A Prospect of Vengeance

Book 30: Murder Room

by Anthony Price

Genres: Mystery; Traditional Mysteries; Spy Thrillers

Synopsis

By the CWA Gold Dagger award-winning author of Other Paths to Glory The evacuation of Philip Masson's body near Mrs Griffin's cottage resurrects several old ghosts that send the newshounds scurrying to dig in their clippings archives. Rumours, matured with the passing years since Masson's 'disappearance' way back in 1978, once more abound. But the investigative team of Ian Robinson and Jenny Fielding are already on a trail of discovery that leads back to the end of the Wilson/Callaghan era. Jenny has overheard a snatch of gossip at an embassy party which seems to implicate British Intelligence's David Audley in the original cover-up of Masson's death . . . and Jenny has a personal interest in that affair. But it is not until the labyrinthine trails come together on a Spanish battlefield that Jenny learns why it is that Philip Masson had to die....

Release date: September 6, 2012

Publisher: Orion

Print pages: 256

Sample

Old Mrs Griffin’s cottage 

THE CHILDREN HAD spotted the ruin of old Mrs Griffin’s cottage that very first morning, years before, and from the one place in thefarmhouse where it could be seen through the trees: a little low window, cobwebby and covered with dead flies, halfway down the narrow twisty back stair to the kitchen. And then there had been no holding them. 

Rachel and Laurence had known about it already, of course. The estate agents’ man had explained that it was part of the property, as a more-or-less unwanted appendage to the farmhouse plot below the orchard, also dead on the line of the motorway and not part of the fields which had been already sold to the adjacent farms. At the time this had rather aroused Rachel’s curiosity, so that when Laurence had embarked on a second tour of their dilapidated (but, as they then thought, strictly temporary) new home, she had gone exploring for herself. 

Actually, she had never quite reached old Mrs Griffin’s cottage then. But she had seen enough, because what she had seen she had disliked even in the safety of the bright sunshine. Indeed, although long afterwards she maintained that her dislike — even then, even then — had been instinctive, or intuitive, it had also been something fiercer than mere dislike: it was in reality strictly practical and maternal, primarily safety-conscious. The children were still little then, but no longer restrictively little. Rather, they were adventurously active, and she knew from bitter experience that Melanie would surely follow where Christopher led; and Christopher, having once glimpsed that little brick chimney and gable-end rising up out of the mossy ruin of fallen thatch, would somehow penetrate the great tangle of brambles and briars and seven-foot tall stinging nettles which had conquered old Mrs Griffin’s little garden, and which utterly barred her own progress, but had not prevented her glimpsing the pond. 

It was a foul place, she had thought, even in the sunshine: foul, because she could see beastly things in the water — rotting branches and vegetation, and even an old saucepan breaking the surface of the water with a circle and a handle, over which a cloud of insects buzzed and skittered; foul also, because, although by the standards of her town-bred, traffic-accustomed ears its silence was absolute, it was somehow deafeningly noisy, with the low buzz and hum of all those insects hunting and fighting and dying and eating ceaselessly around her; and foul, finally, because she could smell all this activity, of plants and insects and invisible animals competing with each other, and winning and losing — a sweet-rotten smell, the like of which she had never encountered before, a world away from the carbon monoxide and Indian take-away smells which had occasionally invaded their London flat on hot evenings. 

“That’s a horrible place, down there, darling,” she had said eventually to Larry, when she’d found him again, in the barn beside the farmhouse, staring up at the chinks of sunlight high above. 

“Just one or two displaced tiles, Dr Groom,” the estate agents’ man had been saying. “The structure itself is absolutely sound — the timbers, and so on. In fact, as I’ve said, it’s also a listed building — Grade Three — like the house. Late fifteenth century . . . perhaps early sixteenth . . . the expert witnesses at the public inquiry argued about that.” He had given Rachel a quick smile then, acknowledging her presence, if not her words. “In other circumstances we’d be thinking about a barn conversion, splitting the property into two, rather than about a few displaced tiles. It really is a great tragedy . . . . Do you see that main beam, up there? Five hundred years old, that beam is. And —” 

“What’s horrible, darling?” Larry had overridden the salesman’s automatic spiel. 

“The old Griffin place?” The estate agents’ man had been quick then, scooping up his error with another smile which embraced them both. “Awful, isn’t it? It hasn’t been lived in for years, of course. But it’s amazing how quickly those little places fall to pieces once they’re untenanted. And, of course, nobody wanted to live there, after old Mrs Griffin died. It’s too far off the main road. In fact — in fact . . . you can’t even get to it from here. You didn’t actually get to it, did you Mrs Groom?” He had paused then, but too briefly for her to do more than open her mouth. “There was a path from here, through the orchard, I believe. But that’s totally overgrown now. . . . The actual access to the cottage — not that it is a cottage now, it’s quite irreparable . . . the actual access is from a track on the hill above, through the spinney there. But that’s pretty overgrown, too.” Another smile. “If it wasn’t for the motorway, I’d be advising you to have the whole place bulldozed into the pond, and the trees there cut down. Then you’d have superb views of the moor.” Another smile. “But then we’d be talking about four or five times the present asking price — maybe more, if this barn was included.” The smile had saddened genuinely at that lost prospect. “It is a tragedy, as I say . . . the motorway.” 

Rachel had ignored him. “It smells as though something had died in it.” She had addressed the bad news to Larry alone. “The children will be into the pond there for sure.” 

Her husband’s expression had hardened then. And she remembered too late that he was a country boy, country-bred, and she had known then that resistance was in vain. 

“Well, darling — ” For an instant he had looked up at the ancient beam above him, with a mixture of love and bitterness, because his ownership of it was to be so brief “— well then . . . they’ll just have to do what they’re told, and keep away from it. It can’t be more dangerous than London, any day of the week, anyway.” 

That had made it certain, even though they were a partnership of equal partners. But then he had made it easier by twisting one of his smiles at her, which she could never resist. “I’ll talk to Chris, darling — don’t worry. And . . . while we’re here . . . you can look for another place, without a pond — eh?” 

But with a five-hundred-year-old beam, eh? she had thought lovingly, understanding that he felt he was coming home at last, even if only temporarily here, but at least away from his hated asphalt jungle in Highbury. 

But, very strangely, it hadn’t been like that at all. 

Or, at first, it had been — 

“Mummy, Mummy!” Mel had cried, as she came down the back stair into the kitchen that first morning. “There’s an old cottage in the trees down there"  She pointed vaguely in the fatal direction. 

“What, darling?” Rachel had pretended not to hear. 

Larry looked up from his yesterday’s paper, which he hadn’t got round to reading in the chaos of their arrival. “That’s the old Griffin place,” he had said, matter-of-fact and ready to fulfil his promise as Chris arrived breathlessly behind his sister. “It’s part of our property. But it’s only a ruin.” He had looked down at his paper again. “An old lady named ‘Griffin’ was the last occupant. That’s why it’s called ‘the old Griffin place’.” 

Chris had sat down without a word. And, as Chris played his cards close to his chest even then, that meant that Chris had his plans worked out. 

“Was she a witch?” inquired Mel. “It looks like a witch’s cottage, Daddy — it’s . . . yrrch!” 

Chris had considered the choice between cornflakes and muesli with ostentatious innocence. “There are no such things as witches,” he admonished his sister. Then he had selected the cornflakes. “Can I have two boiled eggs, Mother?” 

Rachel knew her son almost as well as she knew her husband. So she had waited for his next move. 

And Chris had waited too until the second egg. “I think I’ll go down and have a look at it,” he addressed no one in particular. “Is that okay, Father?” 

“What?” Melanie, at the age of six, didn’t know anyone very well, but she knew her brother better than anyone else. “Me too!” 

Larry looked up from his paper. “Not just you — all of us, Chris.” He grinned at Rachel, then at Melanie, and finally at Chris. “After the washing-up we’ll all go down and look at old Mrs Griffin’s cottage. And then we’ll make the rules. Okay?” 

And it had been much better than Rachel had expected, after Larry had slashed his way through all the obstacles with a terrifying weapon he had acquired from somewhere, which looked as though it had last been carried by an angry sans-culotte in the French Revolution. 

So, finally, they had reached the mouldering wreck of old Mrs Griffin’s home: all the paraphernalia of a humble, long-lost and once-upon-a-time existence had still been there, among the nettles and fallen bricks and timbers, and the coarse-leafed growth: broken chairs and smashed furniture, the bits of an immense iron bedstead; the shards of crockery, and bottles and broken bottles — bottles everywhere — and the rusty evidence of tinned food — tins of every shape and size, mixed with rusty springs from an antique armchair mouldering on the edge of the pond. 

“What’s this?” Melanie held up half of a chamber-pot by its handle. “Is it for fruit salad?” 

“I’ll have this, for my bedroom,” Chris, eagle-eyed, held up a pewter candle-stick. But then he’d looked at his father. “Father — let’s go back now.” 

Larry looked at his son. “What’s the matter?” 

“I don’t like the smell.” Chris had balanced himself on a sheet of corrugated iron. “It smells like . . . I don’t know what — drains, maybe?” 

“Yyyrrrch!” Melanie threw her half-chamber-pot into the pond, raising oily circles of water, to disturb clouds of insects. “Drains!” 

“Let’s go back,” Chris had repeated his demand. “This is a beastly place.” 

“Yes,” agreed Melanie. “And . . . I bet she was a witch — old Mrs Griffin!” 

So they had gone back. 

And it had been all right — even all right while the children ranged far and wide over the moor, and under the hill and over the hill and beyond, on foot and then on bicycle, as times had changed, and public inquiry (and government, and minister) had succeeded public inquiry, and the years had passed over the moor, and overhill and underhill, and Dr Groom’s job had developed. And Rachel had been a member of the Women’s Institute, and then treasurer, and then secretary. And, in the seventh year, Madam President. 

And all their plans had changed, as the motorway had taken a different line, and Underhill Farm survived. 

Until that day when Chris — Chris with his voice broken, out of the school choir and into the Junior Colts rugger XV, but Arts-inclined in the run-up to his A-level exams, had cycled over to the archaeology unit which was blazing the trail for the new line of the motorway, beyond the edge of the moor — 

“Mother — Rachel . . .” (Chris wasn’t sure how a chap ought to address his mother: some chaps thought Christian names were OTT, some were still old-fashioned)“. . . you know the old Griffin place — ?” 

Long since, Rachel had stopped worrying about the old Griffin place. It was where it had always been, more-or-less. But after all these years it wasn’t one of her problems, “What about it, darling? The old Griffin place — ?” 

“I was talking to a fellow — a Cambridge chap on the dig over the hill, where they’re working on that Romano-British village . . . which they think may have some
Anglo-Saxon burials . . .” 

“Yes, dear?” Rachel was just beginning to acclimatize to that harsh reality of her son’s greater knowledge in certain areas — like matters Romano-British and Anglo-Saxon, as well as sporting. 

“He was very interesting — what he said was, I mean.” 

She must be careful not to irritate him with her stupidity. “About archaeology?” She had driven past the excavations only the day before, and had admired the chequer-board regularity
of the work in progress. 

“About dustmen, actually.” 

“Dustmen?” Now she really had to be careful. So . . . not another word. 

“Refuse collectors — garbage men.” Suddenly he was serious. “You know, if my A-levels go okay . . . a big if, I agree . . . but if they do, and I can get a place at a decent university . . . I wouldn’t mind reading archaeology. How do you think Dad would take that?” 

Rachel felt assailed on two fronts. “You’ll have to ask him yourself. And it’ll be your decision in the end. So long as you don’t want to be a dustman. . . .” 

He looked at her seriously. “Dustmen have got a lot to answer for.” 

“You can say that again.” The weekly struggle to manhandle — or, all too often, to womanhandle — the dustbins from the kitchen door to the roadside for collection was a sore trial to her. But at least he was changing the subject from a delicate area to a safe one. And, until she had had time to consult Larry — or at least to stop him putting his foot in it — the further away, the better. “What’s all this got to do with the old Griffin place, darling? You know more of it has fallen down since you went away for the summer term? It was in that dreadful storm we had in May — the one that brought down the old plum tree in the orchard.” 

“Yes, I know. I had a look not long ago.” He brushed back his hair from his eyes, and looked the image of his father. “Yesterday, in fact.” 

“Yes, darling?” There had been a time when she would have worried about such an exploration, and when it would have been strictly Against the Rules in fact; although, in fact, that
had been one rule which the children had never broken. But now he was a big boy. But now, also, she was interested. “Why did you do that?” 

He stared at her for a moment. “Dustmen, Mother — Rachel. I told you — dustmen. That’s the point.” 

Rachel could hear her husband clumping finally from the bathroom to the bedroom upstairs. In a moment or two he would be on the back stair, coming down past the little arrow-slit window from which the surviving chimney of the old Griffin place was still just visible through the trees. “Well, the point eludes me, darling. Because no dustman ever came within half a mile of old Mrs Griffin’s dustbins, if she had such things — that’s certain.” 

“Yes, Mother.” He looked at her a little sadly. “That is certain. She didn’t — and they didn’t. And that is the whole point.” 

Still unenlightened, Rachel took refuge in interested (if not intelligent) silence.  And her silence broke him finally. “It’s all still there. For the finding.” 

That broke her. “What is?” 

“Everything. Or, anyway, everything she ever broke, or threw away. Or lost.” Suddenly his voice was eager. “Remember that old pewter candle-stick I picked up there, years ago? That’s still in my room?” 

The light dawned, even blazed, suddenly illuminating all his designs. “But . . . it’s a horrible place, Christopher — a nasty place — ” 

“No, it isn’t, Mother. It’s the ruin of an old farm cottage. And there probably has been a farmhouse hereabouts since medieval times. And . . . maybe the site of the old Griffin place was the original farmhouse, because it has its own pond — the Cambridge chap said it might be. But, anyway, because there weren’t any dustmen and garbage collectors in the old days, and it’s way off the beaten track — everything’s still all there, you see!” 

“What is all there?” Larry spoke from the open doorway of the back staircase, stooping automatically so as not to knock his head on the beam, years of practice having made him perfect. 

“All the accumulated refuse of old Mrs Griffin, dear.” Rachel felt her lips compress. “And your son wishes to dig it up.” 

“Not ‘dig it up’, Mother. Excavate it.” Christopher turned to his father. “Archaeology isn’t just Roman and Anglo-Saxon — and prehistoric, and all that. It’s anything that’s in the past and in the ground. Or above the ground — like . . . like industrial archaeology.” 

“It’s a perfectly horrible place,” snapped Rachel. 

“People excavate Victorian rubbish dumps. And they find quite valuable things,” countered Christopher. 

Damn ‘the Cambridge chap’, thought Rachel. “And get tetanus, probably.” 

Dr Laurence Groom considered his wife and son in turn, and came to a scientist’s conclusion inevitably, as Rachel knew he would. “It sounds interesting.” But at least he had the grace to look at his wife apologetically. “And . . . I’ve always wanted to clear that place up. That pond is undoubtedly the breeding place for our mosquitoes.” Then he smiled at his son. “I doubt that we’ll cast any fresh light on the past, to upset the experts. But you never know what we’ll find, I agree.” 

That, as it transpired, was an understatement. Because, as regards the past and the experts Dr Laurence Groom was wholly wrong. 

IAN KNEW THAT there was someone in his flat the moment he opened the door. And then, almost instantly (and with a mixture of relief and distaste outweighing surprise and fear), not someone, but Reginald Buller. Once smelt, the special mixture of cowdung, old tarred rope and probably illegal substances which Reg Buller smoked was unforgettable. 

As he moved towards the living room door he wrinkled his nose again, and knew that it wasn’t altogether because of the tobacco, but also because Jenny had undoubtedly conned him, he realized. Not only were they already spending good money, but with her instinct for winners and the Tully-Buller reputation for getting results, the pressure to go ahead would likely be irresistible. Even while seeming to meet his doubts she had painted him into a corner as usual. 

“Hullo, Reg.” He observed simultaneously that Buller had helped himself to a beer from the fridge and that he was busy examining the typescripts on the table. “Picked the lock, did you?” 

“Would I do that?” Buller replaced the papers without haste, but not very neatly. “You’ve got a nice Chubb lock, in any case.” He grinned at Ian. “Beyond me, that is. When it comes to breaking-and-entering, I’m strictly amateur.” 

“Well, you certainly didn’t climb in.” There was something utterly disarming about Reg Buller, although he had never been able to pin it down. But perhaps that was all part of the man’s stock-in-trade. “The back’s burglar-proof, I’m reliably informed by the local crime prevention officer. And the front’s a bit public on a Sunday morning. Apart from which, the wistaria isn’t strong enough — you’ve put on weight, Reg.” 

Buller shook his head. “Not weight — prosperity, this is. Like the Swedish lady said to me, ‘Much to hold is much to love.’ Sheer prosperity, my lad.” 

“It looks more like sheer beer-drinking to me. How did you get in.” 

“Ah . . .” Buller lifted his beer-glass. “I hoped you wouldn’t mind. It’s almost sun-over-the-yardarm time, and I was thirsty. Besides which, you always have stocks of this good Cologne beer — I remember that from last time. And . . . I am working for you again after all.” He drank. “Always a pleasure, that is.” 

The beer or the work? “Have another. I’ll have one too. When you’ve told me how you got in, that is.” 

“This is the other. But I’ll have a third — they are little ones . . . I used my key.” 

“Your . . . key?” 

“That’s the ticket. You lent me a spare last time, when I was in an’ out, dropping stuff off. So I had another one cut, just in case.” 

Ian felt himself being shepherded towards the kitchen. “In case of what?” 

“In case I had to come calling again. Like, for a rainy day. An’ today is rainy, and I knew you’d be at church this morning, like always . . . an’ . . . I wanted to catch
you before Mr Tully arrives. An’ he said 12.30. An’. . . .” He gave Ian a sidelong look. 

“And?” Ian knew that look of old. 

“I wanted to make sure the coast was clear.” Buller studied his beer for a moment. Then drank some of it. Then studied what remained with regret. “What I always like about Cologne . . . apart from the art galleries, an’ the museums, an’ all the culture, of course . . . is that, every time your glass gets down to the last inch or so, they just automatically bring you another full one. An’ that’s what I would describe as a very civilized custom. . . . Providing you’re not driving — because the police are something cruel there, if you’ve had a couple.” 

Ian opened the fridge door. “Ein Kölsch, Herr Buller?” He waited uneasily while another bottle from his fast depleting stock disappeared. “What d’you mean — making sure the coast is clear, Reg?” 

Buller drank. “You don’t know you’re being followed? But then, you wouldn’t of course! The Lady might know better . . . but you’d just go walkabout without another thought — I know you!” 

Ian thought bitterly of the ‘Lady’ and of her instincts. But he only thought of her for a moment. Then he started thinking of himself. “I’m being followed?” He tried to imply a mere wish for confirmation, rather than the actual consternation he was experiencing. 

“Oh yes.” Buller nodded. “Meaning . . . I wasn’t quite sure. But I looked up the time of your morning service on the board outside the church. An’ then I had a careful look-around . . . using a couple of my thousand disguises, naturally . . . An’ it seemed to me that you had one at the front, an’ one at the back, trying to blend into their surroundings . . . . In fact, I nearly phoned up the local nick and tipped ’em off, to see what would happen. But then I thought, we can always do that in future — because I’d have to do it anonymously, see? But you can get the old girl downstairs to do it. An’ then we can see whether they do anything about it or not, as the case may be. But we won’t have revealed our own guilty interest, if it’s official.” This time, as he drank, he rationed himself to one swallow. “Which I’d guess it is. But it ’ud be nice to be sure, for starters. When you’re ready — when you’re ready, eh?” 

Jenny had been right. But it was all happening too quickly, nevertheless. Which, of course and on second thoughts, made her even more right, damn it! “What makes you sure —
now?” 

“When you went out, the chap in the front called up the chap at the back. It’s like he’s plugged into one of these bloody ‘Walkman’ things — but he’s two-way plugged . . . . So they both met up at the corner, down the road. An’ then I nipped inside.” Buller put his glass down on the kitchen table. “Of course, they could have in-depth cover. So that could have blown me, too. But, I thought, if they’ve got that sort of cover, then I’m probably already blown to hell, anyway — so what the hell!” He grinned again. “Besides which, it was beginning to rain, an’ I haven’t got an umbrella — ” he shrugged “ — an’ I remembered about your beer supplies, too. An’ I’m not charging for Sunday work. Not until 12.15. Plus travel expenses. So . . . so, actually, you’re still on my private time now, without the meter running.” 

Ian’s thoughts had become cold and hard as he listened, like thick ice over bottomless Arctic water: it had been like this in Beirut, when Jenny had been doing the leg-work as usual in the misplaced belief that the fundamentalist snatch-squad didn’t rate women (or, if they did, they couldn’t handle the indelicacies of kidnapping one), and he had been holed up in the hotel. 

“They’re back in place now, getting nicely soaked. So you’ll have to go out again later on, with your lady and my Mr Tully to draw ’em off.” Buller nodded into his silence. “Which the three of you all together certainly will, goin’ out all together — no! For fuck’s sake don’t go and have a look — !” Buller slid sideways, to block his path. “Lets be nice and innocent for as long as we can, eh?” 

Questions crowded Ian’s mind. “What made you . . . suspicious?” It was an inadequate word, knowing Buller. But it was suitably vague. 

“Huh!” Short of another beer, Buller produced an immense gunmetal lighter with which to set fire to the foul mixture in his pipe, which surely resisted conventional combustion methods. “As soon as Mr Tully mentioned Masson’s name, I thought ‘Aye-aye! Watch yourself, Reg!’” 

“Why?” Ian remembered what Tully had said the first time he’d mentioned Reginald Buller’s name: that, whatever you do, wherever you wanted to go, Buller was halfway there before you started towards it. 

“I never did rate that much — a senior civil servant lost at sea: ‘what a terrible tragedy!’ . . . I never rated that, not even at the time.” Buller shook his head.

“I thought . . . here we go again, I thought — ” A foul smoke-screen enveloped him momentarily, so that he had to wave his hand to disperse it “ — I thought aye-aye!” 

“But there was nothing ever known against Philip Masson, Reg.” 

“Nor there was. And that was what I thought next — quite right, when that was all there was.” This time, a nod of agreement. “But when he turned up again . . . an’ miles from the sea, an’ dry as a bone — ” From shake, through nod, to shake again “ — what sort of tragedy was that, then?” 

That had been what Jenny had wanted to know. Or, anyway, it had been the beginning of what she had wanted to know. “You tell me, Reg — ?” 

“Hmm. . . .” Somehow they had progressed out of the dining room and past the study door (and Reginald Buller would have examined all the ‘Work in progress’ there, too, for a certain guess), into the living room again; but Reg was blocking off the approach to the glorious bow-window, just in case. 

“Well?” 

“No bugger’s saying anything. And you can’t get near where they dug him up.” Buller scratched the back of his head. “They’ve got the local coppers out, both sides of the place, guarding it. There are a couple on the back road to it, never mind the front . . . . And it was two kids who found the body. But you can’t get to them, either. And the parents aren’t talking to anyone.” Another shake. “And I had to be bloody careful, because there were one or two people there I know, sniffing around, buying drinks — from
the Guardian, and the Mirror . . . and so maybe from the big Sundays, too. And the Independent, could be . . . . But, the point is, there’s a smell about it — about Masson — is what there is.” 

“So you didn’t get anything — ?” He knew Reg Buller better than that. 

“Oh . . .” Buller bridled slightly, on his mettle “ . . . there was this barmaid I chatted up, who knew someone in the coroner’s office. And she said . . . that
he said . . . that Masson was planted. And — ” 

“ ‘Planted’ — ?” 

“Buried.” Nod. “In a hole.” Another nod. “He didn’t fall out of the sky, or trip over an’ hit his head, or shoot himself, or have a heart attack.”

Final nod. “The way some of the stories go, there was this pond, an’ he was in it. So . . . I thought he could have fallen into it — or maybe even jumped into it . . . .
But that isn’t the way it was, apparently. Because these children dug him up, it seems.” 

“Why — how . . . did they do that?” Both questions pressed equally. 

“God knows! But it seems that they did. So . . . someone buried him. So someone killed him first — that’s what the barmaid said. And I paid her £50 not to tell anyone else. Although it’s even money that I may have made her greedy, so I can’t be sure that I haven’t wasted . . . your money, my lad — eh?” 

Ian winced inwardly at Tully’s final bill, which would pile his VAT on Reg Buller’s V. . .