The guard’s call had been connected. ‘Hello, it’s the gate here. Got someone to see Miss Watson.’ He listened to a voice speaking at the other end, then put his hand over the mouthpiece. ‘What’s the name, sir?’
This was the moment Hepton had dreaded. ‘Martin Hepton,’ he said.
‘Martin Hepton,’ the guard repeated into the mouthpiece. There was a pause while he listened again, then he motioned with the telephone towards Hepton. ‘Wants a word, Mr Hepton,’ he said.
Hepton took the receiver cautiously. ‘Hello?’ he said.
‘Martin? Is that you?’ Jilly Watson’s voice sounded vibrant.
‘Yes,’ he said.
‘What are you doing here?’ But it wasn’t a sniping question; rather, it was filled with honest and welcome surprise. Hepton lightened: she was pleased that he had come.
‘I wanted to see you,’ he said.
‘Great! But they won’t let you in here. You need passes and all that kind of stuff. We’re not allowed visitors; a bit like a prison.’ She laughed. ‘If nobody gets in, nobody can steal our scoops, that’s what they reckon. What time is it?’ She checked her watch. ‘One thirty already! Christ, I haven’t eaten yet, have you?’
‘No.’
‘Well, that’s settled then. You can take me to lunch. There isn’t much around here, but there’s a wine bar not too far. Do you have a car?’
‘No, I came by taxi.’
‘Well, wait at the gate and I’ll bring my car round. Okay?’
‘Fine.’
‘Martin...?’
‘Yes?’
‘It’s good to hear your voice.’
Click. The connection went dead.
‘Coming down, is she, sir?’ asked the first guard. Hepton nodded. ‘Nobody’s allowed in, you see,’ the guard went on. ‘Security.’
‘Bloody daft if you ask me,’ rejoined the second guard, cupping his hands around his mug. The first guard now took off his cap and sat down.
‘Ours not to reason why,’ he said.
Hepton nodded agreement, but he wasn’t about to complete the couplet.
The guard operated the barrier from inside the gatehouse, while Hepton slid into the reassuringly familiar seat of Jilly’s red MG sports car. She leaned across to peck him on the cheek, then waved towards the gatehouse and revved the car out onto the main road.
‘You look great!’ Hepton shouted above the wind and the sound of the engine.
‘So do you,’ Jilly replied. ‘You never used to dress like that.’
Hepton examined his newly purchased clothes. ‘I’m on holiday.’
‘In London?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you thought you’d surprise me. How lovely.’ The smile left her face. ‘I did mean to get in touch, Martin. I didn’t want to lose you as a friend. But...’
‘Forget it.’ He tried to steel himself; this wasn’t the time to become emotional. ‘So how’s the job?’
‘Oh, fine.’ But her voice had taken on a false edge.
‘Really?’ he prompted.
‘Well, no... not really. In fact, it’s awful. I seem to get all the shitty jobs to do, all the really boring things. I think the editor likes the idea of me, he just doesn’t like me. If that makes any sense.’
Hepton nodded. ‘It makes sense.’ He could no longer contain his next question, his first real question. ‘Have you heard anything from Mike Dreyfuss?’
‘No, nothing, I sent some flowers to the hospital in Sacramento, but I don’t know if they arrived. Did you know they’d taken him to Sacramento? They tried to keep it a secret, but our sister paper in the States found out.’ She sighed. ‘Poor Mickey.’
‘Yes. I’m trying to get in touch with him.’
‘With Mickey? But why?’
So he told her.
They sat at a corner table in the wine bar. The waitress had cleared away their plates and brought them coffee. There was an inch of wine left in the bottom of the bottle, and Hepton poured it into Jilly’s glass. She had sat quietly and attentively all through lunch, while he had continued his story. Now and then she would ask a question, in order to clarify some point, but other than that she was silent. Hepton remembered the day she had ordered him to teach her about satellites. She had been the same then.
Occasionally she jotted a few notes into a clean page of her Filofax, and when Hepton had finished talking, she drew a thick line beneath what she had written so far, then numbered the individual points.
‘Well?’ he asked. ‘Do you think I’m going mad, or is something happening out there?’
She gave her answer some thought. ‘I don’t think you’re mad, no. But at the moment you don’t really know what’s going on, you don’t have any proof that anything’s going on, and you’ll have a hard job convincing anyone that anything’s going on. Despite which, I believe you. But then I’m a reporter, we’ll believe anything.’ She saw that Hepton was looking dispirited and squeezed his hand. ‘You’re safe now, Martin. You’ve got me to look after you.’ He smiled at this, but knew she could see he was tired; more than that, he was drained. He needed rest and sleep and to forget about the past few days for a little while.
‘Come on,’ she said. ‘I’ll put lunch on expenses, then give the office a ring.’
‘Why?’
‘To tell them I’m not coming in this afternoon. I’m going to be working on something, and you’re going to be resting.’
‘I am?’
‘My flat’s not far from here. You can stay there while I go into town.’
‘What are you going to do?’ Hepton did feel drowsy, but then he’d had the larger share of the wine. He could feel the effort in each word he spoke aloud.
‘I’m going to see what I can find out about this George Villiers character, among other things.’
‘Jilly...’
‘What?’
‘You’re sure it’s okay for me to go to your place? I mean...’
‘It’s all right, Martin. There’s no other man around just at the moment. Christ, I wish I had time for one.’ She paused, then tapped the Filofax. ‘I want to take a look at this. God knows, it’ll make a nice change for me to do some sleuthing again. Who can say, there may even be a story in it.’
Hepton was asleep on his feet by the time they reached Jilly’s apartment block by the river. He had been expecting, if anything, an old converted warehouse, but in fact the block was of recent design.
‘Mock warehouse,’ Jilly explained.
There was a security system at the main entrance, and each flat had its own little video screen so that callers could be identified before being let in. That might come in handy, Hepton thought to himself.
The flat itself wasn’t huge, though Jilly stated that by London standards it was more spacious than most. The living area was open-plan, with a bedroom and bathroom off it. There was a narrow veranda — not for the nervous — outside the French doors that took up the far wall. And yes, there were views of the Thames, though fairly unsavoury ones. The river itself was a mottled grey colour, and across the water there were gasometers, a stretch of wasteland and not much else.
‘You can see for miles,’ Jilly said. ‘Make yourself at home. I’ll try not to be too long, though parking can be hell itself in town.’
‘Where exactly are you going?’
She tapped the side of her nose. ‘Journalists never reveal their sources, especially before they’ve visited them. It’s bad luck.’ She bent down to give him a peck on the cheek, then closed the door behind her and was gone.
Hepton was surprised. He really didn’t feel anything more than friendship towards her now. When she’d been far away and inaccessible, he had longed for her, but now that they were together again, there wasn’t the same spark. Perhaps Jilly had been right to come to London. Their affair would have fizzled out in any case, wouldn’t it? Better to make a clean break. He lay along the sofa and closed his eyes, not intending to sleep. He just wanted to rest...