Silence. Bloody silence.
The result is a Thursday shrouded in sexual mystery, tantalised by abstinence. A Thursday surrounded by meticulous entries written in a swollen, boring mayoral hand by a man with nothing to do and a lot of time to do it in. ‘Remember Mary Crabbe’s coffee grinder,’ the worshipful mayor of Turner’s home town in Yorkshire warned his fortunate biographer; remember to grind Mary Crabbe, you thief. ‘Speak to Arthur about Myra’s birthday,’ Mr Crail the Minister, well known throughout all Yorkshire for the inanity of his sermons, whispered in a benevolent aside; ‘Anglo-German Society Buffet Luncheon for Friends of the Free City of Hamburg,’ ‘International Ladies Subscription Luncheon, Costumes of All Nations, DM. 1500. Incl. wine,’ the Master of Ceremonies proclaimed, puffing his Mess-Night capitals over the lined pages. And make a mental note to ruin Jenny Pargiter’s career. And Meadowes’ retirement. And Gaunt? And Bradfield? And who else along the path? Myra Meadowes? You wrecker, Harting.
‘Can’t you turn those bloody things off?’
‘I wish I could,’ said Cork. ‘Something’s up, don’t ask me what. Personal for Bradfield decypher yourself. Following for Bradfield by hand of officer… it must be his bloody birthday.’
‘Funeral more likely,’ Turner growled and returned to the diary.
But on Thursdays Harting did have something to do, something real; and not yet realised. Something he kept quiet about. Very. Something urgent and constructive; something secret. Something that made all the other days worthwhile, something to believe in. On Thursdays, Leo Harting touched the hem; and kept his mouth shut. Not even the weekly lie was recorded. Only last Thursday carried any entry at all, and that read: ‘Maternus. One o’clock. P.’ The rest were as blank, as innocent and as unrevealing as the little virgins in the ground floor corridor.
Or as guilty.
All Harting’s life took place that day. He had lived from Thursday to Thursday as others live from year to year. What kind of meeting did they have, Harting and his master? What kind of relationship after all these years of collaboration? Where did they meet? Where did he unpack those files and letters and breathlessly recite his intelligence? In the tower room of a slate-roofed villa? In a soft, linen bed with a soft silk girl and the jeans hanging on the bedpost? Under the bridge where the train went over? Or in the crumbling Embassy with a dusty chandelier, and old father Meadowes holding his little hand on the gilded sofa? In a pretty baroque bedroom of a Godesberg hotel? In a grey block on the new housing estate? In a coy bungalow with a wrought-iron name and stained glass let into the door? He tried to imagine them, Harting and his master, furtive yet assured, the whispered jokes and the whispered laughter. Here: this is a good one, the porno seller whispers; I hardly like to part with this myself. You do like it straight, don’t you? ‘Well, it’s nice to be fancied,’ Allerton lisped. Did they sit over a bottle as they casually planned their next assault upon the citadel, while in the background the camera clicked and the assistant gently shuffled the papers? Give it me once more, darling, but gently, like Tony. You’re not confident, dear, you haven’t read the manuals and learned the parts of the rifle.
Or was it a hasty pick-up? A back-street encounter, a frantic exchange as they drove through the small alleys and prayed to God they had no accident? Or on a hilltop? By a football field, where Harting wore the Balkan hat and the grey uniform of the Movement?
Cork was on the telephone to Miss Peate, and a note of awe had entered his voice:
‘Stand by for seven hundred groups from Washington. London please pass and decypher yourself. You’d better warn him now: he’s going to be in all night. Look, dear, I don’t care whether he’s conferring with the Queen of England. This one’s top priority, and it’s my job to let him know so if you won’t I will. Ooh, she is a bitch.’
‘I’m glad you think that,’ Turner said with one of his rare grills.
‘I reckon she captains the team.’