The Memory Trap

'Yes and no. He's a soldier, actually.'

'Another damn redcoat?' (Not least of Fred's complaints was that even Solomon might have baulked at judging between the military misfits and the graduates still-wet-behind-the-ears who were offered him.) 'Well, at least Major Butler will approve of him, then.'

'I don't think he will. This is a new breed, David. They've let him take a degree and now regimental duty is no longer to dummy1

his taste. So they've let us have him on secondment for a year. With the usual mutual option after that. And, as I say, I think you'll like him. So will your wife.'

'Oh aye?' (That was when people behind his back had not yet given up referring to Faith as 'a much younger woman'.) 'What makes you think they'll ever meet?'

'I want you to have him to dinner — to one of your dinner-parties.'

'Why should I do that? Other than because it's an order, I mean?'

'A little experiment. You should enjoy it —'

Had he enjoyed it, though?

The westering sun was trying to get through the clouds ahead, but not quite succeeding. He had spent longer among the records than he had intended, he realized. But it had been necessary to make sure that neither Butler nor Jaggard had missed anything, for his own peace of mind . . . even though, of course, they hadn't. So ... whatever it was, whatever it had been, that he shared (or half-shared?) with Peter Richardson was off the record and unimportant (so it had seemed, anyway): some unconsidered trifle . . . like Fred's 'little experiment' of long ago —

Had he enjoyed it, though?

But that didn't really matter: what mattered was that he remembered it. And — for sure, among so many dummy1

uncertainties — Peter Richardson had naturally remembered it too: that was one absolute certainty which Richardson himself had conveniently and deliberately established, taking the only chance he had with 'Mr Dalingridge', after he had spotted both Audley and the Russians (if not the Arabs too) from some observation point along that long hot path up to the Villa Jovis —

Faith had probably enjoyed it (that was a near-certainty, although an unimportant one): she had admired both Richardson's car (long and low and sporty, Jaguar or Triumph or whatever was in vogue then) and Richardson himself (dark and handsome, like some Roman military tribune in one of the more fashionable Legions, far from home but good with senior officers' wives automatically, especially when their husbands were somewhat older?) —

Memory expanded under pressure. (He had driven along this very road ... or along the old A40 to Oxford and the West, which had preceded this motorway . . . except that he was off the motorway now, and back on the old A40 again, circling Oxford itself: but ... he had driven westwards with Peter Richardson himself that time, towards GCHQ at Cheltenham in its earlier days, anyway. But that was the key in the lock.

And he could feel it turning in his memory, between Fred's

'little experiment' and its unrecorded sequel. And the experiment and its sequel were so beautifully bridged now, dummy1

after all these years, by 'Mr Dalingridge', that there could be no mistake: he could even remember Richardson himself directing him off the main road, up on the higher ground of the Cotswolds, into a maze of stone walls and sleeping villages untouched by time since the days of sheep which had built the tall churches and the manor house —

'Just a little detour, David. To meet a friend of mine for lunch . . . Someone only you know about, eh?'

It all came down to memory. And not to damned computer-memory, which was no better than common coinage in the pockets of anyone who had access to it, but to private memory, which he alone possessed now (although which Zimin had aspired to, in attempting to take Peter on Capri, by God! That was the memory which really counted now, by God — by God!) —

But Peter couldn't come first, now. (The digital clock on Jack Butler's 'Buy British' Rover advised him that, as well as the setting sun, which had given up its attempt to shine before dark: he had delayed too long among those records to attempt Peter first: he had to keep another rendevous before that. And, because of Peter's importance rather than despite it, better so, perhaps?)

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There was still nothing behind him, when he took the Burford turn-off. But then, if there had been (as before), it would have been well-back, and he wouldn't have been able to spot it. And it didn't matter now, anyway.

And, also, it was late enough in the day, as well as out of the high tourist-season (as on Capri!) for there to be no crowds and plenty of room to park, right outside the appointed place.

'Do you have a Mr Lee staying with you?'

The girl in reception had evidently been warned that Mr Lee was expecting a visitor. 'Yes, sir. Number Three — just up the stairs there, and on your left.'

He knocked on Number Three. But then had to wait, because Mr Lee had locked his door.

'Hullo, old friend.' Jake locked the door again, leaving the key in the lock. 'You're early — or are you late? Your message was rather vague.' He wiped his moustache and grinned.

'Would you like a beer?'

There was an unopened suitcase on the bed and a very much opened crate of beer on the floor beside it: it had had twelve bottles, but there were fewer now — and another one fewer as Jake himself removed it.

'This is good beer, too.' Jake opened the bottle, then inverted dummy1