John Carré - A Delicate Truth

‘Yes, well, reliving it doesn’t bring him back, does it, Brigid?’ said Harry. ‘I think Toby here deserves a cup of tea, don’t you, Toby? Coming all this way for his friend, that’s what I call loyalty. And a piece of Danny’s shortbread that you made with him, Brigid.’

‘They couldn’t wait to cremate him either. Suicides jump the queue, Mr Bell, in case you should ever have the problem.’ She had flopped from the arm into the chair, and was thrusting her pelvis at him in some kind of sexual contempt. ‘I had the pleasure of washing his fucking van out, didn’t I? Soon as they’d had their way with it. “Here you are, Mrs Owens, it’s all yours now.” Nice polite people, mind you, in Somerset. Very courteous to a lady. Treated me like a colleague too. There was a couple from the Met there. Directing operations for their country brothers.’

‘Brigid didn’t phone me, not till dinner time, she wouldn’t,’ Harry explained. ‘I’d lessons back to back. She knew that, which was very considerate on your part, wasn’t it, Brigid? You can’t let fifty children run wild for two hours, can you?’

‘Lent me their fucking hose too, which was nice. You’d think cleaning it out would be part of the service, wouldn’t you? But not with the austerity, not in Somerset. “Now are you quite sure you’ve done all your forensics?” I asked them, “because I don’t want to be the one to wash away the clues, now.” “We’ve all the clues we need, thank you, Mrs Owens, and here’s a scrubbing brush for you, in case you need it.”’

‘You’re just upsetting yourself, Brigid,’ Harry warned from the kitchen alcove, filling a kettle and putting out pieces of shortbread.

‘I’m not upsetting Mr Bell, though, am I? Look at him. He’s a model of composure. I’m a woman playing catch-up on my dead husband, who is a dead stranger to me, you see, Mr Bell. Until three years ago I knew Jeb very well indeed, and so did Danny. The man we knew three years ago would not have killed himself with a fucking short-barrelled pistol, or a long-barrelled one for that matter. He’d never have left his son without a fucking father or his wife without a husband. Danny was the world to him. Even after Jeb turned bloody mad, it was Danny, Danny. Shall I tell you something about suicide that isn’t generally known, Mr Bell?’

‘Toby doesn’t need this, Brigid. I’m sure he’s a well-informed young gentleman who’s familiar with the psychology and suchlike. Am I not right, Toby?’

‘It’s fucking murder is what suicide is, Mr Bell. Never mind you murder yourself along with it. It’s other people you’re after killing. Three years ago I’d a great marriage going to the man of my dreams. I wasn’t bad myself, which he was good enough to comment on frequently. I’m a good fuck and he loved me full on, or so he said. Gave me every reason to believe him. I still do. I believe him. I love him. Always did. But I don’t believe the bastard who shot himself to kill us, and I don’t love him either. I hate him. Because if he did that, he is a bastard, I don’t care what the fucking cause was.’

If he did that? Was the if delivered with greater force than she intended? Or was this merely Toby’s imagination?

‘And come to think of it, I don’t know what it was drove him round the fucking bend in the first place. I never did. He’d had a bad mission. There’d been some wrong killing. That was my full ration. After that, I could sing for it. Maybe you and your friend Paul know. Maybe Jeb trusted your friend Paul the way he wouldn’t trust me, his fucking wife. Maybe the police know too. Maybe the whole fucking street knows, and me and Danny and Harry here are the only odd ones out.’

‘Going over it won’t help, Brigid,’ Harry said, unwrapping a packet of paper napkins. ‘It won’t help you , it won’t help Danny. And I don’t expect it will help Toby here. Will it, Toby?’ – passing him a cup of tea with a piece of sugared shortbread on the saucer, and a paper napkin.

‘I come out the fucking constabulary for Jeb, once we knew Danny was on his way. Lost my seniority pay and the promotion that was round the corner. We were both off the slag heap, what with Jeb’s dad a useless layabout and no mother, and me never knowing who my dad was, and my mother not bloody knowing neither. But we was going to be straight, decent people if it killed us. Got myself a course in Physical Education, all so’s we could make a home for Danny.’

‘And she’s the best PE teacher the school’s ever had, or likely to, aren’t you, Brigid?’ Harry said. ‘All our children love her, and Danny’s proud of her you wouldn’t believe. We all are.’

‘What do you teach?’ Toby asked Harry.

‘Arithmetic, all the way up to A level, when I’ve got the pupils, don’t I, Brigid?’ – handing her a cup of tea as well.

‘So is your friend Mr Paul down in Cornwall some kind of fucking psychiatrist Jeb was hooked on, or what?’ Brigid demanded.

‘No. Not a psychiatrist, I’m afraid.’

‘And you’re not a gentleman of the press? You’re quite sure of that?’

‘I’m sure I’m not press.’

‘So if you don’t mind me being inquisitive, Mr Bell: if you’re not press and your pal Paul’s not a shrink, what the fuck are you?’

‘Now Brigid,’ said Harry.

‘I’m here purely privately,’ said Toby.

‘Then what the hell are you purely publicly , may I ask?’

‘Publicly, I’m a member of the Foreign Office.’

But instead of the explosion he was expecting, all he got was a sustained critical examination.

‘And your friend Paul ? Would he be from the Foreign Office too at all?’ – not releasing him from her gaze, which was wide and green-eyed.

‘Paul’s retired.’

‘And would Paul be somebody Jeb knew, like, three years back?’

‘Yes. He would.’

‘Professionally then?’

‘Yes.’

‘And would that have been what their summit conference was going to be about, Jeb and Paul’s, if Jeb hadn’t blown his head off the day before? Something in the professional line, for example, from three years back?’

‘Yes. It would,’ Toby replied steadily. ‘That was the connection between them. They didn’t know each other well, but they were on the way to becoming friends.’

Her eyes had still not left his face, and they didn’t now:

‘Harry. I’m worried about Danny. Would you kindly go over to Jenny’s a minute and make sure he hasn’t fallen off his fucking bike. He’s only had it a day.’

Toby and Brigid were alone, and some kind of guarded understanding was forming between them as each waited for the other to speak.

‘So should I be calling up the Foreign Office in London to check you out, then?’ Brigid asked in a noticeably less strident voice. ‘Confirming that Mr Bell is who he says he is?’

‘I don’t think Jeb would have liked you to do that.’

‘And your friend Paul? What about him? Would he like it?’

‘No.’

‘And you wouldn’t either?’

‘I’d lose my job.’

‘This conversation they were proposing to have. Would it have been about a certain Operation Wildlife at all?’

‘Why? Did Jeb tell you about it?’

‘About the operation? You’re joking. White-hot tongs wouldn’t have dragged it out of him. It stank, but it was duty.’

‘Stank how?’

‘Jeb didn’t like mercs, never did. In it for the ride and the money, they are. Think they’re heroes when they’re fucking psychos. “I fight for my country, Brigid. Not for the fucking multinationals with their offshore bank accounts.” Except he didn’t say fucking , if I’m honest. Jeb was Chapel. Didn’t swear and couldn’t drink above a couple of sips. God knows what I am. Fucking Prot, I’m told. I’d have to be, wouldn’t I, for the fucking Royal Ulster Constabulary?’