Tomorrow's ghost

finally changed his mind about Colonel Butler, from anger to approval, to admiration. And if it didn't quite make sense to Frances - computers like Paul shouldn't have emotions - it was altogether fascinating that he should in the end have come to the same conclusion as the irrational one she'd had at the beginning.

'I haven't killed him off.'

'You're going to give them a motive.'

'But no proof.'

'They don't need proof. Control doesn't need proof.' He shook his head. 'They're never going to hang anything on him - even if they could that would be bad publicity.

All they want is enough to put the big question mark on him, and means and opportunity never were enough for that. But if you can add a motive to it ... that'll be enough to swing it.'

He was right, of course. If the marriage was on the rocks ... and nothing could be proved against her ... then Butler wouldn't have got the children - my girls. And that, in the whole wide world, was the one thing he might have killed for out of the line of duty, they could argue.

And that would be enough to swing it.

What have I done? thought Frances. I don't for one moment think that Colonel Butler killed his wife - but if I put in a true report of my conclusions I shall suggest that he did.

'You agree that there is a motive?' The cold, pragmatic half of her still wanted to know why Paul was so emotional about the job of excavating Colonel Butler's past.

Because it couldn't be that Paul simply admired Butler's Abercromby performance in the Korean trenches and the Cypriot mountains - not enough to hazard his own career, anyway.

'A motive?' Paul's voice was suddenly casual - as casual as a subaltern of the 28th echoing the command Rear rank - Right about - Prepare to repel cavalry! 'Frankly, Princess. I don't give a fuck about motives. Or wives. Or murder - '

That was David Audley speaking: David never swore, except very deliberately to shock, or to emphasise a point by speaking out of character ... And Paul was a chameleon like herself, taking his colour from those he observed about him.

' - Or anything else, but what matters - what really matters.'

'What really matters?'

'What matters is - we don't kill off Fighting Jack. That's what matters.'

'Kill off?'

'We don't block his promotion. All we have to do is disobey orders - give him a clean bill of health - lie through our teeth: happy marriage, tragic disappearance, 'Motorway Murderer'.'

So Paul had done his homework - naturally. Paul knew reporters and news editors.

Like David Audley, Paul was owed favours and collected on them, promising future favours. Paul was born knowing the score, down to the last figure beyond the decimal point.

But did Paul know about Trevor Anthony Bond, and Leslie Pearson Cole (deceased, restricted) and Leonid T. Starinov (restricted)? And the curious not-alibi which lay between grimy Blackburn in the morning and medieval Thornervaulx in the afternoon -

did he know about that too?

At the moment he didn't care, anyway: he was bending all his will on bending her will.

Make me an offer, thought Frances cynically. It would have to be either an offer she couldn't refuse or a threat she couldn't ignore, nothing else would serve - that must be what he was thinking, not knowing what she had already done for his Fighting Jack.

'Can you give me one good reason why I should do that, Paul? Why I should risk my neck?'

'Why?' He snapped The Years of Endurance shut and reached up to slot it back into its space in the shelf. 'Say ... the best interests of our country - ' He glanced sidelong at her, and then straightened the books casually ' - would that do?'

That was the offer: the National Interest, with no direct benefit attached for her.

Quite a subtle offer.

He faced her. 'And in our best interests too, as it happens, Frances.'

She had been too quick off the mark:

Self-interest as well as National Interest - that was more like Paul.

'Our best interests? How?'

He grinned. 'Didn't I tell you? Nor I did!'

I think I know what his promotion is, Frances remembered. She had been staring at Isobel's white wall when he had said that, deliberately tantalising her.

'You didn't quite get round to that, no.'

The grin vanished. 'You've been playing pretty hard to get. Princess. It's been all give and no take, don't you think?'

The threat was coming.

'I wouldn't exactly say that.' But it was true nevertheless, she decided. She had been a pretty fair bitch to Paul, matching his hang-ups with her own.