Looking out, he commented on the size of the lawn.
‘Must be a lot of work to keep it looking so good. It’s so large.’
‘Don’t tell me that! We had to buy a motor mower – one of those you sit on. My dear husband put a pennant on it so it would feel like he was driving an armoured vehicle into battle. You see how the lawn rises steeply at the bottom. One day he drove across right at the bottom there – the side slope was such that it toppled over. To think how silly it would be to survive a war and stupidly get killed like that. Luckily, the mower did not land right on top of him. Don’t tell him I told you.’
Holt promised and went to his allotted room to spruce himself up, while she went down to the kitchen to join Samantha, already at work preparing the meal. After washing his face, Holt felt much better, even relaxed.
In the event, mother and daughter produced a great lunch, and, with the help of a couple of bottles of good wine on top of the pre-lunch whiskies, things were going swimmingly. Samantha, with the passage of time, seemed so much more mellow and approachable – not that she had ever put him down or purposely ignored his presence, like many girls of her age did. Their difference in age – a year – had seemed so much when he was a shy thirteen.
After the coffees in the drawing room, the brigadier took Holt’s arm and led him out to the garden for a private chat.
‘Thank you, sir, for letting me put your name forward as a reference,’ said Holt, reverting to the way he spoke to the neighbour his parents called the ‘brig’ but insisted he be polite to and call ‘sir’.
‘Think nothing of it,’ replied the brigadier.
‘I had to provide five others as well, but I am sure yours carried the most weight. It may not come to anything. To tell the truth, I don’t know anything much about the job yet.’
‘It must be,’ said the brigadier with a wry smile, ‘something quite special to require so many references.’
The raising of the brigadier’s eyebrows convinced Holt that he knew more than he was letting on. He was part of the establishment and, with medals for gallantry, could be relied on, which was more than could be said for some of the other characters Holt had asked to provide references. However, the brigadier did not allow him to pursue the matter.
‘Let’s get back and rejoin the ladies; not that I see my daughter as a lady. I am hoping she will eventually end up with a more suitable partner and become one. Pity you were much too young for her. You at least are a good egg, unlike that good‑for-nothing she is drooling after.’
His wife was on the terrace, catching up with her daughter’s latest news – impossible in the brigadier’s presence, as he could not bear to hear the boyfriend’s name or anything concerning life with him mentioned. How could his daughter, who had been daddy’s girl, become beholden to someone like that scumbag?
With the return of the two men, the conversation immediately switched to the old days, when they were neighbours, before the fatal car crash. When the mother asked Holt about his plans for the future, Holt wondered whether the brigadier had let something slip, but before he could come up with some noncommittal answer, the brigadier stepped in.
‘Jeremy has just told me he is applying for a new job in research but is not sure yet what is involved.’
This half-truth neatly forestalled further questions, and the conversation moved on to other topics. Holt was surprised how open they were, treating him as family, which was fortunate, for if he did join Giraffe, the brigadier might be the only confidant he could keep without raising suspicions.
After afternoon tea, Holt bade them farewell and gladly accepted Samantha’s offer to drive him to the station, seven minutes away by car.
He wished it had been ten times as far but was compensated on arrival by her kissing him on the forehead and saying, ‘It was nice having you as neighbour. I wish we had got to know each other better…I am not so uptight these days!’
Deeply touched by the kiss and a trifle saddened by the thought of her at a time when his parents were alive, Holt fought to regain his composure as he waved her goodbye. Again he realized too late that he should have made more of a relationship; not that it could ever have blossomed into anything serious, but he could have done with a friend like that at that difficult time.
All in all it had been a good day, and he returned to London quite refreshed, and, judging from the brigadier’s reactions, wheels were in motion.
Indeed they were, for a few days later, on returning home he heard his landline phone ringing as he was standing at the front door, fumbling with his keys. Having got the door open, he dumped his stuff, dashed for the phone, and managed to answer it before the other party rang off.
‘Mr Holt. Jeremy Holt?’
‘Yes.’
A cut-glass female voice proceeded to ask him for private details, as if it were his bank or credit card company checking on his identity before imparting any information. Since the voice was far too superior for that, he assumed it was Giraffe but wanted to show he was streetwise.
‘I am not in the habit, madam, of revealing personal details without first ascertaining the identity of the individual soliciting them. Might I ask whom I am addressing?’
‘It’s Giraffe.’
‘Big Bird on the line. A chirpy evening to you.’
‘Not funny, not funny at all.’
Made to feel rather silly, Holt apologized before furnishing the required details.
‘You remember the major?’
‘Of course…How could I not?’
‘He opines that you need a decent suit and has graciously arranged for you to have one made at our tailor’s. It will remain your property, even should you ultimately not…er, become one of us.’
Holt could feel the heightened disdain in her voice following his childish joke. She had seemed to choke at the very thought that he could become one of them.
‘It wasn’t that bad. The suit, I mean,’ he replied, disappointed that his best suit had failed to ‘cut the mustard’, as the major might say.
‘The major surprisingly took a shine to you and would be most hurt should you fail to take up his more than generous offer.’
‘Yes, it would be churlish to decline. Tell him I’m most grateful and would be more than glad to accept,’ said Holt, unconsciously parroting the woman’s way of speaking and ending up sounding like an incongruous imitation of her, and with a male voice to boot.
Was this Giraffe’s way of letting failed candidates down with no hard feelings? Was it all over even before the second fence and just as he was beginning to believe he was embarking on something exciting? His heart sank.
‘Symes, our tailor, is located in Sackville Street. It’s a quiet side street on the right as you walk from Piccadilly Circus along Piccadilly towards Bond Street. Just before you come to Fortnum & Mason on the other side. I presume you have heard of them?’
‘I used to have high tea there with my grandmother once a month as a child.’ It was a blatant lie, but stuck-up tight-arse needed taking down a peg.
The slight pause that followed indicated he had at last scored a point and perhaps gained a modicum of respect.
‘Be that as it may,’ she huffed, ‘it’s at number forty-five. Be there at six thirty tomorrow evening prompt. You cannot miss it. Have you got that?’
‘Yes, number forty-five, Sackville Street. Symes, six thirty.’
‘Correct. Allow plenty of time, as measuring you and choosing the material can be time-consuming. They may have to put you on the back burner if they have someone of importance there. I am sure you understand.’
Forced to grovel, Holt confirmed he fully understood.
Having thereby scored a final point, Cut-Glass rang off without asking whether the time was convenient. She had sounded like the headmaster’s secretary calling him to his study for a telling off or worse.
Consequently, the following evening he arrived outside Symes much too early and to kill time ordered a coffee at the tiny de
licatessen across the street. Sitting outside at one of the three tables, he watched the goings-on, or lack thereof, in the street, which was surprisingly quiet for one just off the main thoroughfare of Piccadilly, with its constant stream of buses, taxis, and other vehicles. Apart from the odd car, van, or taxi taking a short cut, there was the occasional pedestrian. Those looking lost were probably tourists seeking the Royal Academy, slightly further on along Piccadilly, where they were holding one of their special exhibitions.
The tailoring establishment looked just what it was purported to be and, judging by the amount of wear on the brass nameplate outside, had either been in existence for many years or had an overzealous polisher – probably both. Looking more closely, Holt could see an array of CCTV cameras covering not only the entrance but also the street. Realizing that one was pointing directly at him, he shifted uneasily in his seat, trying to adopt a suave, sophisticated air as he preened like he had seen actors do when savouring coffee in TV commercials.
Just before six thirty, a tall, smartly dressed gentleman came out from number 45 and stepped into the street. He clutched a fold-over bag for carrying suits as his long legs carried him elegantly towards Piccadilly.
At 6.31 precisely, Holt got up and, conscious of his relatively short legs, walked across the street with what he considered was a confident, nonchalant gait, for the benefit of the CCTV camera. For some reason, he found himself thinking how Britain’s most accomplished official hangman, Albert Pierrepoint, who had executed at least four hundred people by the time he resigned in 1956, used to peep into the condemned man’s or even woman’s cell to assess the amount of rope required for optimum results. Was the tailor likewise covertly sizing up his subjects, or were the cameras for a more sinister purpose?
There were four bell pushes of a modern design out of keeping with the traditional brass nameplate. The top three had Christian names beside them – Jennifer, Tim, and Hugh – and it would have all seemed very innocent had it not been for the CCTV cameras. Holt pressed the bottom one, marked ‘Symes’.
On hearing a loud click, he pushed open the heavier-than-expected door and stepped inside to find yet another door. He tried to open the second one but found that only became possible once the outer door had snapped shut behind him. Inside was a long, narrow hall with a straight staircase on the left, a long hallway going to the back alongside it to the right, and a door with a glass window marked ‘Symes & Co.’ in black letters on his immediate right.
Just as he was about to push the door, a hairy hand appeared on the other side and pulled it open for him. The hand belonged to a portly fiftyish man in shirtsleeves, who, from the tape measure slung round his neck, was obviously the tailor.
‘Mr Holt? Welcome to Symes. We’ll see what we can do for you. The major said you needed something snappy yet elegant.’
Evidently, he had learnt not to ask clients too many questions – indeed, no personal questions other than to confirm their name.
An assistant, possibly an apprentice, wearing a smart suit much too smart for someone barely twenty, stepped up to relieve Holt of his jacket with unmerited deference, considering the lowly object was the reason Holt was there in the first place.
Once measured in the usual places, one slightly embarrassing, Holt was escorted to the shelves along the right-hand wall of the establishment to choose the fabric. Taken aback by the wide choice, with some of the gaudier material more appropriate for pop stars, he was glad to follow the avuncular tailor’s advice to go for one of the high-class ones with a woollen feel, favoured by the major. The tailor picked up a bolt of darkish blue cloth with a few highlights.
‘This one would be ideal. It is informal enough for trendy receptions yet would not be out of place at a cabinet meeting.’
‘I’m sure that would be fine – though I don’t expect I will ever attend a cabinet meeting.’
‘One never knows. If it’s not a cabinet meeting, it might be a reception in the presence of the Her Majesty or the president of the United States – that is to say, in a professional capacity, with no food or alcohol, with only your suit to make you feel you are worth something!’
As soon as the words were out of his mouth, the tailor looked embarrassed, as if he had said too much and had better stick to tailoring.
‘Of course, I was only joking. We’ll let you know when to come back for a fitting – say in about ten days. We have your number.’
Having been reunited with his own jacket, of which he was beginning to feel extremely ashamed, Holt was gravitating towards the exit at the front of the shop when the young assistant grabbed his arm.
‘No. It’s this way!’
He was redirected back to the rear of the shop, where a tall woman with ramrod legs and a generous bottom ensconced in a tight skirt had suddenly appeared. Her haute couture ensemble followed her contours without revealing too much, yet just enough.
From her voice, Holt knew she was Cut-Glass, the uptight dragon he had fallen out with on the phone. In the flesh, she made him feel even more insignificant as she looked him up and down, her eyes settling on his suit, the sight of which made her raise her eyebrows at the tailor’s assistant as if it, and the person wearing it, were something the cat had dragged in. She was the mistress of put-downs.
She led the deflated Holt out of the rear door and up the carpeted stairs, past the first floor, and then up again to the second, where the ceilings were much lower. She knocked on the door of the first room, pushed it open, and stood back to allow him to go in, saying, ‘Major Bell would like a few words with you.’
The major was standing in the middle of the room, smiling.
‘Hello, Holt. Glad you made it to the home straight. Don’t feel committed. It’s your life. Your future.’
‘Thanks for the advice. I’ll keep it in mind.’
'Hope you will be happy with the suit.’
‘I’m sure I shall, Major. It’s most kind of you.’
‘Don’t thank me. It was a good excuse to get you here without a lot of palaver and should come in handy if you come to work for our lot. A great suit gives one a lift – like travelling first class or, these days, business class. Of course, a military uniform with several pips would be even better, but we cannot go that far yet, can we, Jeremy?’
‘I hope I can live up to it.’
‘I’m sure you shall. It has been a pleasure making your acquaintance. Since I may never see you again, I wanted to take this opportunity to wish you all the best, whatever becomes of you.’
The idea of never being seen again was troubling, but before Holt could give it any further thought, Cut-Glass reappeared and indicated that he should proceed in front of her down the stairs to the lower landing.
‘Wait here,’ she ordered brusquely, before knocking at a door marked ‘Private’. A sharp-looking man in a dark suit opened it, and they exchanged a few whispered words, whereupon she led him to another door, at the end of the passage.
‘Wait in there. It’s all we have free at the moment. I’m afraid it’s not very comfortable.’
That was an understatement.
Virtually a broom cupboard, probably not unlike the one at nearby Nobu, the Japanese restaurant where tennis great Boris Becker had a brief fling with a young woman that cost him a fortune in child maintenance. Holt smiled to himself, thinking that unlike Becker he was being softened up. Unfortunately, all the secrecy meant it was a joke he would never be able to tell. It was only much later that Holt learnt that Becker’s tryst had been in a stairwell and not a broom cupboard.
As if that were not enough, Cut-Glass soon returned to soften him up even further with yet another of her put-downs.
‘A VIP was here. It was better they were not seen by commoners.’
Deflated, he allowed her to lead him back to the door to which they had earlier been refused entry. The man in the dark suit was this time seated inside at a desk at right angles to another door.
‘Go straight on in,’ he said with a
nod.
Cut-Glass nevertheless gave a quick knock to announce their entry and introduced Holt to a tall, wiry man standing beside a large desk.
‘Sir Charles, this is Jeremy Holt.’
‘Ah yes. Good. Bring him in.’
‘We had to paaark him in the boxroom until X vacated the building.’
‘Thank you, Sandra.’
‘Cut-Glass withdrew discreetly, leaving him in the presence of the person she had called Sir Charles, who had the style and class – not to mention the cool steeliness – of those who rise to the top of the civil service and judiciary. He seemed to be quizzically sizing Holt up.
‘Holt. Not a bad name. Short, like Bond, but are you aware that Holt was the name of an attractive boy associated with the notorious Kray twins, who terrorized East London? The boy – or rather, young man – used to visit the late Lord Boothby’s flat in Eaton Square, offering sexual services. There were security implications, as a certain Tom Driberg was associating with them. He almost certainly passed on information to the Russians.’
‘No, I didn’t know that. There must be some good Holts.’
‘You’re right. I believe the sportswriter for one of our popular daily papers is called Holt. He writes well, by the way, so do not let the Kray association get you down.’
‘I’ll google my name when I get back home…’
‘Do that. One day you yourself may come up in a search, though in our business we prefer it not to come up at all, unless it is a cover role, such as a second secretary at an embassy.’
‘Yes…but…’
‘You must be wondering what this is all about, though you must have some inkling, in view of the questions the major posed, to which, by the way, you furnished highly satisfactory answers.’
‘I hope I did not give the impression that I was a potential terrorist.’
‘If you were, you would not have been so outspoken.’
Holt merely nodded. He wanted to avoid making some trite remark that would lower him in the great man’s esteem.
‘Sorry for having to confine you in the boxroom. My PA can be somewhat daunting on first acquaintance, but I can assure you she is quite accommodating underneath – that is, when you get to know her properly.’
LONDON ALERT Page 4
