Free Legacy by Alan Judd Page A

was on the phone. While
making the tea he reflected that he would normally have described himself as decisive.
    His mother came into the kitchen. ‘Oh, Charles, I forgot to tell you. Someone from your office rang when you were out. They want you to ring back.’
    ‘Who?’
    ‘I wrote it down. Where did I put it? It’s not by the phone. I think I thought I’d better hide it.’
    ‘Man or woman?’
    ‘Here it is, by the Marmite. I knew Marmite would remind me, you see, because you were bound to want some. A man called Hugo March. Here’s his number. He didn’t say what it was
about and I didn’t ask. He sounded very important – well, at least, he sounded like that. You know what I mean. You don’t come across many Hugos nowadays.’
    The study extension was more private. He shut the door. ‘Hallo?’ Anna’s voice had a slight catch in it as she pronounced the ‘h’. ‘Hugo’s out, doing his
duty with the girls. He won’t be long.’ There was a slight pause. ‘It’s nice to speak to you again.’ He asked how her midweek dinner party had gone. ‘You must
come one week,’ she said, ‘if you’re not too busy. Though I’m sure you’ve got many more exciting things to do.’
    ‘I’d love to.’ He felt now that he had been decisively right not to ring Rebecca.
    Hugo returned while they were talking. ‘Fancy a run?’ he asked.
    ‘I’ve just had one.’
    ‘Have another at six thirty tomorrow morning in the park. We’ve just learned from Chef that Lover Boy is going for one. Ideal chance for you to bump him with no one else
about.’ ‘Chef’ was the name given to the telephone intercept material. ‘We need to have a chat first about what you’re going to say and so on. No chance you could come
round here tonight, I s’pose?’
    ‘Fine.’
    His mother was resigned to work taking priority over dinner. He promised he would be back that night or the next day.
    Hugo’s house was a substantial chunk of Wandsworth Edwardiana, three-storeyed, high-ceilinged, with a neglected front garden and stained-glass door. The hall was cluttered with
children’s toys and shoes. Hugo twice tripped on a large doll while ushering Charles in. ‘Anna, for goodness’ sake!’ he called. ‘She’s upstairs putting the
children to bed. Be down soon. Drink?’
    They drank dry white wine while discussing what Charles should do. Lover Boy’s usual route was a slow jog in a wide circle, nothing too taxing. Charles would intercept him and feign
surprised recognition. It would be a success if he could get him to exchange addresses and telephone numbers, a bonus if they actually arranged to meet again. That was unlikely, on first encounter,
and Charles shouldn’t push even on Lover Boy’s address if he sensed reluctance. They could always contrive another encounter.
    ‘It goes without saying you mustn’t hint at his girlfriend or anything. This must appear a completely fortuitous and unthreatening encounter, nothing he need feel uneasy about
reporting to the embassy security officer, because he will report, if he’s got any sense. They’ll suspect provocation, of course, because that’s their job, and anyway
they’re like that, and the other way round in Moscow it would be, of course. Well, it is here, of course, this time, but normally it wouldn’t be, if you see what I mean. Anyway, what we
must hope is that they’ll let it run long enough for us to show him that you know what he’s up to. Then you can talk on different terms, if he wants. Or not. Nothing lost if he
doesn’t and no need for Foreign Office clearance at this stage since we’re not making a pitch or doing anything that could result in a protest.’
    After making an appropriate number of protests, and Anna an appropriate number of disclaimers about the meal, Charles stayed for dinner. It was spaghetti bolognese.
    ‘We have proper lunches at weekends,’ said Hugo, ‘so it’s always something like spag bog in the evening. Did