Skydancer (23 page)

It was nearly ten o'clock as he drove down the quiet side-road, peering at the numbers, till he found the house. A reproduction brass coach-lamp glowed in the porch. Somehow the style of it seemed wrong for Anderson.

The doorbell chimed a melody. Through the bottle-glass panel he could see the outline of a figure moving down the hall towards him, hesitating and leaning to one side as if trying to recognise his shape through the glass.

There was the rattle of the lock and the door opened a few inches, secured by a chain.

‘Yes?' came a timid female voice from inside. Peter could see one dark eye blinking at him through the gap.

‘Mrs Anderson?' Peter enquired gently.

‘Yes?'

‘I'm so sorry to trouble you. My name is Joyce, Peter Joyce. I'm a colleague of your husband's from work. Is he . . . is he at home?'

There was silence as Janet pondered what to do next.

‘Do you have some identification?' she demanded, talking in a louder voice to project a braveness she did not feel.

For a moment Peter was thrown by the request. It was hardly what he had anticipated.

‘Oh, er, yes, of course.'

He fumbled for his wallet, wondering what sort of document would satisfy her.

‘If Alec is here, he would . . .'

‘He's not,' she replied sharply.

‘Well, look, here's my security pass from Aldermaston. That's where I work. The atomic weapons place.'

He slipped the card through the crack in the door and she snatched it from his fingers. She seemed to study it for ages, then suddenly the chain was slipped free and the door swung open.

‘I'm terribly sorry, Mr Joyce,' she fluttered. ‘You must think me very foolish. It's just that some truly dreadful things have happened in this area to people opening their doors to strangers. And I'm on my own, you see, with two little
girls
upstairs . . .'

The way she stressed the word
girls
conjured a vision of rapists prowling for victims. Perhaps he
should
have telephoned beforehand.

‘I quite understand, Mrs Anderson. You're absolutely right to be careful, and I suppose it is rather
late for me to turn up on your doorstep. It's just that I need to talk to your husband right away. Do you expect him back soon?'

‘Oh yes, I should think so,' she replied resignedly. ‘When the pub shuts. It depends on Karl really, and you know what he's like.'

Janet Anderson was one of those women who tend to assume that even complete strangers know all the friends and personalities who feature in their lives.

‘I'm sorry, Mrs Anderson, but I don't know Karl,' Peter explained patiently.

‘Oh, good heavens! But how silly! Why should you! Well, he's a great friend of Alec's. They meet at the pub every Friday. You see, this is Alec's night for getting away from me and the children!' She laughed awkwardly.

‘I have my night off on Mondays, though I don't always take advantage of it. Anyway, Karl rang this evening to check that Alec was going to be drinking. Sounded terribly keen to see him, and Alec went rushing off hot foot. I wish
I
could say something to Alec that would have the same effect!'

She laughed shrilly at her own cattiness. She was a short, bird-like woman, forever touching her hair to ensure it was in place.

‘What would you like to do? You could wait for him,' she suggested eagerly. The thought had suddenly occurred to her that if her own husband would not talk to her about that suicide girl, perhaps this man would.

‘Well, if he's not going to be very long . . .' Peter answered hesitantly.

‘Why don't you come into the library, Mr Joyce?'

She opened the door to the front room and led him in.

‘This is Alec's favourite room. All his pictures and things are here.'

Peter was immediately struck by its style. An antique glass-fronted mahogany cabinet was packed with leather-bound volumes, and the floor was covered with a Persian rug. At least a dozen small paintings lined the walls.

‘Lovely room,' he began, crossing to the far wall to examine one of the pictures more closely. ‘These are nice. Have they been in your family a long time?'

‘Oh, no. Alec's bought them all. It's his hobby. They're sweet, aren't they?'

‘Mmmm, delightful.'

‘Karl knows a dealer who specialises in that type of art, so Alec's bought quite a few of them in the last six months.'

She could have added that there were plenty of other things they needed which he could have spent his money on, but she restrained herself. Instead she was silent for a moment, wondering how to raise the subject that was concerning her.

‘Are you . . . are you involved in this secrets business?' she blurted out eventually.

Peter was surprised by the directness of her question.

‘Well, yes. I suppose I am.'

‘What . . . on the investigating side? Police? Security, that sort of thing?'

‘No,' he replied carefully. ‘No, I'm not the police. I'm a scientist. I helped design the weapon that all the fuss is about.'

‘Oh. Oh, I see.'

Her eyes seemed to lose their concentration and she gazed vaguely into the corner of the room, puzzling whether he might be able to answer her questions.

‘Have you been under suspicion, too, then?' she went on. ‘I mean Alec, he . . . he's been so nervous lately. As if he was going to get blamed for everything. He said
they were investigating
everybody
involved. You . . . you too, I suppose?'

‘Oh yes. None of us has escaped the suspicion of MI5,' Peter said bitterly.

‘Then I suppose you must have been upset about this woman who killed herself. His secretary, Mary something or other. Alec is devastated. I heard him crying last night, and I've never known him do that before.'

Peter did not want to talk about Mary, but he was startled by what the woman had just said. Why should Anderson have been so affected? Mary Maclean may have been his secretary, but he had never shown any particular interest in her. Why should he be so distressed?

‘Did he talk to you about what happened?' he asked cautiously.

‘No. He's said nothing. But he was so upset I . . . I began to wonder if there'd been something between them!' The corners of her mouth turned down involuntarily, betraying her unhappiness.

‘No, definitely not. I can promise you that,' Peter reassured her. But then what
was
the reason for his grief?

‘And then there was something they said on the television news, about the crisis being over. That seemed to upset him even more.'

She looked at him expectantly, hoping that he might explain. But suddenly Peter had the uneasy feeling there was no time to lose: he had to get to Anderson right away.

‘I've just had a thought, Mrs Anderson. If the pub is not too far away, I might go and find him there. If I wait here until he gets back, it could make it a rather late night for all of us, don't you think?'

Janet Anderson was disappointed: she had learned
nothing from him. Her face took on a look of resignation.

‘Well, you can try,' she conceded, staring at the floor. ‘The pub's called the Maid's Head. It's just down the bottom of the road. Turn right out of the house and keep going. You can't miss it.'

‘All right, I'll try there. Thank you,' Peter smiled. ‘If I don't find him, I'm afraid I'll have to come back and disturb you again. I hope you won't think me a dreadful nuisance.'

‘No,' she shrugged, ‘I shall be here.'

She stood on the doorstep watching him as he headed down the road.

The pub was crowded and smoky. Amid such a sea of faces he began to doubt whether he would ever spot Anderson. However, being tall and stocky, he managed to ease his way through to the bar, and looked about him uneasily. But what exactly would he say to Anderson if he did find him? He still did not know.

‘Yes?' the barman asked.

‘Er, a half of bitter, thanks.'

A shout of jubilation caused him to focus on the far corner of the bar-room. A burly youth was waving a billiard-cue in the air.

‘That's sixty-five pence.'

Momentarily the barman drew back his attention.

‘Thank you.'

He sipped at the glass and peered through the fog of cigarette smoke. The men at the billiard table looked too young to be company for Anderson. He scanned them carefully to be certain, but Alec was not there.

Damn!

Drinkers eager to refill their glasses before
closing-time were elbowing him away from the bar. He eased back through the crowd, searching faces, searching looks. Suddenly he stopped.

Alec Anderson was sitting at a small table just six feet away.

He was not alone and he looked like death. Peter backed away so as not to be seen. He found a shelf by the wall where he could rest his glass, and from where he had a clear view.

The man sitting opposite him must be Karl, Peter thought. He had thin, straight hair, a pointed nose, and metal-framed spectacles, and seemed to be issuing instructions. His eyes never left Anderson's face, which was pale and slack-jawed, as if from shock.

Peter sipped his beer, and kept his eye on the two men. It was ten to eleven and the landlord was calling for last orders.

Anderson had an almost full pint in front of him, but was making no effort to drink it. The other man had been drinking spirits, and his glass was empty.

Suddenly Anderson shook his head as if in violent disagreement. The other man eyed him threateningly and reached down to the floor. His hand came up clutching a brown-paper parcel the size of a small book.

Anderson looked thunderstruck as the parcel was pushed across the table. He clearly did not want to take it, but Karl thrust it into his hands.

A group of people sitting at a large table in front of Peter stood up suddenly, and began to pull coats over their shoulders, obscuring his view.

‘Hurry up, for God's sake!' he hissed under his breath.

They took their time, though, discussing whose house they would return to for a nightcap. Finally Peter took his glass from the shelf and pushed his way round
them, desperate not to lose sight of Anderson. But he saw with annoyance that the two chairs were now empty, Anderson's full glass still standing on the table unconsumed. He looked desperately round the exits and caught sight of the back of Karl's head disappearing through a door into the street.

He dumped his glass and hurried after them, but ran into the group who had been blocking his view. They were still debating where to go as he tried to push through them.

‘I'm so sorry. I'm in a terrible rush,' he mumbled.

‘Careful!' a woman shouted, as he trod on her foot.

Outside he heard car engines being started in the small car-park. But surely Anderson would have come on foot?

Then he saw them, on the pavement. Anderson was still being forcefully urged to take the parcel. Harsh words were clearly raised between them. Suddenly Karl turned and crossed the road to a large Mercedes. He opened the door, slipped inside, and drove off at speed. Anderson stared after him.

Slowly Anderson turned and began to walk up the hill towards his house. Peter strode briskly after him.

‘Alec! I thought it was you. I've been looking for you,' he announced breathlessly as he came up to him.

Anderson swung round, not recognising the voice at first.

‘What the hell . . .? Peter? What are you doing here, for God's sake?' he stammered.

‘I was looking for you. Wanted to talk to you. Your wife said you might be down at the pub.'

The astonishment on Anderson's face turned rapidly to bewilderment and then to fear as he began to suspect what Peter might have witnessed.

‘I was having a drink with someone,' he explained lamely.

‘So I saw.'

‘What . . . what is it you want?' His voice seemed flat with dread.

‘I wanted to talk to you about Mary.'

Anderson's face crumpled. He looked like a schoolboy faced with a caning.

‘I don't see there's anything to discuss,' he said abruptly, starting up the road again.

‘What is it that man Karl wants from you, Alec?'

Anderson's head spun round like a snake's. His eyes were wild and desperate, searching Peter's face for a clue to what he knew. Joyce sensed he was on the verge of finding out everything he wanted to know.

‘You've got a choice,' he needled. ‘You can either tell
me
about it or tell John Black. If I call him, he'll be round like a shot.'

‘Oh Christ!' Anderson's words came in a strangled gasp. ‘Look, why don't you p-piss off! It's none of your business!'

‘Yes, it bloody well is!' Peter snapped back. ‘Mary was murdered, and you know all about it!'

He peered at the package under Anderson's arm. It had a broad, hard edge, like a frame.

‘What
is
in that parcel, Alec? Another picture?'

Anderson seemed paralysed, unable to respond. The brown package clamped under his arm felt like a ticking bomb.

‘Oh Jesus!' He said at last, his words hardly audible. ‘Look, Peter, I need time to think. That's not too much to ask, is it?' His eyes begged. ‘Please? Look . . . I admit I'm in some trouble, but I'm sure I can find a way out if only I have time to think.'

Peter grabbed him by the arm and began to hurry him up the hill.

‘I can ring from your house. It's down to MI5 now.'

‘Peter, Peter!' Alec croaked. ‘I'll get life! Do you understand?
Life!
And for Janet that'll mean death!'

For a moment Peter was silenced.

‘Do you mean . . . are you telling me that
you
killed Mary?' he asked aghast.

‘No, no! God no! Not me . . . Oh, Christ!'

Anderson had become a pathetic, desolate figure.