The Cilla Rose Affair (26 page)

“Kevin,” she said, under her breath. “Kevin…you bloody little fool…”

“Hello,” Sara said, with a small wave. She had brought one of her balloons—bright blue—and Robin’s knapsack, which was somewhat dirtier from its encounter with the pavement, but otherwise, quite intact.

“Come in,” Robin said. “I’m boiling eggs.”

She followed him into the flat, which was small and cluttered: sofa, armchair, television, bookshelves. There was a balcony with tall glass doors, which were open, white net curtains fluttering in the mid-day breeze.

Robin dropped a new tape into the player: Enya,
Shepherd Moons
, his father’s.

He went into the kitchen, and ran the eggs under the cold water tap, and plopped them into two eggcups and carried them out onto the balcony on a tray with a plate of bread and butter and two knives, two forks and two spoons.

Sara sat down in one of the two comfortable chairs. Robin went back inside, and reappeared with two glasses of orange juice, and Sara’s balloon, which he tied around the railing, so that it bobbed in the sunlight, lending a touch of blue brilliance to the immaculate white mansions of the sunny square.

“Come on, then, Woodford,” he said, lopping the top off his egg. “Bread and butter soldiers all round.”

In the sitting room,
Caribbean Blue
drifted out of the stereo speakers.

Robin savoured the finger of buttered bread he had immersed in the yolk of his egg. “Ant puts Marmite on his,” he said.

“Disgusting,” Sara said, making a face.

“Have I been forgiven, then?”

“I haven’t decided.”

“Oh, for God’s sake, Woodford, don’t be coy. I can’t stand coy women.”

“All right,” she said. “And I can’t stand being lied to.”

“I haven’t ever lied to you.”

Sara spooned the yolk out of her egg in silence. “You’re doing work for your father. Both of you are—you and Anthony.”

“It’s not that unusual, Sara. Intelligence officers use members of their families all the time for a little clandestine business on the side. Diversions, distractions—”

“And that’s what I am, then? A little clandestine bit on the side? A distraction?”

Robin shook his head. “No.”

“It looks a lot like it from where I’m sitting, Harris.” She stared at her fork. “That night we spent in your hotel room—I saw those two men in the van on the road. They were spying on you, Robin—and you weren’t even the slightest bit concerned. I thought it was all a huge joke. Did you know they were there?”

“Ant and I were both warned that we might be targeted,” Robin said. “They were following me all over London the next morning—I thought I’d dealt with it. Apparently not.”

“No,” Sara said. “Apparently not. I mean, they could just as easily have kidnapped me as you.”

“But it was me they were after, Woodford. Me or Ant. Not you at all.”

“I’ll tell you something, shall I? I used to be quite terrified of men. Not just men. Sex, involvement, the whole thing. Afraid of taking the risk. I hadn’t had any boyfriends. Just you, in Vancouver.”

She glanced at him, quickly.

“And that was pretty innocent. I used to sit on the tops of buses and see couples crossing the road, arms around each other, holding hands…and I didn’t think I’d ever be a part of their world…until I met Jon. I trusted him for a long time, you know. Until the lies began. And even after the lies began, because you want to believe, don’t you? You’ll look for all sorts of reasons to avoid having to face up to the truth.”

“I’m not Jon,” Robin said. “In the first place, I can’t stand Kate Bush.”

Sara turned her head away. “I trusted you,” she said, watching her blue balloon bob in a breath of wind from the road below. “And no, all right, you didn’t tell me any lies—but you weren’t being entirely truthful with me, either, were you?”

Robin reached across the table and took her hand.

“Sara,” he said.

She looked at him.

“I told you as much as I was able.” He kissed her hand. “I’m sorry.”

Sara swallowed. “You wouldn’t have gone to Bournemouth if your father hadn’t ordered you there. You wouldn’t have bothered with me at all. I was just a convenience.”

He was still holding her hand. “Listen to me, Woodford,” he said. “Terry’s wedding was the first thing I thought of when my father called to say he’d booked a flight to London for me. And it did occur to me that I’d probably find you there. You were on my mind well before I landed and was presented with all this other nonsense.”

“Is that the truth?”

“Finish your egg, Woodford,” Robin said, with great fondness. “Or there’ll be no chocolate pudding for afters.”

“Hallo, Maureen. Sara not in?”

Harry Dailey bustled through the office. He was a little man, once fair, now white-haired, his pink cheeks imparting that well-scrubbed, rabbit-like look Englishmen often revert to in their later years. He had come directly from the airport, and was still in his travelling clothes: navy blazer with brass buttons, grey trousers, blue and white pinstripe shirt, red tie. He had his suitcase with him, and a Paris shopping bag.

“Taken the rest of the day off, from the looks of it,” Maureen answered, bad-temperedly. “She’s done nothing but come in late all week. Anybody’d think it was the last bloody farewell, her having to get out of bed and abandon him to put in a full day’s work.”

“Don’t tell me,” Harry marvelled. “New boyfriend?”

“Old boyfriend,” Maureen answered. “New perspective.”

“Ah well,” Harry advised, depositing a bottle of Chivas Regal on her desk. “Tuck into that when you’ve got a moment free.” He lugged his suitcase towards the rear of the office. “No disasters while I was away? No air traffic controller strikes? No hijackings, bomb threats, outbreaks of war, bankrupt tour companies?”

“The Warringtons cancelled their cruise and Mrs. Godwin had to come back from Melbourne a week early because she broke her leg. She’d like to know what sort of insurance coverage she had.”

Harry had to think. “None, as I recall.”

“Good. You can ring her up and tell her. And the bloody computer keeps going down, so don’t be at all surprised if you sign in and nothing happens. We’ve already had the repairman come and poke about in your terminal. I wouldn’t be surprised if he took ours away next time and left it sitting on a rubbish tip somewhere. Bloody useless thing.”

“Charming welcome home, I must say,” Harry muttered, on the stairs.

“And what can I do for you, then?” Maureen continued, addressing the young man who had finally ventured inside after lingering on the pavement with a yellow
Collins Guide to London
poking out of the pocket of his windbreaker.

“I’ve booked a flight to Ireland and I’m here to pay for it. O’Day. Gerry O’Day.”

“Travelling when?”

“The day after tomorrow.”

She attacked Sara’s mess: file folders with package holidays inside, brochures, half a dozen white reservation cards with names and record locators scrawled hurriedly across their faces, awaiting the entry of the flight numbers and times when she had a moment free. There it was, its details scribbled out in travel agents’ shorthand: KZA217 Y 07SEP LTNDUB 1130/1230 OK.

“She hasn’t issued the ticket yet. Have a seat, will you, and I’ll just have a look at the file in the computer.”

She keyed in the locator number.

There was a long pause—and then:

[[ KZA217 Y 07SEP LTN1130 DUB1230 HK1

[[ KZA256 Y 14SEP DUB1715 LTN1815 HK1

[[ N1O’DAY/G MR

[[ C1 LON C/O PRESIDENT HOTEL RUSSELL SQUARE

[[ C2 C/O SARA YOUNG AND DAILEY 555-1912

[[ A YOUNG AND DAILEY CAMBRIDGE CIRCUS LONDON

[[ T/1500 05SEP…P/U

[[ EFG123

“Right, then—form of payment?”

Gerry O’Day proffered his Visa.

Maureen keyed in the commands for an automatic fare quote. There was another long pause.

“Christ, not sodding
now
,” she swore, as the screen went completely and utterly blank.

“Yes, I’ll wait. Thank you.”

Nora had taken the precaution of using a call box in Sutton. She cradled the telephone receiver under her chin and waited while the reservation agent placed her momentarily on hold.

An error had been made, and she was initiating the steps that would remove her, temporarily, from whatever fallout might happen to develop. If the Harris boy escaped—and she could no longer afford to believe he would not—he would tell his father about the boxes. What was inside the boxes would implicate her. The boy’s father was clever—he wouldn’t let up until he had got enough evidence to also point the finger at Victor.

Best to leave the country until it all blew over.

She glanced apprehensively over her shoulder as the passenger agent came back on the line and began a computer search for the schedule Nora had requested.

The first available flight was not until the day after tomorrow. Did she wish to be waitlisted for something earlier?

“No,” Nora said. “That will be fine.”

She could use the extra time to put her affairs in order.

“One seat,” she confirmed. “First Class. Saturday, September the 7th.”

She watched the bustle of afternoon shoppers as the details of her reservation were read back to her, and the agent completed the file with the passenger information she had taken down at the start of their conversation.

“And how would you like to pay for your ticket?”

“I’ll give you cash at Heathrow just before the flight,” Nora said.

The agent entered this information, reconfirmed the cost, and then relayed a locator number back to her customer.

“Thank you,” Nora said, noting it down in pencil on a scrap of paper she’d found in her bag. “Goodbye.”

She disconnected.

There was a bank over the road, a Barclay’s, one of the several where she maintained accounts under a variety of names.

She made her withdrawal, and with a quick, uneasy glance over her shoulder, hurried back to her Jaguar. Unlocking the door and slipping inside, she rolled down her window and fastened her seatbelt and turned the key in the ignition and was, for a minute moment, first surprised and then angered by the lack of reaction from the engine.

She turned the key again, and, again, heard only the click, followed by the silence, of an unresponsive battery.

As if it would make any difference at all, she tried the ignition a third time.

Nothing.

Nora Darrow let fly a colourful expletive, and tore off her seatbelt.

“Pardon me.”

The man’s voice startled her, and she turned her head. Its owner was an older gentleman with spectacles and a neat white moustache, and he was bending down to peer at her through the open window.

“Might I be of some assistance…?” he inquired, with a helpful smile, showing her his identification.

Ian dropped his bag of tools, and examined the painted brick wall behind one of the tall, grey filing cabinets in the rear.

“Who’s that, Sara?” Harry poked his head down the stairs.

“It’s the man from Agency Automation, Harry.” Sara looked at Anthony, who had come dressed for the part in paint-spattered white overalls and a black T-shirt. “And his special helper.”

“What’s going on?”

“They’ve come to have another look at our computers. Isn’t it a good thing we’re up to date on our maintenance contract?”

“Bloody hell,” Harry replied, quickly, disappearing.

“Thanks,” Ian said, directing Anthony to empty the drawers of the cabinet.

“When can we expect our system to be up again?”

“I’m not really sure,” Ian answered, busily. “I suspect the trouble’s with your line, which runs through the back of this wall. It’s really inconvenient, but not an unsurmountable obstacle. We’ll just have to do a little digging, that’s all. Of course, if we discover rats have been chewing on your co-ax cable, we might have to look at replacing the entire local network.”

Anthony had emptied all four drawers, stacking brochures and expended files on top of the ticket and itinerary printers.

“Lift up that corner, Ant.”

Together, they walked the cabinet away from the wall, and then Ian unzipped his tool bag and took out an electric drill, a hammer, a chisel, a saw and a crowbar. He had a map, as well, a hand drawn effort from Robin, indicating a street-level doorway leading to the outside.

He’d spotted the doorway earlier, doing a quick reconnaissance of the neighbourhood. It was on the same side of the road as the entrance to the travel agency, very visible, not the sort of place he was anxious to be openly observed going into.

“Want to be involved in this, Sara?”

“Not particularly.”

Ian waved at her. “Bye-bye.”

Obediently, she returned to her desk.

“What does London Underground know about this place?” Anthony asked, quietly, as his brother began to chisel away the mortar between the bricks.

“As far as they’re concerned, the site at track level’s been abandoned since 1941. The Seasound lease only covers what’s above the ground. The outside door to the stairshaft’s completely separate from the travel agency property. In fact, London Underground wasn’t even aware that doorway existed. They were under the impression all access from the surface had been terminated when the other entranceways were bricked in.”

He pulled out the first brick and set it on the floor beside the filing cabinet. Another brick followed, and another, until there was an opening large enough to admit a person. A cold, damp smell wafted out of the hole—a cryptic smell, Anthony thought, peering in with a curious sniff—like freshly opened tombs. He ducked in after his brother, and stood in awe as Ian shone his torch beam around the abandoned booking hall.

What London Transport had left behind in their wartime desertion was a perfect exposition, secure, intact. A passometer booth, its glass windows curtained with dust, a small booking office for the issuance of tickets.

“God,” Anthony said, “this is
incredible
.”

“Down the stairs behind me, Ant,” Ian advised, checking his brother’s map a final time.

It was a long, circular descent. At the bottom hung the damp and tattered reminders of London’s wartime conscience.