The Perfect Soldier by Graham Hurley Page B

how they worked, and whenever James hadmentioned them he’d never gone into detail. It seemed they were just there, semi-permanent, part of the landscape, as inescapable as the weather or the passage of the seasons. It was obvious now that James should have listened to the man in Muengo, but it was typical that he hadn’t. James, like his father, always knew best.
    Molly looked up, hearing the wind tugging at a loose tile on the garage roof, wondering how on earth she was going to get to Angola. Reading his letters again had given her glimpses of his life out there, scenes from a film she’d only half-seen. What she needed now was the rest of the story, the whole plot. To understand exactly what had happened – the friendships he’d formed, the work he’d done – would be to share with him those last few weeks of his life. As a mother, it was surely the least she owed herself.
    Her eye returned to the last of the letters. James had been writing about a girl he’d met, a French nurse called Christianne. As ever, he’d included a photo. The girl had a soft, oval face dusted with freckles and framed by a mass of auburn curls. Her head was tilted slightly to one side and her smile reminded Molly of moments from her own youth. It spoke of the excitement of a new relationship, of possibilities yet unexplored. It was very James to have found someone so striking and from his letter he sounded more than keen. Christianne, it seemed, spoke perfect English. She worked for an organisation called Médecins Sans Frontières. There were several other girls with her, and where they lived they had crates and crates of incredibly classy white wine. The girls were evidently planning a party. They’d asked James to fix up the music. At the end of the letter, he was musing aloud about getting Christianne to England one day. Then, typically, something else had occurred to him. ‘Help,’ he’d written, ‘post goes in the morning and I haven’t sorted outthe blokes’ rice rations. Eduardo’ll go bananas. Got to rush.
Boa noite
.’
    Molly folded the letter and reached for the switch on the electric fire. Only last week, she’d gone to a bookshop and looked up the phrase. It was Portuguese. It meant ‘good night’.
    Robbie Cunningham was still in bed unwrapping his birthday presents when the phone rang. Liz fetched the mobile from the kitchen. The alarm clock on the bedside table read 07.54.
    ‘Hello?’
    ‘Westerby here. Do you have a pen?’
    Robbie wedged the mobile to his ear, reaching down for his satchel, wondering why on earth the Director should be phoning so early. At the Terra Sancta headquarters in Winchester, he still kept university hours, turning up at his desk around ten. Now he sounded brisk, even excited.
    ‘Colchester,’ he was saying, ‘you know the town at all?’
    ‘Yes. We went that way on Sunday.
En route
to the Jordans’ place.’
    ‘Good. There’s a hotel in the High Street. The Blue Boar. Got that?’
    Robbie grunted an affirmative, scribbling down the name. The Director was talking about Llewelyn. Apparently he’d be waiting in the lounge bar at half-past twelve. Robbie was to meet him there.
    ‘Why?’
    ‘I want you to do the introductions.’
    ‘Who with?’
    ‘Mrs Jordan. I phoned her five minutes ago. I said you’d pick her up and take her to lunch. She’ll be ready by twelve. Apparently it’s only half an hour from her place.’
    Robbie frowned. Llewelyn had been on to him twice in the last twenty-four hours, trying to get him to arrange a meet with James Jordan’s mother, but both times Robbie had said he was too busy. Now, it seemed he had no choice.
    ‘But why?’ he said again. ‘Why the meeting?’
    ‘We’re taking her to Angola.’
    ‘Who’s taking her?’
    ‘You are. With Todd Llewelyn.’
    ‘But I thought we agreed that—’
    Robbie broke off, unable to interrupt the Director’s flow. Llewelyn, he said, had been talking to some of his media contacts. The new