Brian Freemantle - Madrigal for Charlie Muffin

It was a genuine confession, thought Kalenin. ‘You made a query to your ministry in Prague. About British concern at our expansion in Africa. There’s a file record.’

‘Only for the designation of source,’ whimpered Hotovy. ‘And that was Cape Town: Rome was never mentioned.’

Kalenin went to the microphone linking him to the men standing over the woman and boys, on the other side of the screen. Hotovy moaned again when he saw the Russian reach out for the control switch.

‘What about Rome?’ persisted Kalenin.

‘I don’t know anything about Rome!’ wailed Hotovy. ‘On my life!’

‘It’s not your life,’ said Kalenin, ‘it’s theirs.’

‘I don’t know anything about Rome. For God’s sake, believe me!’

Kalenin did. Which meant the damage was no more extensive than he already knew it to be. Abruptly he turned on his heel and left the room.

The chief doctor caught up with him at the lift entrance. ‘That was a massive stimulant,’ said the man. ‘I’d guess a collapse, almost at once. It’ll be severe.’

Kalenin turned, as the doors opened. ‘He’s not important any more,’ he said.

Richard Semingford was a precise, neat man, given to blazers with club buttons and ties, club-striped too. He had a close-clipped beard, and on the first night they had slept together in her apartment Jane Williams had produced a picture of her bearded father in naval uniform, and they’d tried to remember the opposite of an Oedipus complex and failed. They had made love there again tonight but not well and now they lay in the darkness, side by side but untouching.

‘You didn’t have to buy the meal,’ he said.

‘I know things aren’t easy,’ she said.

‘It costs a lot, maintaining Ann’s mother in that damned old people’s home. And there are a lot of things the Foreign Office doesn’t pay for, with the kids’ schooling.’

‘I said I don’t mind,’ she reminded him.

‘I do.’

She felt out for his hand. ‘You shouldn’t. I love you and I understand.’

‘I want to ask Ann for a divorce.’

‘Is that sensible?’

‘No.’ He kissed her on the cheek. ‘She might have relaxed her Catholic principles to marry a Protestant but I’m pretty sure she wouldn’t about divorce.’

‘So what’s the point?’

‘Permission isn’t necessary any more.’

‘She could still make it unpleasant: the Foreign Office doesn’t like personal unpleasantness, you know.’

‘She might not, if she thought she was being properly provided for.’

She squeezed his hand. ‘And how could you do that, darling? You can’t manage as it is.’

His hand tightened upon hers. ‘That’s the bloody problem,’ he said. ‘It’s always money.’

She tried to think of something to break his mood and said, ‘We had an awful man out at the villa.’

‘Who?’

‘Some insurance assessor, checking Lady Billington’s jewellery. Frightful person.’

‘What was wrong with him?’

‘Cocksure, for a start. Literally. I could practically feel his hand up my skirt.’

‘What’s his name?’

‘I never bothered to find out. I used to see men like him wandering the streets of Portsmouth and Chatham when daddy was on base, stumbling from pub to pub and leering at any girl they saw.’ Once more, the morning’s indignation was building up within her. ‘Bloody cats made him sneeze and I had to look after the damned things.’

‘What did Lady Billington think?’

‘You know her. The social conscience of the world! She thinks everyone’s wonderful.’

‘Mustn’t it be marvellous to have the Billingtons’ money?’ said Semingford. ‘Never again having to bother about end-of-month sums on the backs of envelopes.’

‘I’ve never thought about it.’

‘Because you never had to.’ He regretted it at once and said, ‘I’m sorry.’

‘It doesn’t matter.’

‘It does and I’m sorry: really I am. I’ll get the money and divorce Ann.’

‘Of course,’ she said.

‘Don’t patronize me.’

‘I didn’t mean to.’

‘But you did.’

‘And you were rude.’

‘I meant it, about divorcing Ann,’ he said.

‘Don’t do anything silly, darling,’ she said. ‘I’m happy enough, the way things are.’

‘I’m not,’ he said grim-faced.

In his initial panic, Fantani ran halfway across the bedroom, which was a mistake. By the time he’d realized it, they were outside, so there was nothing he could do but make for the dressing room. He was caught like a rat in a trap! And with nowhere to hide. He couldn’t risk any of the closets because they might be opened on him. The extravagantly lighted dressing table was built into the wall, with no gap for concealment. And there was no cover by the desk. He heard the outer door open and close in the adjoining room and the light drove a silver brightness beneath the door. Almost at once there was the sound of the far door to the woman’s room and then the light snapped on.

There was only the window area. It was the part of the room he’d studied least of all, vaguely remembering an ornate couch and heavy drapes. He felt out, sliding his foot gently across the carpeting to avoid a noisy collision. He brushed lightly into the chaise longue, groping down for the arm and sweeping his hand cautiously before him, to ensure his path was clear. Suddenly he felt velvet between his fingers. He reached behind the curtains, every nerve end strained for a place beyond. There was a space! Groping blindly, his hands hit the sharp edge of the Venetian blinds; they rattled slightly against the window and Fantani jerked back. His next move was more cautious, easing the curtains apart and then feeling forward to gauge the distance. A metre, no more: hardly a body width. And with the blinds at his back ready to clatter if he relaxed for a moment. Fantani pressed through, pulling himself sideways at the sound of footfalls. At once the room flooded with light and Fantani closed his eyes in despair. There was a parting between the curtain edges, where he’d failed to close them; the light shafted through against the window, providing him with a perfect reflection of the room. And if either one looked too closely into the extensive, brightly lit mirroring against the wall of the dressing room, they would see him.

It was a woman and she was naked, the evening gown crumpled in her hand. She tossed it onto the couch on her way to the dressing table. Not completely naked, he corrected; there were still the rings and the ruby choker and the matching earrings. She began leisurely to unfasten them, concentrating not upon what she was doing but upon her body. About forty-five, estimated Fantani with professional expertise. But she’d taken care. There was hardly any droop to her ass and she’d retained the muscle control of her stomach, so that there was no unsightly bulge when she relaxed. She tossed one earring onto the table in front of her and cupped a full breast in either hand, lifting them, so the nipples rose like the noses of inquiring puppies.

‘Hector!’ she called.

‘What?’ came a muffled voice.

‘I’m sure that woman with the German ambassador has had her breasts lifted.’

‘It was his wife.’

‘What’s that got to do with it?’

‘Didn’t think you knew who she was.’

‘Of course I knew who she was. Do you think she has?’

‘What?’

‘Had her breasts lifted?’

‘I didn’t look.’

‘With a dress like that it was hardly necessary. I wonder if it hurts?’

Fantani heard but didn’t see the other door open into the room. ‘How should I know?’

The man came into view; he was wearing a robe but his socks were still supported by old fashioned suspenders, secured in an elasticized band just beneath the knee.