by Duncan James
***
Catherine Wilson couldn’t remember when she’d last felt like this.
It was a long time since someone she really wanted to be with had asked her out. And she really wanted to be with Bill Clayton.
His friend, James Anchor, had been nice, but somehow she never really felt comfortable with people who had been divorced. You only ever heard one side of the story, and there was always another. Anyway, they only went out a couple of times before he decided that who-ever-it-was in the Cabinet Office was a better bet. But she had learnt a thing or two about Bill Clayton during idle chats over dinner, and the more she heard, the more she liked. She had always thought he was a nice man, anyway, but had never given a second thought to the possibility that they could, one day, become friends rather than just office colleagues. The Army didn’t like officers mixing with NCOs, so that was the end of it, so far as she was concerned. But he was obviously not the least concerned about that, which made this evening’s dinner an even more exciting prospect. And if he didn’t care about gossip, why should she? He had far more to lose than she did. If the worse came to the worse, she could always leave the Army. The thought had crossed her mind more than once, anyway, especially since her time in Iraq. That had been a brutal experience, and she often wondered if she’d ever really get over it. The physical hurt had passed and the wounds had more or less healed, but she didn’t think the mental anguish would ever leave her, unless and until she left the Army. She liked the military life for the company it gave her and the active life – that’s why she had joined – but now it always reminded her of a quite horrid episode in her life which she would rather forget.
She looked at her scarred body as she dressed after her shower, and winced at the memory. She wondered if he’d mind, although she was jumping the gun a bit, and grinned. Wishful thinking! She still had a good figure, but the scars were not a pretty sight, and she would understand any man being put off by them.
It would probably never come to that, though. Certainly not tonight. Bill wasn’t the sort of man to rush things, she thought.
She was intrigued to know what it was he so urgently needed to share with her – or anyone – about recent events. Although they still had a few odd ends to tie up, their part of the operation was more or less over, she had thought, while the emphasis swung towards the politics of it all. She knew that James Anchor was now in Hawaii as part of the planning for that phase, but frankly, politics didn’t interest her too much.
Bill Clayton did, though, and she hoped there would be time for her to learn more about the man - and for him to learn more about her.
She didn’t know the restaurant he had suggested, but she would find it all right. They had agreed to go independently – him in his old car, and she on her motorbike – and to meet there. He would book a table, although it was quiet he said, and probably wouldn’t be crowded. Seemed a shame they would have to say goodnight in the car park, but it was probably for the best. What sort of parting would it be, she wondered? The excitement and anticipation was killing her! She shoved her long hair into a bun, struggled into her tight leathers, and grabbed her helmet. She would soon know.
Bill Clayton had left the mess earlier than he really needed, although he knew his old VW would not be as quick as Catherine’s Honda. But he couldn’t hang around any longer. The suspense was killing him. He really wanted to get to know this girl, and the opportunity to do so had come about quite unexpectedly. He still couldn’t believe that he had been brave enough to suggest meeting out, rather than in that bloody office, or that she had agreed so readily. That had to be a good sign.
He got there first, as he had planned. He was shown to the table, and would have ordered a drink, except that he suddenly realised he didn’t know what she liked. He really didn’t know anything much about Catherine, except what was on her file. And that didn’t include her favourite tipple.
He didn’t have to wait long for Catherine. Her face flushed from the wind, she handed the waiter her helmet, shook her long hair into place, and unzipped her leather jacket as she crossed the small restaurant towards him.
“Hope I’m not late,” she greeted him.
“Bang on time,” replied Bill. “I was a touch early – must have had the wind behind me for a change!”
He helped her into her seat at the table, as the waiter took her coat and hovered.
“I couldn’t order a drink,” said Bill, “because I haven’t the slightest idea what you like. In fact I know very little about you at all, but hopefully that will all change this evening. How about some champagne, as this is our first evening out together?”
“That would be lovely,” she replied. “But we mustn’t forget that we are both driving.”
“Bring a bottle,” he told the waiter. “I’m sure we could manage that between us. We shan’t be hitting the road again for a long time yet, I hope.”
They studied the menu and ordered their meal, although neither of them had much of an appetite, for some reason.
“Now!” said Bill. “Tell me all about yourself!”
“Certainly not,” Catherine replied. “I want to hear all about you first! But you wanted to talk shop – that’s really why we’re here.”
“No it isn’t,” he replied “We’re here because I wanted to take you out and get to know you a lot better. But I do also need to unburden myself a bit at some time this evening.”
“Work first,” said Catherine. “Let’s get that over, and then we talk about more pleasant things.”
“If you insist. But I hardly know where to start.”
“The beginning is always a good place,” said Catherine, philosophically.
So Bill Clayton started at the beginning. He told her about the death of his wife, which might or might not have been the beginning, and his fears that he was the real target. Then there was his uncle, and the old envelope of his.
“I remember seeing it,” said Catherine. “It was in the safe for a bit.”
“And the list of accounts inside was largely provided by Sean Doyle, as you know.” said Bill. “So there’s a sort of link between Edward Benbow and Sean Doyle, but is it a strong enough link to explain uncle’s murder?”
“Who else knew about the envelope and its contents?”
“The Prime Minister, the Cabinet Secretary, and Alistair Vaughan.”
“The Bank of England man?”
“Right. Sir Robin Algar gave him the envelope and contents together. Vaughan was responsible for action to close the accounts.”
“Using the convicted computer expert to do it.”
“Right again, Catherine.”
“Would he have seen the envelope as well, do you think?”
“Possible, I suppose. But one of the things I haven’t yet been able to work out is why anyone would want to kill Edward Benbow.”
The smoked salmon arrived.
When the waiter had gone, Catherine said, “Tell me about your uncle.” If nothing else, it might give her a few clues about Bill’s family background, and she really wanted to know more about him.
“An interesting and complex man, my uncle Edward,” said Bill Clayton. “My father was in the Army – retired as a General some years ago. His sister married Edward Benbow, who was also in the Army, although not the sort of Army my father had much time for. Benbow was in the Royal Artillery, rather than a teeth-arm infantry battalion. So far as my father was concerned, people in anything other than that were a different and inferior breed from those in the front line battalions. Which is why I’m a bit of a disappointment to him!
“But Uncle Edward did well. He retired as a Major, and went into the MOD – the final blow to my father – and while there, got a degree in nuclear physics, and then transferred to the Foreign Office, or MI5 or something like that, as an Arms inspector. Much respected in that role he was, too. Spent a lot of time in Iraq before he retired altogether. Since then, though, he has been called up on some sort of contract to help out in
Libya since Gaddafi declared his Weapons of Mass Destruction, and he’s been there quite often in the … ”
Bill Clayton stopped in mid-sentence, and stared at Catherine.
“Bill, whatever is it?” she said, alarmed.
“I wonder.” he said quietly. “I just wonder if perhaps Libya isn’t the link we’re looking for.”
“Libya?” she queried.
“Yes, Libya. Libya could just be the key to all this.” He fumbled in the pocket of his best jacket. “I didn’t show you this, but I will now. It’s a hand written, or scribbled, note from Sean Doyle. It was in with his letter, but didn’t mean much to me at the time.”
He handed it across the table, just as their main course arrived. Catherine kept it hidden until the waiter had gone, and then read,
“Your man Vaughan a fund raiser – links to Libyan arms dealers.”
“Good God,” she exclaimed. “If that’s true…”
The rest went unsaid. They were both deep in thought.
“Why Vaughan?” asked Clayton, thinking aloud. “What’s his particular interest in all this?”
“If that note from Doyle is accurate, then I suppose it’s always possible that Benbow discovered that Vaughan was involved in IRA arms running,” said Catherine.
“Or that Vaughan was afraid he would.”
“Suddenly, we need to know a great deal more about Alistair Vaughan, don’t we?”
“We certainly do,” agreed Clayton. “And I would also like to know about the weapon that killed my uncle. I wonder how good the Sussex Police forensic people are? I think I might pay them a call to find out.”
He looked across at Catherine. “Fancy a dirty weekend in Brighton?” he asked with a grin.
For the rest of the meal, they forgot the shop, and delved into each other’s personal background. They discovered they had quite a lot of interests in common, although a love of motorbikes was not one of them. The more Bill heard, the more attracted he was to the girl across the table. And the more she learned about Bill Clayton, the more inclined she was to think that a weekend in Brighton, or anywhere else, would be worth having.
Eventually and inevitably, the conversation drifted back to the problems surrounding Op. Honolulu, and they discussed how they might set about finding out more about Vaughan.
“I’ve met the man quite recently, of course,” said Bill. “Had lunch with him and the Cabinet Secretary at a very posh restaurant in London. We mainly discussed how to get hold of the IRA cash, but I seem to remember that I also mentioned the arms dump in the south, and how difficult I thought it was going to be to get at it. I also mentioned the shipment of arms they were expecting from Libya. Good grief, if he is on their side and not ours, I just about gave the game away about everything we knew.”
“You weren’t to know,” said Catherine.
“Of course not,” agreed Bill. “But if that note from Doyle is only half accurate, we’ve been extremely lucky to get away with it so far.”
“I’m sure the man could have done more to stop us,” said Catherine.
Bill looked at her. “He should have killed me and not my uncle for one thing,” he said.
“Bill, please don’t say that,” she implored. “You must take special care from now on, until we know the truth. Promise me you will.”
“Agreed,” said Bill Clayton. “I’ll start by keeping off the back of that motorbike of yours!”
He was flattered that she seemed to care.
“Talking of my bike,” she said, looking round, “we should make a move. They must be waiting to close. We are the last here.”
He looked at his watch.
“You’re right. I suppose we should, but I was just beginning to enjoy getting to know you better. Can we do this again?”
“Yes, please.”
He helped her into her coat, and they made their way across the car park towards her Honda.
“Don’t you go mad on that thing, now,” instructed Bill sternly. “And don’t expect me to catch up. My machine’s not up to it.”
“It’s been a lovely evening – thank you.”
“On the contrary – thank you for coming, and thank you for helping me get some thoughts into order. We’ve given ourselves more work to do, I’m afraid, but we’ll keep this between ourselves for the time being if you don’t mind.”
She leant forward and kissed him gently on the cheek.
“See you in the morning,” she said, and swung a shapely leg over the bike.
Bill stood there as she sped off, watching her disappear from view before going across to his old VW. He was careful to check it over thoroughly before he got in, started the engine, and followed Catherine at a more sedate pace.
