Gaunt had to keep very still to catch the words, they were so softly spoken.
‘It’s nothing bad, is it?’ he asked.
‘And that bag of his,’ Turner continued in the same terribly low key. ‘It wouldn’t have been proper to look inside, I suppose? Open the thermos, for instance. The Lord wouldn’t fancy that, would he? Don’t you worry, Gaunt, it’s nothing bad. Nothing that a prayer and a cup of tea won’t cure.’ He was at the door and Gaunt had to watch him. ‘You were just playing happy families, weren’t you; letting him stroke your leg to make you feel good.’ His voice picked up the Welsh intonation and lampooned it cruelly. ‘”Look how virtuous we are… How much in love… Look how grand, having the dips in… Salt of the earth, we are… Always something on the hod… And sorry you can’t have her, but that’s my privilege.” Well, you’ve bought it, Gaunt, the whole book. A guard they called you: he’d have charmed you into bed for half a crown.’ He pushed open the door. ‘He’s on compassionate leave, and don’t you forget it or you’ll be in hotter water than you are already.’
‘That may be the world you’ve come from,’ Gaunt said suddenly, staring at him as if in revelation, ‘but it isn’t mine, Mr Turner, so don’t come taking it out of me, see. I did my best by Leo and I would again, and I don’t know what’s all twisted in your mind. Poison, that’s what it is; poison.’
‘Go to hell.’ Turner tossed him the keys, and Gaunt let them fall at his feet.
‘If there’s something else you know about him, some other gorgeous bit of gossip, you’d better tell me now. Fast. Well?’
Gaunt shook his head. ‘Go away.’
‘What else do the talkers say? A bit of fluff in the choir was there, Gaunt? You can tell me, I won’t eat you.’
‘I never heard.’
‘What did Bradfield think of him?’
‘How should I know? Ask Bradfield.’
‘Did he like him?’
Gaunt’s face had darkened with disapproval.
‘I’ve no occasion to say,’ he snapped. ‘I don’t gossip about my superiors.’
‘Who’s Praschko? Praschko a name to you?’
‘There’s nothing else. I don’t know.’
Turner pointed at the small pile of Leo’s possessions on the desk. ‘Take those up to the cypher room. I’ll need them later. And the press cuttings. Give them to the clerk and make him sign for them, understand? Whether you fancy him or not. And make a list of everything that’s missing. Everything he’s taken home.’
He did not go immediately to Meadowes, but went outside and stood on the grass verge beside the car park. A veil of mist hung over the barren field and the traffic stormed like an angry sea. The Red Cross building was dark with scaffolding and capped by an orange crane: an oil rig anchored to the tarmac. The policemen watched him curiously, for he remained quite still and his eyes seemed to be trained upon the horizon, though the horizon was obscure. At last – it might have been in response to a command they did not hear – he turned and walked slowly back to the front steps.
‘You ought to get a proper pass,’ the weasel-faced sergeant said, ‘coming in and out all day.’
Registry smelt of dust and sealing wax and printer’s ink. Meadowes was waiting for him. He looked haggard and deeply tired. He did not move as Turner came towards him, pushing his way between the desks and files, but watched him dully and with contempt.
‘Why did they have to send you?’ he asked. ‘Haven’t they got anyone else? Who are you going to wreck this time?’
CHAPTER SIX
The Memory Man
They stood in a small sanctum, a steel-lined tank which served both as a strong-room and an office. The windows were barred twice over, once with fine mesh and once with steel rods. From the adjoining room came the constant shuffle of feet and paper. Meadowes wore a black suit. The edges of the lapels were studded with pins. Steel lockers like sentinels stood along the walls, each with a stencilled number and a combination lock.