The Lucifer Network by Geoffrey Archer

clock. Twelve-fifteen. ‘Very well. I could be with you by four.’
    â€˜Make it after six, could you? I won’t be back until then.’
    He recoiled. The nation’s intelligence machinery was being put on hold so a seven-year-old could build a sand castle.
    â€˜All right,’ he agreed reluctantly. ‘Six o’clock it is.’
    â€˜You on your own, right?’
    â€˜Me on my own. Oh, one more question. Did the letter talk about anything else?’
    Like a bungled coup in Bodanga.
    â€˜No-o . . .’ she answered hesitantly. ‘Not really. Just red mercury.’
    He felt relieved. ‘See you at six, then.’
    Sam clicked the phone back into its holder. The call had unsettled him. Even if he accepted her unlikely explanation about how she knew his number, there was something else.
    Despite his insistence on anonymity yesterday, the damned girl knew his cover name.

6
    IT WAS FIVE minutes before six when he pulled up outside the converted sail loft by the river in Woodbridge. Shafts of sunlight broke through buttresses of cloud, giving a mellow tone to the building’s dark red bricks and grey slate roof. Two S-Reg Range Rovers and an open-top BMW stood like trophies on the pea-shingle drive. The weekenders were in residence.
    He tapped on the brass knocker for the ground floor flat at the left-hand end of the building. When Maeve Jackman opened the door, he felt awkward suddenly, like a spotty-faced youth on a first date.
    â€˜Didn’t expect to see
you
again so soon,’ she said in wary greeting. ‘She’s not back yet, but you can come in.’
    â€˜Thank you, Mrs Jackman.’
    â€˜Maeve. Do call me Maeve.’ She wore pale cotton slacks, a grey sweatshirt printed with the slogan GIVE THE NURSES THEIR DUE and spoke with a soft southern Irish accent. ‘They’re still at the beach, but shouldn’t be long. Would you like a cup of tea?’ She looked him up and down as if trying to decide his tastes. ‘Or there’s some of Liam’s pop. No beer, I’m afraid.’
    â€˜Tea would be fine.’ The weird feeling of beingnineteen again lingered – ‘Mum’ checking him over while the girl fixed her hair.
    The ground floor was an open-plan living area. There was a corner for toys, a tidy kitchen with a woodblock worktop and a wide, stainless steel hood over the stove.
    â€˜You have a nice home,’ Sam commented.
    â€˜Oh yes. Can’t complain. Swankier than the last place, although I miss the neighbours. There’s no one here to talk to most of the time.’
    â€˜Harry bought this place for you?’
    â€˜That’s right. My ex-husband was a bastard in some ways, Simon’ – That use of his cover name again sent a
frisson
through him – ‘but Harry looked after us in his own way. Julie and I can live here as long as we want, but when we’re dead it all goes to Liam. A good investment, Harry said. And I’m sure he was right. Money was the one aspect of human relationships that he understood.’
    â€˜I can believe that.’
    Much of the far wall of the open-plan was glass. A sliding patio door opened onto a lawn which extended to the water’s edge. Sam crossed the hardwood floor to take in the view.
    â€˜The grounds are communal,’ Maeve Jackman told him, standing beside him. ‘We pay a service charge, then somebody comes and cuts the grass. Did it myself at the last place.’
    The estuary glowed a golden olive green in the early evening light. Further downstream a fleet of dinghies was making slow progress upriver.
    â€˜It is a lovely spot,’ Maeve Jackman chattered, ‘although I’m not really one for the boats. Don’t mind looking at them, just so long as I don’t have to step into one of the things.’
    She returned to the kitchen area, leaning against the work surface with her arms spread, as if defending herterritory. Her