buying their way out and you got on to the yachtsmen's racket.'
Kyle broke off a piece of bread and buttered it, very thoughtfully, giving the message time to sink in. He knew he was the only journalist in the U.K. that the PCD would approach with such an offer - individual scoops first, then, later, probably editorship of one of the State-run nationals.... managing editorship. He had it made. But did he want it?
'I'll see what I can dig up,' he promised vaguely, covering her hand with his. She pulled it away. 'Some Mata Hari you are,' he grumbled.
'That's all in poor Skardon's mind.'
'And mine,' he put in, fast.
She drained her glass and stared into space for a moment. 'He's not good enough,' she said in a hard voice, all her ambitions written on her face. Kyle read them with a mixture of repugnance and excitement; suddenly recognising her aim.
'
You
? You, head of the PCD?'
'Why not?' she responded. 'It's 1990.'
A key sounded in the flat door and the newsman froze, interrogating her with his eyes.
'It's all right,' she said, and two children burst into the room. Delly hugged them warmly, arrestingly different from the ruthless woman of seconds before. Then she introduced them formally to Kyle and added, 'I'll not be long, darlings.' A nanny appeared, to shepherd them into the living room.
'I see now why we couldn't go to bed,' he said, in a low voice.
'Stop fooling yourself,' she snubbed him immediately, and, as he tried to fix her with a tellingly honest gaze, added, 'And stop trying to fool me. You chose omelette here rather than trout at the Trattoria because you thought the restaurant would be crawling with Skardon's bloodhounds.'
'Not exactly true, but fairly,' he confessed.
'Well, there'll be a few outside here now,' she warned. 'In case your next appointment is - er - personal.'
He looked puzzled, 'Why tip me off?'
'I'd expect you to know, anyway,' she professed. But as he continued to study her, she added, 'We need each other, Kyle.'
His eyes glazed with unmistakable hunger, wanting her very much.
'...and not that way!'
They both sat toying with their coffee. Then Kyle jerked his head towards the phone, asking if it was tapped. She was never sure of this and told him so. He hesitated before dialling the number.
'I'm with Delly Lomas at her place in Highgate. You have the address and phone number on our PCD list,' he said.
Greaves sounded perplexed.
'Tiny, I need column five.'
'Column five?' Now he was critical.
'Column five. It's a bit urgent.'
'We'll keep it open,' confirmed the news editor, beckoning to a reporter.
The columnist and Delly Lomas relaxed for the next half an hour and were still sipping brandies with their coffee on the sofa when the doorbell rang. A grey-haired old man, carrying a zip-up canvas hold-all, stood waiting.
Delly looked baffled, but the newsman shouted, 'Come in, Tommy. How many down there?'
'Three out front. Two by the fire escape,' the old man reported on the PCD tails, then pulled off a grey wig and his grubby raincoat. Suddenly, Tom Pearce looked very much like Kyle, who had begun to take off his suede jacket and polo-necked shirt.
'If you'd like us to change in the bathroom?' he offered.
Delly laughed. 'Carry on. You won't upset me.' And watched with amusement as her guest handed over his clothes to the reporter, who put them on.
The columnist then tugged on the red cotton shirt and linen jacket he found in the bag, as the other man, ducked in front of the mirror, combing his hair to set a parting like Kyle's. Pearce put a gold ring on his wedding finger. Kyle took his off and pocketed it. The whole operation was swiftly and neatly completed, with both men clearly used to the routine.
'What about the kids?' the columnist asked.
Delly glanced out of the kitchen window to her children playing in the garden. 'They'll not come in till I call them.' She sat down with a cigarette and watched the strip artistry, good humouredly, as they exchanged
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