‘Party bought a wooden duck on wheels,’ the minicab driver had said, turning to illustrate with his white hands. ‘Yellow job.’
The back door had a knocker. He gave a light tap with it and tried the door handle, which yielded. He stepped inside and closed the door carefully behind him. He was standing in a scullery which led to a kitchen and the first thing he noticed in the kitchen was the kettle off the gas with a thin line of steam curling from its silent whistle. And two cups and a milk jug and a teapot on a tray.
‘Mrs Craven?’ he called softly. ‘Stella?’
He crossed the dining-room and stood in the hall, on the brown carpet beside the perambulator, and in his mind he was making pacts with God; just no more deaths, no more Vladimirs and I will worship You for the rest of our respective lives.
‘Stella? It’s me. Max,’ he said.
He pushed open the drawing-room door and she was sitting in the corner on an easy chair between the piano and window, watching him with cold determination. She was not scared, but she looked as if she hated him. She was wearing a long Asian dress and no make-up. She was holding the child to her, boy or girl he couldn’t tell and couldn’t remember. She had its tousled head pressed against her shoulder and her hand over its mouth to stop it making a noise, and she was watching him over the top of its head, challenging and defying him.
‘Where’s Villem?’ he asked.
Slowly she took her hand away and Smiley expected the child to scream but instead it stared at him in salute.
‘His name’s William,’ she said quietly. ‘Get that straight, Max. That’s his choice. William Craven. British to the core. Not Estonian, not Russian. British.’ She was a beautiful woman, black-haired and still. Seated in the corner holding her child, she seemed permanently painted against the dark background.
‘I want to talk to him, Stella. I’m not asking him to do anything. I may even be able to help him.’
‘I’ve heard that before, haven’t I? He’s out. Gone to work where he belongs.’
Smiley digested this.
‘Then what’s his lorry doing outside?’ he objected gently.
‘He’s gone to the depot. They sent a car for him.’
Smiley digested this also.
‘Then who’s the second cup for in the kitchen?’
‘He’s gone to the depot. They sent a car for him.’
He went upstairs and she let him. There was a door straight ahead of him and there were doors to his left and right, both open, one to the child’s room, one to the main bedroom. The door ahead of him was closed and when he knocked there was no answer.
‘Villem, it’s Max,’ he said. ‘I have to talk to you, please. Then I’ll go and leave you in peace, I promise.’
He repeated this word for word then went down the steep stairs again to the drawing-room. The child had begun crying loudly.
‘Perhaps if you made that tea,’ he suggested between the child’s sobs.
‘You’re not talking to him alone, Max. I’m not having you charm him off the tree again.’
‘I never did that. That was not my job.’
‘He still thinks the world of you. That’s enough for me.’
‘It’s about Vladimir,’ Smiley said.
‘I know what it’s about. They’ve been ringing half the night haven’t they?’
‘Who have?’
‘ “Where’s Vladimir? Where’s Vladi?” What do they think William is? Jack the Ripper? He hasn’t had sound nor sight of Vladi for God knows how long. Oh Beckie, darling, do be quiet!’ Striding across the room she found a tin of biscuits under a heap of washing and shoved one forcibly into the child’s mouth. ‘I’m not usually like this,’ she said.
‘Who’s been asking for him?’ Smiley insisted gently.
‘Mikhel, who else? Remember Mikhel, our Freedom Radio ace, Prime Minister designate of Estonia, betting tout? Three o’clock this morning while Beckie’s cutting a tooth, the bloody phone goes. It’s Mikhel doing his heavy-breathing act. “Where’s Vladi, Stella? Where’s our Leader?” I said to him : “You’re daft, aren’t you? You think it’s harder to tap the phone when people only whisper? You’re barking mad,” I said to him. “Stick to racehorses and get out of politics,” I told him.’