The Remorseful Day

Chapter sixty-nine

At 5:20 P.M. he was still standing beside his minimal hand luggage a few yards from the Euro-Class counter at Heathrow’s Terminal 4, looking around him with as yet dismissable anxiety, but with gradually increasing impatience. 5:10 P.M. — that was when they’d agreed to meet, giving them ample time, once through the fast-track channel, to have some gentle relaxation together in the British Airways Lounge before boarding the 18:30 Flight 338.

Paris...

A long time ago he and Yvonne had gone to Paris on their honeymoon: lots of love, lots of sex, lots of sightseeing, lots of food and wine. A whole fortnight of it, although he’d known even then that just a week of it would have been rather better. It was not difficult (he already knew it well) to get bored even in the presence of a mistress; and he’d begun to realize on that occasion that it was perfectly possible to grow just a little wearied even in the company of a newly wed wife. There had been one or two incidents, too, when he’d thought Yvonne was experiencing similar thoughts... especially that time one evening when she’d quite obviously been exchanging long looks with a moustachioed Frenchman who looked exactly like Proust. He’d called her “a flirtatious bitch” when they got to their hotel room; and when she’d glared back at him and told him they’d make a “bloody good pair” one way or another...

There would be no trouble like that with Maxine: only two and a half days — just right, that! And she was a real honey, a law professor from Yale, aged forty-two, divorced, a little oversexed, a little overweight, and hugely desirable.

She finally appeared, pulling an inordinately large suitcase on wheels.

“You’re late!” His tone was a combination of anger and relief; and he immediately moved forward ahead of her to the back of the short queue at the first-class counter.

“You didn’t get my message, did you? I tried and tried—”

“Like I told you? On the mobile?”

“It wasn’t working. I think you’d forgotten—”

“Christ!” Harrison took his mobile from an inside pocket, tapped a few digits, then another few; then repeated the blasphemy: “Christ! I’d had enough of the bloody mobile recently and—”

“And you forgot that we’d agreed—”

“Sorry! Say you’ll forgive me!”

He looked down at her squarish, slightly prognathic face, her dark-brown silky hair cut short in a fringe across her broad forehead and above the quietly gentle eyes that were becoming tearful now, perhaps from her hectic rush, perhaps from the undeserved brusqueness of his greeting, but perhaps above all from the knowledge that his love for her homodyned only with the waves of that physical lust which so often excited him. Yet the brief holiday had been her choice, and she knew that she wouldn’t regret having made it. She enjoyed being with him: he was good fun and intelligent and well read and still handsome and still excellent in bed and — yes! — he was rich.

They moved nearer the counter, neither of them too anxious to speak — a phenomenon not uncommon with persons queuing, as if their concentration were required for the transactions ahead. But she volunteered some incidental information:

“Accident there was, near Stokenchurch, and I tried to—”

Gently he ran a hand through her silken hair. “Sweetheart? Forget it!”

“It’s just that we must have been stuck there half an hour and we saw — one of the other passengers pointed it out — a beautiful bird of prey there. A red kite.”

“Tell me later!”

There was now just the one business-suited man in front of them.

“Where have you booked us?”

“The best.”

“And the best air-tickets—?”

“Sh! Nothing but the best for you. Why not? Just think of me! No wife. No blackmailing kids. No problems at work. Nothing to spend money on for a day or two — except on you. I’m a rich man, sweetheart. I thought I’d told you.”

“Tickets, please?”

The smiling young lady scrutinized the perfectly valid tickets.

“Passports, please?”

The young lady scrutinized the perfectly valid passports.

“Smoking?”

“Nonsmoking.”

“Window-center? Center-aisle?”

“Center-aisle.”

“Luggage?”

Frank Harrison lugged the great case on to the trackway beside the desk.

“Only the one?”

“Yes.”

“You know where the club lounge is?”

“Yes.”

“Enjoy your flight, sir, and enjoy your stay in Paris!”

He handed her a glass of champagne, and two glasses clinked. “Here’s to a wonderful little break together. Ritz — here we come!”

He leaned across and kissed her on the soft, unlipsticked mouth — a long, yearning kiss. His eyes closed. Her eyes closed.

“Mr. Harrison?” A tap on the shoulder. “Mr. Frank Harrison?”

“What—?”

A uniformed police officer stood beside the small table: “I’m sorry, sir, but we need to speak to you. Routine check.”

“Thames Valley Police, is this?”

“That’s right, sir.”

“What exactly—?”

“ It’s not just that. Your employers want to speak to you as well.”

Harrison’s eyes squinted in bewilderment.

“What the hell do they want? I’m on official furlough, for God’s sake. They’ll have to wait till I get back.”

“Will you come this way, sir? Please!”

A second uniformed policeman — young, dark-haired — stood just inside the entrance to the executive lounge; was still standing there a quarter of an hour later when Maxine, after drinking the one and then the other glass of champagne, went over to speak to him.

“Do you mind telling me, Officer, by whose authority—?”

“Not mine, miss,” said PC Kershaw. “Please believe me. I also am a man under authority.”

“You haven’t answered my question.”

“I’m from Thames Valley — we both are.”

“Who sent you here?”

“The CID.”

“Who?”

“Chief Inspector Morse.”

“Who’s he when he’s in his office?”

“He’s an important man.”

“Very important?”

“Oh yes!” Kershaw nodded with a reverential smile.

“You talk as if he’s God Almighty.”

“Some people think he is.”

“Do you?”

“Not always.”

“How long will you be keeping Mr. Harrison?”

“I just don’t know, Mrs. Ridgway.”

Maxine poured herself a further glass of champagne, and pondered as she sat alone at the small table. They knew her name too...

He wasn’t a particularly lucky man to associate with, Frank Harrison. The last time she’d been with him, over a year ago, he’d had that phone call from — well, he’d never said who from — to tell him that his wife had been murdered...

She was tempted to get up and — well, just leave. Just get out of there. Her case was on the plane by now though — suits, dresses, lingerie, shoes — but it could be returned perhaps? She still had her handbag with its far more important items: cards, keys, diary, money...

But she felt sure the PC at the door would never let her out. That’s why he was there. Why else?

An announcement over the lounge Tannoy informed her that first-class passengers for British Airways Flight 338 to Paris should now proceed to Gate 3; and a dozen or so people were draining their drinks and gathering up their hand luggage. But for Maxine Ridgway it was now a feeling of deep sadness that had overtaken those earlier minutes of indecision and despair. She was no fool. She knew by heart the role she’d been asked to play in the Ritz; and she’d accepted the bargain, because it would have been a bargain.

She was not even bothering to wonder what she should do next when she heard the voice behind her: “Come on, sweetheart! You heard the announcement. Gate 3.”

With her mind in a mingled state of amazement and relief, she picked up her hand luggage and followed him to the exit-doors, where there was now no sign of PC Kershaw, the man who had seemed to have a greater familiarity with Holy Writ than she had herself.

“Routine check, that’s all,” asserted Frank Harrison. “Just like the man said.”