Eye of the Needle - Ken Follett [93]
Bloggs smiled. “Salty?”
“If I did what he suggested I do with my truncheon, I’d never be able to sit down again.” Kincaid became serious. “It’ll take him about half an hour, then we’ll need a couple of hours to check all the addresses. It’s worth doing, although I still think he hitched a ride.”
“So do I,” Bloggs said.
The door opened and a middle-aged man in civilian clothes walked in. Kincaid and his officers stood up, and Bloggs followed.
Kincaid said, “Good morning, sir. This is Mr. Bloggs. Mr. Bloggs, Richard Porter.”
They shook hands. Porter had a red face and a carefully cultivated moustache. He wore a double-breasted, camel-colored overcoat. “How do you do. I’m the blighter that gave your chappie a lift to Aberdeen. Most embarrassing.” He had no local accent.
Bloggs said, “How do you do.” On first acquaintance Porter seemed to be exactly the kind of silly ass who would give a spy a lift half across the country. However, Bloggs realized the air of empty-headed heartiness might also mask a shrewd mind. He tried to be tolerant—he, too, had made embarrassing mistakes in the last few hours.
“I heard about the abandoned Morris. I picked him up at that very spot.”
“You’ve seen the picture?”
“Yes. Of course, I didn’t get a good look at the chappie, because it was dark for most of the journey. But I saw enough of him, in the light of the flashlight when we were under the hood, and afterward when we entered Aberdeen—it was dawn by then. If I’d only seen the picture, I’d say it could have been him. Given the spot at which I picked him up, so near to where the Morris was found, I say it was him.”
“I agree,” Bloggs said. He thought for a moment, wondering what useful information he could get out of this man. “How did Faber impress you?”
Porter said promptly: “He struck me as exhausted, nervous and determined, in that order. Also, he was no Scotsman.”
“How would you describe his accent?”
“Neutral. The accent—minor public school, Home Counties. Jarred with his clothes, if you know what I mean. He was wearing overalls. Another thing I didn’t remark until afterwards.”
Kincaid interrupted to offer tea. Everyone accepted. The policeman went to the door.
“What did you talk about?”
“Oh, nothing much.”
“But you were together for hours—”
“He slept most of the way. He mended the car—it was only a disconnected lead, but I’m afraid I’m helpless with machines—then he told me his own car had broken down in Edinburgh and he was going to Banff. Said he didn’t really want to go through Aberdeen, as he didn’t have a Restricted Area Pass. I’m afraid I…I told him not to worry about that. Said I’d vouch for him if we were stopped. Makes one feel such a bloody fool, you know—but I felt I owed him a favor. He had got me out of a bit of a hole, y’know.”
“Nobody’s blaming you, sir,” Kincaid said.
Bloggs was, but he didn’t say so. Instead, “There are very few people who have met Faber and can tell us what he’s like. Can you think hard and tell me what kind of a man you took him to be?”
“He woke up like a soldier,” Porter said. “He was courteous, and seemed intelligent. Firm handshake. I take notice of handshakes.”
“Anything else?”
“Something else about when he woke up…” Porter’s florid face creased up in a frown. “His right hand went to his left forearm, like this.” He demonstrated.
“That’s something,” Bloggs said.