Sutherland exchanged a word with the Inspector.
Peersen accompanied them all the way to the front door. Sutherland insisted on carrying the suitcase and papers himself. They went to the car. Avery waited for Sutherland to speak, but he said nothing. They drove for about ten minutes. The town was poorly lit. Avery noticed there was a chemical on the road, in two lanes. The crown and gutters were still covered with snow. He was reminded of riding in the Mall, a thing he had never done. The street lamps were neon, shedding a sickly light which seemed to shrink before the gathering darkness. Now and then Avery was aware of steep timbered roofs, the clanging of a tram or the tall white hat of a policeman.
Occasionally he stole a glance through the rear window.
7
Woodford stood in the corridor smoking his pipe, grinning at the staff as they left. It was his hour of magic. The mornings were different. Tradition demanded that the junior staff arrived at half past nine; officer grades at ten or quarter past. Theoretically, senior members of the Department stayed late in the evening, clearing their papers. A gentleman, Leclerc would say, never watched the clock. The custom dated from the war, when officers spent the early hours of the morning debriefing reconnaissance pilots back from a run, or the late hours of the night dispatching an agent. The junior staff had worked shift in those days, but not the officers, who came and went as their work allowed. Now tradition fulfilled a different purpose. Now there were days, often weeks, when Woodford and his colleagues scarcely knew how to fill the time until five thirty; all but Haldane, who supported on his stooping shoulders the Department’s reputation for research. The rest would draft projects which were never submitted, bicker gently among themselves about leave, duty rosters and the quality of their official furniture, give excessive attention to the problems of their section staff.
Berry, the cypher clerk, came into the corridor, stooped and put on his bicycle clips.
‘How’s the missus, Berry?’ Woodford asked. A man must keep his finger on the pulse.
‘Doing very nicely, thank you, sir.’ He stood up, ran a comb through his hair. ‘Shocking about Wilf Taylor, sir.’
‘Shocking. He was a good scout.’
‘Mr Haldane’s locking up Registry, sir. He’s working late.’
‘Is he? Well, we all have our hands full now.’
Berry lowered his voice. ‘And the Boss is sleeping in, sir. Quite a crisis, really. I hear he’s gone to see the Minister. They sent a car for him.’
‘Goodnight, Berry.’ They hear too much, Woodford reflected with satisfaction, and began sauntering along the passage.
The illumination in Haldane’s room came from an adjustable reading-lamp. It threw a brief, intense beam on to the file in front of him, touching the contours of his face and hands.
‘Working late?’ Woodford inquired.
Haldane pushed one file into his out-tray and picked up another.
‘Wonder how young Avery’s faring; he’ll do well, that boy. I hear the Boss isn’t back yet. Must be a long session.’ As he spoke Woodford settled himself in the leather armchair. It was Haldane’s own, he had brought it from his flat and sat in it to do his crossword after luncheon.
‘Why should he do well? There is no particular precedent,’ Haldane said, without looking up.
‘How did Clarkie get on with Taylor’s wife?’ Woodford now asked. ‘How’d she take it?’
Haldane sighed and put his file aside.
‘He broke it to her. That’s all I know.’
‘You didn’t hear how she took it? He didn’t tell you?’
Woodford always spoke a little louder than necessary, for he was used to competing with his wife.
‘I’ve really no idea. He went alone, I understand. Leclerc prefers to keep these things to himself.’
‘I thought perhaps with you …’
Haldane shook his head. ‘Only Avery.’
‘It’s a big thing, this, isn’t it, Adrian … could be?’
‘It
Peersen accompanied them all the way to the front door. Sutherland insisted on carrying the suitcase and papers himself. They went to the car. Avery waited for Sutherland to speak, but he said nothing. They drove for about ten minutes. The town was poorly lit. Avery noticed there was a chemical on the road, in two lanes. The crown and gutters were still covered with snow. He was reminded of riding in the Mall, a thing he had never done. The street lamps were neon, shedding a sickly light which seemed to shrink before the gathering darkness. Now and then Avery was aware of steep timbered roofs, the clanging of a tram or the tall white hat of a policeman.
Occasionally he stole a glance through the rear window.
7
Woodford stood in the corridor smoking his pipe, grinning at the staff as they left. It was his hour of magic. The mornings were different. Tradition demanded that the junior staff arrived at half past nine; officer grades at ten or quarter past. Theoretically, senior members of the Department stayed late in the evening, clearing their papers. A gentleman, Leclerc would say, never watched the clock. The custom dated from the war, when officers spent the early hours of the morning debriefing reconnaissance pilots back from a run, or the late hours of the night dispatching an agent. The junior staff had worked shift in those days, but not the officers, who came and went as their work allowed. Now tradition fulfilled a different purpose. Now there were days, often weeks, when Woodford and his colleagues scarcely knew how to fill the time until five thirty; all but Haldane, who supported on his stooping shoulders the Department’s reputation for research. The rest would draft projects which were never submitted, bicker gently among themselves about leave, duty rosters and the quality of their official furniture, give excessive attention to the problems of their section staff.
Berry, the cypher clerk, came into the corridor, stooped and put on his bicycle clips.
‘How’s the missus, Berry?’ Woodford asked. A man must keep his finger on the pulse.
‘Doing very nicely, thank you, sir.’ He stood up, ran a comb through his hair. ‘Shocking about Wilf Taylor, sir.’
‘Shocking. He was a good scout.’
‘Mr Haldane’s locking up Registry, sir. He’s working late.’
‘Is he? Well, we all have our hands full now.’
Berry lowered his voice. ‘And the Boss is sleeping in, sir. Quite a crisis, really. I hear he’s gone to see the Minister. They sent a car for him.’
‘Goodnight, Berry.’ They hear too much, Woodford reflected with satisfaction, and began sauntering along the passage.
The illumination in Haldane’s room came from an adjustable reading-lamp. It threw a brief, intense beam on to the file in front of him, touching the contours of his face and hands.
‘Working late?’ Woodford inquired.
Haldane pushed one file into his out-tray and picked up another.
‘Wonder how young Avery’s faring; he’ll do well, that boy. I hear the Boss isn’t back yet. Must be a long session.’ As he spoke Woodford settled himself in the leather armchair. It was Haldane’s own, he had brought it from his flat and sat in it to do his crossword after luncheon.
‘Why should he do well? There is no particular precedent,’ Haldane said, without looking up.
‘How did Clarkie get on with Taylor’s wife?’ Woodford now asked. ‘How’d she take it?’
Haldane sighed and put his file aside.
‘He broke it to her. That’s all I know.’
‘You didn’t hear how she took it? He didn’t tell you?’
Woodford always spoke a little louder than necessary, for he was used to competing with his wife.
‘I’ve really no idea. He went alone, I understand. Leclerc prefers to keep these things to himself.’
‘I thought perhaps with you …’
Haldane shook his head. ‘Only Avery.’
‘It’s a big thing, this, isn’t it, Adrian … could be?’
‘It
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