Ian Rankin - Westwind

He set to work, and even found a tray to put everything on before climbing the stairs. Outside Jilly’s room he paused, wondering whether it was necessary to knock. It wasn’t. The door opened suddenly from inside, and there stood Jilly, already dressed and looking fit and well. There were no signs of the night before, other than dark patches beneath her eyes.

‘Good morning,’ she said, opening the door wide to let him in. ‘Is that for me?’

She sat on the edge of the bed and accepted the tray, draining the glass of orange juice before starting on the food.

‘Aren’t you having any?’ she asked, chewing on a triangle of toast.

‘Not hungry,’ Hepton said. He sat on the padded stool beside the dressing table. Then he noticed that her hair, though drying, was wet. ‘How long have you been awake?’ he asked.

‘Not long,’ she answered. ‘I heard you in the bathroom, so I got up and took a shower.’

Yes, he had forgotten she was in the room with the en suite. ‘So how are you feeling?’

‘My head’s a bit groggy. I suppose I drank too much. But then we didn’t have anything to eat last night, did we?’

‘No, we didn’t,’ said Hepton, recalling that this was true. Neither of them had professed much of an appetite after the events of the afternoon.

Suddenly he heard a noise on the staircase, feet moving upstairs. He turned his head towards the open doorway just as Sanders appeared there. If anything, the young man was more smartly dressed than ever. He wore a stiff-looking pinstripe suit, with polished black shoes, white shirt and plum-coloured silk tie. Hepton wondered if perhaps he had been promoted overnight.

‘Ah, good,’ Sanders said. ‘You’ve eaten.’ This was plainly not true: Jilly had not yet touched the plate of bacon and egg. ‘Sorry to rush you,’ he continued, ‘but there’s a meeting in forty minutes at HQ. They’d like you to be there.’

‘Who would?’ Jilly asked through a mouthful of toast.

‘Wait and see,’ said Sanders, obviously flustered. ‘Now come on, will you, please. The traffic’s diabolical out there.’

They headed back towards the West End, Sanders driving with even less grace than usual. Hepton asked about George Villiers.

‘We’ve scoured the FO building. No trace of him. There are guards outside his flat, but he hasn’t been back there either. He does own a house somewhere in Scotland, but I think it unlikely he’d go there, although we’re keeping an eye on it. No, he’s vanished. But don’t worry. If he pops his head up from the trenches, we’ll have him.’ He grinned at them.

Jilly gripped the back of the passenger seat and pulled herself forward. Sanders flinched instinctively.

‘This is serious, you imbecile,’ she said.

Then she sat back again, bathing in Sanders’ silence. Hepton patted her knee affectionately and she winked at him. It had been a performance, but that wasn’t to say she hadn’t meant it.

As they neared Park Lane, Hepton decided that their destination must be the Achilles Hotel again, but they continued past it, then snaked left into Curzon Street. The Cavalier pulled abruptly into the side of the road and stopped. Someone opened the rear door from outside.

‘Go with him,’ Sanders ordered, sounding not a little petulant. Hepton and Jilly got out of the car, and the man who had been holding open the door now closed it. He was much the same age as Sanders, and dressed only a little less well.

‘If you’ll follow me,’ he said as Sanders drove off. Then he took them up to and through the imposing doors of the Security Service’s main headquarters.

There were six of them seated around an oval table of antique design but modern construction. When they had made themselves comfortable, the man at the head of the table called out, ‘Thank you,’ and the door was closed from the outside by one of two security men. Jilly and Hepton sat together, their section of the table blank and highly polished. In front of the others — three men and one woman (who had smiled conspiratorially towards Jilly, but not at Hepton) — were brown files and differing quantities of paper: typed reports, minutes, even a photograph or two. The man at the head of the table ran a hand over his face, as though checking the closeness of his morning shave.

‘It’s good of you to come,’ he began. ‘My name is Sir Laurence Strong.’ He was in his seventies, but his physique still matched his name, and he had a head of thick silvered hair. Nor did he appear to require spectacles, though in these days of contact lenses it was impossible to tell for sure. He introduced himself as ‘Sir’ not out of any wish to impress, but because it was a fact. ‘This,’ he continued, gesturing towards the woman, ‘is my personal assistant, Louisa Marchant.’ She smiled again, including Hepton in her compass this time. She was younger than Sir Laurence, in her early sixties perhaps. Smaller and plumper, too, with steel-rimmed glasses behind which her sharp blue eyes glistened. Sir Laurence now nodded in the direction of a man of similar age to himself. ‘Allow me to introduce—’ It was as far as he got.

‘Blast you, Laurence, I can make my own introductions.’ The man turned to Hepton and Jilly. His face was stern, as though he were late for something else of more importance. What Sanders had said was true: the two intelligence services did not get on, even at their upper echelons. ‘Blake Farquharson,’ the man said. Then, with a glance towards Sir Laurence, ‘Not yet knighted. This is my assistant, Tony Poulson.’ His finger was stabbing towards the man next to him, who nodded agreement. Farquharson and Poulson were like young-and-old versions of the same person: same thinning hair, same thick black-rimmed glasses, same grimly set faces and worry lines.

‘Fine,’ said Jilly. ‘We know who you are now, but not what you are.’

‘Of course.’ This from Sir Laurence again, seeming more urbane with every moment. ‘I’m director general of what you probably know as MI5.’

‘Ditto MI6,’ snapped Farquharson.

Jilly nodded satisfaction, trying to look less impressed than she actually felt. She knew journalists who would give their non-writing arm for the chance to sit in the same room as the heads of both intelligence services.

‘So,’ said Hepton, ‘what can we do for you?’

‘Well, for a start,’ said Sir Laurence, ‘bearing in mind that Miss Watson is a journalist, though with no disrespect to that estimable profession’ — there were smirks at this — ‘we would remind you both that you have signed the Official Secrets Act. Now, that being understood, really what we’d like is your version of events thus far.’

Jilly nodded towards the file in front of him. ‘Isn’t it all in there?’

He laid a proprietorial hand on the cover of the file. ‘Oh yes,’ he said. ‘But these are... facts. What we’d like now are opinions, thoughts.’

‘Thoughts?’ She leaned forward in her chair. ‘I’ve been doing plenty of thinking this past day, and I’ll tell you what I think.’ Hepton had to admire her. Coming to London had made her more assertive, not afraid to voice her opinions or to ask for other people’s. She held up one finger. ‘I think you don’t want the American troops to pull out of Britain.’ Another finger. ‘I think the military is planning a coup, and I think you’re going to let them do it.’ A third. ‘I think they’re being aided by the Americans, and I think both countries are going to turn themselves into fortresses.’ She paused, but no one seemed ready to refute her allegations, so she continued. ‘What I’d like to know is how much the government knows.’ The three fingers became one, pointed straight at Sir Laurence. ‘How much do you know? The prime minister is still head of the Security Service, isn’t that right?’