She rested a hand on Jeff Morand’s thin shoulder and gave it a heartfelt squeeze. “I came as soon as I heard, Jeff. So sorry to hear about Corky.”
“He tried to strangle me.” He shook his head in disbelief and ran a hand through his blond curls.
Ash could think of nothing to say.
He led her to the sofa where he had been watching a daytime soap with the sound turned low and flung himself down. She joined him. Compared to the last time she had seen him, he looked terrible. His complexion was grey, his face haggard. And there was a bandage around his throat.
“Will they let me see him, do you think?”
“Dr. Aston’s with him. Maybe when he’s finished?”
At that moment, a door opened, and Aston came in. When he saw the two of them he altered course. They stood up as he approached.
“Miss Blade. I didn’t expect to see you here.”
Ash gave her watch a pointed glance. “Aren’t you supposed to be counselling Jemma?”
He smiled, unoffended. “I’m just on my way.” He turned to Jeff, his expression becoming one of consideration and sympathy. “No change, I’m afraid, Mr. Morand. He’s calm now, though. That’s a good sign.”
Or the result of pumping him full of sedatives. “How soon before he recovers?” asked Ash.
Aston’s brow creased, and he flashed her a warning glance, his brown eyes flicking to the listening Jeff than back to her. “Oh, it’s early days yet.”
That didn’t sound too promising. But a glance at Jeff’s strained face made her change the subject. “May I see him?”
“I don’t see why not,” said Aston. “Though I’m not sure what purpose it will serve. He won’t even be aware you’re there.”
His gaze returned to the watching Jeff. “Best if you don’t let Mr. Cork catch sight of you, at least for the time being.” He caught Ash’s frown and clarified, “It seems to be a trigger. Whenever Mr. Cork sees him, he tries to kill him.”
Ash sucked in a breath. Not to be able to even go near your partner when he needed you the most … She wondered how she would be coping if it were Jemma instead of Corky in that cell.
Aston pulled a videotape from one of the capacious pockets of his white coat and handed it to Jeff. “This might help explain the situation more clearly, if you play it to Miss Blade.” Jeff nodded. “And now,” Aston glanced at the clock above the reception desk, “I must run. If you’ll excuse me?” With that, he hurried out.
“I wish he’d stop calling me Miss Blade,” grumbled Ash.
“Yeah. Shall we?” Jeff jerked his head towards the TV and video, and Ash resumed her seat while he slotted in the videotape. She had no idea what to expect and braced herself.
The screen flickered, and the monochrome interior of a cell replaced the colourful melodrama Jeff had been watching. A time stamp indicated the video had been recorded eight hours ago. The picture was grainy and the lighting poor, but it became clearer as Ash’s eyes adjusted. Supine on the single bed, staring up at the ceiling, lay a familiar figure. Martin Cork’s hair was longer than she remembered, almost shoulder length. And he was wearing a straitjacket.
The last time she had seen him had been at Sam’s funeral. As one of the pallbearers, Corky had been an unexpected source of hilarity, for which he had later, and unnecessarily in her book, written her a letter of apology. It had been his height that caused the problem. No other pallbearer came close to his six feet four inches, so Sam’s coffin had listed perilously, and at one point come close to sliding free. Sam would have laughed like a drain at that, she knew. So she had welcomed the moment of levity, even if her laughter did turn to tears.
Minutes ticked by, and on the TV screen the figure on the bed remained motionless. She turned to Jeff. “Is this all there is?”
“Wait,” he said. “I should be coming to see him about … now.”
The cell door swung open, and Jeff entered. He spoke, and the man lying almost catatonic on the bed came to life so suddenly Ash jumped. The transformation was startling, but then the camera operator zoomed closer. Corky’s eyes were wild, his pupils the size of pinpricks, and veins bulged in forehead and neck. He struggled to free himself from his straitjacket, and, when that failed, flung himself at Jeff and tried to head butt him.
“My God!” This display of naked aggression was something Ash had never seen from him before.
Jeff gave Ash a wry glance. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”
On the screen, three guards rushed in, and only their combined efforts and the fact that Corky was in a straightjacket enable them to pull him off his much slighter partner. Then Aston appeared, and at his urging, a distraught Jeff left the cell.
It was as though a switch had been turned off. As soon as Jeff left, Corky’s face smoothed, and his movements calmed. Moments later, he allowed his captors to carry him to the bed and dump him there. He lay where they placed him, gazing peacefully at the ceiling.
At that point the video ended, and the soap reappeared, its actors shouting and gesturing at one another. Jeff muted the sound.
“So you see, Aston was right,” he said, his voice miserable. “Whenever Corky sees me he goes berserk.” His fingers wandered to the bandage at his throat.
“But who made him like this? And why?”
“Good questions.” His lips thinned. “Unfortunately, I have no answers.”
Ash balled her fists. She had been planning to speak to Corky, see what clues to his conditioning she could glean, but, judging by the video, he wasn’t in a fit state to talk. The only person who could get a reaction was Jeff, and it was one of murderous aggression. If it were Jemma in there in a straitjacket—
Don’t think about it.
“They’ll snap him out of it, Jeff.” She tried to sound confident. “They’ll find what caused it and get him back to normal, you’ll see.”
He didn’t say anything, but when his eyes met hers, they were full of disbelief. He looked so lost and alone, so vulnerable, she stayed with him, trying to cheer him up with amusing reminiscences. That time on the Reeperbahn, for example, when Jeff, Corky, Sam, and Ash had drunk too much schnapps and decided to see which of them could seduce the most beautiful woman in the bar. Ash had won, of course. Viveka had been her name, and the two had spent a pleasurable night in Ash’s hotel room.
Jeff matched Ash, reminiscence for reminiscence, laughing in the right places, but she could tell his heart wasn’t in it. At last, she glanced at the clock and saw that Jemma’s hour with Dr. Aston should be up.
“I must go. My partner’s waiting for me.” She stood and rested her hand on his shoulder. “Don’t give up on him, Jeff. He’s tough. If anyone can find a way through this, Corky can.”
“I know.”
His sad gaze followed her all the way to the double doors.
DR. ASTON WASN’T in his office but his secretary was at her desk. She looked up from her computer. “May I help you?”
“I’m looking for Dr. Aston’s twelve am appointment,” said Ash. “Jemma Jacobs. She’s supposed to be meeting me here. Do you know where she is?”
The secretary checked her watch. “Sorry. She left quarter of an hour ago.”
“Oh.” Ash frowned. Then a thought struck her. Jemma knew where Ash’s parking spot was.She was probably sitting in the Lotus’s passenger seat, preparing choice comments about Ash’s tardiness. With a hurried, “Thanks,” she headed towards the lift.
But Jemma wasn’t waiting in the carpark either. Disgruntled, Ash slid into the driving seat, pulled out her mobile phone, and called up the number that Jemma had stored in its memory only yesterday.
“Hello?” What sounded like a train’s rumble almost drowned out Jemma’s voice.
“Where are you?” asked Ash.
“On the tube.”
“The tube?” Her brows drew together. “Where are you going?”
“Remington’s.”
“Now? You were supposed to meet me for lunch.”
; “I know. But do you mind if we make it dinner instead? You know I’ve been feeling rather guilty about what happened to him.” A bewildered Ash knew nothing of the sort. “So I thought I’d go and see him and apologise,” Jemma went on. “See how he’s coping with retirement. Wish him well. That kind of thing.”
“Oh.” As far as Ash was concerned, Jemma had nothing to apologise for. Her old boss had been an idiot. Case closed. Still, if Jemma needed to do this rather than come with Ash …
Maybe there was a way to do both. She dredged up a memory. “Remington lives in Wimbledon, doesn’t he?”
“That’s right. Dudley Road.”
“Then how about I pick you up from there in about an hour and a quarter? We can drive to Chislehurst Caves in my new car.”
“Oh Ash, I’m so sorry.” Jemma sounded mortified. “I forgot all about Chislehurst.” The train’s hooter blared. “Hang on. We’re just going into a tunn—”
Her voice faded, and all Ash could hear was an occasional crackle on the line.
“Hello?” she said. “Hello?” The silence seemed to go on forever.
“—still there, Ash?”
“Yes. I’m still here.”
“Did you say you’ve got a new car?”
“That Lotus I told you about.”
“Wonderful. Then if you can pick me up from Remington’s place in an hour and a quarter, that will be great.”
Ash relaxed. “Okay. I’ll get a bite to eat, do some food shopping, and see you later.”
“Later. Bye.”
With a sigh Ash put the phone in her pocket. It stung her ego a little that Jemma had forgotten all about their plans. She tilted her head and considered this spur-of-the-moment behaviour. Its likeliest cause was Jemma’s session with Aston—he had probably brought to light an issue that had been preying on her mind. Bloody psychologists. I knew seeing him was a bad idea. Ah well. If seeing Remington made Jemma feel better, where was the harm?
Ash checked her watch. In the meantime, if she was to get something to eat, and they were to have something other than bread and honey for dinner tonight, she’d better get moving.
Moments later the Lotus was zooming toward the nearest supermarket.
Chapter 4
JEMMA GOT OFF the tube at South Wimbledon then realised she had no idea where Dudley Road was. Luckily, a newsagent’s just around the corner from the station stocked maps, so she bought herself a Mars Bar and a street plan, located her destination, and set off walking.
The chocolate bar was as much about comfort as hunger, and right now she needed it. That she had forgotten all about going with Ash to Chislehurst Caves disturbed her. Her only excuse was that the session with Aston had unsettled her more than she thought. Hardly surprising, given the ground they had covered during that hour. But still—
Poor Ash. I’ll have to make it up to her tonight.
Jemma grimaced at her reflection in a shop window. What could she tell Ash? That the urge to see Remington had been so compelling she had acted on it at once, even though details of where she was going were sketchy at best?
If I’d set off on a mission with that kind of poor preparation, I’d be in trouble.
Her hair looked messy, so she finger combed it. Remington was the finicky sort, always concerned with neatness and presentation—sometimes to the detriment of more important considerations. Ash’s opinion of him had been typically more forthright—“anal-retentive prick,” she’d called him. Jemma smiled at the memory.
The traffic-fume laden breeze was thwarting her efforts to make her hair presentable, so she straightened her jacket, gave her reflection one last resigned look, and continued walking. Her thoughts wandered …
Aston scratched his beard. “You don’t mind if I call you Jemma during our session, do you?”
“Not at all.”
“Good. Now, Jemma. Before we go any further. Is there anything in particular you want to discuss?”
Last night’s car crash was fresh on her mind, so she brought that up. The terrible moment when she thought Ash was dead had led to nightmares invading her sleep. Getting it out in the open did seem to help. Aston advised Jemma to try to focus not on what might have been but what was. That seemed to help too.
The talk moved on to her very first mission, in the Canaries.
“How did it feel, Jemma?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, one minute you were treating Miss Blade as a potential traitor working for the Libyans, and the next you were helping her. To such an extent that you disobeyed the instructions of your Section Head, bypassed him altogether in fact. That must have been a … confusing, even worrying state of affairs.”
“Ah, I see.” Jemma considered. “Yes, it was. At first, anyway. But my gut instinct told me Ash wasn’t a traitor.”
While Aston jotted something on the lined pad of A4 paper, she let her gaze wander over the framed diplomas hanging on the beige walls, and let the sound of flowing water and birdsong wash over her. Must be one of those ambient sound relaxation audiotapes. He probably had lots of others—rain falling, dawn in the countryside, waves on a beach, tropical rainforests … at least it wasn’t whalesong—
“And you trusted that? Your instinct?”
She gathered her thoughts. “Yes. Well, eventually,” she amended. “Two separate people told me to trust my instincts—my training instructor, Mac, and Ash—so I did.” She twiddled her thumbs.
“Well, as the saying goes, Ash would, wouldn’t she?”
“True.” Jemma returned his smile. “But she was right.”
“It must have been quite frightening, your very first mission, backing a woman all the evidence said was a traitor, against the advice and instincts of your superior. You took a huge risk. Your career, perhaps even your life, were on the line if you chose incorrectly.”
She nodded but said nothing. What was there to say?
His eyes regarded her through the spectacle lenses, and Jemma remembered Ash’s comment about them being plain glass. “And what do you feel you learned, if anything, from this experience?”
She pursed her lips. “To trust myself. And to trust Ash. She’s never let me down.”
He twirled his pen. “And if you had to do that particular mission again, would you do anything differently?”
“Probably.”
“What?”
“Well, I’d stand up to Mr. Remington earlier, for a start, make him see that his prejudice against Ash was blinding him to the truth.” The words came easily; she’d thought about this particular subject a lot. “If it hadn’t been for that, he would never have acted as he did. And he would never have had to resign.”
Aston blinked. “I thought he took early retirement.”
She gave him a wry look. “It amounts to the same thing.”
“Quite.” He made another note on his pad. “And why do you think your former Section Head was prejudiced so strongly against Miss Blade?”
She shrugged. “You’d have to ask him that.”
“Good point. Well, enough of the Canaries, Jemma.” He turned the page. “Miss Blade is now your official partner. And you’ve completed a successful mission in Brazil together—congratulations, by the way.”
“Thanks.”
“So, how is that working out for you?”
“How is what?”
“Your new partnership?”
“Great.” She found herself smiling.
“Good.” He raised his gaze to meet hers. “Partnership is all about supporting each other, complementing each other’s skills. Miss Blade is an experienced agent, whereas you are just starting out. That must be difficult at times.”
She shrugged. “I’ve still got a lot to learn, but she’s a great teacher. And I’m trying to pull my own weight.”
“I’m sure you are. And experience will come with time. As will the range of skills you can contribute.” He smiled. “Your partnership is very recent, after all.”
For a moment
she wondered if he knew she was sleeping with Ash. But if he didn’t, she wasn’t going to volunteer the information.
“Some find relying on their partner hard at first,” he persisted. “Has that been a problem?”
“No. I’ve always admired Ash. Mac used some of her missions as training aids, and we learned some of the combat techniques she invented too. I’d trust her with my life.” He made another note, and she strained to read it, but his upside-down scrawl defeated her.
“And what about Miss Blade herself? From her reaction when we met, I’d say her former partner’s death wounded her deeply. Yet here she is, expected to work with yet another partner. Does that affect the dynamic between you?”
Jemma frowned. “I’m not sure what you’re getting at.”
“Is she overprotective, for example? Does she refuse to allow you to play as much of a part as you would like to because it might put you at risk?”
She considered. Wrapping her in cotton wool was hardly Ash’s style—you had only to experience her driving to know that. But … “Maybe a little,” she conceded. “But honestly, I think that’s as much due to my lack of field experience as anything. And over time, I’m sure she will adjust. But you should be talking to her about this, shouldn’t you?”
“True. And I will.” Another note. He looked up and smiled. “It’s only by taking risks that we grow.”
He came out with these little bits of psychobabble from time to time, she’d noticed. They would irritate Ash to distraction when it was her turn to see him.
Wonder how Ash is getting on with Martin Cork and Jeff Morand. She glanced at her watch. Still quarter of an hour to go.
“You had a few close shaves in Brazil, I understand—I’ve read the file.”
Jemma returned her attention to Aston. “Yes.”
“It must have been terrifying at times.”
“It was.”
“But I imagine that events were moving so fast, you had little time to stop and think.” He regarded her intently. “Are you getting any flashbacks, dreams?”
She bit her lip and nodded.
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