This Honourable House (6 page)

What fell out made her recoil in horror.

Two blue razor blades, the old-fashioned kind with both naked edges sharp and glittering, narrowly missed her thumb. She yelped and put her fingers into her mouth as if to protect them, like an infant. Two sheets of paper followed. A crude sketch of a woman’s face, the hair her own colour and style, primitively drawn, the mouth exaggeratedly lipsticked and the eyes mere slits. Both cheeks were slashed crosswise in red ink. And there was a note, created from bits of newspaper crudely stuck on – one of the letters fluttered to the floor:

Inspector Stevens had had a bad day, although it was only ten o’clock in the morning. His fountain pen had leaked in his breast pocket and stained his shirt. The cleaners had knocked the model Porsche 911 off his desk and broken its spoiler. Two of his team had phoned in sick, which left him badly undermanned. He suspected their illnesses had much to do with the international boxing televised in the early hours: both men were keen fans and had probably spent the dawn hours watching together. Chapman was most likely still on Jones’s sofa, empty six-packs at his side. It would serve them right if he assigned the pair of them to permanent nights.

Michael Stevens had been a police officer for twenty-six years. On days like this he wondered why he had stayed, then reminded himself that in four years’ time he could retire on full pension, on his fifty-fifth birthday. He would be young enough still to enjoy it, unlike men in other professions who had to stick it out another decade, and old enough to be satisfied with a working life spent in uniform in the service of others. Old enough, in fact, to be close to heartily sick of it. With police morale in such a poor state and the Met, in particular, frantic to fill vacancies – it was virtually a force in terminal decline – nobody would blame him for going at the earliest opportunity. Nor could he condemn, in all honesty, those of his officers who preferred a morning lie-in.

Stevens was a tall, rangy man with the thick moustache that had been the hallmark, in his day, of the Metropolitan Police officer. The sideboards were greying at the edges, the jowls sometimes sagged after a late call, but he would be fit and capable for some years yet. The deep-set eyes shadowed by shaggy brows imposed a headmasterly air, belied by a mild manner and a passion for fast cars that he could not afford. Cars! Speed! That was why he had been tempted to join the police in the first place, and why he cultivated the friendships of car dealers, ignoring their sometimes shady operations in the faint hope that some day they might put a cheap second-hand roadster in his path. It hadn’t happened yet and probably never would. But a man could dream.

Outside his window came a commotion. Somebody was shouting. ‘Sarge! Sarge!’

Stevens hauled up the window and stuck out his head. Around him and in the opposite building other faces appeared. ‘What’s up?’ he called down.

‘Bloody thieves!’ came back a yell from a young PC below. ‘Look!’

Stevens craned to see. Cars and vans were parked neatly in rows, ready to be booked out on duty. The lack of staff meant more were there than usual. For a moment he could see nothing amiss.

The constable, dancing with rage, pointed under one of the fast response vehicles, a nearly new black Subaru Impreza Turbo WRX, a performance motor that Stevens himself had recommended. Two others were parked in a far corner. The inspector saw, with a nasty lurch in his stomach, that all three cars were resting tidily on their axles.

‘Fucking nicked the wheels, haven’t they?’ The constable waved his arms in impotent fury. ‘Cheeky buggers!’ Stevens withdrew his head and pulled down the window. ‘Fulda High Performance – two hundred quid apiece for the rubber alone,’ he muttered gruffly to himself. ‘No wonder the budget’s gone through the roof.’

A knock came on the door. The desk sergeant peered tentatively round. ‘Sorry to bother you. Don’t worry about that racket outside. We’ll sort it. They haven’t touched your vehicle, sir. This is something else. There’s a lady here, insists on seeing the most senior officer. Won’t deal with me or anybody else.’

Stevens sighed. ‘Bloody ’ell. You sure? Try your charm on her, Ron. I’ve got reports to do. I can’t spend my time listening to moans about the neighbour’s cat.’

‘We’ve tried. It isn’t a neighbour complaint. At least, I don’t think so. She’s a name.’

‘A name?’

‘Yeah.’ The sergeant grinned. ‘A VIP, you could say. Anyway, I’ve other members of our
esteemed public queuing downstairs at my desk. Plus some wheels to order. Shall I show her in?’

Gail twitched her skirt about her knees and tried to sit up straight. She was familiar with police stations. Years ago, newly wed, she had hung around in the canteen of more than one, waiting for Frank to go off duty. If she stayed at home he would disappear with his mates or informants for a quick pint that would turn into three hours’ drinking. The dinner would be burned and her pride with it. Eventually, however, Frank had pointed out testily that she was in danger of making a fool of him. Nobody else’s missus played wallflower like that. It was undignified. With a few tears she had accepted her fate and stayed in, becoming an expert at speedy meals. The sense of isolation that had resulted was similar to her feelings now.

‘I’ve come to report an offence,’ she blurted out. The envelope was in her hands, wrapped crudely in a plastic carrier-bag. ‘Careful. There could be fingerprints on it.’

Stevens glanced at her, surprised. He withdrew his hands, then pressed a bell under the desk. ‘Then we’d better have
it
examined properly, Mrs Bridges. Whatever
it
is.’

The sergeant entered, listened to Stevens’ whisper, disappeared and returned with a packet of surgical gloves. The inspector sat back as the sergeant donned the gloves and gingerly shook the bag’s contents out on to the desk.

‘See!’ exclaimed Gail. She felt herself go white and bit her lip to get a grip on herself.

‘What have we here?’ Stevens whistled under his breath. He used a pencil to poke at the razor blades, turning over the drawing and the letter. He studied the items for a long moment, then put down the pencil and pressed his fingertips together. ‘Now, Mrs Bridges, weren’t you on television a few days ago? Our civilian clerk said she’d seen you. And I caught a few clips on the news. You’ve been having problems, haven’t you?’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Gail eagerly. ‘I’ve been having a terrible time. I don’t think anyone appreciates it. You can’t know how it feels, to be publicly humiliated like that. Told in public that I’m to be discarded, like an old coat. Replaced by a newer model. As if he could keep up with
her
– thinks he’s a new man himself, I dare say. She’ll find out, she will. Won’t take long. After everything I’ve done for him, all those years when he left me alone in the evenings …’

The two men sat impassive. Her voice trailed away and she fidgeted with her handbag. ‘Sorry. It gets me. You only want to know about the package.’

Stevens nodded. Gail described its delivery and her horrified reaction. ‘I didn’t hesitate. I knew you’d need to see it at once. Then you can arrest Frank.’

‘We can what?’ The sergeant’s eyes rounded.

‘Arrest my husband. It’s from him. It must be.’

‘And how do you figure that out?’ The inspector kept his voice mild.

‘Well, it’s obvious, isn’t it? I’ve thought and thought about it. He doesn’t like me talking about him. He wants me to stop. Mr Clifford Maxwell says I should reveal the truth and not be intimidated, but my Frank is aware that I’m bad news for his precious career. And for that marriage. Though it’s so rocky, it won’t take months before falling apart. She’ll find out. He’s all piss and wind, isn’t he?’ Gail paused, panting slightly, startled at her own fierceness.

She had not meant to sound such a harridan. In the back of her mind doubt niggled. It was not possible that Frank, or anybody she had rubbed shoulders with, could perpetrate such an atrocity, was it? But someone had done it, someone who meant her harm. Who else could it be, if not him? Who else had anything to gain by her enforced reticence?

‘Is this the politician Frank Bridges we are referring to, madam?’ the sergeant asked officiously. His eyes were hostile.

‘Certainly. There is only one. Mr High and Mighty. Yes.’

‘The former police officer?’

‘The same. I only wish he’d stayed in the force. At least then he was doing something worthwhile. Now he rides around in a limousine with a posh new wife and I’m not good enough for him.’ There was a pricking at the back of her eyes.
Oh, God, don’t let me cry
, she thought desperately.

‘Can I fetch you a cup of tea?’ The sergeant had switched tack. ‘I’ll see if there’s a fingerprint bod about. I think the detectives are out. We could get this, ah, evidence checked now.’

‘Yes, thank you.’ Gail’s tears subsided as the sergeant went out, the carrier-bag in his gloved hands. She glanced down at her own, noticed dully that her nails were dirty and cracked, the cuticles ragged.

‘Mrs Bridges.’ The inspector’s voice was measured and calm. Gail looked up hopefully. ‘I’m sorry you’ve had such an upset. It’s a horrible experience to receive hate mail like this, especially when you’re not used to it.’

‘We did have it once or twice in the past, when Frank was first involved in politics – funnily enough when he was sorting out that dreadful strike. Then we had nasty stuff pushed through the letter-box. And threats.’

‘Like that?’ The inspector jerked his head towards the door.

‘Yes,’ Gail agreed, encouraged by the tone of the questioning. ‘Very similar. The product of a warped mind, I suppose. Or somebody under enormous pressure. Frank used to say we shouldn’t judge. I’m trying not to.’

‘They’re usually very stupid people who indulge themselves with such rubbish.’

‘Oh, yes, that’s right.’

‘Not quite what you’d expect from a man of your husband’s eminence, though?’

Gail felt cold. If not Frank then a stranger, and that was far more frightening. But surely it was no coincidence that this material should arrive hot on the heels of the adverse publicity she had given him. And at her correct new address. It stood to reason, unpalatable though it might be. ‘I can see your point, Inspector. But of course he wouldn’t write it himself, would he? I’d spot his handwriting at once. That’s why he’s used newspaper letter cut-outs.’ She paused. ‘If it isn’t him, then it’s somebody he’s persuaded to do it. Or paid.’

‘Quite the detective, aren’t we?’ The inspector’s eyes strayed to a photograph of himself on the wall, receiving the Queen’s Police Medal from the Duke of Gloucester. His glory days were behind him. Outside came more raised voices; he heard the phrase ‘missing engine’ and closed his ears. ‘You should leave those sort of deductions to us. In fairness to your husband, Mrs Bridges, it could have been anyone.’

‘It’s Frank. I’m sure of it. He wants my silence. He can’t buy it, so he’s putting the frighteners on me.’

Stevens grunted. ‘Do you really believe he’s capable of this, Mrs Bridges?’

Gail hesitated under the gaze of the shadowy, intelligent eyes. She was silent for a moment, then held herself rigid. ‘Yes,’ she said slowly. ‘If you’d seen the way he dumped me, in public, without shame, you’d agree he was capable of anything.’

The sergeant returned. ‘Nobody about who can help for the present, I’m afraid. But we can take a statement, and your fingerprints.’

‘Mine? Why do you have to do that?’ Gail clasped her hands.

‘In order to eliminate them from our inquiries,’ came the sergeant’s reply. ‘Then we’ll be in touch, Mrs Bridges.’ He held open the door for her.

The inspector stayed seated as Gail rose jerkily to her feet, but he shook hands with her amiably enough. ‘Goodbye, Mrs Bridges. Oh, one more point.’

‘Yes?’

‘We don’t want to encourage this type of nastiness. Don’t give anyone ideas. So my advice to you is not to mention it in your interviews. We do get copycat crimes.’

‘I see,’ Gail said uncertainly.

‘And, naturally,’ Stevens continued smoothly, ‘if it was your husband, or anybody else, we have to avoid pre-trial publicity. So it’s best not to say a word.’

‘You’ll catch him quicker?’

‘We’re more likely to put him away.’

Gail nodded. ‘I’ll do my best. But if I’m asked if I’ve had any comeback from him, it’ll be impossible to lie. I have to be able to speak out about these matters. I have to.’ She gathered up her bag and followed the sergeant out.

It was some hours later, towards the end of the shift, that the sergeant returned with a closely typed piece of paper. He put it wordlessly on Stevens’ blotter and pointed.

‘I guessed that might be the case,’ the inspector said. ‘Only her prints on it, eh?’

‘That’s it. And loads of them.’

‘We could take a DNA sample and check the saliva.’

‘The letters are stuck on with Pritt stick. The envelope’s done with Sellotape. Somebody with savvy, I’d say, sir.’

‘Hmm. Should we get CID to look at it, if only for form’s sake?’

The sergeant shrugged. It was common knowledge in the office that Stevens had spent five years on the detective side and had returned to uniform willingly, his opinions of his investigating colleagues somewhat soured. The inspector toyed with a pencil. Then: ‘Perhaps not today. She was upset. Got a powerful sense of grievance.’

‘If you ask me, she was lucky he stayed that long. She’s a bit of a shrew. My sympathies lie elsewhere.’

‘I wasn’t asking you, Ron. She may have been badly treated, as she claims. The question is, has an offence been committed here?’

‘My considered opinion is, no.’

‘She did it herself?’

‘Makes sense, sir. Though we must keep an open mind.’

‘Indeed. Poor woman. But it figures. He was one of us, wasn’t he?’

‘I loathe Brighton. I detest the Grand Hotel. I hate the conference season.’

Pansy Illingworth, editor in chief of the
Globe
, was holding forth. Jim Betts sniffed in mournful solidarity and offered her another cigarette. They were slouched on stools in the Grand’s grandest bar. It was early yet and the bar was not busy. Pansy accepted without thanks, lit it from a flaring lighter and blew out a stream of smoke, tossing back frizzy brown hair in a gesture Betts found irritating. She fidgeted, rubbing her open palm fretfully over skinny thighs in designer suede jeans. The painted nails threatened to tear the soft calfskin.

‘Bloody politicians! You’d guess they’d see quite enough of each other while Parliament’s sitting without devoting their precious recess to glad-handing the faithful. And in a third-rate seaside resort in the offseason,’ she continued. ‘Or maybe they agree with our poncy travel editor’s opinion that Brighton’s
sooo
trendy now. Why can’t they meet up in Marbella or Kos?’

‘Because they’d have to pay for it themselves,’ Betts answered. ‘Their fact-finding trips abroad are at taxpayers’ expense. The more exotic the better. They’ll check out satellite installations over Mauritius and the Indian Ocean on our behalf. Or the quality of British aid in the nicer parts of the Amazon basin, followed by a colloquium in Florida. The average backbencher takes four trips a year covering eight thousand miles. Brighton must seem comfortingly homely after that.’

‘It’s the grottiest place on earth,’ Pansy moaned, as she picked at the edge of a red-tipped nail. ‘Cold, dirty and frigging expensive. Marbella would be sunnier
and
cheaper. The booze, especially. Or Amsterdam. Then we could get stoned, legally.’

‘We’d lose ’em in the red-light district,’ Betts said, with an air of experience. ‘They’d vanish into the arms of some voluptuous East European lovely and that’d be that.’ He indicated the terrace. ‘Some action soon. The Ashworths are expected at six.’

‘Tanned and handsome after their honeymoon.’ Pansy snickered. ‘The golden couple. It’ll be interesting to see whether he’s a changed man.’

‘Now, now, Madam Feminist Editor. Bit of rogering never did anybody any harm.’

Pansy poked him firmly in the chest. ‘Don’t you get any fancy ideas, Mr Betts. My favourite sleeping partner may not be arriving till Wednesday, but that doesn’t mean I’m free tonight. Gotta couple of editorials to write in advance of tomorrow’s editions. We have to warn the nation of the full dire implications of the conference speeches.’

‘Before they’re delivered?’

‘Sure. The spin doctors have already informed us what they hope their bosses mean. We’ll manufacture a flaming row out of it. Shock! Horror! The delegates will gel mighty uppity and demand a vigorous response. By the end of the week we’ll be riding high, our every predict ion of splits and backstabbing borne out. And if not, we’ll keep stirring. That’s the game, Jim.’

‘Yeah.’ Betts dipped a hand into a bowl of peanuts; and stuffed them into his mouth. His eyes darted about as delegates began to drift into the bar.

The bartender, a swarthy man with sideburns, sidled over, his eyes drifting to Pansy’s crotch. ‘Here for the conference?’

‘Yep. We’re with the
Globe
,’ Betts announced proudly, and flashed his press badge.

‘On the tab, then, is it?’

Pansy smiled sweetly.

The barman began to wipe the bar. ‘Conference season – ain’t what it was. The Conservatives’ gatherings used to be the best.’ His eyes went misty. ‘Champagne, and put it on the slate, and I say, by Jove, let’s have your best whisky! They didn’t always pay up, mind, but they had style. Not these days. Tory supporters are mostly doddery old dears who’d like a small sherry. The fellahs that come with ’em are either gay and drink spritzers, or fat and forbidden alcohol by their
doctors.’

Betts made a mental note. The conference gossip column was his responsibility. ‘What about Labour? They’ve also seen fashion shifts, haven’t they?’

‘Not as many as you’d imagine,’ the bartender said. ‘See, years ago it was in to drink Newcastle Brown with a chaser, or Guinness to demonstrate solidarity with Sinn Fein. That was in the Thatcher era when Ken Livingstone was their hero. Hasn’t he done well for himself? In the nineties it was a chilled chardonnay,
dahling
, and guacamole instead of mushy peas, not that they knew the difference. And Bombay mix not peanuts. Now it’s back the other way. I have to lay in Tetley’s bitter specially. And natter in a Yorkshire accent. Heartlands! That’s all you hear from them now, even if they’ve never been north of Camden.’

Betts choked on his nuts. ‘What’s it like when the conferences have gone home?’

‘Dead. The only money round here is pink.’

‘Huh?’

‘Gays. Around twenty per cent of Brighton male residents are gay, according to the mayor. Even the local Tory candidate’s that way inclined, official. I do a couple of shifts weekends in the Pink Elephant club down Ship Street. Got a complete set of black rubber gear for it.’ He put a hand on his hip and wiggled suggestively.

‘Interesting. You that way inclined yourself?’ Betts could not help asking. In a bondage
get-up
the bartender, a fleshy man, would be a sight for sore eyes. Then he realised that this might be mistranslated as a pass, and flushed scarlet.

The man smirked down at Pansy’s suede thighs. ‘Me? Nah. I keep my backside pressed well up against the bar, believe me. It’s all in a day’s work, isn’t it?’

He was called away to the other beer pumps. Betts’s and Pansy’s eyes met, and they both giggled. ‘A fresh twist on a dirty weekend in Brighton,’ he said
sotto voce
, and reached once more for the bowl.

‘I shouldn’t, Jim,’ she chided. ‘You don’t know who’s been handling those nuts. Especially given the conversation we’ve just had.’

‘Come again?’ he said, fist halfway to his mouth.

Pansy slid elegantly off the bar-stool and collected her bag. ‘You don’t read your own newspaper. Didn’t you see the research,’ she said coolly, ‘in our
Modern Life
section, which showed that the first thing many chaps do after they’ve been for a leak is plunge their smelly paws into the peanuts?’

Christine passed the clothes brush briskly over his jacket and tweaked the shoulder seams to vertical. ‘This is a very important dinner,’ she reminded her husband, who waited impassively. Not to resist had been best with his mother; it was becoming a useful tactic for dealing with his wife. He patted the folded silk handkerchief in his breast pocket.

She stood back. ‘You know, I’m not sure this double-breasted suit is quite you,’ she murmured, as if the observation slipped naturally into her briefing on the dinner. ‘Are you absolutely certain the tailor is a supporter?’

‘He claimed to be, yes,’ Benedict answered, and set her aside gently so that he could check in the mirror. ‘It’s okay, isn’t it?’

‘I’m not sure. I wonder if he’s played a trick on us,’ she said. ‘The two extra buttons. They’re positioned over your nipples. Stick your chest out and you’ll see.’

Benedict twisted this way and that, then chuckled. ‘You’re right, but is it so obvious? Does it make me look a prat?’

Christine considered. ‘We’ll give it to Madame Tussaud’s for your waxwork. Their visitors are mostly foreigners and don’t care who you are, so it won’t matter. You’re into single-breasted suits
from here on.’

‘Thank you, darling.’ Benedict bent to kiss her, a half smile on his lips. ‘I’m so glad to have you with me. I would never have noticed anything like that.’

‘These little touches are significant,’ she ploughed on, peeved that he lacked the appropriate indignation. ‘When the public see you striding into the room in a jacket that’s a mite too fitting, with buttons flashing over your bosoms, your dignity is diminished. They don’t quite know
why
they infer you’re a bit lightweight, but they do. A dodgy impression like that is hard to eradicate once established.’

‘And that’s what you do so brilliantly. For me, and for your profession. Spot the little touches. You’re so clever.’

Christine cast him a sharp glance. There were times when Benedict’s dry levity was not appreciated. ‘Anyway, this dinner,’ she continued. ‘Three big donors are on the guest list. One’s from a dot com company who sold out at the peak and now feels guilty about it so he’s pledged the party a quarter of a million. Only he hasn’t written the cheque yet. One’s the grandson of Jo Grimond, doesn’t like what happened to that lot, and has switched to us. The third provided us with transport at election time. His company’s going down the pan and he’s convinced we’re anti-European, so don’t disabuse him of that notion, will you?’

‘Why exactly did he help us, then?’ Benedict undid his tie and started to refix it, with a looser knot, as a louche antidote to the offending buttons.

‘The last government stopped building motorways, this lot are trying to tax the internal combustion engine out of existence, the Greens want everything ferried about by push-bike. How they’d pay for the NHS, then, God knows. You might explore the inherent contradiction of an Exchequer so dependent for revenue on what they’re trying to diminish, though I’m not sure your host is intellectually up to it. We’re not anti anything on wheels, though we favour an integrated transport system.’

‘Which means what?’

Christine frowned, as if she were being set a test question. ‘There’s a policy paper in the folder somewhere. The buzz words are about buses and trains connecting with each other, getting the trains moving again. Nobody could object, anyway.’

‘But it’s hardly earth-shattering,’ Benedict remarked, almost to himself. ‘It sounds sensible, and that’s about it. Between John Major’s cones hotline and New Labour’s New Deal, nobody has big ideas any more, do they?’

‘The nitty-gritty of everyday life is what wins votes.’

‘Is that so? I wonder.’ Benedict broke away from her, tossed his notes on to the bed and began to pace about. ‘Bus and train timetables are not what I came into politics for. And I bet they bore the pants off the electorate: that’s why the turnout’s so low.’

‘But what else are governments at Westminster to do?’ Christine allowed herself to sound exasperated. ‘Think about it. Most business is global and run from Seattle or Singapore. The currency, even the poor old pound, is subject to the whim of international bankers who never go near a ballot box. The economy runs itself, more or less. That’s fine by most people. The profession they don’t trust is politicians.’

‘Maybe that’s because we persist in debating the number of angels who can dance on a pinhead. We seem to lack confidence to attempt anything big. The great issues of life and death, where are they? How come they always get pushed to the back of the agenda and we never reach them? Why is everything we have to deal with
so trivial
?’

Christine stood stock still and opened her mouth, but Benedict persisted, not letting her interrupt. ‘Last century, the creation of the National Health Service was a huge upheaval in politics. So is war: that’s why Prime Ministers can’t resist bombing other countries, whether Iraq or Kosovo.
But the big deal today? Slagging off the other parties at Prime Minister’s Question Time for a bit of point-scoring. No wonder our continental cousins are bewildered. What happened to the great-
leap-forward
mentality we used to have?’

Christine stared. ‘For heaven’s sake, don’t start wittering on at this dinner about the need to join the euro.’ Benedict flinched. Her voice softened. ‘It’s our job to inject the glamour. Real politics
is
boring, if that’s what you’re implying. But personalities are exciting, and voters can relate to them. That’s why we did so well in the election.’

‘Because we said very little of substance, but we said it beautifully?’ Benedict’s face was flushed. ‘Didn’t that spin doctor Melvyn O’Connor protest that debating with us was like trying to nail jelly to the ceiling?’

‘You could do worse,’ Christine said tartly. ‘You could be on the receiving end, instead of dishing it out. Imagine trying to pin the Prime Minister down on anything. Except maybe on how to enlarge one’s family. Now remember, be nice to the sponsors, and for heaven’s sake don’t tell them what you truly believe about Europe or they’ll take fright.’

The bar was filling up. A group of five men and a woman walked in, found a table and sat down. The tallest, a giant of six foot four in a cut-down T-shirt, was deputed to buy the round. Five and a half pints of lager fitted easily into his massive fists. Soon the group was huddled deep in conversation, attracting no interest from fellow drinkers.

‘You brought your uniforms?’ The leader was a solid, clean-shaven man the others addressed as Steve.

Nods came from everyone present, except the woman. She had straight blue-black hair cut in a bob across her forehead and was heavily made-up with green eye-shadow and glutinous black mascara. The crimson lipstick matched the close-fitting wool dress that curved over a substantial bosom and hefty hips. She crossed black-stockinged legs defiantly. ‘Not marching as a Rifle Regiment lance-corporal, am I?’ she answered, in a gruff voice.

‘Honestly, Letitia, that’s the whole idea,’ Steve reasoned with her. ‘We’re none of us supposed to be in uniform, not now we’ve been drummed out of the forces. That’s what the protest is about, isn’t it? Our demand for reinstatement.’

‘I’m with you all the way, Steve,’ Letitia shot back. ‘I’m as entitled to compensation as you are. But I’ve been living as a woman for eighteen months now and I love it. I’m not going back into trousers.’

‘Nobody wants you to, love.’ The gentle giant who had fetched the drinks put a hand on her arm. His voice was as deep as hers, but with a softer burr. ‘It’s to make a stand. You were mentioned in despatches. You’ve got your medals from Northern Ireland and Bosnia. You should be out there, flashing them.’

‘I’d rather be flashing these.’ Letitia uncrossed and recrossed her well-muscled legs.

‘They do have females in that regiment now,’ Steve pointed out.