The Memory Trap

memory like an elephant.'

'And so has he. I knew he'd remember — he knew I'd remember. It's the gift the good fairy gave to each of us.

Sometimes it's a mixed blessing. But it gives us an advantage.'

'Like now.'

'Like now maybe. But maybe not. Because when we remember the past we recall the bad things just as vividly as the good ones. The saving grace of ordinary fallible memory is that old unhappiness blurs, and then it often becomes a joke before it's virtually forgotten. But the good times get rosier . . . like, my wife can never remember it raining when she was a child. And she's got crystal-clear recollection of her dummy1

father looking handsome in his uniform, and bringing her sweets and books and toys, even though she knows she was only a tiny tot, and he only saw her a few times . . . and he was a bit of a rascal — ' he caught himself too late, knowing he must go on ' —if not actually a villain.' He saw from her face that Peter Richardson had come clean with her. So in another moment she would conclude that his faux pas had been deliberate. 'I know that my temps perdu really are the lost good old days . . . But anyway, one reason why Peter and I were first recruited was that we didn't always have to be looking up the files: we remembered what was in them once we'd read them — ' Damn! She had made the connection, and was looking even more desolate at the thought of Richardson's rascality.

'How much trouble is Peter in? Apart from . . . this trouble of yours, David?'

'He isn't in any trouble in England, Sophie. Apart from my trouble, that is.' He half- smiled at her. 'What I was going to say was that he and I have a special reason for remembering each other. Or ... two special reasons, actually. Because he saved my bacon once, in Italy . . . But, before that, there was this little experiment our mutual boss set up, you see.'

'What. . . experiment?' She frowned at him.

It was working, his diversion. 'He ordered me to invite Peter to dinner — to a dinner-party in my home. He — our esteemed master ... he implied it was so we could get to know each other. But then, some time afterwards, he offered a dummy1

crate of champagne to whichever of us could more exactly remember everything that had been said that evening. And the loser was to match the crate with another one — '

Unbidden, the image of Sir Frederick Clinton superimposed itself on Sophie Kenyon ' — the wicked old devil! He said if I didn't want to take part the crate would be Peter's by default.

But he reckoned Peter would win it anyway.'

A dog barked joyously outside the house, at the back in the distance.

'Go on, David.' She swam back into focus, strangely relaxed now. 'Peter has a key — he can let himself in.'

The back had been a jumble of out-buildings and greenhouses full of carefully-wintered plants, he remembered, using the picture to obliterate Fred's obnoxious self-satisfaction. But could Peter ever exchange his exotic Amain coast for the rigours of even a south-facing Cotswold hillside?

'Go on, David.' She was almost serene now that her living man was back under her roof. 'But . . . how was it going to be judged, though?'

He could hear other noises now, so that it was hard to concentrate. 'He said he would leave us to judge ourselves.

But if we didn't agree then we could turn our entries over to the guests.'

The noises resolved themselves into a door clattering and the wretched dog scampering and sliding on the flagstones dummy1

outside before it started removing more paint from the sitting-room door.

And then the door opened and the creature hurtled through the gap, filling the room with furious uninhibited activity —

making for its mistress first, and then happily and incorrectly assuming that any friend of hers must be another friend.

'Down, Buster!' She attempted half-heartedly to restrain the animal's enthusiasm for his new pretended friend. 'Do you have a dog, David?'

'He hates dogs.' Peter Richardson spoke from the doorway.

'He has geese to protect him. Although he probably has electronic sensors now . . . Good to see you, David. I never thought I'd say that. But. . . autres temps, autres moeurs, eh?'

'I don't actually.' The years had greyed Richardson, too: he looked like a distinguished Italian nobleman fancy- dressed in someone's old clothes. (The dead husband's dothes, maybe?) 'I am relieved to see you, too, Mr Dalingridge.'

'Is that a fact?' The brown well-tanned face and the too-knowing smile on it hadn't changed. 'But ... as a matter of fact . . . you've just given me a nasty turn.' Richardson spread his hands out towards the fire. 'Brrr! I'd forgotten how chilly England can get . . .' He gave Audley a sidelong glance. 'The thing outside . . . You always used to drive a sedate Austin ...

not your thing at all, I thought.'

The thing was the Porsche, of course. 'No, Peter. Not my dummy1

thing at all — you're right.' He needed to assert himself. 'I borrowed it. Because it doesn't have a bug in it.' He managed to smile at Richardson at last. 'It belongs to one of your successors actually.'

'One of my successors?' Richardson turned to Sophie Kenyon at last, and his face softened. 'Give me a drink, Sophie . . .

And don't worry, dear: it's like I said, isn't it? It'll be David.