She took her time tapping ash from her cigarette, watching her hand to observe if it shook. It didn't, and somewhere on the fringe of her thinking she wondered why not. She was trembling inside like a leaf in a gale. Or perhaps she sensed she was trembling and was really rigid. She couldn't be sure because her body and her mind were somehow out of touch with each other, or so she imagined.

  'You've given us a new lead. I was trying to discover what had happened to Bertram Stead in Dorset when I received the flash about the result of the fingerprints check.'

  'Bertram Stead — Bruce Smedley,' she said. 'He kept the same initials.'

  'Most likely the only clue he dare leave. Even so, it it must have been too much of a giveaway. But your husband was a man who knew his job and any risk he took was carefully calculated. You know that.'

  'I know it, Commander. I also know there is someone terribly ruthless who must be found. You have carefully avoided telling me how my husband died. But I know. I heard the machine-gun over the phone. Was it bad — I mean what it did to him?'

  Slade took his pipe from his mouth and stared at the bowl.

  'Very bad. I've given orders for some of the worst damage to be repaired.'

  'Because you'll require me to provide formal recognition?'

  'Only that. The inquest will be arranged without publicity. You won't be involved. Of course there is afterwards.'

  They were covering a great deal of ground too fast, she thought, while appreciating why. Slade wanted her to make decisions before the possibility of delayed shock crept up on her. In that regard she felt she might disappoint him. Perhaps disappoint both of them.

  'I want him cremated. I'll have his ashes cast on the sea. Ward loved the sea. All the Digburns did. One of them was at Trafalgar and saved a French captain's life. Afterwards they became great friends, which is why Pierre has been a name passed on to generations of Digburns. And now — ' She broke off. 'Excuse me.'

  She rose and hurried from the room.

  While she was gone Slade smoked and mulled over a number of things that had been a challenge on the drive through the night to London. He looked up as she came into the room again.

  'Forgive me, Commander, I —'

  He was standing shaking his head. 'If you keep too tight a rein,' he said with quiet friendliness, 'you are liable to be surprised by yourself.'

  They sat down again and Slade said nothing while she stared across the room, giving no clue to her fresh thoughts. At last she looked at him and said, 'Can I help? I want to.'

  He said something that did not register completely at first.

  'I'd welcome Sally Dean in the Command Squad.'

  When she realized he had used her maiden name, which belonged to the old Ghost Squad days, she followed his gaze and found he was looking at her left hand, which now wore no ring.

  'I don't know why I took my wedding ring off,' she confessed. 'I felt I had to. Not because something was over but because I had to be someone else, someone who had not really belonged to my husband, and I had to make the demonstration to myself. Does that sound crazy?'

  'No. I think you and Howard Digburn had been enough different people to each other in your professional lives to make such a swift reaction natural in the extreme circumstances. You're equipped to help avenge him and to do a worth-while social job that very few other women could do. You know the score. You know the kind of danger you could run into. I think your reaction was immediate and was made to convince yourself you were ready to do what you felt you had to do.'

  She wasn't sure if he was trying to make her feel comfortable with mere words or saying something that he, too, believed, but she didn't mind. The words themselves were reassuring and were what she needed to hear.

  She said, 'I told John Hathaway I would be prepared to do whatever might be necessary in these extreme circumstances, as you've termed them.'

  'I knew that of course. The absence of your wedding ring was, I'll admit, reassuring to me. I wanted Sally Dean, not Sally Digburn, if you can appreciate that.'

  'Sally Dean's been out of circulation for several years, Commander. She may not measure up. I don't mean she won't function or follow orders, but there's more required than know-how and awareness of regulations and rules. There is an extra ability that comes from experience.'

  'I'm glad you appreciate that. Shall we find out if Sally Dean really can hold her own?'

  A small frown of genuine puzzlement laced her eyes.

  'How is that possible?'

  'Have I your permission to demonstrate?' Slade asked, tapping out his pipe and returning it to his pocket.

  'By all means. But I can't see —'

  She stopped as he took from another pocket a small metal box on which he touched a button and into which he said, 'Sam, come up now, will you?'

  He released the button on the box and returned the box to his pocket.

  'Sam's a good man. He drove me here and made good time. Detective Inspector Sam Pickett, married with a couple of girls for whom he'd cut his throat if necessary. You'll like him. Most women do.'

  She felt intrigued because she knew Slade had cooked up whatever she was to be shown before he had arrived. John Hathaway had been good in the old days, but here was a man who made a point of missing nothing and thinking of everything. Because she was a woman she began to ponder his possible weaknesses. Slade wouldn't have been flattered if he could have followed her thoughts in those few minutes while they waited for the door bell to ring. When it did he said, 'Perhaps you'd better answer it.'

  'Very well.'

  She rose and went to the door with her suspicions very close to the surface. She opened it and was confronted by a smiling thickset man with good teeth and eyes that crinkled at the corners with amusement. Just now those crinkles were stretched apart and the man did not look happy, for he was meeting for the first time a woman whose dead husband he had seen only a few hours earlier and the sight had been gut-wrenching even for tough Sam Pickett, a Command Squad member because he had that combination of toughness and resilience that could be described as steel-like. There was also a sharp edge to the man, which he kept concealed but which could be unsheathed as fast as a mental reflex.

  'Commander Slade?' he asked.

  He held a zipped black briefcase which looked as though it was stuffed with papers, and she remembered all the paperwork that went with police procedure these days. Reports in quadruplicate, signed and countersigned. Doubtless the Command Squad was as snowed under with foolscap sheets of yellow paper as any other Scotland Yard department.

  'Come in, Inspector,' she said. 'He's waiting for you.'

  Sam Pickett entered and she closed the door. Maybe it was the briefcase that lulled her suspicions. When he dropped it suddenly and whirled on her to aim a karate chop at the side of her neck she was unprepared. But her reaction was fast. She went back and scrambled out of range.

  Sam Pickett jumped forward and she went down and kicked at his groin, but he picked off the kick on the side of his thigh, and his right hand reached her shoulder, spun her as she straightened and his left came swinging from the other side, to hit empty space because she had bobbed down, aiming the top of her ash-blonde head at his chin, a movement that took him by surprise and at the same time spun her out of his right-hand grasp. He swayed back to avoid the menacing ash-blonde waves and the look of fury masking a face that first impressions told him was lovely enough to fool a man whose mind wasn't on his job.

  He expected her to prevent losing her balance by half throwing herself sideways. Instead he was again surprised. This amazing woman jumped forward with both feet, coming down with a heel on each of his insteps and crowding him so that he couldn't throw a punch.

  Pain wrenched up both legs and he went the only way he could without wings — down.

  As his rump hit the carpet her right foot was travelling towards his jaw. He went flat, and crossed his hands over his throat to protect his adam's apple, knowing how she would deflect her own kick.

  He was right.

  His right fingers curled to catch her foot and wrench.

  Before it came within range Slade had caught her, had turned her swiftly, and she all but fell into his arms.

  'Very convincing,' he said and added to the man on the floor, 'Get up, Sam. You don't look right down there.'

  'I don't feel it,' grunted Sam Pickett, picking himself up, and then he grinned. 'She's something, isn't she?'

  Sally pulled away from Slade. Her face was composed, but there was plenty of sparkle in her snapping eyes to warn both men that she hadn't been amused or entertained by this antic.

  She said, 'I suppose this was some sort of test?'

  Pickett looked at Slade as though expecting him to answer that one. The chief of the Command Squad had turned away when Sally broke free. He turned back, looking at the woman, not the man.

  'One you came through very well. If you hadn't, the work we've done would have been a waste of time, and we've no time to lose if we are to get those responsible for your husband's death and are to be helped by you.'

  Sally let her anger at this treatment escape. It took a full half a minute before she felt composed enough to say, 'How can I help, Commander?'

  Slade picked up the briefcase Pickett had dropped. He unzipped it and from the pile of papers inside withdrew several familiar sheets.

  He passed them to her and said, 'Made out in your maiden name, reinstating you, this time in the Command Squad instead of the old-time Ghost Squad, and with your former rank of detective sergeant, at the modern scale of payment, with full pension scale and all the details you will remember. If you want to help us it will have to be in a capacity that gives you authority to act as you may have to act, Mrs Digburn. You will have to sign all four copies. If you do you will officially be Sergeant Sally Dean. I'd like to know one thing before we go. How long you will require to make up your mind.'

  'Give me five minutes.'

  'Why five?' Slade asked, showing interest.

  'I'll have to read the small print again, and I'll have to hunt for my old National Insurance card. The personnel people will want it.'

  'You might look out one other thing,' Slade told her. 'Your passport. It'll be in your married name. I think you may need a fresh one in your former name.'

  She considered this point and nodded agreement.

  'Very well. Now I'll read through these.' She held up the papers he had given her. 'Until I'm back on the Yard's strength consider me your hostess. You will find bottles in the cabinet with the turntable. Pour yourselves whatever you feel like drinking.'

  She walked towards a large armchair, ready to settle down and consider the form she would have to sign in quadruplicate. As she moved she saw Sam Pickett looking inquiringly at his chief. The inspector seemed to be trying to convey a message in a look. As she reached the chair Slade spoke.

  'Before you read the form, which I have filled in from what John Hathaway told me, Mrs Digburn, so it really only requires your signature, I'd like to show you something.'

  Again he took out his wallet and this time drew a glossy photo from it.

  'Have you ever before seen this woman?'

  Sally put the bunch of foolscap sheets on the armchair and took the photo from Slade. She looked at the face of a woman of startling dark Latin beauty. She knew she was registering recognition, but neither of the two men watching her betrayed surprise.

  'I knew her some years ago,' she said with forced calm. 'She was involved in the case on which I met my husband for the first time.'

  'Do you remember her name?'

  'I'll never forget it. She is Señora Dolores Andallora. At the time I was working for Superintendent Hathaway she had diplomatic immunity through a South American embassy. She tried to kill me and Ward.'

  'Was that the case involving Tony Marino, the European television idol?'

  'That was the one. Don't tell me you think she's responsible for my husband's death.'

  'If she is I shall need a great deal of convincing.'

  Sally's eyes narrowed quickly. She stared down at the face in the photo and then back at Slade.

  'You have a special reason for saying that?'

  'A very special reason.' Slade took the photo from her, put it with the other photo of the bandaged man, and returned his wallet to his pocket. 'The woman you knew as Señora Andallora and who once tried to kill you and Ward Digburn had been living in Poole as Mrs Bertram Stead.'

  Sally's low exclamation was one of disbelief. It sounded like a soft moan induced by sudden pain.

  'You mean she's been living with Ward as his wife?'

  'In the Wessex Heights Hotel, overlooking the harbour. The manager is quite certain. There is no mistake. Three days ago Mrs Stead left suddenly. The next day Mr Stead paid their bill and also left the hotel. Whether he followed her or not I don't know. But he ran into trouble and changed his name, you tell me, to Bruce Smedley. Well, I want to find Mrs Stead. I think she has something of great interest to tell us.'

  Without saying any more Sally walked from the room. In two minutes she was back with a ballpoint pen, an old National Insurance card covered with stamps, and her passport. When she entered the two men were seated at opposite sides of the room, each with a glass of whisky in his hand. She appreciated that Slade did not want her to believe they had been discussing her or her dead husband in her absence. For no good reason she could think of she felt grateful for this.

  She sat in the armchair, read the top copy of the four forms and, using the passport as a rest, signed them. She passed the forms with the passport and insurance card to Slade.

  'Thank you, Sergeant Dean,' the Commander said gravely. 'I'll take care of the details with personnel. I want you to book in at the Wessex Heights in Poole by midday tomorrow.'

  'You mean today?'

  'Tomorrow,' he said. 'Today you've got to come to Gronchester with us. We'll be back for you at ten o'clock. You'll be ready?'

  'I'll be ready.'

  Sam Pickett rose and began straightening his jacket. There was an expression on his face that suggested Cassandra on a bad day, but his gaze was as direct as twin shotgun barrels.

  'I know you won't expect me to apologize for the stormy entry, sergeant,' he said. 'But I'd like you to know it'll be a pleasure to work with you on the team, and at the same time very reassuring.'

  'Thank you, Inspector Pickett,' she said quietly.

  The two men walked towards the door. When he reached it Slade turned.

  'There is one final detail. John Hathaway says you have a firearm and a licence to cover it. What calibre is it?'

  'A thirty-two.'

  'We normally carry thirty-eights. However, it has never been officially released that members of the Command Squad are more often than not armed. We are not a unit to be looked upon as a police precedent. Possibly that's why we get handed the real dirty jobs that would muddy the hands of the Special Branch, who have a public image to maintain. If we cover their ground it's likely to be when the shooting's started. Bring your gun tomorrow. At ten o'clock.'

  They walked out of the room without waiting for her to show them to the front door. She waited until the latch clicked and she knew she was alone. Then she crossed the apartment to the bedroom she had shared with a man who would never return to it or again climb into her bed or lie awake at night in his own, pretending to be asleep so that she would not know he had too many problems chasing each other through his mind to allow sleep to invade it. But she had always known — or thought she had. Just now as she crossed the bedroom to the table with the drawer containing her wedding ring she was not so sure. She opened a lower drawer and felt under a pile of soft undergarments for the gun. She took it out, opened it, saw that it was loaded, and remembered the time Ward had told her, 'An unloaded gun can get you into deep trouble if the time comes to show it. A loaded one can get someone else into deeper trouble. Knowing that is the difference between being an amateur and a professional. But of course there's a proviso. You have to know how to shoot.'

  Ward had personally taken her to the shooting gallery where she had learned all he could tell and teach her about firearms, which amounted to a good deal of knowledge.

  She closed the door as she left the bedroom and returned to the lounge, which she had left in darkness. She crossed to the left of the two curtained windows overlooking the street, drew the curtain to one side, and looked out. Pale grey of morning was washing the street with its tall buildings and rows of parked cars. She saw Slade and Pickett leave the entrance to the block of flats and walk along the pavement. She looked at the cars the two men approached and decided that the sleek black Jag was theirs.

  Because she was looking down she was in a favourable position to see the two figures behind another car break apart and watched as one stepped into the road and the other kept on the pavement, hugging a large saloon for cover. By the time she had the window opened it was too late to shout a warning, even if the Command Squad members would have heard. The man on the pavement had a sub-machine-gun in his hands. He must have kept it under his coat.

  He was bringing it up as she thumbed off the safety catch of the gun in her right hand and raised it in the open window space.

  Her shot hit the man high. He screamed and dropped his weapon. The second man, the one in the road, got off a short burst too late, for Slade and Pickett were down under cover and running towards the man Sally had downed. The armed man in the road hesitated, shouted something to a man who didn't answer because his mouth was filled with blood, and then started to run. Sally lifted her gun again and fired.

  But she knew it was Sam Pickett's shot that downed the running man.

  Neither of the Command Squad men looked up at her window. She closed it, drew the curtain again and walked back in the darkness to the bedroom. She undressed. The last thing she did before climbing into bed was to reload her gun. In the darkness she lay between the cool sheets and squeezed her eyes shut.

  'Oh, Ward, Ward, Ward,' she said silently, the unspoken sound of his name filling her mind like a tolling bell with a large metal tongue. It boomed across her consciousness.

 

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