“No, no. It’s not that important.”
Carol came in with the tea. Woodford had his in a pottery jumbo-cup with his initials drawn large, embossed like icing. As Carol put it down, she remarked, “Wilf Taylor’s dead.”
“I’ve been here since one,” Avery lied, “coping with it. We’ve been working all night.”
“The Director’s very upset,” she said.
“What was his wife like, Carol?” She was a well-dressed girl, a little taller than Sarah.
“Nobody’s met her.”
She left the room, Woodford watching her. He took his pipe from his mouth and grinned. Avery knew he was going to say something about sleeping with Carol and suddenly he’d had enough.
“Did your wife make that cup, Bruce?” he asked quickly. “I hear she’s quite a potter.”
“Made the saucer as well,” he said. He began talking about the classes she went to, the amusing way it had caught on in Wimbledon, how his wife was tickled to death.
It was nearly eleven; they could hear the others gathering in the corridor.
“I’d better go next door,” Avery said, “and see if he’s ready. He’s taken quite a beating in the last eight hours.”
Woodford picked up his mug and took a sip of tea. “If you get a chance, mention that Registry business to the Boss, John. I don’t want to drag it up in front of everyone else. Adrian’s getting a bit past it.”
“The Director’s very tied up at the moment, Bruce.”
“Oh, quite.”
“He hates to interfere with Haldane. You know that.” As they reached the door of his room he turned to Woodford and asked, “Do you remember a man called Malherbe in the Department?”
Woodford stopped dead. “God, yes. A young chap, like you. In the war. Good Lord!” And earnestly, but quite unlike his usual manner: “Don’t mention that name to the Boss. He was very cut up about young Malherbe. One of the special fliers. The two of them were quite close in a way.”
Leclerc’s room by daylight was not so drab as of an impermanent appearance. You would think its occupant had requisitioned it hastily, under conditions of emergency, and had not known how long he would be staying. Maps lay sprawled over the trestle table, not in threes or fours but dozens, some of a scale large enough to show streets and buildings. Teletape, pasted in strips on pink paper, hung in batches on the notice board, fastened with a heavy bulldog clip like galley proofs awaiting correction. A bed had been put in one corner with a bedspread over it. A clean towel hung beside the basin. The desk was new, of gray steel, government issue. The walls were filthy. Here and there the cream paint had peeled, showing dark green beneath. It was a small, square room with Ministry of Works curtains. There had been a row about the curtains, a question of equating Leclerc’s rank to the Civil Service scale. It was the one occasion, so far as Avery knew, when Leclerc had made any effort to improve the disorder of the room. The fire was nearly out. Sometimes when it was very windy the fire would not burn at all and all through the day Avery could hear from next door the soot falling in the chimney.
Avery watched them come in—Woodford first, then Sandford, Dennison and McCulloch. They had all heard about Taylor. It was easy to imagine the news going round the Department, not as headlines, but as a small and gratifying sensation passed from room to room, lending a briskness to the day’s activity, as it had to these men; giving them a moment’s optimism, like a raise in pay. They would watch Leclerc, watch him as prisoners watch a guard. They knew his routine by instinct, and they waited for him to break it. There would not be a man or woman in the Department but knew they had been called in the middle of the night, and that Leclerc was sleeping in the office.
They settled themselves at the table, putting their cups in front of them noisily like children at a meal, Leclerc at the head, the others on either side, an empty chair at the further end. Haldane came in, and Avery knew as soon as he saw him that it would be Leclerc versus Haldane.