First, she thought he had a quarrel with Mr. Ford, some deep-rooted hatred going back for years. Something to do with a girl, or Alec’s family perhaps. But you only had to look at Mr. Ford and it seemed ridiculous. He was the archetypal _petit-bourgeois_, cautious, complacent, mean. And anyway, if Alec had a vendetta on with Mr. Ford, why did he go for him in the shop on a Saturday, in the middle of the weekend shopping rush, when everyone could see?
They’d talked about it in the meeting of her Party branch. George Hanby, the branch treasurer, had actually been passing Ford the grocer’s as it happened, he hadn’t seen much because of the crowd but he’d talked to a bloke who’d seen the whole thing. Hanby had been so impressed that he’d rung the _Worker_, and they’d sent a man to the trial–that was why the _Worker_ had given it a middle-page spread, as a matter of fact. It was just a straight case of protest–of sudden social awareness and hatred against the boss class, as the _Worker_ said. This bloke that Hanby spoke to (he was just a little, ordinary chap with specs, white-collar type) said it had been so sudden–spontaneous was what he meant–and it just proved to Hanby once again how incendiary was the fabric of the capitalist system. Liz had kept very quiet while Hanby talked: none of them knew, of course, about her and Leamas. She realized then that she hated George Hanby; he was a pompous, dirty-minded little man, always leering at her and trying to touch her.
Then the men called.
She thought they were a little too smart for policemen: they came in a small black car with an aerial on it. One was short and rather plump. He had glasses and wore odd, expensive clothes; he was a kindly, worried little man and Liz trusted him somehow without knowing why. The other was smoother, but not glossy–rather a boyish figure, although she guessed he wasn’t less than forty. They said they came from Special Branch, and they had printed cards with photographs in cellophane cases. The plump one did most of the talking.
“I believe you were friendly with Alec Leamas,” he began. She was prepared to be angry, but the plump man was so earnest that it seemed silly.
“Yes,” Liz answered. “How did you know?”
“We found out quite by chance the other day. When you go to. . . prison, you have to give next of kin. Leamas said he hadn’t any. That was a lie, as a matter of fact. They asked him whom they should inform if anything happened to him in prison. He said you.”
“I see.”
“Does anyone else know you were friendly with him?”
“No.”
“Did you go to the trial?”
“No.”
“No press men called, creditors, no one at all?”
“No, I’ve told you. No one else knew. Not even my parents, no one. We worked together in the library, of course–the Psychical Research Library–but only Miss Crail, the librarian, would know that. I don’t think it occurred to her that there was anything between us. She’s queer,” Liz added simply.
The little man peered very seriously at her for a moment, then he asked: “Did it surprise you when Leamas beat up Mr. Ford?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Why do you think he did it?”
“I don’t know. Because Ford wouldn’t give him credit, I suppose. But I think he always meant to.” She wondered if she was saying too much, but she longed to talk to somebody about it, she was so alone and there didn’t seem any harm.
“But that night, the night before it happened, we talked together. We had supper, a sort of special one; Alec said we should and I knew that it was our last night. He’d got a bottle of red wine from somewhere; I didn’t like it much, Alec drank most of it. And then I asked him, ‘Is this good-bye’–whether it was all over.”
“What did he say?”
“He said there was a job he’d got to do. Someone to pay off for something they’d done to a friend of his. I didn’t really understand it all, not really.”