The Avenue of the Dead (23 page)

The portions were vast, the ham cut thick and the eggs rich with big yellow yolks.

A black dog, low-bellied and cowed, sniffed at them from a distance. Davina threw it a few scraps, and soon it was crouching under their table, wagging its ratty tail in gratitude.

‘If you go on doing that,' Colin said, ‘we'll have every rabid mutt in Mexico after us.'

Davina looked up at him. ‘You remember what Herrendos said? Even the pi-dogs followed Elizabeth –' she paused, frowning. ‘She loved dogs. She had a Jack Russell, a fierce little devil, it used to fly at everyone. She had a snap of it at school; she stuck it on the wall over her bed. Rusty – that was it … Now why does that bother me?'

Later they walked round the little town and stepped into the church. The interior was lit by small windows set high up, and there were little gleaming pinpoints of votive candles in front of the altar and the side-altars where the Virgin and the saints were enshrined. A group of women knelt saying the rosary in a soft murmur before a statue of the Mother of God. She was dressed in stiff brocade, with paste jewels winking from her blue mantle and the elaborate gold wire crown and halo round her head. She had a china face and black eyes and she was a Mexican Indian Madonna, her china hands outstretched to bless her people. Lomax whispered to Davina, ‘Now that would have given my grandfather a heart attack! Popish idolatry –'

‘Mine wouldn't have been too keen either,' she whispered back. ‘But if that's what makes people happy, and brings them nearer God, why shouldn't they have it? I think she has a sweet face – I saw some marvellous Japanese Christian paintings once; Christ, the Virgin Mary, God the Father – they were all slit-eyed Japanese. Mary was dressed in a kimono! What would your grandfather have made of that?'

He shrugged. ‘I'm not sure what I make of it myself. Let's get back into the sunshine.'

They spent the rest of the afternoon driving back to Mexico City at a leisurely pace. Lomax surprised her by suggesting they toured the superb modern university complex. He had had enough, he said, of ancient Mexico. He wanted to get back to the twentieth century.

Soon after she went to work for Edward Fleming, Ellen learned to drive a car. Before he remarried, she did all the shopping and supervised the food if he had guests. Her fear that this would be taken over by Elizabeth was quickly dispelled. Mrs Fleming liked food in the house and good dishes on the table, but she didn't want to be bothered with how any of it got there. Ever since she walked out on them, as Ellen described it to herself, Mr Fleming had been in and out at erratic times, and every evening he had the same friend round at the house. They spent their time shut up in the little study, and Ellen served them supper on trays. She was distressed to see how little Mr Fleming ate. She got ready to go out to the best supermarket that morning, determined to find something to tempt his appetite. He looked so grey and drawn, and seemed so jumpy. His friend Mr Kidson seemed a kind, reassuring man to have around. He treated Ellen with impeccable courtesy.

She went down to the garage through the kitchen entrance. Mrs Fleming's big white Mercedes was parked in its normal berth at the back. Ellen carried a big basket for groceries, and she set it on the ground while she unlocked the boot with the duplicate keys now always kept in the kitchen. Whenever Mrs Fleming wanted something, she would send Ellen out to get it. ‘Take my car, Ellen, and buy me some … I've got such a terrible headache today.' She thought of her, as she turned the key. Not a word for five days. Maybe she would never come back again. She had long lost her belief in miracles.

The boot lid clicked open and raised itself automatically. Ellen reached down for the empty basket to put it inside. As she bent down she stared straight into a blackened human face.

There was no one in the house to hear her screaming. She only stopped when her breath choked and she doubled up beside the car and retched at the fetid smell of the decomposing body. She knew by the blonde hair that the hideous face and the limbs cramped up in the narrow space belonged to Elizabeth Fleming. She slammed the lid down on the horror. The tongue was protruding, and the eyes were out of their sockets … Head swimming, she stumbled across to the kitchen door for the telephone. The vile smell drifted after her.

They didn't go back to the Alameda. They had an early dinner, listened to the marachi musicians who played outside in the evenings and joined the cheerful crowd who danced in the square. At one point Lomax asked her if she was happy. ‘Very happy.'

‘Good,' he said, and pulled her closer.

The reception clerk came quickly to meet them as they walked into the hotel.

‘An urgent message for you, Senora.'

She read it quickly and turned in alarm to Lomax. ‘Kidson's called three times.'

They got a connection immediately.

‘Davina – the worst possible news, I'm afraid. The whole bloody thing has blown sky high. Elizabeth Fleming was found dead this afternoon. Yes, yes, that's what I said! Strangled, hidden in the boot of her car in their garage – I've spoken to the chief, and Humphrey's flying out.'

He went on talking for a few minutes and then Davina put down the phone. She had repeated the news as Kidson gave it.

‘We should get back tonight if we can. They've called in the CIA and they're keeping it quiet for the next forty-eight hours anyway. My God – what do we do now?'

‘Pack,' Lomax said tersely. ‘Try reception and see if there's a flight tonight. If there is, we've got to be on it.'

He was throwing their clothes into the cases when she came back and stood in the bedroom door. ‘We're in luck. We've got two reservations on the last plane. Eleven-fifteen. You realize, don't you, Colin – I've failed.'

He snapped the cases shut and heaved them off the bed.

‘Like hell you have,' he said. ‘Let's get that flight!'

‘They're doing the post mortem tonight,' Kidson said. ‘She'd certainly been dead for some days. Fleming collapsed after he'd identified her.'

‘Where is he now?' Davina asked.

‘Under sedation at home. Thank God the maid kept her head and called Fleming at his office instead of the police He called me, and I thought it best to go direct to the CIA And guess who was in charge. Our old friend Spencer Barr!'

‘They put a security stop on it,' Lomax remarked. ‘It won't hold for long, though.'

‘No, it bloody well won't,' Kidson snapped back. He very seldom swore; now he looked tense and exhausted. ‘I need a drink!'

‘Give me one too, Colin, please,' said Davina. ‘Has Fleming admitted anything?'

‘No. I couldn't get him to budge. He insisted he was telling the truth about everything. When I got to the house he was in a state of collapse; the maid Ellen was like a zombie. Elizabeth Fleming had been strangled so hard her eyes were out of their sockets. But I did try to get a confession out of Fleming as soon as I'd pulled myself together. He went to pieces, but he didn't change his story. He hadn't killed her. By that time Spencer-Barr arrived, and they got a doctor to give Fleming and the maid sedatives to put them out for the night. Then that creep Jeremy started on me and I told him to put the house under close guard before he started throwing accusations about. I really lost my temper with him!'

‘What sort of accusations?' Davina asked. ‘You notified him, what was wrong with that? You acted perfectly properly.'

‘That's what I said,' Kidson answered. ‘He seemed to be beside himself, almost hysterical. He'd accepted Fleming's explanation that his wife had gone to New York. All right, that made a fool of him when she's lying dead in the garage – but he was shouting and threatening me with God knows what, saying we'd interfered in United States affairs with a US citizen – he knew a lot more about our involvement with Fleming and Elizabeth than he admitted.'

‘It sounds like he's afraid of something,' Lomax suggested. ‘If he's the cold-blooded type, the only thing that gets under their skin is a threat to themselves. You know something, Davina? We've assumed Elizabeth was kidnapped by the KGB and murdered to shut her up and protect Fleming. Did Hickling ever try and track down that cab? I gave him the registration number.'

‘No,' Davina said. ‘No, he didn't. What are you getting at?'

‘Just a thought,' he muttered. ‘I'm not in your league, or yours, John. I've only hunted small fry. But I don't think there's anything more we can do tonight – it's nearly four in the morning.'

‘Oh, God Almighty, so it is,' Kidson groaned. ‘Poor Charlie; she arrived this morning. I was supposed to ring her this evening after she got in. You two go off and get some sleep. Tomorrow is going to be a bloody day for all of us. Davina, Charlie asked about you as soon as we talked. You couldn't spare a few minutes tomorrow morning and call her at the Plaza, could you? This is going to be a wretched holiday for her.'

‘Of course I will,' Davina said. ‘I'd get some sleep yourself – you look dead beat, John. Don't worry about Charlie. She'll understand.'

They didn't go to bed. Davina made coffee, Lomax had a shower. They sat through what was left of the night, smoking cigarettes and emptying the percolator, and they saw the dawn break over Washington together.

‘If Igor Borisov had written the scenario himself,' said Davina, ‘it couldn't be worse for us or better for him. And he did write it, Colin, I know that.'

They were standing together by the big window, with the sunlight turning yellow above the rooftops and the last pink streaks fading from the morning sky.

She leaned her head against him, and with one hand pushed the straying hair from her forehead. ‘How did he do it?'

‘We've got forty-eight hours to find out,' he said.

Neil Browning couldn't get Hickling alone. He had used up his store of excuses to hang around the office, and the atmosphere was growing unfriendly. Hickling seemed typical of the intelligence section that morning; Browning had been alerted by the rush of phone calls coming through to Hickling's people, and a hurrying secretary had committed the unpardonable sin of saying as he tried to stop her, ‘I can't, Neil, there's a panic on upstairs.' That was enough for him. He knew that his instructions from the controller hadn't been suspended – find out anything you can and pass it through immediately. A panic meant one thing. Something had broken about the Flemings. He brazened it out with Hickling until Peter actually told him to leave the office. He looked tense and irritable; he was waiting for a phone call and he kept glancing at his watch and then at the telephone.

‘Look,' he said, ‘can't you see I'm bloody busy? I know you've got nothing much to do, but I'm up to my balls in it this morning.' Hickling's ears were still hot from John Kidson's reprimand. And now the Sea-Green Incorruptible himself was on his way from London. Heads would certainly fall and Peter Hickling's seemed likely to be the first.

‘I'm sorry,' Neil repeated. ‘But what's the flap? What's everyone running round like blue-assed flies for? Has Mrs Fleming been found?'

Hickling's nerves were ragged. ‘Yes,' he snapped. ‘She has – in the boot of her car! Will you shove off, for Christ's sake, Neil?'

‘Sorry, sorry,' he said hastily. ‘I'm on my way – she's dead?'

Hickling only nodded and then his phone buzzed and he grabbed it.

Neil hurried back to his own office. His work would have to wait. He called through to his secretary.

‘Jean – I've got to go uptown. Refer all calls for an hour, will you? Thanks.' He made his way to the nearest outside phone booth and dialled Bruckner's number. The girl assistant answered. No, Mr Bruckner was not in the shop that day; he'd taken the shuttle to New York to go to a demonstration and lecture on some new telephoto equipment. She hadn't any idea where it was, and he didn't expect to be back before tomorrow. No, she didn't know where he was staying.

Reluctantly, she offered to call his home. Browning waited in the phone booth, picking anxiously at the skin on his forefinger. It was raw with a tiny rim of blood round the nail by the time the girl rang back on the booth number. There was no reply from Bruckner's home. His wife must have taken the trip with him. She hung up.

Browning swore with frustration. Bloody marvellous, weren't they, walking off without leaving any means of contact – he paused, and shrugged off a sudden qualm of fear. It had never happened before. If Bruckner wasn't in the shop he always left a number where he could be reached. Well, they couldn't blame him if they got his information a day late. He returned to the office and settled down to work. At the back of his mind he had made a decision. He had had enough of Washington. Enough of Bruckner and the man with the pebble glasses. To hell with the money. He'd apply for a transfer. Somewhere unimportant, where they wouldn't bother following him up. It would be dull and a setback to his career, but it would be worth it to get off the hook.

Peter Hickling had arranged to meet his caller. He left the office and the embassy by eleven-fifteen and drove to a small singles bar downtown. His contact was waiting at a table in the corner. He was a small man in his early forties, wearing a linen suit and a short-brimmed homburg made of straw.

They didn't shake hands. Peter Hickling ordered beer. He leaned nearer the American. ‘I need your help, Sam. I've done you favours, now I need one.'

‘Such as?' Sam sipped his beer. They had worked together a lot since Hickling got the Washington appointment, but unofficially, in the private way of rivals in rival Services who are supposed to be allies against a common foe. Sam was an old CIA operator. He was beyond cynicism and he said himself he'd forgotten how to spell scruple. He had taken favours from Hickling, and he knew that the time would come when he'd have to pay them back. The system of mutual exchange worked very well between individuals. Nobody broke security because the penalty was non-co-operation, and neither the men from Langley nor from British SIS could work effectively without the clandestine leaks between the two. ‘I want to know about this,' Hickling said. ‘A yellow cab, this registration number. It's a fake, we checked with the cab company. Does it mean anything to you? Can you check on it for me?'