phone rang and Betty jumped. She moved towards it but the second man reached it before her.
'Yes? . . . No, I'm afraid Mr and Mrs Summers are out this evening. . . . Just a friend. I'll tell them you rang.'
Betty had wanted to call out but she had caught the taller man's warning eye and had been too afraid. Now she managed to ask: 'Who was it?'
'Somebody called Trevor. I'm sorry, Mrs Summers. It has to be this way.'
'Has to be what way? Why can't you tell me?'
'When your husband comes. He shouldn't be long now, should he?'
'I...'
'How about that tea? I'm sure you'd feel better.'
Perhaps he's right, she thought, a little desperately. She went to the kitchen, fighting back the tears that were trying to break out. This wouldn't do. If Phil was in trouble, he'd need her support, her help, not a weeping wife making things more difficult.... If only ...
She heard his key in the door, and Timmy's paws, scuffling at the woodwork as they always did. Oh, thank God. ... Or was it going to be even worse, now?
Betty ran to the hall but the two men were there as soon as she was. Timmy rushed in ahead of Phil, his tail wagging furiously, and stopped and growled when he saw the two strangers. Phil stopped too, questioningly.
She went to him, managing to keep her poise somehow. 'Darling - I think these gentlemen are police.'
'No,''Mr Summers. Not police. LB7.'
Phil seemed to pale a little. He said 'Oh', and shut the front door carefully. As soon as it was closed, the taller man showed Phil his identity card and then said: 'Beehive Amber, I'm afraid. Sorry about the short notice but you have an hour. I suggest you and your wife go and pack. You can explain to her now, of course.'
'Pack?' Betty croaked.
Phil put an arm round her. 'It's all right, darling. I wasn't allowed to tell even you. ... Oh Christ, I suppose I should have expected it, after last night. . . . We're going away for a bit. An official job.'
'Arc you a secret agent or something?' She felt ridiculous as soon as she'd said it.
Phil sighed. 'Nothing so dramatic. Only a ventilation engineer.' He made an attempt at a laugh. 'They tell me it's a privilege to be on the list. . . . Come on, I'll explain upstairs. Thank God I can get it off my chest at last.'
The taller man said: 'You didn't report the dog.'
'Nobody asked me,' Phil replied, looking suddenly alarmed. 'Christ, you don't have to ...'
'We'll handle it.'
'Nobody asked me,' he repeated lamely.
'D'you imagine there's room for them down there? . . .
Go on, lad, or you'll upset Mrs Summers more.'
Phil patted Timmy's head, turning his face away. The shorter man coughed. Then Phil took his wife upstairs. The two men could hear their voices from the bedroom - hers high-pitched and bewildered, his rumbling on and on and on.
The shorter man picked up the phone and dialled a number. 'It's the only thing that gets me, when there's pets,' he complained over his shoulder. 'Why the hell don't they brief these people properly?'
Miss Angela Smith, at fifty-three the elder stateswoman of the Borough Treasurer's Department, thanked the post girl with a motherly smile. The girl had been very jittery since yesterday morning's news; the nearest earth tremor had been thirty or forty kilometres away (London had been quite unscathed) but you'd think her own house had fallen down. Oh well; not surprising when you knew the girl's neurotic mother, which Miss Smith did. As, indeed, she knew most of the borough.
Miss Smith flicked through the routine bulk of the post to see what she had to deal with herself. The perforated edge of a telex sheet caught her eye and she pulled it out; they had a way of being urgent - or if not urgent, at least from someone high enough for them to be treated as urgent.
'She read it and pursed her lips in a silent whistle, an unladylike mannerism she was well aware of but could not cure.
After the address and priority coding, the text began:
FOLLOWING TO BE TRANSFERRED TO FILE LB 0806 WEF.
'Yes? . . . No, I'm afraid Mr and Mrs Summers are out this evening. . . . Just a friend. I'll tell them you rang.'
Betty had wanted to call out but she had caught the taller man's warning eye and had been too afraid. Now she managed to ask: 'Who was it?'
'Somebody called Trevor. I'm sorry, Mrs Summers. It has to be this way.'
'Has to be what way? Why can't you tell me?'
'When your husband comes. He shouldn't be long now, should he?'
'I...'
'How about that tea? I'm sure you'd feel better.'
Perhaps he's right, she thought, a little desperately. She went to the kitchen, fighting back the tears that were trying to break out. This wouldn't do. If Phil was in trouble, he'd need her support, her help, not a weeping wife making things more difficult.... If only ...
She heard his key in the door, and Timmy's paws, scuffling at the woodwork as they always did. Oh, thank God. ... Or was it going to be even worse, now?
Betty ran to the hall but the two men were there as soon as she was. Timmy rushed in ahead of Phil, his tail wagging furiously, and stopped and growled when he saw the two strangers. Phil stopped too, questioningly.
She went to him, managing to keep her poise somehow. 'Darling - I think these gentlemen are police.'
'No,''Mr Summers. Not police. LB7.'
Phil seemed to pale a little. He said 'Oh', and shut the front door carefully. As soon as it was closed, the taller man showed Phil his identity card and then said: 'Beehive Amber, I'm afraid. Sorry about the short notice but you have an hour. I suggest you and your wife go and pack. You can explain to her now, of course.'
'Pack?' Betty croaked.
Phil put an arm round her. 'It's all right, darling. I wasn't allowed to tell even you. ... Oh Christ, I suppose I should have expected it, after last night. . . . We're going away for a bit. An official job.'
'Arc you a secret agent or something?' She felt ridiculous as soon as she'd said it.
Phil sighed. 'Nothing so dramatic. Only a ventilation engineer.' He made an attempt at a laugh. 'They tell me it's a privilege to be on the list. . . . Come on, I'll explain upstairs. Thank God I can get it off my chest at last.'
The taller man said: 'You didn't report the dog.'
'Nobody asked me,' Phil replied, looking suddenly alarmed. 'Christ, you don't have to ...'
'We'll handle it.'
'Nobody asked me,' he repeated lamely.
'D'you imagine there's room for them down there? . . .
Go on, lad, or you'll upset Mrs Summers more.'
Phil patted Timmy's head, turning his face away. The shorter man coughed. Then Phil took his wife upstairs. The two men could hear their voices from the bedroom - hers high-pitched and bewildered, his rumbling on and on and on.
The shorter man picked up the phone and dialled a number. 'It's the only thing that gets me, when there's pets,' he complained over his shoulder. 'Why the hell don't they brief these people properly?'
Miss Angela Smith, at fifty-three the elder stateswoman of the Borough Treasurer's Department, thanked the post girl with a motherly smile. The girl had been very jittery since yesterday morning's news; the nearest earth tremor had been thirty or forty kilometres away (London had been quite unscathed) but you'd think her own house had fallen down. Oh well; not surprising when you knew the girl's neurotic mother, which Miss Smith did. As, indeed, she knew most of the borough.
Miss Smith flicked through the routine bulk of the post to see what she had to deal with herself. The perforated edge of a telex sheet caught her eye and she pulled it out; they had a way of being urgent - or if not urgent, at least from someone high enough for them to be treated as urgent.
'She read it and pursed her lips in a silent whistle, an unladylike mannerism she was well aware of but could not cure.
After the address and priority coding, the text began:
FOLLOWING TO BE TRANSFERRED TO FILE LB 0806 WEF.
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