The telephone rang behind him. He realized, at that moment, that he could no longer hear the television. Meryl would have turned the sound down: she and Stephen would have heard every shouted word.
He walked away and Davies closed the door behind him.
"He's a pathetic bastard."
"You called him a friend, Mr. Perry. You have to face it, people get cruel when they're frightened."
"I've friends here, believe me, real friends."
"Glad to hear it."
He picked up the telephone in the kitchen.
She was the only one left at the new cluster of desks down at the far end of the work area. The consoles were covered, the desks were tidied, all the lights were off except hers.
Geoff Markham came out of his cubicle and locked his door after him. The red-haired woman didn't look up from studying the illuminated green square and speaking soundlessly into a telephone. There was a ribbon of light under Cox's door, but the senior journeyman often did that sloped off home and left his room lit so that the lesser people might believe he still beavered… Vicky was expecting him at her place for a verbatim of the interview, but Markham wasn't in the mood for an inquest.
He wandered towards the woman, towards the halo of light on her hair. He wanted to talk, wanted his feelings massaged. If she hadn't been there he would have gone out of the front doors on to the Embanj( n-lent, sat on a bench and stared into the river, watched the barges and the ripples. He waited until she put down her telephone.
"Hello."
She didn't look up.
"Yes?"
"I just wondered can I get you anything?"
"Are you the tea-lady?"
"Can I help in any way?"
She said brusquely, "No."
"If it's not too secret…" he giggled'… what are you doing?"
"Pretty obvious, isn't it, or weren't you listening? The American's stuff was superb. Add light complexion to an English-speaking accent. It could equal the child of a mixed marriage. He's put at late thirties. A mixed marriage, maybe forty years ago. An Iranian marries an Englishwoman. That's what I'm looking for. It might be on file if the marriage was over there the FCO should have it because probably the consul would have been notified. If it was over here then it's harder but possible. Is that good enough?"
He felt a rare shyness. She was older than him. With the white ceiling light bathing her face he could see the first lines cutting her skin and the slight crow's feet at her eyes. He couldn't face Vicky and her questions. He thought that, not so long ago, she must have been beautiful.
"Does that give you time for a drink, before they close? Sorry I don't know your name."
"I'm Parker."
It scratched in his mind.
"Parker?"
"Cathy Parker."
"From Belfast?"
She turned away from her screen. She looked up at him and her glance was withering.
"I am Cathy Parker, "from Belfast", yes."
"We used to talk about you."
"Did you?"
"The instructors used to lecture us about that bar, escape and evasion, the bar full of Provos and you taking them on."
"Did they?"
"It's a legend there, what you did in the bar."
"You want to know something?"
"Of course, please." What Cathy Parker had done in the bar up on the hill above Dungannon, East Tyrone Brigade country, when she'd been on covert surveillance, had been identified, taken by the Provos, was held up by the instructors as the single best example they knew of the will to survive. She was a legend.
"Tell me.
She said, "It was all for nothing. What mattered was my tout. I lost him. I pushed him too far, and I lost him. Did the instructors tell you that? If you'll excuse me…"
"Have you time for a drink?"
"I have you haven't. Hang around here and you'll end up pushing paper in triplicate, badgering night-duty archive clerks, errand-running for those useless farts, sucking your bloody conscience, scrapping for a place on the promotion ladder. You'll be sad and passed over, and always have time for a drink. That what you want?"
"Where should I be?"
"Down there, where it's at, with the principal. If you don't mind, please, fuck off, because I want to get this boring crap finished with and get home. You shouldn't be whining around with has-been "legends". Get down there. Nothing is ever decided here they think it is, and strut around as if they actually pull the string3. They don't. It's down there it'll be decided. Body to body, as it always is. Or is close quarters too tough for you? You're a lucky bastard to have the chance to be a part of it, if you're up for it."
Even while talking, she was dialling on her telephone. He spun on his heel and she didn't look up, as if she'd said everything that needed saying.
He paused by the door. He didn't knock, but he put his head round it and asked, "Can I come in?"
"It's your house, Mr. Perry," the detective said, droll.
"You can go where you like in it."
It was all out on the blanket over the table, the Heckler amp; Koch, the bullet-proof vest, a little cluster of gas grenades, the mobile phone, the radio, the Thermos, the plastic lunch-box, the newspaper.
"My wife's gone to bed."
"She's had a long day, sir," the detective said, noncommittal.
Perry shrugged.
"We're not very good company for each other at the moment, I'm afraid."
"Early days, sir, takes a bit of time for us all to shake down. Never easy at the beginning, having us in the house."
"Do you mind talking?"
"Up to you, sir."
"It's not interfering?"
"You talk away, sir, if that's what you want."
The detective eyed him. Perry didn't know what he thought. He was a younger man with fair hair and a good suit, and he had the faint accent of the West Midlands. His jacket was off and he wore a shoulder holster on a heavy harness. He seemed not to notice when he straightened in his chair and it flapped against his body. Perry supposed that if you wore the thing the whole time, a holster and a gun, then you came to forget it.
"It's Leo, isn't it?"
"It's Detective Constable Blake, sir, or I'm Mr. Blake you please yourself."
"Sorry."
"No offence, sir."
"I don't seem to get to talk much with Mr. Davies."
"We're all of us different, sir."
Perry stood in the doorway.
"Sounds daft I'm in my own home with my wife and I'm lonely. Late-at-night talk, you'll have to forgive me. I just need to talk, have someone talk to me. I'm not saying I want a shoulder to cry on, it's just talking that I need. I can't say it to Meryl. It's easier and no offence to a stranger, but already it's getting to me. But I made my bed, didn't I? That's what people say. Still, not to worry, there are good people here, in spite of tonight, and they'll see us through. Actually, being honest, the worst bit of all this is behind me. Believe me. A couple of months ago, I'm lying in bed, the radio's on for the news, Meryl's asleep, and I heard my old name.
"Would Mr. Gavin Hughes, last heard of five years ago, go to the general hospital at Keswick in Cumbria where his father, Mr. Percy Hughes, is dangerously ill." I lied to Meryl as to why I was going out, I drove up there in a daze. I broke all the rules because I'd been told that I shouldn't ever try to reclaim the former life, and I went in to see him. The crisis was over. He was sitting up in bed. Me walking in made him cry, but he cried worse when I refused to tell him who I was now, where I lived, what I did. My mother told me to go away. She said I was better gone if I couldn't trust my own parents. I came home. That day was worse than anything. There's three times since Mr. Davies arrived here that I've thought of telling that to him, but it never seemed the right time. I don't find talking easy with Mr. Davies."