The old fart had papers in his hands, shuffled them in his fingers. 7 brought these round, and I wanted to know how he was.'
She did it mock-brightly, a little flutter in her voice. 'He's fine. Nothing wrong with him. Quite himself- why shouldn't he be? Sort of everyday thing, isn't it, being labelled as a runner, a cop-out, a coward? He's in good shape.'
'I'm very sorry.'
'I doubt you're half as sorry as me.'
'He'll have to go. No choice but to resign his commission.
It's not something you can come back from. I wish it were.'
'Marked with it, yes.'
'It could be said, Mrs Kitchen, that a little too much revelry went on here in his absence. Frankly, that's what I heard from Major Arnold. He was quite distressed but thought he ought to tell me. If Mal had heard about them, your visitors, then that might account for a poor performance in a combat situation.'
'He would only have heard such lies, Luke, if bloody nosy sods had passed them on. Is that right?'
Only over her dead body was the padre entering her home. Roz stood square in the doorway. A woman, nearly opposite, had found a reason to visit her wheelie dustbin.
Another woman, down the drive, had come out of her home with a brush and started sweeping her path. Be a bloody shame when their entertainment ended, but she'd be gone before the next day broke. He was flushed and had a twitch at the side of his chin. He rubbed a mole there with the hand holding the papers.
'I have to say, Mrs Kitchen, that I was monumentally disappointed to hear of this. I thought Mai a first-class officer – but, we are all subject to errors of judgement when assessing colleagues. Actually, I appreciate your dis-comfort. It's not easy for any of us when a man falls short of expected standards. Wearing my welfare hat, I've brought his resignation form, which has already been counter-signed by the colonel, so he'll need to do that. There's an AFO 1700 that I am formally delivering – it requires this married-quarter to be vacated within ninety-three days, but better sooner rather than up to the deadline. It's a wretched shame, Mrs Kitchen – trouble is that you cannot go back on life and patch up mistakes. It goes without saying that it would be better for all concerned if Mai stayed away from the mess.'
She snatched the papers from him. 'I'll tell him.'
'Excuse me, Mrs Kitchen. What I've said to you has been one-on-one – not for repeating. I wouldn't want-'
'Wouldn't want to join the back-s tabbers,' she spat at him savagely. 'No, there's enough of them already. You'd have to be in the queue. Don't lose sleep over it, Luke, because you'd be behind me in the line.'
Roz turned away.
The padre's parting shot had a worried whine in it: 'He'll need a deal of love, and some care.'
'He won't get that from me.' She kicked the door shut behind her.
He was standing three paces from her in the sitting-room doorway. So, he had learned what she thought of him. So, he had heard what was his future. Not her fault. None of it was Roz Kitchen's fault. He took the papers from her, not a word, and scrawled his signature, and she slumped, buried her head and wept. She heard the stamp of those damn great heavy shoes on the stairs, then the sounds of him moving in the bedroom. She heard him call for a taxi to be at the main gate in an hour. She felt no love, and doubted he would find it anywhere.
She had written her signal, interminably long but everything that she had been told, and had transmitted it. Then she had flopped on to the camp-bed.
Polly Wilkins slept, dreamless.
She was curled on the top blanket and below her the sounds of the consulate and its business went unheard.
The phone woke her. She started up, did not know where she was. Darkness had gathered in the room, the wind heaved at the tiles and the rain pounded against the one small window. She groped towards the phone, banged her shin on the desk edge and swore.
'Yes – who is it?'
'Polly?' She heard Gaunt's voice sharp in her ear.
'Yes, me.'
'Polly, I sing your praises. To that venal idiot aloft upstairs, I said this morning I had complete faith in you. He wanted Berlin on the road to Hamburg double damn fast. I declined that offer. Were you asleep?'
'Yes, afraid I was.'
'Would you say, Polly, that I was always honest with you?'
She sighed deep. 'Spit it out, Mr Gaunt.'
There was a pause. She heard the silence on the line.
She wondered if he was tilted back in his chair, if he had straightened his tie first, and she waited to be punched.
'I'd say, Polly, that you fucked up… A bit harsh? I don't think so. Yes, that's being honest.'
'In what way did I fuck up, Mr Gaunt?' she asked, control in her voice, which suppressed her winded fury.
'Simple enough, my dear. Put with greater politeness, there's a boring old saying, "Can't see the wood for the trees." You heard a story, an extraordinary one, and then you rejected its relevance. You were told about drugs importation and said to yourself, "That's off my bailiwick," and discarded it. You could not see, in my humble opinion, the wood for the trees. Your man's laudable, but useless, obsession with the narcotics trade is the trees but you missed a sight of the wood. Hear me. A boat, a remote shoreline, a collection… It was laid in your lap. It was the information that I was confident enough you'd find. It was why I backed you.'
She let the air seep from her lungs and hiss between her teeth. 'Yes, Mr Gaunt, I fucked up.'
'Get there.'
'Do I have the cavalry?'
'I rather think not – better to keep it close… Oh, yes. What's he like, the Crusader?'
'Rather sweet.' For a moment, to the intimacy of the phone, she giggled – then cut it. 'But damaged, quite badly damaged,' she said, with sincerity
'And capable?'
'Have to be, wouldn't he? Or he wouldn't have come this far.'
'He should be a bellwether to you – a sheep that leads and others follow, know what I mean? That island, Polly, is where you should be.'
The phone purred in her ear.
The van in the driveway had a logo of an antenna on its side and below, in printed paintwork, the slogan
'Better Satellite TV Reception Throughout Your Residence'. Two men carried boxes of equipment into the travel agent's home.
He said to his wife, 'I don't know what it's for, but they have me by the balls and if they twist it will hurt.'
'The Rahmans are only new rich, unimportant to us,' his wife said.
They stood in the hall, their children dismissed to their bedrooms, and watched the boxes taken past them, up the stairs and left on the landing. The two men came down again, went outside and returned with a collapsible ladder and tools. The loft hatch in the ceiling above the landing was opened, and they manoeuvred the boxes through the gap.
He said, 'They are from the organized-crime unit – they would make bad enemies, the worst.'
'The Rahmans are Albanians. We owe them nothing.'
Later, one of the men came down, went again to the van and returned with two galvanized buckets. The travel agent asked him why they were needed. He was told, matter-of-fact, that two roof tiles would be moved. From one hole there would be a view for the camera lens down on to the back garden of the adjacent home, from the other there would be a view of the drive at the next-door house and the front door under the porch. When rain dripped down between the shifted tiles, the buckets would catch it. He noted, and she did, that neither man had wiped his feet on the inside mat, and that the dirt from their shoes had made a track up the stair carpet. He did not complain, nor did she. Because they have me by the balls and if they twist it will hurt, neither dared to protest at the mess tramped into their home.
She held his arm. 'What would happen to us if Rahman knew what we have agreed to?'
'I thought of him as a businessman who had done well – but he is the target of the organized-crime unit.'