from a clump of bushes; a very young girl in an expensive dress ran out pursued by an even younger boy in shorts, short-sleeve shirt and tie, wielding a water pistol.
‘I don’t think she was into a bit of black though. A bit of old white more like.’
‘Money has mature taste,’ Stratton said.
‘She’s probably a Lady Somethin’ or Other,’ Morgan went on. ‘Bet she wouldn’t piss on the likes of us if we were on fire . . . Mind you, that’s the very type who just might, and we wouldn’t need to be on fire either,’ he added with a chuckle. Morgan was also known for laughing at his own sick jokes, loudly and often alone.
‘Where’s Smudge?’ Stratton asked.
‘Down at the main gate,’ Morgan said. ‘And Bob’s the other side of the marquee. I think ’e’s actually enjoying this. He likes rubbin’ shoulders with this lot. Have you noticed he even starts talkin’ like ’em? And the bloke’s from bleedin’ Luton.’
‘I’m going to get a wet,’ Stratton said as he headed inside.
‘Grab me a sarnee would ya - cheese and pickle if they’ve got any. I’ll go and do another round of the walls . . . I’ll start climbin’ the fuckers if this thing goes on much longer.’
Morgan headed off and Stratton walked down the hallway. As he reached a corner at the end, a man’s voice called out from behind him.
‘I say. Excuse me.’
Stratton looked back to see a young man in a white suit and red tie that appeared a little extrovert for this gathering. ‘Would you get me a Buck’s Fizz, old boy?’ he asked with a smile.
‘What?’ Stratton said, looking irritable having heard what the man had asked him.
‘A Buck’s Fizz. Orange juice and champers, old thing.’
‘I’m not a waiter.’
‘You’re staff, aren’t you? Be a dear and run along and get me one.’
Stratton controlled an urge to say something he would regret and forced a smile. ‘Sure.Anything else?’
‘No, that would be lovely,’ the man said with a warm smile. ‘I’ll be outside.’
Stratton walked around the corner and along a corridor that led to the kitchen.‘I’ll shove a champagne bottle up your arse if you call me dear again,’ he muttered to himself.
The pretty young woman was standing in a doorway as he passed by it. ‘You’d probably lose the bottle with that one,’ she said.
Stratton paused to glance at her. ‘Sorry, I was talking to myself.’
She smiled as he carried on into the kitchen.
Food and drinks were everywhere; a chef was preparing sandwiches, a waitress headed out of a door into the garden carrying a tray full of strawberries and cream while another returned with dirty crockery. Stratton picked up a jug of orange juice, filled a glass and took a sip. He picked a sandwich off a tray and opened it - roast beef; there did not appear to be any cheese and pickle, but then Morgan would eat anything anyway. He wrapped it in a paper napkin and placed it in his jacket pocket. As he took another sip of his juice, the pretty girl walked in.
‘Would you pour me one?’ she said. ‘Please,’ she added, emphasising politeness.
Stratton picked up another glass, filled it and handed it to her. She took it from him and held it, looking at him, still smiling, obviously wanting to chat.
‘That was Pippy, Lord Branborne’s son,’ she said. ‘He only asked you for the drink because he fancies you.’
Stratton ignored the remark.
‘He likes a bit of rough now and then,’ she added.
Stratton sighed inwardly and took a sip of his drink.
‘Are you not going to make him his drink?’
Stratton gave her a tired look.
‘Oh, that’s right.You’re not a waiter . . .The rumour is you’re one of those roughy-toughy special soldier types. I’ve heard about people like you. I thought you only ran around places like the desert shooting nasty terrorists. Must be a nice change to do something like this, standing around doing nothing all day.’
‘Yeah, we all jumped for joy when we heard.’
She didn’t miss the sarcasm but it did not appear to bother her because she moved closer to him, head slightly lowered, eyes looking up at him.
‘Do you have a gun?’ she asked. ‘I bet you’re well armed.’
Stratton studied her eyes and all he could see was a rich tart.
She prodded his chest close to where his gun would have been holstered if he were left-handed.
‘Can I see it?’
‘No.’
‘You probably don’t need a gun though, do you? I expect you know all that kung fu business.’
Stratton was looking for a polite way out of this conversation and the kitchen. She was cute but not enough to have to listen to her crap.
‘What would you do if a dozen terrorists came over the wall right now and attacked us?’ she went on, moving closer still, her ardour obvious. Stratton was uncomfortable being hit on so aggressively at a professional venue and unsure quite how to handle it in a polite manner. The watchword for jobs such as this was diplomacy in all matters.
‘I’d hide in the cellar.’
‘Really? I know where that is if you’d like me to show you.’
The waitress behind the woman glanced at Stratton and rolled her eyes before leaving with a tray of sandwiches.
‘Isabelle,’ a man called out from inside the house as footsteps came down the corridor. She frowned at the interruption.Two smartly dressed men came into the kitchen. Stratton noticed the tiny army badges both had pinned to their lapels. He couldn’t tell which regiment they indicated but considering the calibre of people at the function, the cut of their suits and their bearing, they were not only officers - a non-commissioned officer had a snowball’s chance in hell of being invited to a gig like this unless he was titled.
‘Ah, there you are,’ the taller one said on seeing the girl, then paused as his eyes fell on Stratton who was far too close to her to be considered polite. His smile was replaced by the kind of cold expression a male displays on seeing another coveting his female property. ‘We’re going into London for lunch,’ he continued, talking to her but eyeing Stratton warily. ‘Where’s your coat?’
She rolled her eyes for only Stratton to see before turning to face her boyfriend. ‘Do we have to go now? I’m enjoying myself.’
‘It’s a bit of a bore, darling, and we’ve shown our faces,’ he said. ‘What are you doing in here anyway? Annoying the staff?’
‘This nice man was telling me how he is prepared to lay down his life to protect us all if terrorists should come over the walls in their hundreds. I’d introduce him to you but he won’t tell me his name - the strong secretive type, don’t you know?’
Stratton finished his drink and put the glass down. ‘Nice talking to you,’ he said as he turned to leave.
‘Yes, why don’t you run along,’ the boyfriend said with an attitude.
Stratton stopped and looked back at the man whose tone he found offensive. The other man was also staring at Stratton in support of his friend, like a pair of elegant wolves.
‘You’re not here to hang around the kitchen chatting up ladies,’ the friend added.
Both men saw a flicker of danger behind Stratton’s grey eyes, but they were too well bred to heed any warning from a mere ranker.
‘I’m Captain Brigstock, Life Guards, and this is Captain Boyston. I know you’re not an officer so why don’t you consider it an order. Off you go,’ he said, and topped it off with a chin-jutting, superior smirk.
The girl put her arm through her captain’s, switching allegiance like the fickle wind. ‘Ooh, you do excite me when you get bossy, Charlie.’
Stratton sighed, turned about and continued to the door. They were not worth the effort.
‘I don’t know why we have to have these mindless thugs as security,’ Brigstock said to his friends but intentionally loud enough for Stratton to hear.
Stratton paused in the doorway without looking back. The officers were beginning to test his self control. He
