Shadow Hunter (5 page)

‘Doesn't surprise me,' she answered coolly.

‘No? You knew about it?' He hoped the anxiety wasn't noticeable in his voice.

‘The odd rumour, nothing more. Sara doesn't socialize much with other Navy wives; she's never come to terms with being wedded to one of you lot. And Philip's the last sort of man she should've married,' Patsy snorted.

‘That's true.'

‘He's an emotional cripple. Probably wears his uniform in bed!'

‘Come on! He's not that bad.'

How often had he heard himself defending Philip?

‘You watch out for Sara this afternoon. There's many a time she'd have got
you
into bed, given half the chance.'

‘Rubbish!'

He thanked God she'd never guessed. It had happened just once – a mistake which had been safely buried until now.

‘What does Norman Craig want you to do about it, anyway?'

‘To find out what sort of mental state Philip was in when he left home. To make sure he's safe.'

‘And a bit of marriage guidance, too?'

‘Maybe. Might make a career of it when I leave the service,' he joked as he set off.

* * *

It was fifteen minutes' drive to where the Hitchens had their home, close by the river Yealm. The old, grey, limestone parsonage was a far larger house than they needed, but Sara had been determined they should buy it. With its large open fireplaces and an apple orchard, it was the English country home she'd never had as a child – the one she'd longed for as she accompanied her diplomat father from one strange place to another.

The village was pretty, with a river frontage and boats lying in the mud at low tide. The house was on the outskirts, and a little isolated. The Hitchens had few friends in the village; Sara was not good at the small talk of neighbourliness.

As he turned into her drive Andrew felt nervous, unsure how she would react to his visit. It was two years before that they'd had the briefest of affairs.

Philip had been at sea, and he at home on leave, just like now. Sara had rung him up one day when Patsy was at school and begged him to meet her, at a remote spot on the moors where they wouldn't be seen.

He was flattered and intrigued. Sara spelt danger, and it had excited him. Under normal circumstances, commonsense would have prevailed and he'd have said ‘no', but her call had coincided with a blip in his own relationship with Patsy, a silly argument over money. She'd been furious with him because he'd bought a new car, instead of re-equipping their tatty kitchen. She'd hardly spoken to him for days.

Andrew had kept that rendezvous with Sara on the moors. Two days later they met again, on a warm afternoon in an Indian summer, and made love in the heather.

Sara was watching from a window as his car entered the drive.

‘Andrew!' she greeted, as she opened the door. ‘Surprise, surprise!'

Her pale lips smiled but her eyes were tense and suspicious.

‘I was just passing . . .'

‘No, you weren't! You end up in the river if you “just pass”,' she retorted.

Suddenly she embraced him, and buried her face in his shoulder.

‘I'm awfully glad you came,' she whispered. Her breath smelled of wine.

Then, just as suddenly, she broke away again and led him to the living room, where a south-facing French window looked across the orchard to the river.

‘Why are you here? Is it official, this call? You know what's happened?'

‘Yes. I'm sorry. It sounds a mess. Craig told me.'

‘And he sent
you
?' She raised one eyebrow cynically. ‘How thoughtful of him.'

‘He knows I'm a friend. Of both of you,' Andrew hedged. ‘He thought I might help. He's very concerned.'

She studied him for a moment and her waif-like face softened. Her thin mouth twisted mischievously.

‘It's all your fault, you know. If you hadn't taken fright and we'd stayed lovers, I wouldn't have bothered with other men!'

‘I'm not sure how to take that!'

‘As a compliment, you oaf! Or a joke. I have to joke about it now and then. Otherwise, I just cry.'

Her face crumpled and she turned away.

She ran her fingers through her straight, chestnut hair.

‘What're they saying about me?' she asked, turning to face him. ‘Be honest!'

‘I don't know who you mean by “they”,' Andrew hedged again.

‘Them. The Navy.'

‘Well, if a sailor's wife runs around with other men while her old man's at sea – it's, er . . . it's frowned upon.'

She laughed at his restraint.

‘And when one of the woman's lovers turns out to be a Russian spy,' she said, her voice rising in hysteria, ‘then I guess the Navy shits itself!'

‘You can say that again!'

‘But . . . I didn't
know
he was a spy!'

She dropped onto a sofa and clamped her arms round her stomach as if it hurt her. She shook her head, her hazel eyes widening with disbelief.

‘I can't believe all this.'

She reached for a packet of cigarettes.

‘Inside, I don't feel I've done anything wrong. I can't accept that it's all
my
fault.'

She drew at the smoke as if it was oxygen, and coughed.

‘Look, there's a bottle over there. Pour a glass and fill mine, would you?'

He handed her the drink and sank into a chair opposite.

‘Why
did
Craig send you?'

‘To try to find out exactly what's happened, I suppose.'

‘
Why
it's happened. That's the question. Isn't anyone asking that? Some dreadful man from London – MIS or something – came here reeking of cheap aftershave and B.O. Never even wondered
how
people get into this sort of mess. Don't
any
of you realize what it's like to have to share a husband with the fucking Navy?'

‘Come on, Sara!' Andrew snapped. ‘You knew what Philip did for a living when you married him.'

‘I was only nineteen, Andrew! I'd only left school the year before!'

They both looked down at their drinks. Sara shivered.

‘Sorry, there's no fire . . . It's chilly enough for one. We were hoping to put in central heating next year. But it's so expensive . . .'

‘Don't worry. I'm not cold.'

There was an awkward pause. Andrew eased forward to the edge of the chair. There was one question he wanted answered above all others.

‘Does Philip know? That you and I . . .'

Her eyes softened. She was remembering, as he was, the warm wind that had rustled the bracken around them as they'd lain on the moors that afternoon two years ago.

‘No. He doesn't know,' she answered eventually.

She looked down at her hands. Was she lying? Andrew couldn't tell.

‘How much do
you
know?' she asked suddenly. ‘They told you about Gunnar, obviously?'

‘Craig didn't say a name. Just that the man claimed to be Swedish.'

‘That was feeble. I knew from the start he wasn't.'

‘You knew? How?'

‘I spent three years in Stockholm as a child, remember? I told you – I must've done. I told you
everything
,' she grimaced. ‘No wonder you went off me so fast!'

Andrew laughed, but only for a moment. Sara pulled a crumpled handkerchief from her sleeve and blew her nose. Her voice had sounded bitter.

‘Gunnar said he came from Stockholm. But he only knew the tourist places. He stopped talking about it once I said I'd actually lived there.'

‘So, where
did
you think he was from?'

‘I don't know. It didn't really matter at the time. We all pretend things.
I
told him I was divorced.'

‘But didn't it occur to you that his interest in you might not be
entirely
romantic? A man with a false identity, you with a husband in the Navy?'

‘Not at first, no. It did later . . .'

‘Oh? Why was that?'

‘Well, as we got to know each other, we kind of peeled away the layers of deception. It was a game, really. I told him I knew he wasn't what he said he was, and he told me he knew I had a husband in the Navy.'

‘Did you ask him how he knew?'

‘Just said he could tell. Knew the type. I'm not unique, you know,' she rounded on him. ‘Navy towns are full of unhappy wives.'

‘And what did you tell him?' Andrew prodded. ‘Did you say, for example, that Philip drove a nuclear submarine?'

‘Well, yes, I did. It's not actually secret, you know,' she retorted. ‘But after that, Gunnar kept asking about Philip's work. So I began to think he could be spying for somebody.'

‘What did you tell him about Philip?'

‘Nothing, Andrew! Nothing of any significance, anyway,' she insisted, blowing a plume of smoke at him. ‘I'm not stupid. At least, not in that way. Anyhow, I don't know anything about Philip's work, except that he spends six months of each year inside a black metal tube.'

‘You
do
know things, Sara,' Andrew cautioned. ‘Dates. When he goes away, when he comes back.'

‘Anyone can stand on the Hoe and watch submarines go in and out of the dockyard.'

‘But they can't tell one from another. They don't know if it's the same boat that goes out in the morning and comes back in the evening, or if it's two different boats.'

She shrugged and stubbed out the cigarette.

‘But if you guessed he was some sort of spy, why didn't you tell someone? The police?'

She shook her head.

‘How could I? What the hell would I have said? “Excuse me officer, but the man I'm having an affair with may be a Russian spy; could you investigate, but please don't tell my husband?” Don't be daft.'

She slipped off her shoes and pulled her knees up to her chin.

‘I can see what you're thinking. And I don't blame you. You can't understand. You'll never be able to. But I'm going to try to explain it, just for my own sake.

‘Being married to Philip – it's like doing something by halves. You know me; I always want everything, all at once, all the time,' she said ruefully. ‘But Philip's only here half the year; when he is home, his thoughts are only half with me. I want him to pay
me
some attention!' she exploded. ‘To do something with
me
that's exciting, or unpredictable. And when he doesn't, I find myself longing for him to go away again.

‘And yet I do love him – sort of. He can't help the way he is, and he
is
reliable, honest. . . .

‘But that's not enough. I'm left feeling so
empty
. And when Simon went away to boarding school, that was it. I couldn't cope with it any more. So I found a way. A way of staying married to Philip, keeping a home for Simon, and of filling the emptiness.

‘There were . . . other men . . . after you, and before Gunnar. Most of them were nice, kind while it lasted, not interested in a long-term commitment. It was manageable, you see? Everything under control. Philip didn't know. I wasn't hurting anybody – except myself occasionally.

‘So, you see, even though I had suspicions about Gunnar, I couldn't tell anybody. The whole thing would have come crashing down . . .'

‘Which is exactly what's happened now,' Andrew said drily.

Sara took his words as a reproach. Her mouth turned down and her face hardened.

‘But you can't accept it – the way I feel – because you've got a wife who
does
manage, who divides herself up, one bit for you when you're there, another for her job, and another for the children. Her life's like a time-share,' she concluded bitterly.

‘Okay. Some women aren't cut out to be married to sailors,' he conceded. ‘And you're one of them. But, for the moment, it's academic. You're in trouble; Philip's in trouble; the Navy's in trouble. So let's not think about the reasons why it's happened; let's just try and sort it out.'

She threw her head back, the sinews of her neck taut with despair.

‘I've killed him, Andrew . . .' she whispered, eyes beginning to brim with tears.

He froze.

‘If you'd seen his face . . .'

She clamped a hand over her mouth to prevent herself crying. Her bravado had suddenly evaporated.

‘It was terrible when he found out. He went to pieces . . . I didn't know he could be like that . . . All that emotion – it'd been there all the time. And I never knew . . .'

‘What d'you mean, you've killed him?' asked Andrew, shaken.

‘Inside,' she sniffed, tears running down her face. She made no attempt to brush them away. ‘He
trusted
me . . . ,' she whispered.

Andrew looked away awkwardly and ran his fingers through his hair.
He trusted me too
, he thought to himself.

Sara was a pitiful figure, her shoulders shaking with sobs. But it was Philip Andrew had most need to be
concerned about. He pulled a clean handkerchief from his pocket and passed it to her.

‘There are some details . . . , things I need to know,' he coaxed. She dried her eyes and blew her nose.

‘When did all this happen, exactly? By the time the security people got wind of things, you'd already had the bust-up with Philip and he'd gone to sea. Is that right?'

‘Yes,' she sighed. ‘Everything fell apart about a week ago.'

She wiped her remaining tears with her fingers, leaving streaks on her face.

‘Philip found out first about another man, someone called Reg Terry. I'd got very close to Reg and let him come here at weekends sometimes, when Simon was home from school. Stupid of me. Last weekend Philip and Simon went shopping in Plymouth, and they just bumped into Reg. Simon greeted him like a long-lost friend, and suddenly Philip began to click. Next day, he started asking questions. He just went on and on, until I got so angry I just told him everything and said it was all his fault.'