suggested itself. Spratt studied them intently, and said at last: “He looks good.”
“He’s a world-beater,” Sydney Sidey asserted solemnly. “An absolute, world-beater!” Seeing that Spratt was obviously impressed, he went on, emboldened: “I thought if you’d let me have a pony, Mr. Spratt, and put a hundred on the nose — you can hedge it okay, that’s not so much -that would make us both happy.”
John Spratt looked at him as if looking at an insect, and Sidey went absolutely still. Then Spratt took a small wad of notes from his pocket and slapped it on the table.
“If you want to put any on, Sidey, do it yourself.” He picked up the pictures, one by one, and then as he shuffled them like a pack of cards, he asked: “Where are the negatives?”
“I — I’ve got them at home, Mr. Spratt.”
“If you have any more prints made,” said Spratt, with a pleasant smile, “I’ll skin you alive. Just keep your mouth shut, Sidey. I get to hear everything that goes on, and I’ll soon know if you talk.” Casually, he added: “I could use a man who can keep his mouth shut.” Then with a brief nod, he went out.
“He gives me the bloody shivers!” Sidney Sidey told himself as he watched him walk away.
Barnaby Rudge, fully satisfied with his latest practice, had a shower, dreaming away happily. He was a little puzzled because Willison hadn’t come to see him and the car was outside, but with his peculiarly single-minded nature, this did not worry him at all. He was going to win Wimbledon! He knew he was going to win.
“We’ll leave it to you, as always, John,” Matthew Spratt told his brother. “Don’t you agree, Mark?”
“John’s the hatchet-man,” Mark agreed, mildly.
“The only question is how to fix him,” John said. He picked up a copy of the latest Evening Standard and there was a screaming headline about arrests and a murder in Hampstead. A line caught his eye: “-believed to be connected with a plot to interrupt the second Test Match as a protest against apartheid.” His eyes held a sudden glint: “Now, if we did this cleverly, it could look like a nice piece of race hatred, couldn’t it? What we need is a Fascist short of money.”
“That shouldn’t be difficult. In fact, I think I know of one,” said Matthew.
By that time, the crowds were leaving Wimbledon in droves, and the pick-pockets and the bag-snatchers were skilfully and unobtrusively busy. One of them was young Cyril Jackson, and he had a very good picking: seven wallets and four good watches as well as a couple of fountain pens. When he counted his spoils and assessed the value, he asked himself why he should hand it all over to Aunty Martha. She would never know how much was in the wallets, would she? If he helped himself to a few quid, no one need be any the wiser.
And that was the time when, twenty minutes late, Gideon reached home.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Kate looked a little drawn, Gideon was quick to notice. Her eyes were a shade too bright; her smile, voice and laughter were off the edge of naturalness. Unless ; . . unless he was feeling a greater tension than he realised, was studying her more closely because he was more sensitive.
There was another quality about her which this increased perception emphasised. She was a strikingly handsome, most would say a beautiful woman. And as she moved — to do the most ordinary things: take a leg of mutton out of the oven, sprinkle flour to thicken the gravy, strain the Brussels sprouts — he was very much aware of her lissomeness. There was nothing in her movements tonight to suggest that she was physically under par.
As they were alone, they ate in the big, old-fashioned kitchen. Gideon, in his shirt-sleeves, carved: the mutton was perfectly done, the outside golden-brown and crisp, and the sharp knife went through it butter-easy. And the potatoes roasted with it had a crispness and tastiness which was exactly right. He had a glass of beer with his meal and Kate had cider; but for his anxiety about her, he would not have felt a care in the world. For there were few times when Gideon’s mind was so choked with the urgency of the Yard’s affairs that, whatever the pressure, he could not push anxiety away for a while and relax. But he could never remember so relaxing, except at home with Kate.
She had made deep-dish apple pie, the pastry crumbly-short, the way he liked it. And with it, there was double-thick cream. He must force himself to eat it, as he had forced himself to eat the meat; Kate must have no suspicion of how desperately worried he was about her.
“More, dear?” she asked.
“I really shouldn’t.”
“Oh, yes, you should.” Kate smiled. “It’ll do you good.”
“Well — but what about the children?”
“Malcolm’s having a fish-and-chip supper with his gang, and Penny will eat before she comes in.”
“In that case . . . !” He broke off, forcing a smile, for she was already replenishing his plate.
He ate more slowly, but still with assumed relish. At last he pushed his plate away and smiled at Kate as she placed a cup of coffee in front of him. She smiled back with complete naturalness, obviously happy.
“Bless you, Kate!” he said. “I haven’t enjoyed a meal like that for ages.
“You did enjoy it, didn’t you?”
“Every mouthful,” he assured her. Then despite himself, could think of nothing to say. A sudden constraint seemed to fall on them both and he could hear the ticking of the frying-pan-shaped wall clock.
“Kate,” he said, at last.
“George,” she began, but stopped.
He wondered whether Alec Hobbs had telephoned to prepare her; there was no way of being sure. As she fell silent, he started again: “Kate, I talked to Alec Hobbs, this morning — or rather, he talked to me.”
The flare almost of alarm in her eyes told him that she had not been forewarned. And there was heaviness in
