Gerald Seymour - Archangel

There was a lecturer in Mechanical Engineering at the Kingston Technical College across the river from Hampton Wick.

Millet took the bus to the pre-war inelegance of the College close to the Thames towpath and blessed the warmth that he found on the upper deck.

The lecturer was at first impatient at being called from a tutorial session, before his vanity was fed the magical words of 'Foreign and Commonwealth Office'. He wore a bow tie, a corduroy jacket, and suede shoes and appeared to Millet to be well-distanced from any workshop floor. He sat his guest down in a cubbyhole office, mixed instant coffee with the help of a whistling electric kettle, and rambled into a monologue of his thoughts on Michael Holly.

'Academically there wasn't anything to shout from the ceilings, in fact I don't think that he found the work easy, but there was a dedication there that some of his contem-poraries of the same ability could have used. If he didn't understand something, he was reluctant to stand up and ask, instead he'd worry it out himself, sometimes I reckoned he'd been at it all night. If I asked a question of him then he'd answer seriously, but if 1 floated a question and waited to see which of the students would pick it up 1 could guarantee that it would never be Holly. He had no thought of impressing me, or anyone else for that matter. I don't think he had many friends here, certainly none that would have lasted after he took his diploma. He was never on for 'A's, not in written work or practical, but the 'B's were consistent enough. You know in a funny sort of way he was really rather prim. There was once some heroin floating round the college and there were two students who were the pushers – that's the phrase for them I think – and they were both beaten up. I don't mean they were just knocked about a bit

… they were smashed, stitches and a fractured jaw for one, severe abdominal bruising for the other. You could see the scratches on Holly's knuckles for days afterwards, and no one ever said anything about it. It was just not referred to

… I read about the poor devil, that those buggers trumped up an espionage charge against him and he's years to serve in Russia. I hope I'm not being facetious, but they'll have a hell of a time with him… I'll put it another way to you, Mr Millet. He was a little bit frightening. He could make the rest of us, adults and kids, seem rather frivolous. Nobody likes that, do they?'

On to the parish priest of St Mary's and St Peter's. Tea and a plain biscuit in a brick-built vicarage's front room.

'I'm not going to be able to help you, Mr Millet. Yes, I was aware of him, but I never managed to lassoo him. He never attended worship, he never came to the Youth Hall. I thought he might have had a place at the Youth, it seemed to me that he might have been a leader if he'd had the encouragement. I tried and I failed, Mr Millet. It was a disappointment to me. Well, you're always sorry if you let slip someone you think might be a leader. How did I know he was leadership stuff? You can tell, Mr Millet, it's not something that can be hidden. All I can say is that I failed, and in this particular case I regret that failure.'

He took a train back to London, and a taxi over to Charing Cross. Then another train towards the Kent commuter belt, and Dartford. Off the train before its route reached the suburbs. At the station he asked for directions to the industrial estate, and walked it in a quarter of an hour.

Letterworth Engineering and Manufacturing Company, the sign said. Mark Letterworth was a tall man with the weight of the recession hanging heavy on his face and shoulders.

'I tell you this, Mr Millet, two or three years ago I wouldn't have had the time to sit down and chatter about a chap I haven't seen for more than a year. That I've got the time is a bloody disaster. I've the bank breathing at me, and forty-two wage packets to fill on Friday morning, and the phone isn't ringing with customers. I'll tell you this so that you know I've problems too. Not problems like young Michael's, but I've enough to be going on with. I'll tell you this too, and this is for nothing, somebody dumped that boy right in the shit, somebody dropped him in the shit from a great old height. You see I never believe in smoke without fire, and when our man is nicked on a spying charge then I say to myself that somebody got at him, somebody asked a favour of him, somebody got round him. I don't know whether you've ever been to Russia, Mr Millet, I have. I was regular there. Right? It's not the easiest of places, but business works there, and business is money, and money is wages, and wages are what keeps my work-force happy.

Understand me, Mr Millet? What I know of Moscow is that you keep your nose clean and do the work you've set out to achieve, and that way there's no hassle. I'll tell you this… three times before he went, Michael asked me for time to go up to London and said he was having problems with his visa. Three trips up to London. I've never had to have more than one trip to the Consulate for any visa of mine. Somebody lined him up, and that somebody is no friend of mine, Mr Millet. I don't know what productivity you have to show in your job, in mine it's the order book. I needed that custom out of the Soviet Union, I needed it bloody badly.

We've been frozen out there, and that order was worth a couple of million sterling, and that adds up to a hefty pile of wage packets. You asked me what he was like, Mr Millet…

I was going to make him a director, bloody good young man, tough and fair and straight. Nobody walked over him, not me, not the customer, not the work-force. It's a bloody tragedy he's where he is, and that's the truth. The place is the poorer without him… that what you want to know, Mr Millet? The only thing that didn't work for him was his marriage, perhaps his wife will give, you a different s i d e… don't tell me that you didn't know he was married and separated, Mr Millet… bit bloody thin on the ground-work, aren't you?'

Before he reached the small block of a dozen bed-sitter flats, Alan Millet knew this would be his last call.

Still the rain, all week it had rained, and his coat was barely dried out from the previous evening and his shoes were still wet and had rejected the polish he had attempted over his breakfast. This would be the last call, and after that the heat of the office at Century that he shared with two others. One more visit and the picture of the man who had taken the package to Moscow would be fuller and acceptable as a memorandum to the Deputy Under Secretary.

There had been no difficulty in finding her. A marriage certificate in London and the telephone book had done the work for him. He hadn't rung to make an appointment, better to turn up at the door and press the bell like any other cheapskate private detective. Well, he wasn't much more, was he? Padding the streets and prying into the window of a man's life, and the trail turned him towards the second-floor flat of Mrs Angela Holly (nee Wells), two miles from the home of her former husband and parents-in-law. Eight o'clock in the morning, and if she went to work then he hoped still to be in time to catch her before she locked the front door and shut out the intrusion of a man from the Service.

A radio played inside the flat, the bell tinkled under his finger.

She was very pretty.

Straight blonde hair, slender-faced and with a wide mouth of expectancy as if everything that happened that was a surprise was excitement and welcomed. A green sweater that flattered and a knitted skirt that matched. A pretty girl and one that should be with a man, not a girl who should have sat beside a solicitor in a High Street divorce court.

Millet had played the images game on the pavement outside, had anticipated a tousled woman who wore badges of failure.