Present Danger

28

It was still raining when Liz came out of the embassy into Grosvenor Square, so she hailed a passing taxi and asked for Vauxhall Bridge. Nowadays pictures of Thames House, MI5’s headquarters on Millbank, appeared on TV every time there was a terrorism story, so she never gave it as her destination. She felt it was uncomfortable if not downright insecure to link herself so closely to the intelligence world. It was a sensible precaution she liked to take.

As the taxi negotiated the morning traffic, she thought over what Daryl Sulkey had said about Piggott. It was a chilling story, and she decided to get Peggy Kinsolving to ring Judith and Dave to let them know that the threat was serious, and that the tipoff that Brown Fox had given them was likely to be true.

But when she walked into the open-plan office where Peggy had her desk there was no Peggy, just a note waiting for her.

Sorry to miss you. Got to go out. Hope Sulkey was helpful. Let me know if I can do any more. Lunch next time?

So Liz walked down the corridor to Charles Wetherby’s room, with a mounting feeling of pleasurable anticipation. In the outer office Wetherby’s secretary greeted her warmly. ‘I didn’t know you were in town.’

‘I didn’t know I was coming myself until yesterday. Is Charles in?’

‘Yes, he is. Let me just check if he’s free; I know he’d like to see you.’

She went into Charles’s office, then a moment later came out, leaving the door open. ‘Go on in.’

Liz went in eagerly but with slight apprehension, too. She hadn’t seen him since Joanne’s funeral. How would he be holding up?

‘Liz. It’s good to see you,’ said Charles, coming out from behind his desk. He looked spruce in a dark suit and cheerful red tie. There was a bounce to his step, and his face had colour in it again.

He gave her a peck on both cheeks and motioned her to sit down. ‘I didn’t know you were coming over. What brings you here?’

‘I had to see the FBI legat first thing. We’ve got an interesting case – an Irish-American who’s moved to Belfast. He’s set up a dodgy-looking business and surrounded himself with ex-IRA hardliners. At first we thought he was simply running a criminal racket but now it looks as though he’s planning some serious attacks.’

‘I hope you’re being careful over there – I heard about Jimmy Fergus getting shot. Is there a link?’

‘There could well be.’ She was about to try and move the conversation onto a more personal level when there was a tap on the door and Wetherby’s secretary poked her head in. ‘Sorry to interrupt, Charles, but DG’s just rung and asked if you could pop up to his office.’

‘But the meeting with the Home Secretary’s not for an hour,’ he complained.

‘I know, but he said he wants to go over a few things with you before it starts.’

Wetherby sighed, and looked at Liz with weary resignation. ‘I’m so sorry.’

‘It can’t be helped,’ she said with a brightness she didn’t feel.

‘Will you be over again soon?’

‘I’m not sure. But I’ll let you know in advance next time.’

‘Yes. Do, and then we can have lunch.’

‘How are the boys?’ she asked, as he got up to go.

‘Fine, thanks,’ he replied with a smile. And then he was off, striding down the corridor to the lifts. As she watched him go, Liz realised how much she missed talking to him. On an operational level his advice was invaluable, but what she really wanted to know was how he was feeling now that he was on his own, and in particular what he was feeling. Did he miss her?

Through the window overlooking the Thames she could see the rain had stopped, and the cloud was slowly giving way to a watery sun. On the river one of the commuter boats that took people to work in the City was trudging slowly back upstream, almost empty. As she looked at her watch she wondered why she did this to herself.

Liz and her mother had agreed to meet at Tate Britain, on the Embankment, less than ten minutes’ walk from work for Liz. She was early and she found Susan Carlyle and Edward in one of the galleries, staring at a stunning abstract by Howard Hodgkin. She watched them fondly for a moment – Edward, tall in a green tweed jacket, bending down to point something out to her mother; Susan, pretty in a camel coat with a fur collar, nodding vaguely in agreement. A tiny ripple of jealousy passed through her as she saw their warm companionship.

‘I certainly don’t know what it’s supposed to be,’ Edward was saying as Liz joined them and they all examined a crescent the colour of blood oranges painted on oatmeal canvas. ‘But despite my old codger status, I like it.’

‘Edward, I don’t think you’re as old as the painter is,’ said Liz.

Susan Carlyle laughed. ‘Well, I like it too, provided I don’t have to see it every day.’

They went downstairs to the restaurant in the basement, a long handsome room with original Rex Whistler murals on the walls. Liz, sitting on a banquette with her back to the wall, looked around to see if she recognised any of her colleagues; it was a popular place for entertaining foreign visitors. But she saw no familiar faces.

‘So how is Belfast, Liz?’ asked her mother, after they’d talked about a play Susan and Edward were going on to see.

‘It’s full of life these days,’ said Liz, as usual avoiding anything to do with work. She described her flat, making her mother laugh with an account of the redoubtable Mrs Ryan and her organisational skills. ‘You must come over and stay, mother. You’d be amazed how well I’m looked after.’

‘I’m sure I would. But I hope you’re being looked after at work as well.’

Ever since the previous year, when Liz had been injured and had recuperated at Bowerbridge, it was obvious that both her mother and Edward had a clear sense of what Liz’s job could involve. It was also clear that Edward knew a good deal about Northern Ireland; he’d had some kind of involvement when he was in the army, and he had strong views about the situation there.

He said, ‘There are still two very different communities over there and I don’t believe the root of the conflict has gone away.’

‘You don’t think the peace will hold?’

‘I don’t know enough to say,’ he admitted. ‘But what I do know is that given the past hatred, this is bound to be a fragile peace that needs careful nurturing. No one over here is paying much attention. We’re treating it as yesterday’s problem. While the violence stays at a lowish level, we’re assuming everything will be all right.’

Liz nodded; as usual, she found herself sharing Edward’s views. Having originally thought she was going to a backwater when she’d been posted to Belfast, she now knew how much was stirring underneath the surface calm. And in the case of Jimmy Fergus the surface had been broken.

Susan suddenly said, ‘Oh, I know what I meant to tell you, Liz. We’ve been seeing that nice friend of yours from work.’

‘Oh,’ said Liz. She was curious, but felt no need to press, since Susan would tell her who the friend was whether she wanted to know or not.

‘Charles Wetherby,’ Susan declared, and Liz felt the blood rising in her cheeks. There was a momentary pause.

Then Liz said, ‘Oh yes. Of course. You knew Joanne, didn’t you Edward?’

‘That’s right,’ said Edward, sounding less animated than Susan.

‘We had dinner with him the other night,’ said Susan chirpily. ‘With his friend Alison.’

‘His neighbour,’ said Liz. ‘I met her at the funeral.’

‘Well yes, but she’s clearly also his friend.’

Liz saw Edward’s eyes on her. They looked understanding and a little regretful. In their unexpressed sympathy they confirmed her fears.

She made a show of looking at her watch. ‘Golly, I’d better get a move on,’ she said, and swallowed the last of her coffee. As she got up to put on her coat, she wondered whether, if Charles hadn’t had to dash off, he would have said anything to her about Alison.

But later, as she stood in the crowded underground on her way to Heathrow, she found her thoughts drifting back to the bistro in Paris and pondering the tantalising question of what would have happened if she had stayed on for dinner.