Deadspawn

For a moment Clarke's mind was full of confusion, but he knew that to hesitate would only make him look suspect. 'What do you want me to do?' he said.

'Find out who's ru

'I'll do what I can.'

'Do better than that,' Harry came back like a shot. 'Or I'll have to do it myself.'

Why haven't you already? Clarke wondered. Are you afraid of Paxton, Harry? And if so, why? 'I've told you he isn't one of mine,' he said out loud. 'Now that's the truth, so you can't threaten me through him. But like I said, I'll do what I can.'

There was a pause. Then: 'And you'll get the details of those girls to me?'

'That's a promise.'

'OK.' The Necroscope's voice had slackened a little, lost some of its tension. 'I ... I didn't mean to come on so strong, Darcy.'

Clarke's heart at once went out to him. 'Harry, I think you've a lot on your mind. Maybe we can speak sometime - in person, I mean? What I'm saying is, don't be afraid to come to me.'

'Afraid?'

It had been the wrong word. 'Apprehensive, then. I mean, don't worry that there might be something you can't tell me or we can't talk about. There isn't anything you can't tell me, Harry.'

Again that long, perhaps indicative pause. Then: 'But right now I don't have anything to tell you, Darcy. However, I'll get back to you if I ever do.' 'Is that a promise?' 'Yes, that's a promise too. And Darcy - thanks.'

Clarke sat and thought about it for long minutes. And while he sat there behind his desk, drumming his fingers in a continuous, monotonous tattoo, so he became aware of the first small warning bells growing to an insistent clamour at the back of his mind. Harry Keogh had required him to find out who was ru

The last man to occupy this desk had been Norman Harold Wellesley, a traitor. Wellesley was gone now, dead, but the fact that he'd ever existed at all - and in this of all jobs - must have caused ructions further up the line. What, a double-agent? A spy among mindspies? Something which must never be allowed to happen again, obviously; but how to stop it from happening again? Could it be that someone had been appointed to watch the watchers?

It reminded Clarke of a ditty his mother had used to say to him when he was small and had an itch. She would find the spot and scratch it, reciting:

'Big fleas have little fleas

upon their backs to bite 'em.

And little fleas have smaller fleas,

and so ad infinitum!'

Was Clarke himself under esper scrutiny? And if so, what had been read from his mind?

He got on to the switchboard, said: 'Get me the Minister Responsible. If he's not available, leave a message that he's to call me back soonest. Also, I'd like someone to run me off a duplicate set of police reports on those girls in that serial killer case.'

Half an hour later the reports were delivered to him, and as he was putting them in a large envelope he got his call from the Minister. 'Yes, Clarke?'

'Sir,' he said, 'I just had Harry Keogh on the 'phone.'

'Oh?'

'He asked for a set of reports on the girls in the serial killer case. As you'll recall, we asked for his help on that.'

'I recall that you asked for his help, Clarke, yes. But in fact I'm not so sure it was a good idea. Indeed, I think it's time to rethink our attitude towards Keogh.'

'Oh?'

'Yes. I know he's been of some assistance to the Branch, and -'

'Some?' Clarke had to cut in. 'Some assistance? We'd have all been goners long ago without him. We can't ever repay him. Not just us but everyone. And I do mean everyone.'

Things change, Clarke,' said that unseen, unknown other. 'You people are a weird lot - no offence - and Keogh has to be the weirdest of all. Also, he's not really one of you. So as of now I want you to avoid contact with him. But we'll talk about him again later, I'm sure.'

The warning bells rang even louder. Talking to the Minister Responsible was always like talking to a very smooth robot, but this time he was just too smooth. 'And the police reports? Does he get them?'

'I think not. Let's just keep him at arm's length for the moment, right?'

'Is there something to worry about, maybe?' Clarke came straight out with it. 'Do you think perhaps we should watch him?'

'Why, you surprise me!' said the other, smooth as ever. 'It was my understanding that Keogh had always been a good friend of yours.'

'He has.'

'Well, and doubtless that was of value at the time. But as I said, things change. I will get back to you about him - one way or the other - in good time. But until then... was there anything else?'

'One small thing.' Clarke kept his tone neutral but scowled at the 'phone. 'About Paxton...'It was a leaf straight out of Harry Keogh's book, and it worked just as well for Clarke.

'Paxton?' (He actually heard the Minister catch his breath!) Then, more cautiously, perhaps curiously: 'Paxton? But we're no longer interested in him, are we?'

'It's just that I was reading through his records,' Clarke lied, 'his progress reports, you know? And it seemed to me we lost a good one there. Is it possible you've been maybe a bit too thorough? A shame to lose him if there's a chance we can bring him on. We really can't afford to waste talents like his.'

'Clarke,' the Minister sighed, 'you have your side of the job, and I have mine. I don't question your decisions, do I?'

Don't you?

'And I really would appreciate it if you wouldn't question mine. Forget about Paxton, he's out of it.'

'As you wish - but I think I'll at least keep an eye on him. If only from a distance. After all, we're not the only ones in the mindspy game. I'd hate it if he were recruited by the other side...'

The Minister was getting peeved. 'For the moment you have quite enough work on your plate!' he snapped. 'Leave Paxton be. A periodic check will suffice - when I say so!'

Clarke was only polite when people were polite to him. He was far too important to let himself be stepped on. 'Keep your shirt on ... sir,' he growled. 'Anything I say or do is in the Branch's best interest, believe me - even when I step on toes.'

'Of course, of course.' The other was at once conciliatory. 'But we're all in the same boat, Clarke, and none of us knows everything. So for the time being let's just trust each other, all right?'

Oh, yeah, let's! Sure! 'Fine,' Clarke said. 'I'm sorry I've taken up so much of your time.'

'That's all right. We'll be speaking again soon, I'm sure...'

Clarke put the 'phone down and continued to scowl at it a while, then sealed the envelope containing the police reports and scrawled Harry Keogh's address on it. He erased his and Keogh's recent conversation, then asked the switchboard if they'd traced the call. They had and it was Harry's Edinburgh number. He 'phoned it direct but got no answer. And finally he called a courier into his office and gave him the envelope.

'Post it, please,' he said, but before the courier could leave: 'No, repackage the whole thing and send it off special delivery. And then forget you ever saw it, right?'

In a little while he was alone with his dark, suspicious thoughts again, and an itch between his shoulderblades which he couldn't quite get at.

And his mother's ditty about fleas, which was equally persistent.