The Tightrope Men / The Enemy

‘Describe him.’

‘Shortish – about five foot seven – with a rat-face and a long nose. Dressed in jeans and a blue jersey. He had a knife.’

‘He had a knife, did he?’ said Carey. ‘So what did you do about that?’

‘Well, the other chap was coming up behind fast – I didn’t have much time to think – so I charged the joker with the knife and sold him the dummy at the last moment’

‘You what?’

‘I sold him the dummy. It’s a rugby expression meaning …’

‘I know what it means,’ snapped Carey. ‘I suppose you were a useful rugby player at one time, too.’

‘That’s right,’ said Denison.

Carey bent his head and put his hand to his brow so that his face was hidden. He seemed to be suppressing some strong emotion. ‘What happened next?’ he asked in a muffled voice.

‘By that time I’d got back to the car park – and there was another man.’

‘Another man,’ said Carey tiredly. ‘Description.’

‘Not much. I think he wore a grey suit He had a gun.’

‘Escalating on you, weren’t they?’ said Carey. His voice was savage. ‘So what did you do then?’

‘I was in the car by the time I saw the gun and I got out of there fast and …’

‘And did a Steve McQueen through the Spiralen, roared through Drammen like an express train and butted a copper in the arse.’

‘Yes,’ said Denison simply. ‘That about wraps it up.’

‘I should think it does,’ said Carey. He was silent for a while, then he said, ‘Regardless of the improbability of all this, I’d still like to know why you went to Drammen in the first place, and why you took the trouble to shake off any followers before leaving Oslo.’

‘Shake off followers,’ said Denison blankly. ‘I didn’t know I was being followed.’

‘You know now. It was for your own protection. But my man says he’s never seen such an expert job of shaking a tail in his life. You were up to all the tricks. You nearly succeeded twice, and you did succeed the third time.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ said Denison. ‘I lost my way a couple of times, that’s all.’

Carey took a deep breath and looked at the ceiling. ‘You lost your way,’ he breathed. His voice became deep and solemn. ‘Dr Meyrick: can you tell me why you lost your way when you know this area better than your own county of Buckinghamshire? You showed no signs of losing your way when you went to Drammen last week.’

Denison took the plunge. ‘Perhaps it’s because I’m not Dr Meyrick.’

Carey whispered, ‘What did you say?’

SIX (#ulink_0453cc10-1005-5bd8-b4e4-37986241c984)

Denison told all of it.

When he had finished Carey’s expression was a mixture of perturbation and harassment. He heard everything Denison had to say but made no comment; instead, he lifted the telephone, dialled a number, and said, ‘George? Ask Ian to come in here for a minute.’

He came from behind the desk and patted Denison on the shoulder. ‘I hope you don’t mind waiting for a few minutes.’ He strode away to intercept the man who had just come in and they held a whispered colloquy before Carey left the room.

He closed the door on the other side and stood for a moment in thought, then he shook his head irritably and went into McCready’s office. McCready looked up, saw Carey’s expression, and said, ‘What’s the matter?’

‘Our boy has rolled clean off his tiny little rocker,’ snapped Carey. ‘That’s what’s the matter. He started off by telling cock-and-bull stories, but then it got worse – much worse.’

‘What did he say?’

Carey told him – in gruesome detail.

Ten minutes later he said, ‘Discounting a lot of balls about mysterious attackers, something happened up there on top of the Spiralen which knocked Meyrick off his perch.’ He rubbed his forehead. ‘When they wish these eggheads on us you’d think they’d test them for mental stability. What we need now is an alienist.’

McCready suppressed a smile. ‘Isn’t that rather an old-fashioned term?’

Carey glared at him. ‘Old-fashioned and accurate.’ He stabbed his finger at the office wall. ‘That … that thing in there isn’t human any more. I tell you, my flesh crawled when I heard what he was saying.’

‘There isn’t a chance that he’s right, is there?’ asked McCready diffidently.

‘No chance at all. I was facing Meyrick at the original briefing in London for two bloody days until I got to hate the sight of his fat face. It’s Meyrick, all right.’

‘There is one point that puzzles me,’ said McCready. ‘When I was with him at the police station in Drammen he didn’t speak a word of Norwegian, and yet I understand he knows the language.’

‘He speaks it fluently,’ said Carey.

‘And yet I’m told that his first words were to the effect that he spoke no Norwegian.’

‘For God’s sake!’ said Carey. ‘You know the man’s history. He was born in Finland and lived there until he was seventeen, when he came to live here in Oslo. When he was twenty-four he moved to England where he’s been ever since. That’s twenty-two years. He didn’t see a rugby ball until he arrived in England, and I’ve studied his dossier and know for a fact that he never boxed in his life.’

‘Then it all fits in with his story that he’s not Meyrick.’ McCready paused for thought. ‘There was a witness at Spiraltoppen who said she saw a gun.’

‘A hysterical waitress,’ sneered Carey. ‘Wait a minute – did you tell Meyrick about that?’

‘I did mention it.’

‘It fits,’ said Carey. ‘You know, I wouldn’t be surprised if the story Meyrick gave to the police wasn’t the absolute truth. He was razzled by a few kids out for a joyride in a stolen car and the experience knocked him off his spindle.’

‘And the gun?’

‘You told him about the gun. He seized that and wove it into his fairy tale, and added a few other trimmings such as the knife and the cosh. I think that in the Spiralen he felt so bloody helpless that he’s invented this story to retain what he thinks is his superiority. At the briefing I assessed him as an arrogant bastard, utterly convinced of his superiority to us lesser mortals. But he wasn’t very superior in the Spiralen, was he?’

‘Interesting theory,’ said McCready. ‘You’d make a good alienist – except for one thing. You lack empathy.’

‘I can’t stand the man,’ said Carey bluntly. ‘He’s an overweening, overbearing, supercilious son-of-a-bitch who thinks the sun shines out of his arse. Mr Know-it-all in person and too bloody toplofty by half.’ He shrugged. ‘But I can’t pick and choose the people I work with. It’s not in my contract.’

‘What did you say he called himself?’

‘Giles Denison from Hampstead. Hampstead, for Christ’s sake!’