Crocodile Tears

that was the maximum amount of time she spent preparing a meal. Tonight she had served a homemade fish pie, although Alex suspected she had cheated on the time.
    He was feeling guilty. He hadn’t told her yet about the fight at the cemetery, partly because he was waiting for the right moment, partly because he knew what she would say. There was no way that he could keep something like that from her, but he wasn’t keen on ruining the evening.

    He heard voices out in the hall—a man speaking, polite but insistent. Jack arguing. There was a pause, then Jack returned on her own. Alex could see at once that she was concerned.
    “ There’s someone here who wants to see you,” she said.
    “ Who is it?”
    “ He says his name is Harry Bulman.”
    Alex shook his head. “I’ve never heard of him.”
    “ Then let me introduce myself …”
    A man had appeared at the kitchen door behind Jack, strolling into the room, looking around him at the same time. He was in his thirties, with long, blond hair falling in a tangle, broad shoulders, and a thick neck. He was handsome—but not quite as handsome as he thought. There was an arrogance about him that presented itself in every move he made, even the way he had followed Jack in. He was dressed nicely in gray slacks, a black blazer, and a white shirt open at the collar. He had a gold chain around his neck and a gold signet ring with the letters HB on his third finger. To Alex, it was as if he had stepped out of an advertisement for clothes … or perhaps for toothpaste. This was a man who enjoyed being himself and wanted to sell himself to the world.
    Jack spun around. “I don’t remember inviting you in.”.
    “ Please. Don’t ask me to wait outside. If you want the truth, I’ve been waiting for this moment for quite a long time.” He looked past Jack. “It’s a great pleasure to meet you, Alex.”
    Alex slid his food aside. “Who are you?” he demanded.

    “ Do you mind if I sit down?”
    “ You don’t need to sit down,” Jack growled. “You’re not staying long.”
    “ You might change your mind when you hear what I’ve got to say.” The man sat down anyway. He was at the head of the table, opposite Alex. “My name is Harry Bulman,” he said. “I’m sorry I’ve come by so late, but I know you’re at school, Alex—at Brookland—and I wanted to catch you while you were both in.”
    “ What do you want?” Alex asked.
    “ Well, right now, I could murder a beer if there’s one going.” Nobody moved. “Okay. I’ll get to the point. I’ve come here to speak to you, Alex. As a matter of fact, although you won’t believe it, I want to help you. I hope the two of us are going to be seeing quite a bit of each other. I think we’re going to become friends.”
    “ I don’t need any help,” Alex said.
    Bulman smiled. His teeth were as white as his shirt. “You haven’t heard what I’ve got to say.”
    “ Then why don’t you get on with it?” Jack cut in. “Because we were having supper and we didn’t want to be disturbed.”
    “ Smells good.” Bulman drew a business card out of his wallet and slid it across the table. Jack came over and sat next to Alex. They both read it. There was the name—Harry Bulman—and beneath it his job description: Freelance Journalist. There was also an address in north London and a telephone number.
    “ You work for the press,” Jack said.

    “ The Mirror, the Express, the Star …” Bulman nodded. “If you ask around, you’ll find I’m fairly well known.”
    “ What are you doing here?” Alex asked. “You said you could help me. I don’t need a journalist.”
    “ As a matter of fact, you do.” Bulman took out a packet of chewing gum. “Do you mind?” he asked.
    “I’ve given up smoking and I find this helps.” He unwrapped a piece and curled it into his mouth. He looked around again. “This is a nice place you’ve got here.”
    “ Please get on with it, Mr. Bulman.”
    Alex could hear that Jack was running out of patience. But the journalist had already outmaneuvered them twice. He had simply walked in here, and for the moment neither of them was asking him to leave.
    “ All right. Let’s cut to the chase.” Bulman rested his elbows on the table and leaned forward. “You might not know this, but many journalists have a specialist area. It might be food, sports, politics …
    whatever. My specialty is intelligence. I spent six years in the army—I was in the commandos—and I