Illegal Action

16

But it was Liz who almost had the fit. “I’m supposed to be what?” she demanded. Outside, low cloud piled up like dark balls of wool. It had been threatening to rain all day.

“Considering Brunovsky’s art interests, it seemed apt. We couldn’t have you posing as a platinum expert, could we?”

“I’d rather not be posing as anything, thank you very much. The whole thing’s preposterous.”

Ackers looked taken aback, and fidgeted uncomfortably in his chair. Liz realised he was unused to his staff arguing back. Hadley, his right-hand man, was a classic yes-man; sometimes it seemed he even yawned at the same time Ackers did. Liz sensed that her boss wasn’t altogether happy with the new blood that had arrived in his department almost simultaneously: Michael Fane, Peggy Kinsolving and Liz—especially Liz. She looked at Brian and could see him thinking, “Difficult woman.”

He said reluctantly, “If you must know, Brunovsky himself asked for you.”

“Am I supposed to be flattered?”

Brian didn’t reply so Liz continued, “And you say I’m going to pretend to be a ‘mature student’ who’s studying Pashko?”

“Yes. That was also Brunovsky’s idea.”

“Brian,” she said patiently, trying not to show her annoyance, “I read history at university, art history only just came into it. When Nikita Brunovsky showed me the painting he’s planning to buy at Northam’s I could no more have told you who painted it than I can tell you how to make a nuclear bomb.”

“We thought as much,” Brian said, and Liz wondered who this “we” was. Geoffrey Fane, doubtless. “It’s been decided you should have a quick brush-up on art history, and some intensive tutorials into this Pashko.” He enunciated the name carefully. “You’re not going to be posing as an expert, never fear. Just an enthusiast—someone doing a diploma or whatever, who’s writing a short thesis about him. Only what’s needed to justify your presence in Brunovsky’s household.”

“Where am I going to have these intensive tutorials? At the Courtauld?” she added, unable to suppress her sarcasm.

“No,” said Brian measuredly. “But it’s probably just as good. You’re to spend a week in Cambridge. There’s a woman there, a don at Newnham, though I gather she’s retired. She is an expert on Pashko.” He added as an afterthought, “And she’s a Russian.”

“Whose idea was this?” asked Liz, thinking, I bet it’s bloody Geoffrey Fane again. She glanced out towards the Thames and noticed that the first spits of rain were streaking the windows.

Liz was still fuming as she left Thames House to go home. Her mood was not helped by the rain, by now sheeting down and being blown erratically sideways by a gusty westerly wind. The umbrella her mother had given her last Christmas, while handily compact when folded in her handbag, was completely useless against these conditions. By the time she got to Westminster Tube station she was soaked from head to toe and her navy blue suede shoes, chosen more for visiting Brunovsky than for wet pavement walking, were squelching hopelessly.

The rain had let up a bit by the time she emerged from the Underground system, still soaking wet, at Kentish Town and she wondered briefly whether to ring Dave Armstrong, her old colleague and friend from Counter-Terrorist days, and entice him out for a pizza and a moan about Brian Ackers. But remembering this was one of Piet’s weekends, she decided instead to stop at the Threshers wine shop, open late as usual on a Thursday, and indulge herself with a bottle of the New Zealand Sauvignon they kept in their fridge, and a hot bath, before tidying up the flat.

As she opened the front door she saw the flashing red light of her answerphone reflected in the glass pane. Mother, she thought guiltily. She had been meaning to ring her for days, but hadn’t. Ever since her father had died, Liz had felt responsible for her mother. Not enough to persuade her to agree to give up her “dangerous” job and her life in the “squalor” of Kentish Town and come back home to share the running of the garden centre and marry a nice steady young man. But enough to make her drive the long journey down to Wiltshire every month and to keep regularly in touch by phone.

Susan Carlyle lived at South Lodge, the house in the Nadder Valley where Liz had grown up. When Liz was a child the pretty octagonal lodge had guarded the entrance to the Bowerbridge sporting estate, where her father had been the manager. But Jack Carlyle had died and so had the estate’s owner. Bowerbridge’s woods and coppices had been sold off, and its gardens had become a specialist plantsman’s nursery. Pressed for money, Susan had started work there; now she ran the place. Last year she and Liz had had a scare when a lump Susan had detected had turned out to be malignant. Thankfully, surgery seemed to have been successful, though who could be sure, and she was back working just as before in the nursery.

Unfortunately the illness had coincided with the investigation of the mole in MI5 and Liz still felt guilty that she had not been able to be more available.

So, shedding her wet clothes in a heap on the bathroom floor, wrapping herself in her dressing gown and pouring herself a glass of wine, she dialled her mother’s number, bracing herself for a long chat.

Her mother answered on the second ring. “Hello, darling. I’m so glad you rang. I wanted to ask you a favour.”

What on earth is this going to be? wondered Liz, noticing her mother’s unusually bright and brisk tone.

“I’ve been asked to the theatre on Saturday evening and I wondered if I could come and stay with you.”

“Well, of course you can,” said Liz immediately, trying to disguise her amazement. Her mother had never once expressed any interest in coming to London since Liz had lived there. Quite the opposite. She had always given the impression that she thought London a sink of iniquity. “Who are you going with?” asked Liz.

“No one you know, dear. I met him when I was ill. He’s got some tickets for that play with Judi Dench in at the Haymarket, on Saturday evening. So if that’s fine with you I’ll catch a mid-morning train and get a taxi from the station. Be with you about two o’clock.”

“All right, Mother,” said Liz, hardly able to believe what she was hearing. “Shall I come and meet you at the station?”

“No need, darling,” came the reply, “I’ve got your address and I’m sure the taxi man will find it. Must dash now. See you Saturday.”

Liz sat down and drained her glass of wine. What on earth was going on? Her mother, with a boyfriend. Is that what it was? It sounded like it. She couldn’t believe it and she felt a flash of resentment. All those weekends she’d forced herself to drive down to Wiltshire when she would much rather have stayed in London. Now there was her mother happily paired up while she still had no close boyfriend.

What could he be like? She hoped he was suitable. What if he was a fortune hunter? How ridiculous you are being, she said to herself. Mother hasn’t got a fortune. But though she tried to laugh herself out of it, she went on feeling faintly uneasy and disturbed at this totally unexpected turn of events.

As she sat and brooded, she suddenly remembered Piet. He was expecting to come on Saturday. She would have to put him off. She did not want Piet sharing her bed whilst her mother was in the spare room next door, so feeling very confused and thoroughly disappointed at the ruining of her weekend she rang Piet.

At the end of that conversation she felt worse. When she’d explained what had happened, Piet had replied that he was about to ring her. His meetings in Canary Wharf had been discontinued and he would not be coming to London so often. He had in any case been meaning to tell her that he had met someone in Amsterdam whom he was now seeing regularly, so he thought it best if they stopped seeing each other. He added charmingly that he would miss her and the jolly weekends they had spent together and he wished her the best of luck, before ringing off.

So, thought Liz, that’s that. Well at least she couldn’t blame the job for the end of that relationship. But as she sat in the bath in her bright, freshly tiled bathroom, she reflected that everyone’s life seemed to be improving except hers. And now she was stuck with this ridiculous scheme dreamt up by Brian Ackers and Geoffrey Fane and was going to have to spend a week in Cambridge with some mad old Russian bat.