I looked at him again, realizing at last why he was being so slow, so uncooperative. Getting the photo would mean talking to Aldridge, and talking to Aldridge would mean going to Guildford. Wesley didn’t want that. He wanted me here, in Exmouth, with him. He wanted to be looked after.
‘You can come too,’ I said at once. ‘I’ll drive you.’
Wesley shook his head, his hands around the cup, warming himself. An hour in a wheelchair had exhausted him. No way would he be able to cope with a four-hundred-mile round trip in the camper. We said nothing for a minute or two. The last of the daylight had turned the sea an unforgiving, gunmetal grey. I shivered, getting up to pull the curtains.
‘I’ll have to go,’ I said softly, turning back into the room. ‘You know that, don’t you?’
Wesley nodded, his eyes still on the teacup. ‘Yeah,’ he said, ‘I do.’
I left after breakfast next morning, a dull, wet, windy day. Wesley had given me three phone numbers for Aldridge, two at the office and a private one where he lived. I’d already tried an office number, confirming with Aldridge’s secretary that he was free for lunch, but leaving no message. The last thing I wanted was a reception committee.
I took the A303, up through Somerset and Wiltshire, bumping along under a thick blanket of cloud. It was still raining at midday when I pulled into the car park behind the Royal County Hotel in the middle of Guildford. According to the AA book, the County rated three stars for its ‘comfort, facilities, and skilful blend of tact and service’. I put the latter to the test at once, asking for a double room and pre-paying the daily rate. The woman behind the counter passed me the key with the change.
‘Breakfast, madam?’ she queried. ‘Tomorrow morning?’
I shook my head and pulled a face. ‘’Fraid not,’ I said. ‘Dawn start.’
Upstairs, from the room, I phoned Aldridge. I could tell at once that he was busy, though when he heard my voice, he changed down a gear or two.
‘Nice to hear you,’ he said. ‘Nice surprise.’
I apologized for interrupting whatever he was doing. I said I had a favour to ask. I quoted the Beirut crash story and gave him the date. I said I knew he had some photos on file. Maybe I might take a look?
‘Of course,’ he said, ‘I see no problem with that.’ He paused. ‘You want to come in this afternoon?’
I hesitated a moment, eyeing the double bed. I’d already turned down the sheet and plumped up the pillows. The rest, I told myself, should be child’s play.
‘I thought maybe lunch,’ I said, ‘on me.’
‘You?’ he said blankly.
‘Yes. I’m staying at the Royal County.’ I paused. ‘Can you spare the time?’
‘Ah…’
‘Is there a problem?’
‘God, no.’ He laughed, an easy chuckle. ‘It’s just that I’ve eaten already. About ten minutes ago. Ham sandwiches. From the canteen. You want me to bring the photos, too?’
I fingered the phone a moment. ‘Yes,’ I said at last, ‘that would be kind.’
Aldridge arrived twenty minutes later. He had a Peter Dominic’s carrier bag with him and two bottles of champagne. He pushed the door shut with his heel and crossed the room towards me. I was half-sitting on the vanity unit. He bent over me and kissed me on the mouth. He’d been drinking already. It tasted like Scotch. He took a couple of steps backwards and nearly tripped over the bed. The sheet was still folded down. He produced an envelope from his inside pocket.
‘Your pictures,’ he said, letting the envelope fall to the bed. ‘Send them back when you’re through.’
I smiled at him. ‘Thanks,’ I said.
He looked at me a moment, not quite so certain, then put the champagne beside the bed and disappeared into the bathroom. When he came back, he had two glasses. He began to open one of the bottles, loosening his tie, taking off his jacket. Plainly, time was short. I stepped across to him. I was wearing the two-piece I’d bought in Dallas. The blouse underneath was buttoned down the front, and I’d put a lot of thought into the choice of bra. It was a Gossard, my favourite, and it fitted me beautifully. When Aldridge finally got the blouse unbuttoned, he couldn’t believe it.
‘Jesus,’ he murmured, ‘must be my birthday.’
He was sitting on the side of the bed. I reached for the bottle of champagne he’d begun to open and gave it to him. He put his thumbs under the cork, levering upwards, and I caught the first frothy fountain of champagne as the cork hit the ceiling. He filled the second glass, sipping greedily as I proposed a toast. When he reached for me again, I got up and stood in front of him, my hands resting lightly on his head. He was wearing gel. I could feel it.
He glanced up at me. His hands were under my skirt now, working slowly upwards. For a man with a reputation, he was quite hopeless.
‘You want to talk?’ he said.
I nodded. ‘Please.’
‘And?’
‘Whatever you like,’ I said, ‘afterwards.’
‘As cold-blooded as that?’
‘No.’ I smiled again. ‘It’s just the way I am.’
His hands were still between my thighs. I fondled his hair, easing his head towards me, belly height, maybe a little lower. He began to groan, nuzzling me.
‘What is it?’ he said. ‘What do you want to know?’
‘About the crash.’ I paused. ‘Why the interest? How come the photos?’
He looked up at me again. ‘Is this an interview,’ he said, ‘or just lunch?’
I smiled. ‘Lunch.’
‘You mean that?’
‘Yes.’
‘About afterwards?’
‘Of course.’
He nodded, thoughtful, briefly back behind the editorial desk. Then he shrugged.
‘There was a lot of industry chatter,’ he said at last. ‘You may have heard.’
‘About a bomb?’
‘A possible bomb. It sounds obvious, but no one ever asked the hard questions. Not even the plane makers. Though you’d have thought they’d had an interest.’
‘Who are they?’ I asked him.
‘Rexall,’ he said. ‘They’re big in defence sales, too. Made a fortune since the Gulf War.’
‘Should that matter?’
Aldridge looked up, his eyes moist with the champagne, a curious little half-smile on his face, and I knew at once that the talking was over and that my time was up. He passed me my glass. I tipped it to my lips. Moët et Chandon. No expense spared. Aldridge was still watching me.
‘You here tonight?’ he said.
I nodded.
‘Free for dinner?’
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘if you think it’s worthwhile.’
He hesitated a moment, looking up at me. Then he reached for the clasp on my bra and undid it, watching my breasts fall free, cupping them in his hands, kissing the flesh around the nipples. On his feet again, he headed for the bathroom, turning on the taps in the basin, whistling a tune from some opera or other, quite the gay rake.
I stooped to the phone. I’d memorized the number on the journey up from Devon. I dialled it now, local code, six figures. I heard the number trilling, then a woman’s voice. I laid the receiver beside the phone in time to smile at Aldridge as he came back in. He was stark naked. He needed to lose a stone or two around the waist and find himself somewhere sunny to take care of the rest. Me, or the champagne, had stirred the beginnings of an erection. He was, in Rory’s phrase, modestly appointed.
‘Sir?’ I said. ‘Your pleasure?’
He grinned at me. ‘No, no,’ he said, ‘I insist.’
‘On what?’
‘On whatever.’ He shrugged, ‘Your choice, my treat.’
He sprawled across the bed and pulled me towards him. He was beginning to sweat, a line of moisture on his upper lip.
‘Do you do this kind of thing often?’
‘Not with someone like you.’
‘Oh?’
‘No,’ I felt his fingers in my hair, ‘most of the time it’s shor
t rations.’
‘Meaning?’
‘The odd chum at the office. Passing ships…’ he kissed me, ‘the wife.’
We were very close, my face an inch from his on the pillow, the phone beside us. I could tell that the line was still open. I rolled over, my skirt off now, my pants still on, straddling him. I knew by the look on his face that he hadn’t read the book on self-control. Any minute now, the show would be over. His thumbs were inside the tops of my knickers. He was trying to get them off. He wanted the insides of me. Badly.
I bent over him, my mouth beside his ear.
‘There’s someone on the phone for you,’ I whispered. ‘Little surprise.’
Aldridge opened one eye. He thought I was joking.
‘Get those fucking knickers off,’ he said. ‘I need you.’
I said nothing, nodding at the phone. He began to pull at my pants again, still not believing me, and I rolled off his erection and squatted by the bed, picking up the phone, giving it to him. He stared at it, totally bewildered, then he picked it up and put it to his ear.
‘Yes?’ he said.
Nothing happened for a moment, then his face began to purple and I wriggled back into my skirt, buttoning my blouse, stuffing my bra into my bag, watching his eyes close, hearing the voice at the other end, nothing specific, nothing I could understand, just the low hiss of air leaving a marriage, the longest sentence in the world, the one that leaves you with absolutely no place to hide.
Dressed now, I watched him put the phone down. He was too shocked to be angry. He just lay there, staring at the ceiling, his face grey and sweating, his mouth half open, his erection quite gone. I pocketed the envelope with the photographs and stood by the bed. My hand strayed across his crotch, nails and fingertips. I smiled down at him, thinking of all the other women he must have met in rooms like these. I bent to him quickly, my hand still playful, my lips to his ear.
‘Wesley sends his regards,’ I whispered. ‘Says thanks for everything.’
I was in London by mid-afternoon, in time to catch the bank before it closed. So far, since taking Wesley to the West Country, I’d managed to pay for everything in cash. Even the camper I’d bought with a large handful of fifty-pound notes. Doing it that way, the same logic I’d used in the States, I’d avoided leaving the usual trail of electronic footsteps that agencies like MI5 rely on. Once they’d discovered the break-in at Guildford, they’d have put a trace on my bank account and credit cards. Every transaction would come up on one of the computers at Curzon House, leading them directly to Exmouth and the Riviera Hotel. By using cash, I’d effectively stayed invisible, but now it was running out and I needed more. The best solution was a visit to the West London branch where I had a drawing arrangement, and while this would certainly be reported, I suspected there was no way they’d be able to withhold the cash.
In the event, thank God, I was right. The woman behind the glass window spent long enough on the phone to make several check calls, but when she returned there was no problem with the money. By half past four, I was back in my flat in Fulham, five thousand pounds the richer.
I spent no more than ten minutes in the flat. Staying longer, after my appearance at the bank, was asking for trouble, and I had time to check only the obvious things. A pile of mail I stuffed in my bag. A week-old carton of milk I poured down the sink. A handful of clothes I threw into a sports bag. En route to the front door, I paused by the phone. There were three messages on the answering machine, fewer than I expected. I checked my watch, then spooled quickly through them. One caller had left no message at all. The second wanted to sell me a security alarm. Only the third was of any importance.
I bent to the phone, recognizing my mother’s voice. She obviously hadn’t a clue where I was, which was perfectly reasonable since I hadn’t told her. She chided me as gently as ever for the lack of contact (‘… the odd postcard, dear? Just one?’) and then said that she was organizing a surprise party. My father was retiring in a week’s time. She was trying to get together all his closest friends. It would be lovely if I could be there. She knew it would make his day. There was a pause, then the kisses she always left on the tape and then she hung up. I hesitated a moment, wondering whether to phone her now, but then decided against it. A week, just now, was an eternity. Literally anything could happen.
I was back in Devon by nine. The traffic had been appalling, and I had a number of other serviceable excuses, but I knew the moment I opened the hotel bedroom door that all was far from well. Wesley was lying in bed, half watching television. He barely turned his head when I came in and refused to answer when I asked how his day had been. At first, silly me, I thought he was sick again. It took me several minutes to realize he was sulking.
‘What’s the matter?’ I said at last. ‘Mummy left you too long?’
Wesley gave me a look, much as a child might, a daughter perhaps, derision and scorn. I went over to the window, shrugging off my coat. I had the photographs out now. I’d had a look at them on the way down. They were ideal for our purposes, all five faces, perfect focus. I pulled the curtains, glancing round. For the first time, I saw the mark. It was high up on the wall beside the door, a big greasy splat, some kind of impact, not at all in keeping with the rose-printed wallpaper.
‘What’s that?’ I said.
Wesley was still looking at the television. He scowled. ‘Lunch,’ he said.
‘But what’s it doing on the wall?’
‘Brett came up. We had words.’
I nodded, beginning to understand. Brett was the assistant manager, the helpful young man who’d installed the video. He was neat, and well-scrubbed, and Wesley had taken quite a shine to him.
‘What happened?’ I said, sitting on the bed.
Wesley looked at me for the first time. He looked, if anything, shamefaced.
‘It was a game,’ he said, ‘that’s all.’
‘You made a pass at him?’
‘Yeah. When he brought the lunch up. Nothing serious. Just a joke.’
‘And what happened?’
‘He told me to fuck off. Said I should be locked up.’
‘And then?’
Wesley shrugged, fingering the buttons on the remote control, changing the TV channel. ‘I threw the plate at him.’
I looked at the door, trying to imagine Brett on the way out. Wesley had missed, but only just.
‘Maybe you frightened him,’ I said. ‘This is Devon. Not 42nd Street.’
Wesley shot me another look.
‘That’s the whole point,’ he said. ‘That’s why I was so angry. I still am. Little turd.’
I frowned, confused now. ‘I’m not with you,’ I said, ‘I don’t understand.’
Wesley looked at me for a long moment, then hauled the blankets up around his chin. ‘He’s gay,’ he hissed, ‘and he called me old.’
Later, when Wesley had recovered his dignity, I showed him the photos. He switched on the bedside light, and half-rolled over, peering at each of the faces. His pyjama top open, I could see again how thin he’d become, skin and bone, the flesh slack and pale. At last, he looked up, his finger anchored on the group by the plane.
‘This one,’ he said, showing me.
I studied the photograph. The face that had attracted Wesley’s interest was second from the right, a shortish man, curly black hair, open shirt, strong chin, dark complexion, plainly an Arab. I’d thought already that I’d seen the face before. Now, I turned the photo over. There was a typed caption on the back, naming the faces, left to right.
‘Rahman Khalil?’ I said.
‘That’s him.’
‘Who is he?’
Wesley gazed at me a moment, then nodded at the video we’d seen earlier in the week, his coverage of the Baghdad Trade Fair.
‘Remember the Supergun?’ he said. ‘The blokes at the table?’ I nodded. ‘Khalil’s the next one along. Beside Ghattan.’ He paused. ‘The two were always together. Bill and Ben.’
‘Fri
ends?’ I frowned, looking at the photo again. ‘Business partners?’
Wesley shook his head, enjoying himself now, back in control, the circus master. ‘No,’ he said, ‘Khalil was his bodyguard. Wherever Ghattan went, he went. Khalil was a little present from the Iraqis.’
‘Meaning?’
‘It was his job to know everything.’
27
Four days later, we moved out of the hotel. Relations with the management had collapsed entirely when Wesley invited Brett to do something particularly unspeakable, and I was obliged to find somewhere else for us to live. In the depths of a recession, with money in my bag, that wasn’t hard and I took a three-month lease on a second-floor flat further down the hill. The place was warm and furnished, and there were two bedrooms. I did the final negotiations on the phone, from the hotel, and Wesley monitored the dialogue with a certain grim amusement.
‘Three months?’ he said. ‘As long as that?’
The following day, settled in, I finally phoned my mother. The party was to be held at the weekend. When I said I’d be delighted to come, my mother was overjoyed. She suggested she pop up to London to see me, do a little shopping together. When I said I was incredibly busy, and liable to be elsewhere, she sounded disappointed.
‘Don’t worry,’ I said, ‘we’ll catch up on Saturday.’
‘Of course, dear. But don’t say a word to anyone. Top secret.’
‘Cross my heart.’ I smiled. ‘Mum’s the word.’
It was at this point, at last, that I managed to get in touch with Raoul again. I’d been phoning the Dallas number off and on for more than a week, but had never made contact. Either he was out on a job, or away on leave, or just too busy to talk. When I finally got through he didn’t bother to apologize. In the background, I could hear office noises: phones, typewriters, chatter.
‘This thing,’ he said. ‘I can’t talk.’
‘Why not?’
‘Not here. You got a pen?’
He gave me a number. I wrote it down. He made me read the number back. Then he told me to phone later, his time, half past eight in the evening. The number he’d given me was private. We’d be able to talk.
Our new flat had no phone. Armed with a small sheaf of BT cards, I returned to the call box at half past two in the morning. I’d set the alarm for thirty minutes earlier, but I was still half asleep, wrestling with my trusty recorder, wondering whether the batteries were still up to it. Outside the box, the night was wild, leaves swirling around in the orange light from the street lamps, a bitter wind off the sea. Walking down the hill from the flat, I’d seen no sign of life.
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