FIVE

When Simon reached his desk at half past nine the next morning there was already a message from Fowler asking him to report as soon as it was convenient. He went up in the middle of the morning.

‘Sit down,’ said Fowler – almost curtly. Then he offered him coffee in a softer tone, an offer which Simon declined. ‘How did it go, then?’ he asked, sitting down behind his desk as before and stirring a mug of coffee which had been placed on his blotting pad. ‘I hope at least that you had some decent weather.’

‘It was mixed,’ said Simon. ‘There were some storms …’

‘Yes. I heard about Ludley.’

‘He was with his sister and another friend.’

‘Yes,’ said Fowler. ‘I read about it in the paper.’

‘I stayed on for a week or so to see to the repatriation of the bodies.’

‘Of course.’

‘They were buried yesterday in Suffolk.’

‘And our little business?’ asked Fowler. ‘Did Ludley say anything before he died?’

‘We talked about it,’ said Simon. ‘He knew what I wanted to know but he wouldn’t tell me.’

‘Did he give a reason? Was he afraid?’

‘No. He said he thought it wasn’t important. He liked to tease people, you know. He was playing a game.’

‘A game, perhaps, to cover up for himself?’

‘No,’ said Simon in a slow, deliberate tone of voice. ‘I have other evidence that it wasn’t Ludley.’

Fowler was sipping his coffee. When Simon said this he put down his mug and leaned forward on his desk. ‘What evidence?’

‘I saw Baldwin yesterday,’ said Simon.

‘Baldwin? Do you mean our Baldwin? Leslie Baldwin?’

‘Yes. He is the other man, I think?’

‘I never said so.’

‘No.’

‘Where did you see him?’

‘At Ludley’s funeral.’

‘What did he say?’

‘He seemed to know what you had asked me to do in Nice and … he tried to blackmail me.’

‘How?’

‘In Nice there was a girl – a schoolgirl.’

A look of distaste came onto Fowler’s face.

‘I had thought she was more than sixteen,’ said Simon, ‘but it turned out that she was a year younger.’

Fowler’s expression relaxed. ‘Not a child?’

‘No, but they took photographs – compromising photographs.’

‘I see.’ Fowler paused. ‘So he’s worried, which must mean that he’s still busy.’

‘He said that if his appointment is not confirmed, he’ll know why and he’ll sand the photographs to the press and to the police.’

Fowler sat fingering the upper lip where once he had had a moustache. ‘Has he still got the photographs on him?’ he asked. ‘They’d be evidence …’

‘No. He gave the prints to me, but he must have the negatives.’

‘He’s not a fool. They’ll be held by someone else.’

‘I shall resign, of course,’ said Simon.

‘No,’ said Fowler. ‘Wait. It’s possible, you see, that if Baldwin is still busy then we’ll confirm his appointment anyway.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘It’s not my decision,’ said Fowler, ‘but a spy can be useful if he doesn’t know we know.’

‘That hadn’t occurred to me.’

‘And sooner or later they’ll come back to you, if they’ve got those photographs. That could be useful too.’

‘So what shall I do?’ asked Simon.

‘Nothing. Leave it to me.’ Fowler got to his feet and came out from behind his desk. ‘I appreciate what you’ve done,’ he said, shaking Simon by the hand. ‘It couldn’t have turned out better.’

‘Shouldn’t I resign?’ asked Simon.

Fowler laughed. ‘Good Heavens, no. If all our people resigned over something like that, we wouldn’t have much of a Foreign Service. But I should watch your step. All sorts of things go on in the South of France which are best not done at home.’

Simon returned to his desk and began to sift through the papers which had piled up in his absence.

‘A girl phoned,’ his secretary said. ‘She said she’d ring again.’

‘Did she give her name?’

‘No. She sounded young. It might have been your daughter.’

It had been Helen. She telephoned again after lunch to say that all was well at home. ‘I’m going to a sixth-form college in Windsor,’ she said.

‘That sounds much better than boarding school.’

‘Yes. And they haven’t sold Pixie.’

‘Who’s Pixie?’

‘My pony.’

‘Good.’

‘I’ll come up and see you if you like?’

‘Later on, perhaps.’

‘Whenever you like.’ She sounded unconcerned. ‘Did you see the bit in the paper about Willy and Priss?’

‘No.’

‘It was in the Telegraph.’

‘What did it say?’

‘Oh, nothing much. Just the facts. But that wasn’t the point about them, was it? The facts?’

‘No,’ said Simon. ‘They never are.’