‘There’s today’s milk in your fridge,’ she was saying, ‘and some Assam tea in the cupboard. The place was quite barren. I hope you don’t mind. I went to that little shop on the corner.’ She turned to smile at him, and despite himself, he smiled back.
‘I think you should know—’ he started.
‘Oh,’ she interrupted, sniffing the interior of the teapot speculatively, ‘but there’s very little I don’t know, Martin. Very little indeed. That’s why I’ve been sent along here. Do you take milk?’
‘Who sent you here?’
She smiled again, with her unblemished English rose of a face, then waved an expansive arm around the kitchen.
‘All neat and tidy,’ she said. ‘That’s how I like things. I can’t remember, did you say you took milk?’
‘Yes,’ he said, beginning to feel distinctly uneasy. It was difficult to find an order for all the questions welling up within him. ‘How did you get in?’
‘Didn’t I say?’ She began pouring water from the kettle into the teapot. ‘Your door was open.’
‘Open?’
‘Wide open. No breaking and entering necessary. Well, no breaking at any rate. So I suppose the worst I can be accused of is cleaning with intent.’ She had placed everything on a tray, which she now double-checked. Satisfied, she lifted it. ‘Shall we go through to the living room?’
There was little Hepton could do but follow her, knowing that he needed answers but knowing also that she seemed determined to give them in her own way and in her own time. Well, he had lots of time, didn’t he? He was on holiday. All he needed was patience.
They sat down and she poured, handing him a cup.
God, he hadn’t used this tea set in living memory, preferring a chipped red mug. It had come with the flat, the tea set. But then so had the mug.
‘I thought it was odd,’ Harry continued, ‘your door being open like that, so I called in to report it. I’ll pay for the call, of course.’
‘Called in to whom?’
‘To my employers,’ she said, ‘who are, ultimately, your employers. It’ll be useful to keep that in mind.’
‘Why?’
She chose to ignore this, lowering her fine eyelashes as she sipped from her cup. Hepton drank too, playing her at her own game. The tea was strong and aromatic. Harry put down her cup and crossed her legs.
‘You saw your friend this morning. Paul Vincent. And now your little holiday begins.’
‘That’s right.’ Then it hit him. ‘And you,’ he said, ‘drive a black Ford Sierra.’
She smiled, but did not reply.
‘You were following me?’ he said.
‘Why were you so anxious about Mr Vincent?’
Hepton shrugged. ‘It’s no secret. Paul was taken ill. He’s a friend of mine, as you yourself said. So, naturally, I was worried.’
‘But there’s more to it than that, isn’t there?’ Her voice had taken on a hard, professional edge. He stood up.
‘Look,’ he said, ‘I’m sorry, but I’ve got no proof that you are who you say you are — not that you’ve said very much.’ He walked to the window and stared down into the street. An old man was stooping to pick up a discarded piece of fruit from the side of the road.
‘Very good, Martin. I was beginning to wonder if you’d ever get round to asking. I thought you’d forgotten procedures. Take this.’ She produced a slip of paper from her skirt pocket and rose from her chair to hand it to him.
From close up, he could smell the subtle soap she used. She wasn’t wearing perfume, though; either that or his nose wasn’t attuned to it. He stared at the numbers on the paper.
‘It’s a telephone number,’ she said. ‘Ex-directory; you won’t have come across it before. If you dial it, you will find yourself speaking to your superior, Mr Fagin. It’s a direct line. He’ll give you clearance to speak to me, and he’ll promise also to give that permission in writing. Don’t worry, nothing you might say to me will get back to him.’
‘You don’t have any identification on you?’
‘Nothing formal,’ said Harry. ‘It’s against the rules. I can let you have a library ticket or my credit card, but that’s about it.’
Hepton smiled but was already picking up the telephone. The receiver at the other end was answered after the very first ring.
‘I suppose that’s you, Martin. I was told to expect a call. Listen, I want you to tell them everything, do you understand? It may be more important than you think. Don’t let it spoil your holiday, though; just get it all off your chest and then you can enjoy yourself.’
As Hepton listened to Fagin’s unmistakable voice, saying little himself, he watched Harry picking invisible hairs off the arms of her chair. His head was spinning. What is all this about? A little while ago, Fagin hadn’t seemed interested in anything he or Paul Vincent might have to say. Yet now he was ordering Martin to tell all. He wrenched his thoughts back to the here and now in time to catch Fagin’s final statement:
‘If you keep anything from them, you could get into serious trouble, and they’ll know if you’re hiding something. That’s their job. I must go now. Goodbye.’
As though she had heard everything, Harry raised her head at this, staring towards him with a righteous look on her face. Hepton put down the telephone and sank into his chair, feeling not at all comfortable in his own home. He pinched the bridge of his nose, then straightened up.
‘So what do you want to know?’ he said.
‘What I really want, Martin,’ Harry began, ‘is not so much to be told as to do the telling. As I said before, there probably isn’t much you could tell me that I don’t know already. You should be aware, however, that this is a matter of national security. It sounds like a cliché these days, but I’m in absolute earnest. It is in everyone’s interest for you to forget whatever Paul Vincent told you.’
‘Told me about what?’
Her look was that of a disappointed schoolmistress, some favoured pupil having let her down. Hepton stared at her evenly.
‘Told you,’ she said, ‘that he had noticed something on his monitor.’
‘Then there was something up there?’
‘Certainly there was... interference. We’re looking into it.’
‘But who’s “we”?’
‘You could say that I do PR work for the armed forces.’
‘Public relations?’ Hepton sounded doubtful. Harry shrugged. ‘But I don’t understand,’ he persisted. ‘What have the army got to do with it?’ Then he remembered. Zephyr was watching for civil unrest during the US pull-out. The army must be on standby, of course.
‘As a matter of interest, Martin, what do you think happened?’
‘Me?’ Hepton seemed genuinely surprised. ‘Why should anyone be interested in what I think?’ He remembered his final sighting of Paul Vincent, looking scared and beaten. For some reason, the memory stirred him to anger. ‘I’ll tell you what I think,’ he said. ‘I think you know less than you’re saying, not more.’ He was out of his seat now, standing over her. ‘I think you should get out and leave me alone. That’s what I think. And if I want to tell anybody about all of this, then I’ll damned well tell them.’
She stood too, her eyes on a level with his. Her face had tightened, and there were spots of red on either cheek. Her voice when she spoke was as cold and lifeless as a deep freeze.
‘Of course you must do whatever you see fit. I’ll get my jacket.’ He followed her to the kitchen and watched her put the jacket on. She surveyed the newly cleaned work surfaces. ‘Neat and tidy,’ she said, ‘that’s how I like things, Martin.’