“Yes?”

“Leslie Mothershed?”

“That’s right. What can I do for you?”

“May I come in?”

“I don’t know. What is this about?”

Robert pulled out a Defence Ministry identification card and flashed it. “I’m here on official business, Mr Mothershed. We can either talk here or at the Ministry.” It was a bluff. But he could see the sudden fear on the photographer’s face.

Leslie Mothershed swallowed. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, but … come in.”

Robert entered the drab room. It was shabby-genteel, dreary, not a place where anyone would live by choice.

“Would you kindly explain what you’re doing here?” Mothershed put the proper note of innocent exasperation in his voice.

“I’m here to question you about some photographs you took.”

He knew it! He had known it from the moment he heard the bell. The bastards are going to try to take my fortune away from me. Well, I’m not going to let them do it. “What photographs are you talking about?”

Robert said patiently, “The ones you took at the site of the UFO crash.”

Mothershed stared at Robert for a moment as though caught by surprise, and then forced a laugh. “Oh, those! I wish I had them to give to you.”

“You did take those pictures?”

“I tried.”

“What do you mean … you tried?”

“The bloody things never came out.” Mothershed gave a nervous cough. “My camera fogged. That’s the second time that’s happened to me.” He was babbling now. “I even threw out the negatives. They were no good. It was a complete waste of film. And you know how expensive film is these days.”

He’s a bad liar, Robert thought. He’s on the edge of panic. Robert said sympathetically, “Too bad. Those photographs would have been very helpful.” He said nothing about the list of passengers. If Mothershed lied about the photographs, he would lie about the list. Robert glanced around. The photographs and the list had to be hidden here somewhere. They shouldn’t be difficult to find. The flat consisted of the small living room, a bedroom, a bathroom and what looked like a door to a utility closet. There was no way he could force the man to hand over the material. He had no real authority. But he wanted those photographs and the list of witnesses before the SIS came and took them away. He needed that list for himself.

“Yes,” Mothershed sighed. “Those pictures would have been worth a fortune.”

“Tell me about the spaceship,” Robert said.

Mothershed gave an involuntary shudder. The eerie scene was fixed in his mind forever. “I’ll never forget it,” he said. “The ship seemed to … to pulsate, like it was alive. There was something evil about it. And then there were these two dead aliens inside.”

“Can you tell me anything about the passengers on the bus?”

Sure I can, Mothershed gloated to himself. I have all their names and addresses. “No, I’m afraid I can’t.” Mothershed went on, talking to conceal his nervousness. “The reason I can’t help you about the passengers is that I wasn’t on that bus. They were all strangers.”

“I see. Well, thank you for your cooperation, Mr Mothershed. I appreciate it. Sorry about your pictures.”

“So am I,” Mothershed said. He watched the door close behind the stranger and thought, happily, I’ve done it! I’ve outsmarted the sonsofbitches.

Outside in the hall, Robert was examining the lock on the door. A Chubb. And an old model. It would take him seconds to open it. He would start surveillance in the middle of the night and wait for the photographer to leave the flat in the morning. Once I have the list of passengers in my possession, the rest of the assignment will be simple.

Robert checked into a small hotel near Mothershed’s flat, and telephoned General Hilliard.

“I have the name of the English witness, General.”

“Just a moment. All right. Go ahead, Commander.”

“Leslie Mothershed. He lives in Whitechapel. 213A Grove Road.”

“Excellent. I’ll arrange for the British authorities to speak to him.”

Robert did not mention the passenger list or the photographs.

Those were his aces in the hole.

Reggie’s Fish and Chip Shop was located in a little cul de sac off the Brompton Road. It was a small establishment with a clientele made up mainly of clerks and secretaries who worked in the neighbourhood. Its walls were covered with football posters and the parts that were exposed had not seen fresh paint since the Suez conflict.

The phone behind the counter rang twice before it was answered by a large man dressed in a greasy wool sweater. The man looked like a typical East Ender except for a gold-rimmed monocle fixed tightly in his left eye. The reason for the monocle was apparent to anyone who looked closely at the man – his other eye was made of glass and of a colour blue that was generally seen on travel posters.

“Reggie here.”

“This is the Bishop.”

“Yes, sir,” said Reggie, his voice dropping to a whisper.

“Our client’s name is Mothershed. Christian tag Leslie. Resides at 213A Grove Road, E3. We need this order filled quickly. Understood?”

“Consider it done, sir.”

Chapter Twenty

Leslie Mothershed was lost in a golden daydream. He was being interviewed by the world press. They were asking him about the huge castle he had just bought in Scotland, his chateau in the South of France, his enormous yacht. “And is it true that the Queen has invited you to become the official Royal photographer?” “Yes. I said I would let her know. And now, ladies and gentlemen, if you will all excuse me, I’m late for my show at the BBC …”

His reverie was interrupted by the sound of the doorbell. He looked at his watch. Eleven o’clock. Has that man returned? He walked over to the door and cautiously opened it. In the doorway stood a man shorter than Mothershed (that was the first thing he noticed about him) with thick glasses and a thin, sallow face.

“Excuse me,” the man said diffidently. “I apologize for disturbing you at this hour. I live just down the block. The sign outside says you’re a photographer.”

“So?”

“Do you do passport photos?”

Leslie Mothershed do passport photos? The man who was about to own the world? That would be like asking Michelangelo to paint the bathroom.

“No,” he said, rudely. He started to close the door.

“I really hate to bother you, but I’m in a terrible jam. My plane leaves for Tokyo at eight o’clock in the morning and a little while ago when I took out my passport, I saw that somehow my photograph had been torn loose. It’s missing. I’ve looked everywhere. They won’t let me on the plane without a passport photo.” The little man was near tears.

“I’m sorry,” Mothershed said. “I can’t help you.”

“I’d be willing to pay you a hundred pounds.”

A hundred pounds? To a man with a castle and a chateau and a yacht? It was an insult.

The pathetic little man was going on. “I could go even higher. Two hundred or three hundred. You see, I really must be on that plane or I’ll lose my job.”

Three hundred pounds to take a passport picture? Forgetting the developing, it would take about ten seconds. Mothershed began to calculate. That came to eighteen hundred pounds a minute. Eighteen hundred pounds a minute was one hundred and eight thousand pounds an hour. If he worked an eight-hour day, that would be eight hundred and sixty-four thousand pounds a day. In one week that would come to …

“Will you do it?”

Mothershed’s ego jockeyed with his greed, and greed won out. I can use a bit of pocket money.

“Come in,” Mothershed said. “Stand against that wall.”

“Thank you. I really appreciate this.”

Mothershed wished he had a Polaroid camera. That would have made it so simple. He picked up his Vivitar and said, “Hold still.”

Ten seconds later it was done.

“It will take a while to develop it,” Mothershed said. “If you come back in …”