The Defector (14 page)

“She’s White’s assistant,” he said.

“That’s what I was after.”

“Oh,” Charley shrugged.

“I didn’t know anything about that. But you’re not going to go and make trouble for her, are you? I mean, it was just my opinion I’ve no proof of anything.”

“Don’t worry, it’s far too late to make any difference now,” he said.

“She’ll be found out anyway. White keeps a very tight check on anyone who works for him.”

“But is a secretary, or an assistant, so terribly important? Surely they’re like a civil servant? You’re not in a confidential post, are you? I’m sure Davina isn’t.”

“Neither of us is,” he said firmly.

“We’re both what you call civil servants. But that job is big promotion and I was very keen to get it. So that’s why I’m interested in your sister. And now I’d much rather pay attention to you. I won’t suggest a drink at Annabel’s because I’ve got a nine o’clock appointment tomorrow and I’ve got to keep a clear head. “

“I never go to Annabel’s,” she said gently.

“I hate it. I much prefer Tramps. Or Regine’s. Have you been there?” Jeremy had to admit he hadn’t.

“Well, next time, I’ll take you. It’s wildly expensive but very smart. Let’s get the bill, shall we? I don’t want you to be tired tomorrow. It must be terribly important if you need ten hours’ sleep.”

“It is,” he said.

“I’m taking a post with the UN in New York. I start being briefed tomorrow.” He signalled the waiter and paid the bill. They drove back to her flat in silence. Charley looked out of the window and hummed. She felt extremely depressed. Rejection was so rare that she seldom suffered the pangs of self-doubt and inordinate humiliation which produced the nervous little tune under her breath. He was a smug, smooth bore, totally immersed in himself, and it was ridiculous to mind because she hadn’t made a success with him. Ridiculous and childish. She couldn’t think of one man among the last twenty who’d taken her out, who had preferred a good night’s sleep to an evening dancing with her and perhaps coming in for a drink. He shook hands with her in the street, promised to telephone before he went away, and went off in his car without noticing that there were tears in her eyes. As soon as he had engaged the clutch, Charley was out of his mind. Tall, big build, greyish hair. A typical Slav. There was no such thing, in fact, but she had given him a very good description ofsasanov. And where Davina Graham was, there would the missing defector be. At home in her flat, Charley Ransom poured herself a cup of hot milk, and swallowed a sleeping pill. She allowed herself a little childish weep before she drifted off.

“Don’t,” Davina protested, ‘do that when I’m driving! ” She heard Sasanov laugh beside her.

“Why not? You don’t mind other times.” He looked at her profile turned resolutely away from him, concentrating on the traffic ahead. But her lips were turned up in a smile. He took his hand off her knee.

“You’re a bad driver,” he said.

“You can’t keep your mind on the other cars.”

“Much hope when you’re getting in the way,” she retorted. Her hand left the steering-wheel, and slapped his lightly.

“I know you’re in a good mood, because you’re always impossible. Actually you’re impossible when you’re in a bad mood. I just can’t win.”

“You’ve won,” he said.

“You’ve turned me for the British. That’s a big victory for you. But I’m happy today. I see the way ahead for me and my family. Do you know, the Brigadier was so anxious to get my information he offered to go to Moscow and get them himself?”

“Like hell he did,” Davina said.

“He won’t put his neck in the noose. He’ll find someone else for that little trip, don’t worry. “

“Why are you being so difficult?” Sasanov complained.

“You should be glad it went well. Instead you behave like a cross little school-teacher. I warn you, when we get back to that cage of yours, I’m going to behave very badly!” She glanced at him briefly.

“There’s nothing different about that,” she said. He settled back in his seat; he felt contented and excited at the same time. He understood her very well. Of course she was pleased at the success of the interview. It was part of the game they sometimes played, to pretend to be at odds with each other. Then he thought of Halldale Manor, of Roberts and the electronic invasion of their privacy, and he sighed. She heard the sigh, and said quickly, “What’s the matter what’s wrong?”

“I feel like celebrating,” he said sullenly.

“Instead we go back to the old lunatics and the cage. It depresses me.” She drove on for some minutes without answering. They were approaching the route out to the south-east; the traffic was already building up and they began crawling between traffic lights.

“I don’t want you to be depressed,” she said.

“We’ve got to go back to Halldale, but we can stop on the way. Would you like that?”

“What do you mean, stop?” he asked her.

“I mean stop for dinner. Talk; celebrate. I can get clearance on the radio. Would you like that?” He nodded at her reflection in the driving-mirror.

“Yes, Vina, I’d like that. I’d like it better if we could stop for the night. I hate making love in silence.” Again she drove for a time without answering. Then at another halt, caught in a cross-fire of immobile traffic, she turned to him and said, “I’ll ask for that too, if that’s what you want.”

“It’s what I want,” Sasanov said. He settled back into his seat and closed his eyes; she didn’t know if he had really gone to sleep, but he didn’t move or speak, even when she used the car telephone, connected to a special exchange. Visiting hours at Halldale Manor nursing-home were between two and four, and five-thirty to seven. In the chronic geriatric ward, a dozen old women in the final stages of senile dementia lay in their cots, mouthing vacantly or dozing in a drugged trance. Few ever had visitors; they passed through the final stages of their lives in a twilight through which the nurses moved like shadows. It was so rare for any relative to come before called to the deathbed that the grandson of one of the patients aroused a friendly interest among the nursing staff. He came in to see his grandmother Mrs. Burns quite unexpectedly one afternoon. The old lady hadn’t had a visit for three years; she lay propped up on her pillows, mumbling in confusion to herself, and sleeping. She had to be fed like a child, and like the others, she had no bodily control. There was always a faint stench in the ward, combined with disinfectant and the smell of bodies sweating their decay through the pores of their skins. He was a nice young man, who held his grandmother’s hand, and didn’t seem to mind when she pulled it away and grumbled that she didn’t know him. A lot of relatives were distressed by the aggression or the lack of recognition, and didn’t come to the nursing-home again. The ward sister remarked on the grandson’s devotion to the patient, and he spent some of the time chatting to her, and drinking coffee with her in her little cubicle at the end of the room. He came three times a week, bringing flowers which were arranged by the old woman’s bed, and once he brought a box of chocolates for the nurses.

“You do such a wonderful job,” he said.

“What would become of these poor old people if it weren’t for all of you?” The ward sister began to look forward to his visits; one of the young nurses eyed him with longing.

“I think it’s a shame, the way families neglect their old relatives,” he said.

“I was really upset to hear Granny was in here and my mother hadn’t been to see her for two years. We don’t treat our old people like that in Ireland.” The ward sister, who came from Limerick, agreed with him. She felt so sorry for the poor things, left to rot and die; and then when they did die, the family came round wiping their eyes and pretending to care. Wouldn’t he like a cup of coffee? He mustn’t think Mrs. Burns didn’t enjoy his visits, because she was so confused and didn’t know him. In fact, she seemed much brighter in herself since he’d been coming.

“That’s all that matters,” he said.

“Just so she feels she’s not forgotten.” At the end of the third week he asked the young nurse out for a drink when she came off duty. It took him nearly a month of seeing her before he learned that there was a section of the nursing-home which was reserved for violent patients, and ordinary staff never went near it.

“Gives me the creeps sometimes,” she confided to him over a beer in the Crown at Haywards Heath.

“There’s that big wall at the back, and the gate’s always locked. They have specials looking after the patients in there; they don’t mix with us.” Mrs. Burns’ grandson expressed surprise. And how many people were locked away, he wondered. She didn’t really know, but the rumour was not more than one or two. There was a woman who came in and out, but whether she was a private nurse or a relative, they didn’t know.

“How awful,” he said.

“If I wasn’t a Catholic, that kind of thing would make me believe in euthanasia.” He ordered them both another beer. She didn’t mean to break any rules about showing him where the violent wing was; it just happened as they were strolling round the lovely grounds on a fine afternoon. Groups of patients were sitting in the garden; some wandered about; the sun was shining and the air was beautifully warm. The gardens were magnificent, carpeted with daffodils and grape hyacinths; Mrs. Burns’ grandson smiled at anyone he passed, and gently hooked his arm through the nurse’s elbow.

“Is that the place where the poor devils are kept locked up?” he asked. And she said no, that was the laboratory, where they did their own pathology. The other place was over there, behind that high brick wall. And look, there was the woman she’d mentioned, coming out of the gate. What a funny coincidence. , She didn’t look like a nurse, though. Fancy having someone shut up in there and going to see them;

of course, they were able to keep them under drugs now. He got a good look at Davina Graham, and agreed silently with the chattering girl that she didn’t look like a nurse either. He walked on a little faster and before she got into her car, he lit a cigarette, shielding the lighter from the breeze which wasn’t blowing. He came back to see his grandmother twice more, and dashed all the nurse’s secret hopes by telling her he had been sent to Glasgow, but of course he’d write. The visits stopped and no letter with a Scottish postmark ever came for the nurse. Mrs. Burns mumbled and dozed and the ward never saw an outsider again. But the photograph taken of Davina as she got into her car was studied and identified. Mrs. Burns’ grandson went on working as a kitchen hand in a South Kensington hotel until Tuesday, 28 April, two days before Sasanov went to London to see Brigadier White. He didn’t give notice, he just disappeared; his employer cursed the feckless Irish and hired someone else. He had called himself Murphy in London, but he checked in at a small hotel fifteen minutes from Haywards Heath under the name of Porter. This time he had no Irish brogue. He used a motorbike which made it easy for him to go through the familiar town without fear of the staff from Halldale recognizing him in crash-helmet and goggles. It took no more than half an hour of telephoning round the stores to find out which one delivered groceries to Halldale Manor. And that a van was calling later in the afternoon. They would be very pleased to include a present from him to one of the patients. He promised to come in and pay for his order, and hung up. There was only one van at the back of the shop, with its name painted on the side. He tinkered with his motorbike until the driver came out carrying half a dozen cardboard boxes which he loaded into the back of the van. When the doors were closed and the driver went round to the front, the watcher jumped on his bike, kicked it into action and sped off in advance. He waited by the side of the road which led to Halldale; it was a minor road and there was no one about. He saw the van approaching, and advanced into the road, limping and waving it to stop. The driver didn’t get time to speak to the injured motorcyclist;

a blow to his head knocked him flat onto the roadway. The cyclist pulled him to the verge, stripped off his buff overall and cap. The body was tumbled into a ditch, out of sight. The motorcycle was hidden in a break in the hedgerow, and within five minutes the van was entering the back drive of Halldale Manor. The delivery to the nursing-home was in two sections; four boxes and a small crate for the main house, and a single box of groceries marked “Halldale Manor Annexe’. He drove to the back entrance by the kitchens and, under the eye of a woman he thought to be one of the cooks, loaded the boxes into the larder, gave her the bill to sign, and then drove round to the gate set in the high wall. Inside the back of the van, he slipped a large can in amongst the groceries for the Annexe; the label said “Garden Peas, Extra Fine’. Then he carried the box to the gate and rang the bell. A large man in blue overalls’ answered he held out his arms for the box and took it inside. He shut the gate without signing anything. The driver slammed the back doors of the van, jumped inside and rattled out along the bumpy little road. He drove slowly to the place where his bike and the van man were hidden, satisfying himself that there was nothing coming in front or behind him. He dressed the unconscious man in his own overalls once more, and dragged him quickly into the front seat of his van. He started the engine and sent the van crashing into the ditch. The horn mechanism jammed, hooting continuously. The cyclist pulled his bike out of hiding, mounted it and roared off towards the main London road. Inside the kitchen that supplied food for Sasanov and the staff, the cook checked on the items and picked up the tin of peas. It was not on his list; he hesitated, and then decided that it wasn’t often you got something for nothing. They spent enough with the grocer anyway. He put the tin on the larder shelf with the other goods. Davina stopped at a motel on the A415. Her instructions had been less flexible than she had hoped, but there was a compromise. They could spend as long or as short a time as they wished stopping enroute for Halldale, but they must-radio in before midnight to say they had returned. Sasanov was sulky at first; she ordered him a drink and fussed over him with peanuts and crisps until he seemed more cheerful. He watched her and at last he smiled.