A Perfect Spy

Then Uncle Jack drew nearer and his voice dropped. “I’m not sure I should tell you this, son. But I’m going to anyway because I think you’re ready to keep a secret. Can you do that?”

“I’ve got lots of secrets I’ve never told to anyone, sir.”

“Your father is rather a secret man himself actually. I expect you knew that, didn’t you?”

“You are too, aren’t you?”

“Quite a great man as well, he is. But he’s got to keep it quiet. For his country.”

“And for you,” said Tom.

“A lot of his life is blocked off completely. You could almost say from human gaze.”

“Does Mummy know?”

“In principle, yes, she does. In detail, next to nothing. That’s the way we work. And if your father has ever given the impression of lying, or being evasive, less than truthful sometimes, you can bet your boots it was his work and his loyalty that were the reason. It’s a strain for him. It is for all of us. Secrets are a strain.”

“Is it dangerous?” Tom asked.

“Can be. That’s why we give him bodyguards. Like boys on motorbikes who follow him round Greece and hang about outside his house.”

“I saw them!” Tom declared excitedly.

“Like tall thin men with moustaches who come up to him at cricket matches—”

“He did, he did! He had a straw hat!”

“And sometimes what your dad does is so secret he has to disappear completely. And not even the bodyguards can have his address. I know. But the rest of the world doesn’t and it mustn’t. And if that inspector comes to you again, or to Mr. Caird, or if anybody else does, you must tell them whatever you know and report to me immediately afterwards. I’m going to give you a special phone number and have a special word with Mr. Caird too. He deserves a lot of help, your father does. And gets it.”

“I’m really glad,” said Tom.

“Now then. That letter of his he wrote to you. The long one that came after he’d gone. Did it talk about things like that?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t read it all. There was a whole lot of stuff about Sefton Boyd’s penknife and some writing in the staff loo.”

“Who’s Sefton Boyd?”

“He’s a boy in the school. He’s my friend.”

“Is he your dad’s friend too?”

“No, but his father was. His father was in the school too.”

“Now what have you done with this letter?”

Punished himself with it. Squidged it up till it was tight and prickly and kept it in his trousers pocket where it jabbed his thigh. But Tom didn’t say that. He just handed the remnants gratefully to Uncle Jack, who promised to take proper care of them and talk everything over with him next time — if there was anything that needed talking over, which Uncle Jack very much doubted that there would be.

“Got the envelope, have you?”

Tom hadn’t.

“Where did he post it from then? There’s a clue there, I expect, if we look for it.”

“The postmark was Reading,” said Tom.

“What day?”

“The Tuesday,” said Tom unhappily, “but it could have been after post on Monday. I thought he was going back to Vienna on Monday afternoon. If he didn’t go to Scotland, that is.”

But Uncle Jack didn’t seem to hear because he was talking about Greece again, playing what the two of them called report writing about this weedy fellow with a moustache who had shown up at the cricket ground in Corfu.

“I expect you were worried about him, weren’t you, son? You thought he was up to no good with your dad, I expect, although he was so friendly. I mean, if they knew each other that well, why didn’t your dad ask him home to meet your mum? I can see that would have bothered you on reflection. You didn’t think it very nice your dad should have a secret life on Mum’s doorstep.”

“I suppose I didn’t,” Tom admitted, marvelling as ever at Uncle Jack’s omniscience. “He held Dad’s arm.”

They had returned to the Digby. In the great joy of his release from worry, Tom had rediscovered his appetite and was having a steak and chips to fill the gap. Brotherhood had ordered himself a whisky.

“Height?” said Brotherhood, back at their special game.

“Six foot.”

“All right, well done. Six foot exactly is correct. Colour of hair?”

Tom hesitated. “Sort of mousy fawny with stripes,” he said.

“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

“He wore a straw hat. It was hard to see.”

“I know he wore a straw hat. That’s why I’m asking you. Colour of hair?”

“Brown,” said Tom finally. “Brown with the sun on it. And a big forehead like a genius.”

“Now how the hell does the sun get under the brim of a hat?”

“Grey brown,” said Tom.

“Then say so. Two points only. Hatband?”

“Red.”

“Oh dear.”

“It was red.”

“Keep trying.”

“It was red, red, red!”

“Three points. Colour of beard?”

“He hasn’t got a beard. He’s got a shaggy moustache and thick eyebrows like yours but not so bushy, and crinkly eyes.”

“Three points. Build?”

“Stoopy and hobbly.”

“What the hell’s hobbly?”

“Like chumpy. Chumpy’s when the sea is choppy and bumpy. Hobbly is when he walks fast and hobbles.”

“You mean limps.”

“Yes.”

“Say so. Which leg?”

“Left.”

“One more try?”

“Left.”

“Certain?”

“Left!”

“Three points. Age?”

“Seventy.”

“Don’t be damn stupid.”

“He’s old!”