Read Online The Perfect Soldier by Graham Hurley - Free Book Online
Authors: Graham Hurley
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how are they doing this? How are they going about it?’
‘I’m afraid I don’t know. Normally they—’
The Director broke in. He hadn’t slept well and it showed.
‘Do they know about Jordan? The problems Peterson’s having? Trying to get the wretched boy out?’
‘Yes, I imagine they do.’
‘Then why on earth …’ He shook his head, turning away, petulant, exhausted, and Valerie began to explain the situation afresh. War had swamped Muengo. People were probably dying in their hundreds. The remains of a dead British aid worker would count for precious little.
‘I know that, I know, but it makes no difference. We need to tie this thing up. It’s messy. And extremely unpleasant.’
Valerie nodded, falling silent. Robbie Cunningham had released the news of James Jordan’s death that morning but so far reaction from the media had been muted. A couple of calls from the broadcast organisations. A request for more details from the
Guardian
. Yet in the absence of awkward questions, the Director seemed to be generating fresh tensions of his own. She’d seen him like this before, back in the days when they’d been fellow academics at the Institute for International Affairs. Then, the notion of putting away the books, of founding a new charity and trying to do something practical in the Third World, had seemed beyond reproach. Now, though, she wasn’t so sure.
The Director was back at his desk, tugging at an elastic band.
‘What did you think of our Mr Llewelyn? Last night?’
Valerie pursed her lips. After the meeting, the three of them had driven into Winchester for a meal. Llewelyn had spent most of the time talking about past triumphs, disappearing abruptly at ten to catch the last train back to London.
‘I’m not sure I like him,’ she said carefully.
‘Is that strictly relevant?’
‘Probably not.’
The Director was still plucking at the elastic band. Eventually he returned it to the mug where he kept his pens.
‘He’s just come up with a proposal.’ He gestured at the telephone. ‘I find it extremely attractive, given the odd …’ he smiled for the first time, ‘… tweak.’
It was nearly dusk by the time Molly Jordan got to the marina. The last of the sunshine was spilling over the marshlands to the west and in the windless chill the lines of moored yachts rode easily alongside the sturdy wooden pontoons. According to Patrick, Giles had given work a miss. Rather than face more post-mortems at Lloyd’s, he’d decided to take the day off. When Patrick had first told her, she’d stared at him in disbelief. Their son dead. Their lives ruined. And Giles had gone for a sail. Yet the more she thought about it, and the more she listened to Patrick, the more sense it made. Life had backed Giles into a corner. Just now, the yacht was probably his only real escape.
Molly parked the car beside her husband’s Rover in the empty members’ compound and sat behind the wheel for a moment, still uncertain whether driving across was such a good idea. The yacht had always been Giles’s territory, the equivalent – she supposed – to the new-found freedom of her morning run. In the summer, it was true, she occasionally joined him for weekend cruises up the coast towards Aldeburgh and Southwold, and much earlier, when James had still been living at home, they’d all made the crossing to Belgium. But even then there’d been an unspoken understanding that this was Giles’s invitation, Giles’s space.
MollyJay
, it was plain, had always been precious to him. God knows how he’d manage to cope without it.
Molly left the car, pulling her coat around her and mounting the steps to the wooden boardwalk that ran the length of the marina. Giles had been one of the earliest owners to sign up, securing himself a berth on the long seaward pontoon. She could see the yacht already, tucked in amongst a line of other craft. It was a Nicholson 35, low, graceful lines, GRP and teak construction,
‘I’m afraid I don’t know. Normally they—’
The Director broke in. He hadn’t slept well and it showed.
‘Do they know about Jordan? The problems Peterson’s having? Trying to get the wretched boy out?’
‘Yes, I imagine they do.’
‘Then why on earth …’ He shook his head, turning away, petulant, exhausted, and Valerie began to explain the situation afresh. War had swamped Muengo. People were probably dying in their hundreds. The remains of a dead British aid worker would count for precious little.
‘I know that, I know, but it makes no difference. We need to tie this thing up. It’s messy. And extremely unpleasant.’
Valerie nodded, falling silent. Robbie Cunningham had released the news of James Jordan’s death that morning but so far reaction from the media had been muted. A couple of calls from the broadcast organisations. A request for more details from the
Guardian
. Yet in the absence of awkward questions, the Director seemed to be generating fresh tensions of his own. She’d seen him like this before, back in the days when they’d been fellow academics at the Institute for International Affairs. Then, the notion of putting away the books, of founding a new charity and trying to do something practical in the Third World, had seemed beyond reproach. Now, though, she wasn’t so sure.
The Director was back at his desk, tugging at an elastic band.
‘What did you think of our Mr Llewelyn? Last night?’
Valerie pursed her lips. After the meeting, the three of them had driven into Winchester for a meal. Llewelyn had spent most of the time talking about past triumphs, disappearing abruptly at ten to catch the last train back to London.
‘I’m not sure I like him,’ she said carefully.
‘Is that strictly relevant?’
‘Probably not.’
The Director was still plucking at the elastic band. Eventually he returned it to the mug where he kept his pens.
‘He’s just come up with a proposal.’ He gestured at the telephone. ‘I find it extremely attractive, given the odd …’ he smiled for the first time, ‘… tweak.’
It was nearly dusk by the time Molly Jordan got to the marina. The last of the sunshine was spilling over the marshlands to the west and in the windless chill the lines of moored yachts rode easily alongside the sturdy wooden pontoons. According to Patrick, Giles had given work a miss. Rather than face more post-mortems at Lloyd’s, he’d decided to take the day off. When Patrick had first told her, she’d stared at him in disbelief. Their son dead. Their lives ruined. And Giles had gone for a sail. Yet the more she thought about it, and the more she listened to Patrick, the more sense it made. Life had backed Giles into a corner. Just now, the yacht was probably his only real escape.
Molly parked the car beside her husband’s Rover in the empty members’ compound and sat behind the wheel for a moment, still uncertain whether driving across was such a good idea. The yacht had always been Giles’s territory, the equivalent – she supposed – to the new-found freedom of her morning run. In the summer, it was true, she occasionally joined him for weekend cruises up the coast towards Aldeburgh and Southwold, and much earlier, when James had still been living at home, they’d all made the crossing to Belgium. But even then there’d been an unspoken understanding that this was Giles’s invitation, Giles’s space.
MollyJay
, it was plain, had always been precious to him. God knows how he’d manage to cope without it.
Molly left the car, pulling her coat around her and mounting the steps to the wooden boardwalk that ran the length of the marina. Giles had been one of the earliest owners to sign up, securing himself a berth on the long seaward pontoon. She could see the yacht already, tucked in amongst a line of other craft. It was a Nicholson 35, low, graceful lines, GRP and teak construction,
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