Free A Prospect of Vengeance by Anthony Price

hadn’t been all Reg had said, he remembered. And that weakened his resistance to her will. ‘If they retire in his line of work.’
    ‘Yes. And that’s interesting too.’ Her voice was back to normal: maybe he had imagined that hint of genuine feeling under the twenty-four-hour insatiable curiosity which powered her normally, without commitment to any cause other than the truth. ‘And particularly interesting to you, as it happens, Ian.’
    ‘To me?’ What he was going to get now was one of the arguments she had intended to use in support of the Scotch beef and the Chateau Haut-Brion (which she had surely known for what it was), in the event of his welshing on the deal.
    ‘Uh-huh.’ She gestured towards the Haut-Brion. ‘I think I may have some idea of what he does, actually.’
    This was that source of hers again: a source she would never mention even as a source, unlike Reg Buller’s vague ‘There’s a bloke I know, in The Street/in the Met/ down the nick/down the pub/in the business’, or John Tully’s notated references to ‘Contact AB’ and ‘Contact XY’ in his reports, whose identities would all be in a little black book somewhere.
    ‘Go on, darling—don’t mind me. I’ve had more than my share.’
    ‘So you have.’ So she had. And if she’d been his, and he’d been hers, he might worry about that; though, as they never would be (which was the old familiar spear in his heart, twisting but never killing), and as she never seemed to change, no matter how much she’d drunk, except that she burned more brightly still, he had no right to worry.
    ‘I’ve got more—I bought a whole case, darling. And the little man gave me what he called a “case-price”, so our bottle was absolutely free — ‘
    ‘Jenny! For heaven’s sake—!’ He had to move, to block her passage towards her Aladdin’s cave. ‘Just sit down, and tell me about Audley, there’s a good girl— sit down! ’
    As he restrained her he thought … and that ’ s another thing: when it comes to money, she ’ s got no bloody idea ! ‘Just tell me—eh?’
    She sat down. ‘Oh … you are a bore, sometimes … Don’t you ever let your hair down—?’ To match the words, she tried ineffectually to recover some of the hair which was coming down all around her face.
    He waited until she had done the best she could. ‘Audley?’
    ‘Yes—all right!’ She abandoned the pushing-and-poking process. There was this man Daddy knew, who was just incredibly high-powered … I mean, Daddy is high -powered—he is like God — ‘ She saw his face, and tried to rescue herself from the blasphemy ‘—I mean, he’s kind , even though he knows everything … ’ She trailed off, grimacing at him.
    That was half her trouble—or maybe all of it: no one could compete against such opposition. And that was also his problem, too. But not just at this moment. ‘I don’t think I’m quite with you, Jen. This man … he was Audley?’
    ‘Good God, no! He was an acquaintance of Daddy’s, I’m trying to tell you. He’s dead now—but quite naturally, I think.’
    Maybe she had had one glass too many. ‘I see. And high-powered with it. But not as high-powered as your father, eh?’
    She frowned at him. ‘What?’
    ‘I was always taught there was only one God.’ It was odd to speak so lightly when one meant what one said. ‘So … like St Peter, say? Or St Paul—he was rather high-powered.’
    She stared at him for a moment, then made a face. ‘Very clever.’ Then the face became serious. ‘Maybe a bit of both of them, actually. Although Daddy just called him “Fred”, as I remember. When I met him.’
    ‘”Fred”?’ At least this wasn’t one of her unacknowledged, unnamed sources, anyway. ‘I don’t think there is a “St Fred” in the calendar of saints. But never mind … You met this “Fred”—‘ It was on the tip of his tongue to ask her what Fred had to do with Audley. But then he looked directly into her eyes