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Authors: Stella Rimington
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writer showed up. A surprising number of people, strange though it seemed to Diane, craved the near nothingness that the Strand offered. The unceasing slap of tide on shingle, the wind in the salt marshes, the empty junction of sea and sky—these seemed to be more than enough.
Hopefully they would satisfy the young woman now standing with her back to the westernmost of the bungalows. A postgraduate student apparently, completing a thesis. Dressed in a parka, jeans and walking boots, and holding the Tourist Board directory in which Diane advertised, she was staring expectantly towards the horizon as the wind blew her hair about her face and the sea dragged at the grey and white shingle in front of her.
Like the French Lieutenant’s Woman, thought Diane, who had long harboured a tendresse for the actor Jeremy Irons, but younger, and not as pretty. How old was she? Twenty-two or three, perhaps? And could probably get herself looking quite presentable if she could be bothered to make the effort. The hair needed work—that dull walnut-brown bob was screaming for the attentions of a decent colourist—but the basic structure was there. Not that you could tell girls of that age anything; Diane had tried with Miranda and had her head bitten off for her pains.
“It’s such a lovely spot, isn’t it?” she said, assuming a proprietorial smile. “So peaceful.”
The woman frowned absently. “How much for the week, including deposit?”
Diane hiked the price as high as she dared. The woman didn’t look particularly wealthy—the parka, the mud-streaked Astra—but nor did she look as if she could be bothered to continue her search. Parental money, almost certainly.
“Can I pay cash?”
“Certainly you can,” said Diane, and smiled. “That’s settled then. I’m Diane Munday, as you know, and you’re . . .”
“Lucy. Lucy Wharmby.”
They shook hands, and Diane noticed that the other woman’s grip was surprisingly hard. With the deal concluded, she drove off eastwards, towards Marsh Creake.
The woman who called herself Lucy Wharmby watched thoughtfully after her. When the Cherokee had finally disappeared into Dersthorpe, she took a pair of lightweight Nikon binoculars from beneath her coat and checked the coast road. On a clear day, she calculated, an approaching vehicle would be visible almost a mile away to east or west.
Opening the passenger door of the Astra, she reached for her holdall and rucksack and carried them through the front door of the bungalow into the white-emulsioned front room. On the table in front of the seaward window she placed her velcro-sealing wallet, her binoculars, her quartz diver’s watch, a Pfleuger clasp knife, a small NATO survival compass, and her Nokia mobile phone. She switched on the Nokia, which she had recharged in her room in the Travel Lodge on the A11 the night before. It was almost 15:00 hours GMT. Seating herself cross-legged on a low divan against the wall, half closing her eyes against the thin light, she began the steady process of voiding her mind of all that was irrelevant to her task.
T he call reached Liz’s desk shortly after 3:30. It had come through the central switchboard, because the caller had dialled the publicly advertised MI5 number and asked for Liz by an alias she’d used a couple of years earlier when she was working in the organised crime section. The caller, who was in an Essex phone box, had been placed on hold while Liz was asked if she wanted to speak to him. He had identified himself as Zander.
As soon as Liz heard the code-name she asked for him to be put through, demanded his number, and called him back. It was a long time since she had heard from Frankie Ferris, and she was far from sure that she wanted to hear from him again. If he had sought her out after three years’ silence, however, and defied all the standard agent protocols by ringing the switchboard, it was just possible that he had something useful to tell her.
She had
Hopefully they would satisfy the young woman now standing with her back to the westernmost of the bungalows. A postgraduate student apparently, completing a thesis. Dressed in a parka, jeans and walking boots, and holding the Tourist Board directory in which Diane advertised, she was staring expectantly towards the horizon as the wind blew her hair about her face and the sea dragged at the grey and white shingle in front of her.
Like the French Lieutenant’s Woman, thought Diane, who had long harboured a tendresse for the actor Jeremy Irons, but younger, and not as pretty. How old was she? Twenty-two or three, perhaps? And could probably get herself looking quite presentable if she could be bothered to make the effort. The hair needed work—that dull walnut-brown bob was screaming for the attentions of a decent colourist—but the basic structure was there. Not that you could tell girls of that age anything; Diane had tried with Miranda and had her head bitten off for her pains.
“It’s such a lovely spot, isn’t it?” she said, assuming a proprietorial smile. “So peaceful.”
The woman frowned absently. “How much for the week, including deposit?”
Diane hiked the price as high as she dared. The woman didn’t look particularly wealthy—the parka, the mud-streaked Astra—but nor did she look as if she could be bothered to continue her search. Parental money, almost certainly.
“Can I pay cash?”
“Certainly you can,” said Diane, and smiled. “That’s settled then. I’m Diane Munday, as you know, and you’re . . .”
“Lucy. Lucy Wharmby.”
They shook hands, and Diane noticed that the other woman’s grip was surprisingly hard. With the deal concluded, she drove off eastwards, towards Marsh Creake.
The woman who called herself Lucy Wharmby watched thoughtfully after her. When the Cherokee had finally disappeared into Dersthorpe, she took a pair of lightweight Nikon binoculars from beneath her coat and checked the coast road. On a clear day, she calculated, an approaching vehicle would be visible almost a mile away to east or west.
Opening the passenger door of the Astra, she reached for her holdall and rucksack and carried them through the front door of the bungalow into the white-emulsioned front room. On the table in front of the seaward window she placed her velcro-sealing wallet, her binoculars, her quartz diver’s watch, a Pfleuger clasp knife, a small NATO survival compass, and her Nokia mobile phone. She switched on the Nokia, which she had recharged in her room in the Travel Lodge on the A11 the night before. It was almost 15:00 hours GMT. Seating herself cross-legged on a low divan against the wall, half closing her eyes against the thin light, she began the steady process of voiding her mind of all that was irrelevant to her task.
T he call reached Liz’s desk shortly after 3:30. It had come through the central switchboard, because the caller had dialled the publicly advertised MI5 number and asked for Liz by an alias she’d used a couple of years earlier when she was working in the organised crime section. The caller, who was in an Essex phone box, had been placed on hold while Liz was asked if she wanted to speak to him. He had identified himself as Zander.
As soon as Liz heard the code-name she asked for him to be put through, demanded his number, and called him back. It was a long time since she had heard from Frankie Ferris, and she was far from sure that she wanted to hear from him again. If he had sought her out after three years’ silence, however, and defied all the standard agent protocols by ringing the switchboard, it was just possible that he had something useful to tell her.
She had
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