"Hello here already, Cathy? How's it going?"
"Getting there steadily, not there yet."
It was the Saturday morning. The early underground trains were empty, and Geoff Markham had reckoned that he'd be the first. There would only be lowlife in early on a Saturday morning. Cox was down in the country for the weekend, to be disturbed only with news of earthquake-shattering proportions. The warhorse from B Branch would be in charge, but not in before nine, and there'd be a probationer to answer his telephone. Fenton could be called at home.
Markham should have been driving with Vicky to see her parents in Hampshire. He'd still been smarting from the fracas with her when he had grabbed his coat and briefcase and fled the flat. He'd met the postman on the pavement and snatched his mail -bills and circulars, a couple of other envelopes, catalogues and then hurried for the station. Vicky had said that her mother was cooking a special lunch; it had been in his diary for weeks. Her mother had invited friends in, and Vicky's brother and his partner were also driving up from London. After the few bitter words, and then the harsh silence, Markham had put the phone down on her and run. He could have stayed out of Thames House that morning, and that afternoon, and all of Sunday. He could have made an issue of it to Fenton, whinged about the hours he'd put in through the week. He hadn't. Instead he'd rung Fenton early, before he'd rung Vicky, and told him what he intended, gained the necessary clearance. Actually, he didn't think Vicky's mother thought much of him, didn't rate him as a good catch for her daughter; but Vicky was two years older than him, and there wouldn't be that many more chances of marriage coming her way, so he was tolerated.
Cathy Parker, the legend, was back at her screen, studying it with concentration as if he wasn't there.
In his cubicle, he checked the answer phone and there was the SB overnight digest to get through. He took a sheet of clean paper to his door, and used the black marker pen.