The Partridge Kite by Michael Nicholson Read Free Book Online Page A

punctual - something Mrs Cathcart had warned me not to expect!’
    ‘She’s my worst PR,’ said Tom.
    ‘She’s a beautiful woman, Mr McCullin, and she is your best PR - your very best, I can assure you of that!’
    Something in Fry’s voice just for an instant caught Tom. His eyes turned grey and he looked straight at Fry, focusing on the bridge of his nose.
    ‘Kate said you were a Swede, Mr Hampton. You speak exceptional English!’
    ‘Mrs Cathcart told you I worked in Malmö, not that I was Swedish. I was born in Pitlochry near Perth, so I’m pleased to know my English is passable!’ He laughed at his joke, closing the door behind Tom.
    Tom gave no applause, not even a grin. Fry was uneasy. Kellick had warned him of Tom’s party trick of looking right through you. How the hell could Kellick be so certain that McCullin hadn’t seen him at the Department? Fry had been there three and a half years . . . eleven years in the Service. How could anyone be certain that somewhere in some corridor they hadn’t passed, hadn’t borrowed a match, hadn’t stood side by side in the Department lavatory?
    Fry walked to the drinks cabinet, a clumsy arrangement. A pressed cardboard imitation antique globe on a stand, depicting a sixteenth-century navigator’s world with sea-
    horses and serpents ruling the five Oceans. Fry lifted the Northern Hemisphere.
    ‘What can I offer you?’ He was looking at Tom through the mirror on the wall above the globe.
    ‘A large Scotch with ice. No water, just lots of ice.’
    Fry continued watching as Tom looked around him - the pile of Swedish newspapers on the bed, all carefully stamped with the stationer’s kiosk name at Malmö airport. Fry’s Samsonite briefcase was open on top of the television . . . letterheads embossed with the firm’s name, Trygg-Ö-Säker, could be clearly seen. An opened packet of Swedish cigarettes by the ashtray on the bedside cabinet, Swedish book- matches were on the floor nearby. Just enough, thought Fry. Doesn’t look too arranged. Too obvious if he was looking for something suspicious, but he isn’t.
    Hampton, alias Fry, was dressed typically Scandinavian. A check sports jacket cut too short and square by British standards. He had a grey knitted woollen shirt done up at the neck with no tie and a pair of snubbed-nose shoes that looked as if they had started on the shoemaker’s last as moccasins.
    Tom loosened his tie, untied the lace of his left shoe, and began his Scotch. Fry relaxed a little, and showed it.
    ‘Mr McCullin - Tom - as Mrs Cathcart will have told you, I run a reasonably successful security business in Malmö; small but select and therefore financially sound.’ He handed Tom a business card. ‘The name means “Safe and Sound.” We deal sometimes with industrial espionage - so close to the Russians, you understand, and therefore more vulnerable. But mostly our work is routine security, factories, offices, the transfer of monies, bullion and so on. You know the kind of thing.’
    Tom nodded but said nothing.
    ‘We belong to what some of the more imaginative journalists here in England describe as the third power. They seem upset that security organisations like mine should have so many thousands of well-trained, disciplined men at our command. Maybe they’d be happier if our men didn’t wear uniforms. I must say, some of the outfits I’ve seen here at London Airport are quite outrageous!’
    ‘What is the job you have in mind?’ Tom managed to be direct without sounding rude.
    ‘Exactly! Let’s get to the point!’ said Fry. ‘I have been asked to investigate an organisation here in Britain by a Scandinavian group of merchant bankers. To begin with, large amounts of money, their money, are being funnelled away from companies they have financial stakes in. They have yet to discover how. They would also like to know the recipients. But that is not their main concern.
    ‘What worries them most is that some kind of organisation -