by Duncan James
***
It had been the fag end of last week when Catherine Wilson, wearing an even bigger grin that usual, had knocked on Bill Clayton’s door.
“You’ll never guess what I’ve done,” she said.
“Surprise me,” said Clayton.
“By devious means, which we won’t go into if you don’t mind, I’ve been given access to Alistair Vaughan’s personal files at the Yard.”
“You’re joking!” exclaimed Clayton. “How the hell did you manage that, you clever girl?”
She raised a finger to her lips.
“Not a word,” she said, “but I have managed to persuade an old chum of mine – ex Military Police – to let me have a quiet and unofficial look, if he can get hold of them from the vaults where the archives are stored. Thursday, unless I hear to the contrary before then.”
“That’s brilliant.”
“I thought you’d be pleased,” Catherine Wilson said. “It could provide us with just the information we’ve been looking for.”
“Tell you what,” said Bill Clayton. “I’ll try to fix to see the PM on Thursday too, - I need to see him again - and perhaps we can both meet Alistair Vaughan for lunch. How about that?”
“A great idea. If I don’t get all we need from the files, I can chat him up over lunch, and if necessary, and if I’m asked, stay over.”
“That’s the bit I don’t like,” said Clayton.
“Don’t fuss,” she replied. “It may not come to that, but you know very well I can take care of myself if I have to.”
Clayton nodded.
“I still worry about you, Catherine.”
“Nice of you, but please don’t,” she replied.
“I’ll book us both back on the last flight, and hope you’re there,” he said. “Apart from anything else, it will give us a good chance to de-brief, over a drink.”
“I can think of better places than that,” she said with a laugh.
