Live to Tell (47 page)

It was around ten o’clock at night two weeks later and I was in Olivier’s third floor Belsize Park apartment. Barefoot, with a glass of white wine in his hand, he leaned casually against the door frame leading out onto the large open air balcony. He turned and beckoned me to him. It was hot but after making love to me on his king size bed, he pulled on a pair of grey jogging bottoms. The soft fabric hung loosely from the cord tied around his hips. It must be his Italian blood that makes him feel the cold despite so much exertion, I thought.

Although the apartment was still in darkness, I dragged on the toweling robe he gave me to use when I was here and obediently went to his side. He smiled and put his arm around my shoulders.

“Apart from a few one-night-stands,” he said, “since Lisa left me, I haven’t slept with anyone until you came along. That was good. So I thank you, my Lady.”

This was the fifth time I stayed here with him in the last two weeks. Since Henry’s death I mentally recorded every detail of my life. Despite Olivier’s desire for me since that first night together, I was determined that we would never, never make love at my house again. In my mind the risk of discovery was too great. I had visions of Barry “popping around” to check on me and finding Olivier there. I couldn’t bear that. It was bad enough I couldn’t see him anymore. Strangely I did not fear being caught with Barry by Olivier, although arguably, in that circumstance I had far more to lose. When was it I changed from being a loving wife and grieving widow into this calculating harridan?

“I’m a simple man really,” he said. “All I want from life is my work and someone sweet like you to share it with. Don’t need a shed load of money or possessions. I care about my patients and like to be left alone to decide what’s best for them. Apart from that I try to be laid back about most things.”

“Was your wife Lisa a doctor?”

“No. I’m sorry. I know I haven’t told you anything about my second marriage, but to be honest I’d rather forget it. It was a mistake, that’s all. I don’t like people banging on about their old relationships. One of the reasons I want to get away to Italy is because she still works at the Royal Free Hospital. She is a radiographer. I try not to run into her but inevitably it sometimes happens. The marriage didn’t last much more than a year. We were both working long hours, often conflicting shifts so we didn’t always see much of each other. She seemed tired all the time, not her fault I know, but sometimes we went a couple of months with no sex at all. Might as well have slept in separate rooms. Hopeless! Not my idea of a marriage.” He kissed the side of my head.

Having seen the state of his kitchen, I guessed he wasn’t much good at domestic chores and probably left it all to her. With difficulty I suppressed a sarcastic reply. Sometimes Danny and I waited far longer than that for each other but I never blamed him. It was just life. I was careful though not to antagonise Olivier. Too much hung on his goodwill. Also I still felt immense gratitude for his generous offer to take me to Italy with him. He seemed so trusting. I hoped I would never let him down.

“After we split,” he went on. “I tried internet dating but I didn’t like telling strangers all about myself, and I got fed up listening to them reminisce about their exes. It’s a real turn-off. Have you said anything at work yet about your imminent departure? I had a humdinger of a row with my clinical director today. But my contract allows me to leave after the end of each full year. So there’s nothing he can do to stop me. As I’m not a consultant, my patients won’t be adversely affected.”

“I don’t think my aunt would agree,” I said. “Most of your patients seem to think you are Mr Wonderful.”

He smiled. “Thank you.”

During a hospital visit I made a few days earlier, Aunt Jess leaned forward earnestly. “Something’s changed, hasn’t it? He’s lost that lovelorn puppy look. Now he looks smug and confident. Is it because of you,” she asked.

I slapped her arm with my newspaper. “You’re obviously a lot better. Time you went home and back to work,” I said, annoyed at Olivier’s transparency.

Rather than leave my job completely I was going to ask Stephen if I could take three months unpaid leave. After that I’d have to review the situation but it would give me the space I needed. I also had to break the news to my parents. Aunt Jess would be happy for me, but I wasn’t sure about Mum and Dad. And, of course as well, I felt responsible for Mrs Jeffery. She had just lost Henry. She might not be happy to know she was about to lose me too. Oh bother! Why was life so difficult? In a film or a book, I’d just lock the door and go. Real life was much more complicated.

“Then I suppose I’d better tell the old man,” Olivier continued. “No doubt he’ll give me another lecture on irresponsible behaviour.”

“You’re the most responsible person I know,” I said. “If he gives you a hard time, just stick two fingers up at him.”

He threw back his head and laughed. “Oh yeah. If I did that he’d probably punch my lights out.”

“So, tell him the girlfriend he made you abandon fifteen years ago is going with you.”

“Well, that will definitely please my mum. She worries about me all the time, wants me to meet someone nice and ‘worthy of me’. But him? He’s a practising Roman Catholic and doesn’t believe in divorce, mine or anybody else’s. He told Lisa that in the eyes of God, I was still married to someone else. That remark didn’t go down well! Still, at least he’s a man of principle—not like Danny’s money grubbing father.”

“From what he said, the only time I met him,” I said, “I got the impression he was part of the aristocracy.”

“Don’t make me laugh. He bought his peerage. And what’s more, my mum swears he’s not Danny’s father. She knew Danny’s mother slightly many years ago and said she always had her suspicions. Still, it’s old history now.”

That could explain a lot, I thought, remembering Danny’s tales of childhood deprivation.

In the dark, Olivier slipped his hand beneath my bathrobe. “You’re getting cold,” he said. “I think we should go back to bed.”

We walked back into the room and he closed the sliding glass doors. How wonderful it was not to care who might be watching me.

In central London the next day the weather was hot but thunder was expected. It was the end of the afternoon and Ben switched off his computer and picked up his jacket. “I’ll be off then,” he said. “Good night.”

It was now six o’clock and several hours after he finally persuaded the mystery caller to meet him face to face.

Unusually, Commander Kevin Leighton, RN, looked concerned. He sat back in his chair, pursed his lips and raised an eye brow in Ben’s direction. “So long, old man. I’ll be here in the office until around eight-thirty. So if things get sticky give me a call.”

Ben purposely kept Kevin out of his dealings with the IRA informant but they were there in the room together when the arrangements were made. Once again Ben was pleased that of all the members of their team, Kevin was the one he shared an office with. He nodded, smiled and gave the Royal Navy officer a mock salute.

“Will do,” he said.

Leaving the Trafalgar Square office, he headed for a road called High Holborn. High Holborn linked the borough of the City of Westminster, where Ben worked, to the old original City of London still partly encompassed by Roman walls. The streets en route were crowded with legal and finance sector workers from the banking district on their way home but many of them had stopped off at bars and cafes. Crowds enjoying the hot summer evening stood outside every bar he passed. Rush hour traffic was heavy and slow, and Ben found crossing the roads difficult. The public house he was going to was said to have the longest bar in London and he chose it deliberately as a suitable place to meet an informant.

Being part of Military Intelligence and not the police force, Ben did not have access to the resources the police took for granted. He had no right under normal civil law to trace people or addresses, or to interrogate witnesses. At the same time he was less constrained in his own actions. Unlike the police, he could choose what route he took to obtain the result he desired. He wondered what would happen if he really overstepped the legal mark. Would his military status protect him, for instance, if he accidentally killed someone? Well, here’s hoping, he thought.

The hesitant man on the phone first asked to meet him in a small sixteenth century pub up a narrow alleyway that was close to Hatton Garden, the centre of the jewellery trade. It was near the London silver vaults and because of its limited access, Ben thought it was a dangerous spot for a rendezvous with a stranger. Opening onto the larger busier street, the High Holborn pub called
The
Cittie
of
Yorke
seemed a much safer place. Normally, walking into a strange pub would hardly cause him an emotional jolt but tonight although he initiated the meeting, he felt anxious.

As the crow flew, High Holborn was not far from where Ben lived in Kenton St. in Bloomsbury. Yet with its air of bustling activity, it felt like a million miles away. Sandwiched between two modern concrete office blocks, the facade of the building he approached was clad in dark timber. It looked old but ordinary. From the sunlit street he walked through the pub’s main entranceway and pushed open the door into a dark cavernous room.

“Wow.” He stopped in his tracks. This must be the most beautiful pub I’ve ever seen, more like a church than a bar, he thought looking up at the high vaulted ceiling and stained glass partitions. He gazed around. Booths resembling Victorian railway carriages lined one wall. Opposite them an enormous bar had a gallery above packed to the rafters with assorted old wooden barrels. I wonder if those barrels are for real? No, they can’t be. Must be part of the decor, he thought, along with all this copper and glass. He had drunk in the pub before as a much younger man, but whether it was more crowded then or had a total makeover since, he wasn’t sure. Certainly he never appreciated the splendour of the gothic interior. Perhaps I was too young or too drunk to notice, he thought. Yeah, I was probably drunk. He searched around looking for a safe place to sit.

Ben ordered a beer and settled into a quiet corner at the end of the bar from where he could watch the other customers come and go. The bar top was extremely long and well worn. It had a solid, benign air but did nothing to reassure him. He took off his tie, rolled it up and stuffed it into one of his pockets. This bar room must be at least a hundred yards long, he thought glancing around. While he waited, more and more people came in. Rowdy crowds of drinkers filled every corner. Ben’s eyes took in every detail.

The seconds ticked by. After he waited silently for thirty minutes he began to feel extremely awkward, almost conspicuous clutching the same glass of beer. A newspaper was propped in front of him but he didn’t read it. It was just there for camouflage. Damn, he thought. I bet he got cold feet, couldn’t face it. Oh, bugger.

Now that he knew he had Jurgen Bauer on his side and that the informant was willing to give him more detail, Ben felt optimistic. He thought he could avert the disaster before it was too late. What a hollow ambition it suddenly seemed, sitting here like someone’s redundant date. Although he tried not to, he kept glancing at his grandfather’s watch as the minutes ticked by. An hour passed beyond the appointed time, and Ben finally drained the glass and got up to go.

On the way out he stopped at a door marked “Gents” and pushed it open. The black and white tiled room had a red floor. Unusual choice he thought as he went in and reached for his zip. With no warning the light clicked off and Ben was plunged into total darkness. From behind an arm grabbed his waist and something hard and sharp was pressed against his throat.

“Christ,” he said as his newspaper fell to the floor. He tried to jerk his head back but the assailant held him firm. He had a split second to decide whether the object held against his carotid artery was a knife. Even if it’s not, it could seriously damage my health, he thought. This could be it! Well, in for a penny… Without finishing the words he drove his elbow backwards into the other man’s stomach, lunged back and pinned him to the wall. With a groan his adversary crumbled. The man started choking, coughing, and spluttering.