'And you could have stopped Fiona going off the rails in a way that I failed to do. Is that what you mean?'

'Who knows?' said George.

'I'm beginning to think Fiona hates me,' I said. I don't know why I suddenly confided to him something I'd admitted to no one else, except that George had the dispassionate manner of a highly paid medical specialist. And, I suppose, of the confessional.

'You're a reproach to her,' he said unhesitatingly. Perhaps he'd thought about it before. 'You make her feel small. You make her feel cheap.'

'You think that's how she sees it?'

'Betraying your country is like betraying your partner. And when a marriage breaks up it can't count as a success for either party; it's a mutual failure. How can Fiona bear to think of you continuing, business as normal with the job, the kids and the home. It makes her look silly, Bernard. It makes her look like a spoiled little girl playing at politics, no better than any of these loud-mouthed film actresses who like to pretend they're political activists. Of course Fiona hates you.' He had been toying with his hat but now he put it on his head, as a signal that he wanted to change the subject. 'Now if you'd still like a drink, let's go round to the Connaught. I prefer hotels and a comfortable place to sit down. I'm not very keen on pubs for pleasure. I see too much of them when I'm doing business. A sandwich too, if you like. I've nothing to go home for.'

'It was my invitation,' I reminded him. 'Let me buy you dinner, George.'

'That's very decent of you, Bernard. I see you're still running that old Ford. I wish you'd let me fix you up with something better.'

'As a prospect, George, I'm a pushover.'

'Good. Good. There's nothing I enjoy more than selling a man a car,' said George, and he seemed quite serious. He was relaxed now; a changed person now that our difficult conversation was over. Perhaps he'd been dreading it as much as I had. 'And I've got a set of wheels that would be right up your street, Bernard. A couple of villains bought a car from me and got her ready for a big payroll hold-up. The brakes and steering are superb and she gave me a hundred and sixty up the motorway without a murmur of complaint. She'd come cheap, Bernard. Interested?'

'Why cheap, George?'

'The bodywork's in poor condition and it's not worth my while to do anything about that. When people come to buy cars they don't want to know about brakes and steering, and not one in ten wants to look at the engine, Bernard. I buy and sell bodywork. I tell all my workpeople that.'

'I'm interested.'

'Of course you are. A battered-looking car that will kick sand into the face of a Mercedes 450 is just your style. Come and have a look at it some time. I'll keep it for you.'

'Thanks, George.'

'I've had a funny sort of day today,' he volunteered. 'The police phoned up this morning and said they'd recovered a solid-silver wine cooler we'd had stolen. Not so very old, but it's a lovely piece, very ornate. I thought I'd never see it again. A youngster who used to work for me as a mechanic had tried to sell it to an antique dealer at the Portobello Road market. The dealer guessed it was stolen and told the police.'

Tessa's 'ice bucket' was George's 'wine cooler', I noticed. It was the same with so many things. They seemed to have so little in common that it was a wonder they'd ever got married. 'You were lucky to get it back,' I said.

He took a last proud look at his new apartment before double-locking the front door and then turning the mortise lock as well. The kid thought it was silver-plated Britannia metal; he didn't recognize it as solid silver. Stupid, eh? That would make anyone suspicious. He was a good little worker too, only nineteen years old but I was paying him a very good salary. Strange thing to do; to steal something from a man's home, isn't it?'

'Yes, it is.'

But the 'Jesuitical' George debated against himself. 'On the other hand, I exposed him to temptation, didn't I? I invited him to a house with such valuable things on show. I have to bear some measure of guilt. I told the police constable that.'

'What did he say?'

'He said he couldn't get into a discussion about ethics and morality; he had quite enough trouble trying to understand the law.' George laughed. 'Criminal activity is one per cent motivation and ninety-nine per cent opportunity. You must have heard me say that, Bernard.'

'It sounds familiar, George,' I said.

23

The prospect of returning to Mexico – even without Dicky – was daunting. I wanted to stay here; to see more of the children, get a bellyful of home cooking and an earful of Mozart. Instead I was headed for a round of plastic hotels, 'international cuisine' and Muzak.

I got home before midnight, having spent a pleasant evening dining with George. He'd gone on about what he described as exactly the right car for me: 'Shabby appearance but a lot of poke under the bonnet.' Was that what George felt about me, or subconscious reflections upon his own shortcomings?

I couldn't go to bed until the duty messenger arrived with my airline tickets. Feeling sorry for myself, I wandered into the nursery and fingered Sally's 'Joke Book': 'How do you catch a monkey? – Hang upside-down in a tree and make a noise like a banana.' And in Billy's book of children's verse I found Kipling:

Five and twenty ponies,

Trotting through the dark -

Brandy for the Parson,

'Baccy for the Clerk;

Laces for a lady, letters for a spy,

Watch the wall, my darling, while the Gentlemen go by!

And I'd promised to get batteries for their radio-controlled racing car and try to mend Sally's Donald Duck alarm clock. I'd missed both their birthdays this year and now they were packed off to Tessa's cousin. I felt guilty about them, but I couldn't refuse to go back to Mexico. I needed the department's backing.

If I said goodbye to the department I had no qualifications that would get me a comparable pay packet elsewhere. The department wouldn't fix a job for me. On the contrary, there would be those who'd say my resignation showed I was implicated in Fiona's activities. That had been made clear enough at the meeting. There was no choice but to be an exemplary employee of the department, a reliable professional, who produced solid results while the others produced empty rhetoric. And if, as I did my job without fear or favour and cleared myself of suspicion, some of the department's more outstanding incompetents got trampled underfoot, that would suit me fine.

The doorbell rang. 11.45. My God, but they took their time. There had been no sound of a motorcycle, and that was unusual for deliveries at this time of night. Bearing in mind Werner's ominous warnings about KGB hit teams, I opened the door very cautiously and stood well back in the shadows.

'Good evening, Mr Samson. What's the matter?'

It was Gloria Kent. 'Nothing.'

'You were expecting a motorcycle messenger, were you?'

She was damned quick on the uptake. 'Yes, I was.'

'Can I come in for a moment? I'm on my way home from seeing my boyfriend.'

'You've missed your last train,' I said sourly. 'Yes, come in.'

She was wearing a fur hat and a tan suede coat, trimmed with brown leather. Its big fur collar was buttoned up to the gold-coloured scarf at her throat. The coat was cut to emphasize her hips, and the flare of its hem meant you couldn't miss the shiny leather boots. I noticed the McDouglas Paris label as I took the coat from her to hang up. It was lined with some expensive-looking fur. It wasn't a coat you could afford on the salary of a Grade 9 executive officer. I supposed those people in Epsom must have had very well-cared-for teeth.