Never Tell. Claire Seeber

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      ‘That’s the one. Moved into a mansion in your neck of the woods.’

      ‘Kattan is al-Qaeda? Pull the other one. It’s Middle England, Xav, not Helmand Province.’

      ‘So cynical. He was VEVAK for a while too apparently.’

      ‘VEVAK as in Iranian Secret Service? They’re nothing to do with al-Qaeda, surely?’

      ‘Whatever. He’s purportedly been involved with a smaller organisation, a branch of the tree. Al-Muhen, I think. Some Saudi Arabian mullah runs it from a madrasah somewhere outside Peshawar.’

      ‘Everyone north of the equator’s apparently got a link these days. Who’s your source?’

      ‘Guy in the Yard’s anti-terrorism unit.’

      ‘So well-connected, dear Xav.’

      ‘Let’s just say we share a sauna, darling.’

      ‘Oh, I see.’ I debated some sugar-free gingerbread men. ‘That kind of source. And he’s straight up, is he?’

      ‘Well, I wouldn’t say straight, necessarily.’

      ‘Hilarious! You know what I mean.’

      ‘Check it out and see.’

      ‘I can’t.’ Resolute, I picked up some over-priced organic crisps. The kids would prefer a lurid Wotsit any day. ‘I’ve retired. For now.’

      ‘It’s time to come out of retirement. Christ, Rose, most people would be biting my hand off.’

      ‘I appreciate it. I’m tempted. But it’s not fair on the kids. You know that.’

      ‘Rose, you had some babies, you didn’t become Mother fucking Teresa.’

      ‘She only had spiritual babies, I think you’ll find.’ I wheeled myself round to the Wotsits. ‘Look, I’ll consider it, OK?’

      ‘Which means you won’t,’ he sighed.

      ‘I will. I’m flattered, Xav. Thank you.’ For a moment I caught a glimpse of the old me. It was strangely reassuring that someone else occasionally did too.

      ‘It’s a bloody waste, you rotting out there in the cow-shit. You were the best, Rose.’

      ‘Thank you. Actually, talking about retirement,’ I said carefully, ‘I’m sure I just saw Lord Higham on the news.’

      ‘So?’

      ‘I thought he’d gone somewhere like Venezuela.’

      ‘He may well have done, darling. I’m not his travel agent.’ Xavier was snappy. ‘Word is he’s back on the political warpath. Officially he’s come in some advisor role to the PM.’

      My stomach clenched uncomfortably.

      ‘Why the interest? Got a scoop?’

      ‘I just – he’s someone—’ I was getting tongue-tied. I took a deep breath. ‘Someone from the past,’ I finished lamely.

      ‘My dear! I’ve always liked an older man myself,’ Xavier purred.

      ‘Not like that. I knew his son, Dalziel.’

      ‘The one who killed himself?’

      The years rolled back like the tide.

      ‘Rose?’

      ‘Yes,’ I mumbled. ‘Yes, that one.’

      ‘You have depths, my dear Rose, I’ve not yet plumbed.’

      I jumped half a foot as a voice spoke in my ear.

      ‘Rose!’

      Helen Kelsey. I forced a smile. ‘I’ll call you back, Xav.’

      ‘Before it’s too late,’ he drawled, and rang off.

      Too late.

      I summoned a smile for Helen; I wished my heart would stop beating so very fast.

       Chapter Two

      I arrived at the paper at eleven, which meant they’d all be on a fag-break out the back. I needed to busy myself: to stay in the present. Making myself a cup of strong tea, I checked the boards in the faint hope there might be a half-decent story for once.

      ‘Edna Brown’s prize-winning vegetables sabotaged.’ Next to this someone had scrawled ‘Watch out for her melons’ in green marker.

      ‘High School Musical comes to Cheltenham.’

      ‘Five sheep savaged near Ostley Woods – return of the Burford Beast?’

      The only story that looked remotely exciting was apparent police interest in a local MP and an allegation of bribery. I vaguely remembered him from Alicia’s school fête, a sweaty, corpulent man more interested in the refreshment stall than the children.

      Tina banged through the doors. Ex-Fleet Street herself, but sick of the horrendous hours and the in-fighting, she was happy and efficient running this little paper.

      ‘Hello, stranger.’ She slammed a pile of files down on her immaculate desk. ‘How’s tricks?’

      ‘Tricks are OK, thanks, Tina.’

      ‘How’s the gorgeous husband?’

      Everyone always loved James. The life and soul. ‘Good, thanks. Pretty busy with the relaunch of the club.’ I pointed to the board. ‘What’s Johnson being investigated for?’

      ‘Not sure exactly,’ she shrugged. ‘Something to do with taking some kind of bung, I think.’

      ‘Really?’ I perked up.

      ‘The by-election’s coming up. All sorts are stirring.’

      ‘Shall I take a look?’ I said carefully. I didn’t want to admit to myself how much I needed some kind of spur.

      ‘I think Richard’s on it, thanks, love.’ She booted her old computer up. It made a sound like it was dying inside. ‘Why don’t you take a look at Edna Brown’s lovely vegetables?’

      ‘Oh, right.’ I suppressed the sudden urge to scream. ‘Yes, of course.’

      Richard Sawton rushed through the door and scooped his car keys off the desk.

      ‘Hey Rosie,’ he winked, his long face almost excited, ‘fancy a spot of doorstepping?’

      ‘I was going to talk to Edna Brown about her—’

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