"Bruised balls. He's lucky they were only playing with him, okay let's have a word with him." The inspector made as if to precede Hyde from the room. He was taller, thicker set, in uniform. Hyde's voice and manner seemed to dismiss all of it. Hyde wagged a finger at him, bringing two points of colour to the policeman's cheekbones. "And you called the Branch?"
"Sugden is their man."
"You were instructed to call me — not the Branch, or the DS, or the Home Secretary or Her Majesty the Queen Mum — me. Next time, call me direct. Reverse the charges if you have to, but call me. Quin is mine." Hyde made Quin sound like part of his diet. The inspector seethed in silence, allowing Hyde to leave the room in front of him, just in case the Australian saw his eyes and their clear message. "It's a bloody cock-up!" Hyde called back over his shoulder. "Too much bloody time has gone by!"
Hyde banged open the front door and went down the path, the same urgency possessing his slight frame. His denims and pale windcheater over a check shirt did nothing to endear or recommend him to the inspector, who nevertheless dutifully followed him across the road and up the path to Mrs Quin's door. Hyde rang the bell repeatedly.
“The woman's had a shock, you know," the inspector cautioned.
Hyde turned on him. "She bloody well knew we wanted her husband and her daughter. Did she ring? No bloody fear. She almost got her precious daughter nobbled by the KGB —"
Mrs Quin opened the door on its safety-chain. Her hair had freed itself from the restraint of lacquer, and two separate locks fell across her left eye. She brushed at them. Hyde showed her no identification, but she studied the uniformed inspector behind him, then released the chain on the door. Hyde walked past her into the cool, dim hall. Mrs Quin caught up with him. Her mouth trembling. The inspector closed the door softly.
"Where is he, Mrs Quin?"
"In the lounge, lying down." Her tone was apologetic. She offered Sugden's comfort as a token of her good intentions. "Poor man."
"I'll talk to him. Then I'll want to have a word with you, Mrs Quin."
"Mr Hyde —" the inspector began.
Hyde turned to look at him. Too late for that."
Hyde went into the lounge and closed the door behind him. Sugden was lying on a chaise longue, his face still pale, his tie askew, jacket draped over the arm of an easy-chair. His face arranged itself into a memory of pain, through which guilt thrust itself like the outbreak of some malady.
"Mr Hyde —" he began.
"Don't apologise, sonny, it's too late for that," Hyde pulled an armchair in front of the chaise.
"But I am sorry, Mr Hyde. I just didn't know they were there."
"You cocked it up, son. You didn't expect the girl, you didn't expect the heavy mob — what did you expect?"
Sugden tried to sit up, to make himself feel at less of a disadvantage. Hyde waved him back, and he slumped on the chaise, his hand gently seeking his genitals. He winced. Hyde grinned mirthlessly.
"I don't know."
Hyde took out a notebook and passed it to Sugden. "These are your descriptions of the two men?" Sugden nodded. “They don't ring any bells with me. They could have been brought in for this. The KGB has trouble travelling. They didn't get the girl?" Sugden shook his head vehemently. "Neither did we. When did she arrive?"
"Mrs Quin didn't say."
"She will. You know what it means, mm?"
"They haven't got Quin?"
"Too true they haven't. Shit, we should have guessed they didn't have him!" Hyde slapped his hands on his thighs. "Why the bloody hell did we assume they did? Too many post-Imperial hang-ups in Whitehall, sport — that's the bloody answer. Quin's gone, we're so incompetent and wet, they must have him. It's what we British deserve." He saw Sugden staring at him, and grinned. The expression seemed to open his face, smooth its hard edges. It surprised Sugden as much as his words had done. "My hobby-horse. I race it around the track once in a while. Trouble is, I fell for it this time."
"You don't think much of us, do you?"
"Too right. Not a lot. You're all a lot more sophisticated than us Aussies, but it doesn't get you anywhere, especially with the KGB. Bloody Russians wouldn't last five minutes in Brisbane." Hyde stood up "OK, sport, interrogation's over for now. I'm going to have a word with Mum. She has a lot of explaining to do."
He found Mrs Quin and the inspector sitting in the breakfast kitchen, sipping tea from dark blue and gold cups.
"Mr Hyde —"
"Very cosy," Hyde sneered, and the inspector coloured. Mrs Quin looked guilty, and defiant, and Hyde was brought to admire the manner in which she stared into his eyes. She was afraid, but more for her daughter than herself.
"Tea, Mr Hyde?" she offered.
Hyde felt pressed, even ridiculed, by the scene; by the pine furniture, the split-level cooker, the pale green kitchen units. Only he expressed urgency, was in haste.
"No time." He stood over the woman. The inspector played with his gloves on the table. "Will you check with the bulletin on Miss Quin, Inspector?" The policeman seemed reluctant to leave, but only momentarily. Hyde remained standing after he had left. "You weren't going to tell us, were you, Mrs Quin?" She shook her head, still holding his gaze. "Why not, for Christ's sake?"
"Tricia asked me not to."
"We'd have looked after her."
"She said you couldn't, I don't know why not. She didn't explain." Her hand shook slightly as she lifted the cup to her lips. They quivered, smudging pink lipstick on to the gold rim of the cup.
"She knows where her father is, doesn't she?" Mrs Quin nodded, minimising the betrayal. There was nothing in her eyes but concern. She cared for her daughter, it was evident, but regarding her husband she was composed, perhaps indifferent. "Did she say where?"
"No."
"Has she gone back to him now?"
"I don't know." The exchanges had achieved a more satisfying momentum which disguised the emptiness behind the answers. The woman knew little, perhaps nothing.
"Where has she gone?"
"She wasn't supposed to be going out." Mrs Quin waved her hands limply. They were as inanimate as gloves at the ends of her plump arms. "I don't know where she is." The voice cracked, the mouth quivered.
"She came to put your mind at rest, is that it?" Mrs Quin nodded. "And she said nothing about your husband — her father?" Mrs Quin shook her head. Her face was averted from Hyde's eyes now. But she was concealing nothing, except perhaps inadequacies that belonged to her past. She was keeping only herself from him, not information. "She gave you no clue?"
"No, Mr Hyde. Except that he's well, and is in hiding. I think she hoped I would be pleased at the news. I tried to show I was." The confession stuck into their conversation like a fracture through skin.
"She's been with him?"
"Yes."
"Since his disappearance? She disappeared with him?"
"Yes, Mr Hyde. And then she came back here. She's always bounced between us, ever since the divorce." Mrs Quin tried to smile. "She is a trier, even if she's a failure." Assumed cynicism was an attempt to shut him out, he realised.
"Where might she be now, Mrs Quin?"
"I have no idea whatsoever. Back with him, I suppose. But I have no idea where that might be."
Hyde breathed out noisily. He looked at the ceiling, his hands on his hips. The texture of their conversation had become thickened, clogged with personalities. There might be clues there as to the girl's character, behaviour, whereabouts, but such enquiries possessed no volition, no urgency. Hyde was impatient for action. The girl was vital now, and he and the KGB both understood that. She'd been shown to them like some tempting prize which would be awarded to the swiftest, the strongest, the most ruthless.