They were both standing on the small mezzanine of Whyte’s Gallery, looking down at the showroom floor below at Alessa, there to begin writing a profile of Hugo, local Chamber of Commerce’s Entrepreneur of the Year, for the Herald’s weekend magazine supplement, and being shown around by Benjy, gallery assistant.
“She’s very pretty, and obviously great at her job,” Xander continued when Hugo remained silent. “And fun. She really threw herself into the puzzle evening, and she’s turned out for the Sunday football. Seems to be going along okay? Slow but sure?”
Slow. Taking things slowly. Not like at first, when they’d thrown themselves into the heart of the fire burning between them. That had been one hell of a conflagration, its sparks electrifying. Sparks. Funny how things came back to Alessa. But sparks died down, didn’t they? Burned themselves through? That heat wasn’t sustainable.
Was that why Alessa had pulled back? It hurt, that she was tamping her flame that wanted to burn so brightly and heatedly. But he thought he knew why. Learning he’d been married and that there was a child he hadn’t planned on, hadn’t wanted, had shocked her, and now she was waiting, perhaps cautiously, for him to open up, to explain. And that was the hardest thing in the world for him. And yet, for her, he was…taking baby steps to be able to do just that very thing.
“I’ll let you know,” he murmured to his partner.
“Oh, let me ask him! No, it’ll be fine! Hugo!” Alessa called up, and his heart leapt to see her grinning happily, fully given over to the moment, fully engaged. “Benjy’s revealed your nickname, and I want to use it as the title of the piece! Say you agree!”
“Fine!” he called back.
“What?” Xander stepped back in amazement. “You don’t even know what it is. Wow, man!” And his silence, his look, said more than all the conversation he’d been trying to have.
And he’d be right. Hugo did…care for her. So very much. When that red-faced thug, MacDougal, had stepped up to her, Hugo’s heart had almost stopped, and when it had thudded to life again, it had pumped fury through him, making him want to beat the ex-councillor senseless. When Alessa had fought not to tremble afterwards, God, the urge to gather her in his arms, keep her safe from the world, lay down his life to protect her…
He thought he’d shown remarkable restraint in merely telling the ex-council member to back off, rather than leaving the slimeball a beaten, bloodied wreck, as he deserved. Hugo had also spoken to a chief inspector from the Montfordshire Constabulary, a neighbour, suggesting the man have a quiet word with MacDougal. The inspector was a friend, from whom he’d also obtained Alessa’s address. He’d intended to advise Alessa to take out a restraining order against the man, but Amanda’s arrival had scuppered all his plans for that day. Amanda. And therein lies a tale. One he’d have to tell, soon. And Amelia—
“What’s Hugo’s nic?” Xander leapt down the stairs four at a time to reach Alessa and Benjy. “Anything you can repeat in public?”
“An Officer and a Gentleman!” Alessa could barely catch her breath. “It’s perfect! Oh, sorry.” She took out her ringing phone and looked at the screen. “Oh, I have to… Excuse me. Yeah, one sec,” she said into the phone, looking all around.
“And who’s Tom?” enquired Benjy, one hand to his chest and raising an eyebrow to his hairline. “What? I just happened to see the name on the screen before Little Miss Coy bolted…” He was all injured innocence as Alessa made her way to the back of the gallery floor, obviously seeking privacy.
Hugo hadn’t intended, wasn’t intending, to snoop. He’d swear to that in a court of law. Just, Alessa exiting from the staff door into the yard at the back coincided with Hugo heading to his office, which overlooked the space, and where he had an open window.
“The articles you found mostly suggested Peter de Winter had been recruited to the Soviet cause by a talent-spotter at Cambridge?”
“Yes,” Alessa confirmed to Tom.
“Whereas a few old reports I’ve seen say the deep-cover Russian woman posing as Stella, the secretary, turned him in a honey-trap scenario.”
“Hmm. Well, broadsheets would publish a more cerebral version, and tabloids a more salacious?” she guessed.
“The other scientist arrested, the one still in prison, had a Polish wife. So there’s some slight Eastern Bloc connection there, but nothing like that with Peter. But he did buy the Montfordshire house a few months before he was arrested, which suggests he’d gotten or been getting cash from somewhere. Although comments by his Hampshire neighbours say he wasn’t flash, didn’t splash on fancy cars or holidays.”
“Yes, quiet, always working, even at home. Right.” Alessa kept her voice low. She pictured the study in Hugo’s house. Would there be letters, from his father to his mother and to Hugo? Communications from other people involved in the ring? Bank statements showing the source of the money? Oh no, wads of cash would probably have been handed over in attaché cases in coffee bars or at railway stations.
“Have you spoken to anyone else about this?” Tom enquired.
Alessa flushed. There was one person she should have, or still should. “No.”
“Well, don’t. If my instinct is good here, and it usually is, this is something. Something big.”
“Like, more people involved? I mean, the Cambridge group was reckoned to be a lot bigger than five, wasn’t it? And covered up?”
“More, or different people involved. The best thing is to work on it together, during Festive Respite.”
Tom, the child of divorced parents, had always hated the holiday season and spent the bare minimum of time, if any these days, with either parent. He usually organised a safe haven for Christmas refuseniks and the Christmas fatigued, with various friends stopping for a day or two’s rest over the holiday season.
“I’m housesitting for the vice-chancellor again this year while he’s skiing. And you and your gang always mocked my friendship with him back in the day! Let’s see who has the last laugh in his handsome, bay-fronted detached Edwardian mansion on the edge of Montford, shall we?”
Alessa laughed. They’d stayed in some lovely places, Tom putting in the effort to arrange them. And the vice-chancellor’s house was spacious and tasteful, with a huge library. “Why are you inviting me for the winter break already? It isn’t for ages!” she queried, her amused voice carrying around the small enclosed yard.
“It’s next bloody week, Alessa. I’ve been reminding you.”
“Really? Hmm. And luxury accommodation, you say… Well, I’m sure I can manage to pop along for a couple of days… You haven’t forgotten which expensive wine I like?”
“Sparks, you drink anything,” Tom answered wryly. “But I’ll get you your usual case of St Emilion for Christmas, of course.”
“Of course.” Tom got his close circle of friends red wine as gifts. Always had done, his hobby matching people to varieties and grapes, and the results were delicious.
Above, Hugo ducked to one side when a laughing Alessa finished reminiscing about a previous break in Mayfair, said her goodbyes to someone called Tom and turned to re-enter the gallery. His heart hung like lead in his chest and his head spun, whirled back into the past, reliving things with Amanda. Would Alessa admit to seeing other men, if he asked her? He thought he understood why she was keeping her options open. She was entitled to—he didn’t have a great deal to offer her, as things stood. Reason why he was planning to alter…things, hoping he wasn’t too late. His age was against him now, in forming a new, true loving and giving relationship, of course, and there was nothing he could do about that. All he could do at the moment was give the woman he believed he loved, the only one for him, space, not pressure her, even though the mere thought was like a knife to the gut.
And was it wishful thinking to feel Alessa seemed interested in him as a person, her questions going beyond what he might have expected for an interview, even for an in-depth piece?
* * * *
“I’m happy to talk about my
time at university and my army career, prior to entering the world of business, and what I’ve been involved in since,” he said over strong Irish coffees before the fireplace in the Rose and Crown, around the corner from the gallery. A pub in which the young bartender had seemed too familiar with Alessa for Hugo’s peace of mind. “I’m not prepared to get into personal details.” He wondered why she stilled. Oh. His marriage. “Such as, oh, what’s the term these days, being happily divorced?”
“Are you?” Her sapphire-blue eyes were fixed on him.
“As in, no lingering feelings? Of course there are. A person would have to be a robot not to have them. But you think I’m still pining over my ex? Please believe me when I say I’m not.”
“She’s very pretty.”
“She is, yes. She couldn’t not be, the amount of money and time she spends on it. Whereas you, you’re simply naturally beautiful.” He loved the pink wash in her cheeks. Loved simply being with her. Which reminded him. “Tomorrow, I’m going to see my mother. Would you…would you like to come with me? I’d really love it if you could meet her.” Wouldn’t that count as getting to know him?
“Tomorrow? Oh, I can’t, sorry. I’m away. I’ll be away all day and evening, I mean.”
He waited, but she gave no details. “Work related?”
“Erm, sort of. Background. Research. Texture, you know?”
He didn’t know, and it didn’t take any techniques he’d learned in the army or in negotiating to see her unease and disingenuousness. Was he pushing, overstepping whatever boundaries she’d imposed, inviting her to meet his family at this point? What else could he do? “Another time. And perhaps we could do something else this week? I’m booked today and I have meetings late every evening this week. About Mill Island, actually. I’ll be tied up until late but—”
“I could cook for you. In your place. Have a meal ready for you!”
It came out in a rush and seemed forced, but knowing she wanted to spend time with him stole his breath. “Can you cook?” he joked, not caring if she made sandwiches for dinner with an apple for dessert as long as they ate it together.
“Of course!” she protested. “Wait. You do have a microwave, right? Kidding! A little. And how about the day after tomorrow?”
“That sounds wonderful. Tell me what you’d like me to get in.”
“Oh, I’ll take care of that,” she said quickly. “Don’t bother about anything. What time will you be home?”
Home. It sounded so good when she said it, even if she looked…flustered, was the best he could come up with. They made arrangements, him adding his address to his contact details in her phone and sharing his location with her on the Find My Friends app so she’d know when he was arriving. Alessa walked him back to the gallery, where he insisted on giving her his house key—he’d take his spare back from a neighbour. Benjy and an artist claimed his attention and Alessa left.
* * * *
She had her own work to do, of course. A row of Victorian houses near the cathedral, long derelict, was due to be demolished, the plan being to erect new student halls of residence in their place, and a protest group had formed, trying to get the buildings listed status. Shoving her pad into her bag, later, she caught her finger on Hugo’s keys. She should get them back to him, just in case he couldn’t get hold of his spare set. She could easily get a duplicate cut of his front door key. There was a good place not far from the library. It only took a few minutes and she was walking back to the gallery, seriously considering using her bike to get around town as soon as the winter weather eased, when she saw Hugo. At least, she thought—
She checked as best she could, squinting through the glass front of the building’s lobby. Yes, it was Hugo. With a woman. A blonde, of course, standing close to him, and him bending over her, listening attentively, nodding. As the woman went to touch Hugo’s arm, Alessa managed to flee, despite the hammer blow the sight had struck, hoping like crazy the pair hadn’t seen her.
What was that building? As far as she knew, it was upscale residential apartments. There could be a hundred explanations, of course, but she doubted Hugo would offer even one. And she had no right to demand one, not when she was keeping him at arm’s length, and she’d known he’d picked up on it. Well, fuck. No, shit. That was better, if anything about this entire situation could be said to be better.
Hugo—her feelings for him were unlike any she’d had for any guy she’d ever met. Such a ball of tightly wound, tangled, complex emotions and longings. When she was with him, she didn’t want to be anywhere else. And when she wasn’t with him, thoughts of him consumed her. That he was with another woman crushed her. What the hell was that? Love, a voice told her, and she actually whipped round to see who’d spoken, feeling such a fool to realise she herself had.
Love? Is this how it feels? Like it hurts? Although that could have been the deception she was involved in. So, the sooner she got matters solved, the better. She raced to Whyte’s to drop off Hugo’s keys, wiping away tears and breathing through the pain, desperate to get there before he did, supposing he’d been going and not, well, coming. Oh, for fuck’s sake. Of all the time to make journalistic puns.
And she couldn’t tell him where she was going tomorrow. Braistone Prison, to see one John Hewitt. She’d been lucky to get clearance to see the man, the second Lantborough spy, the only one remaining alive and in the UK—Olga Petrov and the Russian diplomat having fled to the USSR—because he was a Category A prisoner. Alessa had looked up the criteria to see why Hewitt met them. His escape would be highly dangerous to the national security, and he’d been convicted of offences against the state and sentenced under the Official Secrets Act. Well, yes, that just about covered it.
The place was terrible and she hated every minute of being there. How awful must it be to be incarcerated here? A warden stood right by the stained plastic table she and the aged Hewitt sat at in the visitors’ room, listening in. She wondered if that was why the elderly man was so guarded.
* * * *
He says he didn’t know the others, only Stella, or Olga, as she really was, Alessa messaged Tom straight after, while it was fresh. They were having an affair.
She was also sleeping with Peter, and with the diplomat in London. Busy woman. Did you ask about the fake passport?
That a fake USSR passport had been found in de Winter’s office desk drawer had been made a great deal of.
Hewitt says he was never given one. But get this—he wasn’t paid enough to have bought a house, like de Winter did. It was mostly promises of riches to come.
So how did de Winter—?
He was an inventor! Patented stuff he invented and sold the patents!!!!
She made a list of the devices and gadgets Hewitt had mentioned, used in home and industry, all things that de Winter had seen a need for in his day-to-day life and sat down to create.
The power socket with a built-in night light. The wall socket with a built-in extension cord. The magnetic soap holder. The stand for holding a hairdryer. A wall-mounted toothpaste tube squeezer. The pedal to lift the toilet seat.
Small things that people wanted and the patents for which he’d sold all over the world.
Seems it wasn’t widely known. Hewitt caught him at it, so Peter confessed to him. He was almost embarrassed by this, dreamed of inventing something more connected to aviation. Wanted to surprise his wife when he had enough money for them to live the good life on.
“Alessa.” Tom had abandoned messaging for calling. “Doesn’t it seem odd he’d do both? Try and make money in two such diverse ways? Why not just, I don’t know, spy more? Spy harder?”
“Or devote himself to his inventing and not waste time spying?” Alessa swallowed. She knew Tom was thinking the same as she was—that things didn’t look so cut-and-dried anymore, that things might have been slanted one way…when in reality they leaned another. And the implications of that— “I’m at the house in Blazeby tomorrow. I’ll see what I can find.”
; “Right. Check in straight after, like this. And remember, if you can’t be good—”
“—be careful.”
For once, their old motto didn’t seem like a silly joke, but a warning, and one Alessa had running through her head the next day, when she let herself into the house, shivering in the early evening chill and racing to follow Hugo’s instructions about deactivating the intruder alarms, almost dropping the dishes, trays and red wine she carried. She was later than she’d planned to be and had no idea when Hugo would be there, although he’d said he’d call and let her know.
Her first task, before even entering the study, was to figure out which food needed cooking and which needed thawing. Not being much of a gourmet, and needing what time she had in the house for snooping, she’d bought the main, sides and the dessert of the day from Home Cooking, a local shop that cooked delicious homemade food on the premises for reheating or defrosting at home. Anthea had even let her take the dinner and dessert in the ceramic dishes they had been cooked in, rather than decanting them into takeaway containers—for a hefty deposit.
There seemed a lot of packages—oh, custard and cream, to go with the fruit pie thing, and lots of sides to go with the main course stew. And a traybake of brownies. Right. She should have paid more attention. And why was the bottle bag from the wine and spirit merchants so clinking? Four bottles? Oh, yes. She’d called in, weighed down with dinner—and supper—and asked what wine went with lamb and they’d informed her they could recommend a Cabernet Sauvignon, Merlot, a Bordeaux blend and a Chianti Classico. To which she’d replied fine, then had had to take a phone call while they bagged up her purchase. She’d handed over her card to pay—for a bottle of each. Oh well. She searched through cupboards for dishes for the vegetables and sauces and made sure the aluminium containers were hidden in a bag she’d take away with her.
Winter Sparks Page 9