LITMIR.BIZ

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according to her Leo was ‘such a laugh’. At the next work event, Fox had caught him staring at her and given him the nickname ‘Eagle-eyed Action Man’. In fact, the only real action Fox could envisage Sawyer getting was from behind at the local gay bar.

      Looking up, Fox saw the security guard leave the MD’s office with a clipboard in his hand. He bore the man no ill will.

      ‘Hi, Mick. Are you going to march me off the premises? ‘

      ‘Sorry.’ He put the clipboard on Fox’s desk. ‘I’m going to need the car keys and your signature here.’

      Shaking his head, Fox took the keys to his BMW three series and dropped them into Mick’s outstretched palm. ‘Of course you are, and I’m going to walk three miles to the train station.’

      ‘Thanks.’ Mick cast a glance around before saying, almost in a whisper, ‘I don’t suppose Mr Sawyer has offered to drive you in his Z4?’

      ‘I’m not queer.’

      Mick suppressed a smile. ‘It’s my break in ten minutes – I’ll take you to the station.’

      ‘That would be good pal, thanks.’

      It was the way of the world. Mick had more decency than all of them. He patted Fox on the shoulder and left him to finish his bags. Fox continued to shove his personal papers into the pockets of his case. Sawyer and Cope remained cocooned in the meeting room, eyes glued to documents, pretending to look busy and hoping he would leave. Fox closed the case and walked towards the stairs. As he passed the meeting room he tapped on the window, causing both occupants to snap their necks to the right. Fox smiled and held up his middle finger.

      Fox tried to forget that awful day as he crossed the road towards the river and used the pedestrian bridge to make his way home. The tide was out as usual and the river had turned into a thick, muddy smudge. Bloody awful if you asked him, but then Tracey hadn’t when she’d bought the house that overlooked it. As he reached the opposite side he could hear them already, the local kids from the flats out again on their ‘mini motos’, zipping between cars. Jim would be outraged. Jim was always outraged.

      ‘Get off the bloody road! I’ll call the police!’ Jim Reynolds, retired decorator and moral voice of the street, yelled after the miniature motorbikes.

      Fox laughed. ‘Good evening, Jim.’ He liked his neighbour, even if he made fun of him.

      ‘Is it? I’ve had them effing kids tormenting me for the last hour! Shouldn’t they be at school?’ He waved his hedge scissors.

      ‘Jim, it’s almost six.’

      ‘Oh, well, at work then, or doing their homework. At their age, I was painting houses.’

      ‘So are they, with spray cans.’

      The area had been touted as the latest urban development for professional people with two point four children and a BMW. The truth, however, was that the kids from the local council flats saw the quiet, pothole-free roads of Shoreham beach as their private racetrack.

      The old man removed his gardening gloves and scratched his head. ‘Any more news on the job front?’

      Fox shrugged. ‘Who wants to employ an old soldier like me?’

      ‘That’s the problem – no gratitude. They should have given you a medal.’

      Reynolds knew that, as a member of the SAS, Fox had been sent into Iraq. Fox hadn’t been a member of Bravo Two Zero, as all those who knew the truth of his past seemed to think, but a deep-penetration mission which had never been publicised. It had been their job to recce the approach to Baghdad in advance of the coalition’s arrival, an arrival which hadn’t come, at least not for ten years. This mission, he never talked about. Reynolds, himself a veteran of Suez, had great respect for Fox.

      ‘Maybe when we’re both dead they’ll put plaques on our houses?’ Fox smiled.

      There was the sound of bass-heavy music from behind them and Tracey Fox, his wife of five years, raced up the road in her convertible Saab.

      ‘Here she comes, Ghetto Gertrude!’

      Reynolds chuckled as Tracey pulled up onto the drive. ‘Hello, love.’

      ‘Hi, Jim.’ She smiled warmly then changed her face when she spoke to Fox. ‘The sooner you move that old heap of yours out of the garage the better. I don’t know why you keep it!’

      ‘It’s a classic, love.’ It was the conversation they had each evening when she was forced to park her new car on the drive.

      ‘Help me with my bags then.’

      ‘Yes, ma’am.’ Fox winked at Reynolds and made for the car.

      Reynolds picked up his hedge scissors and continued to trim his already perfect shrubs.

      Fox followed his wife inside with her laptop bag, which she complained was too heavy to carry. He found her looking through the mail.

      ‘So, tell me, what have you been up to today while I’ve been out at work?’ It was a daily question, thrown at him with growing disdain.

      Fox placed the bag on the floor and took a breath. ‘I went online, put my CV on Monster, checked my email, and fixed the tap in the kitchen.’

      Tracey nodded. ‘And?’

      ‘And what?’

      ‘Did you call any of those agents I gave you details of?’ Her hands were now on her hips.

      He looked at the gap between her blouse buttons and the red of her bra. She had a great pair of tits. ‘No. I’ll do it tomorrow.’

      Her expression grew sour. ‘You’ve been saying that for the past week, Paddy!’

      ‘I know, love, I know.’ Here came the lecture.

      ‘You’re not going to get a new job sitting on your arse all day long.’

      ‘Then how can I use the computer?’

      She ignored his attempt at levity. ‘It’s been almost two months now.’

      ‘It’s been six weeks.’

      ‘Exactly. When the redundancy money runs out, what then?’ Her eyes narrowed.

      Fox sighed. They had met at Dymex, where she at least still worked. ‘I’ve got enough saved and, besides, you earn twice as much as I did.’

      ‘What? You want to live off me; you, a man, want to live off me?’ The argument wasn’t new and their lines were well rehearsed.

      ‘Don’t be sexist.’ He loved to goad his oh so PC wife. ‘I’m not going to “ponce” off you. I’ll find something.’

      She turned and headed upstairs. ‘I’m going to have a shower.’

      Fox watched her arse twitch beneath her tight skirt; even when she was angry he still fancied her. He spoke beneath his breath. ‘Hi, dear, how are you? Have a nice day? Don’t worry…’ He smirked to himself. Right, he’d bung a risotto into the microwave and uncork a bottle of the Chilean Merlot she liked, that’d calm her down for a bit.

       Paddington Green Secure Police Station, London

      Snow signed for his belongings at the front desk. ‘Should I be honoured you came in person?’

      ‘Yes,’ Patchem said flatly.

      The desk officer gave Snow a stern look. ‘You’re free to go.’

      ‘Much obliged.’

      ‘In future, for heaven’s sake, if someone says they’re an SIS officer, call us to ask.’

      ‘Very well, sir.’ The desk officer showed no sign of accepting Patchem’s reprimand. ‘Don’t let me keep you.’

      Outside they got into Patchem’s

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