Free A Dangerous Place by Jacqueline Winspear

madam?”
    â€œYes, please, Mr. Kenyon. And let’s not start off on the wrong foot—you know my name very well, you know where I am staying, and I daresay you know an awful lot more about me.”
    Kenyon took a seat.
    â€œI don’t know what—”
    Salazar returned with two cups of coffee and two plates of the sweet bread, which he set down in front of Maisie and her guest.
    â€œThank you, Mr. Salazar,” said Maisie.
    Kenyon nodded.
    Maisie watched as Salazar walked away, then turned to Kenyon. “You know exactly what I’m talking about. Please—I have neither the time nor the energy for us to wallow in contradicting each other. Now, then, are you working for Julian Compton or Brian Huntley?”
    â€œI don’t—”
    â€œYou do. Please do not insult me, Mr. Kenyon.”
    The man sighed, pushing up his sleeves. “Huntley.”
    â€œGood, that’s a start. Have you heard the name Compton during your communications?”
    â€œOnly as far as you’re concerned.”
    Maisie nodded. “I am using my maiden name here in Gibraltar. For personal reasons, not for reasons of security, though that possibility has only just occurred to me—surprisingly.” She paused, lifting the cup and sipping the coffee. “How often do you communicate with Huntley?”
    Kenyon fidgeted in his chair, leaning back and crossing his legs, leaning forward again. He took a packet of cigarettes from an inside pocket of his black waistcoat, tapped out a cigarette, and held the packet toward Maisie.
    She shook her head, biting her lip.
    â€œDo you mind if I smoke?” he asked.
    â€œIf it makes you a bit easier to talk to, go ahead.” She set down her cup and pushed back her chair a couple of inches. Reaching for the pan dulce , she pulled off a piece of the bread, which she dipped in her coffee before eating. She wiped the corners of her mouth with her fingers—there were no table napkins—then picked up the cup and took another sip.
    â€œSo—it’s Huntley. How often do you send in a report, and how do you communicate?”
    Kenyon shrugged. “Every two days. I go to the garrison—I have a pass—and send my report from there.”
    â€œI see. And you receive your orders at the same time?”
    He nodded.
    â€œBut you’re also in contact with Inspector Marsh, yes?”
    â€œHow do you know all this?” Kenyon leaned forward, his voice low, though he still looked around to see if anyone had overheard.
    â€œCalm down a bit, Mr. Kenyon. We wouldn’t want to attract attention.” Maisie sipped her coffee, again holding the cup with both hands. “It seems you know a fair bit about me—or perhaps you don’t—but I could tell you exactly when you began following me, and exactly when I first saw you with Inspector Marsh. I wonder you have time to lift a hammer and chisel, Mr. Carpenter Kenyon, given the energy you’ve dedicated to being on my tail.”
    â€œWhy did you want to talk to me?” Kenyon leaned back. He placed his cigarette on the ashtray, tore off a strip of the bread from his plate, and dipped it in his coffee before eating it. He smiled. “I’ve never done that before. It tastes good.”
    Maisie looked up at other customers eating and drinking, at those who passed by. Her eyes lingered on sailors being moved on by a shore patrol.
    â€œI want you to help me,” she said.
    Kenyon laughed, shaking his head.
    â€œI’m not making a joke, Mr. Kenyon. I want to find out who killed Sebastian Babayoff, and I’ve realized I need help. I do not know Gibraltar, and it’s hampering me. I don’t quite understand the people yet, though I’m getting by. But I don’t have time to undergo a cultural education, so I need some assistance, and I’ve decided you’re my best bet. In return, I will give you information to feed back to