‘I agree. She’s the person giving the lecture tonight.’
‘Actually, that could be quite interesting,’ said Liz.
‘I hope so. It’s called “Security and Democracy: Where’s the Conflict?” I think Tim will be very disappointed that she’s not more radical in her views.’
They turned to business. Liz chaired an inter-agency working party on the activities of foreign intelligence agencies. Counter-espionage had been something of a poor relation to counter-terrorism for a few years, but now the focus was back on it, following an increase in cyber-attacks from various countries and renewed aggression from Russia. Resources had been moved on to the subject in MI6 and GCHQ and Liz had been put in charge both of MI5’s work and coordinating it with the other agencies. She had asked Peggy to move with her.
‘You remember we decided we needed to brief the CIA on our meetings,’ Liz said. ‘I’ve been thinking about the best way of doing that. I’m not sure we want to invite them to come or to send them the minutes. There might be some sensitive UK cases we wouldn’t necessarily want to share with them. It might be better if we set up a regular briefing meeting with Grosvenor. We’d probably get more feedback from them that way too – and learn what they’re doing.’
The CIA Station in London was known as ‘Grosvenor’ from its location, along with most of the rest of the US Embassy, in Grosvenor Square, though soon it would move to the Embassy’s new quarters in Wandsworth.
‘There’s a new Head of Station now, isn’t there?’
‘There is,’ said Liz. ‘Andy Bokus has gone. The new man used to be here as his deputy a few years ago. You probably remember him. It’s Miles Brookhaven – you know, the guy who was attacked in Syria and then did a rather good job in Sana’a. I think you should go over and meet him. Then you could be the contact point with the working group.’
‘Me?’ Peggy looked surprised. ‘Wouldn’t he expect you to do it?’
‘No. Why would he? I should think he’d be pleased to see you. After all, we are offering him a regular briefing.’ And, of course, hoping to get something in return, Liz thought, but didn’t say.
Something else she didn’t say was that Miles Brookhaven was someone she’d rather not encounter just then. Their paths had crossed when he was at Grosvenor previously. Liz had nothing against him – the problem back then was that he had made it pretty clear that he was keen on her. Too keen, as far as Liz was concerned. It was one thing to be friendly with her CIA counterpart, quite another to be the recipient of flowers, phone calls, and unsolicited invitations to dinner. That was several years ago and he had probably grown up. For all she knew he might be married now. He’d obviously had quite a tough time professionally during the intervening years and the Agency must think highly of him – Head of the London Station was a big, important job. Still, it would do Peggy good to represent the Service with the Americans and it would enable Liz to put off meeting Miles again for a bit longer.
‘Ring the Embassy and make an appointment,’ she said to Peggy. ‘Let me know if there’s any problem. And I hope you enjoy the lecture tonight.’
4
It was just getting dark when Liz left Thames House to go home. The streetlights were coming on and the starlings in the trees along Millbank were chattering and arguing as they settled down for the night. The tiny leaves just emerging were outlined against the luminous blue sky. London was on the cusp of spring. Soon it would be light when she left work and then light when she got home.
She had always loved this time of year but today it made her sad. She couldn’t help thinking what Paris would be looking like this evening and imagining how the linden trees in the square outside Martin’s flat would be bursting into leaf. Diners would be arriving to sit at the tables in the local bistro where she and Martin had dined so often. She wondered who was living in his flat now and whether they had changed things much.
As she emerged onto the now dark streets at Kentish Town station she was wondering if she should sell her flat and move nearer to Thames House. She remembered how thrilled she had been when she’d moved from the dark basement flat, which had been her first property purchase, to the much more airy and spacious accommodation on the ground floor. She had loved buying bits of furniture and ornaments for her new place and she and Martin had spent many a happy weekend in the junk shops of Camden Market and Islington.
She thought that prices in Pimlico would probably be broadly on a par with those in Kentish Town, and she would be able to walk to work. But she knew, as she opened the door and her heart sank, that any thought of moving wasn’t about walking to work; it was because of the memories that seemed to haunt the flat.
Martin Seurat had been dead four months. Liz knew this was early days in the normal schedule of grief, but it still felt like yesterday – and the idea that time would heal this wound seemed absurd. If it was two years before life felt at all normal again – as everyone seemed to say – how was she ever going to get through the next twenty months?
She had just started to make herself some supper, doing her best to ignore the ghost-like memories, when the phone rang. She answered it on the fourth ring, hoping it was social – her mother, a friend – and not work. It was neither but a marketing company telling her she could get a grant for cavity-wall insulation. As she put the phone down she saw the red light glowing on her answering machine. When had that happened?
She played back the message. A low male voice said, ‘Good evening, Liz. It’s Richard Pearson… Chief Constable Pearson, if you remember.’ He gave a slightly embarrassed laugh. ‘It’s been a while since we last met, but I’ve thought about you often and wondered how you were getting on. And I – er, I mean to say, I’m coming to London next month for a Chief Constables’ meeting, and I wondered if perhaps we could meet up. Lunch? Or coffee? Or a drink in the evening? Whatever suits you. Let me know when you can. It would be lovely to see you again.’ And he gave his number and rang off.
Her initial reaction was to ignore this – and delete the message. Since Martin’s death she hadn’t thought about seeing anyone else – not even for coffee or a drink. It seemed a betrayal somehow. No one measured up to Martin right now in Liz’s mind.
Yet there was something rather endearing about this message – Pearson’s hesitancy for one thing, not a trait he had shown in Manchester where he had seemed effortlessly in charge of the operation they’d worked on together. He’d been unflappable, brave even when the whole thing ended violently; in fact he had probably saved her life. Pearson was an attractive man – that she remembered – and she’d liked him, not least because of his obvious sympathy for her after things had gone so wrong in Paris and she’d lost Martin. Maybe she should have a drink with him, if only to be polite.
She listened to the message again and then picked up the phone.
5
The lecture was surprisingly good. Over half the seats in the large auditorium were filled, which was a tribute to the speaker, since the title of Jasminder Kapoor’s lecture was never going to grab anyone by the lapels, though it was true that she had a growing reputation among those people concerned about the issues she was going to address. Guardian readers all, thought Peggy sardonically as she sat down next to Tim, a Guardian reader himself. She was there as a duty, to support him, but was pleasantly surprised within minutes of the start of the lecture to find her attention held by what Kapoor had to say.