The Perfect Soldier by Graham Hurley Read Free Book Online Page A

main shopping street. At one end of the street lay the greensward and the sea; at the other, the white level-crossinggates which guarded the town from the outside world. Frinton, she’d always thought, lived in a time warp: old-fashioned, genteel, determined to resist the uglier encroachments of twentieth-century life. No pubs. No buses. Barely even a fish and chip shop. In this strange, walled-off community, Patrick – with his quiet, good manners and passion for golf – was the perfect fit.
    He was waiting for her in the little reception area. Unlike most men she knew, he seemed completely at ease with emotional situations. Now, he stepped forward and put his arms around her, hugging her tightly. She could smell the pipe tobacco he smoked in the folds of his battered tweed jacket. Nice man, she thought. Nice, nice man.
    They went upstairs to his office. Bright sunshine patterned the carpet. He paused by the drinks cabinet in the corner, waving away her apologies for being late. He offered her a sherry but she settled for tea.
    ‘Alice sends her best,’ he said. ‘She’s there if you need her. You only have to ring.’
    Molly nodded. Patrick’s wife, Alice, had no children of her own and she’d always taken a lively interest in James. For the first time, it occurred to Molly that the loss to her would be profound.
    Patrick talked for several minutes, gentle reminiscences about James, the various scrapes he’d got himself into, his unerring nose for trouble. He used the past tense without any trace of embarrassment or awkwardness and Molly found herself smiling at some of the more outrageous stories, oddly comforted. James had been real. Real blood. Real tears. Real laughter. When the temptation was to sentimentalise, to make the boy out to be some kind of saint, she needed to hang on to that.
    After a while, a tray of tea arrived. Molly was nibbling abiscuit, her first food of the day, when Patrick asked about Giles.
    ‘How’s he taking it?’
    ‘Badly, he’s …’ Molly tried to find the right word, ‘in shock, I suppose. It’s hard to recognise him just now. He doesn’t seem to want me around. Or anyone else for that matter … It’s …’ She shook her head, still nursing the biscuit. Giles hadn’t come to bed until two in the morning and even then she knew he hadn’t slept. She’d gone running at seven as usual, determined to hang on to this one precious hour of her day, but by the time she got back he’d gone. No note. No explanation. Just another empty tumbler on the draining board, smelling faintly of Scotch.
    Patrick sipped his tea.
    ‘He phoned first thing,’ he said. ‘About half-seven.’
    ‘Giles?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘What a coincidence.’ She frowned, trying to remember whether she’d told him about her plans to drive over to Frinton. ‘Did he know I was coming?’
    ‘No, but he asked me to talk to you anyway. So …’ he smiled, ‘it’s all worked out rather well.’
    ‘What about? What did he want you to say?’
    Patrick got up and closed the door. When he sat down again the smile had gone.
    ‘You’ll know he’s in trouble. I gather he told you.’
    ‘He told me we’re broke. Is that what you mean?’
    ‘Yes.’
    Patrick reached for the teapot, offering a refill, but Molly shook her head. It was a shock to realise that this man probably knew more about their financial affairs than she did. She felt herself colouring slightly, more irritation than embarrassment.
    ‘Patrick …’ she began, ‘it’s been a difficult twenty-four hours. What exactly do you want to tell me?’
    ‘That rather depends.’
    ‘On what?’
    ‘On you.’ He paused, dropping two sugar lumps into his tea. ‘How much do you want to know?’
    ‘About the money? What’s gone wrong?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Everything.’
    Patrick nodded. Then he sat back behind his desk, the cup and saucer balanced in his lap. Giles, as she doubtless knew, was an active underwriter at Lloyd’s. He wrote business on