Free Holly Lester by Andrew Rosenheim Page A

loud cry of pure joy. He was so startled by this that he climaxed immediately, and collapsed in her arms, which now enfolded him.
    â€˜I suppose we should have closed the window,’ she whispered.
    â€˜Never mind,’ he said, and got out of bed to shut it. Looking down, he wondered what pedestrians below hurrying for their post-work appointments with private medicine would have made of Holly’s exuberant outburst. ‘Tell me something,’ he said, for his curiosity was still piqued, ‘how
did
your lot know about Nichols?’
    She reached for her handbag on the floor, and sat up in the bed. She took out a packet of cigarettes and lit one.
    â€˜I didn’t know you smoked.’
    â€˜Do you mind?’
    He shook his head. ‘No, I’m just surprised, that’s all.’
    â€˜I smoke very rarely,’ she said, inhaling. ‘And never in front of the cameras.’
    He sat down on the edge of the bed. ‘So how did you find out about Nichols?’
    â€˜You simply won’t be put off the scent, will you? Since you must know, it’s a source in Central Office.’
    â€˜A spy?’
    She looked startled, then thoughtful. ‘I suppose he is. Though really more a disaffected Thatcherite who can’t abide the Prime Minister. Someone who’d rather see us in than have things continue as they are. You’d be surprised: a lot of Tories feel that way.’
    â€˜But how did you find this spy? Did he come to you?’ Billings had film-induced visions of defectors – some powerful, like Ames, the CIA man who sent dozens of colleagues to their deaths; others less so, occasionally even ludicrous, like Michael Bettany, knocking on the Soviet mission front door in broad daylight.
    â€˜Alan got to know him.’ She took another drag on her cigarette; like most occasional smokers Billings knew, she seemed to relish a smoke. ‘Same social set.’ She jiggled her wrist in a camp parody, then put a hand to her mouth in feigned disappointment. ‘I’m not being very PC, am I?’
    â€˜As you keep telling me, I’m not exactly a model myself. So gayness takes priority over politics?’
    â€˜Not at all. They both want the Tories out – that’s the important thing. Being gay is just a shared extra.’
    â€˜I see. A bonus.’
    She giggled, then added firmly, ‘perhaps. But there’s another spy, more important actually, who’s perfectly straight.’ She sat up. ‘There’s an ashtray in the drawer. Could I have it please?’
    He found it, and she stubbed her cigarette out. He asked, ‘Alan is Alan Trachtenberg, isn’t he?’
    It was her turn to look surprised. ‘Of course. You haven’t met him yet, but you will.’
    â€˜Really? Why? Does he know about us meeting here?’
    â€˜Not to worry. He’s very discreet.’
    This didn’t answer his question. ‘It’s his flat, isn’t it?’
    Her eyes widened. ‘How do you know that?’
    â€˜Just guessing,’ he said, which was true.
    â€˜You mustn’t breathe a word of that,’ she said urgently. ‘Nobody knows.’
    â€˜Why does it matter? Whose flat do they think it is?’
    â€˜Sally Kimmo. She’s a friend. A very rich friend. She has more properties than I have shoes.’
    He recognized the name from the post-box downstairs. ‘And?’ he asked proddingly.
    â€˜And she gave the flat to Alan. You have to understand, he hasn’t got a bean. His whole life up to now’s been politics. And he’s not
from
money.’
    â€˜So does he live here?’
    She shook her head. ‘No. He lives in Westbourne Grove. With a friend. But never mind that, just don’t tell anyone please. I think I’m the only person who knows – except for Sally Kimmo and Alan of course.’
    â€˜And me,’ he said a little smugly. ‘But don’t worry –