Flyaway / Windfall. Desmond Bagley
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off the rails for any reason, what would he be likely to do?’
‘I can’t think of anything. Unless …’ She shook her head. ‘No, that’s silly.’
‘It may not be,’ I said encouragingly.
‘Well, when he was a boy he used to dream of clearing his father’s name by finding the aeroplane; actually going out to Africa and looking for it. It was never found, you know. Not a very practicable dream, I’m afraid; but Paul was never a practicable man.’
I thought about it. Somewhere south of the Mediterranean and north of the Congo. The Sahara. Not at all practicable.
‘Of course, he gave up the idea long ago,’ she said. ‘Even Paul realized it was futile. It would need a lot of money, you see, and he never had the money.’
To tell her that her brother had his pockets stuffed with boodle would have been needlessly cruel. But now I had a lead, for what it was worth. ‘1936 is a long time ago,’ I said. ‘I doubt if there’d be anything to find now. What did your parents think of Paul’s obsession?’
‘My mother always said he’d grow out of it, but he never did. She lived with me and didn’t see very much of him. She didn’t like him talking so much about his father; she thought it was unhealthy. I suppose it was. He never knew his father, you see.’
‘And your father – what did he think?’
She gave a wry smile. ‘You must think we’re an odd family. I never knew my father, either. He died before I was born. My mother married him during the war and he was killed in action. He was Norwegian, you know.’
‘Your mother had a tough life,’ I said. Two husbands killed leaving small children to bring up wasn’t my idea of a bed of roses.
‘Oh, she was always cheerful – right up to the end.’
‘One thing puzzles me,’ I said. ‘Your mother was awarded £100,000 by the court. What happened to it? There must have been something left to keep her more comfortable in her old age.’
‘I don’t know,’ said Miss Aarvik sombrely. ‘I’ve wondered about that myself, but Mother never talked about it. You must realize that I only knew about it years afterwards when I was about thirteen. It didn’t mean much then; children don’t think of things that happened before they were born – the present is much more exciting.’
‘But later – didn’t you ask her?’
‘I tried, but she would never talk about it.’ She looked at me squarely. ‘I think I take after my father, Torstein Aarvik; I never knew him, of course, so I can’t be certain. But Paul took after Mother; they’re alike in so many ways. She could be very silly and thoughtless at times. Not wilfully, you understand; but she did things without thinking too far ahead. Perhaps something happened that she was ashamed to talk about. She wasn’t very bright, but I loved her very much.’
So Paul was the not too bright son of a not too bright mother. That didn’t get me far. I stood up. ‘Well, thank you, Miss Aarvik, for all the information. You’ve been very frank.’
She rose with me. ‘I must thank you for your interest, Mr Stafford.’ She smiled wanly. ‘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