‘Harry?’ Clarke was anxious. ‘Are you still there?’
‘Where are you, Darcy?’ Harry inquired.
The Military Police duties room, in the Castle,’ the other answered at once. They found her body under the walls. Just a kid, Harry. Eighteen or nineteen. They don’t even know who she is yet. That alone would be a big help. But to know who did it would be the biggest bonus of all.’
If there was one man Harry Keogh could trust, it had to be Darcy Clarke. ‘Give me fifteen minutes,’ he said, ‘and I’ll be there.’
Clarke sighed. Thanks, Harry. We’d appreciate it.’
‘We?’ Harry snapped. He couldn’t keep the suspicion out of his voice.
‘Eh?’ Clarke sounded startled, taken aback. ‘Why, the police. And me.’
Murder. The police. Not a Branch job at all. So what was Clarke doing on it – If it was real? ‘How did you get roped in?’
And suddenly the other was . . . caught on the hop? Cagey, anyway. ‘I … I was up here on a “duty run”, visiting an old Scottish auntie. Something I do once in a blue moon. She’s been on her last legs for ten years now but won’t lie down, keeps on tottering around! I was scheduled to go back down to HQ today, but then this came up. It’s something the Branch has been trying to help the police with, a set of – God! – gruesome serial murders, Harry.’
An old Scottish auntie? It was the first time Harry had heard of Darcy’s old auntie. On the other hand, this had to be a good opportunity to find out if they knew anything about . . . about his problem. Harry knew he would have to be careful: he knew too much about E-Branch just to go walking right into something. Yes, and they knew too much about him. But maybe they didn’t know everything. Not yet, anyway.
‘Harry?’ Clarke’s voice came back again, tinny and a little distorted; probably the wires swaying in the winds that invariably blew around the Castle’s high walls. ‘Where will I see you?’
‘On the esplanade, at the top of the Royal Mile,’ the Necroscope growled. ‘And Darcy . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘. . . Nothing. We’ll talk later.’ He replaced the telephone in its cradle and went back to his breakfast in the kitchen: an inch-thick steak, raw and bloody!
To look at, Darcy Clarke was possibly the world’s most nondescript man. Nature had made up for this physical anonymity, however, by giving him an almost unique talent. Clarke was a deflector: he was the opposite of accident-prone. Only let him get close to danger and something, some parapsychological guardian angel, would intervene on his behalf. Which meant that if all of Clarke’s similarly ESP-talented team of psychics were photographs, he’d be the only negative. He had no control over the thing; he was aware of it only on those occasions when he stared deliberately in the face of danger.
The talents of the others – telepathy, scrying, foretelling, oneiromancy, lie-detecting – were more pliable, obedient, applicable: but not Clarke’s. It just did its own thing, which was to look after him. It had no other use. But because it ensured his longevity, it made him the right man for the job. The anomaly was this: that he himself didn’t quite believe in it until he felt it working. He still switched off the current before he’d even change a light-bulb! But maybe that was just another example of the thing at work.
To look at him then, no one would suppose that Clarke could ever be the boss of anything, let alone head of the most secret branch of the British Secret Services. Middle-height, mousy-haired, with something of a slight stoop and a small paunch, and middle-aged to boot, he was middling in just about every way. He had sort of neutral-hazel eyes in a face not much given to laughter, and an intense mouth which you might remember if you remembered nothing else, but other than that there was a general facelessness about him which made him instantly forgettable. The rest of him, including the way he dressed, was . . . medium.