above all from the knowledge that his love for her homodyned only with the
waves of that physical lust which so often excited him. Yet the brief
holiday had been her choice, and she knew diat she wouldn't regret having
made it. She enjoyed being with him: he was good fun and intelligent and
well read and sdll handsome and sdll excellent in bed and yes! - he was rich.
They moved nearer the counter, neither of them too
anxious to speak a phenomenon not uncommon with persons queuing, as if
their concentration were required for the transactions ahead.
But she volunteered some incidental information: 'Accident there was, near
Stokenchurch, and I tried to ' Gently he ran a hand through her silken hair.
'Sweetheart? Forget it!'
'It's just that we must have been stuck there half an hour and we saw one of
the other passengers pointed it out a beautiful bird of prey there. A red
kite.'
'Tell me later!'
There was now just the one business- suited man in front of them.
'Where have you booked us?'
'The best.'
'And the best air-tickets ?'
'Sh! Nothing but the best for you. Why not? Just think of me! No wife.
No blackmailing kids. No problems at work. Nothing to spend money on for a
day or two except on you. I'm a rich man, sweetheart. I thought I'd told
you.'
'Tickets, please?'
The smiling young lady scrutinized the perfectly valid tickets.
'Passports, please?'
The young lady scrutinized the perfectly valid passports.
'Smoking?'
'Non- smoking.'
'Window-centre? Centre-aisle?'
'Centre- aisle.'
'Luggage?'
Frank Harrison lugged the great case on to the track way beside the desk.
'Only the one?'
'Yes.'
'You know where the club-lounge is? '
323
'Yes.' 'Enjoy your flight, sir, and enjoy your stay in Paris!'
He handed her a glass of champagne, and two glasses clinked. 'Here's to a
wonderful little break together. Ritz here we come!'
He leaned across and kissed her on the soft, un lips ticked mouth a long,
yearning kiss. His eyes closed. Her eyes closed.
'Mr Harrison?' A tap on the shoulder.
'Mr Frank Harrison?'
'What ?'
A uniformed police officer stood beside the small table: 'I'm sorry, sir, but
we need to speak to you. Routine check.'
'Thames Valley Police, is this?'
'That's right, sir.'
'What exactly ?'
'It's not just that. Your employers want to speak to you as well.'
Harrison's eyes squinted in bewilderment.
'What the hell do they want? I'm on official furlough, for God's sake.
They'll have to wait till I get back.'
'Will you come this way, sir? Please!'
A second uniformed policeman young, dark-haired stood just inside the
entrance to the executive lounge; was still standing there a quarter of an
hour later when Maxine, after drinking the one and then the other glass of
champagne, went over to speak to him.
'Do you mind telling me, Officer, by whose authority ?'
'Not mine, miss,' said PC Kershaw.
'Please believe me. I also am a man under authority.'
'You haven't answered my question.'
'I'm from Thames Valley we both are.'
'Who sent you here?'
'The CID.'
'Who?'
'Chief Inspector Morse.'
'Who's he when he's in his office?'
'He's an important man.'
'Very important?'
'Oh yes!' Kershaw nodded with a reverential smile.
'You talk as if he's God Almighty.'
'Some people think he is.'
'Do you?'
'Not always.'
'How long will you be keeping Mr Harrison?'
'I just don't know, Mrs Ridgway.'
Maxine poured herself a further glass of champagne, and pondered as she sat
alone at the small table. They knew her name too . . .
He wasn't a particularly lucky man to associate with, Frank Harrison.
The last time she'd been with him, over a year ago, he'd had that phone call
from well, he'd never said who from to tell him that his wife had been
murdered . . .
She was tempted to get up and well, just leave. Just get out of there. Her
case was on the plane by now though suits, dresses, lingerie, shoes but it
could be returned perhaps? She sdll had her handbag with its far more
important items: cards, keys, diary, money . . .
But she felt sure the PC at the door would never let her out. That's why he
was there. Why else?
An announcement over the lounge Tannoy informed her that first-class
passengers for British Airways Flight 338 to Paris should now proceed to Gate
3; and a dozen or so people were draining their drinks and gathering up their
hand luggage. But for Marine Ridgway it was now a feeling of deep sadness
