“So you are.” Seccombe paused, tilting his chin upward, his eyes narrowing as he looked at Crocker. “I haven’t forgotten that business about Zimbabwe, Paul. You did me a good turn, and I appreciate it.”
Crocker nodded. Roughly around the time Barclay had ascended to C, Seccombe had reached out to Crocker to vet a man named Daniel Mwama, who—according to Seccombe—had approached the U.K. seeking assistance in ousting Robert Mugabe, with an eye to taking his place. Seccombe had wanted Mwama checked quickly, and quietly, and had called upon Crocker to do it. Crocker, in turn, had tasked the Minders, at that time Tom Wallace as Minder One and Tara Chace as Minder Two, for the job. It had been a politically dangerous job for Crocker, not only because it had come during a changing of the guard at SIS, but also because it had required him to have agents active in England, something Crocker was strictly forbidden from doing. In the end, he had given Seccombe the information the PUS had required, and Daniel Mwama had been sent packing.
Seccombe had gained the result he’d desired, and in return, had sheltered Crocker from Barclay’s initial onslaught. That protection had lasted until this morning.
“I’m sure Alison asked you this, but for my own purposes, I’m asking again,” Seccombe said. “You wish to stay D-Ops?”
“I had hoped to become Deputy Chief at some point.”
“I don’t think Alison is quite ready to move on.”
“No chance that Barclay is going to resign?”
“Hmm.” Seccombe ran a finger across his mustache, smoothing it. “Not willingly, no.”
“Then, yes, I’d say I’d like to remain as Director of Operations, Sir Walter.”
This time Seccombe didn’t smile. He nodded once, slowly, and Crocker sensed a change in his manner, something felt rather than seen. Whatever trap had been laid here, Crocker had just avoided it.
“Then I have a proposition for you, Paul,” Sir Walter Seccombe said. “One that I recommend you think quite seriously about accepting.”
CHAPTER 7
Lancashire—Barnoldswick,
Residence of Wallace, Valerie
14 February, 1414 Hours GMT
She was changing Tamsin when the call came, her daughter screaming in protest at either the discomfort or the indignity of it all, and Chace felt again the incredible frustration of trying to use reason on someone who has no use, nor need, of such things.
It didn’t matter that Tamsin’s struggling made the whole procedure take five times as long as it should have; it didn’t matter that what Chace was trying to do, for God’s sake, was to help the little noisemaker. No, Tamsin didn’t want to be on her back on the changing table and she didn’t want to be put in a nappy and she was damn certain it was her right, her obligation, even, to make sure that everyone from Weets Moor to the town square knew it.
The telephone, then, with its jangling bell, was just insult added to injury, and Chace heard it, acknowledged it, and then discarded the information just as quickly, because she was certain the call wouldn’t be—couldn’t be—for her. No one called Valerie Wallace to speak to Tara Chace. Not on Valentine’s Day, or on any other day for that matter.
It wasn’t that Chace hadn’t tried to fit in with town life. She had, she truly had. She’d attended the church services and the teas and the social get-togethers, she’d worn the stoic face and said all the right things, as much as for Valerie’s peace of mind as her own. And it wasn’t that people were unkind, certainly not once Valerie had explained that Chace’s baby was her grandchild, that her son had died before he’d even learned that Tara was pregnant. That particular tragedy had earned her a unique respect, even, with Valerie’s friends and neighbors clucking in placid concern.
“Eeee, the poor dear, having to raise the wee thing alone.”
“Ooo, all alone, but it’s good she’s come back here, raise the child right.”
“Oh yes, raise a good Lancashire girl, among her own people.”
And so on, and on, and ever on.
But there was a pity to it as well, and Chace couldn’t stomach that. She didn’t want to be pitied, nor did she wish to become prey to self-pity, and so she had come to avoid people, describing an orbit to her life that included Tamsin and Valerie, and not much more. When she went out, she went out pushing the pram, walking alone. She carried out her business around town with the barest of interactions, the most minimal of required pleasantries. She avoided conversation and contact; she steered clear of people when she saw them coming.
She was that poor girl who’d lost her baby’s father. A little distant, a little odd, not unpleasant, but best to leave her alone for now, you know how it is. She’ll speak when she’s ready, when her daughter’s out and about, the wee thing will lead the mother back into the world, and the mother will follow, to be sure. Just you wait and see.
When Valerie stuck her head into the bedroom, then, as Chace was snapping Tamsin back into her clothes, she’d already forgotten that the telephone had rung at all.
“It’s for you, Tara,” Valerie said.
“What is? Dammit, Tam, stop fidgeting!”
“The phone, dear. I’ll take Tam, you go and answer it.”
Chace looked at Valerie with a mixture of confusion and suspicion, hoisting Tamsin to her shoulder, stroking her daughter’s hair. It was coming in faster now, soft as silk and so blond as to be almost white, and whenever Chace found her patience running short with her daughter, she would stroke Tamsin’s hair, amazed by the feel of it, always surprised by the way her baby would nestle against her in response.
“I’m not making it up, dear, it really is for you,” Valerie said again, almost laughing at her expression.
“Who?”
“Didn’t get his name. But he asked for you straightaway, quite polite.”
Chace frowned, and Tamsin shifted, responding to the tension suddenly coming from her mother, pushing her face against her shoulder with a soft whimper. If it had been Poole calling, he’d have said as much, and Valerie would have shared it. So it wasn’t Poole on the phone, and there was only one other person Chace could think of who knew where to find her.
“Shall I tell him to ring again later?”
Chace shook her head, then reluctantly handed Tamsin over to Valerie. The baby resisted, taking hold of Chace’s hair, and she had to free her daughter’s fingers before she could slip out of the room down the narrow flight of stairs back to the ground floor, to the telephone in the hall. Behind and above, she heard Tamsin cry again, then go quiet.
Chace picked up the handset and said, “What do you want?”
“I’m in Colne,” Crocker said. “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes. You can meet me outside.”
“I don’t want to meet you at all.”
“Fifteen minutes,” Crocker repeated, and hung up.
Chace replaced the handset in its cradle, slowly, then stared at the phone for several seconds, thinking.
From the top of the stairs, Valerie asked, “Who was that, Tara?”
“Nobody,” Chace said, and then added, “I have to go out for a while.”
Valerie adjusted her grip on the baby, repositioning her at her hip, fixing Chace with a stare from above, her expression draining, the corners of her mouth tightening. It had been well over a year now that Chace had shared her home, and in that time they’d talked about Tom only a little, and about the work they’d done together even less. But Valerie Wallace wasn’t stupid, and Chace was certain she’d long ago deduced at least the broad strokes of the job Chace had shared with her son, if not the specifics.