“What’s the going rate, do you know?” asked George.
“What going rate? What are you talking about?”
“The going rate for stealing two hundred thousand. Five years? A bit more? That’s not too bad, considering. Time off for good behaviour. I’d be in a nice open prison doing gardening, good, healthy work. And I could probably get a good chunk of that knocked off if I cooperated, helped Gerstein. Even made a bit of restitution to show good faith.”
“George, you’re mad. What about — what about Hilda?”
George looked at him. “That’s it, you see, I couldn’t do it to her. I wrenched her out of Guildford without asking her advice. I thought Normandy, well, it’s a bit like England, shouldn’t be too much of a shock. I couldn’t make her pull up her roots all over again and go heaving off to South America. She wouldn’t like it.”
“But Hilda would do whatever you asked her to, George.”
“I know. And that’s the problem. She does whatever I tell her to. Always has.”
“Well, then?”
“No, Rod. I can’t do it. The answer is no. And you can talk as long as you like, the answer will still be no.”
Walker slumped back in his chair. His face was very grave.
“George, you’re an idiot. You don’t know what you’re doing. You simply have no idea.”
Hilda came out of the house with a tray of coffee cups. Fiona followed her with the jug. Hilda placed the tray without a word and went inside. Fiona looked at George and Walker carefully. She put down the jug.
“I don’t suppose — I don’t suppose you’ve seen my handbag?” she said hesitantly.
Walker looked at her for a long moment.
Then, “No, Fiona, I haven’t,” he said levelly.
She stared at him.
“You’re sure?”
“Absolutely positive,” he said.
“Right,” she said, “right.” And she went into the house.
George and Walker sat in silence for a good twenty minutes with their coffee and their thoughts. There was nothing to say.
At one point, Walker said, “George—”
But George held up his hand and said, “There’s really no point. It’s ‘no.’ ” So Walker fell silent again.
Finally, George stirred and finished his Calvados.
“I really don’t know what I’m going to do about those flower beds,” he said.
Walker tried to feel a little interest.
“They do look a bit sad,” he said.
“I’ve tried everything, feeding the soil, fertiliser. I don’t know what the hell’s the matter with the stupid things. Zinnias, petunias, hyacinths, hydrangeas, tulips, they grow anywhere. Anywhere. And just look at them.”
They looked at the grey, drooping wrecks in the flower beds.
“’Fraid I’m not much of a one for the old gardening,” said Walker. “I wouldn’t know how to help you.”
George nodded. “Nor me, I’m afraid.”
Fiona came out of the house, carrying her handbag. She sat down suddenly in a chair. Rod looked at her.
“Feeling all right, old thing?”
“Rod, I’m sorry to break this up, but I really think we ought to think about going, if we’re going to catch the SeaCat.”
George got up. “I’ll call Hilda,” he said. But Hilda was already appearing carrying two glasses of light pink liquid.
“Just before you go, I’d like you to try a glass of my cordial,” she said. “It’s very refreshing, especially when you’ve got a long hot drive ahead of you.”
George nodded.
“It’s not bad,” he said, “and it’s particularly good after you’ve been drinking.”
So Walker and Fiona drank the cordial.
“It’s very good,” acknowledged Walker. “What’s in it?”
“Elderflowers mainly,” said George, “and a touch of hawthorn, is it?”
Hilda nodded shyly. “Just a touch,” she said.
Walker put down his empty glass and looked at Fiona. “Well,” he said.
George and Hilda stood at the gate waving at the BMW until it was out of sight down the rutted track, then George closed the gate.
Hilda glanced at him as they walked towards the house.
“I think it went off rather well,” she said hesitantly.
“What?” George seemed rather distracted. “Oh yes, I suppose so. Yes, all things considered.”
“And did you and Mr. Walker catch up on things?”
“Yes,” George said, “I think you could say we caught up on things.”
“Good,” she said, “so that’s all right, then.”
“Yes,” he said. “Right, I’m going to have a stiff whisky and then have forty winks. What are you going to do?”
She looked around vaguely.
“Oh, I don’t know,” she said, “I think I’ll just potter.”
“Right,” he said. “Jolly good.”
And they went inside.
The Walkers had reached the N15, a national road with constant pounding traffic. They had driven in silence from Les Roseaux. As Walker waited for a gap in the seemingly endless stream of trucks and semis, Fiona turned to him.
“I did it, you know.”
“I know.”
“I actually did it. I can’t believe it, but I did.”
“Yes, Fi, I know.”
She was pale and her face intense. She needed to talk it through, he saw.
“When I came out and you said, ‘No, Fiona,’ God, for a moment I couldn’t remember whether No meant Do It or Don’t Do It.”
“But you did it.”
“Yes, when she was out feeding leftovers to the bloody goat. I had lots of time, God knows, there were enough leftovers.”
“It was pretty grim, the lunch.”
“Deadly.”
She was quiet for a moment.
He said, “Where did you put it?”
“In the Islay malt. That’s what you wanted, wasn’t it?”
“Yes. That’s perfect.”
“How long does it take?”
“I told you. It’s very quick. Or at least that’s what Bernie said. He’s head of the Chemicals Division, for God’s sake, he’s a scientist, so he should bloody know.”
“And it’s undetectable. You’re sure about that?”
“Look,” he said, with an edge in his voice, “all I know is what Bernie told me. It’s a molecule with a name two lines long that I forgot the moment after I heard it. It causes a massive cardiac arrest. End of story.”
“So, embezzler has heart attack in France. And the trail ends there.”
“Something like that.”
Fiona was silent again.
“I wonder what she’ll do. Hilda,” she said. “When it happens, I mean.”
“With a bit of luck, she’ll have a stiff whisky,” said Walker.
“Poor Hilda,” she said.
Hilda had been out in the garden for an hour and a half, doing some vague tidying. Then she had gone to the outhouse to fill a watering can and mix in some of the crystals from the large packet she’d found months before and which she had kept carefully hidden ever since. Today she had noticed that some of the zinnias seemed to be showing signs of perking up a little and she wanted to nip that in the bud right away. As she watered the beds she eyed the roses. She was going to start on them next. That would really infuriate him.
Well, he deserved it, dragging her off to France like that. She hated Normandy. The weather was just the same as it was in England, so what had been the point in leaving Guildford?
The goat came round the house on the end of its line and watched her in that stupid way it had. She considered it. Perhaps... She wondered what effect the crystals would have on a mammal. Like his precious goat. She could always give it a try. Well, actually, she had given it a try, but the irritating thing was, she’d never really know. But they’d never be seeing them again, the horrible Walkers. Not after the lunch and the cordial farewell. She must remember to pour the rest away. There was no point in inviting an accident.