The Trinity Six by Charles Cumming Page B

the palm to strengthen the wrists. The near-transparent skin across his knuckles was as taut as parchment.
    ‘I don’t think I was followed here,’ Gaddis said. ‘Your colleague’s instructions were very clear.’
    Neame frowned. ‘My what ?’ He had not yet turned to face him.
    ‘Your friend from the bookshop. Your colleague, Lampard. The one wearing a Chelsea shirt.’
    Neame generated a small but infinitely condescending silence before responding.
    ‘I see,’ he said. Now he turned, slowly, like a statue with a cricked neck, and Gaddis saw concern within the folds and lines of the old man’s face. It was as if he was worried that he had overestimated Gaddis’s intelligence. ‘My friend’s name is Peter,’ he said.
    ‘Is he a relative of yours? A grandson?’
    Gaddis had no idea why he had asked the question; he wasn’t particularly interested in the answer.
    ‘He is not.’ Somebody, somewhere was dragging a steel trolley across a stone floor in the cathedral, the sound of the wheels squealing in the echo chamber of the nave. ‘You followed his instructions as requested.’
    Gaddis couldn’t work out if Neame wanted an answer. He decided to change the subject.
    ‘As you can imagine, I have a lot of questions I’d like to ask.’
    ‘And I you,’ Neame replied. He turned to face the distant altar. There was already a tension between them, a fractiousness which Gaddis had not anticipated. He felt the gap in their respective ages as a chasm which he would struggle to cross, almost as if he was a small boy again in the presence of his grandfather. Neame was still exercising his hands, the counter to an apparent arthritis. ‘How did you come to hear about Eddie?’ he asked.
    ‘From Charlotte. She was one of my closest friends.’
    Neame cleared a block in his throat. ‘Yes. I would like to express how sorry I was to hear about her death.’ The words sounded sincere. ‘A lovely girl. Very bright.’
    ‘Thank you. Yes, she was.’ Gaddis took advantage of the improving atmosphere between them to discover more about their relationship. ‘She said that she met you on several occasions.’
    This was confirmed with no more than an abrupt nod. Neame then looked down at the satchel and asked if Gaddis was recording their conversation.
    ‘Not unless you’d like me to.’
    ‘I would not like you to.’ Again the response was quick and clipped; Neame clearly wanted to leave no doubt as to who was in charge. He winced as a sharp pain appeared to jag across his hunched shoulders, then quickly suppressed his discomfort with an almost imperceptible shake of the head. Gaddis recognized the familiar, uncomplaining stoicism of the war generation. His own grandfather had possessed it, his grandmother also. No fuss. No complaints. Survivors. ‘Charlotte visited me on three occasions,’ Neame continued. ‘I am resident at a nursing home not far from here. The Meredith. Twice we met at country pubs for a chat about Eddie, and once in my room. In fact, that occasion was rather amusing. She had to pretend to be my granddaughter.’ Gaddis thought of Charlotte engaged in the subterfuge and found himself smiling. It was the sort of ruse she would have enjoyed. ‘I must say that I was shocked when I heard that she had died.’
    ‘We all were.’
    ‘Do you suspect an element of foul play?’
    Both the implication of the question and the calm, matter-of-fact way in which Neame had posed it took Gaddis by surprise. ‘Not at all,’ he said. ‘Do you?’
    Neame sighed deeply in a way that Gaddis thought of as overly theatrical.
    ‘Well, I wouldn’t know, would I? But now you’re the man on the scene. You’re the chap tracking the story. And I suppose you want me to tell you all about Eddie.’
    ‘You approached me ,’ Gaddis replied, because he was becoming slightly irritated by Neame’s manner. ‘You were the one who wrote the emails. You were the one who sent Peter. I have absolutely no idea how you knew