It is time now though to head back through the woods, along the path that she has made herself, quiet, private, all their own. Keeping Stephen away from prying eyes. Away from inconvenient questions about the state of his mind.
Their hands stay clasped together as they walk, arms lightly swinging, hearts beating as one. This routine has quickly become Elizabeth’s favourite time of the day. Her handsome, happy husband. She can pretend for a little while longer that all is well. That his hand will forever be in hers.
‘Nice day for a walk,’ says Stephen, the sun lighting up his face. ‘We should do this more often.’
God willing, thinks Elizabeth, I will take every walk with you that I can.
Bethany’s body had never been found. That worries Elizabeth. She has read enough detective novels to know you must never trust a murder without a corpse. To be fair, she has also faked a number of deaths herself over the years.
Her attention elsewhere, Elizabeth sees the man only for a split-second. But she instantly realizes she has made a mistake.
It happens. Not often, but it happens.
This happy routine of hers, these familiar walks with Stephen, this familiar pleasure, was, of course, Elizabeth’s big mistake. As love so often is.
Routine is the spy’s greatest enemy. Never travel the same route two days in a row. Never leave work at the same time. Don’t eat at the same restaurant every Friday evening. Routine gives your enemy an opportunity.
An opportunity to plan ahead, an opportunity to hide, an opportunity to pounce.
Her split-second is up. Her last thought is ‘Please, please don’t hit Stephen.’ She doesn’t even feel the blow she knows is coming.
9
‘And then, in the late seventies, I went out with a member of UB40, but I think we all did back then,’ says Pauline.
‘Which one?’ asks Ron, trying to eat his soup with a little decorum.
Pauline shrugs. ‘There were so many of them. I think I slept with one of Madness too, or he said he was at least.’
Ron had rung his son, Jason, and asked where might be good for lunch, somewhere that was classy, but wouldn’t make a fuss if he didn’t know what knife to use. Somewhere that did food he would recognize, but would have proper napkins, and nice loos. Somewhere you didn’t have to wear a tie, but you could if you wanted, just hypothetical, say, but to remember he was a pensioner, and not made of money, though, you know, he had a few bob put away, don’t you worry about that.
Jason had listened politely, then said, ‘And what’s her name?’ Ron had said, ‘Whose name?’ Jason had said, ‘Your date,’ and Ron had said, ‘What makes you think …’ and Jason had said, ‘Le Pont Noir, Dad, she’ll love it,’ and Ron had said, ‘Pauline,’ and Jason wished him the best of luck. Then they spoke about West Ham for a bit until Ron asked Jason if he could book the restaurant for him, because he could never work out websites, and was too shy to ask Ibrahim to do it for him.
‘Your mate really going to Darwell Prison today?’ Pauline asks.
‘We have a habit of interfering,’ says Ron. ‘So, what’s your take on this Bethany Waites thing? You were around at the time?’
Le Pont Noir is what they call a gastropub. Ron had to scan the whole menu twice before he saw there was a steak. Even then it said ‘bavette’ of steak, but it came with chips, so he was hoping it was going to be safe.
‘She was a terrier, that’s for sure,’ says Pauline. ‘In a good way. Mike was very cut up when she died. They looked out for each other. Rare in this business.’
‘A looker too,’ says Ron. ‘If you like blondes, which I don’t. Not my type, not that I have a type. I’m not fussy. Well, I’m fussy, but –’
Pauline puts a finger to Ron’s lips to help him out of his cul-de-sac of a sentence. He nods gratefully.
‘She’d just started dating a new fella too,’ says Pauline. ‘Some cameraman, as always. In telly, the women all date their cameramen, and the men all date their make-up artists.’
‘Oh, really,’ says Ron, eyebrow raised. ‘So you and Mike Waghorn? You ever –’
Pauline laughs. ‘You’ve no worries there, darling. Mike dates cameramen too.’
‘There go Joyce’s chances,’ says Ron, as his ‘bavette’ of steak arrives. He is mightily relieved to see it is just a normal steak that someone has already cut up for him. Bingo. ‘You reckon the story got her killed?’
Pauline is pretending to look enthusiastic about a dish of braised cauliflower that has just been put in front of her.
‘Maybe,’ she says. ‘Let’s talk about something else; I get enough of this from Mike.’
Ron is trying to work out who Pauline looks like. A bit Liz Taylor maybe? The new head judge on Strictly? He has decided, on reflection, that she is definitely out of his league. And yet here she was. ‘How’s your cauliflower?’
‘Take a wild guess.’
Ron smiles.
‘You enjoy yourself last night, then?’ says Pauline. Ron had stayed over at hers for the first time. If you can eat braised cauliflower suggestively, then that’s what she’s doing.
Ron feels his cheeks flush. ‘I, look, yeah, it’s been a while for me, so maybe I’m not what you’re used to. It’s been a long time. It was nice, just staying up talking. I hope that was OK?’
‘Lover, it’s been a long time for me too,’ says Pauline. ‘It was perfect. You’re a gent. And a handsome, funny gent at that. Let’s just go at our own pace, shall we?’
Ron nods, and eats some more of his steak. They hadn’t brought any ketchup, but other than that he couldn’t fault Le Pont Noir at all. Thank you, Jase.
‘You fancy a walk along the front after this?’ says Pauline. ‘While the sun’s still in the sky? Get an ice cream on the pier?’
Ron thinks about his knees. How much they hurt when he doesn’t use that blasted stick Jason bought for him. How they make him feel like an old man. Every step will hurt, all the more so for hiding it from Pauline. He’ll be laid up in bed all day tomorrow.
‘I’d love to,’ says Ron. ‘I’d love to.’ Perhaps he doesn’t need to hide anything from Pauline?
‘And I know your knee gives you gip,’ says Pauline. ‘So let’s get you a stick for goodness’ sake. I don’t need a tough guy slowing me down. I just want an ice cream and a kiss from Ron Ritchie on the pier.’
Ron smiles again. He still won’t be using a stick – he’s got standards – but it’s nice to hear.
Pauline gestures to her bag. ‘I’ve got a couple of spliffs in here too. They’ll help.’
10
How long has Elizabeth been unconscious? Impossible to tell.
So what does she know?
She is lying on the cold, metal floor of a speeding vehicle. Her hands are cuffed behind her, and her feet are bound. A blindfold covers her eyes, and white noise is being played at deafening volume through a pair of headphones. A familiar torture technique.
But, on the plus side, she is not dead. Which at least gives her options.
All she can control right now is her breathing, and so she does just that. Slow, deep and steady. Nothing to be gained by panicking. She suspects she is going to need all her energy when she finally discovers where she is being taken.
Would they have hit Stephen too? Or not seen the need? Is he here with her?
Elizabeth wriggles backwards across the floor of the vehicle – she has now deduced it must be a van – until she brushes up against another body. They are back to back. She knows it is Stephen, she can tell by the electricity.
With her hands behind her back, she feels for his hands. He is doing the same and their hands clasp, like those of sleepy, waking lovers. She squeezes Stephen’s hand, then worries that that is perhaps emasculating. Should he be squeezing her hand? In the circumstances it is probably right that she is being the reassuring presence. Stephen has not been in this sort of position before.