Spy hook: a novel Read Free Page B

all right?”
    “All right,” I said.
    “Someone from Central Funding left a note on your desk ... Half a dozen notes, in fact. Something about Prettyman. It’s a funny name, isn’t it?”
    “Nothing else?”
    “No. It’s all been very quiet in the office. Unusually quiet.
    Who is Prettyman?” she asked.
    “A friend of mine. They want him to give evidence ... some money they’ve lost.”
    “And he stole it?” She was interested now.
    “Jim? No. When Jim puts his hand in the till he’ll come up with ten million or more.”
    “I thought he was a friend of yours,” she said reproachfully.
    “Only kidding.”
    “So who did steal it?”
    “No one stole anything. It’s just the accountants getting their paper-work into the usual chaos.”
    “Truly?”
    “You know how long the cashier’s office takes to clear expenses. Did you see all those queries they raised on last month’s chit?”
    “That’s just your expenses, darling. Some people get them signed and paid within a week.” I smiled. I was glad to change the subject. Prettyman’s warnings had left a dull feeling of fear in me. It was heavy in my guts, like indigestion.
    We arrived at Balaklava Road in record time. It was a street of small Victorian houses with large bay windows. Here and there the fronts were picked out in tasteful pastel colours. It was
    Saturday: despite the early hour housewives were staggering home under the weight of frantic shopping, and husbands were cleaning their cars: everyone demonstrating that manic energy and determination that the British only devote to their hobbies. The neighbour who shared our semi-detached house - an insurance salesman and passionate gardener - was planting his Christmas tree in the hard frozen soil of his front garden. He could have saved himself the trouble, they never grow: people say the dealers scald the roots. He waved with the garden trowel as we swept past him and into the narrow side entrance. It was a squeeze to get out.
    Gloria opened the newly painted front door with a proud flourish. The hall had been repapered - large mustard-yellow flowers on curlicue stalks - and new hall carpet too. I admired the result. In the kitchen there were some primroses on the table which was set with our best chinaware. Cut-glass tumblers stood ready for orange juice, and rashers of smoked bacon were arranged by the stove alongside four brown eggs and a new Teflon frying pan.
    I walked round the whole house with her and played my appointed role. The new curtains were wonderful; and if the brown leather three-piece was a bit low and so difficult to climb out of, with a remote control for the TV, what did it matter? But by the time we were back in the kitchen, a smell of good coffee in the air, and my breakfast spluttering in the pan, I knew she had something else to tell me. I decided it wasn’t anything concerning the house. I decided. it was probably nothing important. But I was wrong about that.
    “I’ve given in my notice,” she said over her shoulder while standing at the stove. She’d threatened to leave the Department not once but several hundred times. Always until now she’d made me the sole focus of her anger and frustration. “They promised to let me go to Cambridge. They promised!” She was getting angry at the thought of it. She looked up from the frying pan and waved the fork at me before again jabbing at the bacon. “And now they won’t? They said that?”
    “I’ll pay my own way. I have enough if I go carefully,” she said. “I’ll be twenty-three in June. Already I’ll feel like an old lady, sitting with all those eighteen-year-old schoolkids.”
    “What did they say?”
    “Morgan stopped me in the corridor last week. Asked me how I was getting along. What about my place at Cambridge? I said. He didn’t have the guts to tell me in the proper way. He, said there was no money. Bastard! There’s enough money for Morgan to go to conferences in Australia and that damned