office. Clive Alloway, much younger, looked pleased with himself. Beth, under the short skirt, had nice legs.
I was still looking at the photo when Beth finally joined me, shutting the door at the foot of the stairs and stooping to the fire. She lit it with an old candle end, then broke open a bottle of sherry and poured two large glasses. ‘Mr Priddy says you’re from London.’
‘Yes.’
‘Something to do with …’ She frowned, a totally artless pause, genuinely perplexed.
‘Intelligence,’ I said quietly. ‘I work for intelligence.’
‘Oh?’
Beth looked alarmed, as if her worst nightmare had come true, and I wondered for a moment what on earth Priddy had told her. He’d made it quite plain in the hotel that his own involvement was to be minimal. ‘Arm’s length’ was the phrase he’d used.
‘I work for MI5,’ I said. ‘You should know that.’
‘Isn’t that… secret?’
‘Yes.’ I smiled. ‘You and me.’
‘And Clive?’
‘No.’ I shook my head. ‘Not Clive.’
‘Ah.’
She looked away, reaching for her sherry, and I could tell at once that she was relieved. One less secret to share. One less scene to risk. I reached for my own glass and invited her to tell me how things were. She did so, deciding to trust me, an instinctive thing, woman to woman, her other options quite obviously exhausted. She talked in a low, slightly hesitant voice, rueful, saddened by what ambition and the lure of big business had done to the man she’d married.
She’d never wanted him to be rich. She’d no real interest in money. In fact she and Clive had both been happier, much happier, when he was still in the world of education, teaching day-release courses in engineering. They’d lived in Walsall, then. They’d had two kids in quick succession, both grown-up now with homes of their own. Laura, who was in bed with flu upstairs, had been an afterthought, a brief burst of sunshine between the squalls. After a while, she got to the point of the story. Her husband hadchanged beyond recognition. The bills and the business were driving him mad. But there was more to it than that. She knew it.
I nodded. The bottle at her elbow was two-thirds empty. ‘Is there anyone else?’ I said.
‘No.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes. I asked him. It was one of the first things I thought of but—’ She shook her head, emphatic. ‘No.’
She gazed at me for a moment. The light from the fire danced on her face. She looked utterly miserable. ‘I think he’s frightened,’ she said at last. ‘He must be. But I don’t know why.’ She paused again, looking at me. ‘He’s never had a gun in his life. He wouldn’t know what to do with it. He hates violence. We both do. I just hope to God—’ She broke off again, shook her head and began to cry.
There was a box of tissues on the table. I took a handful and gave her one. She shut her eyes and blew her nose. When the question came, I barely heard it.
‘Is it to do with you?’ she whispered. ‘Your lot? Is that why you’re here?’
I gazed at her for a moment. ‘Yes,’ I said.
‘Is he in danger? Will they…?’
‘No.’
‘None of them? Not you? Not…’ she opened one eye, ‘whoever else it is?’
‘No.’
‘Are you sure?’
I hesitated, balling the Kleenex in my hand, pressing very hard. The woman needed help, real help, not platitudes. She was looking at me again, the eyes wide, an old face, ravaged by grief.
‘It’s not that I’d be alone,’ she said. ‘It’s not that. I can cope with that. I’ve thought about it and I’d hate it, but it’s not that. No. It’s…’ She began to cry again, reaching out for another tissue, shaking her head, trying to dislodge some awful thought. ‘He’s a good man, a truly good man. He doesn’t deserve all this, whatever it is, whatever’s going on. It shouldn’t have happened, not to him.’ She paused, watching me, wanting answers, her life out of control. ‘How
can
it happen?’ she
I was still looking at the photo when Beth finally joined me, shutting the door at the foot of the stairs and stooping to the fire. She lit it with an old candle end, then broke open a bottle of sherry and poured two large glasses. ‘Mr Priddy says you’re from London.’
‘Yes.’
‘Something to do with …’ She frowned, a totally artless pause, genuinely perplexed.
‘Intelligence,’ I said quietly. ‘I work for intelligence.’
‘Oh?’
Beth looked alarmed, as if her worst nightmare had come true, and I wondered for a moment what on earth Priddy had told her. He’d made it quite plain in the hotel that his own involvement was to be minimal. ‘Arm’s length’ was the phrase he’d used.
‘I work for MI5,’ I said. ‘You should know that.’
‘Isn’t that… secret?’
‘Yes.’ I smiled. ‘You and me.’
‘And Clive?’
‘No.’ I shook my head. ‘Not Clive.’
‘Ah.’
She looked away, reaching for her sherry, and I could tell at once that she was relieved. One less secret to share. One less scene to risk. I reached for my own glass and invited her to tell me how things were. She did so, deciding to trust me, an instinctive thing, woman to woman, her other options quite obviously exhausted. She talked in a low, slightly hesitant voice, rueful, saddened by what ambition and the lure of big business had done to the man she’d married.
She’d never wanted him to be rich. She’d no real interest in money. In fact she and Clive had both been happier, much happier, when he was still in the world of education, teaching day-release courses in engineering. They’d lived in Walsall, then. They’d had two kids in quick succession, both grown-up now with homes of their own. Laura, who was in bed with flu upstairs, had been an afterthought, a brief burst of sunshine between the squalls. After a while, she got to the point of the story. Her husband hadchanged beyond recognition. The bills and the business were driving him mad. But there was more to it than that. She knew it.
I nodded. The bottle at her elbow was two-thirds empty. ‘Is there anyone else?’ I said.
‘No.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes. I asked him. It was one of the first things I thought of but—’ She shook her head, emphatic. ‘No.’
She gazed at me for a moment. The light from the fire danced on her face. She looked utterly miserable. ‘I think he’s frightened,’ she said at last. ‘He must be. But I don’t know why.’ She paused again, looking at me. ‘He’s never had a gun in his life. He wouldn’t know what to do with it. He hates violence. We both do. I just hope to God—’ She broke off again, shook her head and began to cry.
There was a box of tissues on the table. I took a handful and gave her one. She shut her eyes and blew her nose. When the question came, I barely heard it.
‘Is it to do with you?’ she whispered. ‘Your lot? Is that why you’re here?’
I gazed at her for a moment. ‘Yes,’ I said.
‘Is he in danger? Will they…?’
‘No.’
‘None of them? Not you? Not…’ she opened one eye, ‘whoever else it is?’
‘No.’
‘Are you sure?’
I hesitated, balling the Kleenex in my hand, pressing very hard. The woman needed help, real help, not platitudes. She was looking at me again, the eyes wide, an old face, ravaged by grief.
‘It’s not that I’d be alone,’ she said. ‘It’s not that. I can cope with that. I’ve thought about it and I’d hate it, but it’s not that. No. It’s…’ She began to cry again, reaching out for another tissue, shaking her head, trying to dislodge some awful thought. ‘He’s a good man, a truly good man. He doesn’t deserve all this, whatever it is, whatever’s going on. It shouldn’t have happened, not to him.’ She paused, watching me, wanting answers, her life out of control. ‘How
can
it happen?’ she
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