Oliver St John Latimer abandoned the computer, and snatched up the telephone, which lay hidden behind it, and punched numbers into it.
'Records?' He looked at Elizabeth quickly. 'Which day was it in?'
She had had enough time. I'm not quite sure.' He would be a Times and Guardian reader. So neither of them had found space for this unimportant filler. 'The past few days - I've been away from my flat, so I bought the Times… there was a pile of Telegraphs on the mat, when I got back - '
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' Telegraph cuttings - the last week - Parker and Pointe du Hoc.' Latimer addressed the receiver. 'What d'you mean, you're short-handed?'
The receiver squawked back at him, less inhibited than the inhuman Beast: the Librarian was a genuine librarian, of independent character and impeccable provenance, as well as vast experience and devoted loyalty.
Oliver St John Latimer deflated visibly, overawed by Miss Russell's reply. 'Yes - yes, I quite understand - yes, I do appreciate that, Miss Russell - with the holidays… I do see that…
But if you can - Parker - yes - Major Thaddeus E. Parker - Pointe du Hoc - ?'
He looked at Elizabeth, and through her, as he waited. And, on her own account, she ran back everything she knew, to extract anything of importance from it.
They had all been there, in Normandy, for the remembrance D-Day: the Queen, the President of the United States, and the President of France (had he been there? She couldn't remember! Major Birkenshawe had said 'the Frogs', anyway!).
But Major Thaddeus E-for-Edward Parker hadn't 'fallen to his death' then, when they were there -
otherwise it would have been a bigger story, not a filler (that was what they had emphasized on the newspaper course: that circumstances and timing were an integral part of newspaper
'tasting'; David Audley, himself an inveterate and compulsive scanner of newspapers, and their Fleet Street expert, had said as much; and David in his time had reputedly managed to suppress - or at least to emasculate - certain highly inconvenient items, usually in exchange for leaking more conveniently attractive ones).
'Yes, Miss Russell?' The Deputy-Director continued to look through her. ' Edward Parker -
Edward! He focused momentarily on Elizabeth. 'Yes, do that, please.' Now he was looking at his screen, and she could guess what was on it.
Anyway… the 'death fall' could not have happened during what Major Birkenshawe had dismissed as the 'junketings' of June 6th. And, by the same token, it must have been a genuine accident: if there had been any suspicion of foul play it would also have made bigger headlines in more papers -
'Yes, Miss Russell - the same classification. Thank you.' Latimer replaced the receiver.
That was the contradiction to all her conclusions: an aged American had accidentally fallen over a French cliff forty years after he had once presumably climbed it, to rate six lines in a British newspaper. But now he rated a Secure classification.
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Elizabeth readied herself for the first service in the second net. And, knowing Latimer even a little, it would be hard and fast - and most likely ' Why didn't you mention this before, Miss Loftus?'
'Well, now…' His hand moved towards the chocolate box, but then gestured vaguely at her instead '… what was it you discussed with Dr Mitchell, Elizabeth?'
Ouch! But she was sufficiently on her toes not only to get behind the question, but also to decide how she was going to return it.
'Dr Mitchell?' She would demonstrate her innocence by misconstruing his drift. 'Dr Mitchell is no problem, Mr Latimer.' That would suggest to him that Dr Mitchell was a problem, and that she had not been entirely honest for the first time. But it would also suggest that the problem was purely personal, and that she had nothing professional to hide. 'I thought we'd dealt with that. So far as I'm concerned… we have.' She gave him an Admiral Varney look. 'And I really don't see what Dr Mitchell has to do with Edward Parker - or Major Parker - ?'
'No - ' The chocolate-seeking hand retreated ' - of course… But I didn't really mean that, Elizabeth, I do assure you -'
But she didn't want him to explain what he had meant. 'I presume Major Parker and Edward Parker are one and the same?' She didn't want to go too far, either. But the further she got away from Paul, the better. 'But obviously they are.' She was on the edge of prudence now, but she couldn't stop herself. 'In which case… I would like to know what I've really been doing. Because it hasn't made very much sense to me so far.'
'What you've been doing?' He drew in a breath. 'You have been doing what you were instructed to do, Elizabeth. You have been obeying orders.'
She had gone too far. Because Oliver St John Latimer didn't lose his temper, he simply became silkier. And he was very silky now.
'Yes, sir.' She must sound contrite, but not craven. Now that they were far enough away from Paul she must think of her own interests exclusively. 'I wasn't questioning that.'
'Of course not!' He smiled at her suddenly, and scooped up the Thornton's box, and cast it into his waste-paper basket. And then reached into one of the drawers of his desk, and produced another one. 'I quite understand how you feel - I've felt the same way myself, on occasion.' He tore off the wrapping of the box like a child with a Christmas present. 'And it isn't as though you're an expert on military history - '
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God! That was turning back towards Paul! 'I found that quite interesting, actually!' How could she have found it interesting? 'Colonel Sharpe's theories on the role of special forces - military elites…' She could just about sustain a few minutes' interrogation on that now.
'Hah!' Latimer appeared to be giving all his attention to the contents of the box. 'Now that, I do agree, is interesting… though more sociologically and politically than in the "bang-bang-you're-dead" sense… And, of course, we are an elite too, Elizabeth - ' He looked up suddenly at her ' - you realize that.' He thrust the box at her. 'Have one?'
She had better have one. 'I don't feel particularly elite at the moment.'
'Because you didn't get some elderly ex-soldier's Christian name?' He made his own choice, and wolfed it. 'No matter… Although he does seem… not uninteresting, in his way, I agree.' He selected another of his favourites. 'No… the trick, with elites, is that they should be used precisely - almost surgically - for whatever is required, and for nothing else.'
Chocolates notwithstanding, he went up a ladder on Elizabeth's board. For that was almost exactly what Colonel Sharpe had said.
'So I am going to use you precisely - and even perhaps surgically - now, Elizabeth.' He looked at her, and she could see that he was happy in his work, as well as with what he was chomping. 'You did teach Latin in that girls' school of yours, didn't you?'
It didn't quite shatter her confidence, because it wasn't the first time he'd hit her with Latin.
But, of course, he had her curriculum vitae at his finger-tips, so she couldn't deny the truth.
'Yes.'
'Up to O-level? For two years?'
'Yes.' Mrs Hartford had become pregnant; and then she had decided that her new baby was more rewarding than a teacher's derisory salary. 'With difficulty.'
'You obtained good results, nevertheless?'