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the boyos from our friends the FFIRA. Whoever did this used good old-fashioned industrial dynamite. A few sticks of the stuff here, another four there, and at least four right under the driver’s seat—literally inside the car. There was also a lot of gas in the trunk as well as the tank. Come and take a look. I think you should.”
    “Sure. Sure, I’ll check it out.”
    “We’ll be here for a couple of days. Nice town, Salisbury.”
    “Do a good line in cathedrals, ja?”
    “And in dispatch. Death in fragments; death by fire.”
    Herb called the Office, but nobody of importance was in yet. He showered, shaved and did the other thing. Then dressed and drank coffee, nibbling on a piece of toast as he again dialed the Office. This time Worboys was in.
    “You have everyone’s blessing,” said Worboys a shade too perkily. “The Chief’s dashed off to high-powered meetings in Europe. Told us you were in charge and that you could talk to Carole, but not a full inquisition. He’s left Bitsy with her.”
    “Bitsy Williams who does Guest Relations?”
    “The one with the legs up to her armpits. GR and safe houses—which is not a full-time occupation these days.”
    “Never met her, but I’m told she’s good. Well over forty, but good.”
    “I know people who claim she’s better than good. Anyway, she’s to keep Carole company until after the obsequies.”
    “After the which?”
    “Funeral, Herb.”
    “Never heard that—obsequies. Is good. Nice long word. But these obsequies have to come after the ID, and I am told there’s little to ID.”
    “Your problem, Herb. You’re the man in charge.”
    Herbie gave a deep sigh, reminiscent of an old steam appliance. “Get me a car and a good driver. Pick me up here, half an hour, okay?”
    While he waited, Herbie called Registry and found Angus at his desk. The conversation was difficult and lengthy, with Kruger attempting to translate Angus’s accent, and Angus allowing his brogue to get thicker all the time—possibly an act of malice. Heads of Registry are, in a way, similar to librarians. Their charges are like children and they are not happy to see anything go out of the house beyond their control.
    Herb was after the methods used by Gus to research his memoirs and, between the “ayes” and “ochs” and “didnas” and “kens,” he gathered that Gus had taken only a minimal number of printouts from the building. It seemed that, for the most part, he had come in, read the stuff and made notes.
    “How far had he got?” Herbie asked, enunciating carefully.
    “Around 1969. He wasnee a fast laddie when it came to the resairch, ye ken.”
    Herb kenned and put the telephone down, reflecting on a comment made sometime ago by Young Worboys: “Old Angus is a Scot of the Music Hall variety. You expect him to break into ‘I Love a Lassie, a Bonnie Heeland Lassie’ any minute.”
    It was all very confusing to Herbie, who had perfected his own version of fractured English, which he often used to great effect. In Angus he had almost met his match.
    The driver was Ginger Bread. Anthony James Bread. The Office could be as predictable as provincial police forces when it came to nicknames. Ginger was a hood, no doubt about that—a bantamweight with a streak of violence written clearly over his smooth face. Herbie knew him from way back and had seen him do things to people that would make a world-class kick-boxer wince with envy.
    “Nice to be working with you again, Mr. Kruger.”
    “Nice to see you, Ginger. You dislocated any good joints lately?”
    “Always looking for the excuse, sir. Salisbury, is it?”
    “Salisbury. Then Warminster, I guess.”
    As they pulled out of the little square in which the Kensington house stood, Ginger said something about a rumor that Warminster was on the chopping block.
    “Shouldn’t be surprised. We’re being stripped to the bone, Ginger. Today Warminster, tomorrow the safe houses. People like yourself’ll be moonlighting