The Tightrope Men / The Enemy

‘Name?’

‘Patricia Joan Metford – her husband is John Howard Metford; he’s something in the City.’

‘What about Meyrick’s present wife?’

‘There isn’t one. Also divorced three years ago. Her name was Janet Meyrick, née Austin.’

‘About the girl – what does she do? Her work? Her hobbies?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Carey. ‘All this stuff is from Meyrick’s dossier. We didn’t delve into the daughter.’

‘You’d better get something fast,’ said Denison. ‘Look, Carey; I don’t know why I’m doing this for you. My impulse right now is to blow the whole thing.’

‘Don’t do that,’ said Carey quickly. ‘I’ll get as much information on the Meyrick girl as I can and I’ll let you have it as soon as possible.’

‘How?’

‘I’ll send it in a sealed envelope by special messenger; she doesn’t have to know what’s on the sheet of paper you’re reading. And if things get too tough I’ll find a way of separating her from you. But, Denison – don’t blow your cover, whatever you do.’

There was a pleading quality in Carey’s voice and Carey, in Denison’s brief experience of him, was not a man who was used to pleading. Denison thought it a good opportunity to turn the screw. ‘I’ve been given the fast run around by you ever since this … this indecent thing was done to me. Now I want an explanation – a full explanation – and it had better be good.’ He was aware that his voice had risen and that he was in danger of becoming hysterical.

‘You’ll get your explanation today,’ promised Carey. ‘Now do your best to handle that girl.’

‘I don’t know if I can. It’s one thing fooling a stranger and another to try it on a member of Meyrick’s family.’

‘We may be lucky,’ said Carey. ‘I don’t think they were too close. I think she was brought up by her mother.’

Denison turned to face the lobby. ‘I’ll have to go now – the girl’s coming.’ He put down the telephone and heard a faint, squawking noise just before the connection was broken. It sounded as though Carey had said, ‘Good luck!’

He walked away from the telephone as she approached. ‘All finished.’

She fell into step with him. ‘You looked as if you were having an argument.’

‘Did I?’

‘I know you’re an argumentative type, but I wondered who you’d found to argue with at five o’clock in the morning in the middle of Oslo.’

They stopped in front of the lifts and Denison pressed the button. ‘Where have you just come from?’

‘Bergen. I hired a car and drove over. Most of yesterday and all night.’ She sighed. ‘I feel a bit pooped.’

He kept his voice neutral. ‘Travelling alone?’

‘Yes.’ She smiled, and said, ‘Wondering about a boyfriend?’

He nodded towards the thinning group in the lobby. ‘I just thought you were with that lot.’ The lift arrived and they stepped inside. ‘No wonder you’re tired if you did all that driving. What it is to be young.’

‘Right now I feel as old as Methuselah,’ she said glumly. ‘It’s the hunger that does it. I’ll feel better after breakfast, I dare say.’

He risked a probe. ‘How old are you, Lyn? I tend to lose track.’

‘Yes, you do, don’t you? You even forgot my twenty-first – or did you forget?’ There was an unexpected bitterness in her voice. ‘Any father who could do that …’ She stopped and bit her lip. ‘I’m sorry, Daddy. It’s my birthday next week.’

‘That’s all right.’ There was an undercurrent of antagonism Denison did not understand. He hesitated, and said, ‘Anyway, you’re old enough to stop calling me Daddy. What’s wrong with Harry?’

She looked at him in surprise and then impulsively squeezed his hand.

They had arrived at the room door and he unlocked it. ‘Bedroom straight ahead – bathroom to the left.’

She walked ahead of him into the bedroom and put down the travelling bag. ‘The bathroom for me,’ she said. ‘I want to wash off some of the grime.’ She opened the bag, picked out a couple of small articles, and disappeared into the bathroom.

He heard the sound of water as she turned on a tap and then he picked up the telephone. ‘This is room three-sixty. If there are any messages for Meyrick – or anything at all – I want to know immediately.’ He put down the telephone and looked contemplatively at the travelling bag.

The bathroom noises continued so he crossed the room quickly and looked into the bag. It was more neatly packed than he had expected which made it easier to search. He saw the blue cover of a British passport and took it out and turned the pages. It was Lyn Meyrick’s birthday on July 21, and she would be twenty-two. Her occupation was given as teacher.

He put the passport back and took out a book of traveller’s cheques. As he flicked through them he whistled softly; the Meyrick family did not believe in stinting themselves. There was a wallet fitted with acetate envelopes which contained credit cards and photographs. He had no time to examine these in detail because he thought she might come out of the bathroom at any moment.

He thrust back the wallet and zipped open a small interior pocket in the bag. It contained the key for a rented car and a bunch of smaller keys. As he zipped it closed he heard all sound cease in the bathroom and, when she emerged, he was standing by the armchair taking off his jacket.

‘That’s much better,’ she said. She had taken off the motoring coat and, in lime green sweater and stretch pants, she looked very trim. ‘When is the earliest I can order breakfast?’

He checked his watch. ‘Not much before half past six, I think. Perhaps the night porter can rustle up sandwiches and coffee.’

She frowned and sat on the bed. ‘No, I’ll wait and have a proper breakfast.’ Blinking her eyes, she said, ‘I still feel as though I’m driving.’

‘You shouldn’t push so hard.’

‘That isn’t what you told me the last time we met.’

Denison did not know what to make of that, so he said neutrally. ‘No.’ The silence lengthened. ‘How’s your mother?’ he asked.

‘She’s all right,’ said Lyn indifferently. ‘But, my God, he’s such a bore.’

‘In what way?’

‘Well, he just sits in an office and makes money. Oh, I know you’re rich, but you made money by making things. He just makes money.’

Denison presumed that ‘he’ was John Howard Metford who was ‘something in the City’. ‘Metford isn’t such a bad chap,’ he said.

‘He’s a bore,’ she said definitely. ‘And it isn’t what you said about him last time.’

Denison decided against making gratuitous judgements. ‘How did you know I was here?’ he asked.

‘I got it out of Andrews,’ she said. ‘When he told me you were in Scandinavia I knew you’d be here or in Helsinki.’ She seemed suddenly nervous. ‘Now I’m not sure I should have come.’

Denison realized he was standing over her. He sat in the armchair and, perhaps in response, she stretched out on the bed. ‘Why not?’ he asked.

‘You can’t be serious when you ask that.’ Her voice was bitter. ‘I still remember the flaming row we had two years ago – and when you didn’t remember my twenty-first birthday I knew you hadn’t forgotten. But, of course, you didn’t forget my birthday – you never forget anything.’