The Avenue of the Dead (24 page)

Sam pushed his ugly little hat further back from his forehead. He had begun to go bald very early. He squinted at the number. ‘I don't need to check,' he said. ‘It's one of ours. We use those last three letters plus the Z registration on all our decoy autos.'

‘Jesus,' Hickling hissed under his breath. ‘You mean it's a CIA decoy number?'

‘That's what I said,' Sam agreed. ‘And that's all I can tell you, buddy boy. I hope it's helped.'

‘Yes, yes, it certainly has.' Hickling pulled himself together and managed to grin. The CIA had picked up Elizabeth Fleming. He felt the sweat break out and trickle down the side of his face. They had all been completely off course … He finished his beer, exchanged a little inside gossip with Sam, and hurried out of the bar. He couldn't wait to slap John Kidson in the face with this.

The girl assistant in Bruckner's camera shop went on dusting the shelves. The note with his number in New York was safely filed away in a drawer with some order slips. Her instructions had been emphatic. Nobody was to contact her boss while he was out of town. Especially Neil Browning. She didn't say much most of the time, and she had got used to taking short, unexplained instructions over the two years she had been in place in the camera shop. They didn't come from Peter Hickling, nominal head of the intelligence section at the British Embassy, but were issued by a quiet-spoken Englishwoman who had lived in Washington for years, the widow of an American political journalist who was persona grata with everyone of consequence. She had no contact with Hickling or his department, or with any other member of the embassy. Her orders came direct from Humphrey Grant in London.

Bruckner's assistant didn't know her; she only knew that the monthly cheque paid into a separate account in a New York bank was generous. For two years she had been keeping a watch on the customers at the shop, and it was her observation of Neil Browning's visits that alerted London. She had sent copies of the films he took for development, and the recurring presence of the book,
All the President's Men
, tied in with the other visitor, the photographic salesman with the Bronx accent and the twenty-twenty vision. Bruckner was to be kept cut off till he came back from New York. She hummed as she dusted. He thought she was stupid and when he wasn't squeezing her bottom, he shouted at her. She didn't mind. She had a big bank balance and she was saving up to get married. She'd think of Mr Big Mouth Bruckner when she was on her honeymoon in Tahiti and her husband had set up his own photographic shop …

Charlie Kidson was asleep when the telephone rang in her hotel bedroom. She heard it shrilling through her dream and didn't move. It would stop and she could sink back to a deep sleep. But it didn't; it went on and on until she was fully awake, and she reached out and picked it up. ‘Davina? Oh, hello – I'm sorry, I was still dead to the world – no, no, of course you didn't, how are you? Where are you?'

She was sitting up now, holding the receiver in both hands, laughting with excitement. ‘Come on over! Oh, why? Why not – poor darling John is up to his eyes in some crisis and I've nothing to do all day – you are too? The same one. Listen, I'm coming over to you! No, Davy, I won't be put off. Give me the address – I'll be over in half an hour. No, I promise. Half an hour!' She sprang out of bed; her jet lag had vanished. She rushed through her shower, checked her watch as she made up, and decided she'd rather see her sister than put the final gloss on her appearance. She knew by the heads turning in the hotel foyer that she looked as beautiful as ever. She arrived at the studio apartment only ten minutes late, and the person who opened the door to her was Colin Lomax.

He stared at her. She stared back, and then her lovely smile appeared. ‘I hope I haven't got the wrong address. Does Miss Graham live here?'

‘Yes, she does.' He had a faint Scots accent, just the merest inflexion. It was very attractive.

‘I'm her sister Charlie.'

‘I'm Colin Lomax. Come in, won't you?' He didn't shake hands with her. She smiled at him, and thought with amusement that he looked rather embarrassed.

‘Do you live here too?' He stiffened and his mouth snapped into a thin line. She didn't think he was quite as attractive as she'd thought. ‘I do, Mrs Kidson. Davina's upstairs.'

She followed him up the narrow stair to the big open-plan living-room. Davina was sitting with her back to the window; she got up and came quickly towards her. They embraced, and Charlie held her at arm's length and said, ‘Davy, darling, you're looking marvellous!'

‘I'm surprised to hear it,' Davina said. ‘I've been up all night, and I feel like death on a plate.' She caught a glimpse of Colin; he was standing by the door, his hands in his pockets, a scowl on his face. He looked just like that when I first met him, she remembered. All tight with quills on end like a porcupine. Charlie must have upset him. What a change from most men …

‘I'm sorry I woke you up, Charlie,' she said. ‘But poor John was so worried about leaving you on your own like this, he asked me to call you and explain. You're looking just as good as ever. Better, even.'

Charlie laughed. She threw her bag on a chair and dropped gracefully onto the sofa. She held out her hand to her sister. ‘Come and tell me what's been happening,' she said. ‘As much as you can, anyway. Mr Lomax?' Her voice was sweetly innocent. ‘Are you working with my sister?'

He came towards her stiffly, unwillingly. ‘Yes, Mrs Kidson, I am. I'm here to protect her, as a matter of fact. That's my job.'

‘I see. Well, please don't look so cross with me. I'm not going to hit her over the head or anything. Won't you come and talk to us too?'

Davina saw him turn slightly red. Damn you, Charlie, she thought, and then she started to smile. She's not trying to pinch him, she's poking fun at him. And she knows men; he won't take kindly to being teased by a stranger. Oh, my sister, how you've changed since you got married. How we've both changed. And she saw the gleam in Charlie's enormous grey eyes and understood its meaning. He's yours, it said. Good for you, Davy … Good for you.

‘I'll make coffee,' Colin said abruptly.

‘No, you won't.' Davina got up quickly. ‘I'll make it,' she said firmly, and went out leaving them together. Lomax crossed one leg over the other and looked at his foot. He looked at it and it began to swing back and forth.

Charlie was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen. Everything about her was an exaggeration – taller than average, exquisitely slim, hair like a red cloud, a perfect face almost devoid of makeup, eyes that overpowered her other features until she smiled, and then all you saw was the delicious curve of her mouth. She had a strong scent that wafted at him when she moved, and she used her hands in little graceful gestures to emphasize what she was saying. They were white with long silver polished nails and gold rings. This was Davina's sister. This natural freak of perfect beauty.

‘Do you have a cigarette?' she asked. He grunted, and gave her the crumpled packet out of his pocket. She took one and he had to fish out his lighter.

‘Thank you. Can you tell me what's going on?'

‘No, I'm afraid not.'

She ignored the curtness of his answer. He couldn't go on avoiding her, and when he reluctantly faced her, there was no trace of the mocking amusement in her eyes. There was a serious, determined expression in them that reminded him suddenly of Davina. ‘I know Liz is dead,' she said. ‘John told me. But that's all. I don't really care, you know; I just want to be sure there's nothing dangerous in it for my sister. She's been through quite enough.'

Lomax found an ashtray for her. ‘You don't have to worry about that,' he said. ‘That's my department. I'll take damned good care of her.'

‘I'm sure you will,' Charlie said, ‘– if she'll let you. She's a very determined person.'

‘So I've noticed.' He wished Davina would come back. He felt certain that this amazingly self-possessed woman was going to say something personal and embarrassing at any moment. After a couple of puffs, Charlie stubbed out her cigarette.

‘I think you're fond of Davy, aren't you? You don't mind me saying so, I hope.'

‘Not at all,' Lomax said politely. ‘I am fond of her. You're right.'

‘I'm glad. She needs someone to love her, and you seem the right sort of person for her. She's got to have a strong man, because she's so strong herself.'

He couldn't help it, he had to ask the question, one eye on the door in case Davina came through it.

‘Did you know her husband?'

‘Slightly,' Charlie said.

‘What was he like?'

‘Very strong,' she answered. ‘He adored Davy; they adored each other.' Then she answered the question he wouldn't have asked for himself. ‘Not like you to look at. Not at all good-looking, very Slavic. Much more friendly, actually,' and he saw her smile.

It didn't come easily to him but he smiled faintly back at her. His instinct counted her as an ally – a most unlikely ally, but somehow she was on his side. He felt and looked rather sheepish. ‘Would you like another cigarette?'

‘No, I only half-smoke them anyway. John says it's an awful waste. Don't tell Davy I talked to you about Sasanov, will you? She'd be very cross. She hates being discussed.'

For the first time Colin looked directly into her beautiful eyes and said simply, ‘I'll ask the same of you, Mrs Kidson. She'd be cross as hell with me too.' He got up as the door opened and took the tray of coffee from Davina.

‘How awful,' Charlie said a little later. Davina had been surprised to discover how much John Kidson discussed his work with his wife. ‘But if Edward Fleming didn't murder her, then who did?'

‘That's the question we'd all like answered,' Davina said. ‘And it's not the only one. How well did you know her, Charlie? There was quite an age gap between you – she was my contemporary.'

‘I know, but it didn't seem to matter. I was married to Peter first –' She hesitated and Davina nodded.

‘Go on.'

‘We were living in London and I met her at some lunch party. I can't remember. She was very sweet, and suggested we might have dinner. She was getting married herself quite soon, so we all met and got on together and we used to go out as a foursome, and sometimes she and I would have lunch or go to the cinema. She always looked immaculate and wildly attractive; she wasn't bothered about men particularly, though she liked having them around. But she didn't hurry to get married, and I never heard any gossip about her. I mean, that's really all I can tell you, Davy. She wasn't a very close friend.' There was a wide disarming smile. ‘She was even more selfish than me, and there's a limit to friendships like that. She was terribly sweet-natured on the surface. Everybody raved about how nice she was, just like when we were at school.'

‘She certainly changed then,' Lomax said. ‘Sweet and nice she wasn't.'

‘If she took to drink,' Charlie suggested, ‘maybe her real self came to the surface. But I must say, I find it hard to imagine Liz doing anything to spoil her looks. She told me she wouldn't have children because it'd ruin her figure. I don't think the husband was too pleased about that. She had two frightful little yappy dachshunds that went everywhere with her.'

Davina put the coffee cup down. ‘Two dogs?'

‘Yes – you know I'm fond of animals, but I couldn't stand these. Why?'

Davina shook her head; she was frowning. ‘Oh, nothing … Look, Charlie I think I should go over to the Flemings' house. He's under sedation, but I might be able to talk to him for a few minutes. You don't mind, do you?'

‘Why don't I come too?' Charlie suggested. She got up and swung her handbag over her shoulder. ‘I've got nothing else to do. I won't be in the way. Please, Davy; John won't mind.'

It was Colin Lomax who said, ‘Why not? Your sister can wait with me.'

Humphrey Grant arrived at Dulles airport just after eleven a.m. He had slept during the flight, his ears plugged and his gaunt face half-covered by a black sleep mask. He disliked flying and detested the pre-packed food and rattling trolleys full of drink he didn't want. Worst of all was the hazard of a talkative neighbour. He repulsed the stewardess and his fellow travellers with his sleeping mask and ear plugs, and woke up exactly fifteen minutes before they came into land.

Kidson was waiting for him at the airport. He looked as grey-faced as Humphrey Grant. They collected his small bag, went through customs and immigration and out into the hot sunshine. Kidson drove him through Washington; Grant stared gloomily out of the window. They didn't speak, except for Kidson's enquiry about Sir James White. ‘How's the chief?'

Grant's little hooded eyes flickered at him and then away. ‘Not best pleased,' was all he said. They drove to the embassy and went in through a side entrance. Kidson took him straight to Hickling's office. The secretary informed them that Peter Hickling had gone out. Grant lowered his long body into a chair, and the movement reminded Kidson of a grasshopper disposing itself on a twig.

‘We may as well go over the facts,' he announced to Kidson, ‘since apparently our principal intelligence officer has gone out on some errand or other. Didn't he know I was coming?'

‘Yes, of course he knew,' John Kidson answered irritably. ‘If he's out, there's a good reason for it. But before he does come back, I'll say this to you privately, Humphrey. He needs a good sharp kick up the backside. He's got slack over here.'

‘That's obvious,' Grant muttered. ‘I shall do the kicking. He's being replaced. Where is Davina?'

‘She's over with Fleming,' Kidson said. ‘She's going to ask him a few questions while he's still woolly from the dope they gave him. It's possible she might catch him out.'