Secret Asset (18 page)

She went into the kitchen and put some soup on the stove and a slice of bread in the toaster. That and a glass of wine would do her nicely. She wished Tom had not been so insistent; it made her feel ungrateful, even impolite, though not so much so that she wasn't happy to be alone, with a quiet evening ahead of her. She would be happy to have dinner with him—but in London, she thought, not when I'm worrying about my mother.

She had never gone out with a colleague; mixing business and pleasure seemed to invite trouble. Not that dating men outside the Service had proved any easier. Either they were married, thought Liz, or too inquisitive about her work—or both. The curious ones in particular posed a quandary, since their natural interest in her work could never be satisfied: “How was your day, darling?” was never going to be a question Liz could answer honestly, not unless her partner was in the same business. Perhaps this explained the Service's view of intra-Service romances. They weren't exactly encouraged, but weren't forbidden, either.

Was the prospect of a date with Tom the solution? At least they could talk freely about their work—if she moaned about someone, he would know right away who she was talking about. Suddenly Liz laughed at herself—she'd let her imagination carry her away, expanding a tentative dinner invitation into a full-blown romance. Yet Tom's intentions seemed pretty clear, now didn't they?

Liz wasn't sure whether the prospect of Tom Dartmouth as a suitor was alluring or mildly alarming. Certainly he hadn't seemed very sensitive to her situation this weekend. Did he really think she'd want to go out tonight, while her mother lay in hospital, awaiting her results? Tom may have got the best First in his year, thought Liz with a certain acerbity, but he had been awfully slow to get the message. And he'd been rude about the cat. Then she laughed as she thought of Purdey, shedding hair like snow on Tom's pristine trousers.

38

I
've spoken to your mother already, so she knows the situation,” announced the consultant, a balding man with NHS spectacles and a brusque manner. “The growth she has is malignant.”

I hope you were gentler with her, thought Liz, feeling furious, though she knew it was the news rather than his method of imparting it which was most upsetting her. “What happens next?” she asked, knowing that even if he had the bedside manner of a doctor in ER, her mother would have been in too much shock to take it all in.

And Liz herself had to concentrate with all her might as the consultant began to speak dispassionately about the programme that lay ahead. An operation to remove the growth; chemotherapy if they discovered it had spread; radiation after that; possible further drug treatment as well. All this, thought Liz despairingly, for a woman who resisted taking so much as an aspirin.

When the consultant finished and went off to see a patient, Liz thought she had understood it all, despite a queasy feeling that seemed worse every time she remembered that this was not a dream, or a television drama, but the stark facts of her mother's cancer.

39

P
eggy was positively buoyant when Liz met her for coffee in the conference room late on Monday morning.

“You were going to speak to Judith Spratt about her domestic situation.”

“Yes,” said Liz, though she had been dreading talking to Judith, who was, after all, a friend whom she felt reluctant to interrogate about her personal life.

“I think I've found out why he's no longer living there. I had a Google Alert tied to his name, and I got a flash this morning. There's an article in this morning's
Financial Times.
”

Peggy pushed a newspaper clipping towards Liz and kept talking while Liz scanned the piece. “Apparently Ravi Singh and an associate were being investigated by the OFT for insider share dealing. But that's not all. The Serious Fraud Office has been called in, because they think Ravi and this other chap may have been involved in an identity-fraud scam using other people's credit card numbers.”

Liz pointed to the clipping. “It says here some of the victims are American, so the FBI is taking an interest. It's possible they'll want to extradite them.”

It would be a lot worse for them over there. She handed the clipping back to Peggy. “This is terrible,” she declared. And silently she asked herself, What on earth am I going to say to Judith?

It wasn't simply that they were friends. Over the last decade, as both of them moved into their thirties, Judith had seemed to Liz the epitome of a woman who had it all—a successful career, a happy marriage, a much-loved child. Everyone knew that was a tough balancing act, yet Judith seemed to manage it with an elegant grace that Liz admired in spite of herself. She would normally find it hard to like such a paragon of virtue, but Judith did everything impeccably, never took anything for granted, and had an impish sense of humour.

Liz had been to her house in Fulham for dinner several times over the years. They were happy occasions, low-key and relaxed. What always struck Liz was the calm efficiency with which Judith ran the household. Ravi had helped, but he worked long hours in the City, so most of the onus was on Judith. What a juggling act: finishing the dinner, getting her guests a drink and simultaneously comforting her daughter, Daisy, who kept getting out of bed to see the guests. And Judith was always so utterly unflappable. I can't even get the laundry done, Liz thought, as she dialled Judith's extension. A surprise visitor to Liz's flat in Kentish Town would currently find two bed sheets stretched to dry on the dining room chairs along with three pairs of tights and an assortment of underwear—all thanks to Liz's failure to fix a date with the repair man to mend her tumble dryer.

Throughout the morning there was no reply from Judith's extension, but at lunchtime Liz found her sitting alone at a table in the far corner of the Thames House cafeteria. Her expression made it clear that she did not want company. Liz joined her, sliding her tray along the table and sitting down opposite her.

“I see you didn't fancy the bolognese either,” said Liz lightly, pointing to their respective salads. Judith managed a wan smile. She looks terrible, thought Liz; Judith was usually the epitome of elegance. Unlike Liz, she never looked as though her clothes had spent the night on a chair. Though she dressed conservatively, she was a careful shopper with a keen eye for quality and style. Now she looked drab.

“I've been looking for you,” said Liz.

Judith raised a mild, uninterested eye. She had her hair tied back, which usually complimented her sharp, strong features. Today, despite a lot of makeup, it only highlighted her drawn face.

“I haven't said anything, because there hasn't been a need to. But you know the vetting updates the Security Committee ordered?”

“Yes,” said Judith. Liz thought she sounded slightly wary.

“Well, I've had to do some of them. My turn to draw the short straw. It's why I haven't been around all the time, in case you noticed.”

Judith didn't say anything, but just waited for Liz to continue. “It's meant to be largely a paper exercise and I don't need to interview people…”

“Unless,” said Judith impassively.

“Unless,” said Liz, a little doggedly, wishing her friend would make this easier for them both, “there is some discrepancy. Something that needs explaining.”

“And you want to know about Ravi?”

Her voice was flat, toneless. It made Liz feel she was persecuting her friend, but she knew she had no choice. “Well it is in the papers. Is he still living with you?”

“No, he left before Christmas.” And she never said a word, thought Liz. “
I'm
still living there,” said Judith a little defensively. She was poking her salad with her fork.

“I know,” said Liz. “But we're supposed to inform B Branch if our circumstances change. You know that, Judith,” she said, as gently as she could.

For the first time Judith's voice showed animation. “‘Circumstances change'?” she said sarcastically. “You can say that again. You say you've seen the papers. I mean, your talking to me isn't a coincidence, now is it?”

“No,” admitted Liz, “it's not. Though I was going to need to talk to you in any case.”

“How many other people are you vetting?”

“A lot,” said Liz, happy to let Judith prevaricate provided they got back to the point eventually. “I'm doing Oxbridge people first. There were several up with you.” Judith didn't reply, so Liz went on. “Were you friends with any of them?”

“Like who?” she said.

“Patrick Dobson was there.”

“Was he?”

One down, thought Liz. “Doesn't matter. Michael Binding was at Oxford, too.”

“As he never ceases telling me,” said Judith sourly. Liz knew she shared her own irritation with Binding's condescending treatment of his female colleagues. “When he wants to show his intellectual superiority he always says”—and here Judith mimicked Binding's bass tones—“‘When I was at Oxford…' As if I hadn't gone there myself, and as if it meant that much anyway. If you have to interview him, please do me a favour.”

“What's that?”

“Pretend you think his college was St. Hilda's. It's the only all-women's college. He'll be mortified.”

Liz smiled at the thought of Binding's sense of outrage. Then she asked, “What about Tom Dartmouth? He was there at the same time.”

Judith nodded but didn't say anything. Liz prompted her. “Did you know him then?”

“No. Though I knew who he was.”

“Why was that?”

Judith gave a small conspiratorial grin. “Didn't you know the names of the best-looking boys at college?”

Liz laughed. “By heart,” she said, but came back to her question. “But you didn't know him?”

“No,” said Judith simply. “However much I may have wanted to. Not that I'd say I really know him now. He's a bit of an enigma. Funnily enough, I saw his wife a few months ago.”

“Aren't they divorced?”

“Yes.” She sighed, seemingly at the comparison with her own shattered ménage. “She's Israeli, and absolutely stunning. Her father was an Air Force general in the Seven Day War.”

“I thought she lived in Israel.”

Judith shrugged. “Maybe she was visiting. I saw her in Harrods Food Hall, of all places. I waved but she didn't wave back. She may not have recognised me. I only met her once or twice, and it was years ago.”

Time to get back to the point, thought Liz. Slightly hesitantly she asked, “Have you spoken to Ravi?”

Judith shook her head. “Not for weeks. We are communicating strictly through lawyers now. He hasn't even come to see Daisy. It's been incredibly hurtful, but after today's news, I wonder whether he's just been trying to spare us.”

“So you've only just found out about his problems?” Liz had been half assuming it was precisely his “problems” that had led Judith to throw him out.

“Yes,” said Judith. She looked at Liz, at first quizzically, then with outright disbelief. “You don't think I had anything to do with them, do you?”

“No, I don't.” She knew Judith too well to doubt her sincerity. “But I'm sure they'll want to talk with you about it.”

“Who, B Branch?”

“Well, yes, but I was thinking more the Fraud Squad.”

“Happily,” said Judith. “I'll tell them everything I know. Which, in fact, is absolutely nothing. Zero. Zilch. Nothing…” She suddenly seemed on the verge of an hysterical outburst, so Liz reached over and put her hand on her forearm. “Steady,” she said calmly.

Judith stopped speaking at once, nodding with her chin down. Liz was afraid Judith was going to cry. It was touch and go for a moment, then Judith pulled herself together. Putting her fork down and looking at Liz, she demanded, “What happens now? Do I get disciplined?”

“It's not up to me,” Liz said, very grateful that it wasn't. “I can't see it as a very big deal. After all, it's not as if we couldn't have got hold of you. With any luck, they'll just put a note on your file.”

“A reprimand,” said Judith.

“I shouldn't think so. More like a slap on the wrist.”

Judith smiled faintly. “The thing is, Liz, I know how it looks. People will think either ‘Why didn't she stand by her husband when he got in trouble?' or ‘No wonder she threw him out—the man's a crook.'”

“Possibly,” said Liz, not sure what Judith was trying to say.

“But don't you see?” and for the first time there was passion in Judith's voice. “I didn't throw him out. He left me.” Liz tried not to show her own surprise, as Judith collected her cutlery and laid it neatly on her plate, then folded her napkin. It was as if she were trying to control her emotions by paying attention to the most pedestrian detail. “Look, Liz, I'm married to someone who doesn't love me any more. And today I've discovered he's a crook. But do you know the most terrible thing about it all?”

Her voice faltered and this time Liz thought she really would break down. She felt helpless watching her friend's distress. But again Judith seemed to catch hold of herself. “It's that I'd have him back tomorrow, crook or not. Isn't that pathetic?”

40

H
e was going to have to get rid of the car, and part of him wanted to get rid of Rashid as well. Stupid! Bashir had thought furiously, as they had driven out of Wokingham and west along the M4. The road had been almost deserted that late at night, lit by a crescent moon that hung like a brooch from a cloudless sky. Rashid had been stupid beyond belief. Though from the way he had sat slumped half asleep in the passenger seat, he was completely oblivious to the trouble he had caused. In the back Khaled also slept.

The temptation to remove Rashid passed—he was needed after all. But Bashir's anger remained. It was not helped by the need to keep a low profile, and stay inside all day. They were living in a small house on the outskirts of Didcot, part of a new estate of starter homes that skirted a golf course. Like all its neighbours their house enjoyed a close-up view of the nearby power station and its reviled cooling towers.

Yet for all the grimness of its surroundings, the house had the bonus of a garage, in which Bashir had put the Golf, swapping places with the white builder's van, which he had parked on the street.

But the car was going to have to go. They needed to work on the van and they'd have to do that in the garage, safely out of sight.

Bashir stuck closely to Rashid in the following days, since he did not trust him enough now to allow even the shortest solitary walk. But staying inside all day was intensely monotonous for all three of them. There was nothing for them to do. Meals and prayers and the Koran—that was their life.

Bashir had a large-scale Ordnance Survey map of the area and spent one afternoon scrutinising it for remote tracks in the unpopulated countryside lying west of them. Then one evening he went out while it was still light, since he was worried he would not be able to find a suitable place in darkness. He gave Rashid and Khaled strict instructions not to leave the house on any account, though it was only Rashid he was concerned about. The landline was disconnected, and he had destroyed Rashid's incriminating mobile phone before they left Wokingham. As long as he didn't go anywhere, even Rashid should be unable to get into further trouble.

He was surprised how quickly the urban sprawl of Didcot gave way to farmland, and drove past field after field of orchards until he turned off the main Wantage road and moved south towards the Downs, pulling over on the small roads from time to time to consult his map. He drove through a village of brick and beam cottages, where a solitary man emerged from the churchyard with a terrier on a lead. Bashir felt conspicuous, and tried to reassure himself—he told himself there were plenty of Asians in Oxfordshire.

He turned onto a road of potholed asphalt that climbed in a series of sharp zig-zags to the top of the Downs. The Ridgeway crossed here, and he could see hikers in shorts and thick boots walking west towards Bath. The road split, the paved fork continuing south, crossing up and down across the humps of the hills. To the right a sandy track, half overgrown, meandered into a small wood. It was clearly never used.

Bashir drove down it cautiously, hearing the grass brushing the van's bottom, and gorse bushes scratching its side. At the first small clearing, he pulled over and parked under an enormous beech tree.

He got out, locked the van, and began to walk further along the track. On either side, holm oaks towered above him, blocking out the sunlight and casting spooky shadows. Bashir could see that the track remained just accessible enough by car. After two hundred yards he came to a curve in the road, and almost immediately to a small clearing with a shallow pond where the track ended. The water looked mucky, algae-filled. No one would want to swim there.

Mentally Bashir marked a spot next to the pond where he would put the Golf. It should be days, possibly weeks before it was discovered, he thought, and in the state it was going to be in, it wouldn't tell anyone much. In any case, very soon it wouldn't matter even if it did. All he needed now was a full can of petrol.