‘No. I plan to grit them.’
And whether it was because he had thumbed his nose at the devil or whether it was that Bill Kenrick stood beside him all the way, Grant made that journey in peace. Tad Cullen slumped into the seat beside him and fell instantly asleep. Grant closed his eyes and let the patterns form in his mind and dissolve and fade and form anew.
Why had Bill Kenrick blacked himself all over?
Whom was he trying to fool?
Why had it been necessary to fool anyone?
As they were circling to land Tad woke up and without looking out of the window began to pull up his tie and smooth his hair. Apparently some sixth sense in a flyer’s brain kept tally of speed, distance and angle, even when he was unconscious.
‘Well,’ said Tad. ‘Back to the lights of London and the old Westmorland.’
‘You don’t have to go back to your hotel,’ Grant said. ‘I can give you a bed.’
‘That’s very kind of you, Mr Grant, and I appreciate it. But I don’t have to put your wife—or—or whoever it is—’
‘My housekeeper.’