Tom laughed. “Feel free,” he said. “Enjoy the coffee. And if anyone here tells you they have a certainty, ignore them. There’s no such thing.”
As he walked away she felt more relaxed. She even recognized the tiniest self-questioning of whether she was right to want revenge on Ashdown. He’d seemed friendly enough – quite human even for a moment. Then she remembered the troubles at home and who was responsible. It was the Brits fault. Everything was their fault. If it wasn’t for them her father wouldn’t have spent half her childhood in jail and her brother wouldn’t be facing the rest of his life behind bars. No she decided, there was no room for compassion towards Brits in her heart. She’d save her sympathy for all those fine young men, many not much older than herself, who had selflessly given their lives for freedom. She wouldn’t betray their memory. She knew who her enemy was and she’d confronted him and now she had a chance for revenge.
Geoffrey Miller had arranged to meet Tony Simpson for lunch. Simpson was an old friend, dating back to when they both worked for Special Branch and spent time together in Northern Ireland. At some point thereafter Simpson’s specialist knowledge of Irish affairs had earned him an invitation to join MI5. It had been part of a drive to cement greater cooperation between the different forces combating terrorism. It wasn’t a move Miller would have contemplated making but Simpson was always one of the first people Miller would choose to consult, when he needed a different and unofficial perspective on Irish puzzles.
Simpson enjoyed good food immensely and fine wine even more. A rotund jovial man of only about five feet six inches in height, a comparison with a barrel would not be inappropriate. He was bald on top but had bushy dark eyebrows and reminded Miller of a figure from the ‘Guess Who’ children’s game he had played with his kids, when they were younger.
They had arranged to meet at a quiet little restaurant in the City, which they had used previously. Miller arrived to find Simpson already seated at a suitably private table in the corner. The place was never very busy at lunchtime. In Miller’s opinion this was largely the result of a spectacularly expensive menu. The restaurant preferred to attract a select but appreciative clientele, rather than pure numbers. As Miller approached the table he could see a bottle of what was bound to be excellent wine chilling in the ice bucket.
“Good to see you again, Geoffrey,” Simpson smiled, rising from his chair and shaking hands enthusiastically. “I took the liberty of ordering a wonderful Chablis they serve. I’m sure you’ll like it.”
Miller barely had time to sit before his glass was filled.
“May you have many more occasions to pick my brain,” Simpson toasted. They brought their glasses together with a clink and Miller tasted the wine. Simpson was observing him, waiting for his judgement.
“An excellent choice Tony, as usual. Please just tell me it’s under fifty quid a bottle.” Miller enjoyed a glass of wine but had few pretensions to being a connoisseur. He usually paid about ten pounds at his local off license for what he considered a decent red wine, which was his preference. He suspected Simpson’s upper class background meant he paid a lot more for something, he would describe as decent.
“I could tell you it was under fifty quid Geoffrey but then I would be lying,” Simpson replied with a smile. “It is however good value. I’ve paid a lot more for the same wine elsewhere.”
“Oh well that’s all right then,” Miller acknowledged with a liberal sprinkling of sarcasm.
A waiter appeared to take their order before they could say anything further on the subject.
“I’ll have avocado followed by medium rare sirloin,” Miller requested without looking at the menu. It was the same he had ordered on his last visit.
The waiter turned towards Simpson.
“For me the shrimps in garlic, followed by rack of lamb.”
“I’m afraid the lamb is for two,” explained the waiter politely.
“Quite so. Perfect,” Simpson answered, beaming without any sign of discomfort. “I’ll take both portions.”
The waiter retreated looking somewhat perplexed.
Miller laughed. “Has no one told you, too much red meat isn’t good for you?”
“Live for today. That’s my motto.”
“With a waistline like yours I think you should be worrying more about tomorrow.”
“What’s wrong with my waistline?” Simpson questioned, sounding genuinely perplexed.
“It’s not exactly a six pack.”
“Why settle for a six pack when you can have a whole barrel?”
Miller laughed. He liked Simpson and knew that his size made him the person he was. He had also seen a picture of him in his youth when he would compete in international judo competitions and was nothing like the same size. He hadn’t been skinny but neither had he been so rotund.
“Anyway,” Simpson said. “Before we get stuck into the food why don’t you tell me what’s on your mind.”
“Melanie Adams.”
“Thought it might be. The world is well rid of that Maguire. A nasty piece of work. Don’t know the Murphy boy. Used to know his father. Also an evil devil.” Simpson shuddered at the thought of Murphy. “Have you met the son?”
“Not personally but my boys say he’s a bit thick and it looks like it was all Maguire’s idea. Seems Murphy looked up to Maguire and just did as he was told.”
“So he’s talking?”
“Not at first but I think it’s fair to say we pointed out the foolishness of remaining quiet. He needs us otherwise he’s a dead man. We have him for two murders so the only issue is whether he ever gets parole and what happens to him while he’s inside. We lock him up with his old friends and he
