Liz Carlyle - 06 - Rip Tide by Stella Rimington Page B

no seat reservation she’d had to stand all the way, which had not helped her to calm down. So when she got inside her Kentish Town flat, Liz headed straight for the fridge and poured herself a glass of Sauvignon Blanc from the half-full bottle there.
    She had moved into this flat six months ago, after she’d got back from the operation where she had first met Martin. The flat was on the ground floor of a large Victorian house; she’d previously owned the basement flat in the same building. When she first bought that, it had been dark and gloomy, but it was all she could afford at the time and, as the first property she had ever owned, she had loved it. Gradually, over several years, she had brightened it up and improved it. The whole place had been painted white, and the wallpaper, which had hung off the wall in a strip over the bath where the steam had detached it, had been removed and the bathroom tiled. She’d bought a new washing machine to replace the one she’d inherited when she moved in, which had had a habit of stopping in the middle of its cycle, leaving her underwear in a puddle of grey scummy water.
    But when she’d returned from her posting in Belfast, the flat, even in its improved state, had no longer seemed so welcoming. It had been empty while she’d been away and she seemed to have grown out of it. So when the flat above had come up for sale she’d gone to look at it, even though she knew she couldn’t afford it, and as soon as she saw the high airy living room with its corniced ceiling and Victorian fireplace, and the big sash windows overlooking the garden, she fell in love all over again. Her mother’s close friend Edward had lent her some money, and that, together with a breathtakingly huge mortgage and the surprisingly large profit she’d made selling the basement, had been enough to secure the flat.
    She took her glass of wine into the bedroom, still feeling rattled by her experiences in Birmingham. She looked at the phone, hesitating, then picked up and dialled.
    Martin answered at once.
    ‘Hello. It’s Liz.’
    He laughed. ‘I was sitting here, thinking about you. I was just about to ring you.’
    ‘Is everything all right?’ she asked.
    ‘Yes, of course. Though the lady I was after seems to have given us the slip this time.’
    ‘You’ll find her,’ Liz said confidently. Just talking to Martin was a relief.
    ‘What about you? What is your news?’
    ‘I’ve been in Birmingham all day, looking into the background of our friend in the Santé.’
    ‘Ah. How did it go?’
    ‘Okay, though some of his friends were not very pleased to see me.’
    Martin could read between the lines. ‘I don’t like the sound of that. Are you sure you’re all right? You’re not hurt, are you?’
    ‘No. Not hurt, just a bit shaken up. But I’m fine now,’ she said, and it was true. Just hearing his voice had made her feel better. They talked for a few minutes more, planning their next meeting, then they said good night and rang off.
    Liz lay down on the big double bed. She’d bought it when she moved into the new flat where the large rooms had seemed to swallow up the furniture she’d had in the cramped basement accommodation. She snuggled under the goose-feather duvet, wishing Martin were snuggling with her. The duvet dated from the time of Piet, the Dutch investment banker she’d met at a colleague’s party. He had stayed with her when he came to London every third Friday for meetings at Canary Wharf. It was an arrangement which suited them both perfectly: warm, happy and undemanding. Until he’d telephoned one day to tell her that there would no longer be London meetings, and in any case he had met someone else.
    She hadn’t had a man in her life since she broke up with Piet until she met Martin last year. It was the first time she’d been involved with someone she worked with. Was it a good idea to mix private life with work? Probably not, but the nature of the work, its secrecy and