Thunder in the Blood by Graham Hurley Page A

pick up the conversation, preferring silence to any more of his questions. The silence went on and on. Finally, he looked up and sat back in his chair. The next bit was unbelievable.
    ‘You slept with him,’ he said simply, ‘so either you fancied him, or you wanted something in exchange. I can’t imagine it was money, so…’ he shrugged, ‘what was it?’
    I stared at him. Gusts of anger came and went. Stollmann, as it happened, was right about Priddy. I had slept with him, though the experience wasn’t something I ever planned to repeat. In my defence, I was extremely drunk, though not drunk enough to forget the ghastlier parts.
    ‘How do you know?’ I said. ‘As a matter of interest?’
    Stollmann’s eyes were back on the pad. The pad, for once, was bare.
    ‘Maybe he told us.’
    ‘I doubt it.’
    ‘Maybe he told somebody else.’
    ‘Possibly.’
    ‘Does it matter?’
    ‘Yes, of course it does.’
    I thought for a moment about the other explanation, unvoiced by either of us. MI5 were routinely wiring targets all over the country. Anyone could ask for a phone tap, or something we referred to as a ‘device emplacement’, and there was a whole section of the service that was devoted to nothing else. They had bugs that could activate telephones, turning domestic receivers into listening microphones. Priddy had a phone by the bed. I’d seen it there next morning. I shuddered to think what kind of cassette Stollmann might have been sent, had they looped Priddy’s phone and listened in. The man had been extremely vocal, and the sound effects would have left little to Stollmann’s imagination. No wonder he was looking pensive.
    ‘Tell me,’ he said, ‘what did he want to know?’
    ‘You mean out of bed? When we weren’t being taped?’ Stollmann didn’t answer, just nodded. ‘Nothing. I told you. It was purely social.’
    ‘So what did
you
want to know?’
    ‘I…’ I hesitated, only too aware that the interview wasn’tabout Priddy’s sex life at all, or mine, but something far closer to home. Lately, before Christmas, the top floor had been running checks on computer usage. I knew that because a colleague in the office had told me so. He’d been interested in county court judgements against his landlord, and they’d caught him poking around in DHSS files. Doubtless the checks extended to my computer terminal, too. Which explained a great deal about Stollmann’s interest in Priddy.
    ‘He gave me access codes,’ I said simply, ‘DTI codes.’
    ‘Why?’
    ‘Because I asked for them.’
    ‘Why?’
    ‘Because …’ I shrugged, ‘I needed a little information.’
    ‘For Alloway?’
    ‘About Alloway. I’m a curious girl. I want to know things, find out things. I thought it was part of my job.’
    Stollmann nodded, his eyes still on the pad. Then he looked up. ‘And Priddy? What did he want in return?’
    ‘Me.’
    ‘What else?’
    ‘Some stuff about Customs.’
    ‘What stuff?’
    ‘Whether or not they’re investigating certain firms. About export orders. To Iraq.’
    ‘And did you get it for him?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Why not?’
    ‘Because I couldn’t get into their system.’
    ‘Did you try?’
    ‘Of course I did.’ I looked at him. ‘As you probably know.’
    Stollmann nodded and permitted himself a small, private smile, and I wondered again about the circumstances surrounding his transfer to MI5. He’d worked for Customs. He’d come to us. Had he preserved the old friendships? Were the channels in good working order? Could he still lift the phone and plug straight in? Or had he folded his tent and stolen away, leaving nothing behind but enemies?
    Stollmann got up and went to the window. In all our exchanges, something had been bothering me, something I’d never quitemanaged to define, but suddenly I knew what it was. Despite the frustrations of talking to the man – his brusqueness, the way he rationed out information in tiny little parcels, his sheer lack of response