Free Crossfire by Dick;Felix Francis Francis

That’s the physical side; mentally he’s as rampant as ever.”
    “I can see that would be a tad frustrating,” I said.
    “A tad? I’ll tell you, it’s extremely frustrating. And for both of us.” She looked at me as if in embarrassment. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have said anything. Far too much information.”
    “It’s fine,” I said. “I’m really quite discreet. I’ll only tell the Sunday papers if they pay me well.”
    She laughed.
    “From what the Sunday papers said after our wedding, you’d believe that I only married him for the money and that sex between a twenty-three-year-old woman and a man nearing sixty was all in the imagination—his imagination, that is. What rubbish. It was the sex that attracted me to him in the first place.”
    I sat in silence, just listening. What could I say?
    “I was eighteen when I first met him. He was fifty-four, but he didn’t look it. He used to play golf with my dad every Sunday morning. Then one Sunday when Mum and Dad were away, he came round to make sure everything was OK. It seems Dad hadn’t told Jackson he wouldn’t be playing golf that week, at least that’s what Jackson told me at the time, but I’ve since often wondered if it was true.” She smiled. “Anyway, to cut a long story short, we ended up in bed together.” She laughed. “And the rest is history, or in the papers, at least.”
    “Was Jackson married at the time?”
    “Oh yes,” she said. “With two children. They’re both older than me. But his wife was already ill by then. She had breast cancer. I helped look after her for nearly three years until she died.”
    “Were you sleeping with him all the time?” I asked.
    She smiled again. “Of course.”
    “But did you live in their house?”
    “Not to start with, but I did for the last six months or so of Barbara’s life. His son and daughter treated me as their kid sister.”
    “But did they know you were sleeping with their father?”
    “They didn’t exactly say so,” she said, “but I think they knew. Their mother certainly did.”
    “What? Jackson’s wife knew that he was sleeping with you?”
    “Absolutely. We discussed it. She even gave me advice about what he liked. She used to say it took the pressure off her.”
    Annoyingly, at this point we arrived at Pirbright Camp, so I heard no more juicy Warren revelations.
    Isabella remained in her car while I went into the guardroom to sign in.
    “Sorry, sir,” said the corporal behind the desk. “I can’t let a civilian onto the camp without suitable ID.”
    “What sort of suitable ID does she need?” I asked him.
    “A driver’s license or passport,” he said.
    She had neither with her. I’d already asked.
    “Can’t I vouch for her?” I asked.
    “Not without proper authority.”
    “Well, get the proper authority,” I said in my most commanding officer voice.
    “I can’t, sir,” he said. “You would have to apply to the adjutant, and he’s away.”
    I sighed. “So what do you expect me to do?” I asked him.
    “You can go in, sir, but you’ll have to walk to get your car.”
    “But it’s miles away.” The park was at the other end of the camp.
    “Sorry, sir,” he said adamantly. “That’s the security rules we’ve been told. No ID, no entrance.”
    I suppose it was fair. In the army one learned very early on that rules were rules. Security was security, after all.
    “Can you please get me some transport, then,” I said.
    “Sorry, sir,” he said again. “There’s nothing available.”
    I stepped back and lifted my right trouser leg up six inches. “How am I going to walk to my car with this damn thing?” I lifted my foot up and down with its familiar metallic clink.
    “Afghanistan?” the corporal asked.
    I nodded. “IED. In Helmand,” I said. “Four months ago.”
    “No problem, then, sir,” he said, suddenly making a decision. “Just get the lady to hand this in when she leaves.” He handed me a temporary vehicle pass. “Just