Free Secret Asset by Stella Rimington Page B

fortune helping some bank trying to get established in the Middle East. But no it wasn’t that either.” Watts paused, as if revolted by the memory. When he spoke again it was with his pipe stem half in his mouth, so he was quite literally biting his words. “He told me he wanted to work for you people. On the home front is how he put it to me. Said he wanted to tackle the security threats direct. I asked him if he’d really worked so hard and done so well in order to become some kind of bloody policeman.”
    Out of nowhere, Peggy piped up for only the second time that day. “What did Tom say?”
    Watts turned and gave Peggy a contemptuous look for her impertinence. Patronising old buffer, thought Liz, he’d have an absolute heart attack if he knew Peggy was from Six.
    He spoke now with an angry current to his voice. “He laughed, and said I didn’t understand.” From Watts’s expression, it was clear this was the ultimate sin.

11
    B ack in London early that evening, Liz dropped Peggy off and drove straight home. She took an unenthusiastic look at the sparse contents of her fridge and decided she wasn’t feeling hungry. The light on her answering machine was blinking, and reluctantly she went across to play back the messages, hoping that it wasn’t someone from the office. She was tired: what she wanted more than anything else was a deep bath, a large vodka tonic, and bed.
    The voice on the phone was faint and slightly hesitant. It took Liz, still contemplating her various meetings in the day, several seconds to realise it was her mother. She was talking about the nursery—how it was suddenly busy after the long flat winter.
    Then her voice changed gear, sounding almost artificially light, as if keen to deal quickly with a less pleasant subject. “Barlow rang,” her mother said, and Liz’s ears pricked up. He was her mother’s GP. “Those tests have come back and he wants me to come in. Such a bore.” There was a pause. “Anyway, give me a ring, darling, when you can. Though I’m just off now, but I’ll be in tomorrow night.”
    This was not good news. Her mother was a reluctant patient, who saw her GP only when all else—stiff upper lip, hot toddies, simple stoicism—had failed. Barlow must be insisting she come in to see him, which was worrying.
    Liz poured herself a stiffish vodka. She was turning on the bath taps when the phone rang.
    It was Dave Armstrong. “Hi, Liz, where have you been?” he asked. “I’ve been looking for you all day.”
    â€œI’ve been doing something for Charles,” she said. Feeling unwilling to explain further, she changed the subject. “Any luck with the photos?”
    â€œNot yet, but there are more coming.”
    â€œHow’s our friend?”
    â€œOkay so far.” The odds of their conversation being intercepted by the wrong people were virtually nil, but like everyone in their profession they had an inbuilt wariness of the telephone.
    â€œI was trying to find you,” said Dave, “to say I had to see a contact in Islington. I was going to offer to buy you the world’s best Indian meal. The offer’s still open.”
    â€œOh that’s nice of you,” she said, “but I can barely keep my eyes open. I’d be terrible company. Let’s make it another time.”
    â€œNo problem,” Dave said, habitually cheerful. “See you back at the farm.”
    Liz went to check her bath. It was true she was tired, yet most times she would have joined Dave anyway, since she always liked his company. Tonight, however, with the worry about her mother, she wouldn’t have enjoyed herself.
    Getting into the bath, she thought, I have to do something about this room. Unwisely, when she’d bought the flat she had decided to wall-paper the walls in the bathroom in a lively lemon yellow that was now looking distinctly bleached