Lieutenant Robert Simpson was now dressed in pale-blue cotton slacks and a striped shirt with short sleeves. He had just taken a shower and washed his hair. Looking at himself in the tiny mirror in his cabin, he decided he was in a fit state to go ashore. The captain had given him a twenty-four-hour pass, and he felt he had deserved it. HMS Retribution was as well stocked for the rest of her voyage as she would ever be.
He leaned through the door of the wardroom to see if his fellow lieutenant was ready, the Assistant Polaris Systems Officer, George Grundy. They had decided to sample some of the bars and discotheques together.
‘Come on, George, let’s get at it before all the talent’s snapped up!’
As they hurried down the gangway on to the quayside, they welcomed the warm freshness of unconditioned air. George had hired them a car for the evening, and it was parked near the main gate.
‘You looked pretty busy this morning,’ Bob Simpson ventured as they drove down the long straight road through a succession of beach resorts. ‘Who were the visitors in the wardroom at lunchtime? The girl was rather fanciable.’
‘Oh, they were from Aldermaston. You remember the tall guy from last year, surely?’ George answered cautiously. ‘Oh no, you weren’t on board then, were you?’
‘From Aldermaston?’ Simpson answered, feigning surprise. ‘What were they doing here?
‘Adjusting things, I suppose you could say.’
‘What, on the new warheads, you mean?’
George tightened his grip on the wheel.
‘I can’t talk about that, as you bloody well know, Bob!’
‘Sorry. Just curious.’
They motored on in silence for a few moments.
‘Must have been important, though,’ Bob muttered, half to himself.
‘Oh, yes.’ George turned the car into the enormous parking lot flanking a complex of bars and restaurants. ‘You could certainly say it was important.’
He switched off the engine and they stared at the bright neon signs in front of them.
‘Well, this is the place the lads came to last night. Two of them got their legs over, so it can’t be bad!’ George proclaimed.
Simpson laughed uneasily. ‘Well, let’s get at it then!’ He opened the door and stepped on to the tarmac.
The name ‘Millies’ in green neon surmounted the doorway which they entered. Inside the air was warm, and sweet with smoke and perfume sprays. Bob Simpson spotted a telephone in the foyer.
‘George, must make a quick phone call. Buy me a gin would you, and I’ll see you at the bar in a minute. Leave the best one for me!’
His mate gave a V-sign and pushed his way towards the counter.
Simpson took a handful of quarters from his pocket and dialled the operator. Within seconds the number in England was ringing.
The voice which answered sounded extremely sleepy; it was the early hours of the morning over there. But the drowsiness vanished quickly enough when she heard what Simpson had to say.
The VC10 touched down at RAF Brize Norton just after three in the morning. Peter had only managed two hours’ sleep on the flight and felt crumpled and unwashed as he stepped carefully down the steps, blinking in the glare of the floodlights.
He had expected an official car to meet him, but not to see the rear seat already half occupied by a large man with a somewhat featureless face that he did not recognise. A door was opened towards him from inside, and a cloud of warm cigarette smoke wafted out into the chilly English air.
‘Mr Joyce?’ The man’s voice sounded tired. ‘My name is John Black. I’m from MI5.’
As Peter slid into the free rear-seat he could see even in the pale glow from the courtesy light that the stranger was regarding him with some curiosity. As he closed the door behind him, he immediately found the foul air stifling; and wound down his window.
‘MI5?’ Peter answered weakly, sensing reluctantly that he was about to be told something deeply shocking. ‘It’s kind of you to meet me . . .’
‘It’s not kindness that brings me here, Mr Joyce,’ Black answered sombrely.
The driver slammed the car boot. John Black waited until they were outside the air-base and on the road towards London before he spoke again.
‘I have some news for you . . . and some of it you will find distressing,’ he announced, staring straight ahead. ‘The good news is that we seem to have identified who has been playing around with your secret papers.’
‘Oh?’ Peter turned to look at him in surprise.
‘But the bad news is bad, I’m afraid.’ Black paused and chewed his lip.
Peter felt his heart beat faster.
‘The bad news is that Mary Maclean has killed herself.’
‘What?’ Peter gasped, clutching at the seat in front of him. ‘Oh, God!’
‘Cut her wrists,’ Black continued softly.
‘Oh, Jesus.’ Peter’s voice caught in his throat. His head spun and, as the car lurched round a double bend, he pressed a hand to his stomach.
‘Shall I stop the car for a few minutes?’ Black asked with sudden concern.
‘I . . . I think you’d better,’ Peter whispered.
Black tapped the driver on the shoulder and ordered him to pull over. The car slowed to a halt, bumping on the soft earth at the edge of the road. Peter struggled with the handle and pushed the door open. He swung his legs out and stood up, supporting himself against the side of the car, drawing great gulps of cold air into his lungs to try to stem the nausea rising from his stomach.
He struggled to comprehend the trauma and despair that could have been great enough to drive Mary to such a thing. To cut her own wrists! Giddiness overcoming him, he slumped on to the edge of the car seat, leaning out into the air, his head in his hands.
Suddenly it dawned on him what Black had really just told him. Carefully he lifted his legs back into the car and turned to face the man from MI5.
‘You said you knew who took the Skydancer plans?’ he began with a sense of resignation.
Black nodded, knowing that Peter had understood.
‘She wrote you a note admitting it,’ he stated flatly. ‘It was addressed to you, but I’m afraid we opened it.’
‘I can’t believe it,’ Peter answered. His worst suspicions seemed confirmed.
‘She felt herself to be a woman scorned,’ Black remarked pointedly.
For a few minutes they sat in silence, Peter shaking his head from time to time in disbelief.
‘Are you ready for us to move on now, Mr Joyce?’
‘Yes, I think I’m all right now.’
‘Perhaps you would take the corners more slowly, driver,’ Black called. He slipped his hand into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out an envelope.
Peter stared at it silently for a moment, not realising what it was, and not taking hold of it.
‘There’s a light behind you, if you want to read it,’ Black urged him. ‘That little white button.’
Peter found the flexible silver tube with a lamp at the end, designed for government officials to study documents while being driven to their appointments.
The envelope was blank, but he pulled from it a folded photocopy of a typewritten letter. He held it in the light and began to read.
Dear Peter,
I’ve been such a fool. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to cause all this trouble.
But you hurt me very deep, you know, and I wanted so badly to hurt you back. Causing a fuss over your precious Skydancer seemed the only way to get at you.
It was me who copied a page from your plans and left it on Parliament Hill, just for someone to find it and make a fuss, to get you into trouble. I feel so ashamed now. It was so silly of me and so selfish.
There never were any spies involved, no Russians, plotting against you. Just me.
But I see now what a mess I’ve made, and I can’t go on. I know you can’t let me live with you, but I can’t live without you.
Goodbye.
Lov
e M.
Peter could almost hear her saying it, see her tear-filled eyes pleading with him as on the last time they had been together. He swallowed hard to keep his own eyes from watering.
Every moment of that night came back to him – that night their affair ended, three months ago. He had been a coward. He should have told her all as soon as he arrived at her flat in Chiswick, but he could not find the courage. She had cooked them some salmon and had bought a bottle of Sancerre to go with it. It had felt so right being there with Mary that evening – so right that he had to fight to hang on to his resolve to end it all.
They had slipped into bed together after their meal. He wanted to make love to her for one last time. He remembered the stunned disbelief on her face when he told her, as they lay together afterwards. He had explained that the preservation of his family and the happiness of his children was more important than his personal feelings.
Disbelief had turned to anger at his deceit in making love to her while knowing he was just about to end their relationship, then to despair when she finally realised they would never be together like this again. Her face looked crumpled and ugly as she buried it in her pillow to sob uncontrollably.
So, now this, he thought to himself, staring hazily at the typewritten note. She had killed herself because of him. He had caused someone to die.
‘What . . . what happened exactly?’ he asked, without turning to the man on his right.
‘She didn’t turn up for work yesterday,’ John Black explained brusquely. ‘There’d been no word from her, and there was no reply from her phone, so in the circumstances we decided to break into her flat. Found her dead in the bath with her wrists slashed. It wasn’t a pretty sight.’
Peter took a deep breath, but felt unable to speak.
‘And that note was on her desk, in an envelope addressed to you. That’s a photocopy; we’ve got the original in the forensic lab. Just routine checks, of course.’
‘It couldn’t have been anything else?’ Peter asked, clutching at any means to reduce his guilt. ‘You’re sure it was suicide?’
‘Oh, I don’t think there’s much doubt. Besides it fits in with the evidence. We’ve not really uncovered anything that points to a Soviet intelligence operation. I’d had a feeling the whole business was “personal” right from the very start.’
The car had now passed Oxford and was heading south towards Aldermaston. Peter was being taken home.
‘Have you . . . have you talked to my wife about this?’ he inquired a few minutes later.
‘Yesterday. Saw her yesterday. Before we got worried about Maclean.’
‘What did you ask her? What sort of questions?’
‘Oh, just things that were relevant to my enquiry,’ John Black answered evasively.
‘Including presumably whether she knew about Mary and me?’
‘Of course. Your affair wasn’t exactly insignificant, after all, was it?’ His eyebrows arched in self-righteousness.
‘And what did she say?’ Peter asked sharply, suspecting the MI5 man took pleasure in invading people’s privacy.
‘Seemed a bit shocked. Apparently she hadn’t known anything about it, or at least that’s what she claimed. She got rather uppish after that. Refused to answer any more questions, and even started trying to ring some lawyer or other, so I decided to leave. With women like your wife there comes a point where you just can’t get any more sense out of them – but then I expect you know that already. I suppose that’s why you went off with Maclean?’
Peter turned to glare at the MI5 man.
‘If I were you I would keep opinions like that to myself!’ he exploded. ‘I don’t think you could even begin to understand what that affair was about. Are you married, Mr Black?’
The MI5 man chuckled. ‘No, not me. I don’t really like women that much. They’re all right for just one thing, but when they start expressing opinions, that’s when trouble starts.’ He paused reflectively for a few moments. ‘But between you and me, Mr Joyce, it’s people that I don’t really like, people in general. Life could run so smoothly if it wasn’t for people fouling it up, don’t you think?’
Peter felt further conversation was pointless. Black’s remarks were odious and insensitive. So he sat in silence for the rest of the journey, Mary’s agonised face filling his thoughts. As they neared his village in the rolling hillocks of Berkshire, he began to dread how he would cope with Belinda.
Black leaned forward to instruct the driver to pull up outside Peter’s house.
‘I’d be glad if you would call into my office at Curzon Street tomorrow morning around eleven,’ John Black said. ‘There are still a number of security details that need clearing up. All right?’
‘Eleven o’clock? I’ll try,’ Peter answered coolly.
The driver retrieved his small suitcase from the boot and handed it to him.
‘Goodnight, Mr Joyce,’ Black called from inside the car.
The car purred away down the road, and Peter was left with the sounds of the night. It had been raining, and moisture dripped from the branches of the oak tree in his garden.
The clouds prevented the moon from illuminating his path, but that did not matter. Light was streaming on to the drive from the bedroom window. His wife was awake and waiting for him.
Chapter Four
BELINDA HAD JUST reached the foot of the stairs as he opened the front door. She was in her dressing-gown. She gazed at him for less than a second, her face tear-stained and pained; then, without speaking, she turned towards the kitchen and moved away from him.
He deposited his overnight bag on the hall floor, and listened momentarily to the stillness of the house. He could almost sense the presence of his three children upstairs, sleeping in happy ignorance of the conflict about to engulf their parents.
He heard a kettle being filled, and followed his wife into the kitchen, knowing they could not put off the confrontation. Belinda plugged in the kettle and turned to face him with her arms folded.
‘Hello,’ he greeted her weakly from the doorway, without even attempting to smile.
She did not reply. She was like a primed bomb of tense emotion, her whole body rigid, not daring to speak for fear the last remnants of self-control would slip from her grasp. Peter watched her uncomfortably, terribly aware that he was the cause of her acute distress. Her skin looked pale grey from lack of sleep, and her straight, streaked hair was uncombed.
‘I’m sorry . . .’ Peter whispered, his voice catching in his throat. Pulling out one of the rickety pine chairs from under the kitchen table, he sat down staring vacantly into the corner of the room.
‘It would help . . . if you were to tell me how much you know, Belinda,’ he ventured, hoping to find a way through to her.
‘Huh!’ she snapped angrily. ‘Of course it would bloody well help you! Help you to decide how little you need tell me!’
She found herself shouting but quickly moderated her tone, conscious of the sleeping children upstairs.
‘I’ll tell you just one thing, Peter, give you just one clue,’ she continued, unable to control the trembling in her voice. ‘Yesterday I had a visit from a man calling himself John Black. You know him perhaps?’
Peter nodded.
‘Well this man Black tried to interrogate me. He accused me of conspiracy, treason and theft . . . and of sexual deviation.’
Her voice rose to a pitch of indignation.
‘Then he told me tales about you which I refused to believe – until he showed me things to prove it.’
The kettle came to the boil behind her, and she swung round to turn it off, her eyes filling with tears.
‘I’m making some tea. I take it you’d like some?’ she offered, struggling to steady her voice.
‘Yes, please.’
Peter took a deep breath before continuing.
‘I expect,’ he began carefully, ‘that John Black told you I was having an affair with another woman.’
She stirred
the tea noisily.
‘He showed me a letter you wrote her,’ Belinda choked on the words. ‘It was full of . . . of love! You cheated, Peter. I trusted you!’
‘Did he tell you that I broke it off three months ago?’ Peter asked hurriedly. ‘Did he? Did he tell you that?’
She placed his mug on the table, her face contorted with her effort not to cry. She shook her head.
‘Well, I did. It was all over. I haven’t had any contact with her since then . . . hadn’t even heard any news of her until just now.’
His wife leaned back against the dresser, clasping her mug in both hands to keep it steady. She shivered; it was cold in the kitchen. She was not sure she was ready to listen to his pleas of mitigation.
‘What do you mean? What news? What have you heard just now?’ she asked cautiously.
Peter pushed away the tea; the feeling of nausea was returning.
‘John Black just told me,’ he said haltingly. ‘He told me . . . that she’s dead. She killed herself yesterday.’ Finally the words spilled out.
‘Oh, Peter!’ Belinda gasped. She was shocked, yet deep inside she felt an uncomfortable gladness at the news. ‘How dreadful!’
The distress on his face would normally have evoked her sympathy, but at that moment she could feel none. His grief was for a woman who had been her rival, someone she could only think of as a thief.
‘Why did she kill herself?’ Belinda asked after a pause.
Peter stared down at his tea.
‘It wasn’t because of you . . . because of your breaking up with her, was it?’
He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and blew his nose.
‘Oh God,’ she whispered, ‘it was, wasn’t it?’
She pulled another chair from under the table and sat down opposite him.
Peter drew in a deep breath.
‘I met her . . .’ he tried to steady his voice. ‘I met her two years ago. It began as . . . as nothing really. Just a little flirtation. There was no particular reason for it . . . it just happened.’
Peter spread his arms in a gesture of helplessness. He badly wanted to avoid a probing analysis of his motives.
Belinda turned her mind back two years trying to guess when he had first been unfaithful to her. Surely she should have noticed something? In bed perhaps? How could he have been making love to another woman and not show it?
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