A Sentimental Traitor (39 page)

When he had finished, Harry sat quietly for many moments. The report had been technical and dense, as Mrs Maneckjee had suggested, but its conclusions rang out with a clarity
that took his breath away and, for a while, scrambled his sense of everything that had happened. Only when he had grappled with its findings and forced them into some sort of submission did he
reach for his phone and tap at its keys.

‘Hello,’ he said dully when it was answered. ‘This is Harry Jones.’

A silence. ‘How did you get this number?’

‘You don’t cover your tracks well enough.’

‘Tell me.’

‘Through the Internet. I got your village by searching the local press for its report of your husband’s death, then your address from the electoral register. After that, your phone
number was easy. It was kid’s play, once I realized you were Mrs Felix Wilton.’

‘How despicable of you to turn up at his funeral service today,’ she said, her voice controlled and unyielding.

‘It was necessary. To discover who else turned up. You. I’m sure you understand.’

‘You keep turning up in all the wrong places, Mr Jones.’

‘Just as you seem to have been turning up under every stone I lift.’

She hesitated; he thought he could hear a cigarette being lit. Then: ‘What do you want?’

‘To meet.’

‘What, meet a man with your violent reputation?’

‘You know it’s not true.’

She sucked in a lungful of nicotine. ‘But why on earth do you want to meet? You know I’ll have the entire police force of Wiltshire waiting for you, plus some very interested parties
from London.’

‘I don’t think you would want me to talk to the police. Not about the pipeline. And the Russians.’

A much longer pause, one that seemed to stretch as long as a hangman’s rope. ‘Very well. Where?’

‘I’m not so far away.’

‘Then come to my home.’

‘I don’t think so, I’m sure it’s bristling with security. Somewhere neutral.’

‘Then the village church.’

‘Very well.’

‘The churchwarden opens it at ten every morning. Shall we say . . .’

‘Ten-thirty?’

‘Tomorrow morning. It will be most interesting to meet you, Mr Jones.’

He had just finished the call when Mrs Maneckjee came in. ‘I am sorry for the interruption when you seem so thoughtful, Mr Jones.’ She had brought him a cup of
tea.

‘No, I should apologize. I have overstayed my welcome.’

‘You have discovered what you are looking for?’

‘I think so.’

‘Then you should celebrate with tea.’ She put the cup down beside him.

‘Thank you.’

But there was no hint of celebration. His mood seemed resigned, focused, inexorably sad. It made her feel uneasy.

‘I’ve stolen some of your writing paper and an envelope,’ he continued. ‘I hope you don’t mind. I’d like you to post it for me.’ He sealed it and handed
it across.

‘To Mr Usher? The former Prime Minister?’ she exclaimed in surprise.

‘At his home address. I don’t want to send it through official channels. Neither of us have any reason to trust such things, do we?’

‘I think you are very wise.’

‘But I’m afraid I don’t have a stamp.’

‘Do not worry, I shall take the most excellent care of it.’

‘It’s just some things I think he ought to know.’

She gazed deep into his eyes, saw trouble, resignation. ‘In case you are not in a position to tell him personally,’ she said softly.

‘Something like that.’

‘I think my Farrokh was not the only brave person in this matter, Mr Jones.’

He tried to muster a reassuring smile, it didn’t convince. ‘I’d better get going. I’ve got to be about thirty miles away by tomorrow morning and I doubt whether taking
the bus or train would prove a very good idea for a man in my position.’

‘So how will you manage?’

‘I’ll walk, Mrs Maneckjee,’ he said, pointing to his feet. ‘These things haven’t let me down yet.’

She shook her head. ‘Walking at night is not to be recommended, either. Come with me.’

She led him to the garage in the rear garden. Inside, amongst a collection of boxes and garden paraphernalia, was a motorbike, a Honda, 250cc, far from new but meticulously polished and cared
for, with neat panniers on the back. ‘Farrokh’s,’ she declared.

‘That would be wonderful but . . .’

‘I know. You cannot promise to return it.’ She knew. ‘I think my son would understand, and so will I. May your god travel with you, Mr Harry Jones.’

He drove through the evening, the light fading, the wind whipping through his hair – Farrokh’s helmet had been too small to fit. He kept to the back roads, throwing
the bike into the corners, slipping through the gears, filling his lungs with the heady, scented air of the hedgerows, bringing back memories of moments like this when he’d been in his
twenties and thought he was immortal. It felt so long ago.

Harry didn’t drive into the village but pulled over well short, not sure of what might lie ahead. He hid Farrokh’s bike in a copse of scrub beech and took to the fields, using the
hedgerows as cover. At this time of year there was always light in the sky and he made good progress, catching the laments of the countryside as owls, foxes, ferrets and feral cats lay about their
business. Cows continued to tear at the grass as he passed, heedless of his presence, but at one point he stumbled upon a covey of resting partridge and they stormed low across the field, their
wings beating like kettle drums in protest. Yet for the most part he heard nothing but the nocturnal rustles of the undergrowth and the sighing of trees in the breeze.

The village of Upper Marlsford lay in the fold of the valley along the course of the river that at this time of year flowed languidly through its midst. It was a community that time had treated
gently; its walls were of flint, brick and chalk, its roofs mostly red tile or thatch, and from its size Harry reckoned that it was home to no more than five or six hundred souls. The church was
easy enough to spot, even from a distance, its bell tower thrusting through the jumble of surrounding trees. He worked his way around those parts of the village that appeared most busy, like the
pub and the manor house where lights still blazed, but for the most part Upper Marlsford was falling to sleep, and as he approached, cautiously, along the path that ran beside the riverbank, he
disturbed nothing but the occasional drowsy dog. He avoided the road and came to the church through the graveyard, where he found a gardener’s hut nestling beside a looming cypress tree. The
rich smell of composting grass seeped from somewhere close at hand. The gardener was trusting, the lock even more so, and it came away easily. Harry slipped inside, and waited.

The sun rose early and Harry was soon fully alert, and aching from a night spent sitting propped against a slatted wall. He’d brought water with him, a large plastic
bottle, and he used it to rinse his face. His hair was matted from the bike ride, his suit a fearful mess; the trouser leg had got itself ripped somewhere along the way. With his many days of
stubble he looked more than unkempt, yet just a few months earlier he’d been one of the most eminent men in the country, a home in Mayfair, a life that glittered and had him showered with
respect. Patricia Vaine had done her work well.

As the light grew, the village came to life; dogs wailed at newspaper boys, cockerels crowed across the lanes, farmers thundered through on their oversized machines. No buses, of course, not any
longer. The hours moved slowly on leaden feet through the heavy midsummer air. As the temperature began to rise, an elderly man appeared in the graveyard, his legs bowed, leaning heavily on a
stick, with a small bunch of flowers clutched doggedly in his free hand. He used them to replace stems that were wilting at the foot of a recent stone. He stayed several minutes, head bowed, back
bent, talking quietly to whomever was beneath. He didn’t look towards Harry’s hiding place. It was some time later that the churchwarden arrived, just as the steeple clock was chiming.
He stopped at the lychgate, replacing a notice on the board, then walked up the short path to the church’s clay-tiled porch. Harry heard him opening the door, but he didn’t stay long.
The time was close at hand.

She was early, tracing the footsteps of the churchwarden, her tread slow, purposeful, crunching on the gravel, until she disappeared inside. Harry waited many minutes, checking to see whether
she was being followed. He saw nothing. Eventually, warily, he slipped from his hiding place.

He tarried inside the porch, listening. Nothing. He lifted the old latch and let himself in. The church was ancient, constructed of flint, its walls thick. As he took a step inside the latch
clattered back into place, the noise echoing around the interior, which was cool, dark, and smelled of polish. He looked around, expecting to find her, but he was alone. Then he saw a door at the
far end of the church that gave access to the belfry. It was open. His instruction. He followed her through it. On the far side he found worn wooden steps that carried him up to the heavy wooden
scaffold where the bells were hanging, but still there was no sign of her. He pressed on, upward. From somewhere near at hand came the slow, persistent ticking of the clock mechanism; everything
smelled of damp and ancient dust. At the top of the tower a small, low door opened onto the roof. It was ajar. He had to duck as he clambered through, and as soon as he straightened he found
himself blinded by the sudden brilliance of the day. He stood, blinking, shading his eyes. It was there, at last, he saw her, waiting for him.

‘Mr Jones. I wish I could say it was a pleasure.’

She was dressed in a simple cotton blouse with floral skirt, open-toed shoes and a straw shoulder bag in a manner that would have passed for the vicar’s wife, except for the Versace
sunglasses, and the small aerosol she was pointing at him.

‘A little insurance, Mr Jones. It’s pepper spray.’

‘I thought that stuff was illegal.’

‘Oh, I have a
laissez-passer
for all sorts of things. So if you wouldn’t mind ditching your jacket, turning around . . .’

He did so. The jacket fluttered to the ground, clearly not concealing a weapon, and he turned to show there was nothing in his belt.

‘Well, just look at you, Mr Jones,’ she said, her face flooded with contempt. ‘What a mess.’ She moved to the farthest part of the roof, putting her back against one of
the weather-stained castellations that surrounded them on all sides. She dropped the spray into the top of her bag, ensuring it was still to hand.

Harry gazed around him. Beyond the rooftops and gracious old trees of Upper Marlsford he could see to the fields, a patchwork of greens and glorious summer golds. Beneath him, on the path that
ran alongside the slow moving river, two women had stopped to gossip while walking their dogs. Nearby a pair of swans raised their necks, alert, guarding signets.

He shook his head. ‘Someone like you in a place like this. It’s . . .’

‘What?’

‘Not what I expected.’

‘I’m not what most people expect,’ she said curtly. ‘Why did you want to see me?’

‘For much the same reason, I suspect, that you agreed to see me. To know it all. And to finish it.’

They were disturbed as a large number of rooks flew over, like dark rags caught on the updraught, calling to each other before settling into the branches of a family of Scots pine. She pulled a
handkerchief from her bag and began dabbing at her nose.

‘Hay fever,’ she announced. ‘You see, I am human, after all.’ Shemanaged to leave the impression of being annoyed by the fact.

‘I’m sorry about your husband.’

‘Sorry won’t bring him back!’ she snapped, her blue eyes suddenly igniting in anger.

‘It was an accident, unintended.’

‘He was a good man, despite his weaknesses. He didn’t deserve what you did to him.’

He shook his head. ‘Not me.’

‘Oh, really,’ she spat in disbelief.

‘It was Jimmy Sopwith-Dane. He killed your husband. Didn’t mean it, but . . . You drove him too far.’

She started in surprise, twisting her handkerchief around her finger as she considered the possibility. ‘It doesn’t make any difference to me which of you killed him. He didn’t
deserve to die,’ she repeated emphatically.