Secret Asset (17 page)

36

L
iz hadn't been in Tom Dartmouth's office since the day of Marzipan's death, and then she had not taken in anything about her surroundings. Today she was attending a meeting Tom was chairing of the Operation FOXHUNT team. The room, a standard group leader's room with a six-chair conference table, was full, and more chairs had been brought in. But in spite of all the people, it managed to look surprisingly bare, almost clinical in fact, thought Liz. Tom's desk had none of the bric-a-brac that most people brought in to make their working space more personal. No family photos, no desk set, no curios brought back from abroad. Not even a favourite mug as far as she could see. The rather bleak prints on the wall were from a government-issue set of famous buildings.

There was an air of anxiety and gloom in the room. They were not making much progress in finding the bookshop group or their target. In fact, Operation FOXHUNT did not seem to be getting anywhere. And time was clearly running out.

Tom was chairing the meeting, the first Liz had attended for two weeks. He did it perfectly competently, but lacked Wetherby's ability to bind people into a team. With Charles, even the most junior felt free to have a say, yet bores got cut off before they, well, bored. With Charles, Liz thought, you felt directed yet enabled at the same time, even when things were going badly. Today she felt only a disheartening impotence.

From A4, Reggie Purvis had given his report: there had been no significant visitors to the bookshop or to Rashid Khan's home in Wolverhampton. Surveillance of his sister had produced nothing of interest.

Michael Binding for A2 was more long-winded but equally down-beat: there had been no more phone calls to the bookshop or to Rashid's home from Amsterdam, no more calls of interest to his sister, and nothing relevant off the mikes in the bookshop.

Now Judith Spratt was finishing up her side of things. She had the only positive news to report. “I've just heard from Reading Control Room that they've got a possible dark-coloured Golf exiting the M4 at Newbury on the night the men left the Wokingham house. It was heading north. They're working on it now. Dave, have you got anything more about the Golf from the neighbours?”

“I spoke to the man Trevor,” said Dave. “He's certain it was a T-reg. Black. Any good?”

“Yes, thanks, I think we've got that already,” she said.

“Anything else, Dave?” Tom asked, sounding keen to wind things up.

Dave gave a short account of his interviews with Jamil Abdul-Hakim and Doris Feldman, then described his disappointing conversation with the letting agent in Wokingham. This mysterious white male was clearly important, but everyone agreed the sling wasn't going to help identify him. It had probably been a bogus affectation, designed to distract attention from its owner's face. If so, it had certainly done its job well. As Dave paused for a moment, Liz noticed Michael Binding collecting his papers for a quick exit. Judith was busy looking in her bag.

“Then I had a call this morning,” Dave said. Something in his voice made everyone stop and pay attention.

“When I interviewed Trevor yesterday, all he told me about was the car. But his wife rang me this morning to say she had remembered something else.”

He paused again, and Liz wondered what he was up to. She had seen Dave earlier that morning and he'd said nothing to suggest he'd found out anything important. So why the drama? He was milking this audience like an actor keen to take another bow. That wasn't like Dave at all.

She looked around the room. Binding, Judith Spratt, Rose Love, Reggie Purvis and one of his A4 sidekicks, Tom Dartmouth at the head of the table, and of course Liz herself. Who was Dave trying to impress?

“Mrs. Dawnton says she saw someone visiting the terrorists a few weeks ago. He was a white male. He came at night, but she got a good view of him because he triggered the Dawntons' security light. She thinks she could identify him if she saw him again. So I'm going down this afternoon to talk to her.”

Nobody said a word. In the silence Liz noticed the hum from a strip light. “Good,” said Tom at last. “Keep us posted.”

37

W
hy didn't I bring my sunglasses? thought Liz, then realised that two days of non-stop rain had made the prospect of decent weather seem remote. Yet in its shaky, hesitant English way, summer was approaching, and as she left London on the M3, the cloud cleared and the dipping sun shone straight into her eyes.

She was feeling gloomy. Her mother's brave front on the phone had been automatic cause for alarm, since with her mother's generation, Liz knew that the more blithe the denial the more serious the problem must be. And work was providing no compensatory distraction. The murder of O'Phelan had stopped her investigation into the mole dead in its tracks. There was no obvious way ahead.

She stopped for a break in Stockbridge almost two hours later, as the light was finally starting to go. It was a pretty Hampshire town with a long, unusually wide high street, nestled between pillow-like hills in the valley of the Test river. It required a small detour, but it was a favourite stopping place for Liz.

She stretched her legs and window-shopped for a few minutes, then bought a box of chocolate truffles from a grocery shop. She knew that despite her mother's protestations they would eat half of them before bedtime. She stopped to look at the trout, swimming lazily in the deep, small pool where the river emerged from under the High Street. It was next to a branch of Orvis, the upmarket fly-fishing shop which was thronged this time of year with enthusiasts preparing for the famous mayfly hatch.

Her first boyfriend had been an avid fly-fisherman, and she smiled at the memory of the hours she'd spent on riverbank dates—reading her book while Josh delicately cast his fly onto the surface of the gin-clear water, or cursed as he snagged it in the willow trees behind him. Her mother had adored Josh, which had made Liz's own recognition that he bored her half to death a slower process than it would be nowadays.

Why did she always think about men when she went to see her mother? Probably because men—or, not to put it too abstractly, a husband—seemed her mother's main concern for her daughter.

Liz couldn't tell her mother much about her work, yet Liz knew that even if she had worked in a normal job, her mother's interest in it would have been outweighed by what she clearly thought were the important questions: Are you seeing anyone? Are you going to marry them? Don't you want a family?

None of the above right now, thought Liz, knowing that particularly with her mother going into hospital these queries were likely to be raised this weekend. As she set off from Stockbridge she found herself admitting that yes, of course it would be nice to have a husband. And a family. But not at any cost. And not, at least for the time being, if it meant giving up the job she loved.

Half an hour later, Liz arrived at Bowerbridge and the octagonal gatehouse where her mother still lived. It was set back from the road, inside the russet brick wall that ran around the perimeter of what had once been a large estate.

Her father had been the estate manager for over thirty years and Liz had grown up there. After his death, Liz's mother had stayed on, and last year she had bought the freehold—unnecessarily in a sense, since at the former owner's insistence she was allowed to live there rent-free for the rest of her days. But behind this acquisition was her unspoken hope that some day Liz would move there, too. Join her in the garden centre, meet a man, get married, have children, settle down. In her head, Liz heard her mother's important questions all over again.

The rest of the estate had been sold, and the “big house”—a lovely Georgian pile of cream stone—had been converted into flats and ground-floor offices for the garden centre, which now occupied the old kitchen garden. Liz's mother had taken a part-time job there. Being her, she had taken on more and more responsibility, until now she managed the business, at an age when most people would be thinking of retirement. Emerging from the crushing impact of her husband's death, she had a new kind of life—one she was obviously enjoying. Which made the prospect of serious illness seem to Liz an especially cruelly timed blow.

Parking, Liz got out and stood on the gravel drive as her eyes adjusted to the dusk. There were still lights on in the garden centre, for it stayed open late in spring and summer. She hoped her mother would have left work by now, and was relieved to find her in the kitchen, waiting for the kettle to boil.

“Hello, darling,” her mother said. “I wasn't expecting you this soon.”

“Traffic wasn't bad at all,” said Liz breezily. She didn't want to tell her mother that with Wetherby's blessing she had knocked off early to make sure she got down at a reasonable hour.

“I was just thinking about our supper,” her mother said, pointing vaguely to the Aga. A tin sat open on the table, but Liz realised it was for Purdey, the white long-haired cat acquired by her mother the year before, and much fussed over.

“Let me do it,” said Liz. Unusually her mother let her take over, and sat down at the kitchen table while Liz fed Purdey, then made scrambled eggs and toast. As they ate, Liz avoided all talk of the next day's hospital procedure, sensing her mother preferred it that way. Keep it light, Liz told herself. For the first time, her mother seemed frail and vulnerable. And more scared than she would ever let on. When it was time for bed, Liz realised that they hadn't touched the chocolate truffles.

         

Liz took her mother to the hospital after lunch the next day. The doctors planned to keep her in overnight. “A precaution,” they'd explained, and Liz wasn't going to argue.

The procedure took place at three, under a local anaesthetic. By four o'clock her mother was back in the ward, though drowsy from the anaesthetic and an injection of painkiller the doctor had administered. Liz stayed for half an hour, then left her mother resting, and returned to the gatehouse to feed Purdey.

She was opening a tin in her mother's kitchen, when she heard a car pull onto the gravel on the far side of the house. Walking through to the sitting room, she saw a man slowly getting out of a low-slung sporty model. He was tall, wide shouldered, and dressed in smart casual clothes—suede shoes, a cashmere sweater and dark blue cords with a sharp crease. Then she realised it was Tom Dartmouth.

She had completely forgotten that she'd told him she'd be at her mother's that weekend, and equally that he was, coincidentally, staying with friends nearby. Why hadn't he rung first? she thought crossly, only too aware that in trainers and a grey T-shirt she hardly looked her best. Then she realised he probably had phoned, while she was with her mother at the hospital.

She opened the rarely used front door and went out to greet him. “Tom,” she said, “I've just got back.”

“Good timing then,” he said, as he crossed the drive. “What's that noise?” he asked suddenly.
Tee-cher, tee-cher, tee-cher
came from the other side of the house, like the metallic sound of an old typewriter.

“Blue tits,” she said. “There's usually a crowd of them in our holly tree.” Liz stood listening for a moment, until she sensed Tom's impatience and remembered her manners. “Come on in,” she said, and once inside she steered him into the sitting room, which was tidier than the kitchen. “Can I get you something? Cup of tea?”

Tom made a show of consulting his watch. “After six,” he declared. “Something stronger wouldn't go amiss.”

Liz looked with alarm at the drinks tray—her mother was hopeless about keeping her supplies replenished. “There's some whiskey,” she said, pointing to a half-drunk bottle of Famous Grouse. There was some dry sherry too, she noted with relief, though she wasn't certain how long it had been opened, and her mother's favourite tipple—Stone's Ginger Wine.

“Any gin?” asked Tom hopefully.

“I'll just see,” she said without optimism.

In the larder she found an ancient bottle of Gordon's with just enough left in it for a large GT. She hoped Tom was not planning to stay long. She found some ice, though no lemon, a packet of rather stale cheese straws, and brought it all out on a tray to the sitting room. Tom was standing by the French windows. “Pretty garden,” he announced. “Does she get someone in to do it?”

“Perish the thought,” said Liz a little sharply. “My mother doesn't even let me help her.”

“How is she?” he asked. “You said she was in for tests. When does she get out?”

“Tomorrow. That's when we'll know.”

Tom seemed to sense, rightly, that she didn't want to talk about it, for he pointed outside, saying, “It's a lovely spot. Has she been here long?”

“Thirty years,” said Liz, handing over the drink. She poured herself a glass of tonic without gin. She added, “I grew up here. My father looked after the estate.”

Tom came and sat down in the large easy chair where Liz's mother spent her evenings, knitting, reading or watching the television. “Cheers,” he said, lifting his glass. He drank, then put the glass down and sat back comfortably in the chair.

“Cheers,” replied Liz from the sofa, beginning to appreciate how tired she was. The combination of focusing on her mother and worrying about her was proving exhausting.

“Welcome contrast to Thames House,” said Tom.

“It's a nice part of Wiltshire,” agreed Liz. “Where are you staying?”

“My friends are about ten miles west of here. Off the road to Blandford.”

“What's the name of their village?”

Tom shrugged his shoulders. “They've got a farm, and I'm afraid I haven't taken much notice of my surroundings. I think they said the village was walkable, but I didn't catch its name.” He chuckled. “I've just been so glad to be in a place where the telephone doesn't ring all the time.”

“You must have been frantic these last few weeks.”

“You could say that,” said Tom, taking a long pull on his drink. “Still am. I've left Judith in charge this weekend. How about you?”

“Busy,” she said.

“You're doing something for Wetherby, aren't you?” When she only nodded in reply, he said, “Sorry, not meaning to pry.”

She shrugged, not wanting to seem pompous. Then it occurred to her that if they were going to talk about work, she might as well use the opportunity. “Tell me,” she said, “you were at Oxford. Did you ever come across a lecturer there named O'Phelan? An Irishman.”

Tom picked up his glass and looked at her with interest. “You mean the guy who was murdered? Just a few days ago. I saw it in the papers.”

“That's the one—I was supposed to see him about something. But now…” She left the conclusion unspoken. She decided not to mention her earlier visit to see O'Phelan—she didn't want to influence Tom's account of the man with her own impressions.

“As a matter of fact, I did,” said Tom. “Well, I didn't know him; it's more I knew
of
him. He was a fairly notorious character.”

“Really? Why was that?”

Tom smiled a little awkwardly. “O'Phelan was what the obituarists like to call a confirmed bachelor. Each to his own, of course, but he was sometimes a bit predatory with his students. A great pal of mine was taught by him, which was fine for the first year—O'Phelan acted as if my friend had great academic gifts. Then suddenly one day, right in the middle of a supervision, O'Phelan went and locked the door to his rooms, and pounced. My friend literally had to fight his way out.” At the memory, Tom gave a knowing grin. “Fortunately, he was the fly-half in the College XV so he didn't have much trouble staying out of his clutches. But he did need to find a new supervisor.”

“What was your friend's name?”

Tom looked surprised by her question. It didn't matter, of course, but she liked having names. It helped her remember people's stories.

“Clapton,” he said slowly, “Philip Clapton. Why do you ask?”

Liz gave an innocent shrug. “I don't know. Just curious, I guess.” She smiled winningly. “Anyway, you've opened up a whole new side to O'Phelan. I'd heard he was a staunch Republican.”

Tom looked blankly at Liz. “O'Phelan? You surprise me.”

“I thought he had always been strongly nationalist. Even at Oxford.”

“Maybe he was,” said Tom. “That wasn't something I ever came across. What's this stuff?” he suddenly demanded, brushing at his trousers, which were covered from the knees down in white hair.

“Sorry,” said Liz. “Purdey must have rubbed against you. She likes men.”

“Wretched cat,” said Tom, still picking the hairs off his blue trousers. He looked up brightly at Liz. “Listen, I've got an idea. The last thing you need tonight is to have to cook for yourself. Why don't you let me give you supper? There's a hotel in Salisbury that's supposed to have a very good restaurant. It'll be my treat.”

She knew it was thoughtful, but it was the last thing she wanted. Right now, she had no intention of eating anything more complicated or substantial than a plate of soup; the thought of a three-course dinner was too much to bear. “It's really kind of you,” she said, “but I'm going to have to pass.”

Tom was unwilling to take no for an answer. “Oh do come,” he said, “it would be fun. You need to relax. Take your mind off things.”

She forced a smile but shook her head. “I wouldn't be good company. Anyway, I need to be near the phone. Just in case.”

“Bring your mobile,” persisted Tom. “We can call the hospital and give them the number.”

“Perhaps some other time,” said Liz, with just a hint of steel.

Tom seemed to get the message at last. “I'll hold you to that then,” he said. He looked at his watch. “It's getting on,” he declared. “I'd better be going.”

And after he left, Liz mulled over their conversation. I'd better call Jimmy Fergus, she thought, and point him in the right direction. Though if “rough trade” were the answer to the mystery of O'Phelan's death, then why had he been killed in his college room, rather than at his home? And why in the morning?