soldiering at the same time with the HAC.”
“The what?”
“The Honourable Artillery Company. Running round letting off explosives on Salisbury Plain. Good fun. But banking lost its shine after a bit, so I sat the Foreign Office exam. Do you want some pud?”
“No, I don’t want any pud, thanks, and I didn’t really want that second glass of wine either. I should be thinking about getting back across the river.”
“I’m sure our respective bosses won’t object to a little . . . inter-Service liaison work,” protested Mackay. “At least have some coffee.”
She agreed, and he signalled to the waiter.
“So tell me,” she said, when the coffee had been brought. “How did you see what I’d written on the menu?”
He laughed. “I didn’t. But every woman I’ve eaten with here has ordered the same thing.”
Liz stared at him. “We’re that predictable, are we?”
“Actually, I’ve only been here once before, and that was with half a dozen people. Three of them were women and they all ordered what you ordered. End of story.”
She looked at him levelly. Breathed deeply. “How old were you, again, when you started lying?”
“I can’t win, can I?”
“Probably not,” said Liz. She drank her thimbleful of espresso in a single swallow. “But then who you have lunch with is no business whatsoever of mine.”
He looked at her with a knowing half-smile. “It could be.”
“I have to go,” she said.
“Have a brandy. Or a Calvados or something. It’s cold outside.”
“No thanks, I’m off.”
He raised his hands in surrender and summoned the waiter.
Outside the sky was sheet steel. The wind dragged at their hair and clothes. “It’s been fun,” he said, taking her hands.
“Yes,” she agreed, carefully retrieving them. “I’ll see you on Monday.”
He nodded, the half-smile still in place. To Liz’s relief, someone was getting out of a taxi.
D ersthorpe Strand was a melancholy place at the best of times, and in December, it seemed to Diane Munday, it was the end of the world. Despite the goose-down skiing jacket, she shivered as she descended from the Cherokee four-wheel drive.
Diane did not live in Dersthorpe. A handsome woman in her early fifties with expensively streaked blonde hair and a Barbados tan, she lived with her husband Ralph in a Georgian manor house on the edge of Marsh Creake, three and a half miles to the east. There was a good golf links outside Marsh Creake, and a little sailing club and the Trafalgar. Carry on along the coast and you got to Brancaster and the yacht club proper, and three miles beyond that was Burnham Market, which in terms of desirability was pretty much Chelsea-on-Sea, with house prices to match.
There was evidence of none of these benefits in Dersthorpe. Dersthorpe had a Country and Western theme pub (the Lazy “W”), a coach park, a Londis mini-mart, and a wind-scoured council estate. In summer, an unlicenced burger van took up seasonal residence on the sea front.
Beyond Dersthorpe, vanishing westwards towards the Wash, was the desolate strip of coastline known to locals as the Strand. A mile or so along its length stood five 1950s-built bungalows. At some point in their recent history, presumably in an attempt to resist nature’s relentless monotone, these had been painted in jaunty pinks and yellows and tangerines. The salt air, however, had long since leached the colour and curled the paint flakes from the weatherboards, returning them to faded homogeneity. None of them had a TV aerial or a telephone connection.
Diane Munday had bought the Strand bungalows a year earlier as an investment. She hadn’t liked them—in truth, they gave her the creeps—but an examination of the previous owner’s returns had convinced her that they would give a handsome cash profit in return for a minimum of expenditure and effort. The bungalows usually stood empty during the late autumn and winter, but even then the occasional birdwatcher or
“The what?”
“The Honourable Artillery Company. Running round letting off explosives on Salisbury Plain. Good fun. But banking lost its shine after a bit, so I sat the Foreign Office exam. Do you want some pud?”
“No, I don’t want any pud, thanks, and I didn’t really want that second glass of wine either. I should be thinking about getting back across the river.”
“I’m sure our respective bosses won’t object to a little . . . inter-Service liaison work,” protested Mackay. “At least have some coffee.”
She agreed, and he signalled to the waiter.
“So tell me,” she said, when the coffee had been brought. “How did you see what I’d written on the menu?”
He laughed. “I didn’t. But every woman I’ve eaten with here has ordered the same thing.”
Liz stared at him. “We’re that predictable, are we?”
“Actually, I’ve only been here once before, and that was with half a dozen people. Three of them were women and they all ordered what you ordered. End of story.”
She looked at him levelly. Breathed deeply. “How old were you, again, when you started lying?”
“I can’t win, can I?”
“Probably not,” said Liz. She drank her thimbleful of espresso in a single swallow. “But then who you have lunch with is no business whatsoever of mine.”
He looked at her with a knowing half-smile. “It could be.”
“I have to go,” she said.
“Have a brandy. Or a Calvados or something. It’s cold outside.”
“No thanks, I’m off.”
He raised his hands in surrender and summoned the waiter.
Outside the sky was sheet steel. The wind dragged at their hair and clothes. “It’s been fun,” he said, taking her hands.
“Yes,” she agreed, carefully retrieving them. “I’ll see you on Monday.”
He nodded, the half-smile still in place. To Liz’s relief, someone was getting out of a taxi.
D ersthorpe Strand was a melancholy place at the best of times, and in December, it seemed to Diane Munday, it was the end of the world. Despite the goose-down skiing jacket, she shivered as she descended from the Cherokee four-wheel drive.
Diane did not live in Dersthorpe. A handsome woman in her early fifties with expensively streaked blonde hair and a Barbados tan, she lived with her husband Ralph in a Georgian manor house on the edge of Marsh Creake, three and a half miles to the east. There was a good golf links outside Marsh Creake, and a little sailing club and the Trafalgar. Carry on along the coast and you got to Brancaster and the yacht club proper, and three miles beyond that was Burnham Market, which in terms of desirability was pretty much Chelsea-on-Sea, with house prices to match.
There was evidence of none of these benefits in Dersthorpe. Dersthorpe had a Country and Western theme pub (the Lazy “W”), a coach park, a Londis mini-mart, and a wind-scoured council estate. In summer, an unlicenced burger van took up seasonal residence on the sea front.
Beyond Dersthorpe, vanishing westwards towards the Wash, was the desolate strip of coastline known to locals as the Strand. A mile or so along its length stood five 1950s-built bungalows. At some point in their recent history, presumably in an attempt to resist nature’s relentless monotone, these had been painted in jaunty pinks and yellows and tangerines. The salt air, however, had long since leached the colour and curled the paint flakes from the weatherboards, returning them to faded homogeneity. None of them had a TV aerial or a telephone connection.
Diane Munday had bought the Strand bungalows a year earlier as an investment. She hadn’t liked them—in truth, they gave her the creeps—but an examination of the previous owner’s returns had convinced her that they would give a handsome cash profit in return for a minimum of expenditure and effort. The bungalows usually stood empty during the late autumn and winter, but even then the occasional birdwatcher or
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