‘I don’t know. We came home at the end of the holiday; life returned to normal, except that Philip had closed up. I couldn’t get through to him at all. He was like a man facing a crucial decision, unable to make up his mind.’
‘And he was still like that when…’
‘When he found out about Gunnar. Yes. But that’s just it. Afterwards — after all the screaming and recrimination — he was different. It was as if he had finally made up his mind, finally decided what to do about the problem that had dogged him since Guernsey.’
A blackbird began to sing shrilly from a heavily-laden pear tree further down the garden. They began to walk again, Sara bobbing down to pull a long tuft of rye-grass from a flower bed.
‘Have you told anyone about this? The authorities?’
‘Hardly! It’s just the imaginings of a silly woman, isn’t it?’ she snorted scornfully.
‘It could be rather more than that. I think you should tell someone.’
Suddenly Sara clutched at Patsy’s arm. The noise of a car at the front of the house had startled her.
‘Sounds like you’ve got another visitor. Shall I go and look for you?’
Sara shook her head.
‘We can go round the side.’
A trail of paving stones led to the front of the house. A small green van was parked in the drive. Its driver stood outside the front door cradling a bouquet of roses.
‘Ah,’ the youth turned. ‘One of you Mrs Hitchens?’
‘Yes, me.’ Sara advanced towards him.
‘Could you sign here, please?’
She did, and took the flowers from him. As the van reversed down the drive, she stood quite still staring at the blooms, as if they were poisoned.
‘Aren’t they beautiful? No one ever sends me flowers,’ Patsy complained.
Sara looked petrified, eyes fixed on the envelope pinned to the cellophane.
‘Do you know who they’re from?’
‘I think so,’ she answered in a whisper. ‘I must find a vase.’
The front door was latched, so they walked the path back to the kitchen, Patsy feeling awkward. Greetings from a new lover or an old one, she wondered?
Sara gingerly unpinned the envelope and pulled open the flap.
Patsy tried to see. The card was almost covered with writing; Sara’s hands trembled as she read it. The message continued on the back.
‘Nothing wrong, I hope.’
‘I’m sorry…,’ was all she could say. She looked at her watch. She was plainly very scared.
‘You want me to go?’
Sara nodded. Tears welled up again; she pulled a tissue from her sleeve and blew her nose.
‘All right. But look. Ring me whenever you feel like it. D’you promise?’
‘Yes, I will.’
Patsy clasped Sara by the shoulders and kissed her on the cheek. For the first time in her life she felt some kinship with her.
‘’Bye, now. I’ll drop in again soon.’
Sara forced a smile.
‘Thanks for coming. I mean that.’
Patsy turned her car into the road and headed for Plymouth. What Sara had just told her was immensely important. It was what Andrew must have had in mind when he’d asked her to get talking with Sara.
She decided to ring Norman Craig from a phone box, and arrange to see him at the Naval Base.
At the front of the old rectory, overlooking the road, was a small bedroom used to store junk. Sara unlatched a small window at the top of the frame and pushed it open. This was the signal she’d been told to make when Gunnar made contact. The room smelled stale; it could do with ventilation anyway.
She prayed the watcher was watching.
She still clutched the florist’s card. The words, written in Gunnar’s foreign script, had terrified but excited her.
He’d deceived her, taken advantage of her loneliness. He was an enemy of her country, who’d used her cynically. Yet he’d loved her with a passion she’d never known before, a passion which surely no man could fake.
The words seemed to smoulder on the card.
My darling. I have to see you again. For me it is not over between us and can never be.
My heart is broke, and you must mend it.
Please!
Big news! I’m leaving my employer, and need your help to make friends with the people you know. I depend on you. Please don’t fail me!
Cannot meet at old rendezvous, but you go there now. Don’t delay. Tell no one. I’ll know if you do. The H.I. desk will have a message for ‘Mrs Mathews’. That will tell you where I am.
Please do it! I long to kiss you again.
G.
‘Leaving his employer’? He wanted to defect?
Or was it another deception? Perhaps she should contact Hillier first. If things were changing, would they still want her to tell Gunnar about Philip?
But she dared not delay. They’d told her to do nothing to make Gunnar suspicious. Was he bugging her phone? Would he be watching her from a distance as she drove into Plymouth to meet him? Possibly. She could take no risks.
She opened the wardrobe in her bedroom. She’d have to change. Couldn’t drive into Plymouth in an old pair of jeans.
She’d wear the plum-coloured skirt and blouse, with the black jacket.
She looked at her watch; eleven-thirty. The traffic wouldn’t be bad; she could be there by twelve. Her face was a mess. Anyone could tell she’d been crying. She splashed on some cold water, then applied some makeup.
Handbag, money, car keys, then she closed the front door and checked it was latched. She’d left the upstairs window open as instructed, but it made her uneasy. Burglaries were rife in the district.
A South West Electricity Board van was parked fifty yards from the Hitchens’ house. The engineer sitting behind the wheel was eating a sandwich and drinking coffee from a flask.
The silver Volkswagen drove past him at speed, heading for Plymouth. The watcher picked up a microphone to report that Mrs Hitchens was on her way.
He finished his coffee. There was no great hurry; another car would pick her up at the next crossroads. His instructions were to follow at a distance, and hold himself ready for new orders.
At the junction with the Plymouth road Sara noticed the car behind her. A red Escort. Was it following her?
She turned left and the Escort followed, but two minutes later it turned off to the right. Unknown to her, the trail had been taken up by the green Vauxhall in front.
At the outskirts of the city she slowed down. The car she was following pulled into a filling station. Her heart raced as she neared the rendezvous. Fear gripped her, fear and excitement.
Left into a side street, up to the Hoe. She didn’t notice the green Vauxhall following fifty yards behind. Left again into Citadel Road. She was in luck; a parking meter bay was just coming free.
The Vauxhall slid past her and disappeared. Sara locked her car and paused for a moment to compose herself. Her legs felt like jelly. Two deep breaths, then she started towards the Holiday Inn. She looked up to the sixth floor. It was where Gunnar had always stayed; a room with a view of the Hoe. Was he there now, watching her?
As she mounted the hotel steps, the red Escort drew up opposite. She was through the swing door and approaching the reception desk, when its driver began to cross the lawn to the hotel.
‘Do you have a message for Mrs Mathews?’ Sara asked the girl behind the desk, as calmly as she could.
‘Oh, hullo!’
The receptionist had recognized her. Sara smiled; she was sure the girl had never known her name.
‘Yes, here it is.’
‘Thank you.’
Sara took it and walked towards the bar and the lifts.