‘He’s not a thief! He’s a man. He’s ten times the man you are.’
‘Oh sure, sure. You were big scale you two. I’ve heard all that crap, believe me. You lived in the big unspoken part of life, didn’t you? You were the artists, and Rawley was the poor bloody technician. You had souls, you two, you heard voices; Rawley just picked up the bits because he loved you. And all the time I thought they were sniggering about Jenny Pargiter. Christ Almighty! Poor sod,’ he said, looking out of the window. ‘Poor bastard. I’ll never like Bradfield, that’s for sure; but Christ, he has my full sympathy.’
Leaving some money on the table he followed her down the stone steps. She was frightened.
‘He never mentioned Margaret Aickman to you, I suppose? He was going to marry her, you know. She was the only woman he loved.’
‘He never loved anyone but me.’
‘But he didn’t mention her? He did to other people, you see. Everyone except you. She was his big love!’
‘I don’t believe it, I’ll never believe it! ,
He pulled open the car door and leaned in after her. ‘You’re all right, aren’t you? You’ve touched the hem. He loved you. The whole bloody world can go to war as long as you have your little boy!’
‘Yes. I’ve touched the hem. He was real with me. I made him real. He’s real whatever he’s doing now. That was our time, and I’m not going to let you destroy it: you or anyone else. He found me.’
‘What else did he find?’
Miraculously, the car started.
‘He found me, and whatever he found down there was the other part of coming alive.’
‘Down? Down where? Where did he go? Tell me! You know! What was it he said to you?’
She drove away, not looking back, quite slowly, up the esplanade into the evening and the small lights.
The Opel drew out, preparing to follow her. Turner let it pass, then ran across the road and jumped into a taxi.
The Embassy car park was full, the guard was doubled at the gate. Once more, the Ambassador’s Rolls-Royce waited at the door like an ancient ship to bear him to the storm. As Turner ran up the steps, his raincoat flying behind him, he held the key ready in his hand.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The Glory Hole
Two Queen’s messengers stood at the desk, their black leather pouches hung like parachute harnesses over their regimental blazers.
‘Who’s Duty Officer?’ Turner snapped.
‘I thought you’d gone,’ said Gaunt. ‘Seven o’clock yesterday, that’s what-‘
There was a creak of leather as the messengers hastily made room for him.
‘I want the keys.’
Gaunt saw the cuts on Turner’s face and his eyes opened wide. ‘Ring the Duty Officer.’ Turner picked up the receiver and offered it to him across the desk. ‘Tell him to come down with the keys. Now!’
Gaunt was protesting. The lobby swung a little and held still. Turner heard his silly Welsh bleat, half complaining, half flattering, and he grasped him roughly by the arm and pulled him into the dark corridor.
‘If you don’t do as I say, I’ll see they post the hell out of you for the rest of your natural life.’
‘The keys aren’t drawn, I tell you.’
‘Where are they?’
‘I’ve got them here. In the safe. But you can’t have them, not without a signature, you know that very well!’
‘I don’t want them. I want you to count them, that’s all. Count the bloody keys!’
The messengers, ostentatiously discreet, were talking to one another in awkward undertones, but Turner’s voice cut through them like an axe: ‘How many should there be?’
‘Forty-seven.’
Summoning the younger guard, Gaunt unlocked the safe that was built into the corner and drew out the familiar bunch of bright-cut brass keys. Overcome by curiosity, the two messengers watched while the square, miner’s fingers told off each key like a bead on the abacus. He counted them once and he counted them a second time, and he handed them to the boy who counted them again.
‘Well?’
‘Forty-six,’ said Gaunt grudgingly. ‘No doubt.’