would wire Bonn for a photocopy of Schwarzâs picture just to confirm it, but the coincidence was already too close. Schwarz had been anglicised to Black; he had claimed to have served under the General.
Why had he contacted Paula Stanley? Why, after all these years, had the little bastard risked disclosing himself? Just to effect a reunion â to drop hints and test her reaction? It sounded unlikely. She had described him as eccentric. Maybe this would account for the lack of caution. But nothing would persuade Fisher that he had found her and introduced himself without a purpose. And whatever the purpose was, she hadnât told Fisher about it. His invitation to dinner was not entirely motivated by her attractiveness. There was something he had to know, and somehow he had to make her tell him. Seeing the parents was a formality he couldnât neglect; but if there was a lead anywhere, and he had begun to feel a strange conviction that there was, then it would be found through Paula Stanley.
CHAPTER THREE
âI tried to telephone your office, my dear, but you hadnât come back from lunch. So I thought Iâd just pop round.â
Paula had opened the flat door and found her stepfather standing there. He looked embarrassed, and then cheerful. He had a permanent air of bonhomie which Paula found extremely depressing. âWhat a nice surprise, Gerald. Come in and have a drink.â He had sat in the little drawing room, made the same soothing remarks about the decorations as he had done on his last visit, and fidgeted until she could have screamed at him to get to the point and stop going round in circles of small talk. When it came out, it was unusually simple, as if the effort to approach her with tact had exhausted him.
âI had to come and see you, Paula. Your motherâs very worried.â
âOh? Iâm sorry to hear that. What about?â She knew before he said it. She knew exactly what was worrying her mother and why the Brigadier had left his comfortable nest in Essex and made the trip to London.
âSheâs not been sleeping,â he explained. âI made her go to the doctor yesterday. You told her something that upset her. Something to do with your father.â
âThatâs right, I did. I said a friend of his had asked to see me. She didnât want me to; we had a row about it last weekend. I know she told you about it, Gerald. Sheâs never kept anything secret from you. And you want to know what I did, isnât that it?â
âYes, put like that, I suppose it is.â The false cheerfulness had been sloughed off; he looked a worried old man, deep creases between his brows, a resentful expression on his face. âWhat did you do, Paula? Did you take your motherâs advice? Or did you see this man?â
âI saw him,â Paula said. âLast Monday, in my office. We talked about my father and he told me quite a lot about him.â
âOh, Christ.â The Brigadier put his head in his hands. âWhy couldnât you have left it alone? If you knew what an agony your motherâs gone through â¦â
âI donât know anything about my mother,â she said coldly. âSheâs never confided in me. Sheâs never talked to me or told me anything. Sheâs kept me at a distance all my life. And why do you say Christ like that? Why shouldnât I hear about my father!â
His face had reddened; he straightened up in his chair and glared at her.
âBecause of what it means to her! She deserves to be left in peace now. Donât you realise how old she is?â
âWhatâs that got to do with it? Itâs not as if she loved my father! Sheâs never cared for anyone but you. Donât tell me she canât stand the painful memories â itâs over twenty-five years ago. Iâm sorry, Gerald, but I have a right to know about the other side of my family.â
âEven at