The Avenue of the Dead (38 page)

He felt very tired, and closed his eyes. He opened them when Grant said in a croaking voice – ‘
My God
–'

‘You see what I mean?'

‘It's incredible!'

‘Well,' Colin Lomax said, ‘I leave it with you, Mr Grant. I don't envy you much.'

‘No,' Grant muttered. ‘I'll keep this.' He folded the papers and put them into his inside pocket.

‘I'm going to talk to Davina tomorrow morning, but I think it's a waste of time after her meeting with the chief. She's retired for good. And it's a pity. We need her. Especially now.'

Lomax looked at him. ‘I'm not going to hang round her neck,' he said quietly. ‘You've seen the medical reports. Give it six months or so and she'll be back.'

‘I did see them,' Grant said. ‘I'm very sorry. She doesn't know, of course.'

‘No. And she's not going to, either. I love her very much. But I could never sit back and be a burden to her.'

‘I can understand that,' Humphrey Grant said. He cleared his throat and said awkwardly, ‘Being a bachelor myself I don't know much about these things, but if I were you, I'd let her have those six months to be happy. And make the most of them yourself. Goodnight, Major.'

In their bedroom, Betty Graham switched out the reading light. She knew every creak in every board in the house, and they told her that Davina was going down the passage to Lomax.

‘Betty?' Fergus Graham said from the twin bed. ‘Not asleep are you?'

She smiled in the darkness. ‘No, darling, or I wouldn't be answering, would I?'

‘What was that creaking noise – who's wandering about at this hour?'

‘I think it's Davina. She sleeps in Colin's room, you know.'

‘Hmmm. He looked very tired tonight, I thought.'

‘Yes, he did, after dinner especially.'

‘But it was a very good evening,' Fergus Graham said. ‘I thoroughly enjoyed it. And it was nice to look at our two girls and see them both settled and happy at last.'

‘Yes,' Betty Graham answered. ‘I thought exactly the same thing.'

Turn the page to continue reading from the Davina Graham Thrillers

1

The corridor on the upper floor was painted a cheerful yellow. One of the doors leading off it was half open and Davina saw bright curtains and a table with a house plant. But nothing could disguise the pervasive prison smell. It caught at the back of her throat as soon as she walked through the small private entrance leading to the lift and the governor's office. She recognized the acrid taint of human sweat and excrement and disinfectant. The smell of prisons all over the world. The smell of Lubyanka. The smell of Wormwood Scrubs. The prison officer walking beside her paused before a door marked ‘Governor's Office', knocked and waited. She heard a voice say ‘Come,' and wondered as ever why people dropped the ‘in'. It was no longer an invitation.

He was a man of medium height, greying hair and a pair of heavy-rimmed spectacles with thick lenses that made it difficult to read his eyes. They shook hands; he pulled out a chair for her, offered her a cigarette, suggested a cup of coffee. Davina refused both. For a moment or two they sized each other up across his desk. It was a hard face, narrow jawed, with a surprisingly muscular neck above the neat regimental tie.

‘Well, Miss Graham,' he said. ‘You'll find quite a change in him, I expect.'

‘Yes,' she said. ‘It's nearly six years.'

‘He was pretty flabby when he came to us. Gone to seed physically. He's slimmed down quite a bit and he takes plenty of exercise. Likes his handicrafts; he made a damned good cigar box for me for Christmas.'

She looked into the smiling face and said nothing. Peter Harrington. Handicrafts. Jesus God, she said to herself. What am I going to find …?

‘It's difficult sometimes,' the brisk voice went on, ‘to think of him as a traitor. We've had several of them here, as you know. Pleasant men, on the whole. Amenable to the rules, educated people you could make contact with.'

‘They would be,' Davina said. ‘Peter's hallmark was charm. Does he still have it?'

There was a second's pause before the answer. ‘Yes. Yes, I suppose you could call it that. He's popular with the staff. Gets on well with the other occupants of the section. He was quite emotional when he heard about your visit.'

She looked at him and asked quietly, ‘Tears?'

‘Not quite.' He hadn't liked that question or the tone of voice.

He would be emotional, Davina thought. He knows why I've come, the bastard. He's been waiting for this for six years.

‘When can I see him?'

He pressed a button on his internal phone and spoke into the set. ‘Send Harrington up right away.'

‘I would like to emphasize that I don't approve of your seeing him alone, Miss Graham.'

He was standing, and Davina got up. ‘I appreciate that, Governor. But I think my office cleared that with you. There's no danger, I can promise you. And there's no way anybody can listen to what I have to say.'

‘There'll be a man on duty outside my door,' he said. ‘It will be unlocked. He'll come in when you call.'

‘Thank you,' she said. Peter Harrington; she wished the governor would go out, leave her alone for a moment before the encounter. She had a ghastly feeling that he would introduce them and she would have to shake hands.

Harrington, the old friend, the colleague who had sold out his country for a Swiss bank account. The easy-going joker who quipped half seriously about being in love with her, and delivered her to the KGB.

He had changed so much that for a moment she really didn't recognize him. He had lost a lot of his hair; that was the first surprise. Balding, very grey, and certainly slimmed down. He looked twenty years older.

‘Hello, Davy. Long time no see.' The voice was the same, the whisky-and-tobacco voice; and the eyes were watchful, mocking, with hatred gleaming like a stone under water.

‘I'll leave you,' the governor said. The door closed.

‘Sit down, Peter. How are you?'

He crossed his long legs and his foot swung. He was back in focus now. Older, thinner, marked by the years of his sentence, but still Peter Harrington. It was a very long sentence indeed. There were twenty-four more years of it to run.

‘I'm fine, thanks. Did you bring any cigarettes?'

She gave him a packet, took one, lit it for him and then her own. She put the silver lighter back in her bag.

‘That's nice,' he remarked. ‘Present?'

‘Last Christmas.'

‘Not from Ivan the Terrible, then?'

She didn't flinch. She gave him a look like an icicle. ‘No. You know he's dead.'

‘I did hear something,' he murmured. ‘New boyfriend then? Married?'

‘No.'

‘Engaged?'

She dropped her bag on the floor and said, ‘Shut up, Peter. Do you want to talk or do you want to go back downstairs? I haven't any time to waste on you.'

‘Then why are you here? You're not visiting an old friend, not after six bloody years.'

‘I'm here,' she said, ‘to do a deal.'

‘Ah.' He let the sound out slowly, and he smiled. ‘I wondered if it might be something like that. A parole, a pardon even?'

‘That's the last thing we talk about,' Davina answered.

‘It's the first,' he said softly. ‘Or we don't talk.'

‘All right.' She got up, hooked her bag over her shoulder. He was on his feet at the same moment, his face twisted with alarm.

‘For Christ's sake – give me a chance, Davy …'

‘The same chance as you gave me?' she asked him.

He gestured wildly, throwing his arms out. ‘You can't still hold that against me – all's fair in our bloody game, you know that!'

‘Keep your voice down, or the warder will come in. Sit down and shut up and listen, if you want me to stay.'

She saw the droop of his shoulders and the way his body sagged into the hard little chair.

‘What's the deal?' he said flatly.

‘I want information. I want you to search your memory and give me some answers.'

‘I was three weeks under interrogation,' he said sullenly. ‘I told Kidson everything I knew. He promised a light sentence. Fat bloody good that did me.'

‘You didn't tell him everything,' Davina countered. ‘Nobody ever does. You kept something back, didn't you, just in case? Just in case you needed it – like now?'

‘I can't remember,' he said. ‘It's a long time ago. Suppose you tell me what the problem is?'

The decision had been left to Davina. ‘This is your operation,' Humphrey Grant had said. ‘You're on your own. No instructions, no back-up. There can't be, once you start …'

The decision was hers and she made it then. There wasn't time to play games with Peter Harrington or anyone else.

‘We've got a traitor in the office,' she said. ‘And he's right at the top. What do you know about it?'

‘You know, John, I'm rather looking forward to retirement.'

John Kidson glanced at his chief and shook his head. ‘I don't believe it for a minute.'

‘Oh, but I am,' Brigadier Sir James White protested. He raised a hand and one of the club waiters moved towards them.

‘Coffee? Brandy? Ah, two Armagnacs and a pot of black coffee, and my guest would like a cigar.'

Kidson didn't show his surprise. The brigadier was not known for his extravagance when entertaining members of his staff to lunch. As if his thoughts had been spoken, James White said, ‘I feel this is rather a red-letter day, my dear chap. It's exactly eighteen years to the day that I joined the Service. I was thinking about it this morning on my way to the office. What an exciting time it's been!'

‘It certainly has,' Kidson reflected. ‘We were in a real mess when you took on the job.'

‘A bit of a mess, perhaps. Morale was very low. So were the funds. The Service hadn't been doing too well, and when Osborn resigned, there was a lot of dust to sweep under the rug. I remember my wife saying, “James, it won't suit you at all. You'll tread on the politicians' toes.” She knows me too well, that's the trouble.' He laughed lightly. ‘You never knew Osborn, did you, John?'

‘I was a very junior civil servant,' Kidson said. ‘But I heard rumours about him, of course.'

‘Yes, there was a lot of talk. He had unfortunate connections at Cambridge. And then his marriage broke up. The real reason was covered up, but it didn't stop the talk. Especially when our friend Philby fled the coop and came up smiling in Moscow.'

Kidson pierced and lit the cigar. ‘Do you think he was bent, Chief?'

‘Sexually, yes, and that's always a danger. But politically –' James White paused, his head a little on one side. The Armagnac in the glass was cradled and warmed by his cupped hands. ‘I don't know, John. And we'll never know now. It's a long time ago and these things are best left undisturbed. How's the cigar?'

‘Fine, thank you.'

‘I've got another eight or nine months if I stick to the official retirement date,' the brigadier said. He sipped a little brandy. ‘I've got to think about my successor, John.'

‘I don't see why,' Kidson answered. ‘Frankly, Chief, there's no reason for you to step down. And besides, there's nobody good enough to take your place.'

The brigadier rewarded him with his avuncular smile. ‘That's very flattering; but not strictly true. I shall be sixty-five and entitled to a little peace and quiet. Time to cultivate my garden, if you like.'

‘I'm afraid I don't see you as Candide. You'll perish of boredom.'

‘Humphrey thinks it'll be him,' James White went on. ‘He's never said anything but he knows the time is coming. He's been deputy for too many years. He wants to step into the spotlight.' Again he chuckled. ‘Not a good way of describing my particular role – what do you think of him, John? Would he do the job?'

John Kidson didn't answer for some moments. James White waited while he considered and under the thick white brows his pale eyes watched the younger man as if he were examining an insect under a microscope. If you want to find out about a man's ambitions, ask his opinion of another man's promotion. The brigadier loved making up and collecting dictums of human behaviour. One day he might publish a little book. Handbook for a spy. He liked the title. It appealed to his sense of humour.

Kidson looked at him. ‘I don't think that's a fair question. I've worked too closely with Humphrey to give an objective opinion.'

Clever, James White observed. He's damned him without saying a word. ‘I can give one, though,' he said aloud. ‘And I've been with him longer than anybody. He's a marvellous administrator, brilliantly intelligent, and apart from his unhappy resemblance to Robespierre, he
is
incorruptible. But has he that flair for leadership? I'm not boasting, my dear chap, when I say that this has been my real contribution to the job. Getting other people to do the work for me.'