He was going to be very restricted, accompanied by an escort: possibly unable to achieve anything worthwhile at all. But already he felt he had enough to justify the journey. So London were going to be very impressed. The self-judgement stayed in his mind. If they were impressed – which they really couldn’t fail to be – he’d be in a position to seek favours: make demands even. So he would protest against the entirely unnecessary way he was being forced to operate. Foster said it was upon London’s insistence, but Snow didn’t believe him. He was sure London would be guided by what they were told, not try to impose unworkable difficulties from afar. So it was Foster’s doing, nobody else’s. So it was Foster’s fault if enquiries were made, after the protest.
Not unchristian, Snow repeated to himself, needing the reassurance. Simply common sense, that’s all. And he’d make his case sensibly and truthfully, not going behind the man’s back.
Six
There was a lengthy period of mutual examination, when Charlie thought Gower’s eagerness was practically flashing like a neon sign: like me, like me. Charlie wondered if he would. Gower was an averagely tall, averagely built man: maybe 5? 9?, possible eleven and a half stone – perhaps a little heavier – and clearly fit, although not in a hand-clenching, chest-thrusting way. His dark hair was closely cropped although very fulclass="underline" if it hadn’t been well barbered it would have fallen untidily about the man’s face. That face was square-chinned and rather long, the nose aquiline. The mouth was full, made more so by the hopeful, please-like-me smile: the clearly new and still untrained moustache didn’t help. The eyes had the same anxiety, beneath heavy eyebrows. Good enough, judged Charlie, ticking off a mental check-list like a motor-car mechanic going through an approved service manual. The clothes were a problem. The suit was dark blue but with a heavy chalk stripe, waisted for the jacket skirt to flare immaculately. The sleeves were short enough to half-reveal the personal initial monogram on the left cuff, which was secured by heavy gold links, of a pink shirt that was fronted by a striped blue Eton tie. Obviously hand-made brogue shoes gleamed from a lot of daily polishing. Charlie guessed, enviously, that they were very comfortable: concealed beneath the desk, he’d eased the Hush Puppies off completely.
On the little finger of Gower’s left hand was a family-crested signet ring of the sort Charlie had expected but failed to discover on the new and remote Director-General.
Gower was completely disorientated by the appearance of the man confronting him – as well as by the greeting – in what didn’t look like an office at all, more a caretaker’s booth. Gower’s physical training instructors had worn track suits but his other lecturers had invariably been neat, precise men even when they wore the tweeds or sports jackets of academics.
Gower couldn’t find an appropriate description for this man. That much of the suit Gower could see was subdued green, with possibly a muted check although he wasn’t sure. It was bagged and shapeless and clearly cheap from the way the jacket reared away as if in embarrassment from the crinkle-collared shirt. The tie, a clashing blue, had two spotted motifs: the white the designer had intended and the darker stains of long wear and mislaid food. There was no style to the man’s grey-flecked hair, which looked as if it had been chewed rather than cut and that, whatever the method, a long time ago. The face was round, and here Gower was further confused because the expression was of unlined, open innocence: practically naivety. That same impression was carried by the brown eyes, which Gower saw flick over him, in one encompassing examination, and then come back directly to his.
‘I was told to report here, sir. This room.’ Gower offered the appointment chit that had been endorsed at the ground-floor security check, listing the office number.
Had he ever been as uncertain as this, wondered Charlie: called instructors sir? He probably had: it had been a long time ago. ‘What reason were you given, for coming here?’
‘I wasn’t.’
Charlie nodded, pleased the man hadn’t had time to clutter his mind with preconceptions. ‘Told by whom?’
‘The deputy Director.’
Charlie gestured to the side of the room to an upright, wooden-backed chair with a plaited-cane seat bowed by age. ‘Don’t tilt back on the rear legs. It’s buggered: it’ll collapse under you.’
Gower brought the chair slightly nearer the desk and sat cautiously. Was this man being intentionally rude? Or just naturally brusque? Gower was reminded of a Classics tutor at Oxford with an offensive manner, like this man: his Year had decided it was caused by the sexual frustration of being a bachelor until the tutor was arrested for importuning in a public lavatory near Balliol College. ‘I wasn’t given your name, either.’
Charlie frowned. ‘Were you, of other instructors?’
Gower hesitated, unsure of his reply. ‘We came to know each other, naturally.’
‘By name?’
‘Of course.’
‘Christian name? Surname? Or both?’
Gower’s uncertainty grew. ‘Both, I suppose.’
‘You underwent arrest training? How to respond to interrogation? Physical pressure?’
Gower permitted himself a different smile, this time of satisfaction. ‘I achieved the maximum, every time.’
‘Would you disclose the identities of your instructors if you were detained? Put under intensive interrogation: tortured, even?’
‘Of course not!’ said the younger man, indignantly.
‘What would you do?’
‘Refuse, of course! Resist! I know how to do that.’
Charlie nodded, briefly looking down at his desk. Eyes still averted, he said: ‘That a family ring you’re wearing?’
Gower was so accustomed to the platformed gold band that he looked at it as if surprised to see it on his finger. ‘Very minor. No proper title: no money either.’
‘But there’s a family crest?’
Gower frowned again. He didn’t want it to show but he was growing angry. ‘Yes.’
‘What do you think of that poster on the door behind you?’ demanded Charlie.
Gower swivelled his head: the uncertain chair creaked precariously. Groping for comprehension he said: ‘Very nice.’ It was a mountain scene, with long-haired Scottish cattle.
‘I think it’s dreadful,’ said Charlie, who’d put it up minutes before Gower’s arrival. ‘You’re right-handed, aren’t you?’
‘How do you know that?’
Charlie ignored the question. ‘And you came here by car, didn’t you?’
Gower had to hold tightly on to his temper. ‘We spent the weekend in the country with my mother: came up this morning. Why?’
‘So clothes are important to you?’
Gower regarded Charlie with total confusion. ‘I don’t understand any of this!’
‘What’s the name of the deputy Director-General?’
Gower blinked across the cramped office. ‘Patricia Elder.’
‘She tell you her name?’
Gower made a vague movement of his shoulders. ‘I… I can’t remember. Yes…’ There was a momentary pause. Then, in immediate contradiction, he said:’No. It was Personnel. When I was told to go to see her, to be told to come here, they said her name was Patricia Elder.’
‘Let’s go back to your being detained. Would you disclose her identity, under questioning?’
‘Of course not!’ said Gower, as indignantly as before.
‘You’d refuse? Resist?’ said Charlie, offering the words back.
‘Yes.’
‘How many times have you been here, to Westminster Bridge Road?’
Gower paused. ‘Four times.’
‘You know it’s the headquarters building?’
‘Yes.’
‘You wouldn’t disclose it, under duress?’
‘Am I under interrogation now?’ demanded Gower, trying to get some sense into the bizarre encounter.
‘Would you?’ persisted Charlie.