A Winter of Spies by Gerard Whelan Page B

Moore’s hands on the steering wheel. His long fingers were clean, the nails carefully trimmed. They were soft hands, unused to hard work. How many men had they killed? Had some of them been Irish? She longed to go somewhere in this car, but she didn’t want to go far with Rory Moore.
    â€˜Let’s just go to Herbert Park,’ she said, compromising.
    â€˜All right,’ said Moore. ‘But we’ll go by Donnybrook – that will give you a bit of a drive at least. Ready?’
    Sarah took a deep breath and nodded. Moore took off at some speed. Sarah wondered what Da would make of her taking this lift. But as soon as the motor car started to move she lost all thoughts of everything else. They picked up even more speed. The road whizzed by. The buildings on either side of them almost blurred in her vision . The wind blew through her hair. Sarah, in spite of herself, yelled with delight.
    There was little other traffic on the road, and no other motor cars. Moore passed several horse-drawn vehicles without slackening speed. He tooted his horn loudly each time. Whenever they closed in on a slow-moving van or cart Sarah half-expected to crash into it, but Moore handled the big car expertly. Each time he’d slide it smoothly around the obstruction and leave it in their wake as though it were standing still. Once a cyclist waved his fist at them. Moore tooted the horn at the man, and Sarah laughed.
    She looked at those smooth hands holding the steering wheel. They were capable of good driving, that much was for sure. Moore grinned at her. His teeth were bright in his tanned face.
    â€˜This is the way to travel,’ he said.
    Sarah could only agree. Within moments of startingoff she’d forgotten all about her suspicions of Moore. She’d forgotten about history and clockwork and legless beggars. This was definitely the way to travel, and Sarah just wanted the trip to go on and on. She wanted to drive like this forever, leaving all the new complications of her life behind – even if her driver was one of the complications . For now, though, he was just a driver, just a pair of smooth, expert hands on the steering wheel. As she held her hat on her head with one hand, and clutched the dashboard tightly with the other, Sarah Conway’s grin was every bit as broad as Rory Moore’s. She’d completely lost her unease, caught up in the sheer mad thrill of the ride.

16
  H ERBERT P ARK  
    THERE WEREN’T MANY PEOPLE IN HERBERT PARK – mainly nurses or nannies wheeling prams and shepherding young children in warm winter clothes. By the duckpond a cross little girl had thrown her doll into the water and was demanding that her nurse get it back. The nurse, a distressed-looking young country girl, seemed baffled.
    â€˜But Emily,’ she said, ‘I can’t reach it.’
    â€˜Well, go in after it, then,’ the little girl demanded. ‘Dolly is cold and wet.’
    â€˜But you shouldn’t have thrown her in then, should you?’ the nurse asked.
    â€˜That’s my business,’ the child said.
    Sarah thought that Emily herself might benefit from a dip in the cold water. The child couldn’t have been more than five or six, but she stood in front of her frightened nurse with the bullying self-confidence of a Black and Tan.
    Then little Emily stamped her foot in fury. Sarah, reminded of her own foot-stamping moments, felt herself blushing.
    They’d parked the car outside the gates of the park and gone in. Sarah was sorry they’d stopped driving. She was still glowing from her excitement, but the glow was fading . Hearing this malicious little girl didn’t help.
    Rory Moore had heard the child as well. He looked around, then crossed over to some trees growing by the path. He snapped a small bare branch from one of them, then went over to Emily and her nurse.
    â€˜Forgive me, ladies,’ he said. ‘I couldn’t help overhearing .