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‘Yes, definitely. Blonde, slim, nice manner, nice eyes …’
    ‘Determined?’
    ‘I’d say so, yes. Difficult to judge, but … yes.’
    There was another silence and Robbie shifted uncomfortably in the hard wooden chair. For reasons he didn’t understand, he’d become involved in some kind of audition. Llewelyn was studying his fingernails.
    ‘And does she trust you?’ he asked at length.
    ‘
Trust
me?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘I’ve no idea. I was only there an hour. Maybe less.’
    ‘But what’s your feeling? You’d know, surely.’
    Robbie gazed at him, at last sensing where this conversation was headed. Llewelyn wanted him to go back there, back to the picturesque little cottage on the northern edge of Essex. He was to carry a proposal of some kind, the opening gambit in a master plan that would doubtless get the Director off the hook. Quite what this proposal might be, Robbie didn’t know. But in his own way he was determined to hang in there, whatever the consequences, buffering the poor woman from the likes of Todd Llewelyn.
    For the first time, he looked Llewelyn in the eyes, answering his chilly stare.
    ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I think she trusted me.’
    The third time Molly went up to the bedroom, her husband was awake. She stood in the open doorway a moment, a cup of tea in her hand, looking down at his face on the pillow. His eyes were open, gazing sightlessly at the empty glass on the bedside table. Molly had sniffed at the glass the first time she’d checked him. It smelled of brandy.
    Now, she bent quickly to the pillow, leaving the tea beside the empty glass, kissing her husband on the forehead. His flesh was cold to the touch of her lips and she crossed the tiny bedroom to the dormer window, pulling the curtains against the darkness outside. Since the couple from London had gone, she’d been downstairs, curled in front of the Aga, preparing herself for what she knew would be a difficult scene. In twenty-six years of marriage, she’d never once taken the initiative. Not in the important things. Not in a crisis like this.
    She sat on the bed, reaching for her husband’s hand. It felt lifeless, dead, as cold and empty as the rest of him. She explained about the visit from the Terra Sancta people, the trouble they’d taken, how kind they’d been. She explained about James’s accident, what seemed to have happened. For the first time, Giles stirred.
    ‘A mine?’ he said.
    He made the word sound almost foreign, something from outer space, something that couldn’t possibly belong in their lives.
    ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘apparently they’re everywhere.’
    ‘And he trod on one?’
    ‘So they say.’
    Giles closed his eyes and groaned, the reaction of a man who wants to hear no more, and Molly squeezed his hand, remembering the church, how full it had been.
‘To everything there is a season; a time to be born, and a time to die.’
Giles struggled upright in the bed, trying to get out, but Molly restrained him as gently as she could, plumping the pillows behind his back. He looked at her the way a stranger might, uncomprehending.
    ‘What’s the matter?’ he said. ‘I’m not ill.’
    ‘I know. I just want to talk.’
    ‘But …’ he began to move again, trying to get his legs out, then gave up. Molly was still stroking his hand.
    ‘We have to go out there,’ she said quietly. ‘You and me.’
    ‘Where?’
    ‘Angola.’
    ‘Why?’
    ‘Because …’ she paused, knowing that this question would come, knowing that it had to be answered, ‘because it’s important. James is dead, Giles. He’s gone. But I won’t accept it until I’ve been there.’
    She sat back, turning her head away. For the first time,she understood the real depth of her loss, what had been taken from her, what could never be returned. James had indeed gone. No more surprise phone calls from the station. No more midnight bacon sandwiches. No more tussles over the state of his bedroom. She stood up, reaching blindly