really promiscuous. Even here she never took him into her and Philipâs bed; they always went into one of the spare bedrooms. As if he were no more than a visitor in her life. Which (and the thought chilled her) was all he might prove to be.
âA girlâ murdered? Which girl?â
âOne I used to know.â He had known dozens, she knew that, though he had never boasted of them. Indeed, he had seemed almost ashamed of them, as if he would rather have come to her a virgin. Youâre the only woman Iâve ever loved, he had told her the second time he had made love to her, and she had believed him. He was a liar and a robber in business; she had heard the Minister for Business Affairs describe him that way to Philip. Yet with her (or was it conceit on her part?) he was sometimes self-scaldingly truthful. As he was now: âI told her it was all over, but she didnât want to believe it.â
âWho killed her?â
âHow the hellâsorry. I donât know. The police are working on it.â
âHave they been to see you?â He nodded. âWhat did you tell them?â
âNothing. Thatâs where I was stupidâtheyâll find out eventually. All I wanted to do, I was thinking on the spur of the moment, was to protect you.â
âYou told them you didnât know the girl?â
âI even told them I knew nothing about the flat. I was bloody stupid, but I could see them asking other questions . . .â She wondered if men in desperate love were always so naïve. But naïveté, of course, was a part of love: that was one of its weaknesses.
âShe was murdered at the weekend? Did they ask where youâd spent Saturday and Sunday?â
âI told them Iâd spent it with a lady I wasnât going to name.â He could be very old-fashioned at times; it was one of the more endearing things about him. She wondered if the original Brian Boru had been chivalrous towards women, but decided it was unlikely: Irish and medieval, he would have been too busy fighting, drinking and talking.
She squeezed his hand in thanks; then felt ashamed that so far her concern had been only for themselves. âHow was the poor girl killed? Was it an intruder or someone?â
âThe police said sheâd been shot, it looked as if it was from a neighbouring building.â
âDid you andâdid she go to the flat regularly?â
âFairly regularlyâup till I met you.â
âDid she have a husband or a boy-friend?â
He looked at her with admiration; he was recovering his composure. âYou would make a good detective.â
She hadnât meant to sound like that. âYou donât want me playing detectiveâthereâll be enough of the real ones. You should have told them the truth right from the start. In the long run itâs always best.â
âYou donât believe that.â He was gently cynical for the moment. âNot with a husband in politics. This is the same, darling. There are always cover-ups in politics. I was trying to cover up on you.â
So far she had felt little fear; she was more concerned for the situation he had got himself into by his lying to protect her. Six months ago she would have laughed at the idea that she would be having a passionate clandestine affair with a man who was hated, even despised, more than he was admired. She was forty-five years old and a grandmother, even if only recently. True, she was still beautiful in face and figure, thanks to Jane Fondaâs videos and her own genes; her parents, in their late sixties, were still a handsome enough pair to look good even in the candid camera shots on the social pages. She was intelligent, could be witty, if sometimes waspish, and always rated in the top five of the list of Most Popular Women of the Year. She was married to the most popular prime minister in decades, a man who fitted perfectly into the Image, a
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