Flyaway. Desmond Bagley
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‘You’ve certainly been more thorough in your inquiries than the police. Do you think you can find Paul?’
That put me in a moral dilemma. As far as Franklin Engineering was concerned the case was finished; Billson hadn’t embezzled the petty cash nor had he breached security as far as I knew and I couldn’t load further investigation costs on to the Franklin account. Nor could I load the costs on to Stafford Security Consultants Ltd—that wouldn’t be fair to Charlie Malleson or Brinton who weren’t in business for charity.
Neither was I. As far as I was concerned, Paul Billson was an unbalanced man whom I had discovered to be of an unscrupulous disposition and, as far as I could see, Alix Aarvik was better off without him. I decided to give what I had to the police and call it a day.
I said diplomatically, ‘Your information will make it more likely.’
‘If I give you a Canadian address will you write to me?’ she asked. ‘I’ve been wondering whether I should go at all while Paul is still missing.’
It struck me that Canada was the best place for her—somewhere away from the leeching of her brother. ‘There’s nothing you can do if you stay here,’ I said. ‘I’ll certainly write to you.’
She scribbled an address on a stenographic note-pad. ‘I don’t have a home address yet, but that’s the firm I’ll be working for.’
I glanced at the sheet. Apparently she’d be with the Kisko Nickel Corporation of Vancouver; I’d never heard of it. I folded the paper and dutifully put it into my wallet as she escorted me to the door. Already the street lights were on as darkness descended. I thought of the quiet fortitude with which Alix Aarvik faced a not too happy life. She had not paraded her troubles before me; indeed, it had taken quite a bit of my not inconsiderable skill to extract many of the details from her. I hoped she’d be happy in Canada; she was good value.
I deliberated about the best way to go to find a taxi and turned in the direction of Kensington High Street. As I walked a man got out of a car parked by the kerb just ahead. He waited until I came abreast of him, then said, ‘Your name Stafford?’ He had a rough Cockney voice.
A door slammed on the other side of the car as someone else got out. ‘Yes, I’m Stafford.’
‘Got a message for yer, mate. Keep yer bleedin’ nose outter fings wot don’t concern yer. This’ll ‘elp yer remember.’
He suddenly drove his fist into my midriff, just below the sternum, and I gasped and doubled up, fighting for breath. I didn’t have much of a chance after that. There were three of them and when I went down they got to work with their boots. It wasn’t long before I passed out—but long enough to feel the pain.
A lot of people came to see me in hospital, some of whom surprised me by their appearance. The police came, of course, but they were followed by a man from the Special Branch checking on Billson because of the defence work done at Franklin Engineering. My wife didn’t show up but she took the trouble to spend two minutes on the telephone ordering flowers to be sent to the hospital, which surprised me mildly.
Lord Brinton came, his hands behind his back. ‘Don’t want to drink this London water,’ he said, and put a bottle of Malvern water on the bedside table. ‘Spoils the taste of the scotch.’ A bottle of Talisker joined the Malvern water.
I smiled—a painful process at the time. ‘My doctor might not approve.’
‘Better than bringing bloody grapes.’ He pulled up a chair and sat warming his ancient and expensive bones at the wall radiator. ‘Not as good as a real fire,’ he grumbled.
‘Hospitals don’t like open fires.’
‘Well,’ he said. ‘What the hell happened, Max?’
‘I was beaten up,’ I said patiently.
‘So I see,’ he said with a straight face. ‘Why?’
‘I don’t know. It seems I was “poking my nose into fings wot don’t concern me”, to quote the spokesman of the assault committee. He neglected to be more specific.’
‘Mistaken identity?’
I began to shake my head and hastily decided against it for fear it should fall off. ‘He made sure he knew who I was first.’
‘What were you doing in Kensington?’
‘Following up on a case.’ I told him about Billson and what I had done. ‘Miss Aarvik will be in Canada now,’ I said.
‘Good country,’ observed Brinton. ‘I was born there.’ He said it as though the act of his being born there had conferred a distinction on Canada. ‘I don’t see how all this relates to your being beaten up.’
‘Neither do I. Neither do the police or the Special Branch.’
His eyes sharpened. ‘What’s their interest?’
‘Franklin Engineering makes bits and pieces of tanks.’
‘And they’re following up on Billson?’
‘So it seems—but they’re not pushing too hard. For all anyone can find out he hasn’t committed a crime—yet.’
‘You think he might?’
‘Who knows what a man like Billson might or might not do. He’s lived like a vegetable for fifteen years at least, and now he’s gone charging off God knows where. He could be up to anything.’
‘Well, you’re out of it,’ said Brinton. ‘By the time you get out of here Andrew McGovern will have taken over responsibility for the security of Franklin Engineering.’
‘How big a piece of the Whensley Group have you got?’ I asked.
‘About thirty per cent. Why?’
‘Then you’ll be a big enough shareholder to ask why Billson was paid three times as much as he’s worth and why there’s a mystery made of it.’
‘I’ll look into it,’ said Brinton. ‘Can’t have the shareholders diddled like that. All right, if you weren’t beaten up because of Billson, what else have you been doing recently to get you into trouble?’
‘My life has been blameless.’
Brinton grunted in his throat. ‘Don’t try to con an old sinner. Nobody’s life is blameless. You’re sure you haven’t been sleeping in any of the wrong beds?’ I just looked at him and he said, ‘Not that I’d blame you under the circumstances.’
Soon after that he went away.
Charlie Malleson came to see me. He inspected my assortment of bruises, and said, ‘Better not go out into the streets just yet. Someone from the Race Relations Board might get you for trying to cross the colour line.’
I sighed. ‘You can do better than that, Charlie. If you have to make jokes they’d better be good. How’s business?’
‘We’re coping. How long do you think you’ll be laid up?’
‘Nobody tells me anything—you know what hospitals are like. From the way I feel now it’ll be about six months, but I’ll probably be back in a couple of weeks.’
‘Take your time,’ Charlie advised. ‘Jack Ellis is trying on your shoes to see if they fit.’
‘Good—but that will teach me to prophesy.’ Charlie raised an eyebrow and I explained. ‘I told Joyce that Jack was to take some of my work load. When she queried it I said that if I got knocked down in the street he’d have to take the lot. But this wasn’t the sort of knocking down I had in mind.’ I thought about Jack Ellis, then said, ‘It’s about time we made him a director, anyway. He’s become very good and we