As usual the Concorde was only two-thirds full and the roomy seating gave space for him to stretch out his long legs and sleep.
At Heathrow Boyd showed his passport at the immigration desk and the officer smiled and nodded as he handed it back. He had spotted the tell-tale “S” that preceded the passport number. He showed the cover of his passport to the customs officer who waved him through. And as he went through the doors there she was. The beautiful Kate, smiling, almost laughing, because she was so pleased to have him back.
“I’m sorry we’re late, honey. There were headwinds.”
She looked up at his face, eyebrows raised. “What’s all this honey business. Who’s been teaching you to call her honey?”
He smiled. “Let’s go grab a drink before we go home.”
“Where are your cases?”
“They’re by the carousel. We’ll pick them up later.”
When he had ordered their drinks he sat on the bar stool, smiling as he looked at her. “It’s wonderful to be back with you, kid. I missed you so much after you’d gone.”
“Did you sell the lease of the apartment?”
“You bet. My relief bought it. I made five hundred bucks.”
“You’re an old softie. You told me it was worth at least another thousand when I was over with you, and that was three months ago.”
He looked down at his drink and then back at her face. “Doesn’t matter. We’ve always got your painting.”
She opened her handbag and handed him an envelope. “They brought that round and asked me to give it to you.”
He hesitated for a moment and then slid the letter into his jacket pocket. She smiled. “Read it. You know you want to.”
It was very brief. No words of welcome. Just asking that he phone Arkwright as soon as possible. He folded it, put it back into the envelope and stuffed it into his pocket.
“Why don’t we eat here? The food’s not bad if we go for the plain things.”
“Let’s do that.” She smiled.
When they were back at Hampstead he phoned Arkwright. The duty officer gave him another number and Arkwright asked if he could attend a meeting the next day at three in the afternoon.
“It’s a Sunday, for God’s sake.”
He could hear the smile of satisfaction in Arkwright’s languid tones. “We’re heathens over here, James. You must have forgotten.”
“I’ve got two weeks’ leave. I’m not on duty.”
“It’ll only be an hour. Blame Cartwright not me.”
“Where can I get hold of him?”
“Right at this moment he’s airborne, chum. From Hong Kong. See you tomorrow.” And Arkwright hung up.
But not even Arkwright could spoil his pleasure at being home. There was a pile of mail on his desk but he wasn’t curious, it could wait. There were new curtains in the sitting room and half a dozen vases crammed full of Sweet William, his favourite flower; and a crayon portrait of Katie on the wall over the settee. It was signed Leslie Grosvenor, and as he looked at the gooseberry-green eyes, and the whiteness of the teeth behind the full sensual lips, he felt a fleeting twinge of jealousy. The bastard had painted a bedroom face. It was true and authentic, but how did he know that she looked like that when she was making love?
She came into the room naked, brushing her long dark hair.
“D’you like it, Jimmy?”
“It’s beautiful. Who’s the lucky man?”
“How do you mean?”
“Who’s the artist?”
She laughed. “I can’t believe it. You’re jealous, aren’t you?”
“A bit.”
“Leslie’s a girl. She’s coming to tea tomorrow with her husband. He plays fiddle in the Philharmonic.”
“Sounds interesting.”
She put her arms around his neck and kissed him gently. “I love you so much.”
Boyd got on well with Cartwright. They were nothing like each other in character or temperament but they had both managed to avoid that totally implacable immersion in their jobs that most SIS men suffered from. Divorce was par for the course, and most of the marriages that survived, survived because the couple concerned had found some modus vivendi that only the most cynical or naïve observer could call a normal marriage.
The breakdowns were seldom indicative of any unusual failure on the part of the people concerned, but there can be few forms of employment more likely to guarantee disaster than a job where the husband is prohibited from telling his wife how he spends his days and nights, and that makes sudden, unannounced trips overseas frequent events. And when the training and experience make subterfuge, suspicion and lying into virtues that could preserve a man’s life, it’s not easy to be a good husband. Add to this that most of the men were self-confident, and sure of themselves, traits which attracted many young women. And on the other side take account of the fact that this kind of man generally chooses attractive women, and the apparent neglect, secretiveness and jealousies are magnified grossly in a marriage which would have had the usual teething troubles even in normal life. Add up all this and you have a well proven recipe for emotional disaster.
Boyd had kept his work at arms-length so far as his marriage was concerned. Despite signing the Official Secrets Act he had told Katie roughly what he did before he asked her to marry him. Not all that much, but enough to show that the hazards would not be solely of his making. It would be wrong to say that they trusted each other completely, but only because it never entered their minds to be suspicious of each other. If there had been grounds for jealousy they were both of a temperament that would have shown it, openly and destructively. It was perhaps more difficult for the man, who was trained to trust nobody and to be suspicious of everyone.
Cartwright had never married and he had preserved his independence by music. With a natural violin-playing talent and
