The Prime Minister's Secret Agent(42)
Chapter Ten
Later, when Estelle Crawford’s autopsy was over, Maggie and Mark put aside their mutual distrust and went out for a much-needed drink. Mark chose the place, a tiny bar with dark wood paneling and chandeliers with fringed lamp shades. They secured a table by the crackling fireplace.
At the next table over, businessmen in double-breasted suits talked in low tones with a definite Scottish burr about where to hide their money—trust funds for their children and grandchildren—watched over by the glassy eyes of mounted red and roe deer with enormous antlers.
“You could have done worse, Miss Hope,” Mark said as he sat down across from Maggie, having secured their pink gins.
Maggie had no illusions about her professionalism. “Mr. Standish, I threw up three times.”
“At least you had the good sense to vomit over the drain.”
“I do my best.”
“I have a confession,” Mark said.
“Yes?”
“At my first autopsy I didn’t even make it to the sink.”
“Ah.” Maggie smiled crookedly. “Thank you for telling me that.” She raised her glass. “To Estelle Crawford.”
“To Estelle,” Mark echoed as their glasses clinked.
They drank in silence. Maggie was grateful for the fire’s heat after the long, chill hours in the autopsy room. A chocolate-brown Labrador snoozed in front of the flames while his owner, an older man with a pipe, read the newspaper. A large white-faced grandfather clock ticked in the shadows.
One of the men at the bar stood, leaning heavily on crutches. “Excuse me,” he said, making his way to the loo. Maggie could see that not only was he in uniform, he was missing a leg and hadn’t yet been fitted for a prosthesis. Realizing all eyes were on him, the man grinned and good-naturedly called out, “Graceful—like a gazelle, I am. Like a ruddy mountain goat!” That caused a few chuckles and raised glasses in the soldier’s direction.
“I brought the pathology report.” Mark took some papers out of his pocket and handed them over to Maggie.
She scanned the documents. They confirmed what they had witnessed. “Heart failure due to chronic emphysema, along with nonrelated psoriasis, which surely clears both Sarah and Mildred Petrie of murder charges. So where does that leave us?”
“It still doesn’t explain why the Ministry of Agriculture and Fisheries ordered the body to be cremated immediately, without an autopsy,” Mark mused, chewing on the end of a pen. “How did they know? What could be their agenda?”
“You’ve been at MI-Five for—how long now?”
“Almost eight years.”
“So you’re well aware of how much red tape most British offices produce. Might be one of those situations where departments overlap?”
“Maybe …” He shook his head. “Sorry I was rough on you earlier.”
Maggie was determined to take it like a man; she knew too well that hazing was part of the job. Only the toughest survived. “It’s all right.”
“No, it’s not. I let it get personal. But you must understand that Hugh’s one of my best friends, and—”
“I understand. And I’m sorry it ended the way it did, too. But I was … confused, and it didn’t seem fair to Hugh to string him along while I tried to figure things out. I thought, given everything that happened, a clean break was best. Fairer to him.”
Mark gave a grim smile. “And now you’re reunited with your RAF pilot?”
“No,” Maggie said, her face stone. “It didn’t work out.”
They sipped in silence.
“Rotten luck,” Mark said finally. “Does Hugh know?”
“No. After my last mission … Well, let’s just say I’m not exactly in a position to be stepping out with anyone, let alone someone as wonderful as Hugh. Quite frankly, he’s better off without me.”
Maggie changed the subject. “You’re married, yes?” She knew the answer, having seen photographs of Mark’s wife and child on his desk when she worked with Hugh at MI-5.
He smiled. “Sixth anniversary next month and second baby on the way.”
“Congratulations!” A baby. How brave, in the midst of all this chaos and destruction. “If you don’t mind my asking,” she ventured, sensing a change in his mood. “What did happen with Hugh on his last job? Why was he fired?”
“You truly don’t know, do you?”
Maggie shook her head.
“I can’t give you specific details, of course—”
“Of course.”
Mark lowered his voice. “Instead of sending visual confirmation that a certain mission succeeded, as he’d been ordered, he sent a photograph. A different sort of photograph.” He took a swallow of gin. “Of his—” Mark had the grace to redden. “—er, naked buttocks.”