Where had it all gone? She’d come into her job at Colossus believing that she could make a difference and she had done just that, right up till the time Griffin Charles Strong had planted his CV on her desk and his mesmerising dark eyes on her face. And even then she’d managed to maintain an air of cool professionalism for months on end, knowing full well the dangers represented by becoming involved with anyone at her place of employment.
Her resolve had weakened over time. Perhaps just to touch him, she’d thought. The gorgeous head of hair, wavy and thick. Or the broad oarsman’s shoulders beneath the fisherman’s sweater he favoured. Or the lower arm whose wrist was banded by a leather plait. Touching him had eventually become such an obsession that the only way possible to rid herself of the preoccupation with her hand grazing some part of his body was simply to do it. Just reach across the conference table and grasp his wrist to emphasise her agreement with some remark he’d made during a staff meeting and then feel the rush of surprise when he briefly closed his other hand over hers and squeezed. She told herself it was merely a sign that he appreciated her support of his ideas. Except there were signs…and then there were signs.
She said to Robbie Kilfoyle, “When you’re finished here, make sure the doors are locked, won’t you?”
“Will do,” he said, and she felt his gaze fixed on her speculatively as she returned to her office.
There, she went to the filing cabinet. She squatted in front of the bottom drawer that she’d opened before, in the presence of the detectives. She fingered through the manila folders and brought out the one she needed, which she shoved into the canvas book bag she used as a briefcase. That done, she grabbed up her bicycle clothing and went to change for the long ride home.
She did her changing in the ladies’ toilet, taking her time and all the while listening for the hopeful sounds of Griff Strong and the assessment kids returning from the river. But the only thing she heard was Robbie Kilfoyle leaving, and then she herself was alone at Colossus.
She couldn’t risk Griff’s mobile this time round, not when she knew he was with a group. There was nothing left but to write him a note. Rather than deposit it on his desk, however, where he could use the excuse of not having seen it, she took it outside to the carpark and shoved it beneath the windscreen wiper of his vehicle. On the driver’s side. She even took a piece of Sellotape to make sure the note didn’t blow away. Then she went for her bike, unlocked it, and headed for St. George’s Road, the first part of the crisscrossing route that would take her from Elephant and Castle up to Paddington.
The ride took her nearly an hour in the bitter cold. Her mask prevented her from breathing the worst of the traffic fumes, but there was nothing to protect her from the constant noise. She reached Gloucester Terrace more exhausted than usual, but at least grateful that the ride itself-and the need to be on guard against traffic-had kept her mind occupied.
She chained her bicycle to the railing in front of number 258, where she unlocked the front door to the usual cooking smells emanating from the ground-floor flat. Cumin, sesame oil, fish. Overcooked sprouts. Rotting onions. She held her breath and went for the stairs. She was up five of them when behind her, the front-door buzzer sounded sharply. The door had a rectangle of glass on top, and through it she saw the shape of his head. She descended quickly.
“I rang your mobile.” Griff sounded irritated. “Why didn’t you answer? Fuck it, Ulrike. If you’re going to leave me a note like that-”
“I was on my bike,” she told him. “I can hardly answer it when I’m riding home. I turn it off. You know that.” She held the door open and turned from it. He would have no choice but to follow her upstairs.
On the first floor, she switched on the timed light and went for the door of her flat. Inside, she dumped her canvas holdall on the lumpy sofa and turned on a single lamp. She said, “Wait here,” and went into her bedroom, where she took off her bike-riding clothes, sniffed her armpits, and found them wanting. A damp flannel took care of that problem, after which she examined herself in the mirror and was satisfied with the heightened colour the ride across London had brought to her cheeks. She slid into a dressing gown and tied its belt. She returned to the sitting room.
Griff had turned on the brighter overhead lights. She chose to ignore that. She went to the kitchen where the fridge held a chilled bottle of white Burgundy. She took out two glasses and fetched the corkscrew.
Seeing this, Griff said, “Ulrike, I’ve just got off the river. I’m knackered and there’s just no way-”
She turned round. “That wouldn’t have stopped you a month ago. Anytime, anywhere. Man the torpedoes and damn the consequences. You can’t have forgotten.”
“I haven’t.”
“Good.” She poured the wine and carried a glass over to him. “I like to think of you as eternally ready.” She hooked her arm round his neck and drew him to her. An instant of resistance and then his mouth was on hers. Tongues, more tongues, a lengthy caress, and after a moment his hand sliding from her waist to the side of her breast. Fingers reaching for her nipple. Squeezing. Coaxing her to groan. Heat shooting into her genitals. Yes. Very nice stuff, Griff. She released him abruptly and moved away.
He had the grace to look flustered. He went to a chair-not the sofa-and sat. He said, “You said this was urgent. Emergency. Twenty-five-line whip. Crisis. Chaos. That’s why I came. This is exactly the opposite direction from home, by the way, which means I’ll not even get home now till God knows what time.”
“How unfortunate,” she said. “With duty calling you and all that. And I’m fully aware of your address, Griffin. As you well know.”
“I don’t want a row. Have you brought me here for a row?”
“Why would you think that? Where were you all day?”
He raised his head to the ceiling, one of those martyred male looks of the sort one saw in paintings of dying early Christian saints. He said, “Ulrike, you know my situation. You’ve always known it. You can’t have…What would you have me do? Now or then? Walk out on Arabella when she was five months pregnant? While she was in labour? Now she’s got an infant to contend with? I never gave you the slightest indication-”
“You’re right.” She produced a brittle smile. She could actually feel how frangible it was, and she loathed herself for reacting to him. She saluted him with her wineglass in a mock toast. “You never did. Bully for you. Everything always in the open and on the up-and-up. Don’t ask anyone to wear a blindfold. That’s a very good way to sidestep responsibility.”
He put his wineglass on the table, its contents untouched. He said, “All right. I surrender. White flag. Whatever you want. Why am I here?”
“What did she want?”
“Look, I was late today because I went to the silk-screening shop. I told you that. Not that it’s actually any of your business what Arabella and I-”
Ulrike laughed, although it was somewhat forced, a bad actress on an overlit stage. “I have a fine idea of what Arabella wanted and what you probably gave her…all seven and a half inches of it. But I’m not talking about you and the darling wife. I’m talking about the policewoman. Constable Whatsername with the broken teeth and bad hair.”
“Are you trying to back me into a corner?”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about your whole approach. I protest, I call a halt to the way you’re behaving just now, I say enough, I tell you to fuck off, and you’ve got what you want.”
“Which is?”
“My head on a bloody charger, no dancing and no seven veils required.”
“Is that what you think? Is that why you actually think I’ve asked you to come here?” She drained her glass of wine and felt the effect of it almost immediately.