by Cathy Ace
I was amazed at Lottie’s lung capacity – she’d hardly drawn breath as she spoke. The expressions around the table varied from bemused to stunned as Lottie ripped apart a bread roll and expounded. I was one of the bemused ones.
“Wow,” said Sheila before stuffing a last forkful of omelette into her mouth.
“Sounds as though you and Amelia had a good chat while we were all at the tower,” Bud managed to hide almost every trace of sarcasm in his voice.
Lottie nodded vigorously. “As I said, she was quite chatty. Considering. She told me lots of other stuff too. About the Italian neighbor, and the realtor who’s helping said Italian to fight Freddie for the land he owns, but which she says is really hers. It all sounds fascinating. Lots of skulduggery, Amelia said. I bet you’d fit in rather nicely on the island –” she nodded at John – “you too, Bud. And Jack. I mean, I know you’re all ‘retired’ now – though when you disappear off to goodness knows where for days at a time, John, I do wonder if you’re really out of it all. But, whether you’re out or still in, you’ve all done your bit for law enforcement over the years, with a fair amount of secret squirrel stuff on the side, haven’t you.” It wasn’t a question.
Bud and Jack swivelled their heads to stare at John, who scratched his ear, slowly. “Well, we’ve all been cops, or coppers in our day, Lottie, you know that, yes. But as for representing any other services––”
Lottie laughed, tossing back her head. “Oh, come off it. Just look at you. All three of you. And you, Sheila, Cait – you two, as well. The looks on all your faces? Goodness knows how you ever managed to get away with any undercover work, boys. Besides, you know very well that’s how we met, John.”
John looked genuinely confused. “We met at a dinner at the House of Lords.” He sounded as puzzled as he looked. “What do you mean, exactly?”
Lottie sounded triumphant. “And who was hosting the dinner?”
We all looked at John as he gave the matter some thought. “Lord Buckford, was it? Or Lady Dillworth?”
It amused me to realize John was invited to dinner at the House of Lords so frequently that he couldn’t recall which particular titled person had invited him on any specific occasion.
“No, it was Sir Roger Rustingham, John. My Uncle Rusty,” replied Lottie. “Not that he’s really my uncle, you understand, but I have known him my entire life,” she added, addressing the rest of us. “You know, the chap who’s head of your cloak and dagger lot, dear. Don’t you remember me telling you how Daddy used to do some work for him? We discussed it, terribly discretely, of course, before the port was passed.”
“And who exactly is ‘Daddy’?” asked Jack, wriggling with discomfort.
Lottie looked surprised. “Who’s my father? Sir Tarquin Fortescue. Everything he did for Queen and Country in his day was terribly hush-hush, of course, but why do you think he got his knighthood? On Her Majesty’s secret service, and all that sort of thing. Not that anyone knew the exact nature of the services involved. Except Mummy. Mummy knew, I think, but she’s dead now, and he won’t say a word about it. But that’s why Uncle Rusty invites Daddy to those dinners all the time, with me on his arm; it’s the way Rusty brings in the young chaps to meet the old guard. But you know all this, John.” She sounded sure of herself.
This wasn’t turning out to be the luncheon conversation I’d been expecting, but it was fascinating, nonetheless. And a little unsettling.
I knew all about Bud’s illustrious career first with the RCMP, then with the Vancouver Police Department, because he’d hired me as a sometime-consultant on cases needing the expertise of my victim profiling skills. As a professor of criminal psychology I’d been able to put my theories into practice, and to play a tiny part in him becoming so successful in his role overseeing the integrated homicide investigation team that he’d been invited to hand-pick a group to work under him to liaise with international law enforcement tackling the scourge of gangs and organized crime. Then he’d retired, because of his wife’s murder.
That’s still difficult for us to tackle, head on; if she hadn’t died, Bud and I would never have become a couple. Never. I’d enjoyed working with him, but he and Jan had been so happy together that it would never have crossed his mind to stray. Nor would it have crossed mine to invite him to do so. But…here we are, together. However, we’re always so dreadfully aware that our happiness grew from her death that we still struggle with trying to focus on the positive aspects of that. What we most certainly enjoy is the fact that he’s now retired, and his time is his own.
However, even with that knowledge of his professional life, it had taken a near-disaster in Mexico, followed by months of labored questioning, for me to get anything out of Bud about the work he’d done for the Canadian Security Intelligence Service, and associated international bodies. He’d flatly refused to divulge any specific details about what he’d got up to on their behalf throughout his career. Nor would he tell me what work Jack had done for CSIS. Nor John, for whatever bodies he’d worked for. At. All. Bud was awfully good at saying nothing.
All I really knew for certain was that if it hadn’t been for the fact that Jack and Bud had attended some of the same training courses as each other, Bud and I would have been in a right pickle because of that poor, murdered woman in Mexico. And if John hadn’t intervened in Budapest, I might be…well, let’s just say that the past few months of physical and mental recuperation haven’t been a bed of roses for me, and leave it there.
I suspected Sheila knew a great deal more about what Jack had done for CSIS than I knew about Bud’s exploits, and that – because of the dynamic between the three men – John had by far the most experience in such matters, the greatest number of connections around the globe, and most certainly had not been retired when he’d rushed to our aid in Hungary less than six months earlier.
Sheila and I exchanged a glance as Lottie’s comments hung in the heavy air, then we looked at our respective husbands. They, in turn, were glaring at John, who’d puffed out his cheeks, snapped his napkin onto the table, and pushed away his plate.
He said, “Right-ho, this obviously needs to be addressed. Lottie dear, you don’t know anything about any operations that Bud, Jack, or I may, or may not, have been party to. Cait and Sheila are married to two wonderful men who’ve put in their years for Canadian law enforcement and have both now retired from that life. I, as you know, have a desk job. Yes, I work in Whitehall, and, yes, I have to travel within my role, on occasion. But I can guarantee you that – if I ever had been involved in that sort of undertaking – I would now be well past the age when I would be called upon to carry out any ‘secret squirrel’ work, as you so quaintly described it. I know that Rusty, Sir Roger Rustingham, is professionally involved with a particular branch of British security in a senior role, but he does have friends and acquaintances from other areas of his life too. I got to know him when we worked together on a couple of charity committees. Where I also met your father, I might add. It’s all totally innocent, and above board.”
“Well, that’s a pity,” replied Lottie with a wry smile, “because when I spoke to Daddy on the phone earlier today he said he’d known of Freddie Burkinshaw, and had always wondered if he’d been dispatched to Jamaica to ‘keep an eye on a few local chaps’. Apparently, Freddie arrived here just around the time independence was granted, and was pretty close with Ian Fleming – and we all know what sort of a war he had, and what he got up to after it, don’t we, children?” She rose, and swooshed her chiffon scarf around her firm, young throat. “I’m off for a shower now. It’s so dreadfully humid. The rain’s stopped at last, I see. Thank you for a delicious…egg thingy, Cait, Bud. See you in a bit, John. Maybe someone will be kind enough to let me know what sort of place we’re dining at tonight, when you’ve made the arrangements, so I can dress accordingly. Bye-ee.”
And she was gone. Leaving us all a bit flummoxed, and – in my case anyway – fixated on the fact that I’d
just heard several potential reasons why someone might want Freddie Burkinshaw dead. It seemed he might not have been the innocent octogenarian without an enemy in the world we’d all thought him to be, after all.
Discovering Deceit
An unsurprising silence followed Lottie’s departure, though I could almost hear the ice crackling in the stares Bud and Jack were directing toward John.
John’s the tallest of the three men by far – worthy of all the inevitable Long John Silver jokes – but he never usually stoops the way some tall men do. Now he was slouched in his chair; wishing it would eat him up, no doubt. He was fiddling with the buttons on his navy, open-necked shirt and I could hear the rubber sole of his canary-yellow deck shoe slapping against the hardwood floor as his knee bounced. Sweat trickled from his receding hairline.
Bud’s expression was grim. “I’ve never had anything but the greatest respect for you, John, as you know, and I will forever be in your debt – for so many reasons,” he began – which is never a good start to a speech, because there’s always an inevitable “but” on the horizon – “but Lottie seems to believe she knows quite a lot about our careers. Have you succumbed to pillow talk, eh? At your age? With your years of experience?”
John didn’t look up. He shook his head. “I swear, I haven’t said a thing. Not a dickie bird. She’s just…inferring.”
“Well, she’s sure managed to infer a lot, and pretty accurately,” said Jack quietly.
Sheila nodded and patted her husband on the leg. “She doesn’t really know anything, Jack. You can tell.”
I looked at Bud, whose ears were red, something which doesn’t happen often, but which tells me he’s incredibly angry. I instinctively reached to touch his arm. I didn’t like it when he pulled it away to waggle his finger at John. “You need to have a word with her.” Bud’s tone was alien to me. It made my tummy clench.
For once I thought it best to say nothing and I literally bit my tongue. It helps.
“Come on, chaps,” said John, rallying, “Lottie’s just chattering on, the way she does. You must have worked out she does that, by now. It’s part of her charm, in a funny way. She’s really a good deal more intelligent than most folks give her credit for. Her entire family is peppered with bright sparks who many people think are potty; they aren’t, they’re just not terribly good at expressing themselves, that’s all.”
Bud tutted. He doesn’t usually tut. I’m the tutter in the family. Well, me and his mother; sometimes we have tutting duets. At Bud’s expense.
“You might think it’s nothing to be concerned about, John, but if she rattles on like that all the time, she could easily say the wrong thing to the wrong person,” said Bud, still sounding weird. His tone made me wonder just how much about his past CSIS-associated undertakings I still didn’t know.
“Exactly. Especially here, now,” added Jack.
I had no idea what he meant, and my tongue was starting to get sore, so I finally blurted out, “Okay, that’s enough. What the heck is going on? Bud, I know you always shut me down with ‘I can’t talk about it, I swore an oath,’ and I’ve accepted that since I first stumbled upon your top-secret activities. And I know Jack’s done his bit for various agencies. John too. But what do you mean by ‘here, now’, Jack? Why are you so angry, Bud? And who on earth is this flaming Lottie person anyway, John? I mean we’re all too polite to say it, but I bet we’re all thinking she has to be the best part of thirty years your junior, and an extremely attractive young woman – so what’s she doing with you? I truly enjoy your company, John – something I can’t say about many people – and I know how supportive you’ve been of Bud and me…but just how long have you two been a couple? How did you ever become a couple? I mean, really? You and her? You’re such an unlikely pair. Come on, I want to know what’s going on – everything. It’s just us here, in private – everybody, out with the truth, now.”
This time the silence vibrated with its own frequency. Not even Sheila met my gaze. Fishy.
John spoke first. “In my defense, Lottie’s just happier going out with an older chap. We’ve been seeing each other for a couple of months, now. As I said, she’s sharper than she appears and she’s a popular person to socialize with. I enjoy her company a great deal. And she’s older than you might think. Almost thirty-five, so there’s not quite thirty years between us. Not so unusual.” He looked cowed, and I felt guilty about how nasty I’d been.
I covered my embarrassment by saying, “Well, I trust you’re both very happy then, John,” and managed a genuine-looking smile, I hoped. But I wasn’t going to let Bud and Jack off the hook. “So come on then, Jack – what did you mean by ‘here, now’ exactly? Bud, I thought you’d retired, fully, even from your secret stuff. And I believed we’d come here so I could round off my recuperation from all that mess in Hungary with a bit of time in the sun, being waited on hand and foot. What aren’t you telling me?”
Bud sighed.
Sheila wriggled.
“You know too, don’t you?” I snapped. Sheila had the good grace to nibble her lips and blush.
Bud sighed again, then turned, and took both my hands in his. Not good. His tone was earnest, his loving gaze direct. “The reason we got such a great deal on this place for a month’s rental was that I was asked to come here by Freddie himself. Indirectly. In fact –” he paused and glanced at John, then Jack – “we’re only paying what we are to act as a cover; I’m reporting back to someone about something that might have happened here over half a century ago.”
“Bud…” warned John.
Bud shrugged and said, “Sorry, guys. And sorry, Cait. You know I love you, and I’d have told you if I could. I can’t even tell you everything now, but I can tell you this much – something was lost…or misplaced…over fifty years ago, and it’s become important that it’s retrieved, soon. I was tasked with coming here to gather information from Freddie Burkinshaw about events back then. As Lottie seems to have gathered from her father – who really should have known better than to say anything at all about this – Freddie wasn’t just a man who’d retired to the sun at an enviably young age. There were…papers…that found their way here in the early 1960s; for a long time those papers were forgotten about – they didn’t matter. Now things have changed in the world, and it’s critically important that the papers are located. Honestly, I can’t say more than that. Indeed, as Jack and John know, I’ve already said more than I should have done.”
I could feel my insides churn, and it wasn’t because of what I’d eaten at lunch. My eyes began to sting. I will not cry, here, now.
“So, this trip was never about my fiftieth birthday. Nothing to do with my recuperation. It wasn’t about us having time together in the sun, as a couple. I thought we were going to have a month alone, then you conned me – yes, conned me – into sharing our time here with other people. It was all an elaborate cover for some sort of operation.” The first hot, angry tears rolled down my cheek. Bud’s face was a blur, but I could see enough to know he was hurting too. I wiped my eyes with my napkin and stood. “I’m going back to our bungalow now. You lot can clear up. But try not to talk too happily about how you all managed to pull the wool over my eyes, will you? Thanks. See you all later.”
I stomped out of the room trying to hold back sobs. I didn’t want to show them how horribly they’d all wounded me. And how angry I was at myself that I hadn’t suspected a thing. I’m supposed to be good at reading people – it’s what I do. It’s my whole career, my life. I’m a professor of criminal psychology, for goodness sake. I profile people. I write research papers about profiling people. I apply my years of academic and real-life experience to profiling people. I can usually work out what people are thinking, and why they do what they do. I’m no good at anything else. It is who I am.
And I had just found out that my husband, the man I love and trust completely, and my closest friends – okay then, my only friends – had all been lying to me. For a
ges. And I hadn’t suspected a thing. I am an idiot.
Of Love and Lies
I’d dragged myself out of bed that morning expecting nothing more than a stinking hangover – which I knew I deserved – and a day of gradually nursing myself through it. Instead, there I was, curled into a ball on the bed crying my heart out, and wondering if I’d ever be able to come to terms with the fact that my husband had lied to me. Worse, I’d had my nose well and truly rubbed in the fact that he would probably never be able to be completely open and honest with me about his covert missions.
I told myself it wasn’t as though I’d found out he’d been cheating on me.
Then I reasoned that he was only lying about work, not life…not the stuff that really mattered.
So what if this whole trip had been planned to allow him to fulfil some sort of orders? He had a duty to our country, and he was doing what he had sworn he would.
But why couldn’t he have trusted me with the facts?
Clearly Jack had told Sheila; why hadn’t Bud told me?
I went back and forth, listening to the voices in my head arguing it out. They were loud, and neither was going to give up easily. But the longer I lay there – the shutters closed, the room oppressively hot – the more I was drawn to the conclusion that I simply had to ask Bud why he hadn’t told me what was going on.
Because that was my real concern. The only concern worth having.
When I finally managed to stop sobbing, and sat up to dry my eyes and blow my nose, I could hear noises in the sitting room. The jalousie doors between the bedroom and the sitting area of the little bungalow meant it was difficult to not be aware of the fact Bud was pacing about just beyond them. I spent a few minutes in the bathroom, trying to cool off by running water over my wrists, then I steeled myself to face him.
