The Hidden Man - Charles Cumming [84]
‘That’s all I was doing,’ he said. He could see McCreery staring at him from inside the pub. ‘I was trying to understand, Alice, trying to show you a little sympathy. But you aren’t interested in seeing that, in listening to what I’m saying. You just want to use your situation at work as an excuse to get angry with me, as a way of making me feel bad instead of you. And now you’re saying that it’s “typical male behaviour”. I can’t fucking believe that we’re even having this conversation…’
He heard the squeal of the taxi’s brakes.
‘Are you in a cab?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ she said.
‘Look, try to understand this.’ Ben hoped that he could end the conversation with one swift speech. ‘I am your husband. I automatically understand and share anything that affects you. That’s what it means to love somebody. You hurt when they hurt. So take it as read that I am sympathetic. Take it as read that if my wife calls me up in the pub while she’s having a shitty day at work, I am understanding. But if all you want is sympathy and a kind of mute approbation, get a dog.’ McCreery was now standing at the bar, buying them a third pint. ‘The difference between me and a cocker spaniel is that I am able to offer you something more than a dog can; that is, a solution to your problem. And I don’t know why it’s suddenly fashionable for women to consider that as some sort of male flaw. If I were you, I’d be grateful for the second opinion.’
‘So what is your solution?’ she said.
‘I’ve just told you. I told you ten minutes ago, at the start of this fucking conversation. Go home, take a bath, watch a DVD and relax. You can go back in tomorrow, get one of the work experience people to help with your research and finish the piece. Now I’m here with Jock, we’re talking about the letter. I can’t do anything about this at the moment. I have to go.’
If he hadn’t hung up, she would have kept him on the line for another half an hour. Ben ended the call, switched off the phone and put it in his jacket pocket. McCreery was still at the bar, a pint of Guinness settling on the counter next to a tumbler of whisky.
‘Everything all right, old chap?’
‘Sure. That was Alice on the phone.’
‘Woman trouble?’
‘Woman trouble.’
He handed the letter to McCreery.
‘Like I was saying before, I’m only showing you this because I think you have a right to see it. I can’t go to the police because I don’t know how the Secrets Act works. But it seems important that you should get a look at it.’
Very calmly, McCreery extracted Bone’s letter from the envelope.
‘This is the photocopy?’ he said.
‘That’s the photocopy.’
At a nearby table, a group of men erupted into laughter and one of them knocked over a glass. Ironic applause amid mutterings of ‘Nice one, Dave.’ McCreery frowned as he held the letter in his hand, six pages of crumpled A4.
‘How long did you say you’ve had this?’ he said.
‘Just a few days. I made the copy when I received it. For Mark,’ Ben lied. He did not yet want to tell McCreery that he had been planning to give the copy to a contact in Customs and Excise.
‘Mark didn’t get one himself?’
‘I have no idea. I haven’t spoken to him in days.’
‘Why don’t we sit down? I’d like to read it.’
They returned to their table in a quieter corner of the pub. Ben felt that he had drunk too much on an empty stomach, two pints of Guinness as McCreery regaled him with stories about his father. His head felt light and dizzy. It took Jockten minutes to read the letter, his face occasionally jolting into a look of disbelief, and when he had finished, he said, ‘Do you mind if I read it again?’
Ben took the opportunity to visit the gents. Before he returned, he bought himself a packet of cigarettes from a vending machine and some crisps and peanuts at the bar. McCreery was on the final page as he sat down.
‘Yes. Bob has always had some fairly potty theories about what went on in Afghanistan.’
‘So you knew him?’
‘Oh, absolutely.’
‘What kind of theories?’ Ben asked.
McCreery waved his hand dismissively over the table, as if to