Peggy asked a series of questions in her version of the bland tones of officialdom: what was her name, her address (with a laugh), was she over seventy, the names and details of any other occupants of the flat – ‘I have lived alone here since the death of my husband,’ Mrs Goodhart answered stiffly.
When she got to the end of her questions, Peggy slid her pencil through the metal rung of her clipboard and stood up. ‘Thank you very much,’ she said, and started towards the door. Then stopped, as if she’d thought of something else.
‘Yes?’ asked Mrs Goodhart.
‘Sorry, I was just wondering… I’ve been trying to check the present occupants of Flat 3C.’ She waved vaguely across the landing. ‘But no one ever seems to be in.’
‘Ah, that’s David Blakey. He works during the day but he’s usually at home in the evening.’
‘Oh, yes, that’s the name I’ve got – and Mrs Blakey?’
Mrs Goodhart gave her a knowing look. ‘There isn’t a Mrs Blakey. But there is a lady there who – well, as you might say, keeps him company.’ She looked down, suitably abashed by her own candour.
Peggy let her eyes widen to display mild surprise. ‘Is this lady… uh… resident with Mr Blakey?’
‘I think they say “cohabitant” nowadays, my dear. I don’t think she’s moved in. It’s strictly a nocturnal arrangement, if you see what I mean.’ Mrs Goodhart emitted a small snort, as if to say, Men! ‘She is attractive. Not young, you know, forty if she’s a day and I don’t think the blonde hair is completely unaided by the bottle. But Mr Blakey is utterly smitten, according to Howson.’
‘Howson?’ asked Peggy politely, looking at her list. ‘Does she live here too?’
‘Oh, no. She’s my daily and she does for David Blakey too. A nice woman, if a little prone to gossip,’ said Mrs Goodhart with a small sniff. Then, perhaps realising the hypocrisy of this, added briskly, ‘Is that all, because I must be going now?’
‘Oh, I’m so sorry. I hope I haven’t made you late.’ But Peggy wasn’t sorry at all. She’d learned rather more than she’d expected.
No one had briefed Dave Armstrong on how boring life was on board a container ship. In fact, no one had briefed him on much about this operation, which saw him posing as medical assistant to the ship’s doctor on board the Aristides. A ship of this size would not normally have carried a medical assistant, but none of the officers had queried his presence. The Captain was fully in the picture and the ship’s doctor, an old Scotsman called Macintyre, had been told only that he must treat Dave, alias Tony Symes, as he would a genuine medical assistant. Dr Macintyre had been around far too long to be surprised by anything and was finding Tony Symes’ presence quite agreeable, as it allowed him to spend more time playing bridge with the other officers.
Dave had been whisked out to Athens by the RAF at a week’s notice, with just enough time for him to brush up on the First Aid course he’d taken years before. Having been closely involved with the Birmingham end of things, the extraction of Boatman and the recruitment of Tahira, he knew the operation’s background, but was far from certain what he was expected to achieve by being on board the ship. ‘Get to know the crew,’ Liz had said, ‘particularly the Pakistanis. Find out if any of them are British and learn as much as you can about where they’re going and why.’
Well, that was easier said than done. The four Pakistani crewmen had formed a tight group and spoke hardly at all to the other seamen, let alone the officers. But what concerned Dave most of all was what he was supposed to do if, as everyone seemed to be expecting, the ship was hijacked. He just hoped that Geoffrey Fane had thoroughly sorted out the back-up with the Americans and the French, and that he wasn’t going to find himself the target of ‘friendly fire’.
He had not been much reassured when he’d stopped briefly in Athens and had dinner with Bruno Mackay at a small restaurant near the embassy. Though he’d never met him before, he had heard about Mackay from Liz and was not expecting to discover a soulmate. Mackay turned out to be just as Liz had described him – the perfect suntan, the elegantly cut hair, the smart suit and the shirt cuffs with gold cufflinks on display. Mackay did a competent job, briefing Dave on the Athens end of the operation. Dave was not surprised that he made only passing reference to the murder of his agent Maria Galanos; in spite of his self-confident front, Bruno Mackay must be very embarrassed by that. They went on to discuss the leasing, loading and despatching of the UCSO aid ships by the shipping company. Mackay had obtained a copy of the crew list, which revealed a mixed bag of Filipinos, a Cypriot, Koreans and four Pakistanis. ‘These are your targets,’ said Bruno, unnecessarily, pointing to the Pakistani names.
‘Does anyone at UCSO know I’ll be on board?’
