There were two men at the table. Immediately she recognised one as he sprang attentively to his feet. Don Trenchard was as dapperly dressed as the first time she’d met him at Dukes Hotel, a fawn cotton suit and striped shirt, the regimental tie fastened at the collar with a plain gold pin.
‘Don you met the other day/ Harrison said.
Trenchard had a tan and the mischievous grin of a boy that made him seem younger than Harrison. His handshake was enthusiastic and playful, his ready smile alluring. She caught a whiff of cologne. ‘A delight to meet you again, Miss Mullins. Let me introduce Sir George Pepperell.’
The old man rose unsteadily from his seat. His bald crown was surrounded by a halo of white and wispy hair. Small bristles had escaped the razor on his bloodhound jowls which carried the broken veins of someone who suffered from high blood pressure. But it was the thick and greying eyebrows that dominated his face and emphasised the watery eyes. They fixed on her with a stare of disturbingly candid interest.
‘Miss Mullins,’ he acknowledged, reaching across the table. His voice was deep and smooth, containing both graciousness and natural authority. ‘It’s a pleasure. I’ve heard so much about you.’
She laughed uneasily. ‘None of it true, I expect.’
‘Oh, I’m sure it is.’ As he resumed his seat, she noticed that the voluminous trousers of his pinstripe suit were hiked almost to his chest by Paisley-pattern braces. A gravy-stained matching tie hung low and wide, reminding her of a baby’s bib. ‘You seem to have made quite a mark for yourself in recent days.’
‘Not a black mark, I hope?’
He smiled slowly and broadly, his teeth slightly yellowed by cigar smoke. ‘Is that a Texan accent I detect?’
She realised he had overlooked her question. ‘I’m a California girl,’ she said brightly. ‘They grow us big there too.’
One of the shaggy eyebrows lifted slightly and she wondered if he was amused or offended by her impertinence. His gentle smile, however, remained. ‘But you are married to an Englishman?’
Damn, that was awkward, hardly the way she wanted to start this conversation. ‘Well, just. To be honest we’re not too close nowadays. Mostly we speak to each other through our lawyers.’
‘I’m so sorry to hear that.’
She decided she wanted to know exactly who she was lunching with. ‘I’m sorry. Sir George — is that what I call an English knight?’ He smiled meekly and nodded. ‘But you rather have the advantage over me. I really don’t know why I’ve been asked here.’
Trenchard was leaning sideways in his chair, his arm draped carelessly over its back. ‘Sir George used to describe himself as “something in the ministry”. Very enigmatic’
Casey heard the alarm bells ringing. ‘Any particular ministry?’
Sir George waved a wrinkled white hand, its back flecked with liver spots. ‘Doesn’t matter, dear lady. I’m long retired now. Besides which, we’re not here to discuss me.’
‘Then why are we here?’ Her tone was a little sharper than she’d intended.
‘Just for a chat. I like to get to know ladies and gentlemen of the press. I’ve read your work with great interest. Tell me, are you fully recovered from your traumatic experience at Seven Dials?’
‘I guess so. But I’m still getting nightmares. I’ll have to give up cheese at bedtime.’
‘And your daughter? Candy, isn’t it? What a delightful name. Is she showing any ill effects?’
‘She’s a bit withdrawn still.’
‘And she wants to be a dancer?’
God, what doesn’t this man know? she thought. ‘Today yes. A year ago she wanted to be a doctor, then an interior designer. I should have stopped her then, I could do with some decorating advice on my new place…’
And they settled into light-hearted banter, questions and interest from Sir George and quick-fire answers from Casey, who was anxious to please and impress. She wasn’t sure why, it just seemed to be the wisest thing to do. The old man became visibly more relaxed. He caught onto her jokes and began to laugh quite a lot. When he raised his hand, a waiter materialised instantly at his side, order book at the ready. Sir George’s recommendation of the melon with Parma ham didn’t invite detractors, though no one took up his suggestion of poached fish. The other choices were plain, traditional and well-cooked although with a certain lack of imagination.
Casey noticed that Harrison was saying nothing and Trenchard very little. Occasionally the two friends would exchange glances; Trenchard would give a small grin, and then they would resume listening as Sir George continued his skilful and gentle interrogation.
The two bottles of Nuits-Saint-Georges were rich and plummy, leaving Casey feeling quite lightheaded by the time they had finished the dessert.
Over coffee Sir George Pepperell said: ‘Of course, with freedom of the press must go a sense of responsibility, wouldn’t you agree?’
That seemed reasonable to Casey; with her head gently spinning, most things would have seemed reasonable. ‘Yes, I think so. I like to think I feel a responsibility to my readers.’
‘I had more in mind the government, any government of the day.’
She tried to concentrate on what he was saying. ‘I’m not sure about that.’ ‘
Sir George paddled his spoon in his coffee cup. ‘Let’s take an imaginary situation where a journalist — as often happens — wants to investigate events in Northern Ireland. Say, the work of the intelligence services or, perhaps, that one-time alleged shoot-to kill policy — the RUC and army accused by certain parties of trying to force terrorists into fatal ambush situations rather than detain them and convict on prima facie evidence. He finds himself probing delicate matters and would, of course, receive only the most superficial cooperation from our public affairs people in Army HQ, Belfast.’ He looked at her directly, the humour having vanished from his eyes. ‘Is it right then that he should talk to the only ones who will answer his questions? Inevitably these are people with aft axe to grind or grudges to bear. Does he then ‘ cobble together a story with only half the facts available and present it as the truth? And thereby put at risk agents in place whose only task is to destroy terrorism?’
‘You mean name names?’
‘Not necessarily, no. But to reveal organisational structures, the way in which things work — all information that can serve the enemy.’
Casey puffed out her cheeks. ‘Well, if a journalist doesn’t get cooperation from the authorities, then I suppose he doesn’t have much choice, does he? I mean he does have a job to do.’
Sir George’s eyebrows met in a forbidding line as he frowned. ‘But that’s not very responsible, is it?’ He waved his hand towards Harrison and Trenchard. ‘It could put chaps like these at risk. ATOs like Tom, for instance. Surely the journalist could just go on to another story, could he not? Something a little less controversial.’ For a brief second she relived Seven Dials, remembered the shock of the blast. She felt suddenly awkward and momentarily tongue-tied, but she had no doubt about her view on the matter. ‘Sir George, a journalist has a job to do. I believe that freedom of the press is more important than — than almost anything. Governments might say something is secret just because they know it’s wrong, immoral or downright illegal. It’s amazing what some governments consider secret. Without the press as a check and a balance, governments can drift into fascism and dictatorship. I’m sure Hitler, Mussolini and Stalin had very strong views about responsible reporting, don’t you? Soldiers on the ground can find themselves acting illegally and it’s no defence to say that they are just obeying orders.’
A smile drifted briefly across Harrison’s face as he listened to her spirited defence of the media.
But Sir George’s face had reddened. Casey noticed and added quickly, almost apologetically, ‘But this is all very hypothetical.’