The Consequences of Fear by Jacqueline Winspear (the best electronic book reader TXT) 📗

it will be a while before the mark has him sussed, so he can do it all over again. I reckon that first bloke—this ‘Hackett’—bought himself a bottle on the way home or went into another pub with the money, because in truth he’s a serious drinker, and that sort usually likes to drink alone.”

“Why didn’t you stop Hackett coming in, if you thought he was fleecing your customers?” asked Maisie.

“If he’d been tapping up my regulars, I’d have had him by the scruff of the neck and tossed him out on the pavement. And it’snot as if he came in all the time—only a few appearances, so I reckon he did most of his business elsewhere. No, I reckonhe was working some sort of racket with that other bloke, the one Rosie talked about who looked like that actor—oh gawd, whatis his name?” Sharpe scratched his head.

“Victor Mature?” asked Billy.

“That’s the one. I suppose you know about him then.”

Maisie nodded. “Yes, we know him.” She glanced at Billy, who shook his head. “I think I have enough information for now, Mr.Sharpe—and thank you for your time. I know you run a busy establishment here, so I’m much obliged to you.”

They pushed back their chairs, and as they left the snug, Sharpe turned to Maisie. “There was another bloke who came in oncewith the one who looked like Victor Mature, a Scottish fella. You could see he enjoyed his malt whisky, I’ll give him that.”

Maisie felt Billy looking at her, waiting for her to say something. Touching Sharpe on the arm, she stopped him as he movedto lift the flap and return to his place behind the bar. “What Scottish fellow?”

“Big chap. Going bald. Didn’t say much, but went outside with old Victor. Started to take his drink with him, but I had totell him drinks inside only. He was all right, said sorry, put down his glass—and he only had one sip, but it was a big one—thenoff they went.”

“Was this before Hackett arrived? And the other Frenchman?”

Sharpe nodded. “I reckon so. The Scots bloke didn’t stay long.”

“And was this on a Friday, about two weeks ago?”

“Friday, yeah.” He scratched his head. “I should know, shouldn’t I? Friday can be a bit noisy in here—but that’s probablywhy I remember, because people who don’t want to be remembered like to get lost in a crowd, don’t they? And people like menotice them.”

Maisie thanked the publican again and Billy shook his hand as they left.

“Let’s walk across the bridge, Billy,” said Maisie, as they stood outside the Waterman public house.

 

They walked at a slow pace for some moments, Billy understanding that his employer wanted to think, to slot pieces into thepuzzle as a picture formed of what had come to pass on the night Freddie Hackett witnessed a murder.

At last, Billy could wait no longer. “What do you reckon, miss? Right spanner in the works back there, him talking about aScottish bloke coming in.”

“Indeed it is, but it makes sense too—though not in a way I might have hoped for. It renders things very tricky for us.”

“Yeah, you can say that again.”

Maisie stopped and turned, looking into the distance as if following the Thames as it made its way toward Greenwich, thenonward to the place where it would become one with the open sea. She sighed. “In a short while we will have completed ourinvestigation, and we will be able to tell Freddie that he really did witness a murder, but when he asks who did it, we won’tbe able to confirm anything for him, though I have every confidence that I will be able to ensure his safety.”

“Who did it, miss?”

Maisie closed her eyes. “A system did it, Billy. War did it. Terror did it, and so did people living in fear.” She sighed.“But that doesn’t mean I’m not going to confront the man at the heart of this killing, and I’m going to make sure those concernedunderstand exactly what I know.”

Maisie felt a wave of fatigue beginning to claim her. At once she wanted to be at Chelstone, waiting to collect her daughterfrom school. She wanted to be at the flat, counting the minutes until Mark Scott arrived—though she had accepted that shewould probably never see him again; their exchange had seemed so final. She wanted to be finished with this case—a case she’dtaken on because she hated to see a frightened child; a child who feared he would never be believed.

“Anyway, in the grand scheme of things, most of what we learned today is only corroboration of something I know already.”

“Miss, you were going to finish explaining why Miss Hunter was attacked.”

Maisie nodded. “Of course, yes, you should know.” Maisie looked around and pointed to a place against a wall, well away fromanyone walking past. “Billy, I am going to give you some highly classified information—you won’t forget it, so I can’t askyou to do that, and it might not even seem terribly secret, but it is.”

“Who is she? I mean—what did she do, exactly?”

“More than you can ever imagine,” said Maisie. “I suppose there’s probably no other way to describe her work except to say she was a spy. She was one of the best intelligence agents in the field working on behalf of France and Britain during the last war. She was part of a group reporting to Maurice, who was a linchpin between the intelligence services of Britain, France and Belgium.” She put her hand on her chest, feeling her breath become short, imagining Hunter anticipating an attack to the extent that she had prepared for it by wearing what the doctor thought was a “corset” but was in fact an item of protective clothing she had used in earlier years, when the threat of death was part of her job. “Gabriella has access to a stunning depth of information—and contacts everywhere. She knew exactly what had happened to Chaput, not only in France toward the end of the last war but also in