto Police.  What he has said is
not good."

"What is it?"

"For such a thing to happen ..."

' What?"

"Ledgister has escaped."

"You're joking."

"I do not joke."  (Ever, I assumed he meant.) "It seems two men from
the local station Keihoku got there first.  After they had untied
Ledgister..  ."  Yamazawa snorted irritably.  "He shot one of them and
lost the other in the forest.  I should not have relied on the police.
They are .. . shiroto."

"Could he have followed us here?"

"Not possible.  He has no car.  He does not know the mountains.  He is
free.  But he cannot know where we are."

"That's something."

"But not enough.  The police will probably think he is you.  He hired
the car in your name.  By now the German police will know you flew to
Tokyo.  It will look bad for you.  Very bad."

"I don't remotely resemble Ledgister."

"Do you want to contact the police to explain that to them?  I should
have killed him, Lance.  That is the truth.  I should have finished
him."

"You said yourself that would only have made things worse for me."

"Not much worse than this.  You should leave the country.  As soon as
possible."

"What about Mayumi and Haruko?"

"They are safe here."

"For the moment.  But you can't shelter them for ever.  Besides, how
can I leave?  I'd be stopped at the airport."

"I could get you out."

"To go where?  I don't even know what I'm really up against.  I have to
find out, Shintaro.  Do you understand?"

He nodded solemnly.  "Yes."

"I think Mayumi can tell me."

"Then ask her, Lance.  Soon."

"Now's hardly a good time, is it?"

"No.  But it is the only time you have."  He looked out of the window
and sighed.  "I will tell her about Ledgister.  Then I will ask her to
speak to you.  She is my guest, so ... I do not think she will
refuse."

She did not refuse.  The housekeeper brought tea and, a few minutes
later, Mayumi came into the room, expressionless and outwardly calm. We
sat down and she poured tea for both of us.

"Kiyofumi said you are a good man, Bradley-san."

"Not as good as he was.  And, please, call me Lance."

"You are involved in this only because you are Rupe's friend?"

"Yes.  I suppose it conics down to that."

"Haruko loved him greatly.  She thought we thought he loved her too."

"I can't undo anything he did."

"I know.  But ... he broke her heart."

"Not beyond repair, I hope."

"I hope not also.  She is young.  It is harder for those of us who are
no longer young."

"I told your brother I'd do everything in my power to help you."

"And, unlike your friend, you keep your promises."

The question is, Mayumi: how can I help you?"

"Save Haruko.  That is all I ask now.  I have lost so much.  I must not
lose her."

"Why is she in danger, Mayumi?  Why are we all in danger?  What's in
the Townley letter?"

She sat forward and sipped some tea, seeming to grow more solemn still.
"The only way to save Haruko is to make Stephen stop hunting us."  (It
was quite a shock to hear her refer to Townley by his first name.) "We
must communicate with him."

"But he won't listen."

"I do not think he has heard.  I think the man Ledgister is doing this
without Stephen's knowledge."

"Why would he?"

"Because it is not only about Stephen.  A son-in-law in the oil
business would be in danger too.  Miller She broke off and looked away,
taking time to compose herself.  "Miller explained the consequences to
me.  There seems no end to it.  But there must be."

"No end to what?"

She gazed at me, her calmness restored.  "I know you want me to tell
you.  I know you think it will be better if you understand.  But it
will not be.  It will destroy you.  It has destroyed enough, I
think."

"Mayumi '

"Please listen."  She held up a hand to silence me.  "You may have
guessed I do not know but Miller was Haruko's father."  (I suppose I
had guessed, though until she'd said it I hadn't been conscious of
doing so.) "When he came back to Japan, twenty-five years ago, we were
together for a while.  Then ... we parted.  Haruko does not know this.
I would not let him tell her.  That is why he told Rupe about the
letter.  To make himself matter to Haruko and the man she would marry.
Also to punish me for keeping him out of his daughter's life.  He
admitted it to me later.  I forgave him.  He did not know what was in
the letter.  He did not know how dangerous it was until I told him,
after Rupe had stolen it.  I kept it in a safe-deposit box at my bank.
There were things of Haruko's in the box also, inherited from her
grandmother.  She had access to it.  Rupe persuaded her to let him see
the letter.  She would have done anything for him.  She did not know he
meant to steal it.  How could she?  She loved him.  I think she still
does, in spite of what he has done.  I cannot tell her that Miller was
her father.  Not now.  But I will.  When she is safe."

"But when will that be?"

"Stephen was trained to kill people, Lance.  He was a dangerous man
when I knew him.  But he is old now.  He is not evil.  He is probably
as frightened as I am."

"Miller didn't seem to think so."

"He did not know Stephen as I did."  (And how was that exactly?  I
wondered, knowing I could never ask.) "I have to trust what my memories
and my instincts tell me.  Stephen has lost his son.  I have lost my
brother.  Haruko has lost her father.  It is enough.  I think he will
understand that.  I cannot give him the letter.  I do not have it.  But
I will never tell anyone what is in it.  I ask you to be the proof of
that."

"Me?"

"I want you to take a message to him from me.  I want you to ask him to
end this.  Before we all lose everything."

"How can I do that?"

"Kiyofumi said he has a grandson at Stanford University, in
California."

"Clyde Ledgister.  What about him?"

"I want you to speak to Clyde.  He will know how to contact his
grandfather and there is no other member of the family we can ask.  You
must persuade Clyde to take you to Stephen.  And you must see Stephen
face to face.  Tell him he has to stop.  I will never reveal his
secret.  That is all I can offer him.  But he will believe me, I think.
Because even my messenger will not know what the secret is."

I was caught in a velvet vice.  I wanted the truth.  But I also wanted
to help Mayumi and Haruko.  I'd heightened the danger they were in by
leading Ledgister to their hiding-place.  I was, in some ill-defined
sense I couldn't refute, Rupe's representative, obliged to do
everything I could to repair the damage he'd caused.  Mayumi's plan,
desperate as it was, was the only plan in town.  Keeping me in
ignorance just might win Townley over.  (And a very big might it
was.)

"I am sorry to have to ask you to do this, Lance," Mayumi said.  "There
is no one else I can ask.  You do not have to do it.  I would
understand if you refused."

There was, of course, as we both knew, no way I could refuse.  Mayumi
genuinely regretted having to ask so much of me.  But she knew she had
a right to ask it.  And so did I. Yamazawa didn't see it that way.  In
fact, though he didn't say so, it was pretty obvious he thought I was
mad.  We talked in his study.  (Well, I suppose that's what you'd call
it, though the fact that it contained nothing beyond a desk, chair,
computer, phone and fax made it feel more like an office a paperless
one at that.)

"It is the kanji for mountain," he said, seeing me glance at the single
item of decoration a framed piece of calligraphy on the wall.
"Pronounced yama."

"Like the first syllable of your name."

"A gift from Toshishige, actually.  He sends me a mountain.  Then he
sends me a man who thinks he can climb one.  Without rope.  And without
knowing how high it is.  I have much to thank my brother for."

"I get the impression you don't think what I'm proposing to do is a
very smart idea."

"You have to decide what is best for you to do, Lance.  But there will
be nobody to watch your back in California.  Mayumi's knowledge of
Townley is from forty years ago.  I would not like to risk my life on
such knowledge."

"I offered to help her.  This is the help she's asked for."

"Then I suppose you must go."

"Well, you said I should leave the country as soon as possible."

"I will see what can be done.  You will need a new name and passport.
Also safe passage.  Stanford University is near San Francisco,
right?"

"So I believe."

He thought for a moment.  "I will need to speak to some friends.  The
airports will be watched, for sure.  So, safe may be slow, OK?"

"I'm in your hands, Shintaro."

"But soon you may be in Townley's hands.  You should think about that,
Lance.  You should think hard."

As it turned out, I had plenty of opportunity for thought over the next
twenty-four hours.  Yamazawa was absent most of the time, making
arrangements with his 'friends' on my behalf.  Mayumi and Haruko kept
themselves largely to themselves.

We didn't even eat together.  I couldn't leave the house, of course,
and neither could they.  We were prisoners by choice and necessity.

As to just how extreme that necessity was, the television was our only
source of information.  Naturally, I had no idea what was being said on
the news programmes about Loudon's murder.  For that I had to look to
my fellow prisoners.  My name hadn't been mentioned, they told me.  The
reports were thinly factual.  A man found dead; a policeman in hospital
with a bullet wound; a dangerous fugitive at large in the mountains
north-west of Kyoto.  All we knew for sure then was that Ledgister was
still on the loose.

"But we are safe here, I think," said Haruko, when, for the first time,
Mayumi left us alone together.

"Yes.  I'm sure you are."

"How long will we have to stay?"

"I don't know.  It depends..."

"On what happens when you meet Townley."  She looked searchingly at me.
"You are taking a big risk for us, I think."

"I'll try not to take any risks at all."

"Will you find Rupe?"

"Maybe."

"He talked to me about you once."

"What did he say?"

She smiled nervously.  "That he sometimes wondered if he should have
lived his life like you."

"Really?"  (It was an idle piece of wondering.  Rupe never had enough
of my sit-down-and-stop.)

"I asked him if I would ever meet you.  He said he was sure I would.  I
thought She blushed and looked down, then started again.  "I thought he
meant at our wedding.  But now ... I wonder if ... really .. ."  Her
words petered into silence.

"He couldn't have foreseen this, Haruko."

"I think he might have done.  You see .. ."

"What?"

"I know what he did was unforgivable.  I know he only pretended to love
me.  But he is not cruel, Lance.  He could only have done as he did ..
. for a grand reason."  (For grand read noble?  This was surely love at
its blindest.) "In business, he told me once, you must always have a
fail-safe.  And I think' she gazed at me through her large, dark,
guileless eyes' that you are his fail-safe."

Yamazawa returned a few hours later and called me into his study.  He
handed me my passport (which he'd borrowed earlier).  As I took it, I
noticed it was closed around a second passport.  This one was
American.

"Your photograph's been scanned onto the details of Gary Charlesworth
Young."

"Who's he?"

"He was born in New York on May twenty-six, nineteen sixty-one."

"That doesn't exactly answer my question."

"It's all you need to know.  Mr.  Young does not require his passport
any more."

"We're sure about that, are we?"

"Completely."

"How long has he ... not required it?"

"I know people who supply such documents, Lance.  There is a trade in
them.  The source of this one is most reliable.  Asking questions is
not part of the transaction."

"I'll bet it isn't."

"Container ship Taiyo-Maru leaves Kobe Monday morning, bound for
Europe.  It calls at Busan, South Korea, Tuesday, to take on cargo. You
can get off there and '

"I'm leaving by ship?"

"Slow but safe, like I told you."

"How slow?"

Train from Busan to Seoul and an evening flight to San Francisco.  With
the time change, it will still be Tuesday when you arrive."

"But that's three days from now."

"These arrangements are secure, Lance.  If you try to fly direct, I
estimate a seventy-five per cent chance you will be picked up."

"There's been nothing on the news about me."

"Maybe not.  But I have spoken to Toshishige.  The police have been to
see him."

"How did they get on to him?"

"His boss at Eurybia '

Tenberthy?"

"Yes.  Penberthy.  That is the name.  He contacted the police as soon
as he read about you in Thursday's Japan Times'

"Bastard."

"Toshishige said the same."

"What did Toshi tell the police?"

"As little as possible.  But they will have made the connection with
Loudon's murder by now.  So, we have to be careful."

He was right.  And I couldn't explain what was really at the root of my
impatience without admitting that he was right about something else as
well.  Going after Townley was crazy.  I'd promised Mayumi I'd do it.
But it was still crazy.  And the longer I had to think about it, the
crazier it got.  "Whatever you say," I meekly conceded.

"Good.  Because there is more care we have to take.  It is possible
just possible that the police will suspect Toshishige of helping you.
If they do, they might decide to investigate his friends and

"His family."

"Exactly.  I do not think they would be able to trace me.  I do not
think they will try.  But we cannot take the risk.  Mayumi and Haruko
can stay.  They have nothing to fear from the police.  But you must
leave.  Tonight."

He was right, of course.  Again.  "OK.  Where do I go?"

"I have booked Mr.  Gary Young into the Hotel Umi in Kobe.  I will
drive you there as soon as it is dark.  Tomorrow night, at twenty-two
hundred hours, a man called Ohashi will call for you.  He will take you
to the container terminal and put you aboard the Taiyo-Maru.
Officially, you are an employee of the ship's owners the Seinan
Shipping Company.  There is a crew of twelve Japanese master, mate and
chief engineer, the rest Filipinos.  None of them speak English.  But
the master has his instructions.  There will be no problem."  (No
problem, that is, until I arrived in San Francisco.) "From Busan' he
handed me a thickly filled brown envelope 'there is enough here in US
dollars to take you as far as you need to go."

"I can't accept that."

"You must."

And he was right yet again.

There was time for a last, futile attempt to persuade Mayumi that she
should trust me with the secret contained in the Townley letter.  But
her gentle manner veiled the firmest of resolves.  "If I told you,
Lance, I could not let you go.  This is the only way."  And in her
gaze, lingering on me after she'd stopped speaking, there was conveyed
a strange form of blessing, which I knew instinctively was all I'd get
from her.

Later, after a final exchange of stilted but hopeful farewells with
Haruko and her, I set off with Yamazawa in his Range Rover.  Cruising
along the empty expressway towards Kobe, he revealed the use he clearly
thought I'd be wise to put my fistful of dollars to.

"This is a cellphone number which you can reach me on any time," he
said, handing me a slip of paper.  "Mayumi and Haruko will be anxious
to hear what happens."

"Won't you be?"

"You have an American passport, Lance.  And money in your pocket.  When
you get to California, you will have a choice."

"I don't intend to run out on them."

"Sometimes, what we intend ... we cannot do."

"I'm going through with this."

"They will be safe even if you don't.  I will make sure of that."

"I'm still going through with it."

"OK."  He fell silent as the car surged on towards the lights of Kobe,
then said, "It's your choice."

SAN FRANCISCO

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Ten years ago, one of those women whose lives I've drifted across and
with and then away from persuaded me that Christmas shopping in New
York was something I really wanted to do.  The trip wasn't a success,
unless you count the fact that it reduced by one the number of
Christmas presents we each had to buy that year.  It certainly didn't
leave me with fond memories of the Big Apple.  In fact, it didn't leave
me with many memories at all, other than a vague mental picture of the
interior of Lucky's Bar on the corner of Sixth Avenue and West 57th
Street.

Touchdown in San Francisco, with the passport of a native New Yorker
wedged in my pocket, was therefore an experience registering fairly
high on the scale of surreality.  Various exacerbating factors nudged
it higher still.  I'd left Kobe forty-eight hours before and crammed a
cruise across the Sea of Japan, a train ride through South Korea and a
flight over the Pacific Ocean into that time.  Thanks to crossing the
International Date Line, however, forty-eight hours had been magically
reduced to twenty-four and I was about to live Tuesday 7 November all
over again.

Then there was that choice Shintaro Yamazawa had smartly pointed out I
still had to make.  Finality of a kind was approaching, though whether
fast or slow was pretty much down to me.  Total anonymity had enveloped
me since stepping off the Taiyo-Maru in Busan and there was no doubting
how agreeable the experience was.  I'd been handed a chance, after all,
that many people would give their right arm for: a fresh start in a
strange country with a newly minted identity.  In Germany and Japan I
was a murder suspect, in England a candidate for extradition to either
country.  In the United States, on the other hand, I was safe and a
citizen to boot.  It was tempting.  Yes, it was very tempting.  And my
track record on resisting temptation didn't bear much scrutiny.
Yamazawa had assured me Mayumi and Haruko would be safe.  My conscience
needn't be unduly stricken.  I had let-outs available by the bucket
load  But ... (There were, of course, always buts.)

I could have taken a cab from the airport, except that then I'd have
had to specify a destination.  Tricky, when you don't have one.  I
didn't have much in the way of luggage either, which made the Sam Trans
bus into the centre an attractive option.  It was slow, but I was in no
hurry, no hurry at all.  Living the same day over and over again would
have suited me rather well.  Then the time to make that choice would
never quite tick round.

I'd bought a San Francisco Chronicle before boarding the bus and leafed
idly through it as we trundled up the freeway, with autumn sunlight
winking off the waters of the bay to the right and the icing-sugar
apartment blocks gleaming at me from the hills ahead.  I don't know
what I was looking for.  I didn't turn to the classified ads in serious
search of affordable accommodation.  But on some level I was certainly
playing with the idea of how I'd go about blending into this new world
where nothing was known about me.  And maybe it would have come to more
than playing maybe if I hadn't noticed, as I searched past the sits vac
for living space to let... ALDER, Rupe.

My gaze had already drifted beyond the name when recognition reached my
brain.  Suddenly, I was alert, jet lag banished, eyes wide as I
backtracked up the page.  A mistake, surely?  A trick of blurred vision
and wandering thoughts.  But no.  It wasn't.

ALDER, Rupe.  We met briefly at Kimball Hall, Stanford, September 15.
If you're still here, please call me urgently.  Mobile 144671789.

I rang the number from a booth at the bus terminal and got a recorded
message telling me the phone I was calling was switched off.  All I
could do was shout down the line that nobody stupid enough to pay to
advertise an unavailable phone number should be enrolled at a
prestigious university.

A couple of Ragin' River ales in a nearby bar soothed my temper, but
couldn't stop my thoughts racing off into the wilder realms of
speculation.  So much for walking away from it all.  Some promises just
wouldn't take being broken for an answer.  I was still on Rupe's trail
whether I wanted to be or not.  He'd been to Stanford to see Clyde
Ledgister.  There could be no other explanation.  But who'd placed the
ad?  And why?  I was close, all right, closer than ever.  I tried the
number again on the bar payphone.

And this time there was an answer.

"Hi."  The voice was female, soft and husky, almost as if whispering.

"Is that one-four-four-six-seven-one-seven-eight-nine?"

Tub."

"I'm calling about your ad in this morning's Chronicle."

"Who are you?"

"I might ask you the same question."

"I'm Maris."

"OK, Maris.  I'm Gary."

"What can I do for you, Gary?"

"I'm a friend of Rupe Alder's .. ."

"You are?"

"Why are you trying to contact him?"

"I can't get into that on the phone."

"Perhaps we could meet, then."

"Maybe."

"I don't think you're going to get any other response to your ad."

"You don't, huh?"

"You're lucky I saw it."

There was a brief silence, then she said, "OK, Gary, point taken.  When
do you suggest we meet?"

"Right away suits me."

"I have classes this afternoon."

"You're a student at Stanford?"

"Yuh."

"I could come to you."

"Where are you now?"

"Downtown San Francisco."

"OK.  Do you know how to get here?"

"Not exactly.  I just got into town."

"Then I am lucky, aren't I?"

"I said you were.  Now, how do I get to Stanford?"

An hour's ride on the CalTrain to Palo Alto turned out to be the
answer, with a courtesy bus laid on at the station to ferry students,
staff and visitors to the university campus.  Walking was pretty much
out of the question, on account of the sheer vastness of the site.
Stanford's acreage appeared close to limitless, with architectural
statements of patron al munificence plonked spaciously around it.

The bus dropped me outside the main quad and I made my way through an
elegant maze of honey-stoned colonnades to the university bookshop,
where the mysterious Maris had said she'd meet me in the in-store cafe
prior to a three o'clock seminar.  I'd know her by her hair, she'd
assured me.  "Red, and lots of it."

It was true.  I had no trouble spotting her, sipping cappuccino and
distractedly turning the pages of a fat textbook.  She had the
porcelain skin that sometimes goes with red hair, apparently untouched
by the Californian sun.  The hair itself was long and lustrous and very
conspicuous.  She was wearing a baggy grey sweater and cropped
trousers.  A black rucksack, sagging round book-shaped bulges, lay at
her feet.  She glanced at her wristwatch a fraction of a second before
noticing me.  And an expensive wristwatch it looked to be.

"Hi.  I'm Gary Young.  We spoke on the phone."

"Hi.  Maris Nielsen.  Do you want a coffee?"

"OK."

"You have to buy it at the counter."

I glanced round at a three-long queue, at the head of which a minute
girl in a purple beret was agonizing over her choice of Danish. "Forget
it."  I sat down.  "We don't have that much time, do we?"

"Guess not."  Maris put her book away and gave me her attention.  "So
... Gary .. . how, ah .. ."

"I'm an old friend of Rupe's."

"From England?"

"Actually, I'm American by birth."  (It seemed a good idea to flag up
my cover story early.) "But I grew up in England.  Rupe and I were at
school together."

"What brings you to San Francisco?"

"This is where Rupe was when his family last heard from him."

"And when was that?"

"Mid-September.  Since then, nothing."

"Mid-September, huh?"

"Yeh.  Which is when you met him, according to your ad."

"Oh, it's when I met him, all right."

"How did you .. . meet him?"

"Could I just get something straight first?  As far as his family and
friends are concerned, Rupe Alder's vanished, right?  You're here to
find him.  But you have no way of knowing whether he's still in San
Francisco.  No hard idea, in actual fact, where he could be."

"That's the size of it."

"Seems you can't help me, then."

"I might be able to.  If you told me why it's so ... urgent .. . that
you contact him."

"Who said it was urgent?"

"You did."  I plucked the half-page I'd torn out of the paper from my
pocket.  "In your ad."

"Oh yeh."  She sat back, then slowly picked up her cappuccino and
sipped it, patently playing for time.  "Well, the wording was just to
get his attention, of course."

"It got mine."

"Yuh.  So it did."

"Look, Maris '

"Could we go outside?"  She glanced around.  "You know, away from ...
people."

Out we went, into the clean, cooling air.  Stifling the observation
that the choice of rendezvous had been Maris's, not mine, I followed
her through a pillared and pedimented archway into a courtyard in front
of a white-faced mission-style building.  Benches, most of them
unoccupied, were arranged round a central fountain.  Sunlight was
dancing in the plashing water.  Maris made for the bench furthest from
anyone else and sat down.

"Sorry about having to get out of there," she said as I joined her.  "I
don't want everyone knowing my business."

"I can understand that."

"I especially don't want Clyde hearing about the ad."

"Clyde?"  I raised my eyebrows to strengthen the impression of
ignorance it seemed important to convey.

"My boyfriend.  Clyde Ledgister.  Did Rupe ever mention him to you?"

"I don't think so."

"Only I got the impression ... well, that Rupe had come here to see
Clyde.  Specifically, I mean."

"Why was that?"

"I don't know.  That was the whole point of..  ."  She lowered her
voice, though the only people within earshot were absorbed in their own
conversation.  "The Arabs were the ones who standardized the
incorporation of fountains in architectural design, you know.  Odd,
when you consider how little water they had to spare.  But fountains
weren't considered luxuries by your average Middle Eastern potentate.
The sound of the water made it kind of hard for eavesdroppers.  An
early anti-bugging device, I suppose you could say."  She glanced at
her watch.  "I don't have all that long, I'm afraid."

"Why not just tell me why you're so keen to speak to Rupe, then?"

"OK.  But if Clyde ever finds out..  ."

"Mightn't he see the ad?"

"Not really.  He's out of town at the moment.  His uncle's died."  (And
was no doubt being buried in Berlin.  Yes, Clyde was well away.)

"That's why you put it in today?"

"All this week, actually.  Clyde won't be back till next week."

"Right.  So, this was a good opportunity to see if Rupe was still
around."

"Yuh.  I mean, OK, it was a long shot, but .. . I'm worried about
Clyde.  What else could I do to find out what in hell's going on?"

"Why are you worried about him?"

"Because he's not been the same since that day September fifteen.  I
knew there was something wrong when I walked in on them in Clyde's
room.  Your friend, Rupe, well, he was pleasant enough.  But the ...
atmosphere .. . was all wrong.  I had the feeling ... he was
threatening Clyde.  After he'd gone, Clyde just tried to brush it under
the rug, said there was nothing wrong, nothing I needed to bother
about.  But he wouldn't say what Rupe had wanted or how they'd met. And
anyhow ... I can read him like a book.  He couldn't fool me.  He was
scared of something.  Something Rupe had said to him, or told him
about, or asked him to do.  He was real scared.  And then

"What?"

"After Rupe's visit, I couldn't get so close to him, you know?  There
was a part of him sealed off.  We'd always told each other everything.
So I'd thought, anyhow.  But that all changed.  He got to be ...
secretive.  And oftentimes absent, without explanation.  Most everyone
lives on campus here.  Stanford's a self-contained community.  San
Francisco's a long way off and feels even further.  Clyde and I never
went into the city much.  But after your friend's visit, that altered.
I wouldn't be able to find Clyde in the usual places at the usual
times.  Then someone would tell me they'd seen him heading for the
train station.  When I asked him where he'd been, he'd just get mad and
shout at me to stop interrogating him.  So, I stopped."

"But you went on wondering."

"Yuh.  The more I thought about it, the more it led back to the quietly
spoken Englishman I'd met in his room that Friday, September fifteen
Rupe Alder.  He didn't say much about himself.  At the time, I wasn't
interested.  But I am now.  So, what can you tell me about him,
Gary?"

"Nothing that'll answer your questions.  He's a professional guy,
single, thirty-six years old.  Lives in London.  Works for a shipping
company.  Did work for a shipping company, I should say.  Resigned at
the end of August.  Nobody knows why.  Nor why he came here.  What he
was up to what he wanted with Clyde is a total mystery."

"There must be some clue to his intentions."

"Not really.  Except..  ."  I sensed the moment had arrived when, if I
volunteered something, however meagre, I might get a little more in
return.  But what to volunteer?  I couldn't mention Townley.  If Maris
knew that was the surname of Clyde's recently deceased uncle, it could
set some unhelpful alarm bells ringing.  "There's a photograph he seems
to have been interested in, pinned up in his kitchen, of someone nobody
close to Rupe recognizes.  It's possible, going on odd remarks he made
to his lodger, that he's, well, looking for the person in the
photograph."

"Do you have the photograph with you?"

"Er .. . yeh."  I burrowed in my bag and produced the snap Rupe had
taken of the picture of Townley with Loudon and another man at the
Golden Rickshaw.  "It's the guy on the right that Rupe was interested
in."

"How do you know that?"  (A fair question.)

"Ah, well, there was another photograph.  I mean, there were two on the
wall.  I didn't bring the other one with me.  Only this fellow' - I
tapped at Townley's face with my finger' appears in both."

"Where was it taken?"

"Not sure.  But, er, the other one .. . was taken at a railway station
in Somerset, near where Rupe and I grew up.  Now, the station closed
the whole line closed, in fact in nineteen sixty-six, so the pictures
obviously predate that."

"By how much?"  (Another fair question.)

"Well, our friend's in civilian clothes in the station shot.  The
fashion looks to be ... early to mid-nineteen sixties."

Maris's expression suggested such reasoning wouldn't pass muster with
her tutors.  But she didn't seem inclined to make an issue of my
failure to bring the other photograph with me.  "So, how old would this
guy be now?"

"Oh, sixty-five, seventy."

"Sixty-five, seventy."  The computation had given her food for thought.
"That's kind of interesting."

"Why?"

"Because .. ."  She looked away, chewing her thumb pensively, the first
thing I'd seen her do that was less mature than she evidently wanted to
appear.  "God, this is difficult."

"What is?"

She glanced at her watch again.  "I really should be going soon."

"Do you know who the guy in the photograph is?"

"No.  Not .. . exactly."

"But you know something about him?"

"Kind of.  I mean She shook her head irritably in a flame-red flurry,
then said, "OK.  No sense starting down this road if we don't go to the
end.  One day, a couple of weeks after Clyde had started going missing,
I ... followed him.  I saw him getting on the Marguerite that's what we
call the shuttle bus.  Well, it goes out round by the children's
hospital and the shopping mall on its way to the station, so I knew if
I cycled straight down Palm Drive I'd get there first.  I also knew
-because I'd found the used tickets a couple of times in his waste
basket that these trips of his were all the way into San Francisco.  I
kept out of sight when the Marguerite pulled in and stayed that way
till the train arrived.  Clyde was on foot, so he got straight on,
without paying any attention to me and a few others boarding the bike
car.  I didn't really know how

I was going to keep track of him at the depot, with the bike and all,
but I only lost him for a few minutes.  He was waiting for a bus.  When
he got on one, I tagged along behind.  I guess you don't know the city
well?"

"Not at all."

"OK.  Well, with the number of stops plus the traffic congestion, it's
no problem to keep up with a bus on a bike.  We crossed Market that's
the main downtown street and headed north into Chinatown, where Clyde
got off and hopped onto a California Street cable car.  He rode that
all the way to the terminus on Van Ness, then walked up into Pacific
Heights.  That's a pretty exclusive neighbourhood, with views of the
ocean.  I had to hang back quite a lot, so as not to be seen.  But
Clyde obviously didn't think he was being followed, least of all by me.
He crossed Lafayette Park and went into an apartment block.  A
smart-looking place, porte red and all.  I couldn't follow him in
without giving myself away.  And I was too far back to see which bell
he'd rung."

"So what did you do?"

"I sat in the park, sheltered by the trees, with a good view of the
entrance to the block, waiting to see how long Clyde would stay.  After
about twenty minutes, he came out.  But he wasn't alone.  There was
this .. . old guy with him."

"How old?"

"About the age you said this guy here' she pointed to the photograph
'would be now."

"Did he look like him?"

"Maybe."  She peered at Townley's face.  "It's hard to say.  People
change.  My grandfather's in his seventies and I've seen pictures of
him as a young man in which he's barely recognizable.  So, it's
possible.  That's about all I can say.  They crossed over to enter the
park, so I had to hightail it out of there.  I never got a close view
of the guy.  He looked old -white hair and beard, cut short but he
looked good for his age: upright, neither fat nor thin, holding himself
together well.  That's as much of a description as I can give you."

"Have you seen him since?"

"No.  I went up there a few days ago after Clyde had gone away and hung
around the park for a couple of hours, hoping I might see him coming or
going.  But he never showed."  (Maybe, it occurred to me, because he
too had gone to a funeral.) "That's when I decided to place the ad and
see if I got an answer."

"Well, you did."

"Yuh, but not quite the one I was hoping for."

"Don't be so despondent, Maris.  Seems to me I can do something you're
not really in a position to do."

"What's that?"

"Well, if you started asking questions at the apartment block, word
might get back to Clyde, right?  Which I gather you're anxious to
avoid."

"I sure am."

"So, let me ask the questions for you."  I smiled benignly at her. "All
you have to do is give me the address of the block."

The autumn light was failing by the time I got off the train back in
San Francisco.  According to Maris, the bus Clyde had caught from the
station was the number 30, so I hung around the crowded stops until a
30 showed up, got aboard and stayed on while it traversed the centre
and climbed the hill into Chinatown.  The rush hour was in spate and
nobody was going anywhere fast.  When we crossed the cable-car tracks I
got off, faithfully retracing the route Clyde had taken the day Maris
had followed him.

The California Street cable car, crammed with tourists and home-going
commuters, lumbered its up-and-down way west through Chinatown and Nob
Hill towards Pacific Heights.  It was slow-going all right, but the
gradients would have been too much for me to manage on a bike, even at
Maris's age.  I could only thank God for Californian gym culture.
Without it, we'd have had no idea where Clyde had gone.

Why he'd gone there was still something of a mystery, though less of
one to me than to his sorely puzzled girlfriend.  I got off at the end
of the cable-car tracks on Van Ness Avenue and, finding myself at the
door of the Holiday Inn, trailed in after a clutch of tourists and
booked a room.  From

there I called Maris to let her know where I was staying.  Her number
was unavailable again, so I had to leave a message.  Then I headed back
out, armed with a complimentary street map from reception and walked
the two blocks to Lafayette Park as night closed over the city.

Egret Apartments stood close to the north-western corner of the park.
It was a tall, slender, softly lit Art Deco block, presenting a broad
and handsome frontage to Laguna Street and a high, narrow flank to the
night-blanked vista of San Francisco Bay.

There was a gleaming brass bank of numbered bell-pushes beside the
double-doored entrance, but no list of residents by name.  Since I took
it as certain that Townley if he was Townley would be living there
under an alias, such a list wouldn't have told me much anyway.  And the
porter, who I could see leafing through an evening newspaper behind a
lacquer-topped counter in the lobby, wasn't going to volunteer
information about the residents to a stranger for no good reason.  I
wandered on west, turning the problem over in my mind.

Three blocks took me to the neighbourhood shopping street, where the
scents of coffee and cinnamon wafting out of a wayside cafe reminded me
that I was more than a little hungry.  I sat on a stool near the door,
munching a waffle and sipping a super-heated hot chocolate while I
formulated a tentative plan.  If I was going to strike any kind of
terms with Townley, I first had to contact him.  The chances were that
he, like Clyde, was out of town.  When he returned, I had to be ready
for him.  And finding out what he called himself was the obvious way to
start.  But how?

An answer came to me as I watched customers coming and going at the
bookstore next door.  After I'd panted down the last of my chocolate, I
went in and bought a glossy tourist guide to Japan.  A plastic bag
bearing the name of the shop came with it.  Then I dug out the Tokyo
street map I'd been given at Narita Airport, marked with the names and
locations of the Golden Rickshaw and Eurybia Shipping, and slipped it
inside the cover of the book.  I reckoned that was sure to get
Townley's attention.

Back at Egret Apartments, the porter was still absorbed in the sports
pages of the San Francisco Examiner.  He looked up as I entered and
laid the paper aside.  "Good evening, sir."

"Good evening.  I wonder if you can help me with a tricky little
problem.  Last week, I got chatting to a guy in a cafe down on Fillmore
Street who happened to mention that he lives here.  We'd both bought
books at the bookstore next door and, when we left, well, our books got
mixed up.  We took the wrong ones.  He got mine, I got his."  I
flourished the bag.  "Easy mistake to make."

"You want to do a swap, right?"

That'd certainly be neat.  Unfortunately, I didn't get the gentleman's
name."

"What did he look like?"

"Well, knocking on, but in good nick.  Short white hair and beard.
Carried himself well.  Sixties, seventies that sort of age."

"Sounds like our Mr.  Duthie.  He's out of town right now.  Back in a
few days.  If you care to leave his book, with a note of your name and
phone number .. ."

"OK.  Do you have a piece of paper?"  He handed me a sheet and I
scribbled on it: I know who you are.  I guess you know who I am.  We
need to talk.  I will phone after your return.  I slipped that in
beside the map and passed the bag to the porter.  "I can't be reached
on the phone, I'm afraid.  Maybe I could call Mr.  Duthie when he's
back.  Do you know when that'll be?  You said a few days."

"By Friday, for sure."

"OK.  And the number?"

"Here's the general number."  He gave me a small card.  "There's always
someone here."

"Thanks a lot."  I'd hoped for Mr.  Duthie's personal number, but
perhaps I'd hoped for too much.  I'd got a toe-hold in his life and
that was enough.  Smiling, I made my exit.

Back at the Holiday Inn, I checked the phone book, but found no Duthie
listed at Egret Apartments.  Somehow, that wasn't really a surprise.
Then I called Maris again.  This time, her phone was switched on.

"Clyde's friend is called Duthie.  He's also away at the moment.  I'll
speak to him when he gets back, which I'm assured will be by the end of
the week."

"How will you explain tracing him without dragging me into it?"

"I'll say Rupe mentioned his name."

"And then?"

"I'll see what he says in response."

"What if he says nothing?"

"I don't plan to give him that option."

The brave words were partly attributable to my febrile state of mind.
Chronic stress and a haywire body clock were playing havoc with my
normally acute instinct for self-preservation.  I angled round the
corner in search of a congenial bar, settled for an uncongenial one
instead, and, two-thirds of the way through my second Ragin' River, was
hit by a runaway lorry-load of accumulated fatigue.  A totter back to
the hotel was swiftly followed by a descent into sleep several levels
deeper than the norm.

Half of Wednesday had vanished when I rejoined the ranks of the
conscious.  Since my itinerary wasn't exactly clogged, this represented
no problem whatever.  After a large lunchtime breakfast, I became a
tourist for the afternoon, riding the cable cars to Fisherman's Wharf
and shelling out for a boat trip round the Bay.

As the boat nosed out through the swell towards the rust-red span of
Golden Gate Bridge, I thought some more about the cut-and-run policy
Shintaro Yamazawa had tacitly recommended to me.  It was still
tempting, but now only in principle.  I was going to see this thing
through whatever it was, wherever it led.

On my way back to the hotel, I stopped off at the uncongenial bar.  All
the talk there was of sensational developments in the presidential
election that I dimly recalled noticing some mention of in the paper.
They might as well have been discussing the presidency of Mars for all
I cared.  I was engaged in my own brand of politics, but the time for
counting votes hadn't yet arrived.

It is, however, as they say, always later than you think.  At the
Holiday Inn, Maris was waiting for me.  And it was pretty obvious from
the expression on her face that she didn't want to reassure herself
that I'd enjoyed the sights.

"I got another answer to my ad."

"Who from?"

"Mr.  Duthie."  There was an accusation detectable in the anxiety that
I could hear bubbling in her voice.  "He wants to meet me."

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

There was less than an hour to go till Maris's eight o'clock
appointment with Mr.  Chester Duthie in the bar of the Fairmont Hotel.
I knew her apprehensiveness about the encounter would turn to terror if
I told her what really lay behind it.  Even so, she seemed grateful to
me for volunteering to take her place, though not as grateful as I was
to her for rejecting Duthie's suggestion that she call on him at
home.

"He's bound to tell Clyde about this, Gary.  I absolutely wanted to
avoid him finding out."

"Maybe I can persuade Mr.  Duthie to keep his mouth shut."

"How?"

"Not sure.  But there may be a way."

"Yuh?  Like there was a way for you to approach him without implicating
me?  Seems to me you've done a fine job of landing me right in it."
(This was true, if faintly unfair.  She'd done a good deal of the
landing herself.)

"Hold on.  He doesn't know you're Clyde's girlfriend."

"It won't take him long to work that out."

"I think it might."

"Why?"

"Because, when he meets me, your involvement will fall right off the
top of his agenda.  I promise."

That was one promise I could feel confident of keeping, although the
exact nature of Mr.  Duthie's agenda was disturbingly unclear.  He'd
obviously rumbled us big time.  It was idle to suppose he hadn't
connected Maris's advert with the anonymous book donor.  But he
couldn't have made all the connections.  There was a chance I'd be able
to take him unawares.  (And an even bigger one that it would be the
other way round.) At least the venue for our meeting sounded safe.
Maris and I took the cable car up to Nob Hill, where the Fairmont and
several other swanky hotels competed for panoramic views.  We agreed to
meet in an hour or so at the Ritz-Carlton, a little further down
California Street.  Making the appointment, I was aware that the hour
or so in question could prove to contain more than the average sixty
minutes' worth.

The bar of the Fairmont was quiet too late for cocktails, too early for
after-dinner drinks.  Spotting Mr.  Chester Duthie wasn't difficult. He
looked at his ease, if not in his element, dressed in a dark-blue suit
and open-neck maroon shirt an outfit that only emphasized the whiteness
of his hair and beard, as well as the robin's-egg blue of his eyes.
The set of his shoulders and the tilt of his chin suggested he'd made
few compromises to age or indeed very much else.  His face was lined,
but frail was the last description that fitted him.  Even sitting in a
leather armchair, he had an unmistakable physical presence.  It would
have been easy to feel afraid of him.  And that's exactly what I did
feel.

For a man expecting to meet a twenty-year-old girl, Chester Duthie met
my approach with a noticeable lack of surprise.  I had a nasty feeling
he'd known exactly who I was and what I wanted from the moment I'd
entered the bar.

"Mr.  Duthie?"

"Yuh."  He drew on his cigarette.  "You must be the guy I met in the
cafe on Fillmore Street last week."  His voice was surprisingly soft,
as if raising it had long since ceased to be a necessity.  "I believe
your name's Lance Bradley."

A denial would have been pointless, even if my expression hadn't given
me away as I feared it must have done.  "And I

believe your name's Stephen Townley," I said, trying to recover the
ground I'd already lost.

"Why don't you sit down?"

"OK."

"Cigarette?"

"No thanks."

"How about a drink?"

"Fine."

He summoned the waiter with a raised forefinger.  "Another large J and
B on the rocks for me and the same for the gentleman."

"I don't take ice in my whisky," I said after the waiter had bustled
away.

"Time you started."

"If you say so."

"Let's hope you take the same line on some other recommendations I have
for you."

"Can't promise."

"No?  Well, promises are cheap.  Look at Miss Nielsen's promise to meet
me here."

"She's just worried about Clyde.  Nothing else."

"I guessed that.  Just like I guessed you'd turn up in her place."

"Glad not to have disappointed you."

"You should be.  I don't take disappointment well.  And a death in the
family .. ."  He paused while the waiter returned with our drinks, but
kept looking at me till the bloke had gone again.  "I take that even
worse."

"I'm sorry about your son."

"I find that hard to believe."

"I didn't mean to kill him."

"Ah, now that I do believe.  But he is dead.  And the German police
seem to think you're responsible."

"It was self-defence."

"No, Lance.  It was murder.  Plain and simple.  But you didn't do it.
There's the irony."

"What do you mean?"

"We'll come back to what I mean later.  You wanted to meet me.  That's
what the farrago with the book was all about.  So, you're meeting me
even sooner than you'd hoped, thanks to my early flight home.  After
Gordon screwed up in Japan, it was odds on you coming here.  The porter
smelled a rat right off, incidentally.  He's not likely to see me with
a bookstore carrier-bag under my arm if we both live to be a hundred.
As for talking to strangers in coffee-shops, that's not my style.  Now,
what do you want to say to me?"

"I have a message from Mayumi."

"Deliver it."

"She'll never reveal the contents of the letter to anyone if you agree
to leave Haruko and her in peace."

"I have to trust her on that, do I?"

"Yes.  I think you know you can.  The only two people she did tell
Miller Loudon and her brother are dead."

"Didn't she tell you, Lance?"

"No."

"No?"

That's what I said."

"And I believe you.  You know why?  Because, if you knew what was in
the letter, you wouldn't have come to San Francisco.  You'd have run
for your life.  And you'd have been well advised to."

"Why don't you tell me?"

"You have a sense of humour, Lance.  That must be why Gordon dislikes
you so much.  He always dislikes people who crack better jokes than he
does."

"Do you accept Mayumi's offer?"

"Is that what you'd call it an offer?  Sounds more like a plea for
mercy to me."

"And are you a merciful man?"

"What do you think?"

"I think .. . not."

Townley allowed himself half a smile as he stubbed out his cigarette.
"Honest as well as humorous.  My, my, you do have a lot going for you.
More than your friend Rupe Alder."

"Where is Rupe?"

"He threatened me, Lance.  And then, when I showed him I wasn't
prepared to yield to his threats, he threatened my grandson.  I don't
know what he thought I'd do about that.  But ask yourself: what should
I have done?  What choice did he give me?"

"What did you do?"

Townley dropped his voice to a gravelly whisper.  "I killed him."

They were the words I'd half-expected to hear.  But still they sent a
chill through me.  "He's dead?"

Townley nodded.  "Uhuh."

"You killed him?"  My voice too had descended to a murmur.

"Let's be accurate here.  I'm retired from that line myself.  I had
Gordon handle the job.  He enjoys the work, just like amateurs tend to.
Do you want to know the particulars?  I'd opt not to, if I were you."

Tell me."

"OK.  Your friend, your choice.  Rupe got heavy with us, so we got
heavier in return.  Gordon lured him to a rendezvous in Buena Vista
Park.  The official cause of death was a cocaine overdose.  The media
evidently thought he got that bump on the head falling over in a
drugged stupor.  Some Japanese tourists found him.  Well, they do go
out early, don't they?  They were there for the views of the city.  I
guess dead crack-heads count as one."

I couldn't seem to frame a response.  All this way and all this
struggle, for the bleak reward of Townley's deadpan report on how he
and his murderous son-in-law had neutralized the threat Rupe posed to
them.

"Gordon removed anything that could have identified Rupe, of course,
and checked him out of his hotel room.  At that point, your friend
dropped off the edge of the world.  Well, the edge of the continent,
anyhow, on account of the fact that bodies unclaimed after thirty days
are cremated and their ashes scattered in the ocean.  Sadly, though, he
didn't leave my life so neatly.  Gordon searched his room and his
belongings and the clothes he was wearing.  He found the photocopy of
the letter, which was all Rupe had shown me.  But not the original. And
he still hasn't found it.  Rupe must have hidden it.  The question is:
where?"

"You think I'd tell you if I knew?"

"I do.  You see, what you said about killing Eric in self-defence,
well, that goes for me and Rupe as well.  He wanted me to go public
with the whole story.  But that would have been suicide.  Worse, it
would have endangered my family.  I had to defend them as well as
myself.  There really was nothing else I could do.  I tried talking him
out of it.  I tried buying him off.  I even tried begging, which
doesn't come easy to me.  None of it did any good.  Your friend was a
man with a mission.  He was determined to blow everything wide open. He
had to be stopped.  He was stopped."

"So, you murdered Rupe because he was blackmailing you."

"That's what it amounts to, yuh."

"And Peter Dalton?  What was your justification for murdering him?"

Townley checked there was nobody even close to being able to overhear
us before replying in an undertone.  "Money.  I needed it pretty badly
then.  I was preparing for my very early retirement.  I could see what
was coming up and I knew I'd have to drop conclusively out of sight if
I wasn't to finish up just how Hilde Voss told you I did.  Rupe would
never have traced me if I'd stuck to my soundest principle: solitude is
safety.  I've invested wisely over the years.  I own Egret Apartments,
though as far as the lessees are concerned I'm just another one of
them.  The only unwise thing I've done is the most human.  I stayed in
touch with my family.  But for that, no one would ever have found me.
And the letter could never have harmed me."

"Does Clyde know what happened to Rupe?"

"No.  Nor why it had to happen.  And I'd like to keep it that way."

"I won't tell Maris, if that's what you mean."

"That's considerate of you."

"I'm considering her."

"Of course.  What a gent in disguise you are.  Unlike Rupe.  The truth
is, Lance, that Clyde didn't even know he had a grandfather alive and
well and residing up the road until Rupe told him.  I was planning the
surprise for later in the boy's Stanford career.  Actually, I was
waiting for his mother to warm to the idea.  Anyhow, Rupe forced the
issue and made it clear to Clyde that I wasn't exactly your
footstool-and-slippers kind of grand pappy  Left me with a lot of
ground to make up.  I'd appreciate being allowed to tackle the task the
best way I can."

"Am I missing something here?"  (I certainly felt as if I was.  Townley
had mixed candour with implacability to disarming effect.  He wasn't
what I'd expected, though whether that made him more dangerous or less
I couldn't decide.)

"Are you missing something?  You mean in addition to the big
picture?"

"What's your answer to Mayumi?"  (In the end, after all, there had to
be one.)

"Let's get out of here."  He turned towards the bar, where the waiter
was refilling the ice bucket.  "Check!"

"I'm not sure I '

"Don't worry.  I'm not taking you to Buena Vista Park."

We didn't in fact go further than the square separating the Fairmont
Hotel from Grace Cathedral.  Townley lit another cigarette and smoked
it enthusiastically as we walked slowly round the perimeter of the
small park occupying the western half of the square.  There were plenty
of cars and people about.  The street-lighting was good, the location
as safe as they come.  There were no dark corners, no black-windowed
vans.  One part of my brain assessed the spot as scarcely less secure
than the bar we'd just left.  Another part of my brain was having none
of it.

"I don't doubt Mayumi's sincerity, Lance.  The problem is the letter.
While it exists, it's a threat to me and mine.  If it fell into the
wrong hands ... the consequences are unthinkable.  Mayumi would be
forced to talk.  There's no question about it.  When fire swept this
city after the nineteen hundred and six earthquake, it was only stopped
by dynamiting the grand mansions along Van Ness Avenue to create a
fire-break.  You see what I'm saying?  Without the letter, I've got to
have a firebreak."

"Mayumi doesn't have the letter to give you."

"No.  But in amongst all this aching sympathy for her and her lovesick
daughter, you might ask yourself why she was so stupid as to keep the
letter in the first place.  If she'd burned it the day it was delivered
.. . But I know the answer, of course, which you're in no position to.
Fortunately, you are in a position to resolve the situation."

"I am?"

"We're both in trouble, Lance.  The only difference is that your
trouble is here and now, whereas mine's out there in the future. You're
a murder suspect in two continents.  I'm a nobody who wants to be sure
of staying that way.  I can prove you didn't murder anyone. And you can
guarantee the continued anonymity of Mr.  Chester Duthie. I see the
making of a deal there, don't you?"

"How can you prove anything or me guarantee anything?"

"OK.  Listen.  I chose Gordon as a husband for Barbara because I
thought she might need his protection if and when I was no longer able
to protect her myself.  She never knew that, of course.  Now, the
downside of protection is that sometimes the guard dog can turn on its
owner.  Gordon contracted the hit in Berlin to a pro called Ventress.
There's a protocol in these things Gordon doesn't understand.  When I
explained to Ventress that I was his contractor-in-chief, he was
willing if not exactly happy to tell me everything that occurred.  It
seems Gordon added a second hit to the list just before taking off
after you.  He'd followed Eric to the Adlon and therefore knew Eric had
disobeyed orders by deciding to take a personal hand against you.
Gordon instructed Ventress to make sure Eric didn't survive that act of
disobedience."

"You're saying ..."

"Ventress finished Eric off, on Gordon's orders.  My son-in-law decreed
that my son had become a liability.  He's thought that for a long time.
There, at the Adlon, he had an opportunity to do something about it.
And he took the opportunity.  The question now is: what am I going to
do about it?"

"What's the answer?"

That's where you come in, Lance.  You see, I could tip the authorities
off in Germany and Japan.  I could tell them Gordon Ledgister is the
man they're really looking for.  Forensic evidence would nail him for
Miller Loudon's murder, no question.  Since he could also be shown to
have been on the scene in Berlin, your version of events would be
believed over his.  Leaving you in the clear and Gordon .. . where he
deserves to be.  Eric was a liability.  Gordon was right about that.
But he was also my son.  The man who killed him must be made to pay for
it.  And I don't mean Ventress."

"Aren't you afraid Gordon will implicate you?"

"No.  He loves Clyde and Barbara.  He knows what might happen to them
if he shot his mouth off.  Besides, he wouldn't know I'd fingered him.
He'd have to take his punishment like a man.  It's death for murder in
Japan, they tell me.  Don't worry about Gordon.  I made him.  I can
break him.  You should be asking yourself what you can do to encourage
me to come forward.  I mean, I can settle things with Gordon privately
if I need to.  I don't necessarily have to rescue you into the
bargain."

"What do you want?"

The letter.  What else?"

"I don't have it.  I don't know where it is.  I can't give it to
you."

"I think you can.  You were Rupe's best friend, weren't you?  His best
and oldest friend.  That means you know the way his mind worked.  Which
also means you have a better chance than anyone else of figuring out
where he hid it."

"I don't know."

"Not yet.  But I'm backing you to learn.  You just need a little
encouragement."  He stopped.  Looking round, I realized that we'd
completed a circuit of the square and were back where we'd started,
outside the Fairmont Hotel.  "Well, I reckon you have all the
encouragement you need now.  Don't you?"

I stared at him dumbly.  How could I answer?  Mayumi had sent me to
fall on his mercy.  I'd known that to be a fool's errand all along. But
I hadn't expected to be offered a second one at the end of it.  Nor to
realize that it, like the first, was an errand I couldn't refuse.

"Find the letter, Lance.  And deliver it to me.  Then I'll accept
Mayumi's offer.  And you'll get your life back."

I was already late for my appointment with Maris when Townley and I
parted, but still I took a roundabout route through Chinatown to reach
the Ritz-Carlton.  I couldn't decide whether I'd just been handed a
lifeline or not.  Townley's reasoning was sound as far as it went.  I
probably did stand a better chance than anyone of working out where
Rupe had hidden the letter.  But better didn't necessarily mean good
enough.  And not knowing what the letter contained could be a fatal
handicap.

But fatality cut two ways.  If I found the letter, I'd know at long
last what it was all about.  Townley's apparent confidence that I'd
refrain from reading it was surely a pretence.  I knew what had
happened to those who'd learned his secret.  That could well be the
fate he had in mind for me too, even if he did mean to let Ledgister
take the rap for the murders.  Two for the price of one was a bargain
that would appeal to him.  I couldn't trust him.  I didn't trust him.

And yet I had no choice but to act as if I did.

"Chester Duthie is Clyde's grandfather.  A bit of a rough diamond,
banished from his grandson's life by Clyde's mother.  Rupe was trying
to squeeze money out of them by threatening to tell her they'd got
together.  They paid him off and he left town.  That's all there is to
it.  Chester assures me he won't breathe a word to Clyde about your
ad."

Maris looked at me with wide-eyed scepticism.  "How come a total
stranger from England found out about this obscure little family
difficulty?"

"Business dealings with Chester, apparently.  The old boy wouldn't go
into details.  Probably because they were .. . legally iffy."

"And it just so happens that, since then, Rupe has disappeared."

"Coincidental, as far as I can gather.  I'll have to look for him
elsewhere."

"It doesn't have anything to do with the death of Clyde's uncle."

"Nothing whatever."

"In fact, it's all much less sinister than it appeared to be."

"Well, appearances can be deceptive."

"They surely can."

"How are we for time?  I don't want you to miss the last train."

"Don't worry.  I'll soon be going."

"I didn't mean '

"Yes you did, Gary.  So, maybe I should lay it on the line for you .. .
and for Chester.  I'll go along with this, for Clyde's sake.  I'll let
it lie.  But there's one thing I want you to know."

"What's that?"

"I don't believe a single word you've said."

I couldn't blame Maris for doubting me.  I couldn't explain why she was
actually in my debt, either.  I could only hope she did what she'd said
she'd do: let it lie.

The uncongenial bar was still open when I got there and the proprietor
seemed happy to ply me with drinks at the rapid rate I set.  There's a
world of difference in mood and reason between getting drunk slowly and
getting drunk fast.  This was definitely a fast occasion.  I had a
friend to mourn and to curse.  I did both, more or less simultaneously,
as midnight slurred into the early hours.

I was at the Public Library when it opened the following morning.  It
took me no more than twenty minutes to find what I was looking for in
their back copies of the San Francisco Chronicle, on an inner page of
the local news section for Saturday, September 23.

DEATH IN BUENA VISTA PARK

The body of an unidentified Caucasian male, approximate age 30-35, was
found yesterday morning in Buena

Vista Park.  A police spokesperson said the death appeared to be
drug-related.  The deceased was smartly dressed.  Anyone with
information regarding his identity is asked to contact the Police
Department.

That was it.  One paragraph, four sentences.  Not much of an obituary.
But it looked like it was the only one Rupe was going to get.

I walked out into the plaza filling the square between the Library and
City Hall and made my way slowly round the rectangular pond at its
centre.  Sunlight sparkled in the fountain and a cool breeze sent
fallen leaves rushing past me.  Rupe and I were a long way from home
and only one of us was going back.  I had to go.  And soon.  But I
promised Rupe, and myself, as I gazed up at the dome of City Hall, that
I'd come back one day and tell the authorities just who that Caucasian
male in Buena Vista Park really was.  I'd even try to give him a proper
funeral.  Though as for a eulogy .. .

Where was the letter?  Where could it be?  A bank vault seemed the
obvious bet.  But Rupe would have had some sort of receipt in that
case, some documentary proof of ownership.  Ledgister had found nothing
in his pockets or belongings.  He'd drawn a blank at Rupe's house in
London and his flat in Tokyo as well.  Rupe had chosen his hiding-place
well.  That much was certain.

It was clear to me he wouldn't have left the letter in Tokyo, since
he'd not have wanted to go back there.  Nor would he have carried it
with him during his dealings with the Townleys in Berlin and San
Francisco.  A photocopy was all he'd needed to show them.

So, London it had to be, the only other place he'd been between
stealing the letter and keeping his fatal appointment in Buena Vista
Park.  It was waiting for him there somewhere, waiting patiently.  All
I had to do such a little thing was find it.

Going back to London was risky, of course, even with the protection of
my expertly manufactured alternative identity.

There was probably a warrant out for the arrest of Lancelot Gawain
Bradley.  And there were lots of people there who knew who I was,
compared with no one but Townley in California.  But I already knew
that I was going back.  I just had to hope I found the letter before
the police found me.

LONDON

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

It's an invariable rule of life well, my life, anyway that, when you're
feeling bored and lonely, a chance encounter with an old acquaintance
just never happens.  Whereas, when you're trying to keep a lower than
low profile, it's hideously likely.

At least I didn't see anyone I knew on the plane, which was just as
well since they might have thought it odd when I filed into the non-EU
passport queue at Heathrow.  With that potential catastrophe in mind,
you could say I got off lightly, although when the words "Hey, Lance,"
roused me from my reverie aboard the train into London, lucky was the
last thing I felt.

Simon Yardley for it was indeed my old fair-weather drinking pal sat
heavily down in the seat opposite me, grinning as if our paths crossing
had really made his day.  Which was ironic, since it certainly hadn't
made mine, and the last time I'd spoken to him, seeking clues to Rupe's
whereabouts, he'd given me an unceremonious brush-off.

He was looking thinner-haired and jowlier than I remembered, with a
sizeable stomach straining his Jermyn Street shirt.  And though his
suit had undoubtedly been made to measure, the measurements were in
need of amendment.  "Well, this is a turn-up for the books.  I thought
you never stirred from deepest Somerset."

"I break out occasionally, Simon."  (The good news was that he clearly
knew nothing of my involvement in several recent violent deaths around
the globe.  The bad news .. . was what I was bracing myself for.)

"I've just flown back from LA."  (I uttered a silent prayer of thanks
that it hadn't been San Francisco.) "What about you?"

"Oh, I've been, er, seeing someone off."

"It's a bugger, this travelling, but you've got to go where the money
is, haven't you?"

"Absolutely."

"Anyway, it's great to see you after all this time.  How long's it
been?"

"I'm not exactly '

"Too long, that's for sure.  Are you staying up in town?"

"Er, no."

"Well, what say we slide off for a few jars when we reach Paddington?
No sense my going into the office this afternoon.  It's Friday, after
all."

"Sorry, Simon.  I've got to push on."

"Really?"  The idea that I was in a hurry when he wasn't clearly
puzzled him.  "That's a shame."

"Some other time, maybe."

"Yeh.  Let's do that."  He contemplated the possibility for a vacant
moment, then said, "When you're next up, we ought to arrange a
threesome with Rupe."

I may have winced.  I certainly felt as if I had.  "Good idea."

"A boys' night out.  Like the old days."

"Sounds great."

"Used to see quite a bit of Rupe.  I don't know what's happened to the
old bugger.  I really don't.  Have you A thought struck him.  "Hold on.
You were trying to track him down a few weeks back, weren't you?  You
called me at the office."

"So I did."

"Any luck?"

"No."  (Well, that was certainly true.)

"Pity.  Rupe's always good value."  A grey slab of Hayes-cum-Southall
glided past the window as Simon reflected on the point.  "I haven't
seen him in six months or more.  Not to speak to anyway."

"Have you seen him .. . without speaking?"  My curiosity was suddenly
aroused.

"Mmm?"

"When I phoned, you said you hadn't seen him for quite a while."

"That's right.  Like I say.  Not to speak to."

"But you have technically seen him?"

"Well, more recently than six months, yeh.  But '

"When?"

"When?"  Simon puffed out his cheeks.  "Not sure.  Back in the summer,
it must have been.  Late summer.  Yeh, around then."

"Where was this?"

"The City somewhere.  Does it matter?"

"Just .. . interested," I said, trying to sound casual.  "It could be a
pointer to where he's living these days."

"Shouldn't think so.  It was, er .. . near the Monument.  Rush-hour
time.  I was heading for Liverpool Street.  He was on the other side of
the road.  There was too much traffic to think of getting his
attention."

"Which way was he going?"

"South.  Towards London Bridge.  I remember..  ."  Simon frowned at the
recollection.  "He was grinning.  You know, a real ear-to-ear job.  Not
at anyone.  He was on his own.  It was a bit odd, really.  The evening
commute doesn't normally fill people with glee."

"But he seemed .. . happy?"

"Looked over the bloody moon.  Faintly cracked, to be honest.  Maybe
he'd just found out he'd won the Lottery.  That would explain why he's
gone A.W.O.L..  Wouldn't want old chums down on their luck trying to
touch him for a hand-out.  He's probably on Copacabana Beach even as we
speak, sipping something long and strong out of half a pineapple and
practising his Portuguese chat-up lines."  Simon gave his Latin fantasy
ten seconds or so of rumination, then beetled his brow at me.  "Here,
is that why you're so keen to contact him?"

I got rid of Simon at Paddington, where I claimed to be catching a
train back to the West Country.  He vanished into the Underground. That
left me free to make a phone call.  It was my second attempt of the day
to contact Echo and I got the same result as at Heathrow: no answer.
Oddly, there was no longer an answer phone cut-in.  Not that I'd have
left a message if there had been.  I didn't want any record of Lance
Bradley's return home.

I sat in the station cafe, drinking my way through a couple of double
espressos to ward off jet lag and trying to apply some cool logic (not
normally my speciality) to the problem of where Rupe had hidden the
letter.  Simon's sighting of him in the City shortened the odds on a
safe-deposit box in some Lombard Street strong-room.  But where was the
key or whatever he needed to access it?  12 Hardrada Road had to be the
likeliest answer.  Cunningly concealed, obviously, since his furniture
and belongings had already been searched to no avail.  But there,
somewhere, surely.

Unfortunately, 12 Hardrada Road was a risky destination for me.  The
neighbours might have been asked about me by the police.  I couldn't
just roll up there unannounced, especially in daylight.  I had to speak
to Echo first.

But that didn't seem to be an easy thing to do.  She still wasn't in or
wasn't answering when I rang the number for a third time before leaving
the station and booking myself into the unprepossessing but suitably
anonymous room-for-cash no-questions-asked Hotel Polaris in Craven
Road.

From the lobby payphone I drew a fourth blank before heading out into
the mid-afternoon murk.  My next move wasn't exactly risk-free either
and might have been better left until after I'd tried my luck at
Hardrada Road, but with the weekend about to close on my window of
opportunity I couldn't really opt for delay.  Philip Jarvis of
Myerscough Udal had made it obvious he wouldn't admit to knowing me
officially.  I had to hope that, unofficially, it would be a different
matter.  Because Myerscough Udal struck me as about the likeliest
people to know where Rupe might have squirrelled away an important
document.

Their offices were part of a drab Seventies block, out of which early
leavers eager for the weekend were already trickling when I took up
position in the next doorway along and tried to melt into the masonry
behind an Evening Standard.  Jarvis was neither slack nor obsessive.  I
had him down as a five-thirty man, maybe five on a Friday, which left
me with anything from half an hour to more than double that to wait. If
I was really unlucky, he'd taken the day off or was at home in bed with
flu or had a meeting elsewhere.  On the other hand, I didn't have
anything better to do.

It was, in fact, on the dot of five-thirty that I spotted him emerging
into the dank autumn evening.  With a scowl at the nose-to-tail traffic
and a twitch of his raincoat collar, he turned and strode towards me
and Holborn Tube station.

I fell in behind and let him put a bit of distance between us and
Myerscough Udal before quickening my pace to overhaul him.  "Mr.
Jarvis," I called, tapping his elbow with my rolled-up Standard.

He stopped and looked round, instant recognition lighting his features.
Then, suddenly, it changed, like a switch being flicked.  He tensed and
drew back.  "What?"

"Mr.  Jarvis, I have to speak to you.  I'm sorry, but it's really very
important."

"Who are you?"

"You know who I am.  We met in Hyde Park with Mr.  Hashimoto."

"Who?"

"Hashimoto.  Come on.  A couple of weeks ago."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"There's no need to play games.  I realize you have to be careful, but
'

"I have no idea who you are or what you want."  He'd raised his voice
unnecessarily, as if to make a point to some unseen observer.  "Leave
me alone."

He turned on his heel and strode away at a pace little short of a jog.
"Jarvis," I shouted.  "For God's sake."  I started after him, but
stopped within ten yards.

There was no point pursuing him.  The certainty hit me that he'd insist
he didn't know me however persistent I was.  And I couldn't afford to
be too persistent, as he might well know.  It wasn't what I'd expected,
but somehow, now that it had happened, I felt strangely unsurprised.
Even the fear that had quite clearly gripped him was, in its way,
predictable.  It was also more than a little familiar.  I was beginning
to know the look.

I couldn't imagine Echo doing a Simon Peter on me.  But if she never
answered her telephone, it might amount to much the same thing.  My
last piece of advice to her had been to move out.  If she'd already
acted on it, I was snookered.  That would explain the answering machine
being disconnected, of course, a disturbing thought to nurse along with
a couple of Carlsberg Specials in a jam-packed pub in Covent Garden.
What was I going to do if she'd gone?

Then another still more disturbing thought struck me.  Jarvis had
spoken when he'd been prepared to of Myerscough Udal being pressurized
by some corporate entity far more powerful than they were.  But Stephen
Townley was a quintessential loner.  He couldn't have brought such
pressure to bear.  So, who or what were we talking about?  Caribtex
Oil?  Or some giant corporation of which they were just a minor
subsidiary?  And why?  Why should anyone, other than Townley and his
family, care about him being tied into murder and robbery all those
years ago?

I left the pub around eight o'clock and walked across to Leicester
Square.  I'd decided what to do, but the time to do it hadn't yet
arrived and drinking until it did was a recipe for disaster.  Whether
sitting through a film about a guy with short-term memory loss was a
much brighter idea turned out to be academic, because I fell asleep
during his second fugue and woke to find the end credits rolling.  Time
hadn't so much been killed as erased.

I managed to get a taxi at Charing Cross.  When we reached Kennington,
I asked the cabbie to wait for me in the next street east from Hardrada
Road and made my final approach on foot.  With early starts at the
sorting office, Echo was no night-bird.  If she was still living at
number 12, she'd be home by now.

But she wasn't.  The house was in darkness and there was no response to
a succession of lengthy stabs at the bell.  What was worse and more
conclusive was that the curtains were open on all the windows.  I took
a squint through the letterbox and couldn't make out the outlines of
any of her paintings among the shadows of the hallway.  All I made out,
in fact, was emptiness.

Next morning, dull and early, I was on an empty 36 bus as it trundled
over Vauxhall Bridge through what still looked and felt like the middle
of the night.  I wasn't feeling too good and had difficulty focusing on
much beyond the bleary perception that I didn't have what it took to be
a postman.

From the southern side of the bridge I trudged down Wandsworth Road in
thickening drizzle towards the sorting office.  It was nearly seven
o'clock, but still as dark as the inside of a mailbag.  Echo was
probably having a second breakfast in the staff canteen before heading
out on her round.  Unless she was off sick, of course, or on holiday.
Those possibilities didn't bear thinking about, so it was just as well,
really, that I wasn't up to thinking about much at all.

The enquiry desk didn't open till eight, according to the sign next to
the shuttered door, so I cut round to the loading yard at the back,
buttonholed a bloke just going into the sorting office and talked him
into asking post person Echo Bateman to step outside for a word.

"I knew it had to be you," was her opening remark as she emerged into
the yard.  "I've been wondering if I'd ever hear from you again."

The past ten days have been kind of hectic."

"More than hectic, Lance.  The police contacted me."  She left the rest
unsaid, but rolled her large eyes at me.  "You moved out of Hardrada
Road."

"Your idea, as I recall."

"Yeh.  The thing is, Echo, I need to er... take a look inside.  Do you
still have the keys?"

"What's going on?"

"I can't get into that."

"Now now, maybe."  A van started up nearby, followed by a series of
loud warning honks as it began to reverse.  "Anyway, I haven't got the
keys on me.  And I've got to get out on the round.  Come to my new
place around midday and we can talk then.  Actually .. ."  She
hesitated, staring at me as the van went on honking.  "Maybe it would
be better if we met somewhere else."

"Should I take that personally?"

"What do you think?"

I shaped a smile.  "I think it's probably a sensible precaution."

The Ferret and Monkey was far enough into Clapham to guarantee Echo and
me total anonymity amidst the young and boisterous Saturday lunchtime
crowd.  It was difficult to hear each other speak above the piped music
and general clamour, but at least that reassured me that it would be
even more difficult for anyone else to hear.

"The police wouldn't tell me anything, Lance.  But they weren't messing
around.  It was pretty obvious you were in serious bother.  That and
your phone call from Berlin clinched it for me about moving out. Radway
Road's down a notch from Hardrada Road, but at least I know if I'm
broken into it'll be by genuine burglars.  Now, what do you want the
keys for?"

"I need to search the house."  "Hasn't it been searched enough?"  "Rupe
hid something there.  I have to find it."  "What is it?"

"Can't tell you.  Honestly, Echo, it's best if you "Don't know.  Yeh, I
remember the line.  It's wearing thin."  "It's the only one I've got.
I'm glad you moved out.  I'm glad you're not involved.  Stay that way.
I wish I could."

Too late to quit?"

"Far too late."

"Your Japanese friend ended up dead, didn't he?"

"How did you know that?"

"The police were a bit more forthcoming with your father.  He was up
here last weekend, trying to find out what had happened to you."  (My
heart sank.  Dad blundering around was bad news for him and for me.)
"Have you been in touch with him?"

"Not yet."

"But you will be?  He's very worried."

"It's a promise."

"Have you learned anything about Rupe?"

"He's not coming back, Echo."

"Never?"

I shook my head and mouthed "Dead' at her.

"Bloody hell."

"What about the keys?"

She just stared at me for a moment, apparently still absorbing the
meaning of what I'd told her, then took the keys out of her pocket and
plonked them on the table.  And still she stared at me.  "You'll be
careful, won't you?"

"Oh yes."  I grinned.  "Don't worry about me."

"I will worry."

"That's nice to know.  Look, I'd better be going."

I picked up the keys and we both stood up, smiling awkwardly.  Echo's
smile turned to a frown.  "I nearly forgot.  You have another Japanese
friend, this one alive and well.  The neighbours sent him round to me
from Hardrada Road.  He's anxious to contact you."

"Name?"

"I wrote it down."  She handed me a crumpled piece of paper, on which
was written, in her enormous capitals: TOSHISHIGE YAMAZAWA ARUNDEL
HOTEL, MONT AGUE ST, we1.

"When did he turn up?"  (And what the hell, I wondered, was he doing in
London?)

The day before yesterday."

"I'll er... call round later."

"You do know him, then?"

"Yeh."

"And he is a friend?"

"I think so."

"Well, seems to me you need every one of them you can get."

"I
certainly do."

"I'm one too."

"I know."

She leaned forward and kissed me on the cheek.  "Good luck, then .. .
quitter."

As far as I could tell, I made it to the door of 12 Hardrada Road
unobserved.  I let myself in with a sigh of relief and closed the latch
carefully behind me.

Minus Echo's possessions, the contents of the house were noticeably
sparse.  Rupe had never been one for putting down domestic roots.  The
photo-montage still hung in the kitchen, of course.  I took it down and
prised off the backing.  There was no letter hidden behind the
photographs.  There weren't any other picture frames to check.
Everything else on the walls had belonged to Echo.  I'd searched Rupe's
sitting room and bedroom before albeit without knowing what I was
looking for and turned up nothing.  I went over them again, though,
more thoroughly.  But the result was the same.  None of the books in
the bookcase had anything slipped between their pages or wedged behind
them.  There was no roll of paper concealed in the hold of the model
ship.

Checking every potential hiding-place as painstakingly as I needed to
was a time-consuming business and I was already worried that I wouldn't
finish before it got dark.  I certainly couldn't afford to start
turning lights on.  I decided to try the loft next and was halfway out
of the cupboard under the stairs with the step-ladder when the doorbell
rang.

I crouched back into the cupboard out of sight, but caught the top of
the ladder on the lintel above my head, lost my grip and winced
helplessly as it crashed against the wall on the other side of the
hall.  "Shit," I murmured.  (Inaudibly, for what little that was
worth.)

The bell rang again.  I stayed where I was, hoping the caller had
somehow failed to hear the noise.  (Being stone deaf was about the only
way they could have done.) There was a third, longer ring.  Then the
letter-box creaked open.

"I know you're in there, Lance."  The voice belonged to Carl Madron.
"Why don't you quit fucking about and let me in?"

It's not nice when somebody has you at a disadvantage.  When that
somebody has the leery smile, rodent-like gaze and acid-drop manner of
Carl Madron, the experience feels like having a healthy tooth drilled
without anaesthetic: excruciating and unlikely to be of long-term
benefit.

"I somehow thought you'd be back, Lance, you know that?  I've got an
instinct for these things.  You were just waiting for Echo to up
sticks, I'll bet, so you'd have a free run of the place."

"What do you want, Carl?"

"A friendly little chat would be nice.  Least you owe me, really,
seeing how I put you on to Bill Prettyman.  But it can be wrcfriendly
if you insist.  We had a deal.  You were supposed to keep me posted.
So, how is it I have to rely on a nosy neighbour to tip me off that
you've shown up again after two weeks of resounding fucking silence?"

"There's been nothing to keep you posted about."

"Is that a fact?  Not according to the filth, it isn't.  They reckon
you've been a very busy boy.  A trail of murder and mayhem leading
halfway round the world is the tale they tell if you ask them nicely.
But I'm sure you'd rather not talk about that, so I'll keep it simple.
What's it worth for me to stay shtum about you being back in town?"

"Why don't you tell me?  I'm sure you've already decided what the price
tag is."

"That I have."

"Well?"

"Comes down to this, Lance.  You're caught up in something big.
Something fucking huge, as a matter of fact.  I know one of the dead
guys in Berlin was called Townley, so don't bother to deny there's a
tie-in with the Townley Rupe was looking for.  That means there's also
a tie-in with some vintage crime: the Train.  What are we talking
about?  The high rollers behind it crawling out of the woodwork or
being pulled out?  There's this guy I know from one of the Sundays.
He's talking serious money for an exclusive on the whole can of worms.
By serious I mean there's a lot of noughts on the end.  You ought to be
interested, believe me."

"Oh, I believe you."

"But just in case you need something to kick-start your enthusiasm for
talking to him, here it is: I'll keep my mouth shut if you'll open
yours."

To your Fleet Street chum?"

That's right."

"And do I get a cut of that ... serious money?"

"More a sliver than a cut.  But enough to buy yourself some distance
from the forces of law and order."

"Which I'll certainly need if my story gets splashed across the
press."

"You said it."

"When would you want me to meet him?"

"Sooner the better.  I'll give him a bell now if you like.  If you're
definitely accepting my generous proposition."

"How could I resist a sales pitch like yours, Carl?"  (Easily was the
truth, but it would be like Carl to believe everyone's motives were as
base as his and stringing him along was about the only way I could see
to buy the time I needed.) "I reckon bringing the media into this is
probably the only smart move left."

"You bet."

"But I have to fit one last piece into the jigsaw first.  A piece that
could multiply those noughts for you.  Maybe for me too."

"What is it?"

"A letter, implicating Stephen Townley in the robbery."

"Robbery, as in Great Train?"

"Yeh."

"Rupe hid it here, did he?"

"It's the only place left to look."

Carl glanced through the open doorway of the kitchen where we were
standing, at the step-ladder propped in the hall.  "Attic job, is
it?"

"Maybe.  I have to check everywhere.  Want to give me a hand?"  (I was
skating on thin ice now.  The last thing I wanted was for Carl to take
up the invitation.  But the only way to get rid of him was to convince
him I was willing to go along with his plan.  I was betting on him
being too arrogant to demean himself by doing any of the work he felt
he could rely on me to do.)

"How long's it going to take?"

"How long's a piece of string?"

"Why don't we find out?"  (Well, I never was a very successful gambler,
as the bookmakers of Glastonbury could attest.) "You carry on, Lance.
I'll watch just to make sure you don't miss any corners."  (So, I'd
judged his character correctly, but mwjudged how to manipulate it.)

"We could be here a fair while."

That's OK."  He grinned.  "I'm in no hurry."

As it happened we soon found what we were looking for.  I found it,
actually.  Carl was as good as his word and confined his contribution
to watching and telling me where to try next.

He was standing on the platform of the step-ladder, with his head and
shoulders above the level of the loft hatch, disdainfully observing my
dusty scramble between the joists, when the beam of the torch, which I
was using to supplement the inadequate reach of the single light bulb,
fell on something I recognized.

It was a short strip of red-and-white caving tape.  Rupe and I
encountered taped stretches in the cave system he'd led me into that
day in the summer of 1985 that had nearly ended in my death.  "They're
to protect vulnerable areas," he'd explained.  "Keep-out signs, if you
like."

Keep out or come hither?  The strip was nailed to a rafter, low down
near the eaves, where headroom was minimal, deep in the shadow cast by
the water tank, which handily blocked

Carl's view of me as I trained the torch on the area around the tape. I
couldn't see anything, just wood and felt and cobwebs.  Then it
occurred to me that maybe the tape, hanging vertically as it was, might
be a pointer to something below.  I flashed the torch down to the joist
immediately beneath it.  Still nothing.  But the tape was clean enough
to suggest it hadn't been there long.  It had to have some
significance.  I crouched down and stretched forward, exploring with my
hand the insulation-filled gulley next to the joist.

And there it was.  A small padded envelope, parcel-taped to the side of
the joist.  I smiled to myself in a small moment of satisfaction as I
ran my fingers across it, while the ankle I'd broken in that long ago
caving fall twinged sympathetically.

What to do?  It was the question I'd been chewing over since Carl had
insisted on sticking around.  I could pretend I'd found nothing and
hope to shake him off, then come back later.  But I wasn't sure he
could be shaken off, or that I could bring myself to leave the house
without the envelope.  Sharing the contents with him was both repugnant
and risky, since they might well fail to amount to what I'd told him
they did.  That left only one option, in many ways the riskiest of the
lot.  But it was the one I went for.

I ripped the envelope free of the joist and backed away until I could
stand upright.  "I think I've got something," I said, turning towards
Carl.

"You have?"

"Yeh.  An envelope.  And a letter inside, I'd like to bet.  Let's go
down and take a look."

"OK."

Carl started to descend as I reached the hatchway.  Wedging the
envelope into the waistband of my jeans, I sat down on the hatch frame
and lowered myself towards the platform of the step-ladder.  Even as I
did so, I saw my chance.  Carl glanced down to check how many steps
there were to the floor.  Bracing my arms, I swung my feet and struck
him a solid blow around the jaw.  He grunted and fell, hitting the
floor with a thump and lying where he'd fallen, shocked and winded.  I
kicked the step-ladder, which toppled onto him,

then jumped down and turned towards the stairs, while Carl moaned and
rolled over, struggling under the weight of the step-ladder.

I took the stairs two at a time and had already reached the bottom when
Carl bellowed after me, "You fucking bastard."  I saw the banisters
vibrate as he grabbed the landing-rail to haul himself up.  But I was
way ahead of him.  I pulled the keys out of my pocket, yanked the front
door open, plunged out into the street, slammed the door behind me and
turned the mortice key in the lock to slow Carl down as much as
possible.

Glancing round, I saw the woman from number 10, laden with children and
shopping, staring at me in bemusement.  "Hi," I found myself saying.
Then I turned and legged it.

Lucky in love, unlucky at cards.  Well, I've never had a lot of luck in
either department.  But buses are a different matter.  My faithful
stand-by, the 36, was just pulling away from the Harleyford Road stop
when I jumped aboard.  Looking back from the platform as it accelerated
away, I could see no sign of Carl.  He was probably still trying to
force open a ground-floor window at 12 Hardrada Road to climb out of. I
was rid of him well rid.

I slumped down on the empty bench seat just inside the bus, panting
heavily, and paid my fare to the impassive conductor.  Then I tugged
the envelope free of my jeans and took a look at it.  There was nothing
written on the outside to give a clue to the contents but I could feel
something small and hard inside.  I edged a finger under the flap and
tore it open.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

The small, hard object was a key, with a number stamped on the bow:
4317.  Round it was folded a letter.  But it wasn't at all the kind of
letter I'd been expecting.

12 Hardrada Road London SE11

29 August 2000

Dear Sirs,

This is to confirm the authorization I gave you today to afford access
to safe-deposit box 4317 to Mr.  Lancelot Bradley of ISA High Street,
Glastonbury, Somerset.  Yours faithfully,

Rupert Alder

International Bank of Honshu

164-165 Cheapside London EC4

I stared at Rupe's immaculately word-processed, one-sentence letter as
the bus trundled up Vauxhall Bridge Road.  It made no sense and yet it
made perfect sense.  Haruko had said I might be his fail-safe and,
bizarrely, it seemed I was.  If he never came back as he never would
now there'd be this, waiting to be found by the only friend likely, in
the end, to look hard enough.  Not the Townley letter itself, but
secure means to lay hands upon it means only I could make use of.

I got off the bus at Victoria station and took a cab to Cheapside.  I
had no realistic expectation that the International Bank of Honshu
would be open for business on a Saturday afternoon, but still I
couldn't resist taking a hopeful peek at the place.  As far as bank HQs
went, it was neither modest nor grandiose, just a corporate slab of
matt steel and bronze-tinted glass.  The interior was all gleaming
marble and clean-lined wood, with what looked like a water feature
towards the rear.  That was as much as I could glean from the pavement.
And the pavement was as far as I was getting until 9.30 on Monday
morning.  A discreetly displayed statement of banking hours made that
very clear.

It was beginning to get dark, not to mention wet.  At St.  Paul's I
hopped aboard a bus bound for Oxford Circus and felt positively
grateful for the slow going it made in the thickening traffic.  I had
some thinking to do.  I couldn't be absolutely certain the safe-deposit
box contained the Townley letter, but I felt certain.  The way things
stood gave me an excellent chance to deliver it to Townley in
circumstances where he could be confident I hadn't read it.  It was a
chance I ought to grab with both hands.  I'd never find out what his
secret was, of course, but if I'd learned anything in the past few
weeks it was the value of not knowing that particular secret.  The
decision, in the end, was an easy one to make.

The Hotel Polaris didn't boast in-room telephones and the lobby
payphone was no place to be making a confidential international call
from, especially since I might have to leave a message and wait for a
call back.  That was just one of the reasons why I got off the bus
before it reached Oxford Circus and walked up into the fringes of
Bloomsbury.  Thanks to the note Echo had given me, I thought I knew a
hotel guest in the vicinity who might let me swell his phone bill.

But Mr.  Yamazawa was out, the friendly receptionist at the Arundel
informed me, and naturally she didn't know when he might be back.
Stifling the temptation to ask if they had any spare rooms the place
being so much pleas anter than the Polaris I wandered off towards the
British Museum, reckoning the pub I remembered opposite the main gate
would be as good a source as any of the mound of coins I'd need to call
the States from a phone-box.

The pub was full, the bar hard to see for backs.  As I squeezed through
the ruck, I felt my sleeve being tugged and heard a voice I recognized
saying, "Lance.  Here, Lance."

I turned to see Toshishige Yamazawa grinning up at me from a chair at
one of the tables along the wall opposite the bar.  He was wearing some
kind of plastic mac over generously cut chinos and the sort of shirt
I'd last seen sported by Elvis Presley in an afternoon TV showing of
Blue Hawaii.  On the other side of the table, also smiling at me, was a
stockily built, grizzle-haired black guy of fifty or sixty, dressed
smart-casually in powder-blue jeans, maroon turtleneck and tweed
jacket.

"What are you doing here, Lance?"  piped Yamazawa.

"I could ask the same of you.  And what happened to "Bradley-san"?"

"We both have some explaining to do, for sure.  As for "Bradley-san"
..."  He shrugged.  "I do not feel so formal out of Tokyo."  (It didn't
look as if he felt so sober either.)

"I'm not complaining, Toshi."

"Sounds like you've got a lot to talk over," said the other bloke.
"I'll leave you to it."  He drained his glass and stood up.  "I need to
get back, anyhow.  Phone my daughter and all."

"Gus and I have just got back from the Tower of London," Yamazawa
explained (as if that explained everything.)

"Yuh.  Pleased to meet you, Lance."

"You too, Gus."  I shook his hand.

"I'll catch you later, Toshi."  With that Gus manoeuvred his large
frame with surprising ease through the crowd to the door.

I sat down in the chair Gus had vacated and frowned at Yamazawa.
"Well?"

"I didn't expect to see you, Lance," He broke off to wave at Gus
through the window.  "I contacted Miss Bateman on the half-chance."

"Yeh?  Well, it's only a half-chance I came here after drawing a blank
at your hotel."

"Surely not.  How could you be close to this pub and not come in?"

"What have you been drinking?"

"Old Peppered Hen.  Excellent."

"Speckled."

"What?"

"Oh, never mind.  You want another?"

"Good idea."

"OK.  Hold on."

I got up, struggled to the bar and returned a couple of minutes later
clutching two pints of Old Speckled Hen.  (Not usually my tipple but,
when in Bloomsbury, do as the Japanese do.)

"Shintaro must have told you what happened in Kyoto."

"Oh yes.  He did.  But London is a long way from San Francisco.  Does
this mean you have taken his advice and abandoned the ladies?"

"No, it doesn't.  There's good news on that front, as I'll explain in a
minute.  Why don't we start with you.  Who's Gus?"

"Oh, Gus is from New Jersey.  He is here for a holiday, staying at the
Arundel.  We are both alone.  He suggested going to the Tower of London
together.  Most enjoyable.  He took a photograph of me with a
Beefeater."

"Are you on holiday as well?"

"In a way of speaking, yes."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Well, like you know, Penberthy told the police you came to see us.  I
had to answer lots of questions.  So did Penberthy.  He complained to
Charlie Hoare.  He said I had embarrassed him and Eurybia.  Charlie
agreed.  He summoned me here to explain why I had assisted you.  I
could not explain, of course.  Very difficult.  The Board were not
happy.  It seems I was already marked down for' he lowered his voice
theatrically 'bad attitude."

"They didn't sack you, did they?"

"Yes.  That is it, Lance.  They sacked me.  Cheers."  He took a deep
swallow of beer.

"How many of those have you had?"

"I don't know.  Isn't there a saying do not count your hens until they
have hatched?"

"I'm not sure it '

"Instant dismissal.  I recommend the experience.  Very liberating. They
did not want me to work my notice, so .. ."  He grinned at me again.
"I take a holiday.  Now, what is this good news?"

Half an hour later, with Yamazawa snoring gently on his bed at the
Arundel, I sat at the small desk on the other side of his room and put
a call through to Stephen Townley.

His phone rang six times before the answering machine cut in, but I'd
got no further into my message than saying who I was when he picked
up.

"Glad to hear from you, Lance.  Where are you?"

"London."

"Uhuh.  What have you got for me?"

The key to a safe-deposit box.  And authority to access it.  I've
little doubt the box contains what you want."

"What are you proposing that I join you for the opening ceremony?"

"It's in a bank vault, which means I can't get to it before Monday
morning."

"OK.  In that case, I will join you.  Where's the bank?"

"Cheapside.  In the City."

"Near St.  Paul's Cathedral?"

"Pretty near, yeh."

"When does the bank open?"

"Nine-thirty."

"OK, Lance, I'll meet you outside the west front of St.  Paul's at
nine-fifteen, Monday morning.  Does that suit?"

"Yes.  I ... suppose it does."

"Good."

"I But the line was dead.  Townley had hung up.  Even at my expense
(well, strictly speaking, Yamazawa's), he'd chosen not to waste his
words.

Yamazawa woke up for long enough to assure me he'd phone his brother in
the morning and let him know what I was planning.  I could have phoned
him myself there and then, but 3.30 a.m."  as it was in Japan, struck
me as no time to be calling anyone, even a Yakuza.  So, leaving the old
fox to sleep off his hens, I walked round to an Italian restaurant I
remembered at the top of Shaftesbury Avenue and forked down some pasta,
then wandered back to the Polaris via a couple of pubs in Marylebone.
With each drink, the prospect looked brighter.  Townley had promised me
my life back and there'd be no reason after Monday morning for him not
to keep his promise.  Things were definitely looking up.

They didn't look so bright the following morning, but I put that down
to a hangover, the squalid ambience of the Polaris and my genetically
programmed aversion to Sundays.  It was also raining.

Jet lag was still gumming up my body clock into the bargain, so going
back to sleep for a few hours seemed like a good idea.  It was a lot
later than I'd intended when I called Yamazawa from a payphone at
Paddington station and I wasn't very surprised to be told he was out.
He'd mentioned he was thinking of visiting Hampton Court and had even
suggested I go along with him and Gus, presumably.  I'd declined the
invitation.  Now, though, I almost wished I'd taken him up on it.

Phoning my parents at that point was a spur-of-the-moment decision.  I
owed them a call all right.  In fact, a call was well overdue, if only
to reassure them that their less than dutiful son was alive and well.
As they knew, he was also in a lot of trouble.  But I reckoned I could
afford to hint that he might soon be on his way out of it.

The phone rang longer than I'd expected without being answered.  But I
let it go on ringing, simply because the idea that they might be out on
a Sunday morning struck me as so improbable.  I knew their routines too
well to think otherwise.  Sure enough, the phone was eventually picked
up.

"Who is it?"  My father's voice was even more peremptorily pitched than
usual.

"It's Lance, Dad."

"Lance?  My God.  After the worry we've been through.  You certainly
pick your moments."

"What's wrong with the moment?"

"It's eleven o'clock."

"So?"

"Remembrance Sunday, Lance.  Some of us like to observe the two
minutes' silence."

"Oh, sorry."  (There were times and this was one when I doubted if my
father had his priorities right.)

"Where are you?"

"London.  Look, do you think you could..."

"Phone you back?  Yes, all right.  What's the number?"

I gave it to him and hung up.  Ten seconds or so later, we were
speaking again.

"We've had the police on to us, Lance.  You do realize that, don't you?
We've stuck by you, but it hasn't been easy.  Your mother's been sick
with worry.  What the hell's going on?  The police mentioned .. .
murder."

"It's all one big misunderstanding.  You don't seriously think I'm
capable of murder, do you?"

"Of course not.  But '

"I need a few days to put myself in the clear, Dad.  Then I'll go to
the police and explain the whole thing."

"Perhaps you'd like to explain to us while you're about it."

"Of course.  Soon, I promise.  In the meantime, I thought you'd like to
know I'm all right."

"Well, naturally '

"You didn't mention the Alders to the police, did you, Dad?"

The Alders?"  He dropped his voice, as if not wanting Mum to hear what
he was saying.  "No, son, I didn't.  We said we knew nothing about what
you might be up to.  It seemed .. . best."

"It was, believe me."

"Maybe so.  But it goes against the grain, let me tell you."

"I'm grateful, Dad.  Honestly."

"So you should be.  We've had Winifred round here twice, asking if
we've heard from you.  I don't like having to cover for you.  But I do
it.  So does your mother.  And we're not the only ones.  What about
poor Miss Bateman?  Have you spoken to her?"

"Yes.  Echo's fine."

"She didn't sound fine."

"I saw her yesterday."

"I'm talking about this morning."

"This morning?"

"Yes.  She phoned while we were having breakfast, asking if we'd heard
from you and, if so, how she could contact you."  (I hadn't told her
where I was staying, of course, reckoning it was safer for her not to
know.) "She made no mention of seeing you yesterday.  Just said she
needed to speak to you.  Urgently."

"Hello?"  It was a woman's voice, but not Echo's.

"Is Echo there?"

"Who's calling?"

I had to take a deep breath before answering that one.  "Lance
Bradley."

"Ah.  She said you might call.  I'm Karen.  She's been lodging with
me."

"Right.  Can I speak to her?"

"No.  You see ... Well, when I got back and found the state she was
in,

I '

"What state?

"I gather you know the bastard who did this to her."

A sickening guess sprang into my mind.  "Carl Madron."

"So she said."

"What did he do?"

"It could have been worse, I suppose, but '

"What did he do?"

The A and E Unit at St.  Thomas's Hospital was the usual sc rum of
walking wounded.  After a certain amount of wrangling with the
receptionist, I got a message passed to Echo and a message came
promptly back that I could go through.

She was in a curtained cubicle in an assessment ward, fully dressed but
lying on a bed, propped up by several pillows, her face distorted by a
black eye and a swollen bruise to the jaw.  Whether she could have
smiled at me if she'd wanted to I don't know, because she didn't try,
although she did look relieved to see me.

"Are you all right, Lance?"  she lisped.

"Am I all right?  What about you?"

"It's just what you can see, plus a loose tooth and some blurred
vision.  That's what they're most concerned about, actually.
Concussion's been mentioned, though I don't remember blacking out.
They're keeping me in for observation.  I'm just waiting to be
admitted."

"What happened?"  I sat down on the chair next to the bed.  "This was
Carl, right?"

"Oh yeh.  It was Carl.  But keep your voice down.  I'm saying I was
mugged by a total stranger.  A very nice policeman was here half an
hour ago."

"For God's sake, Echo.  Why didn't you tell them who did it?"  (Not to
mention whose fault it really was, of course -mine.)

"Because if they took Carl in, he'd blow your cover, wouldn't he?  He'd
be bound to."

"Let me worry about that."

"You don't understand, Lance.  I've made things worse for you."

"No.  It's the other way round.  I had a run-in with Carl yesterday and
I should have realized he might take it out on you.  All this is down
to yours truly and I'm sorrier than I can possibly say."  (But sorrow
was only half the story.  Looking at her bruised face, what I also felt
was very, very angry.)

"You still don't understand.  There were two of them.  They're after
you.  And I've made it easier for them to find you."

"Two of them?"

They must have been waiting for Karen to go out.  She jogs every
morning.  When I answered the door, they burst straight in.  Carl .. .
and this other guy."

"What did the other guy look like?"

"American.  Thinning fair hair and a 'tache.  Middle-aged but
muscular."  She must have seen my jaw drop.  "You know him?"

"Yeh.  I know him.  But ... he was with Carl?"

"He was.  And pulling the strings, as far as I could tell."

"This doesn't make any sense."  (Ledgister, in London, and in cahoots
with Carl.  What it did make, failing sense, was my flesh creep with
fear and disbelief.)

"I thought they were going to kill me, Lance.  Seriously, I did.  Carl
hitting me was one thing.  But the American had a knife.  And he was
deadly serious.  He threatened to slit my throat if I didn't tell them
where you were.  The blade was this far from my neck."  She raised her
hand, thumb and forefinger an inch apart.

I noticed for the first time then that her hand was shaking.  I reached
out and closed mine around it.  Maybe it was the tenderness of the
gesture or the memory of Ledgister's threat that brought tears suddenly
to her eyes.

"Sorry.  God, this keeps happening.  Could you..."  She pointed to a
box of tissues on the foot of the bed.  I passed the box to her and she
dried her eyes.  "Delayed shock.  To be expected, apparently."  She
blew her nose.  "Sorry."

"Please stop saying that.  I'm the one who should be apologizing for
landing you in this."

"Yeh, well, maybe.  And maybe we should both be apologizing to Mr.
Yamazawa."

"Why?"

"I didn't know where you were.  If I had known, I'd have told them.
That's the truth.  But I had to tell them something.

Otherwise .. ."  She sniffed and took a deep breath.  "I had no choice,
Lance.  I've never been so frightened in my life."

"You told them about Yamazawa?"

"Yeh.  I said he knew where you were."  She took another deep breath.
"And they went looking for him."

The nearest phones were outside the A and E waiting room.  They were
all in use, but one of the callers was just signing off when I arrived.
I grabbed the handset while it was still rocking in its cradle.

"Arundel Hotel.  Miranda speaking.  How may I help you?"

"I need to speak to one of your guests urgently.  Mr.  Yamazawa."

"Hold on."  There was a pause of several seconds, then she was back.
"I'm afraid Mr.  Yamazawa's out.  Who's calling?"

"My name's Bradley."

"Mr.  Lance Bradley?"

"Yes."

"Ah.  Mr.  Yamazawa phoned earlier, saying you might call.  He left a
number where you can contact him."

"That you, Lance?"  The voice was Carl's, somehow sounding even more
sarcastic on the telephone than he did in the flesh.

"Where's Yamazawa?"

"Right here.  Why don't I put him on?"

"Hello, Lance."  It was Yamazawa.  "I never got to Hampton Court."

"Are you OK?"

"They have not harmed me."

"Yet," put in Carl, coming back on the line.  "That's the operative
word."

"You bastard."

"Shut the fuck up, Lance, and listen.  I reckon you know who else is
here.  He wants the letter.  Meet him on Hunger ford Bridge one hour
from now.  Have the letter with you.  If you don't hand it over, your
chum Yamazawa commits involuntary harry-karry.  Get it?"

I got it.

An hour later I was walking north over Hunger ford Bridge beneath a
gunmetal sky from which the light was already fading.  The Thames was a
brown, rain-swollen surge, the cityscape grey and dank.  To my left,
trains rumbled sluggishly into and out of Charing Cross.  Ahead, a
figure was leaning against the railings where the footpath widened into
a semicircle, smoking a cigarette and gazing downstream as if genuinely
interested in the view.

"Hi, Lance," Ledgister said as I approached, though as far as I could
tell he couldn't have seen me coming.  (Metaphorically, of course, he
undoubtedly had.)

"You must be desperate to go into partnership with someone like Carl,"
I said, resting my elbow on the railings a foot or so away from him.

"I'd surely have to be.  But I doubt even he thinks of it as a
partnership."  Ledgister turned to face me.  "Now, much as I'd like to
stand here all afternoon swapping travellers' tales, I suggest we get
straight down to business.  Toshishige Yamazawa's the brother of that
Yakuza asshole who got in my way last time we met.  It'd be no hardship
for me to even the score by despatching him into the Shinto afterlife,
so I advise you not to strain my legendary tolerance.  To wrap it up
for you, Lance, where's the fucking letter?"

"Here."  I took the envelope out of my coat and handed it to him.

"You've read it?"

"Yeh."

"Unwise, my friend, very unwise.  That means you know what my
trigger-happy father-in-law was mixed up in."

"Something a lot bigger than a train robbery."  (I couldn't stop myself
pushing the subject as far as it would go, now that Ledgister thought I
knew all about it.)

"The biggest, I reckon you could say, don't you?"

"Guess so."

"It's every man for himself when you stray into this particular
serpent-pit.  I aim to be one of the few to come out alive."  He slid
the letter out of the envelope.  "I'm sure you can appreciate I won't
get to do that without '

Ledgister stopped as his gaze ran down the sheet of paper in front of
him.  Then, gritting his teeth, he smiled.  But the smile hadn't got
anywhere near his eyes when he looked at me.

"You'll be the death of me, Lance, you know that?  Such a funny guy,
aren't you?  Such a fucking funny guy."

"It's not what I expected either."

"I don't know why not.  You and Rupe obviously shared an acute sense of
humour."

"What do you want to do?"

"You mean aside from chucking you off this bridge?"

"I wouldn't recommend it.  I'm your open sesame."

"So you are."  He peered into the envelope.  "I see we have a key as
well.  Rupe thought of everything, didn't he?"

"Nothing's really changed except the time scale  I can empty the
safe-deposit box as soon as the bank opens tomorrow morning and deliver
the contents to you in exchange for Yamazawa."

That's how you see it working, is it?"

"A straight swap.  Yeh."  (Actually, how I saw it working wasn't so
much obscure to me as invisible, but there seemed nothing else for it
but to string Ledgister along in the faint hope that I'd think of some
way to play him and Townley off against each other.)

"Well, I'm sorry to disappoint you, but straight isn't how I operate.
I'll keep this."  He slid the letter back into the envelope.  "We'll
reunite you and the authorization at the bank tomorrow morning.  But
I'll be there to relieve you of the contents of the box just as soon as
you open it."

"What about Yamazawa?"

"When I'm satisfied Rupe has no more posthumous tricks to pull, I'll
call Carl and have him set Tokyo Joe loose."

"How can I be sure you'll do that?"

"You can't.  But you can be sure what I'll do to him if you don't turn
up at the bank.  What time do they open up?"

"Nine-thirty."

"Nine-thirty it is, then.  I'll meet you there."

"One thing, though."

"What?"

"About Carl.  He told me yesterday he has a journalist interested in
buying the back-story to all this.  I can't imagine you'd want that to
hit the front pages."

"And warning me about it is just a goodwill gesture on your part,
right?  Nothing to do with sowing distrust between me and my new
buddy."  Ledgister chuckled.  "You can't take away what isn't there to
start with, Lance.  I don't trust the little sonofabitch in any way,
shape or form.  But then I don't need to.  Whereas you do need to trust
me.  And you can.  I'll give Yamazawa the same sort of burial Rupe got
if you fail to keep our date tomorrow morning.  That's a promise."

"I'll be there."

"Yuh.  I reckon you will."  With that he moved away from the railing
and started walking, tossing back a "See you then' over his shoulder as
he went.

I stayed where I was, watching as he strode on along the bridge towards
Charing Cross.  This was bad.  This was very bad.  In point of simple
fact, it couldn't be worse.  Ledgister thought he had me where he
wanted me.  So did Townley.  And they were both right.  But they
couldn't both win.  Tomorrow morning, they were going to find that out.
And, whatever happened, I was going to lose.

Which would have been bad enough, but for the fact that several other
people stood to lose with me.

I walked up to the Arundel through the leaden afternoon, a ramshackle
sort of idea forming in my head.  If I could glean some clue to where
they were holding Yamazawa, it might give me a slender advantage.  It
had struck me that Gus just might know something.

The receptionist identified him from my description as Gus Parminter.
But Mr.  Parminter, apparently, had signed up for an all-day coach trip
to Salisbury and Stonehenge.  He'd left early and would be returning
late.  He clearly hadn't been planning to accompany Yamazawa to Hampton
Court.  He wasn't going to be able to tell me anything.

When I got back to St.  Thomas's, I found Echo installed in a general
ward, looking slightly better and seeing better, apparently.

"There's only one of you now, Lance.  Although you're still a bit
blurred."

"I feel blurred."

"How's Mr.  Yamazawa?"

"Don't ask.  I'm in a bit of a tight spot.  And he's in it with me."

"I take it that's a huge understatement?"

"Yeh."

"What are you going to do?"

"I don't know.  But I know what I'd like you to do.  When do you reckon
you'll get out of here?"

"Tomorrow.  I'd probably be out now if it wasn't Sunday."

"OK.  Could you do me a favour when you've been discharged?"

"What is it?"

I leaned towards her and lowered my voice.  "Go to the police and
change your story.  Tell them about Carl.  In fact..  ."

"What?"

"Tell them everything."

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

I left the Polaris at first light and walked all the way to St.  Paul's
through the damp beginnings of the day.  Commuters were out in force,
heading for their computer screens and office intrigues.  Ordinarily,
I'd have pitied them.  (Although ordinarily, of course, I wouldn't have
been up and about early enough to do any such thing.) Today was
different, though.  Today, I'd have happily swapped places with any one
of them.

It had taken me most of a sleepless night to decide what I was going to
do.  In the end, the decision had reduced itself to a bleak simplicity.
I couldn't do the bidding of Townley and Ledgister.  I couldn't protect
Mayumi and Haruko as well as Yamazawa.  All I could do was serve the
lesser evil and hope I was correct about which that was.

"You're on time," said Townley as I reached the top of the steps in
front of St.  Paul's.  "I like that."  He turned up the collar of his
raincoat and pulled down the brim of his hat.  "The weather I don't
like, though.  I'd forgotten how lousy it can be here in the fall."

"You'll like something else even less.  Your son-in-law's meeting me at
the bank.  He has the letter of authorization and the key to the
safe-deposit box."

Townley didn't so much as bat an eyelid in surprise.  He looked at me
expressionlessly for a moment, then said, "You shouldn't have allowed
Gordon to involve himself in this, Lance.  It was supposed to be
between you and me."

"I had no choice.  He's holding a friend of mine hostage."

"I've never had any friends.  Maybe now you can understand why."

"But you do have family."

"Yuh.  And I thought I could trust them."

"I'm not saying you can't.  Gordon's probably planning to hand the
contents of the box the letter over to you, as agreed.  He doesn't know
about our deal."

"He was never planning to stand by me, Lance.  I can see that now.  He
has his own side-deal.  Sensible, from his point of view.  Far-sighted,
even.  But dangerous.  I don't care to be crossed."

"I'm not crossing you.  I've done my best to honour our agreement."

"Honour?  Let's leave that out of it."

"I'm just trying to '

"What you're trying to do is have your cake and eat it.  Seldom
possible, in my experience."

There has to be a way out of this."

"Oh, there is.  You meet Gordon at the bank.  You open the box for him.
You let him carry off the booty."  Townley fixed me with his cold-eyed
gaze.  "And you leave the rest to me."

Ledgister was relaxing in an armchair next to the water feature,
perusing a complimentary copy of the Financial Times, when I entered
the foyer of the International Bank of Honshu at 9.32 a.m.

"Good morning, Lance."  He discarded the paper and stood up.  "They're
still arguing about the presidency, I see."

"What?"

"You should interest yourself in politics, you really should.  It's the
key to everything.  All the connections.  All the conspiracies.  Plain
to see, if you know what to look for."  He smiled.  "But I have the
feeling you'd like to get straight down to business."

"Wouldn't you?"

"No merit in delay, that's for sure.  We've had enough of that already,
I reckon.  Your friend passed a comfortable night, by the way."

"Let's get on with it."

"OK."  He took the letter of authorization out of his pocket and handed
it to me.  "Lead on, why don't you?"

I was required to produce my passport and driving licence by way of
identification.  Rupe's letter of authorization was taken away for
comparison with the bank's records.  The words Tomparles Trading
Company' slipped from somebody's lips.  Ledgister and I both remained
deadpan.  The Pomparles affair and how the International Bank of Honshu
might fit into it was of no interest to us.

When the back office was duly satisfied, we received the OK to go down
to the vault.  A punctiliously polite gentleman whose lapel badge
proclaimed him to be Toru Kusakari escorted us in the lift.  We emerged
in an ante-room to the vault, the massively thick door to which stood
open, with a security guard in attendance.  I signed a form.  We
entered the vault.

It was a gleaming chamber of solid steel, with banks of numbered
lockers along the walls.  A doorway at the far end led to a small inner
chamber furnished with a desk and two chairs.  Kusakari located locker
4317, opened it and lifted out the shallow metal box inside.

"Are you removing the contents or merely examining them, Mr.  Bradley?"
he asked.

"Not sure," I replied.

"No matter.  I will leave you to it.  Please."  He handed me the box
and pointed to the inner chamber, then withdrew.

I carried the box to the desk and plonked it down.  Ledgister produced
the key, slid it into the lock and turned.  The box sprang open.

Inside, resting extravagantly on green baize, was a single white
envelope, with my name printed on it.  Ledgister snatched it up and
ripped open the flap, then stepped back so I wouldn't be able to read
the letter inside.

But it was immediately obvious from his expression that what I was
missing wasn't good news.  "Fuck," he muttered, then glared at me.
"Devious, your friend, Rupe, wasn't he?"

"Was he?"

"Take a look."

The letter was on Pomparles Trading Company stationery, quoting office
addresses in Tokyo and London.  The London address was in Mulberry
Business Park, SE16.  The date shown was the same as on the other
letter.  This one was signed by Rupe in his capacity as managing
director of the company.  It was addressed to Colin Dibley at Tilbury
Freeport.

Dear Colin,

By the time you receive this you will be well aware of my company's
ownership of a consignment of aluminium due to be delivered to Tilbury
by Eurybia Shipping (whose employment I will by then have left) on 14
September.

Notwithstanding any legal restraints that may be placed on onward
movement of the cargo, I should remind you that this company remains
owner of first title pending the resolution of any and all
counter-claims and must be afforded access to the cargo for inspection
purposes.

This letter authorizes my associate, Mr.  Lancelot Bradley of ISA High
Street, Glastonbury, Somerset, to exercise such right of access at any
reasonable time.

Thank you for assisting him in this regard.  Yours ever,

Rupe

"It's in the container," I murmured, my words lagging behind my
thoughts.  Of course.  That's what the whole Pomparles fraud had been
about.  Not aluminium.  Not money at all.  But a means of keeping a
small item safe and secure, camouflaged by a big cargo that was in turn
immobilized by a transnational legal dogfight.  Safe, while Rupe
carried a mere copy with him on his hazardous tilt at the Townleys.
Secure, until he went to fetch it.  Or I did, in his place.

That's certainly how I read it," said Ledgister.  "Concealed in the
impounded cargo of aluminum."

"It has to be."

"Yuh.  And you have to be there to get it.  Seems you and I need to
take a ride to the coast, Lance.  Right now."

I tried not to look around for Townley when we left the bank and headed
east along Cheapside.  Ledgister had a car parked nearby.  If Townley
had come on foot or by Tube, he wouldn't be able to follow us to
Tilbury.  In fact, he'd have no idea where we were going.  What could
he do then?

"You seem kind of preoccupied," said Ledgister, as we turned down a
side-street.

"Oh, I was just, er, wondering why Rupe took such .. . elaborate .. .
precautions."

"You'd take some pretty goddam elaborate precautions if you'd been
carrying what he was."

"Would I?"

"Yuh.  Believe me.  I should have figured he wouldn't want to carry it
with him when he left Japan.  This way he knew where it was all the
time without the risk of being caught with it in his possession.  I
really should have thought of the container before now."  Ledgister
seemed genuinely annoyed with himself.  "Here's the car."

It was an anonymous white saloon, not unlike the one he'd hired (in my
name) in Japan.  He walked round to the driver's side and tripped the
locks.  As I went to get in on the passenger's side, I suddenly saw his
face change expression.  He froze, the driver's door half open, his
eyes fixed on something behind me.

"Stephen," he said slowly.  "What are you doing here?"

I turned and looked at Townley, feigning surprise as best I could. From
the expression on his face the most gifted physiognomist could probably
have deduced .. . absolutely nothing.

"Looks like a case of great minds, Gordon.  You reckoned

9SQ

Lance was the key to this.  So did I. Hasn't he told you about our
deal?"

"No," said Ledgister.  That he hasn't."

"I'd heard nothing from you since Kyoto.  I didn't have much option but
to put together a fall-back position."

"I'm sorry not to have been in touch, Stephen.  There was a lot of heat
on me in Japan.  I figured it was safer for you if I stayed underground
until I could deliver the goods."

"And can you deliver them?"

"Reckon so.  Jump in and I'll explain as we go."

I couldn't help admiring the way Townley and Ledgister both rewrote
their own recent pasts to reflect a perfect if unspoken accord.  I knew
Townley doubted every word his son-in-law said, but it was impossible
to tell that from any inflexion in his voice.  As for Ledgister, what
he really thought I couldn't judge, but it was apparent that both men
were doing their considerable best to convince each other that their
alliance was as strong as ever.  Which left me like a spectator at a
game of stud poker who knows all the cards on the table, not just the
ones with their faces showing.

As we drove east through Aldgate and out along the Commercial Road,
Ledgister told some twisted tale that might or mightn't have been the
truth about how he'd got out of Japan and headed for London because
that was where he'd figured I'd end up.  He'd strung Carl Madron along
with money and a promise of more to come from a story the media would
die for and grabbed Yamazawa to force me to cooperate after Carl's
cash-oriented blandishments had failed.  Townley for his part reported
half of our agreement accurately enough the letter in exchange for an
undertaking to let Mayumi and Haruko live in safety.  Naturally, he
made no mention of the other half letting good old Gordon take the rap
for a trio of murders.  And naturally also, neither did I. Where it was
all going to end other than Tilbury I couldn't seem to summon the
mental rigour to imagine.  The clearest thought that came into my head
was that I badly needed a drink.

A cosy chat at opening time in an East End gin palace wasn't on the
agenda, however.  Somewhere along the way Ledgister tossed me his
mobile phone and told me to call Dibley.  "Negotiate an entree for us,
Lance.  A wrangle at the gate we don't need."

I had to agree with him there.  But how Dibley would react to my
improbable transformation into Rupe's business partner I didn't like to
ask myself.  Perhaps it was just as well, therefore, that Dibley was in
Felixstowe for the day, leaving his assistant, a mild-sounding bloke
called Reynolds, to mind the shop.

"Certainly I know the container you're referring to, Mr, er ..."

"Bradley."

"Mr.  Bradley.  Yes.  You're a properly accredited company
representative?"

"Absolutely."

"Well then, I suppose there can't, er, really be any..."

"Objection?"

"No.  Quite.  Look, are you sure this can't wait until tomorrow?  Mr.
Dibley will be back then and I'd be happier if '

"I'm afraid my colleagues and I are on a very tight schedule."

"I see.  Well, in that case ... I would have to bring in Customs on
this, you understand."

"Fine."

"All right, then, Mr.  Bradley.  I'll, er ... see what I can do."

"We'll be there within the hour."

"As soon as that?"

"Yes.  Thanks a lot, Mr.  Reynolds.  We'll see you shortly."

I ended the call and handed the phone back to Ledgister.  That sounded
good, Lance.  Yuh, very good.  But I reckon we need a little
insurance."  He flicked the indicator and veered off the dual carriage
way up a slip-road.

"Where are we going?"

"There's some kind of hardware store over there," he said, gesturing
with his thumb.  "We need to be able to open the

9Q1

container if Customs try to block us.  Heavy-duty bolt-cutters should
do the trick.  And a high-power torch won't do any harm."

Ledgister left Townley and me in the car while he went to buy his
'insurance' (with Rupe's letter in his pocket, I noticed).  As soon as
he was out of sight, Townley leaned forward in the rear seat and said,
in little more than a whisper, "So far so good, Lance.  You're doing
well.  Keep it up."

"Do you think he believes you?"

"I would, in his position."

"And what is his position?"

"More fragile than he thinks.  The real test will come when we find the
letter.  If he's done a deal to deliver it to someone else, it'll
show."

"What will you do then?"

"Don't worry about it.  That's my problem."

"And our agreement?"

"Still in effect."

"It's just that I don't see '

"You soon will."  He sat back.  "We all will."

We reached the main gate of Tilbury Docks a little over half an hour
later, with a pair of brand-new XL bolt-cutters lodged discreetly in
the boot (where I for one fervently hoped they'd stay).  Reynolds had
booked us in and we were sent on through with directions to the admin
block, where he was expecting us.

Townley and Ledgister stayed in the car while I went up to Dibley's
office, where Reynolds was presiding for the day.  He was as blandly
accommodating in the flesh as he'd sounded on the phone.  We chewed
over some polite nothings and he perused Rupe's letter.  Then he
telephoned the Customs House and spoke to someone called Dave.  While
they talked, I looked out of the window and spotted Townley and
Ledgister standing next to the car down on the stretch of tarmac
between the office block and a phalanx of stored containers.  They too
were talking.  And I could well imagine what about.

But as to exactly what they were saying, notably about me ... "Dave
Harris will meet you at the container," Reynolds announced, putting the
phone down.  "I, er, assume you know where it is."

"Yes," I said, forcing a smile.  "As a matter of fact, I do."

We drove the short distance to the infamous container, still held in
its own concreted patch of limbo.  Some weeds I couldn't remember from
my previous visit had sprouted around its base.  Dave Harris, a big man
made to look bigger still by an outsize canary-yellow anorak, was
waiting for us, clipboard in hand.

There were some desultory introductions and I was required to sign a
form in three places.  "As you can see, gentlemen," said Harris,
'nothing's been done since the cargo arrived, aside from our inspection
of the contents.  Eighteen tons of high-grade aluminium, as per the
original consignment.  You'll find everything's in order."  He ventured
a smile, but didn't get one from any of us in return.  Then he fetched
a pair of official Customs and Excise bolt-cutters from his car,
snapped the official Customs and Excise seals, slipped the bolts and
swung the doors open.

Inside, looking rather like so many silver loaves of bread, ingots of
Russian aluminium sat neatly stacked on pallets, waiting patiently to
be turned into fizzy drink cans and wheel trims.  I supposed a letter
could be stuck to the underside of any one of them.  Looking along the
lines of pallets that stretched away to the shadowy rear of the
container, I reckoned we were going to test Customs and Excise's
tolerance severely unless we got lucky.

On the way over, Ledgister had said he'd look after Harris while
Townley and I searched for the letter.  It was no surprise to me,
therefore, that he immediately struck up a conversation with him.  "I
surely hope Pomparles' cash flow problem hasn't given you fellows too
many headaches," he said, slyly manoeuvring so that, to talk to him,
Harris had to turn his back on the container.  "Now Lance here has
brought my colleague and me on board, we aim to set things straight
real soon."

More of the same followed, merging seamlessly into sympathetic
questions about the travails of a Customs and Excise officer.  All this
proceeded while Townley and I tracked slowly along the sides of the
pallets, looking up and down the stacks of aluminium in search of a
clue to where Rupe might have lodged the letter, exchanging shakes of
the head between the stacks as we drew progressive blanks.

I had the torch, and soon needed it, as visibility deteriorated the
further we went.  We were about two-thirds of the way along when I saw
what I suppose I'd subconsciously been looking for: a strip of
red-and-white caving tape wrapped round the strut of a pallet.  I
crouched down and shone the torch in and around the area beneath the
pallet.  There didn't seem to be anything there.  I lay on my side for
a closer look.  And then I saw it.

A square of brown thick-gauge plastic was parcel-taped to the underside
of the pallet.  I stretched my hand in and peeled off one length of the
tape, then pulled the rest away.  The plastic square was in fact a
sealed packet.  I could feel a slim, flimsy object inside it.  Standing
up, I leaned back against the stack of ingots, forced a hole in the
plastic with my finger and tore it open.

There was a letter inside.  This one wasn't addressed to me.  It was
the letter.  I didn't have a doubt of it.  For some reason, the memory
of Rupe as Simon Yardley had seen him, grinning from ear to ear as he
walked towards London Bridge, flashed into my mind as the torch beam
fell across the face of the airmail envelope.  Mayumi Hashimoto, Golden
Rickshaw, 2-10-5 Nihombashi, Chuoku, Tokyo, Japan, was written in a
scratchy, looping hand, with old-fashioned Rs and Ns.  There were two
US five-cent stamps on the envelope.  My eye tracked from them across
to the postmark: DALLAS, TX, 22 NOVI think I knew it all then.  As if
I'd entered a darkened room and the light had suddenly come on,
revealing the cobwebs, thick as a forest, that hung around me.  There
was fear, like a clutch at the throat.  And fascination, like a
beckoning finger.  I turned the envelope over in my hand.  It hadn't
been slit open, but the flap was no longer stuck down. I hesitated,
then lifted the flap.

"Don't do it, Lance."  Townley's voice, so close to my ear, made me
jump with surprise.  I whirled round and saw him, face in shadow,
standing less than a foot away.  "I really do advise you not to."  He
held out his hand.  "Give the letter to me."

What else could I do?  I passed it to him and watched as he slipped the
single sheet of paper out of the envelope and held it up to the light
behind him.  He didn't need to read it, of course.  He knew what it
contained.

"Good," he said softly, sliding it back into the envelope.  "Secure at
last."

"I'd like it back, please."

There was a faint widening of his eyes as he stared at me.  "Pardon
me?"

"The letter.  I want it back."

"You do, huh?"

"Until I see Yamazawa alive and well.  That's when I'll hand it over
for keeps."

"If I refuse?"

"I reckon I can kick up enough of a fuss to have you stopped at the
gate.  I'm sure you don't want that to happen."

"I'd prefer a quiet exit."

"And you can have one.  If I get to carry the letter."

There are two of us, Lance.  We can overpower you any time we like."

"And I can tell Gordon about our deal any time I like.  Can you be
certain he won't believe me?"

Townley thought about that for a second, then nodded.  "OK."  He handed
the letter back to me.  "Put it in your pocket and leave it there until
we pick up Yamazawa."

"Right."

"Now, let's go."

Our departure, once Townley had signalled to Ledgister with a nod that
we had what we'd come for, was swift swifter than a clearly bewildered
Harris had expected.  We left him to re-seal the container, got into
the car and drove away.

"You're sure it's the original?"  said Ledgister.

"I'd stake my life on it," Townley calmly replied.

"That's what you are doing, Stephen.  Me too."

"Lance is keeping it for us until you reunite him with his Japanese
friend.  But he hasn't read it, I can assure you."

"Good.  Better still for him."

"And he's not going to ask us any of the questions the date and place
it was mailed are bound to have planted in his mind.  Are you,
Lance?"

"I have no questions," I said levelly.

"Smart of you."  Ledgister glanced across at me as we neared the gate,
where the barrier on the exit lane was obligingly raised.  "Real
smart."

I had plenty of questions, of course dozens of them, swarming inside my
head.  Dallas, Texas, 22 November 1963.  One of the most famous dates
of the century.  The ultimate hit.  The grand tragedy.  The
corkscrewing conspiracy.  And the day I was born.

Who had Mayumi known in Dallas?  Why was he writing to her that day of
all days?  The answer was there, nestling in my pocket.  Maybe the
answer to all the questions.

I remembered the photograph from Rupe's briefcase of Townley, Loudon
and a third man drinking at the Golden Rickshaw the photograph that was
waiting for me in my bag at the Polaris.  I remembered it so clearly I
could almost have been staring at it.  Staring closely.  At the third
man.  At the side of his face.  A face that would never turn to meet my
stare.  Because, if it did .. .

We hit the main road and headed for London.  Ledgister drove fast and
in silence, his normal garrulousness stifled.  Townley too said
nothing.  There was nothing to say.  Nothing safe, anyway.  I wanted
out more than I wanted the truth.  That was the only truth that
mattered.  I wanted it to stop.  And maybe, as long as I didn't think
too hard, it would.

"Make the call."  We were on the dual carriage way slicing through
Dagenham

Motor Works when Townley broke the silence in his quiet but commanding
voice.  Ledgister didn't say anything in response.  He pulled his
mobile out of his pocket and jabbed at some numbers with his thumb. The
call was answered almost immediately.

"It's me," Ledgister growled into the phone.  "Yuh, I know ... It
hasn't been straightforward, but it's OK now .. . Shut up, for Christ's
sake, and listen.  It's all set.  We'll be there within a half-hour.
Have everything ready.  OK?  .. . Good."  With that, he rang off.  That
was Carl, Lance.  He's looking forward to our arrival.  Not as much as
Yamazawa is, though, I'll bet.  It'll be a sweet parting for all of us.
Quiet and civilized.  A straight swap.  OK by you?"

"Just fine."

"Great."

We covered more wordless miles through the grey sprawl of East
London.

What would I learn if I pulled the envelope out of my pocket and read
the letter?  What would I understand about Townley that made him more
dangerous than ever?  I remembered a night out with Rupe and Simon
Yardley at Durham to celebrate my twentieth birthday, back in November
1983.  It had been the twentieth anniversary of the Kennedy
assassination as well, of course.  I remembered arguing with Simon
about the hoary old $64,000 question: did Oswald do it, or was it a
conspiracy?  Simon had favoured the lone nut theory, naturally.  Even
as a student, he'd been an establishment man.  I'd gone for conspiracy,
just to annoy him.  The truth was that I'd never bothered to study the
evidence.  But Rupe had.  Oh yes.  Even then, Rupe had known what he
was talking about.  There can't be any serious doubt there was a
conspiracy," he said, reeling off an army of facts about ballistics and
forensics and doppelganger Oswalds and dead witnesses and God knows
what.  (I'd been too stoned to take much of it in.) The only question
that really counts is: who were the conspirators?"

I glanced over my shoulder at Townley and realized he was already
looking at me.  Neither of us spoke.  Then I looked back at the road.

It was a surprise when we left the A13 at Canning Town and pulled into
the empty taxi rank in front of the Tube station.  This couldn't be the
han dover point, I reasoned.  It was too public.

"Stephen and I need to have a private word, Lance," said Ledgister.
"Why don't you step out for a moment?"

"That would probably be best," agreed Townley.

"But don't go far, hey?  Stay where we can see you."

"OK."  I got out, slammed the door behind me and took an aimless stroll
of ten yards or so ahead.  When I looked back, Townley was leaning
forward between the front seats, watching me and listening as Ledgister
spoke.  Ledgister was doing most of the talking and their private word
lasted no more than a couple of minutes (during which I wished I'd
enrolled for lip-reading classes last time Strode College had pushed
out their adult education prospectus).  Then Townley got out of the car
and came to meet me.

"Gordon feels and I agree that it would be ... inadvisable ... for me
to be seen by either Madron or Yamazawa.  Best for me to maintain a low
profile.  So, I'll go on from here by subway and meet up with him
later."  Nothing in Townley's expression remotely hinted at what he
must have known I'd be thinking: Ledgister had shown his hand.

"What about the letter?"

"Surrender it to Gordon when Yamazawa's free.  As agreed."

"You know what I mean."

"Everything's under control, Lance.  Get back in the car."  I almost
believed a smile was flickering at the edges of his mouth, but his
beard meant I couldn't be sure.  "You can trust my son-in-law."

"But '

"Get back in the car."

I got back in.  And watched Townley vanish into the Tube station
entrance as we drove away.  Events were gathering momentum.  And I
wasn't in control of them.  Townley had apparently consented to an
arrangement that would let Ledgister walk away with the letter.  He
shouldn't have done.  But he had.  It made no sense.  Yet I knew that,
somehow, it must.

"Not far now," said Ledgister as we headed down the approach to the
Blackwall Tunnel.  "Our business will soon be concluded."

"Good."

"And don't worry.  It'd be crazy even if kind of satisfying to kill you
and Yamazawa once I've got the letter.  I aim to leave London without a
trace of a sign I've ever been here."

"Don't you mean "Once we've got the letter"?"

' "We've" as in my father-in-law and I?  Yuh.  Of course.  That goes
without saying."  Ledgister chuckled.  "Not trying to come between us,
are you, Lance?  That's a bad habit of yours."  We plunged into the
dark mouth of the tunnel.  "Just as well I soon won't need to worry
about your habits any more."

Ledgister took the first turning off after the tunnel and followed a
winding route into the industrial wasteland of North Greenwich.  Away
to the east I glimpsed the roof of the Millennium Dome (a Wheatsheaf
coach trip to which I'd eagerly opted out of earlier in the year).  I
could have sworn someone had told me the Dome had revitalized the whole
area, but revitalization I didn't see, just a dismal sprawl of disused
warehouses and derelict chemical works.

We drove along an alley between the rotting flanks of a couple of such
premises towards the westward meander of the Thames, beyond which
soared the teeming spires of Docklands.  Then we turned through a
seemingly purpose-cut gap in a security fence into the pot-holed,
weed-pocked loading yard of an abandoned depot.  Ledgister cut the
engine and opened his window to the dank, ammonia-tinged air.

"It had to be select accommodation, Lance, seeing as

Yamazawa's a friend of yours.  Time for him to move on, though, I
reckon, don't you?"

"Where is he?"

"Patience, patience."  Ledgister gave the horn three short blares.
"We'll soon have you back together.  See?"

A figure appeared out of the shadows on the loading platform of the
ruinous warehouse ahead of us.  It was Carl Madron.  He raised a hand
in acknowledgement, then scuttled back into the shadows.

"Let's get out," said Ledgister.  "He won't be long."

We got out of the car and walked slowly round in front of it.  A few
second passed.  Then Carl reappeared, this time with Yamazawa beside
him.  Toshi looked tired, unshaven and overdue for a bath, but
otherwise none the worse for his experience.  He blinked in the
daylight (what there was of it) and waved at me, almost cheerily.  The
Blue Hawaii shirt would clearly never be the same again, but I reminded
myself (which took some doing) that every cloud has a silver lining.

Yamazawa hurried down the steps from the loading platform and started
across the yard towards us, Carl following.  "I'll take the letter now,
Lance," said Ledgister.  "If you please."

I took the letter out of my pocket, glanced one last time at the
handwriting and postmark, then handed it over.

"Thank you kindly."  Ledgister prised the letter open inside the
envelope and peered down at it, as if checking I hadn't removed it
earlier in some piece of legerdemain I certainly wasn't capable of.  He
nodded in satisfaction.  "That's it all right."

"I am OK, Lance," said Yamazawa.  "But I am glad to see you, for
sure."

"Get in the car, Carl," said Ledgister.  "We've got what we wanted." He
held up the letter like a trophy.  Time to go time."

Carl kept his distance as he moved past me.  He had a bruised jaw to
remember our last encounter by and it was Echo who'd suffered for that.
We had nothing to say to each other.  What sort of deal he'd struck
with Ledgister I didn't know, but I doubted there was much of a chance
Ledgister would honour it.  That, though, was something I was content
to let Carl find out for himself.  I had another deal to think about
mine with Townley and how, if at all, it could survive this turn of
events.

Carl got into the passenger seat of the car and slammed the door.  That
was the cue for Ledgister to pocket the letter and treat us to an
ironical smile.  "Good day, gentlemen.  It's been a pleasure doing
business with you."  He ambled to the car, got in, started up, reversed
across the yard, then drove straight past us and out through the gap in
the fence.

"I am in your debt, Lance," said Yamazawa, smiling wanly at me.  "Thank
you for doing whatever you had to do to free me."

"No problem, Toshi," I said, watching the car pick up speed until it
vanished round the corner of the warehouse.  "It was a doddle."

"Really?"

"No.  Not really.  But '

My voice was drowned in a sudden, deafening, buffeting roar.
Instinctively, I crouched down, squeezing my eyes shut.  When I opened
them a couple of seconds later, I saw a vast plume of smoke rising
beyond the warehouse roof.  Fragments of metal and other debris were
raining down onto it.  Seagulls, scattered from their wharf side
perches, filled the sky, their screeches of alarm slowly drowning the
fading roar.

"What was that?"  said Yamazawa, his voice slurred with shock.

"It sounded like a bomb."

To me also."

I ran towards the fence, Yamazawa following.  Once through the gap, I
had a clear view down the alley beside the warehouse Ledgister and I
had driven along a few minutes earlier.  It was also the route he and
Carl had driven away by.

There wasn't much left of the car beyond its wheels.  The rest was
twisted metal, shattered glass and black smoke fed by hungry flames.  A
second explosion of the petrol tank, I guessed went off as we watched.
The fire roared more angrily than ever.  Somewhere close to the heart
of it I could see two dark shapes that might have been the driver and
his passenger.  Might once have been, anyway.  They were just melting
flesh and charring bone now.  And the letter in Ledgister's pocket .. .
was ash on the breeze.

Townley," I shouted.  "Where are you?  Show yourself."

"What are you saying, Lance?"  Yamazawa stared at me, clearly in some
doubt about my sanity.

"Isn't it obvious?  We've been driving around all morning with a bomb
on board.  Townley must have followed us from Canning Town somehow and
waited until he could get Gordon and Carl in one hit before setting it
off.  Which means he must be close by.  "Townley," I shouted again.
"Come out here where I can see you."

I watched and waited.  The gulls wheeled and swooped above us.  The
wreck of the car blazed on.  But Townley didn't step obligingly into
view.  Maybe, I thought, he was already making his escape.  Or maybe he
was preparing his move against us.  But no.  He didn't need to take any
more risks.  Ledgister was dead and the letter destroyed.  Townley had
finished the job.  And now he'd slipped back into the shadows Rupe had
stupidly tried to flush him out of.

"If we stay here, Lance," said Yamazawa, 'the police will find us.
Other people will have heard the explosion.  They will come soon, I
think."

He was right.  We couldn't afford to linger.  We had to go.

We could already hear the wail of approaching sirens away to the east
when we reached the riverside path and struck south towards Greenwich.
The Naval College and the park behind it were visible ahead of us.  I
tried to give Yamazawa a coherent account of what had happened, holding
nothing back except the chilling suspicion I couldn't rid myself of
about the author of the letter I'd had so briefly in my possession.  He
didn't need to know that.  What use was the suspicion, anyway, now the
letter was gone for ever?  What use, come to that, was my agreement
with Townley, now he'd wreaked a sharper and swifter vengeance on
Ledgister than setting him up on three murder charges would have
amounted to?  The answer, in both cases, was none at all.

"According to the radio," the barman of the first pub we came to in
Greenwich helpfully informed us, 'a bomb's gone off near the Dome."

That a fact?"

"It'll be that IRA splinter group, I guess."

"Probably."

"Well, let's face it, mate, who else could it be?"

Who else indeed?  Yamazawa and I shambled wearily away to a quiet table
by the window and drank in silence for several soothing minutes.  Then
Yamazawa went up to the bar and bought another round.  When he came
back, he said simply, "What happens now, Lance?"

"I was afraid you'd ask me that."

"Is it over?"

"For Townley it is.  He's neatly disposed of a treacherous son-in-law
and an incriminating letter.  He's in the clear.  Which means Mayumi
and Haruko are in the clear too.  He won't go after them now."

"What about you?"

"I'd rather not think about that subject, if it's all the same to
you."

"But you must think."

"Yeh.  Just not yet, though."

We caught a bus heading for Russell Square and sat in the front seat on
the top deck as it trundled west through Deptford and Rotherhithe
beneath leaden, spitting skies.  Yamazawa recounted how he'd been
abducted grabbed and bundled into the boot of a car by two men he now
knew to be Gordon Ledgister and Carl Madron as he wandered down
Kingsway late on Sunday morning, bound for Waterloo and his afternoon
at Hampton Court.  They'd kept him chained to a pillar in a derelict
warehouse he now knew was in North Greenwich.  After the phone call
they'd forced him to make to the Arundel, he'd been gagged most of the
time and convinced that they meant to kill him.

"It was strangely calming, Lance, to know that, if it was going to
happen, there was nothing I could do to prevent it.  But not knowing
why that I did not like.  I asked them, when the gag was off, but they
told me nothing.  One time I listened to them talking, though, when
they were outside, by the car.  They must have thought I would not be
able to hear.  I remember Carl said, "You promise me this letter is the
key to everything?"  And Ledgister replied, "The key to more than you
can possibly imagine."  Do you know what he meant by that, Lance?"

"Maybe."

Yamazawa waited for me to continue, then realized I wasn't about to.
"What, then?"

"Are you sure you want me to tell you?"

"Of course."

"OK."  I leaned towards him and whispered into his ear.  "The Kennedy
assassination."

His eyes widened.  He turned in the seat and stared at me.  Truly?"

"I think so, yeh."  I looked ahead.  "For what that's worth now."

"Do me a favour when you get back to the Arundel, Toshi, will you?"  I
asked as the bus started across Waterloo Bridge.

"Sure.  What is it?"

"Phone your brother.  Ask him to tell Mayumi the letter's been
destroyed and everything's all right.  She and Haruko are safe.  They
can go back to Tokyo and live in peace."

"And maybe take on a redundant shipping executive as a washer-up at the
Golden Rickshaw?"

"They could do worse."

"What should Shintaro tell them about you?"

"Tell him to say I'm fine."

"Fine?

"Yeh."

That is not exactly true, is it, Lance?"

"No."  I shrugged.  "But there's no sense them worrying about it, is
there?"

We parted at the bus stop in Russell Square.  Yamazawa was planning to
head straight for the Arundel and entertain Gus with a convoluted tale
of misadventure based on falling into bad company in a pub in Thames
Ditton.  He reckoned Gus for one would be highly entertained by it.

"When will you go back to Japan?"

"Soon, I think."

"I probably won't see you again before you leave."

"I still do not know what you are going to do, Lance."

"Maybe that's because I don't know either."

"Would it help if I wished you luck?"

"It wouldn't do any harm."

"Good luck then, my friend."

Another bus took me from Russell Square to the Polaris, where I devoted
all of five minutes to packing and checking out, then walked across to
Paddington station.  On the way, I passed a newspaper stall and
couldn't help noticing the headline on the late edition of the Evening
Standard: CAR BOMB NEAR DOME KILLS TWO.  Adhering to the principle that
newspaper reports of an incident always seem inaccurate to those with
personal experience of it, I decided against buying a copy.  I got to
the station just in time to catch a train for the West Country.
Flooding on Sedgemoor meant it wouldn't be going via Castle Gary.  I'd
have to take a bus from Taunton to finish my journey.  It might be late
it might be very late when I got where I was going.  Not that it really
mattered.  Because, in so many other ways, it was already far too
late.

SOMERSET

CHAPTER NINETEEN

It wasn't, as it turned out, that late when I reached Street.  But a
wet Monday night in November isn't exactly carnival time, especially in
a town with Quaker traditions.  The streets were deserted.

The Two Brewers pub in Leigh Road wasn't doing a roaring trade either.
Just as well it was the drink I popped in for, not the company.
Although a ghostly kind of company was waiting for me.  Rupe and I had
quaffed our first under-age pints of cider there, back when it was
called the Albert.  A lot more than the name had changed since.  Even
so, I'd have happily lingered at the bar but for the knowledge that
coming to Street made no sense unless I did what I'd come there to
do.

It might as well have been midnight as the middle of the evening in
Hopper Lane.  A few glimmering lights were the only signs of life
housebound life, at that.  I groped my way through the dripping
rhododendrons to the door of Penfrith and spotted Howard through the
sitting-room window, slumped in a chair staring vacantly at the
television.  Win and Mil were nowhere to be seen.  It was less than
three weeks since I'd last stood there and I felt about three decades
older.  A quiet life, I reckoned, was definitely underrated.  Howard's
response to the knocker was to jump like a startled rabbit and run for
cover.  When the door was opened by Win I could see him behind her,
peering out into the hall from the sitting room.  Then I looked at Win
and said, "I'm back."  And she looked at me with her no-nonsense gaze
and took her instant, unspoken measure of me.

"Best come in out of the rain, Lancelot."

"Hello, Howard," I said as I stepped inside.  I got some grinning and
hissing in return by way of a greeting and the opportunity to notice
that his clothes grey cardigan, Durham University sweatshirt, pyjama
bottoms and Rupert Bear slippers were exactly the same as he'd been
wearing on my previous visit.  A sour smell hanging in the hallway
suggested there hadn't been a lot of wash days since.

"Go back to your programme, Howard," said Win.  "We'll be in the
kitchen."

Howard rotated his head several times, as if testing the mobility of
his neck, then slowly turned and did as he'd been told.

"Sorry to er... call so late," I said as he vanished from view.

"We've been worried about you."  Win didn't look worried, but then her
basic expression stern and practical had never encompassed a wide range
of emotions, any more than her dress sense had tended to the exotic.
She was wearing her usual drab outfit of shapeless sweater (brown) and
frayed three-quarter-length skirt (darker brown), enlivened this
evening by a pair of doubtless home-knitted mittens (darkest brown of
all).

"There have been problems, Win.  Keeping in touch .. . just wasn't
possible."

"Have you got any news of Rupert?"

"Yes.  I have."

"Come through to the kitchen.  We'll talk there."

"Where's Mil?"

"Behind you."

I started nearly as violently as Howard had a few minutes earlier when
I realized that Mil was indeed standing directly behind me, having
presumably come down the stairs without my noticing.  She was sporting
a different colour way of Win's ensemble (more mushroom than chocolate,
sans mittens) and an apprehensive expression that suggested she'd
already decided my news was bad.  "Lance," she said simply, with an
emphatic nod.

"Hello, Mil."

"Let's get out of the hall," said Win.  "It'll be warmer in the
kitchen."

This much was undeniably true, thanks to the range, although that was
the full extent of the room's attractions.  Washing-up was piled in the
sink, the tap dripping per-cussively into a soiled saucepan, out of
time with the faster drip of a leak in the scullery roof, beneath which
a bucket was nearing the half-full stage.  Someone Win, I assumed had
been cleaning the silver cutlery.  Knives, forks and spoons, some
gleaming, some dull, were lined up alongside a cloth and tin of
Goddard's polish on a sheet of newspaper on the kitchen table.  Why the
ancestral silver had struck her as more urgently in need of attention
than the washing-up was a mystery beyond plumbing, but of such
mysteries the Alder household wasn't short.

"Will you have some tea, Lancelot?"

"Yeh.  Thanks.  Why not?"

"See to that, Mil."

"Before you do, there's something I've got to tell you.  Perhaps you
should sit down."

Both sisters stared at me in a taut moment of silent scrutiny, while
the tap and the leaking roof dripped and the television blared on in
the sitting room, muffled by the thick walls between.  Then Win said,
"Have you found him?"

"Sit down.  Please."

I took a chair on one side of the table.  Win first, then Mil, sat
opposite me.  Win carefully folded the cloth over the cutlery, then
looked at me and said, "What have you to tell us, Lancelot?"

"Rupe's dead."

At first, there seemed to be no reaction.  They went on staring at me.
Then Mil stifled a sob.  Tears filled her eyes.  Win swallowed hard.
For her, tears apparently weren't an option.  "You're sure?"

"Oh yes."

"How did it happen?"

"He was murdered.  In San Francisco."

There was another sob from Mil.  To my surprise, Win crossed herself
and whispered something in Latin under her breath, then said simply,
"When?"

Twenty-first of September."

The twenty-first of September?"

"Yeh."

"Not the twenty-second?"

"No."

"Strange.  It was the morning of the twenty-second when I ... sensed
it."

It was stranger than she knew.  I suddenly remembered the time
difference.  The night of the twenty-first in California would have
been the morning of the twenty-second in Somerset.  "What did you
sense, Win?"

"Loss."  She turned to her sister.  "Make the tea, dear."  Calling Mil
dear was, I reckoned, as much as she could manage by way of sisterly
consolation.

Mil got up, scraping her chair on the floor, and moved mechanically to
the range.

"You never told me about this sensation before," I said to Win.

"I hoped it meant nothing."  She nodded to herself.  "I hoped in
vain."

"I'm sorry."

Thank you."  She seemed to remember something important.  "He was your
friend as well."

"He was."

"Who murdered him?"

"A man called ... Townley."

Mil gasped and grabbed the rail of the range.  Win looked round sharply
at her, then back at me.  Townley?"

"Stephen Townley.  Recognize the name?"

"No."

"Come on, Win.  It's pretty obvious Mil does, even if you don't."

"Mil knows nothing."

"Nothing?  The word came out of Mil's mouth almost as a wail.  There
was horror as well as grief on her face as she stared at her sister.
"How can you say that?"

"Keep your voice down.  Do you want Howard in here?"

"I'll keep my voice down," I said levelly.  "You sent me to find your
brother.  That's what I did."

"We're grateful."

"I don't want your gratitude.  It's no use to me.  Going after Rupe got
me and others into a lot of trouble.  He's not the only one to have
been murdered.  There have been five other deaths, Win.  Five.  Just
think about that.  Five lives ended.  Plus Rupe's.  I don't blame you.
Rupe did the damage.  But why?  Why did he go after Townley?  He was
trying to blackmail the man.  That's how he came to be murdered.  But
why!  What was it really all about?"

"I don't know what you mean."

"Peter Dalton.  It goes back to him, doesn't it?"

"Peter?"  gasped Mil.

"Control yourself," said Win.  "Brew the tea."

"Forget the tea," I said.  "Just tell me."

"This can't have anything to do with..  ."

"I think you know it has.  Dalton died in August 'sixty-three.
Officially, he committed suicide.  But he was more likely murdered by
Townley.  Maybe for money.  Train Robbery money.  Howard told the
police he saw a holdall full of fivers at Wilderness Farm a few days
before Dalton's death."  I looked up at Mil.  "You knew Peter Dalton
pretty well, didn't you, Mil?"

She gaped at me helplessly.  No tea was brewing.  But memories were
stirring memories and secrets.  "It was Mum's fault," she murmured.

"Your mother?"

"If she hadn't told Rupert '

"That's enough," snapped Win.  "Don't say another word."

"But Win '

"Be quiet."  Win was on her feet now, staring at her sister.  "You'll
not blame my mother for anything."  (My mother, I

noticed, though she was Mil's too, of course.) "Hers wasn't the fault,
was it?"

"No, Win.  I'm sorry."  Mil wiped away her tears with a dishcloth that
had been drying on the range.  "It's just ... so hard.  To lose Rupert
.. . when I was never able to ..."

"Never able to what?"  I prompted.

"I think you should go upstairs, Mil," said Win, quietly but firmly. "I
can explain what needs to be explained."

"But..  ."

"Go on."

Mil looked at me, then at her sister.  "Now Rupert's gone," she
murmured, 'maybe we should .. ."

"I'll tell him, Mil.  You go.  It'll only upset you more to hear it
said."

Mil bowed her head, absent-mindedly replaced the dishcloth on the
range, then moved slowly to the door that Win was holding open for her,
breathing heavily as she went.  Just as she was about to leave the
room, she stopped and turned to me.  "I'm sorry, Lance," she said,
sounding as if she truly was, 'for any trouble I've brought you."

"That's all right, dear," said Win.  "You can leave this to Lancelot
and me."

Mil nodded dolefully and left.  Win waited until she saw her sister
climbing the stairs I could hear her plodding steps from where I was
sitting then closed the door, stooped to a low cupboard and got out a
dusty, quarter-full bottle of Johnnie Walker whisky.  She poured us a
couple of fingers each in grimy glasses and sat back down at the
table.

"Rupert tried to blackmail Townley, you say?"

"There was a lot to blackmail him with."

"More than the Train Robbery?"

That wasn't the half of it."

"Did Rupert take on more than he could manage?"

"He couldn't manage Townley, that's for sure."

"And Townley killed him?"

"Not personally.  But .. . effectively, yes."

"Has finding this out put you in danger, Lancelot?"

"You could say so, yeh."

"I'm sorry for that."

"Me too.  So, how about giving me the meagre satisfaction of knowing
why Rupe was so determined to have a go at Townley?"

"I fear Mil was right.  If Mother hadn't left that letter for him, none
of this would have happened.  If I'd known what she'd done .. ."

"What letter was this?"

"She lodged it with the solicitor, to be handed to Rupert after her
death."

"What was in it?"

The family secret.  And a shameful one it was.  Rupert was Mil's son,
Lancelot."

"What?"  I gaped at her in astonishment.

"There it is.  I've said it.  Yes.  My brother Rupert was born to my
sister."

"You're not serious."

"It's true.  My mother thought he had a right to know and feared we
would never tell him.  So, she decided to ensure that after her death
... the secret would be revealed to him."

"How did he react?"

"Like you, he could hardly believe it.  But he had to.  There were
harsh words.  Mil took to her bed.  I feared for her sanity.  Rupert...
But there, I couldn't blame him.  It was a terrible thing for him to
learn.  He's never set foot in this house since."

"I don't understand.  How was this kept secret originally?"

"Before Mil began to show, Mother took her away to Bournemouth.  We
told people Mother was expecting and needed special treatment on
account of her age and that Mil had gone to keep her company.  They
came straight back after Rupert's birth and registered him here as
Mother's child.  Illegitimacy then was a real scandal.  Not like now.
Mil would have been out of a job.  Shunned.  And if she was to marry
... She was only nineteen.  It seemed best to arrange it as we did.  I
won't say I opposed it, because I didn't.  It worried Father, though.
Whether he'd have allowed us to go through with it if he'd lived .. .
I'm not sure."

"Did he kill himself because of this, Win?"

"Nobody knows what happened.  It wouldn't have helped to think of his
death as anything other than an accident."

"He was depressed at the time, though, because of what was being
planned?"

"Yes.  He thought it was wrong.  What's happened since makes me think
we should have listened to him.  But Mother and I ... overrode him."

"Who was Rupe's father, then?  Peter Dalton?"

Win nodded.  "Mother named him in her letter.  Rupert made lots of
enquiries about him after reading it.  He dug it all up.  There were
times he was here, in Street, when we didn't know.  People at the Post
Office would say they'd seen him.  But we hadn't.  I think he was .. .
investigating."

"And his investigations revealed that his real father was murdered by
Stephen Townley."

Win nodded again.  "If Rupert's father had been alive and willing to
marry Mil when she admitted she was with child, it would all have been
different."

"But he wasn't."

"No."

"And Rupe held Townley to blame for that."

"He must have done, yes."

"The man he went after .. . was his father's murderer."

I thought about that for a moment and felt sorry for Rupe for the first
time since setting off in search of him.  The woman he'd always thought
of as his sister was actually his mother.  And the people he'd always
thought of as his parents were actually his grandparents.  No wonder
Rupe had wanted to take revenge for the guilt-riddled chaos of his
family relationships.  And there was Townley, waiting in his past, a
deserving target for whatever revenge he could contrive.  Which, thanks
to Townley's dark dealings, amounted to quite something.

"Rupe had a photograph of Townley, taken by Howard.  How did he get
hold of that, Win?"

"Howard must have given it to him.  We drummed it into Howard to keep
quiet about what he reckoned he'd seen that summer for fear he'd blurt
out something about Mil and Peter.  But somewhere along the line he may
have told his tale to Rupert.  They were that close when Rupert was a
boy."

"Rupe never breathed a word to me about it."

"Probably because he didn't believe it.  He always did his best to
protect his brother."

That was certainly true.  Rupe never wanted people to think Howard was
crazy or at any rate crazier than he really was.  The Train Robbery
story must have struck Rupe as a madness too far.  Until that
posthumous letter from his mother well, the woman he'd regarded as his
mother prompted him to take another look.  But how had he been able to
take it further?  How had he got started on Townley's trail?  "Would
the letter your mother left for Rupe have told him anything about
Townley, Win?"

"I never read it.  How can I say?  All she would have known about him,
from Mil, was that he was an American friend Peter made during his time
in the Army.  She knew precious little about Peter, come to that. There
wasn't much she could tell Rupert about his father beyond his name.
Mil had nothing of his.  Except..  ."  Win frowned.  (It would be more
accurate to say her frown deepened, since there was always the making
of one on her face.)

"What?"

"Mil has a small china cat that sits on her bedside table.  Peter gave
it to her.  Mother wanted to get rid of it, but Mil was so attached to
it that Mother relented in the end.  Whether she mentioned it in her
letter I don't know.  I can't see why she would have.  It's just Mil's
silly old Japanese cat."

"Japanese?"

"A good-luck charm from Japan, yes."

"Peter Dalton had been to Japan?"

"At some point, I suppose."

To visit a friend.  Yes, it had to be.  That was the connection.  Mrs.
Alder probably had referred to it in her letter.  Even so, Rupe
wouldn't have made much of the reference at first.  Then Eurybia sent
him to Tokyo, where he had the opportunity and inclination to look for
traces of Dalton's friend.  Bingo!  At the Golden Rickshaw, haunt of a
certain brand of American military man circa 1960, he chanced on
another photograph of

Townley.  From that moment on there was no turning back for him.  Just
as now there was no coming back.

"Is it important, Lancelot?"

The cat?  No more than anything else.  Just one clue among several.
Rupe put them together very cleverly.  His only miscalculation was
thinking he could handle Townley.  He's not alone in that."

"Is Townley threatening you?"

"Not exactly.  Let's just say I've lived to regret making his
acquaintance.  But at least I have lived."

"Are you back to stay now, then?"

I smiled.  "Fraid not.  Got to keep moving."

She didn't ask why.  Maybe she realized this uncharacteristic
wanderlust on my part had something to do with her family -and the
position they'd put me in.  If so, it wasn't a point she wanted to
dwell on.  "Have you seen your parents?"

"Not yet.  I thought I'd go round there now."

"Please give them my regards."

"Will do."  I glanced up as the clock began to strike nine -the strong,
unhurried strikes of a Victorian farmhouse timepiece, probably bought
by Win's grandparents, maybe even her great-grandparents, way back in
the Alders' landlocked past.  (Rupe had pulled off quite a first for
the family by getting his ashes scattered in the Pacific Ocean.) "I'd
better be on my way.  They go to bed early these days."

Win saw me to the door.  Howard didn't stir from his chair in front of
the television as I passed the sitting room.  There was no sign of Mil.
I glanced up the stairs, half-expecting to see her watching me from the
landing.  But she wasn't there.

"It's stopped raining," said Win as I stepped out into the cool, damp
air.

"So it has."

"Goodbye, Lancelot."  (Good night wouldn't really have covered it.  We
both knew that.)

I heard the door close behind me as I turned away.  And it seemed to me
that a lot else closed in that moment.

Which only goes to show how you shouldn't take the way things seem on
trust.  I barged my way back through the sodden barrier of
rhododendrons, turned into the lane and pulled up sharply.

A man was standing directly in front of me a broadly built figure, rain
coated his face deep in shadow.  I had an instant impression of
immobility as if he'd been waiting for me.

"Hi, Lance."

I recognized his voice, but at first doubted my own recognition.  It
couldn't be him.  Not here.  It just couldn't be.  "Gus?"

"Got it in one."

"What the bloody hell

"Am I doing here?  Good question."

"Is Toshi with you?"

"No.  Toshi has no idea where I am.  I'd checked out of the Arundel by
the time he got back there."

"But..  ."

"I followed you here, Lance."

"You .. . followed me?"

That's right."

"I don't..."

"Parminter's not my real name."

"It isn't?"

"No.  Nor's Ventress.  But that's the name you'll know me by."

If central Somerset had suddenly developed seismic instability and a
fissure had opened in the earth beneath my feet, I think I'd have been
rather less surprised than I was by the realization that Yamazawa's
laid-back drinking buddy from New Jersey, Gus Parminter, was actually
... a hired assassin.

"Let's take a walk along the lane.  We need to talk, you and me.  It
looks private enough hereabouts.  And like the lady said .. . it's
stopped raining."  Gus laid a large, firm hand on my shoulder and
turned me round.  We started walking, slowly.

"You're .. . Ventress?"  I asked, struggling to get the words out.

"Yup."

"Ledgister hired you ... to kill Hashimoto?"

"He did.  Then Townley hired me ... to kill Ledgister."

"You planted the bomb?"

"And set it off.  Yuh.  Neat work, if I say so myself.  I reckoned
Yamazawa was bound to lead me to you.  And therefore to Ledgister.
Townley's instructions were clear.  Terminate Ledgister and that
low-life he'd taken up with Madron.  Plus destroy the letter.  Three
birds with one stone.  Not bad, hey?"

If he was expecting a compliment he'd come to the wrong man.  But why
had he come to me at all?  "What do you want?"

"I want to tell you something very important, Lance.  For once, that
phrase "a matter of life and death" really is appropriate.  You see,
Townley's instructions didn't finish at Ledgister, Madron and the
letter.  He wants a clean slate.  He wants to rule out any possibility
of another Rupe Alder disturbing his retirement.  He wants the thread
Rupe followed cut at the source and wound in.  Which means, I'm awful
sorry to say .. ."

We stopped.  Staring at him in the pallid gleam of one of Hopper Lane's
very few street-lamps, his face patched by the shadows of the
overhanging trees, I hadn't a doubt not the slightest as to what he
meant.  "You've come here to kill me, haven't you?"

He nodded.  "Plus the Alders.  The brother and the two sisters."

"Oh my God."

"A more pious response to the imminence of death than some manage,
Lance.  I'll give you that.  But consider: why am I telling you this?
You surely don't think I gave Ledgister any notice of his demise.  And
you know I didn't give Hashimoto any."

I swallowed hard.  "Why, then?"

"Because Townley's not the only one who could use a clean slate.  I
hadn't a clue what Ledgister was getting me into when he hired me.  I
have now.  You know what I mean.  The stuff of legends.  People in
legends tend to be dead, though, so I'm happy to miss out on a mention.
But to do that I need to close down the whole Townley connection.  And
I reckon that's best done at the other end."

"What ... do you mean?"

"I mean to take Townley out.  And you can help me.  In return for which
you and your hillbilly friends ... get extended leases on life."  A
glimmer of lamplight told me he was smiling.  "Tell you what.  My car's
stowed further along the lane.  Why don't we go over the details there?
I think it could be starting to rain again."  He moved on and I fell in
beside him, my thoughts struggling to keep pace.

"Hold on," I said, a point suddenly striking me.  "I thought you said
you followed me here.  You can't have done that in a car."

"An exaggeration, I admit.  As soon as you got on the train it was
obvious where you were headed.  Hertz beats public transport any day. I
was here way ahead of you."  (In more ways than one, I was rapidly
coming to understand.) "Townley gave me a heap of background on the
Alders and where you fit in.  I was wondering how to get you down here
if you didn't come of your own accord, because I reckoned from the
first I'd need you as a go-between.  I mean, hell, the Alders would be
spooked by me, wouldn't they, without you to hold their hands?  So,
thanks for making it easy.  It's appreciated.  There's the car."

A small, dark-painted hatchback was parked on the verge ahead, overhung
by trees.  Ventress opened the passenger door for me.  Resisting the
fleeting thought that maybe I should just make a run for it, I got in.
I was aware, when all was said and done, that if a man like him wanted
me dead, that's what I'd already be.

He went round to the driver's side and got in beside me.  "Hell of a
damp climate you got here, Lance.  I'm surprised you don't have gills.
Hey, maybe the Alders do, being ancient stock and all."  He looked
round at me.  "I don't mind if you laugh at my joke."

"Is it compulsory?"

He laughed for me a deep, rumbling sound of apparently genuine
amusement.  "OK.  Let's quit horsing around.  This is no bedtime story
I have to tell you.  This is reality.  Which sure can be a hostile
environment.  You saw the letter Townley and Ledgister so badly
wanted?"

"Yes and no.  I saw the envelope."

"Catch the postmark?"

"Yeh."

"Dallas, Texas, on the most famous date in its history, right?"

"Right."

"I made my own enquiries.  Well, you have to in my line of business. It
pays to watch your back.  You have to think about your future as well
as your fee.  Hashimoto was a standard hit.  No frills, no corners cut
my specialty.  Eric Townley was a bolt-on I should have thought twice
about.  But what the hell?  Ledgister was paying a fat bonus. Sloppy
reasoning, I've got to admit.  Must be getting old.  Well, I'd like to
get a good bit older.  But when Stephen Townley contacted me, I
realized that particular ambition was under threat.  I asked around and
got some disturbing answers.  Townley was one of the Dallas boys the
Kennedy hit team, back in 'sixty-three.  I mean, that is hall-of-fame
stuff in my profession.  But it's not what you'd call enviable status.
Was there was or was there wasn't a conspiracy?  People have been
debating that all your life and two-thirds of mine.  Well, you need to
be a simpleton to much doubt there was one, but there seem to be a lot
of those around.  Or maybe just a lot of people who study the mortality
statistics for witnesses to the assassination and reckon they're kind
of hard to argue with.  Either way, the big problem for conspiracy
theorists is that no one's ever held their hand up and said, hey, yeh,
I was part of it and this is what it was and how it went down.  Surely
to God and J. Edgar Hoover one of them should have been desperate
enough by now to have spilled the beans.  But no.  They never have.
Now, why do you suppose that might be, Lance?"

"Too frightened."

"For themselves or their families?  It would account for a good few, for
sure.  But a loner, as most people in my line of work are, grown old,
terminally ill, short of cash for a hip replacement, whatever.  Why
wouldn't he go public for the fame, the money, the hell of it?"

"Well?  Why wouldn't he?"

"Because he's already dead.  Dead and buried.  They all got taken out.
Like so many of the witnesses.  Culled, to save the herd.  The hit men
were hit."

"Except Townley."

"He saw it coming and had an escape route ready and waiting.  We have
to figure he was more than a foot soldier.  He was on the recruitment
side of things in Japan.  Hell, he may even have recruited Oswald while
the guy was serving there with the Marines.  Maybe that's when Oswald
was first tied into the deniable fringes of the intelligence world. But
he and Townley knew each other.  That's clear.  They understood each
other.  So, when Oswald saw Townley in Dallas the day before Kennedy's
visit I'm guessing, but it's as good a guess as we'll get now he
finally realized what was going on.  Or maybe he already knew, but not
that Townley was involved.  Either way, he decided to warn Mayumi
Hashimoto of the danger she might be in after the event, as a mutual
acquaintance or a mutual whatever she was to them.  So, he wrote her a
letter and mailed it on his way into work on the morning of November
twenty-second.  Or he could have delayed mailing it until straight
after the assassination.  It doesn't matter.  It got mailed.  And,
because of it, here we are."

"You believe Townley's escape route involved Train Robbery money?"

"It involved money big time.  Disappearing's an expensive business,
especially when you have to give up your profession into the bargain.
But he'd already set aside his disappearance fund.  Dalton was a friend
of his from West Berlin days, who'd got into trading information in the
British underworld.  I think he may have had Mafia even Yakuza
connections."  (Which suggested his visit to Townley in Japan had
yielded more than a lucky china cat, I couldn't help but reflect.)
"Anyhow, Townley was sent over here in the spring of 'sixty-three,
apparently to sever any embarrassing links between the brewing Profumo
scandal and the sensitive parts of US Intelligence Townley's group had
dealings with.  Funny how all these things get kind of interconnected.
Doesn't pay to dwell on the point, though.  So, let's concentrate on
this point.  Townley was already looking for vanish money because he'd
got wind of what was planned for the fall.  Dalton had just picked up
some choice dope about trainloads of used banknotes snaking down the
country with zero security.  Put the two together and what have you
got?  Motive and means.  They set the heist up or they set up the
people who set it up.  But they were behind it.  That's what counts.
Dalton had recently inherited Wilderness Farm a handily out-of-the-way
place for Townley and him to do the planning and co-ordinating.  Just a
pity some interbred local youth developed an unhealthy interest in
their activities.  But that didn't matter too much to Townley, because
he meant to draw a line under the whole deal as soon as he had the
money.  Dalton probably trusted him.  They were old friends.  Big
mistake.  Townley killed him, set it up to look like suicide, saddle
bagged the loot and rode off into the sunset.  Three months later,
straight after the Kennedy hit, he black-holed his entire life to
date."

"Why not do that right away in August?"

"Pertinent question, Lance.  Distinctly pertinent.  That had occurred
to me.  The answer's conjectural, but it feels like the truth.  He
believed in the cause.  I think that was it.  He wanted the conspiracy
to succeed and stayed on to do his bit towards ensuring it did.  It was
an article of faith for him an expression, maybe the crowning
expression, of his twisted brand of patriotism.  There were plenty who
thought like him in 'sixty-three.  But not many with the balls to play
a full part and the brains to figure out the fate pencilled in for him
as well as the best way to avoid it.  I take my hat off to the guy.  He
pulled some very smart moves.  Getting back in touch with his family
years later wasn't so smart, though.  Understandable, of course, but
risky.  Not that it would have mattered he'd been written off as dead a
long time ago but for your friend Rupe Alder.  There's just no
factoring-in a guy like that."

"Peter Dalton was his father."

Ventress gave a ghostly little whistle.  "Was he, now?  Well, doesn't
that stand the dominoes all in a line?  Rupe was out to nail his
daddy's killer.  Who exactly was Rupe's mother, then?"

"The younger of the two sisters.  Mil."

Another whistle.  "Bebop-a-lula.  It just gets worse and worse."

"Yeh."

"Could be I have good news for Mil, though a commodity I'd guess her
life's not been overburdened with."

"What sort of good news?"

"Well, she might appreciate having a ringside seat at the demise of her
old lover's murderer."

"How's she going to get that?"

"Easy.  I called Townley while I was waiting for you to show up
earlier.  I told him things went wrong after the car-bombing.  I had
the cops on my tail.  Accordingly, I had to let him down where you and
the Alders were concerned and get out of the country in double-quick
time.  He wasn't happy.  He was seriously w happy.  But he believed it.
My panic turn's surprisingly convincing.  So, he thinks I've run out on
him.  Something I'm sure he's already planning to make me suffer for.
First, though, he'll decide to do the job himself."

"You mean .. ."

"He'll come after the Alders.  And you.  My last service to him was to
report you were headed this way."

"You told him that?"

"Sure.  It puts you all together, neatly packaged.  Now, what's he
going to do?  Fly back to San Francisco leaving unfinished business
behind him?  I don't think so.  No, he'll come here.  That's as close
to a certainty as you'll get in this chance-driven world.  He'll come.
And I'll be waiting."

"When?"  I scrambled round in my seat to face Ventress, the realization
suddenly hitting me that his plan was something he'd already set in
motion something that could no longer be stopped.  "How soon?"

"Tomorrow night, I'd guess.  At latest, the night after.  Not tonight.
He'll want to do a daytime reconnaissance first.  Hope to get a fix on
your whereabouts.  The Alders' whereabouts are a given, of course, but
then he doesn't know the ground.  I'm assuming he never came to
Penfrith in 'sixty-three.  A fair assumption, do you reckon?"

"What?"  Tardily, I registered the fact that Ventress was genuinely
interested in my opinion.  "No.  I'm sure he's never been to
Penfrith."

"Right.  So, he'll probably leave London first thing tomorrow and make
his way here, stake out the Alder joint during the afternoon and make
his move some time after nightfall."

"His .. . mo veT

"The triple hit, Lance.  Quadruple, counting you.  Get with it, will
you?  We're in real time now.  We don't have infinite amounts of it.
But we do have enough."

"Enough for what .. . exactly?"

"For you to persuade the Alders to take in a couple of house guests.
For the very short duration."

CHAPTER TWENTY

Why me?  It was a question that crept in whenever more urgent ones
subsided, as they fleetingly did.  I mean, seriously, why did it have
to be me who was landed with all this?  What had I done to deserve it?
I certainly hadn't sought it.  Trying to lead an obscure and feckless
life isn't normally considered a way of volunteering to tackle the
consequences of the highest of high crimes and misdemeanours.  Talk
about the wrong place at the wrong time (not to mention the wrong
choice -the disastrous choice of friend).  I don't normally tend to
self-pity.  But I was embracing it now in a big way.  As Les had once
said to me when I'd failed yet again to draw a placed horse in the
Wheatsheaf Grand National sweepstake, "Some people get all the luck,
Lance.  Which means some people never get any."

Swapping bar-rail wisdom with Les would have suited me rather well that
night.  Instead, I spent it closeted in damp and chilly Penfrith,
trying to hold the nerves of Win, Mil and Howard together (as well as
mine) while we waited for what I was only marginally better equipped
than they were to anticipate.

Win alone of the three had a clear grasp of the situation we were in.
She listened in silence as I explained why putting our trust in
Ventress made sense why, in fact, there was nothing else we could do.
"The police can't protect you from a man like Townley, Win.  Only a man
like Ventress can.  He knows what he's doing.  He really is our best
hope."

"We can't leave here," she said when I'd finished, as if proclaiming an
axiom of their existence.  "If trouble must come in Rupert's wake, then
we must meet it, though I can hardly believe Townley means to kill us
all."

"I can hardly believe otherwise."

"You know the man.  You must be right."

"I'm sorry, Win.  I really am."

"You've no need to be.  It's our wrongs you're caught up in, not us in
yours.  Townley killed Rupert, didn't he?"

"Yes."

"Then why wouldn't I harbour the man who promises to kill Townley?  The
Old Testament records the ways of our hearts in this, Lancelot.  An eye
for an eye is a fine balance.  I shall speak to Mil and make Howard
understand that he's to keep to his room.  Then you can bring Mr.
Ventress in."

Howard, then, was despatched to his bedroom and told to stay upstairs.
Mil consented to whatever Win thought best, as was her habit, even when
as now she probably didn't really understand what her consent
encompassed.  She was still numb with the shock of learning that Rupe,
her secret son, was dead.  These new events scarcely registered.  She
looked at me, blinking rapidly, and muttered, "These are dark days,
Lance."  (Which was as acute an assessment as any.) She didn't speak to
Ventress when he came in, acknowledging his courteous "Evening, ma'am,"
with a nod.  Then, after fetching some blankets for the pair of us we
were destined to sleep as best we could in the sitting room she took
herself off to bed.

"You'll not have to mind her, Mr.  Ventress," said Win.  "We're unused
to visitors."

"Especially visitors of my colour and calling, ma'am, hey?  Don't
worry.  I'll cause you no more bother than I have to."

"You have a gun?"  The directness of the question took me for one
aback.

"I do."

"And you're expert in its use?"

"I've brought no testimonials with me, ma'am.  But my services are much
in demand.  That's because those services are efficient and
reliable."

"Good.  What do you want us to do?"

"Nothing.  Stay in the house.  Upstairs as much as possible.  Wait.
I'll do the rest."

"How long will it be?"

"Not as long as it'll seem.  Are you a patient person?"

"Yes."

"And your brother and sister?"

"Less so.  But I can manage them."

"And I can manage Townley.  OK?"

Win thought for a moment.  The word wasn't a normal component of her
vocabulary, but she eventually decided that nothing else would do.
"OK," she emphatically announced.

Win made us cocoa (the supposedly soothing effects of which seemed
strangely absent).  Then she went to bed, leaving Ventress and me to
the fusty delights of the sitting room.  My cocoa was reinforced by
then with a slug of Johnnie Walker.  I offered Ventress some, but he
declined on professional grounds.

"I don't touch the juice when I'm working, Lance.  A steady hand and a
clear head are my sword and shield."

"I thought you said he wouldn't come tonight."

"He won't.  But I'm already in training for when he does."

"And we just stay put until then?"

"That's the idea."

"My parents live within walking distance.  Do you think '

"No."

"I could persuade them to go and stay with my sister in Cardiff."

"Could you really?"  (It was more doubtful than Ventress might have
imagined.  If I told my father what was going on -what was really going
on he'd be likelier to call the police than take refuge with Diane and
Brian.) Townley's not interested in them, Lance.  They're in no danger.
But telling them they might be could put us at a real disadvantage. If
Townley smelled a rat, we'll find ourselves in the sewer. Everything,
but everything, has to appear totally normal.  The Alders keeping
themselves to themselves fits the bill.  That's why I can spring this
trap on him.  But it requires them and you to lie low and quiet.
OK?"

"OK."

"Try to relax."

"Easy for you to say."

"Trust me.  I know what I'm doing."

"So does Townley."

"He's old.  And rusty.  I have the edge on him, believe me.
Thirty-seven years ago it would have been different.  But this isn't
thirty-seven years ago."

"How much do you know about what happened then?"

"Only what I've told you."

"But it was a conspiracy."

"If that's what you want to call it.  You push too far in a certain
direction in American politics, you get pushed back.  It happened
before McCarthyism was all about sidelining advocates of withdrawal
from Korea.  It's happened since -Watergate pulled the plug on Nixon
just after he started cosying up to Brezhnev and Chairman Mao.  As for
Kennedy, well, we know for a fact he was planning to pull out of
Vietnam.  And we know for another fact that the plan got reversed
before he was cold in his grave.  Conspiracy or the system?  Take your
pick.  But remember: even if Townley had given in to Rupe's demands and
gone public, the shutters would still have come down on the story at
some point.  There's always a cut-off.  You can never shine a light to
the centre of power.  That isn't how it works."

"How does it work?"

"Like you see, Lance.  Just like you see.  What happens here changes
nothing.  Except for you and me and the Alders.  And Townley.  We'll
have closure, one way or the other.  But out there, in the world, it'll
never happen.  The conspiracy theorists will go on analysing the
Zapruder film frame by frame by frame, looking ever closer, until all
they see is a blur.  The denial merchants will go on arguing that all
the coincidences and contradictions and flat-out impossibilities add up
to zero.  Nothing will change.  Not a goddam thing.  Nothing will ever
change."

"Rupe thought he could change things."

"Yuh.  And where's he now?"

"You don't have a very optimistic world view, do you, Gus?"

"I sure do."  He grinned.  "It's called the survivalist world view. And
I'll bet it'll be yours too when this is over."

Ventress took the armchair, assuring me he'd catnap through the night
and be roused by any suspicious noises.  "I sleep light, Lance, and
hear like an owl.  Which means you can sleep easy.  And hear nothing
till morning."

The doors were locked, the windows fastened and I was happy to take
Ventress's razor-sharp reactions on trust.  But still his restful
prognosis didn't quite do the trick.  The lumpiness of the Alders' sofa
wasn't really the problem (though in its own right it was a problem).
I was simply too anxious, my thoughts too crowded with wishes and
maybes, for a good night's sleep to be a realistic option.

I must have nodded off at some point, though, because I found myself
back in the Wheatsheaf, where only a dream could take me.  I was
standing at the bar, drinking in companionable silence while Les
polished the pumps and whistled "Oh What a Beautiful Morning' out of
tune, when a figure suddenly appeared next to me.  It was Rupe.  "I'm
looking for Lance Bradley," he said to Les.  "Have you seen him?" "No,"
Les replied.  "He never comes in any more."  "What are you talking
about?"  I said.  "I'm standing right here."  But neither of them heard
me.  Neither of them saw me.  To them, I didn't exist. "It's me," I
shouted.  "For God's sake '

"Nightmare?"  enquired Ventress from the other side of the darkened
room as I jolted awake.  "It sure sounded like one."

"Christ, yes.  Sorry.  Was I talking in my sleep?"

"Not to make any sense of."

"That's something, then.  What time is it?"

"Just gone five.  It'll start getting light in a couple of hours."

"What happens then?"

"We have breakfast, Lance."

As it turned out, we never did have breakfast.  I lapsed back into an
anxious doze, until Ventress woke me with the weight of his hand on my
shoulder.  Grey twilight was seeping through the curtains behind him,
but a tension in his stance immediately told me that he hadn't come
over to ask whether I wanted tea or coffee to start the day.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing major.  It's the loony brother.  He came down to the kitchen a
couple of minutes ago.  He hasn't gone back."

"Win told him to stay upstairs."

"Seems he's not so obedient as she thinks.  He's probably just raiding
the refrigerator.  Why don't you go check?  He's likely to take serious
fright if I creep up on him."

"OK."  I struggled up, put my shoes on and headed out into the hall.
The kitchen door was closed.  There was no light shining around it.  As
I approached, I heard a squeaking, rattling noise from the other side.
What the hell was Howard up to?  I grabbed the knob and pushed the door
open.

Just in time to see him scrambling out through the open lower half of
the window next to the range.  The back door was locked, the key lodged
in the sitting room.  But that obviously hadn't stopped him.  He was
leaving, bound for God knows where and God knows why.  "Howard," I
shouted.  "Wait."

He glanced back at me, but it was too dark to see the expression on his
face.  And wait he did not.  He crouched for a fraction of a second on
the sill, then jumped out onto the path skirting the house.

I ran to the window and leaned out.  "Howard?"  I called.  His shadowy
figure moved to my left.  As I twisted round it disappeared from view
beyond the corner of the house.  Guessing that he was heading for the
lane, I doubled back to the sitting room, reckoning it would be quicker
to get the key and open the front door than go through the window after
him.

Ventress had already made the same calculation.  He was unlocking the
front door as I entered the hall.  "We need to cut him off, Lance," he
said.  "Solitary dawn excursions aren't in the game plan."  He pulled
the door open.  "I'll cover you."

With the ambiguous implications of that last phrase swirling in my
thoughts, I rushed out onto the doorstep.  The rhododendrons rustled
ahead of me.  A block of shadows moved.  There he was, pushing
something towards the lane.  Then I heard the chain-wheel of a bicycle
revolving and realized what he was pushing.  "Stop, Howard.  I have to
talk to you."

Too late.  He was on the bike, pedalling hard, when I reached the lane.
I ran after him and started to gain, then the gearing kicked in and he
sped ahead, vanishing into the dark overhang of the trees further along
the lane.  I stopped, panting for breath, and noticed for the first
time how hard it was raining.  I was already drenched.  I listened for
a moment, but Howard was out of hearing as well as sight by now.  I
turned and hurried back to the house.

The front door opened as I approached.  Ventress stood back to let me
enter, then closed it behind me.  The landing light was on and by its
stark gleam I saw Win standing at the foot of the stairs.  "Did he take
his bike, Lancelot?"  she said at once.

"Yeh."

"He keeps it in the lean-to, next to the logs.  I ought to have brought
it indoors."

"Are you saying you anticipated this, ma'am?"  There was a hint of
irritation in Ventress's voice.

"No.  But perhaps I should have done.  I didn't tell him Rupert was
dead, but if he eavesdropped on us last night..  ."

"Where's he gone?"

"I can't tell.  He cycles all around when the mood takes him.  He has
his favourites, of course, but '

"What are his favourites, Win?"  I put in.

"Oh .. . well, there's .. . Ashcott Heath."

"Wilderness Farm way, you mean?"

Win's head drooped.  "Yes."

"We need to pick him up, Lance," said Ventress.  Take the car and bring
him back.  Any way you have to."

"I should go with you," said Win.  "He'll listen to me."

Ventress sighed.  "Of all the cockamamie .. ."

"We have time on our side, Gus," I reasoned.  "You said so yourself."

"All right.  Take her along.  But don't be all morning about it.  And
try not to attract any attention."

"It's pouring with rain and barely light.  There'll be nobody out to
pay us any attention."

"Let's hope you're right."  He took the car keys out of his pocket and
tossed them to me.  "Now, get moving."

Howard had ridden west along Hopper Lane, which was certainly
consistent with Wilderness Farm being his destination.  I was confident
we'd be able to overhaul him in the car before he even got as far as
the Bridgwater road, though Win clearly didn't share my confidence. "He
knows all sorts of short cuts and back tracks.  You won't be able to
drive the route he'll take."

It was pretty soon obvious that she was right.  There was no sign of
him along Brooks Road, or out on the A39, where early workday traffic
was steadily building.  If Howard had taken to field paths and secret
ways, all we could do was drive to Wilderness and wait for him to turn
up.

"They farm pigs there now," said Win as we pressed on through the rain
and slowly thinning murk.  "It's not a bit like it was."

"Why does Howard go there, then?"

"Changed or not, the past is all he has."

Some of the roadside fields were under water.  There were ponds forming
on others and the rhynes were brimming.  We headed north from Ashcott
along the Meare road, past sodden orchards and peat diggings and the
invisible way markers of Howard's childhood (and of Rupe's, and of
mine).  We crossed the South Drain and the abandoned route of the S and
D. To our right had once stood the platform where Howard took his
unsuspecting snapshot of Stephen Townley.  There was a sense in my mind
of that single, trivial event only now coming full circle, only now
revealing what its consequences were bound to be.

I pulled over at the end of the lane that led to Wilderness Farm.  The
farm buildings I recalled and the piggeries I didn't were visible
beyond the straggling hedge.  The rain sheeted down from a bruised,
sulking sky.  It was no morning to be out certainly not on a bike.

"How much does Howard understand, Win?"  I asked.  "I mean, is it that
he simply can't communicate?  Or is there nothing to communicate in the
first place?  I never was sure about that."

"Howard can't take in new events or remember new people.  But his
memories before the accident are clear.  So, he knows you as Rupert's
friend.  And he knows this as the place where Peter Dalton died."

"Does that mean he'd recognize Stephen Townley?"

"He'd know who Townley was.  Whether he'd recognize him I can't say.
How much has Townley changed?"

"As much as people do, in thirty-seven years."

"It's doubtful, then.  But if Howard heard us talking about Townley ..
."

"He'd have known who we were referring to?"

Win nodded.  "Oh yes.  I think so."

Twenty minutes slowly passed.  The sky grudgingly lightened.  But the
rain didn't.  And there was still no sign of Howard.

I was about to peer for the umpteenth time into the rainswept distance,
when Win suddenly grasped my arm.  "Something's happened," she said.

I turned to look at her.  "What do you mean?"

"Something's happened to Howard.  I can feel it."

"Feel it?  Like you did with Rupe?"

She nodded.  "Yes."

"Well, where?  Where has it happened?"

"I don't know.  I only know it has."

"Where else could he have gone?"

"I don't know."  She thought for a moment.  "I'm sure it would be
somewhere connected with what's happened."

"And where might that be?"

"Well, if he was listening to us, he'll have heard us speak of Peter
and Mil .. . and Mother .. . and Father."  Win's eyes widened with
alarm.  "He might have gone to Cow Bridge.  Where he found Father."

I started the car.

"That was a November day too."

I drove north to Meare, then south-east along the B road to
Glastonbury.  The traffic was heavier now and in Glastonbury the local
version of the rush hour was in progress.  The bypass looked to be
pretty snarled, so I dodged through the side-streets and took the back
way round the Abbey to the Butleigh road.

It was less than half a mile from the edge of town to Cow Bridge.  I
could see its humped span ahead as I accelerated along the straight,
flat road.  Then Win gasped.  There's his bike."  She pointed, and I
saw it too, propped against the right-hand parapet.  It was a bike,
certainly, and I was ready to back Win's judgement as to whose it
was.

I pulled over just short of the bridge and started to get out, only to
recoil smartly as a lorry sped by.  Win had already jumped out on her
side.  I watched as she dodged between the traffic in her haste to
reach the bike.

By the time I caught up with her, she was leaning on the parapet
scanning the brown, swollen course of the Brue as it swept westwards
towards Clyce Hole and Pomparles Bridge, where the A39 crossed the
river.

"He's gone," she said, without looking round at me.

"What?"

"The river's taken him.  As it took Father."

"You can't know that."  Couldn't she?  Win knew Howard better than I
did.  And if she was right there'd be nothing to see of him.  The Brue,
normally so placid, was a surging torrent.  "He's probably just gone
for a walk."

"No.  I sensed the same with Rupert.  It was true then and it's true
now.  Howard's lost to us."

"We can drive round to Pomparles and see if he's walking that way."  It
didn't sound convincing even to me.  There was more water than grass
visible on the riverside fields.  He'd be wading, not walking.  Unless,
of course, he'd already drowned.  From where he'd left the bike,
directly above the middle of the stream, it would have been a short
jump into a long hereafter for any but the strongest of swimmers.  And
as far as I knew Howard couldn't swim at all.  "Win '

"I must go back to Penfrith and tell Mil."  She turned away from the
river and I saw the frozen certainty on her face.  "There's just the
two of us left now."

There was no reasoning with Win in her present mood.  She was convinced
beyond the reach of argument that her brother was dead.  We went back
to the car and drove towards Street.  What would happen when we reached
Penfrith I couldn't summon the strength of mind to imagine.  We could
hardly continue to lie low in such circumstances.  But what else were
we to do?  Ventress's trap would be sprung before it was properly set
if we contacted the police.  And the police were the last people I
wanted to see.  Yet I couldn't just abandon Howard to whatever fate
watery or otherwise had overtaken him.  I had to do something.

What that something should be only came to me when we drove back into
Street past Crispin School (where Rupe and I had spent a sizeable chunk
of our teens together) and headed down the Somerton road.  "Why are you
stopping?"  challenged Win as I pulled into the lay-by next to the
call-box a few hundred yards further on.  I didn't bother to answer.

I dialled 999 and asked for the police.  "I think a man may have fallen
into the Brue near Cow Bridge, on the Butleigh road south of
Glastonbury.  The river's in spate and '

"We know the state of the river, sir."

"Right.  Well, you need to search the banks west of the bridge in case
'

"Could I have your name, sir?"

"My name doesn't matter.  This man could be drowning."

"Did you actually see him fall in, sir?"

Mil and me.  Isn't that great?  Isn't that wonderful?  Doesn't that
just make your heart sing?"

Win stared at me with a mixture of horror and distaste.  Since I'd not
previously specified the secret of secrets Townley was trying to keep
the lid on, this was, I suppose, the moment when she finally understood
the enormity of that little lie she and Mil had decided to tell, back
in the summer of 1963, before Rupe and I had even been born.  But she
said nothing.  Not a word.  Perhaps, after all, there was nothing left
for her to say.

I started the car and pulled out into the traffic.

Quite what I was going to say to Ventress quite what I was going to
suggest we do about Howard's disappearance I still had no idea when I
parked the car in Hopper Lane, on the same patch of verge I'd driven it
away from an hour or so earlier.  The rain was still sheeting down, but
neither Win nor I hurried as we made our way along to Penfrith, despite
the urgency we ought to have been gripped by.  For me, the fear and the
wondering were all gone.  In their place a fatalistic lethargy had
settled on my thoughts.  I was only moving in the direction I was
because, so far, nothing had stopped me.  As for Win, I couldn't even
summon the curiosity to consider what she was thinking.

I opened the front door and she followed me in.  I'd vaguely expected
Ventress to be waiting for us in the hall, but he wasn't there.  Nor
was Mil.  "Gus?"  I called.  There was no answer.  "Mil?"  Still none.
I walked along to the kitchen and pushed the door open.

And there was Ventress, spreadeagled on the floor, with a slack look of
surprise on his face and a neat, round bullet-hole in the dead centre
of his forehead.  There was blood on the flagged floor beneath his head
and a pool of what looked like black coffee, spilt from a smashed cup
that lay next to his left hand, his index finger still crooked in the
handle.  There was no sign of his gun.  Then I noticed the cracks
radiating from a hole in one of the panes of the window next to the
range, at about his standing height.  The unhelpful thought came into
my mind that he might as well have had a nip of Johnnie Walker in his
cocoa after all.

Win was at my shoulder, staring like me at Ventress's corpse.  "Where's
Mil?"  she murmured, close to my ear.

"Upstairs."

The voice had come from behind us.  We turned to see Stephen Townley
standing in the hall, halfway between us and the front door, with the
door to the sitting room open to his right.  He was wearing jeans and a
brown leather jacket.  The jacket was still beaded with rainwater.
There were a couple of drops on the barrel of the gun he was pointing
at us as well.  His blue eyes sparkled.  He looked younger than when
I'd met him in London sleek and fulfilled.  He was back in harness. And
he was enjoying the sensation.

"I wondered when you'd get back.  I'm glad I didn't have to wait too
long."

"What have you done to my sister?"  said Win, strangely un cowed by the
experience of having a gun trained on her.

"You can go up and see her, Miss Alder.  I don't mind.  Lance and I
have a couple of things to discuss.  But they needn't concern you.  Go
ahead."  He stepped to one side.

With a fleeting glance in my direction, Win moved forward and past him,
then started slowly up the stairs.

"Back up, Lance," said Townley, nodding for me to retreat into the
kitchen.  "Be careful you don't trip."  I took six paces back until I
felt the range-rail behind me.  "Good enough."  He moved into the
doorway.

"We have nothing to discuss," I said, surprised by how calm I felt now
there really was nowhere else to run to.  "Why don't you just get on
with it?"

"There's a case for that.  But I'm ahead of schedule.  Ahead of
Ventress's schedule, for sure.  He obviously wasn't expecting me so
soon.  As for Howard, well, who knows what he was expecting?"

"What do you know about Howard?"

"He made it easy for me, taking an early-morning stroll by a swollen
river.  Just one push was all it needed."  (Win's feelings had been
right, then, but her conclusion wrong.  Howard hadn't gone quite like
his father.) "Now, while Win says a few prayers over her departed
sister pending their early reunion I want to know, Lance: what was this
about?  Why did Rupe come gunning for me?"

"It was a mistake."

"A mistake?"

"Yen.  He thought you'd killed his father."

"I never even knew his father."

"Like I say: a mistake."

"A pretty goddam far-reaching one."

"You said it.  But talking of far-reaching, why don't you tell me what
was behind the thing in Dallas you helped to pull off?  I mean, people
always say they remember where they were and what they were doing when
Kennedy was shot.  Personally, I was busy getting born, just down the
road from here.  But what about you?  What were you up to?"

"As long as you don't know, I still have the luxury of letting you
live.  And maybe I'll do that if you co-operate.  Where's the
photograph?"

"Photograph?"

"You know the one.  Rupe's snapshot of the picture Mayumi took of
Miller Loudon and me at the Golden Rickshaw in the spring of
'fifty-eight."

"Of you and Miller Loudon and Lee Harvey Oswald, you mean?"

"Where is it, Lance?"  (In my bag was the simple answer, but laying
hands on that amidst the dusty gallimaufry of the Alders' possessions
had presumably given Townley a few problems.) "It's a loose end I
really do need to tie up."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"I'll find it anyway."

"And you'll kill me anyway too, won't you?  So, why should I do you any
favours?"

"Because there's a difference between dying and dying slow."  The
barrel of the gun dropped fractionally as he fired.  There was a flash
of heat and pain in my left knee.  Then I was on the cold, flagged
floor, my head resting against one of Ventress's outstretched legs.  A
jolt of something way beyond the dictionary definition of agony hit my
brain.  I grabbed at my knee and felt a hot, liquid mess of smashed
bone and torn flesh that I could hardly believe was part of me. Townley
loomed into view.  "Tell me where the photograph is and I'll make it
quick, Lance.  That's a solemn promise."

I wanted to tell him then.  I really did.  But something stopped me
some low, lurking perversity that wouldn't let me give him everything
he wanted.  If he left without the photograph, maybe somebody would be
able to use it to make a case against him.  (A frail hope, I admitted
to myself, riding on a big if.) "A solemn promise, from you?"  I
gasped.  "Is that meant to be a ... joke?"

There are more painful parts of the body than the knee, Lance.  Do you
want me to move on to one of them?"

"How long ... do I get to think about it?"

"Have it your way."  He aimed the gun.  I closed my eyes.  There was an
echoing roar of noise.  But the extra pain never came.  I opened my
eyes.

To see Townley's toppling figure hit the range and slide down to rest
against its base.  The right rear side of his head was missing, as if
some creature about the size of a Siberian tiger had bitten a chunk out
of it hair, skull and half a brain missing.  There was a spray of blood
on the wall behind where he'd been standing.  And something wet that
could also have been his blood on my face.

I looked across to the doorway and saw Win standing there, slowly
lowering a rifle, the barrel smoking faintly.  The weapon must
originally have belonged to her father.  I'd once seen her shooting
rabbits with it.  The memory only returned to me as I lay there,
staring woozily up at her.  Rupe and I had watched her from the top of
Ivythorn Hill, bagging bunnies for the pot in a field below Teazle
Wood.  When would that have been?  1974 or '75.  Some time around
then.

"She's a good shot, your sister, isn't she?"  I'd said.

"You bet," Rupe had replied, smiling.  "Never misses."

POSTSCRIPT

And that's how it was.  That's exactly how it was.  But it's not
exactly how I've been telling it over the months since.  I've needed to
talk my way out of trouble, not deeper into it.  And the truth wouldn't
have helped.  Not the whole truth, anyway.  My solicitor (having a
solicitor being one of many new experiences the past year has brought
me) seems to think I'll soon be off the hook.  But maybe he wouldn't
think that if he knew what really happened.  Just as well he doesn't,
then.  Just as well no one does.  Except Win (who isn't talking to
anyone) and Echo (who isn't sure she believes it).  Plus me, of course.
The poor guy it all happened to.  Yours truly (for once).

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I have been given a great deal of help in the writing of this story
generously and cheerfully, by old friends and new acquaintances.  Ann
Symons shared with me her memories of growing up in Street, Hugh Loftin
provided invaluable insights into the shipping business and Toru Sasaki
smoothed the path of my researches in his enchanting homeland.  I am
also indebted, in many different ways, to David Cross of Tilbury
Container Services Ltd; Koichi Hirose of NYK; Assistant Inspector
Shoichiro Harada of the Kyoto Police; Dr.  Boyd Stephens, Coroner of
San Francisco; Senator John Vasconcellos and his assistant, Sue North;
Jack Roberts; and Miyoko Kai.  Thank you all.

LIBRARY EDITION

THE NOVELS OF ROBERT GOD DARD

Past Caring (1986}

In Pale Battalions (1988)

Painting the Darkness (1989)

Into the Blue (1990)

(Winner of the first WH Smith Thumping Good Read Award and dramatized
for TV in 1997, starring John Thaw)

Take No Farewell (1991)

Hand in Glove (1992}

Closed Circle (1993)

Borrowed Time (1995)

Out of' the Sun (1996) (a sequel to Into the Blue)

Beyond Recall (1997}

Caught in the Light (1998)

Set in Stone (1999}

Sea Change (2000)