military life was as much a calling as the ministry was for others. So, greatest irony of all, it was the war that saved him; that took him out of the Rhondda for good and into the Army.
The walk circled back towards Malham and it was on the inward leg of the journey as he descended what was known as Dry Valley, that it happened. He came to an overhang, a large boulder beside it, where they had sheltered from the rain to eat their sandwiches.
The pent-up agony erupted inside him. 'No!' he cried. 'No!' and turned, as if running from the Devil himself, slipping and sliding on the treacherous surface as he stumbled down the valley.
Suddenly, he found himself on the limestone pavement that he knew led to the brink of the great two-hundred-and-forty-foot cliff of Malham Cove. The wind snatched the mist away and the whole of the Dale stretched below him.
It rose up inside him like white-hot lava now, a rage such as he had never known.
'I'm coming, you bastard!' he screamed. 'I'm coming!'
He ran across the limestone slabs and started down the path as fast as he could go.
By noon of the following day he was knocking at the door of the flat in Cavendish Square. It was opened by the Gurkha, Kim, in his neat white jacket, brass buttons polished. Morgan moved straight past him without a word and found Ferguson seated at his desk in the living-room, half-moon spectacles on the end of his nose, working his way through a pile of papers.
He glanced up and removed them. 'You have been a naughty boy. Poor old Stewart wasn't exactly received with open arms on his return. You've probably set the poor devil's promotion back a couple of years.'
'I want him, Charles,' Morgan said. 'I'll do anything you say. Play it any way you like, but you must give me my chance.'
Ferguson got up and moved to the window. 'Revenge, Bacon said, is a kind of wild justice and that won't do. Won't do at all. Too emotional. Bound to impair your judgement. And you're not exactly twenty-five any more, now are you?' He shook his head firmly. 'No, you finish your leave, then it's back to Belfast.'
'Then I'll resign my commission.'
'You can't, not in your case. It's your security classification, you see, Asa. Makes you rather special. You're with us for the duration. Just like the good old war days.'
'All right.' Morgan put up his hands defensively. 'A month, that's what you said I had and a month it is then.'
He turned and walked out before Ferguson could make any reply.
He was calmer now, of course, completely in control again. That primordial outburst at Malham, the mad drive south, had drained the excess emotion out of him. He was once more a professional, cold, calculating and capable of total objectivity.
But where to start, that was the problem? He was sitting in the living-room of the Gresham Place flat just after four, working his way through several different newspapers with accounts of the shooting, when the doorbell rang. When he opened it, Harry Baker was standing there, holding a leather briefcase.
He walked straight in. 'Bit rough on young Stewart, weren't you? I mean, the lad's got to learn.'
Morgan followed him into the living-room and stood waiting, hands in pockets. 'All right, Harry, what do you want?'
'Ferguson phoned me. Said you'd been on his back again.'
'Did he also tell you he'd warned me off?'
'Yes.'
'So?'
Baker took out his pipe and started to fill it. 'You saved my life in Nicosia, Asa. If it hadn't been for you, I'd have taken a bullet in the head from that EOKA gunman. You shoved me down and took it in the back instead.'
'We all make mistakes.'
'If Ferguson finds out about this I'm finished, but to hell with it.' Baker opened the briefcase, produced a Manila folder and tossed it on the table. 'There you are, Asa. Everything there is to know, and that isn't a great deal, on the man who shot Maxwell Cohen and killed Megan. The man we call the Cretan Lover.'
5
Baker stood in front of the fire, warming himself as Morgan
The walk circled back towards Malham and it was on the inward leg of the journey as he descended what was known as Dry Valley, that it happened. He came to an overhang, a large boulder beside it, where they had sheltered from the rain to eat their sandwiches.
The pent-up agony erupted inside him. 'No!' he cried. 'No!' and turned, as if running from the Devil himself, slipping and sliding on the treacherous surface as he stumbled down the valley.
Suddenly, he found himself on the limestone pavement that he knew led to the brink of the great two-hundred-and-forty-foot cliff of Malham Cove. The wind snatched the mist away and the whole of the Dale stretched below him.
It rose up inside him like white-hot lava now, a rage such as he had never known.
'I'm coming, you bastard!' he screamed. 'I'm coming!'
He ran across the limestone slabs and started down the path as fast as he could go.
By noon of the following day he was knocking at the door of the flat in Cavendish Square. It was opened by the Gurkha, Kim, in his neat white jacket, brass buttons polished. Morgan moved straight past him without a word and found Ferguson seated at his desk in the living-room, half-moon spectacles on the end of his nose, working his way through a pile of papers.
He glanced up and removed them. 'You have been a naughty boy. Poor old Stewart wasn't exactly received with open arms on his return. You've probably set the poor devil's promotion back a couple of years.'
'I want him, Charles,' Morgan said. 'I'll do anything you say. Play it any way you like, but you must give me my chance.'
Ferguson got up and moved to the window. 'Revenge, Bacon said, is a kind of wild justice and that won't do. Won't do at all. Too emotional. Bound to impair your judgement. And you're not exactly twenty-five any more, now are you?' He shook his head firmly. 'No, you finish your leave, then it's back to Belfast.'
'Then I'll resign my commission.'
'You can't, not in your case. It's your security classification, you see, Asa. Makes you rather special. You're with us for the duration. Just like the good old war days.'
'All right.' Morgan put up his hands defensively. 'A month, that's what you said I had and a month it is then.'
He turned and walked out before Ferguson could make any reply.
He was calmer now, of course, completely in control again. That primordial outburst at Malham, the mad drive south, had drained the excess emotion out of him. He was once more a professional, cold, calculating and capable of total objectivity.
But where to start, that was the problem? He was sitting in the living-room of the Gresham Place flat just after four, working his way through several different newspapers with accounts of the shooting, when the doorbell rang. When he opened it, Harry Baker was standing there, holding a leather briefcase.
He walked straight in. 'Bit rough on young Stewart, weren't you? I mean, the lad's got to learn.'
Morgan followed him into the living-room and stood waiting, hands in pockets. 'All right, Harry, what do you want?'
'Ferguson phoned me. Said you'd been on his back again.'
'Did he also tell you he'd warned me off?'
'Yes.'
'So?'
Baker took out his pipe and started to fill it. 'You saved my life in Nicosia, Asa. If it hadn't been for you, I'd have taken a bullet in the head from that EOKA gunman. You shoved me down and took it in the back instead.'
'We all make mistakes.'
'If Ferguson finds out about this I'm finished, but to hell with it.' Baker opened the briefcase, produced a Manila folder and tossed it on the table. 'There you are, Asa. Everything there is to know, and that isn't a great deal, on the man who shot Maxwell Cohen and killed Megan. The man we call the Cretan Lover.'
5
Baker stood in front of the fire, warming himself as Morgan
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