Free The Factory by Brian Freemantle Page A

stairs,’ said Bell. He and his wife had occupied separate bedrooms for several months.
    â€˜Darling!’ she said, without affection. ‘You were so drunk I doubt if you could have seen anything anyway.’ She hesitated and added: ‘If you’re not careful with your drinking you’re going to have a problem. If you haven’t got one already, that is.’
    Bell said nothing, trying to drink his tea without spilling it and wishing that his hands didn’t shake so much.
    Fowler managed to visit on the same day both of the gun clubs to which Valentin Shidak belonged and got remarkably similar reports from each. Shidak was practically the best shot at each. He practised regularly, at least once a week at both. And both regretted his lack of interest in competition shooting, because each would have liked him in their team, but he’d refused every time he was asked. The secretaries of both laughed at him when Fowler asked if Shidak had ever talked of owning an M-16 rifle or used it at their clubs.
    â€˜That’s an assault rifle and illegal in this country!’ said the official of the Harrow club. ‘It would probably blow the back off our shooting range!’
    â€˜Yes,’ agreed Fowler. ‘It probably would.’
    He had to wait until the evening to find everybody in at the one-room-per-occupant house in Fulham in which Shidak had lived before moving in with Alice. Three people had moved in after Shidak left. The remaining three remembered the man from his notoriety as a Soviet dissident but none appeared to like him very much: all three were quick to deny any friendship. He’d often carried a long case which could have contained a rifle but he’d never discussed guns with any of them.
    It was impulse, a sudden inspiration, which made Fowler run a check on Alice Irving and what he learned added to his growing unease. He politely apologized for returning to her apartment and said he regretted not having anything positive to tell her but asked if she’d help with a few more questions. She confirmed that Shidak owned a car, a four-year-old Nissan, and that he had an American Express credit card.
    â€˜One last thing,’ said Fowler at the door as he prepared to leave. ‘Did Shidak know who your father was?’
    â€˜Yes. Why?’
    Fowler avoided a reply. ‘And how did you meet?’
    â€˜My last term at Oxford University. He came up to give a series of lectures on modern history. That was my subject so I went to a couple, with a friend. She introduced me to him, after one of his talks. He was a very exciting speaker.’
    â€˜You remember who the friend was, who introduced you?’
    Alice frowned. ‘Of course. She only lives three streets away. Why?’
    â€˜All part of building up a picture,’ said Fowler, again avoiding a direct reply.
    The Director General called Fowler to his office at the end of the first week of inquiries, listening grave-faced as the field agent gave an account of his investigation. When Fowler finished, Bell said: ‘So what’s the conclusion?’
    â€˜I don’t have one, not yet,’ said Fowler. ‘But I think there’s cause for serious concern.’
    â€˜All circumstantial,’ mused Bell, more to himself than the other man.
    â€˜Explain the Gower Street address inside the match folder of Ml5, Britain’s counter-intelligence service,’ challenged Fowler. ‘And they did use him as a consultant in the early days. I checked.’
    â€˜Isn’t that the explanation?’ suggested the Director General. ‘A reminder of an address where he did some work?’
    Fowler shook his head in refusal. ‘Everyone stopped using Shidak a year ago,’ he reminded. ‘And M15 before that, at least two and a half. Who keeps for two and a half years a match folder with an address of an organization that doesn’t use him any more?’
    â€˜No one,’