Flashpoint by Michael Gilbert

being a bachelor and excellent company, he usually had a dinner engagement. He was particularly useful to hostesses on the Foreign Office circuit who had to entertain guests from abroad. He spoke two foreign languages well and half a dozen others quite adequately.
    The Air Vice-Marshal switched on a tape recorder when Bernard Gracey started talking. When he had finished, he said, “Seems a lot of balls to me, old man. Do you think I’d better have a word with Dylan? I met him once at a City dinner. Made a bloody good speech. Told all the old stuffed shirts where they got off. And, my God, how they lapped it up.”
    “That sounds like our Will. I’d be obliged if you would have a word with him. Get some of the details and look into it. We don’t want any trouble. Particularly just now.”
    “See what I can do,” said Toby Pulleyne.
     
    Other men were on the move that morning. Syd Marvin and Ben Thomas came up by Underground from Clerkenwell to Waterloo and by British Rail from Waterloo out to Wimbledon. As midday struck they were ringing the bell in Jonas Killey’s waiting-room.
    Mrs Warburton cast an experienced eye over them but could come to no conclusion. Not quite seedy enough for process servers. Too cheerful for debt collectors. But not quite the sort of client the firm catered for.
    “Would it be a property matter?”
    “Just say private business, love,” said Ben.
    “Mr Killey only really sees people by appointment.”
    “Perhaps he’ll do us a favour this time,” said Syd.
    “I’ll enquire.”
    “You do that,” said Ben, and winked at her.
    They helped themselves to copies of the Law Journal, and settled themselves down with the air of men who understood how to wait. Mrs Warburton retired defeated.
    Jonas was, in fact, busy. He was putting the finishing touches to the application which he was due to make, in person, on the following morning before Mr Cedric Lyon in the West London Magistrates Court. There were documents to be referred to, and four copies had to be available of each. One for the magistrate, one for his clerk, one for Jonas himself and one for his opponent, should he choose to appear.
    There was also the opening speech to be considered. Jonas had written it and rewritten it, half a dozen times. He fancied that he now had it right. Not offensive, but by no means subservient. A freeborn Englishman insisting on his rights.
    “Who are they?”
    “They wouldn’t say, Mr Killey.”
    “They didn’t give you any idea?”
    “They just said it was private business.”
    “Couldn’t Willoughby deal with them?”
    “He’s doing a completion.”
    “All right. I suppose I’d better see them.”
    “Up to you.”
    “We don’t want to turn away business, Mrs Warburton, do we?”
    Mrs Warburton sniffed but retreated. She soothed her feelings by taking five minutes to finish typing the document in her machine, before opening the hatchway and saying, “You can go in now.”
    Jonas Killey took stock of his visitors. He, too, found them difficult to place. They were neither smartly nor shabbily dressed. Passing them in the street he would have put them down as clerks or subordinate employees, but there was something in their faces, and in their voices, which contradicted this; a hint of self-possession, a suggestion of veiled authority.
    “And what can I do for you, gentlemen?”
    The thinner, and more serious of the men, who had introduced himself as Marvin, said, “Thanks for seeing us, Mr Killey. We’ll try not to take up too much of your time.”
    Thomas said, “Mind if we smoke?” He was shorter, thick rather than fat, and had the sort of face which can be seen in thousands any winter Saturday on the terraces of Cardiff Arms Park.
    “Certainly,” said Jonas. “I don’t myself, but go ahead.”
    “Sure it doesn’t worry you?”
    “Not a bit.”
    Marvin said, “We heard you were having a bit of trouble – perhaps trouble’s the wrong word – a bit of business with a