The Code-breaker

The

Code-breaker

– BARRY HUNT –

The Code-breaker

Copyright © Barry Hunt 2014

All rights reserved.

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*

"What though the radiance which was once so bright

Be now for ever taken from my sight,

Though nothing can bring back the hour

Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower;

We will grieve not, rather find

Strength in what remains behind;"

‘Intimations of Immortality’ by William Wordsworth

*

Chapter One

The first time he saw her, Tom knew that Clare was one of those women he wouldn’t forget. It wasn’t just that she was beautiful; she seemed not to care about her looks though this, as with so many things Tom was later to find out, was not true. It was because he sensed she was different that Tom had been drawn to her in the first place, that and the fact she swore like a trooper and didn’t give a damn what other people thought. He turned on his side and raised himself on one elbow to look at her. She opened her eyes as the sheet pulled across her body and she twisted round to face him, her blonde hair fanning out over the pillow.

What? she asked.

Nothing. I thought you might be asleep.

She wriggled into a sitting position and pulled up her knees, clutching the sheet to cover herself. She shook her head and leant forward so that her hair swung across her face. It amused Tom that she was embarrassed by her nakedness after being so abandoned when they made love. It was another of those contradictions he found endearing.

Coffee? she asked as she swung her legs over the side of the bed, turning her back on him.

No thanks. How about a pizza? Tom said. Are you hungry?

Coffee, Clare repeated firmly, but first I’m having a shower.

She leant over to pick up a bundle of clothes left on the floor. Holding them close against her, she stood up and walked gracefully across the bedroom to the ensuite bathroom.

Tom sat up and rested his back against the bed head. He would have liked a cigarette but had made it a rule not to smoke in his bedroom, and the open pack was in the kitchen. He was too comfortable and relaxed to get out of bed so he pulled up the pillow and leant back as he waited for Clare to finish.

We don’t have to go if you don’t want to, he called out.

No, I want to, Clare shouted back from the bathroom. It’s time I met your artist friends. If you want a pizza, order one. There’s enough time before we leave. I’m not hungry, so nothing for me.

He heard the sound of the shower and, after a few minutes, decided he couldn’t wait for her to finish before having a cigarette. He got out of bed and stretched. Still naked, he went into the kitchen and found the half-empty packet. He took one out and lit it before picking up the telephone to order a pizza.

Clare finished her shower and lightly towelled herself down. Standing in front of the mirror over the sink, she began to brush her wet hair back hard as she examined her reflection. She was twenty-eight and her body was still toned from years of playing hockey. She put the brush down and smoothed one hand gently across her tummy. Confident that the muscles were still firm, she finished drying herself. Putting on make-up seemed like too much trouble at that moment so she slipped her dress over her shoulders and glanced once more in the mirror before going back into the bedroom.

The shower’s all yours, she called as she saw the empty bed. Are you sure about that coffee?

She went over and pulled off the duvet and top sheet, dropping them on the floor. She picked up a pillow and shook it. Tom might not be bothered but she was not going out and leaving an unmade bed.

I ordered pizza, said Tom as he appeared in the doorway and leant against the jamb. Hope you don’t mind. We can share it if you like.

I said I wasn’t hungry, said Clare. Anyway, there’ll probably be nibbles or something at the gallery.

Tom walked across and slid an arm around her waist, pulling her close to him as she dropped the pillow on the bed and turned to face him.

I could nibble on something right now, he whispered as he caressed the back of her neck with one hand and brushed his lips softly against her cheek.

You’re getting greedy, said Clare, pulling away with a smile. Now go and have a shower. You might think about making it a cold one.

She lightly slapped his bare buttock and Tom laughed. He kissed her again quickly before going into the bathroom. He didn’t really feel like going out that evening. He would have preferred to spend more time alone with Clare but some of his friends at the gallery hadn’t met her yet and there would be the pleasure of showing her off. It had been three years since his wife had died and they had been trying to fix him up with various single women of a certain age. Until he had met Clare at his brother’s wedding he hadn’t been interested but Clare had been different.

He had first noticed her at the reception after the speeches, standing alone against the wall on the other side of the room. He had been wondering how long he would have to wait before he could leave without being impolite. It wasn’t until she had smiled at him that he realised he had been staring at her and quickly looked away as she walked over. Tall, slim and blonde, she had been his type but he still wouldn’t have approached her if she hadn’t spoken first.

I’ve been watching you, she said, still smiling as she reached him. You don’t look as if you’re enjoying yourself.

Tom was embarrassed. He hadn’t realised it was so obvious.

Me neither, she had continued. Too many married couples. It’s like being at a club when you’re not a member. On occasions like this they make me feel like an outsider. If you’re still single at my age, they think there must be something wrong with you. Either that or you’re a lesbian. But I think marriage is the quickest way of forgetting you’re an individual, don’t you agree?

Tom hadn’t quite known what to say so had just smiled.

"Oh God! You’re not married are you?" she had asked.

No, but I was.

Divorced?

No, my wife was killed in a road accident.

Oh shit! Clare frowned. I’m always doing that. I’m sorry. Bad start. Look, let’s begin again. Hello, I’m Clare, Clare Galbraith, friend of the blushing bride.

She stretched out an elegant hand and Tom took it, momentarily surprised by the confident grip.

I’m Tom, older brother of the gushing groom.

She had laughed and after that they spent the rest of the day together. It had been so easy. He felt completely relaxed with her. She was amusing, blunt and outspoken but he liked that. She didn’t try to impress him like some of the other women he had met, nor did she try to make herself appear helpless, in need of his protection. She was just herself. She didn’t seem to care whether she said the right thing or not and when they danced that night at the disco after the reception, he knew he wanted to see her again.

That had been four months ago and now she was part of his life. She had her own toothbrush in the bathroom, her own space in the wardrobe for clothes and part of the kitchen cupboard had been given over to the special foods she liked and he didn’t. But she had not moved in with him; she had insisted on keeping her own flat and still spent most nights there. Tom did not find that strange. He liked her independence as much as she did. It meant there was no having to compromise. They each did as they pleased and he was agreeably surprised to discover what seemed to please them both the most was simply being together.

He stepped into the shower and jumped as he felt the sudden rush of hot water on his skin. He stood to one side and turned the temperature dial down. Clare liked it hotter than he did and always forgot to put the setting back when she had finished. He started soaping himself and thought about the evening ahead.

As art editor for a national newspaper he received countless invitations to private views from artists hoping for a good mention in his column. Most of them he refused but that night’s exhibition was by a friend of his and he had rashly promised to attend. He had thought at the time it would be nice to take Clare and show his friends that even at thirty-five he still had it in him to get a gorgeous girlfriend by himself, but now he was feeling a little wary. He knew she would say exactly what she thought of the paintings. He loved her honesty but was still old school enough to believe that sometimes diplomacy was the better option.

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the doorbell.

Can you get that? he shouted as he pulled the shower curtain to one side. I’m still in the shower. It’s probably the pizza guy.

He stepped back under the heavy stream of water and began to rinse himself.

Later he would say that he had heard nothing. No opening of the door. No conversation. Nothing. He had not even heard the gunshots. The police told him the gunman must have used a silencer. The first idea he had that anything was wrong was when Clare didn’t reply after he called her name from the bedroom. It was only when he passed from there into the hall that he saw her body lying on the floor. One knee was raised at an awkward angle and her arms were flung right back behind her head, as if she was a puppet whose strings had been cut. He knew immediately that she was dead, even before he saw the pool of blood around her head. All he could think as he knelt by her side was, ‘This can’t be happening. Not Clare. Please, dear God, not Clare!’

*

Clare would not have liked her funeral. She would have wanted bright colours, cheerful songs, maybe even a dance. Tom was not even sure she would have wanted a religious ceremony. They had never talked about God or religion; they had certainly not thought about death. For Christ’s sake, she was only twenty-eight! She should have had a whole life ahead of her.

It rained on the Saturday they held the memorial service. Black umbrellas against a black sky. Clare’s widowed father had driven up from Devon to stay with friends whilst he took care of all the arrangements. Tom had met him for the first time a week before and had felt awkward. Clare had not told her father she was in a relationship and Tom immediately sensed that somehow Andrew Galbraith blamed him for what had happened. She had been killed in his flat. If she hadn’t met him she would still be alive. The thought, although unspoken, had hung in the air between them as the two men met in a pub, and Tom knew it was probably true. But he would not have changed the past, even if he could. Clare meant too much to him for that and she would have understood.

As Tom walked out of the crematorium chapel, he saw her father standing by the gate which led from the paved yard where they laid out the flowers. There were a lot of people there and a queue slowly formed, giving Tom the chance to look at the wreaths and bouquets that were dripping onto the grey paving slabs. He saw his own small bunch of a dozen red roses and wished he had thought of something more imaginative. Clare had loved flowers.

Even though he hung back until he was one of the last to leave, Tom could see Clare’s father was still by the gate. Unable to put it off any longer, Tom joined the tail end of the queue as it filed past Mr Galbraith. Finally the two men were face to face. Tom took the outstretched hand and shook it solemnly.

Thank you for coming, Tom, said Mr Galbraith.

I’m so sorry for your loss, Andrew, Tom recited, unable to think of anything else to say but trying to impart some genuine meaning into the words.

You will be joining us at the King’s Head, won’t you?

I was going to go straight home, said Tom. I don’t really feel very sociable if that’s alright.

Please, insisted Mr Galbraith, and Tom realised he wasn’t just being polite. I would like you to be there.

Tom hesitated.

Some of Clare’s friends said they would like to meet you, added Mr Galbraith. Please come.

Very well, Tom agreed with a reluctant nod. I’ll see you there.

He left Mr Galbraith saying goodbye to the few remaining mourners and went to get his car. He really would have preferred to go home but perhaps he owed Clare’s father something. Besides, he might discover more about Clare from these strangers. Excluding his sister-in-law, most of Clare’s friends had worked with her in the Government Communications Headquarters at Cheltenham and he had never met them. Whilst they lived in Cheltenham or nearby, Clare had decided to take a flat in Bristol even though it meant a long commute each day up the M5 motorway. She thought Cheltenham was too quiet whereas Bristol was a vibrant city with lots of clubs and cinemas.

Clare had rarely said anything about her Cheltenham friends; in fact, he couldn’t remember if she had ever mentioned her work at all. He knew she did something in communications at GCHQ and sort of assumed she was bound by the Official Secrets Act not to say anything. It wasn’t something they had ever discussed; there had been too many other things to talk about.

As Tom turned right onto the A38 outside the crematorium it began to rain again. It was one of those late summer storms, short but fierce whilst it lasted. The pub was only just up the road and Tom recognised one of the mourners bracing herself under a small umbrella against the driving rain as she made her way there by foot. He wondered if he should stop and offer her a lift but decided against it. He didn’t know her and it wasn’t far to walk. Within a few minutes he was there. He turned into the car-park and switched off the engine. Immediately the windscreen became a blur as the rain ricocheted off the glass and streamed over the bonnet. Tom closed his eyes and sat back quietly, waiting for the downpour to stop. There was no point in getting wet for the sake of a few minutes and he thought he would stay in the car until Clare’s father arrived.

The tap on the passenger-side window made him sit up suddenly. Through the smeared glass he could see a woman bending down under an umbrella. He hadn’t seen her approach. She tapped again and he pressed the switch to lower the window. It was the woman he had passed on the road.

Are you Tom? she said as soon as the window was low enough.

Despite the umbrella, she was soaking wet. Her short black hair was sticking to her forehead and she screwed up her face and blinked to stop the drops from running into her eyes.

Yes, said Tom.

Can I get in? she asked.

Just a minute, I’ll get out.

No, she said. Let me in, please.

Tom nodded and leaned over to open the door.

The woman turned round to close her umbrella and then climbed into the passenger seat. She sat down with a sigh and swept a hand over her wet fringe to clear it from her face. She was pale with heavy-lidded eyes and a full mouth which had been carefully applied with deep crimson lipstick. Tom thought she must be in her early thirties.

Thanks, she said.

I’m sorry, I don’t think we’ve met.

No, we haven’t, but I’ve heard a lot about you, she smiled.

You were at the funeral, Tom said, though he made it sound like a question.

Yes. I asked Clare’s dad to point you out. I’m Jenni.

There was a moment’s silence. Tom didn’t know what to say and was now regretting letting her get into the car. She had announced her name as if he should know immediately who she was but he didn’t.

Were you a friend of Clare’s? he asked.

Of course, said Jenni in surprise. Didn’t she tell you about me?

No, I’m sorry, she didn’t.

There was another pause whilst Jenni absorbed this information.

Never mind, she said, she probably had her reasons.

Jenni opened her handbag and pulled out a small package. It was gift-wrapped; the paper was printed with pictures of brightly-coloured ribbons and balloons. She grasped it tightly in her hand for a moment as if undecided what to do, and then held it out to Tom.

What’s this? Tom asked taking the parcel and staring at it.

I don’t know, Jenni said. I found it when I was clearing out Clare’s desk. It’s got your name on it. I think she must have meant to give it to you. Could it have been a birthday present?

My birthday’s in November.

Perhaps she was saving it, said Jenni. She paused and looked a little uncertain before continuing. I didn’t know what to do. I wasn’t sure whether you would want it now. I hope I’ve done the right thing. Do you mind?

No, no, of course not, said Tom. Thank you.

He turned the package over in his hands. He could tell it was a thin box or something similar under the wrapping because of the hard edges, but he had no idea what it could be. They had not given each other presents.

Jenni seemed to expect him to open it but he didn’t want to do that until he was alone. He turned round and put the package on the back-seat. Jenni seemed disappointed. She looked as if she was about to say something, hesitated and then changed her mind. There was an awkward pause.

The rain has stopped, she said. I should leave.

Aren’t you going in?

No. I only came to the pub to give you that. I have to get the train back to Cheltenham.

Can I give you a lift to the station? Tom asked, feeling he should do something in return.

No, that’s alright, I can take the bus. You stay here. I know some of the others want to meet you.

Actually, I was thinking of not going in myself, he said. I won’t know anyone there and I don’t want to be a curiosity.

Jenni looked at him and nodded. She seemed to understand.

OK, thanks then.

Tom reversed out of the parking space and made his way to the exit. As he did so he saw a sleek limousine enter the car-park. Mr Galbraith was in the back seat, staring at him through the window. Tom raised a hand in greeting, pointed to Jenni as if to explain why he was leaving and then pulled quickly onto the road. They drove in silence until he reached the traffic lights and then Jenni suddenly turned to face him.

Clare never mentioned me at all? she asked abruptly.

No, replied Tom and paused. For some reason he felt he should apologise for Clare being so remiss. But then she didn’t talk about any of the people she knew in Cheltenham.

Jenni simply nodded.

I think she was probably just being ultra-careful, Tom continued. You know, all that secrecy stuff. I’m sure it didn’t mean anything.

She talked a lot about you, Jenni said. I think you were the reason she was giving up her job to find something in Bristol.

Clare was giving up her job? Tom couldn’t keep the surprise from his voice.

You didn’t know?

No, I didn’t, he said quietly.

Well, I think she had only just decided when … when -

Yes, Tom cut her off. Did you know Clare well?

He wanted to change the subject. Clare had said nothing about working in Bristol. She was not the impulsive sort and must have been thinking about it for some time. Strange that she had said nothing. It was odd that finding out from someone else should hurt but it did.

I was at Cheltenham before Clare started, Jenni explained. She began in my department, I sort of mentored her. She was good, very good, and we all knew she was meant for higher things. When she moved up we still remained friends though. Close friends. I’m surprised she never mentioned me.

Like I said, she never talked about her work.

Still… Jenni left the sentence unfinished and took a deep breath, as she stared out of the windscreen.

Clare had been so kind and generous in life that Tom couldn’t help thinking how ironic it was that now she had the power to hurt from beyond the grave. But Jenni was obviously upset that Clare had never talked about her and he was still wondering why she had not told him she was going to work in Bristol.

They continued the journey to Temple Meads Station and talked about how much Bristol had changed. As if by some unspoken agreement between them, they didn’t mention Clare again. It wasn’t until Tom had turned off to drive up the road to the short-stay car-park and switched off the engine that Jenni reached into her handbag and pulled out a business card and pen. She scribbled something on the back of the card.

Look, she said, take this. It’s my card. You might like to talk. Use the number on the back. It’s my personal one.

For a fleeting moment Tom thought this was a clumsy attempt to pick him up but there was no flirtatious smile, nothing in her body language suggested she was interested in him in that way.

That’s kind, he said. But there’s no need. Clare’s gone. Thanks for bringing the present down but until today I didn’t even know who you were. I don’t think there’s anything we can have to say to each other now.

Perhaps, said Jenni. Keep it anyway.

She put the card on the dashboard and opened the door. She got out and then turned back to lean into the car.

Thanks for the lift, she said and pointed to the card. Leave it a while and if you change your mind then get in touch. If you don’t mind me saying so, I think there’s a lot you didn’t know about Clare. She wasn’t what she seemed.

Before Tom could say anything Jenni had pushed the door shut and walked away.

*

A police car was parked outside the building when Tom returned to his flat on Pembroke Road. He had only moved back in a few days before. The police had claimed it as a crime scene and he had stayed with a friend whilst they carried out their investigation. He was going to look for somewhere else to live now. Every time he walked in the hallway he could imagine Clare lying on the floor and, although all trace of the crime had been cleaned away, he knew the place would never be the same.

He parked his car on the road and got out. As he did so, the passenger door of the police car opened and a man stepped onto the pavement. Tom recognised him as Detective Chief Inspector Watts, or Charlie as he had come to know him. Charlie wasn’t his real name but he had been called it for so long that now he even signed it on his letters. Charlie walked over and smiled sympathetically.

How was it? he asked solemnly as he shook Tom’s hand.

You know, replied Tom with a shrug. He didn’t want to talk about the service.

Can we go inside? Charlie asked.

Tom led the way into the building and Charlie followed. He was approaching retirement and had long given up going to the gym. That and a desk-bound job had helped to put on several extra pounds that now sat uncomfortably around his middle. He was slightly out of breath by the time they reached the second floor where Tom had his flat.

Go on through. Tea or coffee? Tom asked as he turned into the kitchen.

Coffee, thanks, said Charlie.

He didn’t really want anything but knew that it was better for Tom to be doing something. He went into the sitting-room and walked over to the window to look down at the back garden. It wasn’t much, just a few shrubs that ran along both side walls and a beech tree at the end where it met the back garden of the house opposite. There was a small lawn divided by a concrete path but no flowers. None of the tenants wanted to take on the responsibility for looking after the garden and