The High Commissioner. Jon Cleary

gathered that. I’m getting more and more in your debt.”

      “I’m a tough creditor,” said Malone, trying not to sound like a liar. “Don’t ask for too much more.”

      II

      When they went back into the living-room Lisa had gone, but two men were there with Sheila Quentin.

      “Superintendent Denzil and Sergeant Coburn.” Sheila had regained her composure; she had learned her lessons well as a diplomat’s wife. “From Scotland Yard.”

      “Special Branch,” said Denzil, and gave a purple tone to the word Special: he was not a hoi-polloi policeman. He was a squarish man running a little to weight; every so often he seemed to become conscious of his belly and would tuck it in, like a man trying to hide the error of an indulged life. Bright blue eyes in his red face gave him a false impression of cheeriness; the wide, thin-lipped mouth told the truth. He’d arrest his own mother, Malone thought, if it meant promotion. Despite the warm evening he was dressed in a tweed suit, a regimental tie, with stripes that went ill with his red face, hung on his broad chest. He had a gruff fruity voice, full of a false bonhomie that could trick an unwary prisoner. “Someone took a shot at you, sir. We’ll have to put a stop to that.”

      “I’d appreciate it,” said Quentin, and Denzil looked at him, as if not certain whether the High Commissioner was being ironic or not.

      “The constable tells me he found nothing over in the gardens. But Sergeant Coburn is going over just to double-check.”

      I bet the uniformed boys love working with you, Malone thought.

      Coburn nodded and went out of the room. He was a young man, tall and thin, his face all bone and dark intense stare. He looked as if he might never laugh, but that might be because he was always with Denzil. He had one eyebrow that sat much higher than the other, and Malone suspected he would never get far in the Force: he would always look quizzical of his superiors.

      When the door closed behind Coburn, Denzil said, “Mrs. Quentin tells me you are from Australian Security, Mr. Malone. Have you been in touch with anyone else at Special Branch?”

      “Mr. Malone only arrived tonight from Australia,” Quentin said quickly.

      Denzil nodded as if that were no excuse at all. “Did you have any suspicions that something like this might happen to His Excellency? Was that why you were sent over, Mr. Malone?” He smiled mechanically, his big white teeth appearing between the thin lips like a blank illuminated sign. “I’m looking for some sort of lead, you understand.”

      Malone looked at Quentin. “I think I’d better have a few words alone with the superintendent, sir.”

      Quentin stared at him; for a moment Malone expected to see the pleading look again, and suddenly felt resentful. Don’t ask any more favours; you’ve had your lot.