It also implied surrender, failure. As a former member of the Special Air Service, he was unwilling to accept either.
Another sound, this time definitely a sigh. Chase forced himself to his feet and stretched, working the stiffness out of his muscles. The mattress was as unforgiving as his wife. He crossed the room to the counter that acted as his kitchen and filled the kettle, preparing — however reluctantly — to start the day.
Half an hour later, he had eaten, showered and dressed. To his disappointment, the letter had not magically vanished in the meantime.
‘Buggeration and fuckery,’ Chase muttered, glaring at it. Sophia’s solicitors, he already knew from experience, would not hesitate to follow up on their enquiries by phone or even in person if a response didn’t come immediately. Their letterhead said they were based in the City of London, so they were probably charging her father a thousand pounds per hour for their time, while his own financial situation forced him to traipse across two boroughs to get what free help he could at the nearest Citizens Advice Bureau.
He tried to suppress a churning feeling of disgust. Money. That was what everything came down to. Sophia was used to it, couldn’t live without it, wanted more of it — and now that she had access to it again, was using it against him.
And she knew his sense of dignity wouldn’t allow him to beg others for it. He had friends all around the world, but while he could always rely on them for a favour, since he in turn would always help them if they needed it, the one thing he couldn’t bring himself to ask for was money.
So now he was trapped by his own pride. Whether he caved in to Sophia’s demands or asked for monetary help from others to fight her, it would feel like failure either way. At least in combat there was always the possibility of beating the odds to reach victory, but right now he couldn’t see any good way out short of a miracle…
His phone trilled. Chase knew it wasn’t Sophia; he had set her ringtone as Cliff Richard’s ‘Devil Woman’, but this was the cheap pre-paid Nokia’s default. He picked the phone up and flipped it open, seeing on the screen that it was a London number. ‘Is that you, Jesus?’
‘I’ve heard some strange things from your mouth, Eddie, but that’s got to be near the top of the list.’ Not a miracle, but the familiar voice was nearly as welcome.
‘Mac!’ Chase cried, smiling for the first time in several days. ‘Fuck me, I wasn’t expecting to hear from you. I thought you were out of the country?’
‘I’m back, for the moment,’ said the Scotsman. ‘I’ll tell you about it — well, as much as I can within the bounds of the Official Secrets Act — if you’d like to meet up. Are you busy?’
‘Let me check my Filofax,’ Chase said sarcastically. ‘No, I’m free. Where do you want to meet?’
‘Come round to my place — you remember where it is?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Good. Half eleven or thereabouts? Oh, and there’ll be someone else here I’m sure you’ll be pleased to see again.’ Even over the phone, Chase could detect the amusement in the other man’s voice. ‘An old friend.’
‘Well, fucking hell,’ said Chase, unable to hold back a grin. ‘Look who it is. Hugo Castille, the Belgian waffler.’
The lanky Castille sniffed through his beaky nose. ‘And Edward Chase, as polite and charming as always.’ He peered at the shorter man’s head. ‘Your hair… it is getting a little thin, no? Especially on top.’
‘Oh fuck off, Hugo.’ Still grinning, Chase shook the mustachioed Belgian’s hand, before the pair embraced and clapped each other on the back. ‘Christ, how long’s it been? A year?’
‘More than that,’ Castille replied. ‘I have not seen you since the wedding.’ His expression became mournful. ‘Mac told me what has happened with you and Sophia. I am very sorry.’
‘It’s okay,’ said Chase, rather brusquely, before moving the conversation along. ‘Everything’s good with you, then? Coping with civilian life?’
‘I have a new line of work. Not too different from my old one,’ he added with a sly smile. ‘I will tell you about it. You might find it interesting.’
‘Can’t wait.’ Chase turned to his former commanding officer. ‘What about you, Mac? How’s the leg?’
Jim ‘Mac’ McCrimmon shifted his stance to put his left foot forward, supporting himself on a metal cane. A faint creak came from the ankle joint — not of bone, but aluminium and plastic. ‘Bearable. They think that given another two or three years, I should regain more or less full mobility. I intend to do it in one.’
‘Anything I can do to help, you just say the word.’
The tall, bearded Scot smiled. ‘You already did, Eddie. If it hadn’t been for you, I would have lost more than just a leg to those Taliban bastards.’ He gestured for Chase to take a seat in one of the deep red leather armchairs in his living room. ‘In fact, we might be able to help you.’
The Yorkshireman didn’t move, his expression darkening. ‘I’m not here to take charity.’
‘And I didn’t ask you here to offer it. I know you better than that, Eddie. Come on, sit down. I’m going to, whether you do or not.’ He rapped his left shin with the cane. ‘Standing on this bloody thing isn’t exactly comfortable.’
Chase reluctantly sat as Mac and Castille did the same. ‘So,’ he said, ‘you’ve become a spook, eh? You bloody sell-out.’
Mac chuckled. ‘Yes, I remember what you think of the men and women of our intelligence services. But they’re not all that bad. Well, a few of them. Actually, I’ve been working with somebody you’ve already met.’
Chase pulled a disgusted face. ‘Aw, not that fucking Capri-driving bell-end Alderley, surely?’
‘The very same.’
‘How’s his nose?’
‘Still crooked where you broke it.’ A wry grin. ‘He remembers you too, funnily enough.’
‘Good. Can’t believe you’re working with that twat! At least I’ll never have to deal with him again. Tosser.’
‘So, you have been in Africa, Mac,’ Castille said. ‘What have you been doing there?’
The older man’s grin widened. ‘Nothing I’m going to tell you about, Hugo. I know you don’t mean any harm, but if I even gave you a hint, you’d be chatting to some random stranger in a bar about it before the end of the day.’
‘That is not true!’ Castille protested. ‘I do not give away secrets.’
‘Only because the rest of us tackle you to the fucking floor every time you open your mouth,’ Chase told him, laughing.
‘Let’s just say I’ve been doing some consulting work on behalf of Her Majesty’s Government, and leave it at that,’ said Mac. ‘The main thing was, it got me back on my feet — foot — and actually doing something useful again. Which after three months in hospital and most of a year withering away convalescing was a huge relief. It felt better than any amount of talking to the shrinks, put it that way. Made me realise just how much I need to do things, to contribute. To have a purpose.’
‘I think we are all like that, no?’ added Castille.
Chase eyed him. ‘This is the bit with the hard sell, right? The reason you asked me here?’
‘Partly,’ Mac admitted. ‘But Hugo was right — I think you’ll be interested in what he’s got to say.’ A hint of concern entered his level gaze. ‘It might be exactly what you need right now, considering what Sophia’s been putting you through.’
‘You seem to know a lot about it, for someone who’s been out of the country.’ Chase gave him a suspicious look. ‘For that matter, how’d you get my number? I only got that phone after I moved out.’