Early in December David Mason’s other commitments forced him to withdraw from the Salisbury Avenue watch. Darrell Hallett met him in a tearoom in Ross and took over the operation. Mason had already visited a number of hotels and bed and breakfast houses asking for help to trace the men in the Sumail photographs. There had been no response despite the paucity of out-of-season tourists and Mason’s two Mac-watchers had seen no sign of outside interest in the house or the man.
Hallett was no longer selling Yorkie bars. After his twelve years of faithful service, his employers had put pressure on him and others to resign, as they wanted to reduce their sales force in South Wales. With free help from two ex-SAS officers, one a city barrister, Hallett had fought for his rights and, on March 28, 1985, at the Cardiff Industrial Tribunal, he had won?3,500 in an out-of-court settlement from Rowntree in respect of his claim of unfair dismissal. By dint of hard work, he had begun to build a new career with one of the major life-insurance groups and found it increasingly difficult to take time off for Spike. Wild horses, however, would not keep him from another chance of meeting up with the elusive Welshman.
Mason explained the VHF pocket receiver, which would bleep should Mac press his ankle-buzzer-an action easily and unobtrusively carried out even at gunpoint.
“How long does Spike want Mac covered?” Hallett asked.
“For as long as the two of us are game.”
“D’you realize this thing has been going on for nearly ten years and we’re still none the wiser as to the motives of the opposition?”
Mason stubbed out his cigar, ignoring the glare of the elderly waitress, who instantly removed the evil-smelling ashtray. “You say ten years, Darrell, but we don’t know that we were in at the beginning. Milling may not have been their first target. Nor do we have any idea how many people they are after.”
“Why do you give up valuable time for Spike?”
Mason smiled. “I like the man. I believe there is a need for us. We harm nobody but characters who would, without us, continue to harm others. What about you?”
“I’m Welsh,” Hallett mused. “I like to see fair play, and in this particular case, the boyo you followed to Muscat once gave me a very stiff neck.”
“Charles Bronson and his Death Wish films have done us no big favor,” said Mason. “No member of the public would be seen dead condoning vigilantism and that is how our activities, if revealed, might be classified. The silent majority might approve but most would never admit it. Just listen to the shrill squeals directed at the very idea of Guardian Angels on the London Underground. Everyone knows there are not enough Transport Police to protect the passengers yet few approve of the thought of red-bereted patrols.”
“I can think of nobody,” Hallett interrupted, “who would not support the Angels when saved from yobbos or rapists on a dark and lonely tube platform.”
“Too right,” said Mason, “but the fools who denounce our existence do not stop to think of the lives we have saved and the fears we have eased.”
“Ah well,” said Hallett, paying the bill, “I am proud to have worked with Spike and you and the others. To hell with the righteous bloody Pharisees. My conscience is clear and that’s what I have to live with.”
“Are you happy with everything?” Mason asked, handing Hallett the receiver.
Hallett smiled. “If they show their faces, they’ll regret it.”