Here Be Monsters (6 page)

He stabbed the Beast’s keys angrily. ‘Damn!’ And then, almost as though it was David Audley addressing the Beast, ‘Bloody thing!’

Brothers under the skin
! thought Elizabeth. Because, in the end, they both mistrusted it.

Oliver St John Latimer abandoned the computer, and snatched up the telephone, which lay hidden behind it, and punched numbers into it.

‘Records?’ He looked at Elizabeth quickly. ‘Which day was it in?’

She had had enough time. I’m not quite sure.’ He would be a
Times
and
Guardian
reader. So neither of them had found space for this unimportant filler. ‘The past few days—I’ve been away from my flat, so I bought the
Times
… there was a pile of
Telegraphs
on the mat, when I got back—‘

‘
Telegraph
cuttings—the last week—
Parker
and Pointe du Hoc.’ Latimer addressed the receiver. ‘What d’you mean, you’re short-handed?’

The receiver squawked back at him, less inhibited than the inhuman Beast: the Librarian was a genuine librarian, of independent character and impeccable provenance, as well as vast experience and devoted loyalty.

Oliver St John Latimer deflated visibly, overawed by Miss Russell’s reply. ‘Yes—yes, I quite understand—yes, I do appreciate that, Miss Russell—with the holidays … I do see that … But if you
can
—
Parker
—
yes -
Major Thaddeus E. Parker
—
Pointe du Hoc
—
?’

He looked at Elizabeth, and through her, as he waited. And, on her own account, she ran back everything she knew, to extract anything of importance from it.

They had all been there, in Normandy, for the remembrance D-Day: the Queen, the President of the United States, and the President of France
(had he been there? She couldn’t remember! Major Birkenshawe had said ‘the Frogs’, anyway!).

But Major Thaddeus E-for-Edward Parker hadn
’
t
‘
fallen to his death
’
then, when they were there
—
otherwise it would have been a bigger story, not a filler
(that was what they had emphasized on the newspaper course: that circumstances and timing were an integral part of newspaper ‘tasting’; David Audley, himself an inveterate and compulsive scanner of newspapers, and their Fleet Street expert, had said as much; and David in his time had reputedly managed to suppress—or at least to emasculate—certain highly inconvenient items, usually in exchange for leaking more conveniently attractive ones).

‘Yes, Miss Russell?’ The Deputy-Director continued to look through her. ‘
Edward
Parker—
Edward!
He focused momentarily on Elizabeth. ‘Yes, do that, please.’ Now he was looking at his screen, and she could guess what was on it.

Anyway … the ‘death fall’ could not have happened during what Major Birkenshawe had dismissed as the ‘junketings’ of June 6th. And, by the same token, it must have been a genuine accident: if there had been any suspicion of foul play it would also have made bigger headlines in more papers—

‘Yes, Miss Russell—the same classification. Thank you.’ Latimer replaced the receiver.

That was the contradiction to all her conclusions: an aged American had accidentally fallen over a French cliff forty years after he had once presumably climbed it, to rate six lines in a British newspaper. But now he rated a
Secure classification
.

Elizabeth readied herself for the first service in the second net. And, knowing Latimer even a little, it would be hard and fast—and most likely ‘
Why didn
’
t you mention this before, Miss Loftus
?’

‘Well, now … ’ His hand moved towards the chocolate box, but then gestured vaguely at her instead ‘ … what was it you discussed with Dr Mitchell, Elizabeth?’

Ouch
! But she was sufficiently on her toes not only to get behind the question, but also to decide how she was going to return it.

‘Dr Mitchell?’ She would demonstrate her innocence by misconstruing his drift. ‘Dr Mitchell is no problem, Mr Latimer.’ That would suggest to him that Dr Mitchell
was
a problem, and that she had not been entirely honest for the first time. But it would also suggest that the problem was purely personal, and that she had nothing professional to hide. ‘I thought we’d dealt with that. So far as I’m concerned … we have.’ She gave him an Admiral Varney look. ‘And I really don’t see what Dr Mitchell has to do with Edward Parker—or Major Parker—?’

‘No—‘ The chocolate-seeking hand retreated ‘—of course … But I didn’t really mean that, Elizabeth, I do assure you -‘

But she didn’t want him to explain what he had meant. ‘I presume Major Parker and Edward Parker are one and the same?’ She didn’t want to go too far, either. But the further she got away from Paul, the better. ‘But obviously they are.’ She was on the edge of prudence now, but she couldn’t stop herself. ‘In which case … I would like to know what I’ve really been doing. Because it hasn’t made very much sense to me so far.’

‘What you’ve been doing?’ He drew in a breath. ‘You have been doing what you were instructed to do, Elizabeth. You have been obeying orders.’

She had gone too far. Because Oliver St John Latimer didn’t lose his temper, he simply became silkier. And he was very silky now.

‘Yes, sir.’ She must sound contrite, but not craven. Now that they were far enough away from Paul she must think of her own interests exclusively. ‘I wasn’t questioning that.’

‘Of course not!’ He smiled at her suddenly, and scooped up the Thornton’s box, and cast it into his waste-paper basket. And then reached into one of the drawers of his desk, and produced another one. ‘I quite understand how you feel—I’ve felt the same way myself, on occasion.’ He tore off the wrapping of the box like a child with a Christmas present. ‘And it isn’t as though you’re an expert on military history—‘

God! That was turning back towards Paul
! ‘I found that quite interesting, actually!’
How could she have found it interesting
? ‘Colonel Sharpe’s theories on the role of special forces—military elites … ’ She could just about sustain a few minutes’ interrogation on that now.

‘Hah!’ Latimer appeared to be giving all his attention to the contents of the box. ‘Now
that
, I do agree, is interesting … though more sociologically and politically than in the “bang-bang-you’re-dead” sense … And, of course,
we
are an elite too, Elizabeth—‘ He looked up suddenly at her ‘—you realize that.’ He thrust the box at her. ‘Have one?’

She had better have one. ‘I don’t feel particularly elite at the moment.’

‘Because you didn’t get some elderly ex-soldier’s Christian name?’ He made his own choice, and wolfed it. ‘No matter … Although he
does
seem … not uninteresting, in his way, I agree.’ He selected another of his favourites. ‘No … the trick, with elites, is that they should be used precisely—almost surgically—for whatever is required, and for nothing else.’

Chocolates notwithstanding, he went up a ladder on Elizabeth’s board. For that was almost exactly what Colonel Sharpe had said.

‘So I am going to use you
precisely
—
and even perhaps
surgically
—
now, Elizabeth.’ He looked at her, and she could see that he was happy in his work, as well as with what he was chomping. ‘You did teach Latin in that girls’ school of yours, didn’t you?’

It didn’t quite shatter her confidence, because it wasn’t the first time he’d hit her with
Latin
. But, of course, he had her
curriculum vitae
at his finger-tips, so she couldn’t deny the truth. ‘Yes.’

‘Up to O-level? For two years?’

‘Yes.’ Mrs Hartford had become pregnant; and then she had decided that her new baby was more rewarding than a teacher’s derisory salary. ‘With difficulty.’

‘You obtained good results, nevertheless?’

That was also true—although it was not what she had entered into the record: she had certainly not revealed that she had typed the manuscript of Father’s
Dover Patrol
from nine to half-past eleven, and then prepared next day’s lesson from half-past eleven to one o’clock, five nights a week. ‘I kept one jump ahead of the class. On Mondays I was sometimes three jumps ahead. But there was one particularly clever girl in the class, with slave-driving parents, so it was usually touch-and-go by Friday.’ The memory still made her squirm inwardly—and frown outwardly. ‘I trust you are not about to order me to teach anyone Latin, Mr Latimer.’

‘Eh?’ For a moment he seemed slightly abstracted.

‘I said—‘ It had sounded ridiculous the first time. But then so had the Pointe du Hoc ‘—it doesn’t matter.’

‘Good gracious, no!’ His answer exploded as though by delayed action. ‘I was about to tell you what happened to Major Parker. The
late
Major Parker—as you quite rightly pointed out, Elizabeth.’

On balance, that was an improvement, decided Elizabeth.

‘And he was late back in 1944—that is, he was late extricating himself from the Pointe du Hoc, to report back to his commander. There was a motor-boat, or some such craft, waiting for him under the cliff there. But it was almost getting light, so they headed directly out to sea, because there were still Germans on the cliffs on either side of the headland, they thought. And that was extremely fortunate for the RAF pilot they found as a result, about four miles out. He’d been shot down the previous evening—a certain Squadron Leader T. E. C. Thomas. Aged twenty-eight.’ Latimer waved a hand at his screen. ‘All the details we have about him will be available to you, Elizabeth. And David Audley will also be available to you.’

It was Elizabeth’s turn to think
Good Gracious
!, even if she didn’t say it. ‘What do you mean—“available”?’

‘Exactly that. He knows all about Squadron Leader Thomas, and he should by now be able to advise you on your best course of action.’ He made a cathedral spire with his fingers and gazed at her across it. ‘Be advised by him—I’m sure he will be extremely useful to you. He’s waiting for you now, and he’s entirely at your disposal.’

‘At … my disposal?’ It was the wrong way round—was this what Paul had guessed at when he’d tied himself in knots. ‘David Audley?’

‘Yes … Have you any objections, Elizabeth?’

Objections, rising up like tripod masts, presented themselves to her. David Audley was so vastly senior to her that what he was blandly proposing was not so much like one of Father’s little beardless midshipmen commanding a grizzled petty officer—it was more like a barely-qualified able seaman having his captain at his disposal.

Indeed, it had been David who had been chiefly responsible for her recruitment. Apart from all of which, David was notoriously difficult to control and very much a law unto himself: giving him to her as subordinate adviser was like being asked to take a rhinoceros for a walk. And—perhaps above all—he was about to bring his Cheltenham investigation to its climax.

‘Objections, Mr Latimer?’ Of course, he knew all that as well as she did; yet, against all those objections—and the ones which had not yet occurred to her—there was Father’s old adage about the unwisdom of rejecting opportunity when it knocked, no matter how risky; but she still needed to know one thing, nevertheless. ‘Has Dr Audley agreed to this?’

‘Agreed? Of course he has! He’s quite enthusiastic, even.’ The cathedral fingers intertwined, to become a double fist. ‘He is a brilliant man, with an unrivalled experience of events going back … many years. So it’s your good fortune that I can let you have him for a day or two, Elizabeth.’

More tripod masts—a whole forest of them! Because Latimer had to be lying when he claimed that David was leaving Cheltenham ‘enthusiastically’, never mind that he was ‘happy’ to advise a raw recruit on her first field assignment. And, even supposing that he had a soft spot for his own recruit, he was notoriously at odds with Oliver St John Latimer, and would never willingly dance to Latimer’s tune. Never, never,
never!

‘He will help you.’ Latimer raised a finger. ‘But the final decision in this matter will be yours, Elizabeth.’

So, in spite of all that, Audley
was
dancing. And the world was turned upside-down, though Elizabeth, as all her half-connected and inadequate pieces of information arranged themselves on the board, to make little sense.

Forty years ago the American Rangers had stormed the Pointe du Hoc, and Major Thaddeus
‘
Ed
’
Parker had subsequently picked up an RAF pilot from the sea, as an accidental result. And now, forty years later,
‘
Edward Parker
’
had fallen to his death from that same Pointe du Hoc, and all the alarm bells in Research and Development were ringing to mark his passing!

Also, she remembered suddenly, David Audjey had
unrivalled experience of events going back
…
many years
’
? Even, remembering what Paul had once said about David, there had once been a tank commander by the name of Audley (although it was hard to imagine the man she knew as a fresh-faced boy with one pip on his shoulder!), who had actually been there in Normandy when ‘Ed’ Parker was fishing his RAF pilot out of the drink. But that was stretching coincidence too far, surely—surely?

‘I understand.’ She didn’t understand. But she damn well wasn’t going to beg him to tell her what he actually wanted her to do. ‘But—you were saying—?’

‘Yes.’ He frowned at her, and obviously couldn’t remember what he had been saying before David Audley had intruded, to divert them both. Instead, he reached for another chocolate. ‘What was I saying?’

‘Major Parker rescued this RAF pilot.’ But she mustn’t underestimate him. ‘On June 7th, 1944. Four miles off the Pointe du Hoc.’