Giles Frederickson left the church sad, thoughtful, and thoroughly unsettled.
Weston had collared him with indecent alacrity as soon as the service was over, asking what he knew about a hit squad made up of former SAS men.
As if I’d let someone else do my wet work.
He’d been short with the man, denying all knowledge, which was the truth. But the more he thought about it afterwards, the more questions arose in his own mind.
The man they were chasing was almost undoubtedly ex-military. Not many others who would have the necessary skills. The army, as he was well aware, liked to handle its own mistakes in-house where it could—and quietly. But there were no rules that said ex-military cleared up the mess left by other ex-military personnel.
On the other hand, certain private companies were used, on an ad hoc basis, for strictly off-the-books operations. When Her Majesty’s government required ultimate deniability.
Seems like everything’s been privatised these days.
But if there was some kind of covert op in progress, it was disturbing that he hadn’t been kept in the loop. This was his territory now. Surely he could have provided local knowledge, if nothing else?
He was still frowning over the ramifications, smarting at the implications, when he suddenly became aware that Duncan Inglis had closed at his elbow with deliberate purpose.
“Giles,” he said in the deep stentorian voice of a parliamentarian. “You’ll come back to the house, of course.” It was issued as a command to which Frederickson murmured assent.
“Good,” Inglis said. “Ride with me.” He strode on, a man without time to waste. The rear door of the Rolls Royce was being respectfully held open by the grey-suited chauffeur. Inglis climbed in without acknowledging the courtesy and Frederickson tagged along behind him. They were followed by a slender young man, who folded himself neatly into the jump seat opposite, oozing deferential discretion. Frederickson vaguely recalled he was Inglis’s private secretary.
The gathered press shouted a few desultory questions, but were being kept well back and their heart wasn’t in it. The younger, keener ones raced for their cars, no doubt hoping to beat the graceful bulk of the Rolls Royce back to the Inglis residence. For what purpose other than to justify their own mean existence, Frederickson had no idea.
The rear of the car was voluminous. It smelt of cavalry leather and furniture polish and, ever so faintly, of dead flowers. The private secretary rapped on the glass partition and they pulled away almost silently. Inglis waited until they were on the move before he spoke again.
“They don’t wear a uniform these days. Drivers, I mean. Poor show, don’t you think?”
Frederickson was not entirely sure to whom the question was addressed. When the private secretary raised a politely enquiring eyebrow in his direction, he cleared his throat.
“A man looks better in uniform,” he agreed solemnly. He paused, careful. “I wanted to offer my condolences, of course.”
“Thank you,” Inglis said in neutral tones. “Angela and I were married for nearly twenty years and one does tend to become accustomed to another’s…habits.” Inglis’s tone was devoid of emotion. He might have been talking about a favourite hat.
Frederickson shifted a little in his plush seat, discomfited. The officer and the gentleman in him felt the sudden urge to confess.
“Duncan, I—”
Inglis held up his hand. “Oh, my dear chap, please don’t feel the need to confide anything,” he said, almost kindly, piercing him with a heavy-lidded gaze. “I am well aware that you were my wife’s lover. Not her first, I might add, but at least you have the distinction of being her last.”
Frederickson tried not to flounder. The private secretary gazed at him blandly.
“You didn’t object to her…indiscretions?” Frederickson asked, with as much composure as he could muster.
“I think you’ll agree that the last thing anyone could say of Angela was that she was indiscreet.” He stared out of the window, oblivious to the passing scenery. “We reached an agreement very early on in our marriage,” Inglis went on, with what seemed like candour. “She had her little diversions, and I had mine.”
He turned back towards Frederickson. As he did so, his eyes flickered across the pretty-boy face of the private secretary. And in that one brief, furtive glance, Frederickson knew that Duncan Inglis’s interests lay in another direction altogether.
“If you’re concerned about my own discretion in this matter,” he said, masking his distaste, “I am hardly likely to invite a scandal.”
“So I gather,” Inglis said, a smile on his fleshy lips that Frederickson took to mean he’d been thoroughly vetted for his role. Bitterly, he wondered at Angela’s complicity. Had she coolly waited until her husband’s people had checked him out before she took him into her bed? At least there was nothing calculated about her responses there, he thought with truculent pride.
“I see,” he said stiffly as the big car glided through the turn into the driveway, with no discernible change in ride quality as it transitioned between tarmac and gravel. “So, if I may ask, what’s the purpose of this…audience?”
“I understand that Angela made a rather rash gift to you last Christmas.” Inglis sounded almost bored. The private secretary studied his fingernails. “A pair of antique cufflinks.”
“Yes,” Frederickson admitted, stifling colour. It had been an impulsive gesture that had subsequently caused her some embarrassment. As soon as he’d realised her dilemma, Frederickson had, naturally, offered to return them. She stoutly refused, claiming she’d found an alternative solution. The girl, Edith, he remembered with a twinge of guilt, had ended up the scapegoat.
“Mm, they were my father’s.” Inglis leaned forwards a little as the car swung round slowly to present him at the front entrance. “They have a value of a somewhat sentimental nature.”
“I’ll see they’re returned.”
“Thank you,” Inglis said in a remote voice. As soon as the car halted, the private secretary hopped out to hold the door for his employer. Inglis climbed down after him, straightening his jacket.
“They’ll get him, Duncan,” Frederickson said abruptly from the depths of the Rolls Royce. He thought of the team Weston had mentioned and knew he wasn’t necessarily talking about the police. “Whoever did this to Angela. They will get him.”
Inglis ducked his head to meet the other’s eyes. “Yes.” His voice was impassive, but something base flashed behind his eyes, something savage. It passed almost too fast to register and was gone. He nodded. “Yes,” he repeated, “I know they will.”
As Inglis strode away, Frederickson belatedly recalled Angela mentioning to him, some months before, that her husband sat on various hush-hush committees concerned with matters of national security, and the resources he undoubtedly had at his disposal.
And he realised that Inglis wasn’t referring to the police, either.