‘Well, I am surprised,’ Gaunt was saying. ‘There’s a lot gone, I must say.’
Turner did not look at him.
‘Such as what?’
‘I don’t know. Gadgets, all sorts. This is Mr Harting’s room,’ he explained. ‘Very gadget-minded, Mr Harting is.’
‘What sort of gadgets?’
‘Well, he had a tea machine, you know the kind that wakes you up? Made a lovely cup of tea, that did. Pity that’s gone, really.’
‘What else?’
‘A fire. The new fan type with the two bars over. And a lamp. A smashing one, Japanese. Go all directions, that lamp would. Turn it half-way and it burned soft. Very cheap to run as well, he told me. But I wouldn’t have one, you know, not now they’ve cut the allowances. Still,’ he continued consolingly, ‘I expect he’s taken them home, don’t you, if that’s where he’s gone.’
‘Yes. Yes, I expect he has.’
On the window-sill stood a transistor radio. Stooping until his eyes were on a level with the panel, Turner switched it on. At once they heard the mawkish tones of a British Forces announcer commenting on the Hanover riots and the prospects for a British victory in Brussels. Slowly Turner rolled the tuning needle along the lighted band, his ear cocked all the time to the changing babel of French, German and Dutch.
‘I thought you said physical security.’
‘I did.’
‘You haven’t hardly looked at the windows. Or the locks.’
‘I will, I will.’ He had found a Slav voice and he was listening with deep concentration. ‘Know him well, did you? Come in here often for a cup?’
‘Quite. Depends on how busy, really.’
Switching off the radio, Turner stood up. ‘Wait outside,’ he said. ‘And give me the keys.’
‘What’s he done then?’ Gaunt demanded, hesitating. ‘What’s gone wrong?’
‘Done? Nothing. He’s on compassionate leave. I want to be alone, that’s all.’
‘They say he’s in trouble.’
‘Who?’
‘Talkers.’
‘What sort of trouble?’
‘I don’t know. Car smash maybe. He wasn’t at choir practice, see. Nor Chapel.’
‘Does he drive badly?’
‘Can’t say really.’
Part defiant, part curious, Gaunt stayed by the door, watching as Turner pulled open the wooden wardrobe and peered inside. Three hair-dryers, still in their boxes, lay on the floor beside a pair of rubber overshoes.
‘You’re a friend of his, aren’t you?’
‘Not really. Only from choir, see.’
‘Ah,’ said Turner, staring at him now. ‘You sang for him. I used to sing in choir myself.’
‘Oh really now, where’s that then?’
‘Yorkshire,’ Turner said with awful friendliness, while his pale gaze continued to fix upon Gaunt’s plain face. ‘I hear he’s a lovely organist.’
‘Not at all bad, I will say,’ Gaunt agreed, rashly recognising a common interest.
‘Who’s his special friend; someone else in the choir, was it? A lady perhaps?’ Turner enquired, still not far from piety.
‘He’s not close to anyone, Leo.’
‘Then who does he buy these for?’
The hair-dryers were of varying quality and complexity; the prices on the boxes ran from eighty to two hundred marks. ‘Who for?’ he repeated.
‘All of us. Dips, non-dips; it didn’t signify. He runs a service, see; works the diplomatic discounts. Always do you a favour, Leo will. Don’t matter what you fancy: radios, dish-washers, cars; he’ll get you a bit off, like; you know.’
‘Knows his way round, does he?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Takes a cut too, I expect. For his trouble,’ Turner suggested coaxingly. ‘Quite right too.’
‘I didn’t say so.’
‘Do you a girl as well, would he? Mister Fixit, is that it?’
‘Certainly not,’ said Gaunt, much shocked.
‘What was in it for him?’
‘Nothing. Not that I know of.’
‘Just a little friend of all the world, eh? Likes to be liked. Is that it?’
‘Well, we all do really, don’t we?’
‘Philosopher, are we?’
‘Always willing,’ Gaunt continued, very slow to follow the changes in Turner’s mood. ‘You ask Arthur Meadowes now, there’s an example. The moment Leo’s in Registry, not hardly a day after, he’s down here collecting the mail. “Don’t you bother,” he says to Arthur. “Save your legs, you’re not so young as you were and you’ve plenty to worry about already. I’ll fetch it for you, look.” That’s Leo. Obliging. Saintly really, considering his disadvantages.’