Copyright & Information

Anything for a Quiet Life

First published in 1990

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

The right of Michael Gilbert to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted.

This edition published in 2012 by House of Stratus, an imprint of

Stratus Books Ltd., Lisandra House, Fore Street, Looe,

Cornwall, PL13 1AD, UK.

Typeset by House of Stratus.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library and the Library of Congress.

EAN	ISBN	Edition
0755105362	9780755105366	Print
0755131754	9780755131754	Kindle
0755132122	9780755132126	Epub

This is a fictional work and all characters are drawn from the author’s imagination.

Any resemblance or similarities to persons either living or dead are entirely coincidental.

www.houseofstratus.com

About the Author

Born in Lincolnshire, England, Michael Francis Gilbert graduated in law from the University of London in 1937, shortly after which he first spent some time teaching at a prep-school which was followed by six years serving with the Royal Horse Artillery. During World War II he was captured following service in North Africa and Italy, and his prisoner-of-war experiences later leading to the writing of the acclaimed novel ‘Death in Captivity’ in 1952.

After the war, Gilbert worked as a solicitor in London, but his writing continued throughout his legal career and in addition to novels he wrote stage plays and scripts for radio and television. He is, however, best remembered for his novels, which have been described as witty and meticulously-plotted espionage and police procedural thrillers, but which exemplify realism.

HRF Keating stated that ‘Smallbone Deceased’ was amongst the 100 best crime and mystery books ever published. "The plot," wrote Keating, "is in every way as good as those of Agatha Christie at her best: as neatly dovetailed, as inherently complex yet retaining a decent credibility, and as full of cunningly-suggested red herrings." It featured Chief Inspector Hazlerigg, who went on to appear in later novels and short stories, and another series was built around Patrick Petrella, a London based police constable (later promoted) who was fluent in four languages and had a love for both poetry and fine wine. Other memorable characters around which Gilbert built stories included Calder and Behrens. They are elderly but quite amiable agents, who are nonetheless ruthless and prepared to take on tasks too much at the dirty end of the business for their younger colleagues. They are brought out of retirement periodically upon receiving a bank statement containing a code.

Much of Michael Gilbert’s writing was done on the train as he travelled from home to his office in London: "I always take a latish train to work," he explained in 1980, "and, of course, I go first class. I have no trouble in writing because I prepare a thorough synopsis beforehand.". After retirement from the law, however, he nevertheless continued and also reviewed for ‘The Daily Telegraph’, as well as editing ‘The Oxford Book of Legal Anecdotes’.

Gilbert was appointed CBE in 1980. Generally regarded as ‘one of the elder statesmen of the British crime writing fraternity, he was a founder-member of the British Crime Writers’ Association and in 1988 he was named a Grand Master by the Mystery Writers of America, before receiving the Lifetime ‘Anthony’ Achievement award at the 1990 Boucheron in London.

Michael Gilbert died in 2006, aged ninety three, and was survived by his wife and their two sons and five daughters.

Anything for a Quiet Life

The four-door family saloon slowed as it reached the crest of the downs. Jonas Pickett pulled it into a lay-by and got out. Claire climbed out too, and they stood for a moment looking down at the township of Shackleton-on-Sea.

“You can see all the town from here,” said Jonas. “The new housing estate, and what they call the industrial zone – though there doesn’t seem to be a lot of industry in it yet – they’re both a bit farther back. We’ll see them when we get round the next corner.”

“It’s rather snug,” said Claire. “Squeezed in between those two arms of the cliff. Like a cuckoo in a nest that’s too small for it. It looks as though a really fierce storm would bring the sea rolling in and wash it all away.”

“About six hundred years ago it did just that. The old town’s under the sea. They’ll tell you they sometimes hear the church bell ringing down under the waves. It’s a sign that something terrible’s going to happen.”

“It’s a lovely little town,” said Claire. “I don’t believe that anything terrible ever happens in it.”

“I hope not,” said Jonas. “I’ve come here for peace and quiet, not excitement.”

“In that case,” said Claire, evidently not for the first time, “I can’t see why you didn’t simply retire here. What was the point of opening an office?”

They got back into the car and drove on down the twisting road, between hedges of dusty thorn and elderberry. A final turn took them out, past the church, through a maze of tiny streets, and on to the Esplanade, where the sea sparkled in the June sunlight.

Shackleton was not a fashionable resort, like its neighbours Brighton and Hove, but it was clearly quite a prosperous place. A marketing centre, Jonas guessed, for the agricultural hinterland. A lot of small hotels and decent-looking boarding houses. A bit of light industry in the background. There would be two different populations: the visitors who crowded the beaches and the pier in the summer months; and the local residents who lived on the money they brought, and resented the noise they made.

At the far end of the Esplanade, where the Shackle stream runs out to sea, Jonas turned back again into the town. The High Street was full of cars and shoppers and dogs, and he saw that stalls were already being set up in the central square for the next day’s market. A turn to the left took them into a quieter street, parallel with the High Street. It was a mixture of shops and houses. One house, rather bigger than the others, was set back behind a small paved courtyard, with an alley running down beside it. It was a Georgian building with bow windows, three white steps up to the front door and a dolphin bell pull.

“Don’t tell me,” said Claire. “I guess it was the old doctor’s house. It’s got that unmistakable look.”

“You’re quite right,” said Jonas, “and now it’s the new lawyer’s house. Sam has got the plate up already, I see.”

“I’ve got the top two floors. Sam’s got the basement. The office is the bit in between.”

“A bachelor establishment,” said Claire thoughtfully. “What about Sabrina and me?”

During the first month there were no clients but a lot of callers. Men who came to put the finishing touches to Jonas’s flat and men with filing cabinets and desks to complete the fitting out of the office. One whole morning was occupied with the installation of an impressive safe. Travellers called hoping to sell them office accessories. They were mostly sent away empty-handed by Sam Conybeare. They did not stop to argue. Sam was a mountain of a man who had once performed remarkable feats of strength and daring in a circus. Jonas had rescued him from his wife, who was nagging him to death, and he had devoted himself to Jonas’s welfare ever since.

People dropped in to pass the time of day. Thirty years of legal practice in the south of England had given Jonas a wide circle of acquaintances. Among the first to arrive was Major Appleby, the headmaster of St Oswald’s, one of the three preparatory schools in the neighbourhood. He told Jonas, “There used to be eight when I started up here after the war. Times are getting harder every day. If I have to shut up shop you shall handle the sale.” Jonas thanked him and said he hoped it wouldn’t happen.

Their first professional visitor was not a client. He arrived on a Friday morning in the middle of July. He introduced himself to Claire, who examined his card which identified him as Christopher Clover, of Smardon and Clover, solicitors, whilst he examined Claire with approval. She was worth looking at.

“Just a friendly visit. One professional man to another. If he’s busy I could come back.”

“I’ll find out,” said Claire, in the cool voice which matched her appearance.

Jonas said, “Of course. Show him in. Ask him if he’d like a cup of coffee.”

Mr Clover said he would just love a cup of coffee, and what a lovely old house it was, wasn’t it?

Jonas had brought down some of the furniture from his office in London. There were chairs upholstered in red leather. There was a huge roll-top desk occupying the space in front of the bow window. On the walls there were portraits, in oil, of severe-looking legal gentlemen. The general effect was undeniably impressive. It certainly impressed young Mr Clover.

He looked at the pile of dockets and papers on the desk and said, “Well, you seem to be busy. Perhaps I oughtn’t to be interrupting you.”

“Don’t be misled,” said Jonas. “These are hangovers from my previous practice up in London. The young gentlemen I bequeathed it to find there are some matters that they still need help with. I see from your card you’re in practice here yourself. That’s good. You can give me your professional view of Shackleton.”

“Well,” said Mr Clover, “it’s a nice place. Splendid climate, and friendly people. But legally, I should say it’s pretty tightly tied up.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” said Jonas. “I didn’t come here to work myself to death.”

Mr Clover looked at him doubtfully. He said, “Well, we’ve been here for two years, and I don’t mind telling you it was hard grafting at first.”

“Well, Porter and Merriman look after the nobs. I mean, people like Sir James Carway and Admiral Fairlie and old Mrs Summers. R. and L. Sykes handle most of the litigation. That’s the local bench and the County Court at Brighton. Bledisloes do the commercial and company work, such as it is.”

“I don’t suppose that I shall cross swords with any of them,” said Jonas. “My specialities are Bills of Exchange, Copyright and Patents. And Church property. Particularly Welsh Church property. A curiously complicated field since Disestablishment.” Thinking that he detected a look of relief in young Mr Clover’s eye, he added maliciously, “Of course, nowadays one must be prepared to tackle anything. My partner, Mrs Mountjoy, seems to revel in the run-of-the-mill stuff.”

After Christopher Clover had left, Claire put her head round the door and said, “I may have got a client for you.”

“He’s a young man – not all that young really – youngish. I met him at the tennis club. When I first joined he was new too, so we arranged a few singles.”

Claire looked at him suspiciously, then she said, “He’s not the sort of man who talks a lot, but I gathered that he’s down here for the summer, living in a caravan. He was in that big caravan park beyond the golf course, out on the Portsmouth Road. But he had to get out two or three days ago. There was some trouble.”

“The person who told me about it didn’t really know. But the police turned up, and there was a bit of an argument. When I next saw him at the club I said if he needed a lawyer he’d better come and see you.”

“I think,” said Claire, who was looking out of the window, “that that’s him coming now.”

He wrote on the pad in front of him, ‘Rowe’, ‘caravan’ and ‘Trouble?’.

At the moment when Claire opened the front door and ushered Mr Rowe into the reception room, the door on the far side opened also, and Mrs Mountjoy came out, followed by her bad-tempered rough-haired Scots terrier, Bruce. ‘Like owner, like dog,’ Jonas used to say, which was unfair to Sabrina. True, she favoured an untidy hairstyle, but she was more abrupt than bad-tempered.

Bruce growled at the newcomer, and then made a dart for his ankles. Instead of retreating, Mr Rowe bent down and scooped Bruce up with a firm hand under each of his forelegs. Bruce looked disapproving. This was not the reaction he had expected. Mr Rowe held him for a moment, moving the fingers of his left hand. Then he said, “Yes. I thought I noticed a slight stiffness. There’s a lump under his right foreleg.”

“Not serious. Not yet, anyway. But you ought to have it cut out. A vet would do it with a local anaesthetic.”

He put down Bruce, who scuttled back behind Mrs Mountjoy and glared at the newcomer through the tangles of his hair. Claire said, “Better come in, Dick, before he changes his mind.” She ushered Mr Rowe into Jonas’s room, and closed the door behind him.

The description which occurred to Jonas when he saw Rowe was ‘average’. He was of average height, of average build, and had a very average face. He saw what Claire had meant when she had first said ‘young’ and then corrected it to ‘youngish’. Rowe certainly gave a general impression of youth, but where a young man’s face is open, and lit with the joyful expectation of what life has to offer, this face was closed. It was more than closed. It was sealed.

“Sit down, please,” said Jonas. “My secretary tells me that you had some problem.”

“Problem?” said Rowe. He sounded surprised. “Not that I’m aware of. I just wanted to make a will.”

“That shouldn’t be too difficult.” Jonas ran over in his mind the details he needed. “First I’d better have your full names.”

“Since my movements are uncertain, it had better be my London bank. The London and Home Counties Bank.”

“If you had wanted to bequeath your estate to me,” said Jonas with a smile, “there would have been considerable difficulty. Solicitors aren’t supposed to draw up wills in favour of themselves. But members of their staff? I suppose there’s no objection.”

Jonas still hesitated. Then he said, “You mustn’t think me impertinent, but I gather that you have only known Miss Easterbrook for a month. Are there not other people, members of your own family . . .?”

“None at all. I am unmarried. My father and mother are dead. They were only-children. I have no brothers or sisters. I understood that if I died without a will my property would go to the state. That seemed to me to be one good reason” – a very slight smile twitched the corner of his mouth – “for making a will.”

The accent was puzzling. There was the faint suspicion of a brogue, allied to a broadening of the vowels which Jonas associated with educated Americans. He said, “You must excuse me for having been startled by your proposal. In the way you put it, it seems quite logical. Might I ask if Miss Easterbrook is aware of your intentions?”

“No. And I see no reason to inform her. Unless” – again that very slight smile – “my will should become effective. If that happens, of course, she’ll have to know.”

“Then it will take a little longer, because I shall have to type it myself. When it’s ready, where shall I get in touch with you?”

There was a slight pause before Rowe said, “As I mentioned just now, my future movements are a bit uncertain. Could I call on you to sign the will in three days’ time? Say Thursday morning, about midday?”

“That should be sufficient time even for an inexpert typist like myself,” said Jonas.

Later that day he discussed their client with his partner Sabrina Mountjoy, from whom he had no secrets.

“He’s certainly got his wits about him,” she said. “I mean, noticing that Bruce was limping, and diagnosing what was wrong with him. I saw the vet at lunchtime, and he’s going to operate this evening.”

“He struck me as a remarkable man altogether,” said Jonas. “A man with no family, no face, and a curious reluctance to disclose his present address. Although, as it happens, I think I know it.”

“When old Major Appleby, of St Oswald’s, came to see me last Thursday, he mentioned that a stranger had called on him and asked permission to park his caravan for a few weeks in the spinney at the far end of their football field. From his description I think it was Rowe. He liked him and was prepared to say ‘yes’ but was worried about local authority repercussions.”

As Mrs Mountjoy was going she said, “I’ve just realised it. Of course, your new client doesn’t exist.”

On Tuesday night Jonas slept badly. This was something that happened about once a month. Jonas thought that it might be something to do with the weather. The first heavy storm since their arrival had swept up the Channel that afternoon, and it had been raining on and off ever since. After a few hours of dozing he was jerked back to wakefulness by the feeling that something was wrong.

The rain had stopped, the clouds had blown off, the stars were showing, and the night was very still. What he had heard had been a sharp crack, and it had come from somewhere below him. He looked at his watch. Half past two. He got up and sat for a moment on the edge of his bed, thinking. Then he pulled on a sweater, pushed his feet into a pair of old slippers and started downstairs.

His living quarters were on two floors, bedroom and bathroom above, dining room, kitchen and living room below. He went into the dining room, which was immediately above his own office. There was no repetition of the crack which had woken him, but he could hear a succession of much smaller noises which suggested that someone was moving about. He hesitated no longer. He had no great opinion of burglars – mostly they were cowardly people whose one idea, if disturbed, was to get away. There was a poker in the fireplace. Jonas picked it up and made his way down to the hall.

Definitely there was someone in his office. Now he could hear a desk drawer being opened and shut. The crack which had woken him must have been made when the intruder forced the front of the desk. He threw open the office door, and clicked down the switch.

No result. Bulb taken out? In the half-light through the bow window he could make out the figure of a man, who was behind the desk and had been using a torch, which was switched off as Jonas appeared. For a moment nothing happened. Then, to his relief, he heard steps coming up from the basement. Sam was joining the action.

The man was out from behind the desk by now. He advanced towards Jonas steadily and without speaking. As Jonas swung the poker, something hit him with a horrid force in the muscle of his right arm. He dropped the poker. A knee drove into the bottom of his stomach. As he went down, crowing for breath, the door at the back of the room opened and Sam appeared, outlined against the light from the passage behind. The intruder hurdled Jonas, reached the hall door three steps ahead of Sam, jerked it open and made for the front gate, where a car stood, parked without lights. At the gate he paused for a moment.

Jonas, who had crawled as far as the open front door, croaked out a warning. Whether Sam heard it, or would have heeded it if he had heard it, is an open question. In fact, at that moment he slipped on the wet flagstones and went down.

There was a soft but unpleasant sound as the gun went off. The bullet went over Sam, who was on his back, through the open door, over Jonas who was on his knees, and smacked into the barometer which hung at the end of the hall.

The next moment the intruder was in the car, which was already moving. By the time Sam had got to his feet and lumbered to the gate it was thirty yards away and going fast.

Jonas said, “Watch it, Sam. Don’t let him get another shot at you.” He had got some of his breath back. The car was disappearing round the far corner.

Sam said, “I wanted to see if I could get his number, but it’s covered with mud. Crafty sod.”

The policeman who arrived on a bicycle ten minutes later was large and red-haired. He told them that his name was Roberts, and it was clear from his manner that he was out to be reassuring. Jonas did not want to be reassured. He wanted the intruder caught. Roberts said, sure and they were probably tough lads from Brighton. People did shoot other people in Brighton. Not in Shackleton. Had anything been taken?

An examination of the office showed that the contents of the desk had been disturbed. Drawers had been opened, and papers scattered.

“It’s quite mad,” said Jonas. “I don’t keep money in my desk. I keep it in the bank.”

“It’s possible. He’d have been out of luck. I keep it in my bedroom. Hello!”

“The only thing that seems to be missing,” said Jonas as he sorted out the mess, “is three sheets of paper. They were my third effort at typing out a will.”

“That’s a curious thing to steal, sir. However, there doesn’t seem to be a lot we can do about it tonight. Why don’t you come along in the morning and have a word with the skipper?”

Jonas looked at the pleasant, not over-intelligent face of PC Roberts, and agreed that it might be well to have a word with the skipper.

Detective Superintendent Queen listened patiently to what Jonas told him. He said, “It’s true that we get a few tough characters in here from Brighton and Portsmouth from time to time.”

“But what possible interest could they have in the papers in a solicitor’s desk?”

“I believe Roberts suggested they might have been looking for the key of the safe.”

“Yes,” said Queen thoughtfully, “that does seem odd. I didn’t quite follow about that. Were they valuable at all?”

“Their only value was that they’d taken me an hour to type out. It was a will.”

“Very odd. For a local person?” Seeing the look on Jonas’s face he added, hastily, “I wasn’t wanting to know what was in the will, you understand. Just the name. I thought it might give us a lead.”

“I suppose there’s no harm in mentioning his name. It was a Mr Richard Rowe. And he’s not local. Just a visitor.”

As Jonas noted the reaction of Superintendent Queen to this he suddenly remembered Claire telling him that there had been trouble involving the police at the caravan site. He had not been clear, from what she had said, if the arrival of the police and Rowe’s departure had been connected.

Queen said, “Would you excuse me for a moment, sir,” and went out, closing the door behind him. It turned into a long moment. Jonas could hear the rumble of voices from a nearby room. He was beginning to get impatient when Queen reappeared. He said, “I wonder if you would mind coming along and having a word with the boss.”

The boss, he gathered, was Chief Superintendent Whaley, head of the uniformed branch at Shackleton. He had already heard a number of things about Whaley, not all of them complimentary. He was a big man, with a strong black moustache and a colour in his cheeks that might have indicated short temper or high blood pressure. Or both, Jonas reflected. However, he seemed genial enough and waved Jonas to a chair.

“We’re always glad to see a London man opening up down here. Shackleton’s an expanding place. There should be work for all.”

“We get a lot of co-operation from firms like Porter and Merriman and the Bledisloes.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” Jonas noted the omission of R. and L. Sykes. If they defended in the Police Court there could be understandable enmity there.

“It makes things easier all round. After all, you’re an officer of the court. I’m an officer of the law. We’re both on the same side.”

Jonas thought, he wants something, and is winding himself up to ask for it. Like a clock getting ready to strike.

“The fact is that I’m going to ask you a favour. Rowe came to see you. I gather you were making a will for him.”

“Of course not. Professional confidence. I understand that. I’m not in the least concerned with how Mr Rowe planned to dispose of his property. It’s only” – it came out with a sudden rush – “do you happen to know his present address?”

The colour in Whaley’s face deepened slowly. He said, “I think you realise, Mr Pickett, that that was not what I wanted. I meant his address in Shackleton.”

“I’m surprised at you, Superintendent. I couldn’t possibly disclose Mr Rowe’s whereabouts without his consent even if—” he paused fractionally, and then said, “even if, as you yourself pointed out, it was not a matter of professional confidence.”

There was a long pause. Then the Superintendent said, “Tell me, why did you change your mind?”

“What you were going to say was, ‘I couldn’t tell you Mr Rowe’s address, even if I knew it.’ Then you stopped because it had occurred to you that this would not be true. From which I assume that perhaps you do know his address.”

The Chief Superintendent ignored this. He said, “I can’t force you to let me have this information, but I have to warn you. It can prove to be a dangerous piece of knowledge.”

“And what he meant by that,” said Jonas to Claire later that morning, “I haven’t the least idea. If the police are after Rowe, knowledge of his whereabouts might be dangerous for him. But why should it be dangerous for me?”

“Search me,” said Claire. “If he wants to find out where Rowe’s hiding, why doesn’t he get his chaps to do something about it?”

“I don’t know. There’s something about this that doesn’t add up. I think I’ll pay a call on Major Appleby.”

St. Oswald’s Preparatory School for Boys stood among trees in ten acres of smooth Southdown turf. He found the Major in one of the classrooms, correcting exam papers. He said, “You want a word with my caravanner? You’ll find him in the copse behind the rifle range. I warn you, you’ll have to look pretty hard. He’s tucked himself well away.”

Jonas walked through the patch of woodland behind the miniature range without seeing anything but trees and bushes, and had concluded that the headmaster had misdirected him, when, on his return journey, he noticed a small fold of netting among the bushes, between two trees. Looking closer, he saw that a section of camouflage net had been artfully interwoven with bracken at the bottom and small, leafy boughs at the top. Peering through it he could just make out the shape of the caravan.

Rowe had come out from a tree behind which he must have been standing. When Jonas spun round, he said, “Well, if it isn’t Mr Pickett,” but there was not much more friendliness in his voice.

Jonas opened his briefcase, and said, “I’ve brought you your will. Perhaps you’d like to look it over. If it’s what you want we could get Major Appleby and his wife to witness your signature.”

Rowe held the will in his hand, without looking at it. He said, “Would you tell me how you knew I was here?”

“The Major’s an old friend. When he called in on me the other day he mentioned that he had been asked to accommodate a caravanner. I guessed from his description that it was you.”

“That’s the second time today,” said Jonas, “that someone has suggested that I might pass on information about one of my clients to third parties. I’m getting a bit tired of it.”

Rowe looked at him steadily for a moment, and then said, “No. Naturally you wouldn’t. Stupid of me. Let’s go in and get this business done, shall we?”

The Major was in his study, with a young girl and an elderly spaniel. He said, “My wife’s out, but my daughter Penelope can act as the second witness. She’s over eighteen, and said to be of sound mind.”

Penelope smiled tolerantly, and said to Rowe, “I do believe Shandy is better already.” Hearing his name the spaniel thumped his tail on the floor. “It must have been what you said, one of those nasty corn spikes got between his toes.”

Rowe squatted down by the dog, and lifted the bandaged paw. The dog did not try to pull it away, but licked his hand.

When the will had been signed and witnessed, Rowe said, “If you’d care to come back to my caravan we’ll settle up. Would you like a cup of tea, or is it too early for a drink?”

“Never too early for that,” said Jonas. The caravan was neat and well organised. Jonas said, “I can see you’re an old campaigner. You’ve done a lot of this.”

The warning-off was clear. Don’t talk about the past. Don’t talk about the future. It rather limited possible subjects of conversation. In the end it was Rowe who broke the silence. He said, “I don’t know what your methods of bookkeeping are, but could I suggest that you enter this fee that I’m paying under some such heading as ‘Sundries’ or ‘Miscellaneous’?”

Jonas thought about it. He said, “Actually, we haven’t set up a lot of bookkeeping yet. You’re our first client. So I suppose it’ll be all right. Very well. You shall be a ‘Sundry’.”

“Excellent,” said Rowe. The faint smile which hardly seemed to penetrate the mask of his face appeared once more. “I think that Sundry is a very appropriate description of me at this precise moment. As I told you, I shall shortly be moving on. I’ll try to keep in touch with you. If you don’t hear from me after, say, six months, have a word with my bank manager. At the Westminster branch.”

Jonas promised to do this. He had come to St Oswald’s on foot, and as he walked back into the town he was thinking about his first client. Sabrina had called him a legal fiction. He was certainly an elusive character. All that he really knew about him was that he seemed to have a talent for dealing with dogs.

It was market day, and the streets of the old town were crowded with cheerful Sussex farmers, their wives, families and live and dead stock. When he reached the office Claire was getting ready to shut up shop.

“No. Definitely not the sort of man who would burgle the premises. Rather nice, I thought. Tubby and middle-aged. Might have been an army man. Name of Calder. He left his card. It’s on your desk. He said he might call back later, on the chance of finding you still here.”

“Client number two, perhaps,” said Jonas. “We’re looking up. Where’s Sam?”

“He’s gone down to the Post Office. There was a message about some registered packet that’s gone astray. I couldn’t quite understand what they were saying. Sam’s gone down to sort it out.”

When Claire had departed, Jonas sat for a moment staring at the card. It was not very informative. Middle-aged? Possibly a retired officer. There was the sound of a car drawing up, and footsteps on the flagstones of the courtyard. The newcomer came through into the hall, opened the door of Jonas’s room and came in without knocking.

He was neither tubby nor middle-aged. He was large and thick, and moved with the bouncing tread of an athlete. He said, “Don’t let’s have any trouble. You’re an old man. I could hurt you badly, and I’ll do it if I have to.”

Jonas started to say, “What on earth—” but got no further. The man came round the desk, caught the end of his tie in one hand and the knot in the other and started to throttle him. Jonas plucked at the man’s hands with his own. He might as well have tried to move a steel clamp. He was fighting for breath, and the room was swimming round him. He could see the man’s face in a mist. He thought he was smiling.

The pressure relaxed. The man said, “See what I mean? Now come along.” He picked up the circular ruler from Jonas’s desk. “If you make any trouble, I’ll crack both your kneecaps. You won’t walk for six months.”

He linked his left arm with Jonas’s right arm, and they walked out of the house together. Anyone seeing them would have thought they were very close friends.

They got into the car that was waiting outside. He and the big man sat together on the back seat. Jonas thought it looked like the car he had seen driving away the night before. He had recovered control of his voice, and said, as the car moved off, “I suppose it’s not the slightest use asking you what all this is about.”

“Well, now,” said the man. “I can’t see any reason not to tell you what our intentions are. It might be sensible, really. Save you from doing anything heroic, like. We’re not going to kill you. We’re not even going to hurt you, unless we have to. Turn left here, Danny.”

“We’re taking you off to a quiet place, to ask you a few questions. You give us the right answers, we keep you there long enough to check up that you’ve told us the truth. Then we let you go. Understood?”

Jonas understood perfectly. They would ask him where Rowe had hidden his caravan. And he would tell them. No doubt about that. Then one of them would go off to find out if he had told them the truth. If he had, they would let him go. Or would they? He rather doubted it. If they intended to let him go, would they have allowed him to see their faces, listen to them talk, note the number of their car? Jonas was surprised to find that he could weigh up the potentialities of the situation as if it was a legal problem which concerned one of his clients.

By now they had reached the area of small streets between the church and the market. When they swung round to the right, Jonas knew that they had taken the wrong turning. That road was a dead-end, running up to the churchyard wall. There were two women standing on the pavement talking.

“No trouble,” said the big man genially. He dipped one hand into his pocket, took out a gun and pushed the muzzle into Jonas’s side so hard that it made him gasp. He said, “You do anything stupid, and I’ll pull the trigger. It won’t stop us from getting away, but you won’t have any stomach left. Think about it.”

The driver had got the car reversed. The two women watched the manoeuvre incuriously. They drove off slowly, turned out of the street, and headed down a road which, as Jonas knew, would bring them out near the marketplace.

The trouble came as they turned the corner. It was a herd of bullocks, driven by a farmer with a red face. He had been in trouble already with the motorists, whose cars were blocking the end of the street. The bullocks were filtering through this barricade, using the pavement on both sides of the cars. One of the bullocks on the offside pavement had just avoided treading on a baby chair. The woman who owned it was telling the farmer, in pungent Sussex, what she thought of him and his bullocks. A sympathetic claque of bystanders were supporting her. One of the cars in the block ahead had started to move. The driver of Jonas’s car turned down the window and said to the farmer, “Shift those bloody cows over, can’t you?”

There was no hope of backing. A van and a car were already blocking the road behind him. But he had seen that, as the rearmost of the cars in front moved, he could squeeze past the other two by using the nearside pavement.

The farmer, attacked from a new point, swung round and told the driver what he could do to himself. The driver ignored him. He had already started to edge forward. The gap in front of him was widening.

This was a bad mistake. A frisky Southdown bullock can take just so much and no more. It reared up on to its hind legs, performed a skittering dance, came down alongside the car, and pushed its head through the open window. The big man half-rose in his seat.

Jonas felt the pistol shift away. His left hand was already on the door catch. He tugged the door open and rolled out into the gutter.

By this time there was a crowd on both pavements. Two men helped Jonas to his feet. When he looked round, the car had gone, squeezing past the block in front.

“Well,” said one of the men. “That’s a nice way to treat you. They might have stopped to see if you’d hurt yourself.”

“I think they were in too much of a hurry to stop,” said Jonas. “Thank you. I’m quite all right now.”

Jonas wasn’t worried about his suit. He was glad that he still possessed a stomach. When he got back to the office he found Sam, angry at having been sent on a pointless errand. “There wasn’t no parcel,” he said, “and what have you been doing to yourself?”

“It’s a long story,” said Jonas. “I’ll tell you when I’ve had a bath and changed.”

As he was coming downstairs the front door bell rang. To Jonas’s relief Sam was there to answer it. He had had enough of strange callers.

The newcomer was middle-aged and tubby. He looked as if he might have been an army man. He said, “My name’s Calder. I left my card with your secretary. Do you think we could have a word?”

“Yes,” said Jonas. As they went into his office he breathed to Sam, “Stay handy.” He was past taking chances.

Mr Calder looked appreciatively round the room before settling himself down in the visitor’s chair. He said, “There was a nasty smash out on the Portsmouth Road just now. It’ll be on the evening news, I expect.”

“The car ran into a roadblock. Ran into it quite literally, I mean. Tried to crash through it. Silly thing to do. Went out of control, hit a telegraph pole and caught fire. Two men in it, both dead. I’m sorry about that.”

“If it’s the men I’m thinking about,” said Jonas, “I’m not in the least sorry they’re dead.”

“I suppose that’s understandable,” said Mr Calder. “But we were sorry about it. We’d have liked at least one of them more or less undamaged. We had some questions we wanted to ask him.”

Jonas was not sure whether his visitor’s matter-of-fact manner was comforting or alarming. He said, “I suppose we’re talking about the same car. The one I got out of.”

“Correct. Actually I’m not quite clear how you did get out of it. I gather there was a bit of a fracas.”

“Very disconcerting,” said Mr Calder, and started to laugh. He suddenly looked much more human. He said, “We owe you an explanation. If I tell you some of the background, you’ll realise what it was all about. Dick Rowe’s an Ulsterman, but his mother was American, and he lived for some time in the States. When his mother and father died he and his brother came back.”

“That’s right. His brother was shot by the IRA. That’s when Dick came to work for us. He posed as an American sympathiser. Helped with running arms and explosives. Got into their confidence. It was information from him that led to the arrest of the people responsible for the last two bomb explosions in London. Very dangerous job. Of course they got on to him in the end, and we had to pull him out.”

Jonas thought about his client. He said, “He did look a bit impassive. Was that plastic surgery?”

“That’s right. New face, new identity. We fixed him up with a job in the States. A partnership in a veterinary practice.”

“The trouble is that arrangements like that take time. We have to work through our friends on the other side. Reciprocal assistance. Meanwhile we had to put Dick on ice. He was target number one for the opposition. We thought the best plan was to supply him with a caravan and let him spend the summer here. We chose Shackleton because it looked nice and peaceful.”

“On the off-chance that Dick might need help we alerted your senior policeman, Chief Superintendent Whaley, to the position. I needn’t tell you that he was meant to keep it totally under his hat. But he had to go and tell someone else. In strict confidence, of course. And someone else told someone else.”

“The only time I met our Chief Superintendent he didn’t strike me as a very discreet sort of person.”

“My own boss,” said Mr Calder dispassionately, “who is also Dick’s bank manager, has expressed the opinion that Whaley ought to be first skinned and then filleted. He not only talked. He tried to put a police guard on Dick. Thus pointing him out plainly to the opposition.”

“He not only pulled out. He sent for us. We’ve got quite a large team down here at this moment.”

“Oh, quite,” said Mr Calder with a smile. “I was glad you weren’t in the car when it happened. You’d been bothered enough already.”

This seemed to Jonas to be an understatement. He said, “I suppose when they burgled my office they were looking for information about Rowe. They thought there might be an address in his will. Which reminds me. I suppose Rowe isn’t his real name.”

“No,” said Jonas firmly. “When he gets to America he can make a new will. And use an American lawyer. I wish him well, but I don’t want to know anything more about him.”

Claire opened the door, said, “Sorry. I didn’t know you had a visitor. But it was a bit urgent.”

“We’ve got a new client. A Mrs Lovibond. She’s waiting outside. She wants to consult you about something.”

“The thing is, there may be a bit of trouble about this. She’s one of Chris Clover’s star clients.”

Black Bob

The moon was throwing a cold clear light over the field. It was called the Top Field, because it was the northernmost of the seven which made up Maggs’s Farm, and stood a little higher than the other six. Under the hedge which bordered its upper end something was moving, slipping in and out of the shadows. It might have been an animal but, when it appeared for a moment in the full moonlight, it could be seen to be a boy.