‘Tad Cullen’s not in any hole. I’m not being quixotic, if that is what you’re thinking. I’m going away tomorrow because that is the thing I want to do.’ He was going to add, ‘I just can’t wait to get away’, but even with an intimate like Laura that might lead to misunderstanding.

‘But we are all so happy, and things were—’ she broke off. ‘Oh, well. Nothing I can say will make you change your mind. I ought to know that. Nothing has ever made you deviate by a hair’s breadth from any line that you once set your mind on. You’ve always been a damned Juggernaut.’

‘A damned horrible metaphor,’ he said. ‘Couldn’t you make it a bullet or a bee-line or something equally undeviating but less destructive?’

She put her arm through his, friendly and a little amused. ‘But you are destructive, darling.’ And as he began a protest: ‘All in the very kindest and most lethal way imaginable. Come and have a drink. You look as if you could do with one.’

11

Even the undeviating Grant, of course, had his unsure moments.

‘You fool!’ said that inner voice, as he was climbing into the London plane at Scoone. ‘Giving up even a day of your precious leave to hunt will-o’-the-wisps.’

‘I’m not hunting any will-o’-the-wisps. I just want to know what happened to Bill Kenrick.’

‘And what is Bill Kenrick to you that you should give up even an hour of your free time for him?’

‘I’m interested in him. If you want to know, I like him.’

‘You don’t know a thing about him. You have made a god in your own image, and are busy worshipping it.’

‘I know quite a lot about him. I’ve listened to Tad Cullen.’

‘A prejudiced witness.’

‘A nice boy, which is more important. The Cullen boy had a wide choice of friends in an organisation like OCAL and he chose Bill Kenrick.’

‘Lots of nice boys have chosen criminal friends.’

‘Come to that, I’ve known some nice criminals.’

‘Yeah? How many? And how many minutes of your leave would you give up to a criminal type?’

‘Not thirty seconds. But the Kenrick boy is no criminal.’

‘A complete set of another man’s papers isn’t a particularly law-abiding thing to be carrying round, is it?’

‘I’ll find out about that presently. Meanwhile shut up and leave me alone.’

‘Huh! Stumped, aren’t you!’

‘Go away.’

‘Sticking your neck out for an unknown boy at your age!’

‘Who’s sticking his neck out?’

‘You didn’t have to do this plane journey at all. You could have gone back by train or by road. But no, you had to arrange to have yourself shut into a box. A box without a window or a door that will open. A box you can’t escape from. A tight, silent, enclosed, sealed—’

‘Shut up!’

‘Huh! You’re breathing short already! In about ten minutes the thing will hit you for six. You ought to have your head examined, Alan Grant, you certainly ought to have your head examined.’

‘There is one part of my cranial equipment that is still in admirable working order.’

‘What is that?’

‘My teeth.’

‘You planning to chew something? That’s no cure.’

‘No. I plan to grit them.’

And whether it was because he had thumbed his nose at the devil or whether it was that Bill Kenrick stood beside him all the way, Grant made that journey in peace. Tad Cullen slumped into the seat beside him and fell instantly asleep. Grant closed his eyes and let the patterns form in his mind and dissolve and fade and form anew.

Why had Bill Kenrick blacked himself all over?

Whom was he trying to fool?

Why had it been necessary to fool anyone?

As they were circling to land Tad woke up and without looking out of the window began to pull up his tie and smooth his hair. Apparently some sixth sense in a flyer’s brain kept tally of speed, distance and angle, even when he was unconscious.

‘Well,’ said Tad. ‘Back to the lights of London and the old Westmorland.’

‘You don’t have to go back to your hotel,’ Grant said. ‘I can give you a bed.’

‘That’s very kind of you, Mr Grant, and I appreciate it. But I don’t have to put your wife—or—or whoever it is—’

‘My housekeeper.’

‘I don’t have to put your housekeeper about.’ He slapped his pocket. ‘I’m loaded.’

‘Even after—what was it? — a fortnight in Paris? I congratulate you.’

‘Oh, well. I don’t think Paris is what it used to be. Or perhaps it was just that I missed Bill. Anyhow, I don’t need to fuss anyone making beds for me, thanks all the same. And if you’re going to be busy you don’t want me around. But you’ll not shut me out of this thing, will you? You’ll keep me “with you”, as Bill says. Said, I mean.’

‘I will indeed, Tad, I will indeed. I put a fly on a line in a hotel in Oban and fished you out of the white population of the world. I’m certainly not going to throw you back now.’

Tad grinned. ‘I suppose you know what you’re talking about. When are you going to see this Lloyd guy?’

‘This evening if he is at home. The worst of explorers is that if they are not exploring they are lecturing; so he may be anywhere between China and Peru. What startled you?’

‘How did you know I was startled?’

‘My dear Tad, your fresh and open countenance was never made for either poker or diplomacy.’

‘No, it was just that you chose two places that Bill always chose. He used to say that, “From China to Peru”.’

‘He did? He seems to have known his Johnson.’

‘Johnson?’

‘Yes. Samuel Johnson. It’s a quotation.’

‘Oh. Oh, I see.’ Tad looked faintly abashed.

‘If you’re still doubtful about me, Tad Cullen, you had better come along the Embankment with me now and let some of my colleagues vouch for me.’

Mr Cullen’s fair skin went a deep red. ‘I’m sorry. Just for a moment there I—. It did sound as if you had known Bill. You’ll have to forgive me being suspicious, Mr Grant. I’m all at sea, you know. I don’t know a soul in this country. I just have to take people as they come. On face value, I mean. Of course I’m not doubtful about you. I’m too grateful to you to be able to find words to describe how grateful I am. You have to believe that.’

‘Of course I believe it. I was only teasing you, and I had no right to. It would be unintelligent of you not to be suspicious. Here is my address and telephone number. I’ll telephone you as soon as I’ve seen Lloyd.’

‘You don’t think I should come with you, perhaps?’

‘No. I think a deputation of two would be a little excessive for so slight an occasion. What time will you be at the Westmorland tonight to take a phone call?’

‘Mr Grant, I’ll be sitting with my hand on that thing until you call.’

‘Better eat some time. I’ll call you at half-past eight.’

‘Okay. Half-past eight.’

London was a misty grey with scarlet trimmings, and Grant looked at it with affection. Army nurses used to have that rig-out; that grey and scarlet. And in some ways London gave one the same sense of grace and power that went with that Sister’s uniform. The dignity, the underlying kindness beneath the surface indifference, the respect-worthiness that compensated for the lack of pretty frills. He watched the red buses making the grey day beautiful, and blessed them. What a happy thing it was that London buses should be scarlet. In Scotland the buses were painted that most miserable of all colours: blue. A colour so miserable that it was a synonym for depression. But the English, God bless them, had had gayer ideas.

He found Mrs Tinker turning out the spare bedroom. There was not the slightest need for anyone to turn out the spare bedroom, but Mrs Tinker obtained the same pleasure from turning out a room that other people get from writing a symphony, or winning a cup at golf, or swimming the Channel. She belonged to that numerous species once succinctly described by Laura as ‘the kind of woman who washes her front doorstep every day and her own hair every six weeks’.