Never Tell. Claire Seeber

that you? All right, sir?’ J winked at me again. ‘Listen, my head’s buzzing. I’ve had a fucking blinder of a plan. Think Joan Collins on a swing in The Stud, and forget all your troubles.’

      McCready pursed colourless lips and released Fred from her grasp.

      ‘So, sir, get your arse …’ With a flurry of paper falling to the floor and a door slamming in his wake, J was gone. Troubles, I thought. The first I’d heard.

      ‘I’ll fetch him his coffee,’ McCready said, as I’d known she would. For all her disapproval, she adored James. As she left the room, Fred in her wake, the phone started to ring.

      ‘Thank you,’ I called after her, adding milk to my tea and looking for the handset. Before I found it, the answer-phone kicked in.

      ‘Pick up, Rosie, darling.’ My heart jolted at the familiar drawl. ‘We both know you’re there.’

      I finally spotted the receiver, tangled in a pair of small carrot-stained dungarees in the washing basket.

      A deep sigh into the machine. ‘There’s only so long you can avoid me. I need you. And,’ the voice dropped into a caress, ‘you know you need me, darling.’

      My hand hovered indecisively above the phone as I watched an image on the small TV in the corner – an image that I couldn’t quite compute. The breakfast news: a man I hadn’t seen for years, since university. He stepped down from a private jet, smiling for the cameras. Those pale glacial eyes. Escorted to Number 10, shaking hands with the Prime Minister. Easy to see he’d once been the most powerful man in Britain.

      I forgot all about the phone and turned up the volume quickly, but it was too late to catch the full story.

      A man I’d hoped desperately I’d never see again. Dalziel’s father.

      I dropped Alicia at school, Effie and Fred at nursery and then wandered absently round the supermarket. Amidst jars of apple purée and mountains of bright and shiny baby stuff, my mobile rang for the third time. Finally, I relented.

      ‘What?’ I muttered.

      ‘Charming.’

      ‘I’m really very busy, you know.’

      ‘Very busy doing what? Comparing nappy brands?’

      I looked at a stack of shiny green Pampers.

      ‘No.’ I turned my back on the nappies. ‘I’m just going into a very important meeting, actually.’

      Joyfully the Tannoy announced a large spillage in Aisle 4.

      ‘Really?’ Xavier sniggered. ‘About what? Which tea-shop to hold the local mothers’ meeting in?’

      I smiled despite myself.

      ‘No, Xavier. About …’ I caught sight of Helen Kelsey studying nail polish in the beauty section. She really did look like a fox. Sleek, but a fox none the less. ‘About – about the local fox hunt.’ I slunk back round the corner of the Pampers before she spotted me.

      ‘I thought chasing foxes had been banned?’ Xavier drawled. ‘Don’t tell me you’re riding with those hounds.’

      ‘It’s still a point of serious debate in the countryside, actually.’ I tried to sound convinced. ‘There’s a lot of tension still between hunt and saboteurs.’

      Xavier yawned loudly. ‘Oh, don’t be so dreary, dearie. Come back to me. You’re the best newshound I know,’ he persisted. ‘It’s such a waste.’

      ‘Flattery will get you everywhere,’ I sighed. ‘But I can’t. The children, Xav. I’m not doing that whole nanny thing. And the team really need me here. I can’t just up and—’

      ‘Oh, please,’ Xavier yawned again. ‘It’s hardly the Wall Street bloody Journal.’

      ‘Stop yawning.’ I chucked some baby-wipes in the trolley. ‘It’s so rude. The Burford Chronicle is a quality paper, I’ll have you know.’

      There was a long pause. We both dissolved into giggles.

      ‘You silly cow,’ he said fondly. ‘Stop popping babies out and writing about giant marrows—’

      ‘Er, I’m not sure I like that analogy, thanks, Xav.’

      ‘- and cover this al-Qaeda story for me.’

      I stopped laughing.

      ‘What story?’

      ‘New neighbour of yours.’

      ‘Really? Who?’

      ‘Hadi Kattan.’

      ‘The art dealer?’ Hadi Kattan was a regular face in the international media, from the Financial Times and the Wall Street Journal to Hello! magazine; patriarch of a beautiful glamorous family; contemporary of Al-Fayed, but shadowy and enigmatic where his peer preferred the spotlight.

      ‘That’s the one. Moved into a mansion in your neck of the woods.’

      ‘Kattan is al-Qaeda? Pull the other one. It’s Middle England, Xav, not Helmand Province.’

      ‘So cynical. He was VEVAK for a while too apparently.’

      ‘VEVAK as in Iranian Secret Service? They’re nothing to do with al-Qaeda, surely?’

      ‘Whatever. He’s purportedly been involved with a smaller organisation, a branch of the tree. Al-Muhen, I think. Some Saudi Arabian mullah runs it from a madrasah somewhere outside Peshawar.’

      ‘Everyone north of the equator’s apparently got a link these days. Who’s your source?’

      ‘Guy in the Yard’s anti-terrorism unit.’

      ‘So well-connected, dear Xav.’

      ‘Let’s just say we share a sauna, darling.’

      ‘Oh, I see.’ I debated some sugar-free gingerbread men. ‘That kind of source. And he’s straight up, is he?’

      ‘Well, I wouldn’t say straight, necessarily.’

      ‘Hilarious! You know what I mean.’

      ‘Check it out and see.’

      ‘I can’t.’ Resolute, I picked up some over-priced organic crisps. The kids would prefer a lurid Wotsit any day. ‘I’ve retired. For now.’

      ‘It’s time to come out of retirement. Christ, Rose, most people would be biting my hand off.’

      ‘I appreciate it. I’m tempted. But it’s not fair on the kids. You know that.’

      ‘Rose, you had some babies, you didn’t become Mother fucking Teresa.’

      ‘She only had spiritual babies, I think you’ll find.’ I wheeled myself round to the Wotsits. ‘Look, I’ll consider it, OK?’

      ‘Which means you won’t,’ he sighed.

      ‘I will. I’m flattered, Xav. Thank you.’ For a moment I caught a glimpse of the old me. It was strangely reassuring that someone else occasionally did too.

      ‘It’s a bloody waste, you rotting out there in the cow-shit. You were the best, Rose.’

      ‘Thank you. Actually, talking about retirement,’ I said carefully, ‘I’m sure I just saw Lord Higham on the news.’

      ‘So?’

      ‘I thought he’d gone somewhere like Venezuela.’

      ‘He may well have done, darling. I’m not his travel agent.’ Xavier was snappy. ‘Word is he’s back on the political warpath. Officially he’s come in some advisor role to the PM.’

      My stomach clenched uncomfortably.

      ‘Why