Chace nodded, took another sip of her wine, hoping it would soothe her curiosity. It surprised her how much she wanted to know the details, where he’d been, what he’d done, why he’d done it.
“So,” Poole said, changing the subject, “where is the little precious?”
“I told you, I left her on the train. Should be in Dover by now, I’d think.”
Poole arched an eyebrow at her, then scattered chopped figs on the salad before sprinkling the mixture with a vinaigrette he’d apparently prepared himself. He picked up the salad bowl, snapping his wrist forward, then back, catching the greens as they flipped into the air.
“Very fancy,” Chace said. “Tam’s fine, she’s in Barlick, Val’s watching her. We’re weaning, and it’s easier if I’m not there for it.”
“I was worried.” Poole set the bowl down, began dishing the salad onto plates. “For a moment I was beginning to wonder if you had abandoned her.”
“Nice to know you think so very highly of me, Nicky.”
“I do think very highly of you, Tara.” He handed her a plate, then picked up his own, taking his wineglass in his free hand. “To the table, please. We need to eat it before it wilts.”
“Words to live by if ever I’ve heard them,” she said, and followed him to her seat.
They ate well, Gressingham duck served with rosemary potatoes and freshly minted peas. The conversation was easy at first, and each laughed more often than not. Twice Chace tried to steer the conversation around to SIS and happenings at Vauxhall Cross, and the first time, Poole let it continue, going so far as to share the few pieces of information that were harmless, or at least considered open secrets. He liked their new Deputy Chief; Kate still guarded the door to Crocker’s office; Lankford had gotten himself a girl; Barclay continued to make life miserable. After he’d served the apple crumble and coffee, Chace tried a second time, asking pointedly how her replacement was working out, and Poole set down his utensils and stopped just short of glaring at her.
“I can’t talk about it, and I can’t talk about him, and you know that, Tara. So leave it be, right? Enjoy the meal, tell me about your little girl, talk about religion, sex, and politics, if you like. But please, don’t ask me questions you know I’m not allowed to answer.”
Chastened, Chace nodded. “I’m sorry.”
“You miss it so much, reapply. Crocker would take you back in an instant.”
“Crocker can burn in hell.”
“Fine, then. Shall we talk about the weather?”
Chace shook her head, and let it go, lapsing into silence as she started on her dessert. The dinner marked the third time she and Poole had gotten together since she’d quit SIS eighteen months prior. The first time, he’d come to visit shortly after Tamsin’s birth, while Chace was still in the hospital, with flowers and good wishes from both him and Lankford, saying only that he’d heard there were now two of her, and he had to see it himself before he could believe it. Chace suspected that Crocker had let him know about the birth, though how he’d found out, she couldn’t guess. It wouldn’t have been that hard.
The second visit had been just before Christmas. Poole had come to Barnoldswick bearing gifts for Tamsin and Valerie, and had stayed with them overnight, even going so far as to cook dinner for the three of them. When he’d left in the midafternoon the next day, Valerie had told Chace that, if she was smart, she’d get her grip on that Mr. Poole right quick, before some other lady beat her to the punch, as he’d be a wonderful father to her baby. Chace had smiled and explained that such an arrangement was unlikely to happen, as Mr. Poole preferred the romantic company of other men to that of women. Valerie had digested that, frowning.
“Homosexual?” she’d asked, for clarification.
“Devout.”
“No wonder he’s so good in the kitchen, then,” Valerie had mused, and then gone off to continue wrapping Christmas presents.
They finished the meal just after eight in the evening, and Chace stayed to help with the dishes, clearing the table. By the time all was dry and back in its proper place, Chace could tell Poole was halfway to sleep. Whatever he’d done, wherever it had been, it had taken a physical toll, she could read it in his movements, in his expression when he thought she was looking away. He was angry, too, and she was certain it was related.
He gave her a kiss on the cheek before she went out the door, saying that he hoped they’d get together again soon, and she echoed the sentiment, slipping into her coat and wrapping her scarf around her neck as she went down the hall, catching the lift back to the street. Once outside, though, walking through the rain, she admitted that she probably wouldn’t see him again at all, in fact, that this had most likely been the last time they would ever come together for a social visit.
The gulf was too wide, she realized as she walked toward the tube stop to catch the train back to Camden, and each time they got together, it only made the distance between them that much wider. It had nothing to do with friendship, nothing to do with the respect or fondness that either had for the other.
He lived in another world now, one she’d departed of her own choosing.
Riding the tube, looking with contempt at the other passengers pursuing their minor lives, it struck her that she was just like them now.
She was just like everyone else.
CHAPTER 5
London—Vauxhall Cross, Office of D-Ops
13 February 0922 GMT
Crocker’s day, when he could rely on that mythical creature called a “routine,” normally began at half past five in the morning, with the cruel blare of his alarm as it dutifully roused him from the four or so hours of sleep he’d managed to steal. He would tumble from his bed, and, on days like today, curse the draftiness of the old house as the cold radiated through the rug on the floor. He would lurch more than walk to the bathroom, and let the shower finish what the alarm had begun. He suffered from regular headaches and regular muscle aches, both the result of tension, and depending on how sorry his state, would remain under the water for anywhere from five to fifteen minutes in an attempt to lessen the impact of both, before emerging to shave and dress.
Lately, his showers ran to the long side.
Once in his suit, always three pieces, always gray or navy, he would descend to the kitchen to find Jennie already there, and she would hand him his first cup of coffee for the day, and he would drink it while they shared a quick breakfast, cereal if there was time, a piece of fruit stuffed into a pocket if there wasn’t. Crocker would use the telephone, and call the Ops Room, to inform the Duty Ops Officer that he was on his way into the office. He would kiss his wife, promise that he’d be home by dinner, grab his government case, and make his way to the train. If the commute was easy, he could count on reaching Vauxhall Cross by half past seven; if it was hard, it could take him until half past eight, or longer.
On a normal day, Kate Cooke would have arrived before him, early enough that she could present Crocker with his second cup of coffee as he entered his office, taking his government case in trade. While Crocker hung his coat from the rickety stand in the corner of his office, Kate would unlock the case using one of the keys that hung from the chain at her waist, and begin removing and sorting those files and papers that had accompanied Crocker home the previous night. Throughout this, she would provide a continuous commentary, informing Crocker of any matters outstanding that required his immediate attention, or in fact of anything that she thought might be of interest to him at all.