by Len Deighton
‘No more than I like Scotsmen or Saudi Arabians. But I always suspect that whatever is being done to Jews this week is likely to be done to me next week. In any case, I have decided to hang on to the house. At least for the time being.’
‘That would be absurd, Bernard. You’ll have only your salary in future. You won’t have Fiona’s trust fund, the children’s trust funds or Fiona’s salary.’
‘The trust funds were used solely for Fiona and the children,’ I pointed out to him.
‘Of course, of course,’ said David. ‘But the fact remains that your household will have far less money. And certainly not enough to keep up a rather smart little house in the West End.’
‘If I moved into a service flat there would be no room for the children.’
‘I was coming to that, Bernard. The children – and I think you will agree unreservedly about this – are the most important single factor in this whole tragic business.’
‘Yes,’ I said.
He looked at me. ‘I think I’ll have a drink myself,’ he said. He got up and went to the cupboard and poured himself a gin and tonic with plenty of tonic. ‘And let me do something about yours too, Bernard.’ He took my glass and refilled it. After he’d sipped his drink he started again but this time from another angle. ‘I’m a socialist, Bernard. You know that; I’ve never made a secret of it. My father worked hard all his life and died at his work-bench. Died at his work-bench. That is something I can’t forget.’
I nodded. I’d heard it all before. But I knew that the work-bench was to David’s father what David’s easel was to him. David’s father had owned half of a factory that employed 500 people.
‘But I’ve never had any dealings with communists, Bernard. And when I heard that Fiona had been working for the Russians all these years I said to my wife, she’s no daughter of ours. I said it just like that. I said she’s no daughter of ours, and I meant it. The next morning I sent for my lawyer and I disowned her. I wrote and told her so; I suppose the lawyers handling her trust fund have some sort of forwarding address…’ He looked at me.
‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘I haven’t contacted them. I daresay the department has contacted them but I don’t know anything about a forwarding address.’
‘Whether she’ll ever get my letter or not I don’t know.’ He came over to where I was sitting and he added in a voice lowered and throbbing with emotion, ‘And personally, Bernard, I don’t care. She’s no daughter of mine. Not after this.’
‘I think you were going to say something about the children,’ I prompted him.
‘Yes, I was. Fiona has gone for good, Bernard. She’s never coming back. If you’re holding on to the house in the hope that Fiona comes back to you, forget it.’
‘If she came back,’ I said, ‘she’d face a very long term in prison.’
‘Yes, I thought of that,’ he said. ‘Damn it, that would be the final disgrace. Her mother would die of shame, Bernard. Thank God the story was never picked up by the newspapers. As it is I’ve cut back on visits to my clubs, in case I see someone who’s in the know about such things. I miss a lot of my social life. I haven’t had a round of golf since the news reached us.’
‘It hasn’t exactly made life easy for me,’ I said.
‘In the department? I suppose they think you should have got on to her earlier, eh?’
‘Yes, they do.’
‘But you were the one who finally worked out what was going on. You were the one who discovered she was the spy, eh?’
I didn’t answer.
‘You needn’t worry, Bernard. I don’t hold that against you. Someone had to do it. You just did your duty.’ He drank some of his drink and gave a grim, manly smile. I suppose he thought he was being magnanimous. ‘But now we have to face the mess that she’s left behind her. My wife and I have discussed the whole thing at great length…’ A smile to share with me the difficulties that always come from discussions with women. ‘…and we’d like to have the children. The nanny could come too so we’d preserve the essential continuity. I’ve spoken to a friend of mine about the schools. Billy has to change his school this year anyway…’
‘I’m keeping the children with me,’ I said.
‘I know how you feel, Bernard,’ he said. ‘But in practical terms it’s not possible. You can’t afford to keep up the mortgage payments on the house the way the interests rates are going. How would you be able to pay the nanny? And yet how could you possibly manage without her?’
‘The children are with my mother at present.’
‘I know. But she’s too old to deal with young children. And her house is too small; there’s only that little garden.’
‘I didn’t know you’d been there,’ I said.
‘When I heard you were away in Mexico I made it my business to see the children and make sure they were comfortable. I took some toys for them and gave your mother some cash for clothes and so on.’
‘That was none of your business,’ I said.
‘They’re my grandchildren,’ he said. ‘Grandparents have rights too, you know.’ He said it gently. He didn’t want to argue; he wanted to get his way about the custody of the children.
‘The children will stay with me,’ I said.
‘Suppose Fiona sends more Russians and tries to kidnap them?’
‘They have a twenty-four-hour armed guard,’ I said.
‘For how much longer? Your people can’t provide a free armed guard for ever, can they?’
He was right. The guards were still there only because I’d had to go to Mexico. As soon as I got back to the office there would be pressure to withdraw that expensive facility. ‘We’ll see,’ I said.
‘I won’t see the children’s trust funds squandered on it. My lawyer is a trustee for both the children; perhaps you’re overlooking that. I’ll make sure you don’t use that money for security guards or even for the nanny’s wages. It wouldn’t be fair to the children; not when we can offer them a better life here in the country with the horses and farm animals. And do it without taking their money.’
I didn’t answer. In a way he was right. This rural environment was better than anything I could offer them. But the bad news would be having the children grow up with a man like David Kimber-Hutchinson, who hadn’t exactly made a big success of bringing up Fiona.
‘Think it over,’ he said. ‘Don’t say no. I don’t want to find myself fighting for custody of the children through the law courts. I pay far too much money to lawyers anyway.’
‘You’d be wasting your money,’ I said. ‘In such circumstances a court would always give me custody.’
‘Don’t be so sure,’ he said. ‘Things have changed a lot in the last few years. I’m advised that my chances of legal custody are good. The trouble is – and I’m going to be absolutely frank with you about this – that I don’t fancy paying lawyers a lot of money to tell the world what a bad son-in-law I have.’
‘So leave us alone,’ I said. I’d feared I was heading into a confrontation like this right from the moment I saw the cream-coloured envelope in front of the clock.
‘But I wouldn’t be the only loser,’ he continued relentlessly. ‘Think what your employers would say to having your name, and my daughter’s name, dragged through the courts. They wouldn’t keep that out of the newspapers in the way they’ve so far been able to do with Fiona’s defection.’
He was right, of course. His legal advisers had earned their fees. The department would keep this out of the courts at all costs. I’d get no support from them if I tried to hang on to my children. On the contrary; they’d press me to accept my father-in-law’s sensible offer of help.
Beyond him, through the big studio windows, I could see the trees made gold by the evening sunlight and the paddock where Billy and Sally liked to explore. Money isn’t everything, but for people such as him it seemed as if it could buy everything. ‘I’d better be getting along,’ I said. ‘I didn’t get much sleep on the plane and there’ll be a
lot of work waiting for me on my desk tomorrow morning.’
He put his hand on my shoulder. ‘Think about it, Bernard. Give it a couple of weeks. Take a look at some of the bills coming in and jot down a few figures. Look at your net annual income and compare it with your expenditure last year. Even if you pare your expenses right down you still won’t have enough money. Work it out for yourself and you’ll see that what I’ve said makes sense.’
‘I’ll think about it,’ I promised, although my mind was made up already, and he could discern that from the tone of my voice.
‘You could come down here any time and see them, Bernard. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that.’
‘I said I’d think about it.’
‘And don’t go reporting Fiona’s Porsche as stolen. I sent my chauffeur to get it and it will be advertised for sale in next week’s Sunday Times. Better to get rid of it. Too many unhappy memories for you to want to use it. I knew that.’
‘Thanks, David,’ I said. ‘You think of everything.’
‘I do but try,’ he said.
10
Despite my tiredness I didn’t sleep well after my return from Leith Hill. The air was warm and I left the bedroom window open. I was fully awakened by the ear-piercing screams of turbo-fans, and the thunder of aircraft engines, throttles opening wide to compensate for flap drag. The approach controllers at London Heathrow like to send a few big jets roaring over the rooftops about 6.30 each morning, just in case any inhabitants of the metropolis oversleep.
The radio alarm clock was tuned to Radio 3 so that I could hear the seven o’clock news bulletin and then spend fifteen minutes on the exercise bike to the sounds of Mozart and Bach. Since living alone I’d connected the coffee-machine to a time-switch so that I could come downstairs to a smell of fresh coffee. I opened a tin of Carnation milk and found a croissant in the bread-bin. It was old and dried and shrivelled like something discovered in a tomb of the Pharaohs. I chewed it gratefully. I hadn’t had a decent meal since well before getting on the plane. But I wasn’t hungry. My mind was fully occupied with thoughts of the children and the conversation I’d had with my father-in-law. I didn’t want to believe him but his warnings about money worried me. He was seldom, if ever, wrong about money.
I was outside in the street, unlocking the door of my car, when the girl approached me. She was about thirty, maybe younger, dark-skinned and very attractive. She was wearing a nurse’s uniform complete with dark-blue cloak and a plain blue handbag. ‘My damned car won’t start,’ she said. Her accent was unmistakably West Indian; Jamaica, I guessed. ‘And matron will kill me if I’m not at St Mary Abbots Hospital at eight forty-five. Are you going anywhere in that direction? Or to somewhere I can get a taxi?’
‘St Mary Abbots Hospital?’
‘Marloes Road near Cromwell Road, not far from where the air terminal used to be.’
‘I remember now,’ I said.
‘I’m sorry to trouble you,’ she said. ‘I live across the road at number forty-seven.’ It was a large house that some speculator had converted into tiny apartments and then failed to sell. Now there was always a ‘For rent’ sign on the railings and a succession of short-term tenants. I suppose it was the sort of place that my father-in-law would like to put me in. She said, ‘There is something wrong with the starter, I think.’
I got in and leaned across and opened the passenger door for her. ‘The staff nurse is a bitch,’ she said. ‘I daren’t be late again.’
‘I can go through the park,’ I said.
She decorously wrapped her cloak around her legs and put her handbag on her lap. ‘It’s very kind of you. It’s probably miles out of your way.’
‘No,’ I said. In fact it was a considerable detour but the prospect of sitting next to her for twenty minutes was by no means unwelcome.
‘You’d better fasten your seat belt,’ she said. ‘It’s the law now, isn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Let’s not break the law so early in the morning.’
She fastened her own seat belt and said, ‘Do you follow the cricket?’
‘I’ve been away,’ I said.
‘I’m from Kingston, Jamaica,’ she explained. ‘I had five brothers. I had to become interested in cricket; it was all they ever talked about.’
We were still talking about cricket when I came out of the park and, no right turn being permitted, continued south into Exhibition Road. As I stopped at the traffic lights by the Victoria and Albert Museum she broke into my chatter about England’s poor bowling against Australia last winter by saying, ‘I’m sorry to have to do this to you, Mr Samson. But you’re going to turn west on to Cromwell Road when we’ve been round this one-way system.’
‘Why? What do you mean?’ I turned my head and found her staring at me. She didn’t answer. I looked down and saw that she was holding a hypodermic on her lap. Its needle point was very close to my thigh. ‘Keep your eyes on the road. Just do as I say and everything will be all right.’
‘Who the hell are you?’
‘We’ll drive out along the Cromwell Road extension to London Airport. There’s something I have to do. When it’s done you’ll be free to go wherever you have to go.’ She reached up with her free hand and tilted the driving mirror so that I could not see the traffic behind.
‘And if I slam on the brakes suddenly?’
‘Don’t do that, Mr Samson. I am a qualified nurse. My papers are in order, my story is prepared. What I have in this syringe will take effect within seconds.’ She still had the West Indian accent but it was less pronounced now, and there was a change in her manner too. Less of the Florence Nightingale, more of the Jane Fonda. And she didn’t say ‘sorry’ or ‘thank you’ any more.
I was constrained by the seat belt. I could see no alternative to driving to Heathrow. She switched on the car radio. It was tuned to Radio 4 so we both listened to ‘Yesterday in Parliament’.
‘I’ll say this again,’ she said. ‘No harm is intended to you.’
‘Why the airport?’
‘You’ll understand when we get there. But don’t think there is any plan to abduct you. This just concerns your children and your work.’ We were driving behind a rusting old car that was emitting lots of black smoke; on the back window there was a sticker saying ‘Nuclear Power – No Thanks’.
When we got to the airport she directed me to Terminal 2, used by non-British airlines mostly for European services. We passed the terminal main entrance and the multi-storey car-park that serves it, and continued until we came to a piece of road that leads on to Terminal 3. Despite the yellow lines and ‘No parking’ signs, there were cars parked there. ‘Stop here,’ she said. ‘And don’t look round.’ Carefully, and without releasing her hold of the hypodermic or looking away from me, she reached back to unlock the nearside rear door.
We were double-parked near two dark-blue vans. I heard my car door open and felt the movement of the suspension as it took the weight of another passenger. ‘Drive on. Slowly,’ said the nurse. I did as I was told. ‘We’ll go back through the tunnel. Then down to the motorway roundabout, keep going round it and back to Terminal 2 again. Do you understand that?’
‘I understand,’ I said.
‘He’s all yours,’ the nurse said to the person in the back seat, but she kept her eyes on me.
‘It’s me, darling,’ said a voice. ‘I hope I didn’t terrify you.’ She couldn’t eliminate that trace of mockery. Some people didn’t hear it but I knew her too well to miss that touch of gloating pride. It was my wife. I was numb. I’d always prided myself on being prepared for anything – that’s what being a professional agent meant – but now I was astonished.
‘Fiona, are you mad?’
‘To come here? There is no warrant for my arrest. I have changed my appearance and my name…no, don’t look round. I don’t want you unconscious.’
‘What’s it all about?’ To keep me driving was a good idea; it limited my chances of doing anything they didn�
�t want me to do.
‘It’s about the children, darling. Billy and Sally. I went to see them. I waited on the route between your mother’s house and the school. They looked so sweet. They didn’t see me, of course. I had to watch out for your bloodhounds, didn’t I? They both wore matching outfits; acid green with shiny yellow plastic jackets. I’m sure Daddy sent them. Only my father has that natural instinct for the sort of vulgarity that children always love.’
‘Have you seen your father?’
She laughed. ‘I’m not here on holiday, Bernard darling. And, even if I were, I’m not sure that visiting my father would be on the itinerary.’
‘So what is all this about?’
‘Don’t be surly. I had to talk to you and I couldn’t phone you without the risk of being recorded on that damned answering machine.’ She paused for a moment. I could hear the deep rapid breathing – hyperventilation almost – that was always a sign of her being excited or nervous, or both. ‘I don’t want the children’s lives made miserable, any more than you do.’
‘What are you proposing?’
‘I’ll give you an undertaking to leave the children here in England for a year. It will give them a chance to lead normal lives. It’s perfectly ghastly to have them going to school in a car with two security men and having armed guards hanging around them day and night. What sort of life is that for a child.’
‘For a year?’ I said. ‘What then?’
‘We’ll see. But I’ll promise nothing beyond a year.’
‘And you’d want me to leave them unguarded?’
‘The department will call them off before long anyway. You know that as well as I do. And you can’t afford to pay for such security.’
‘I’d manage.’ I stopped at the roundabout until there was a break in the traffic and then moved off. It was tricky driving without the rear-view mirror.
‘Yes, you’d arrange some sort of protection using your old friends.’ She managed to imbue the word with all her distaste for them. ‘I can imagine what the result would be. Your pals sitting around getting drunk, and talking about what they’d do if I tried to get the children away from you.’