The Prime Minister's Secret Agent(36)

“That Sarah Sanderson?” he said, unwinding his scarf and scratching his neck. “She’s the same Sarah Sanderson who’s being held here?”

What wizard powers of deduction you have. No wonder you’re still an entry-level flunky. “Yes, she’s being held as a suspect in Estelle Crawford’s alleged murder. Although, as of last night, she hasn’t been charged.” Maggie cocked her head and narrowed her eyes. “But why is MI-Five involved? Since when does the death of a ballerina become a matter of British national security?” And how is one of my best friends involved?

“I’m afraid I can’t tell you that, Miss Hope.” His smile was patronizing. “For obvious reasons.”

Maggie inhaled sharply. This case was personal. And she didn’t like to be condescended to by anyone, let alone a former MI-5 colleague.

Peter Frain from MI-5 owes me one—and I think it’s time to collect. “I’m going to make a telephone call, Mr. Standish,” she said with the same Aunt Edith look and tone she used on her Arisaig trainees, “and then we’ll have a little chat.”

For the moment, the Black Dog was held at bay.


“I’m not happy about this.” Mark shook his head as they made their way down slippery snow-covered streets to the morgue. “Not happy at all.”

Maggie, however, was flush from her victory, and not about to let him spoil her rare good mood. “You’re British, Mark. It’s always difficult to tell when you’re experiencing any emotion at all—let alone which one it may be.”

Maggie had convinced Frain that Sarah deserved to be released on bail. And so Maggie knew Sarah was back at the Caledonian, having a bath and scrubbing off the stink of the jail cell. Maggie was also pleased because she’d persuaded Frain that she should partner with Mark Standish on the investigation into the murder of Estelle Crawford.

And working on the investigation was keeping the Black Dog at bay.

“Regardless of anything personal,” she’d said into the green Bakelite receiver, “whether this is a straightforward murder or a national threat, whoever’s responsible must be stopped.”

Then, “You owe me, Peter. First, you owe Sarah, for her selfless act of patriotism that nearly killed her. But you also owe me. Since Berlin, I’m a ghost of a human being. But seeing Sarah through this and clearing her name gives me a purpose. And when I’m thinking about clearing her name and finding the real killer, I’m not thinking about filling my pockets with rocks and walking into a Scottish loch. You owe Sarah this. You owe me this.”

He’d been convinced.

Maggie looked over at Mark. “I realize you’re not pleased,” she said, trying not to look as delighted as she felt. “But we’re professionals. I’m sure we can work together on this case well and solve it quickly.”

“Not everyone thinks you’re professional, you know.” Mark stopped suddenly and grabbed her arm, causing her to stop, too. Overhead, seagulls shrieked. “Not everyone likes you, Maggie Hope.”

If you set out to be liked, you’ll achieve nothing. “I do understand that, Mr. Standish,” she replied, shaking off his grip. “Winning Miss Congeniality is not, and has never been, my goal.”

“I,” he added with emphasis, kicking at an empty packet of cigarettes that littered the pavement, “do not like you.”

Maggie had never worked closely with Mark Standish; in fact, she’d rarely interacted with him. But they’d crossed paths on two MI-5 cases and Maggie had, for a time, stepped out with his partner, Hugh Thompson, the “tall, fair, and damaged” man of Maggie’s past.

“Because of Hugh?”

Red splotches dotted his pale face. “No, not because of Hugh, although that would be enough in itself. I never understood what he saw in you, quite frankly. No, I don’t like you because you didn’t pay your dues. You didn’t come up through the ranks. And because of that, you’re willful. You refuse to follow the rules. And you’re stubborn to the point of endangering yourself and others.” He walked forward, leaving her behind.

Maggie was shocked. She’d never seen herself in this light. “What?” she asked, racing to keep up.

“Take the bombing at St. Paul’s—you should have come to MI-Five directly when you suspected a threat—”

Maggie had caught up with him, sidestepping being splashed by a bus. She raised one gloved finger. “First of all, when I saw the code in the newspaper advertisement, no one at the Prime Minister’s office took me seriously. Do you really think I could have just marched into MI-Five?” She shook her head. “You never would have given any of my theories credence.”