The Art of Betrayal

the cities into the countryside. The urban dealers recruit vulnerable teens, those excluded from school or in care, some as young as ten or eleven. They give them free drugs, get them addicted, and then force them to sell to their peers through a practice called debt bondage. Almost impossible to track because they communicate with disposable mobiles and apps.”
I watched the fresh-faced children lining up for candy floss. “And this is happening here?”
“All over Britain. No village too small. The dealers call it ‘going country,’ but there’s nothing bucolic about it. Last year the National Crime Agency estimated the annual profits from county lines in the range of five hundred million pounds.” He took a long breath and let it out. “Look, are you hungry? I’m starving. Let’s have a bite to eat and talk about something more pleasant.”
“Fine with me. What’ll it be? Shrimp rolls at the Chinese takeaway or flatbread at The Three Magpies?”
We decided on The Three Magpies. The tent was crowded with patrons waiting to order. Since we were having a late supper after the fair, we ordered a small Thai chicken flatbread to share with two glasses of Riesling. With all the high-top tables inside the tent taken, we carried our food outdoors and sat on one of the slated benches lining the green.
The sun lay low on the horizon, a shimmering coral ball floating in a lapis and amethyst sea. A mild breeze ruffled the plane trees near the church and brought the scent of lilacs.
“How’s Ivor?” Tom asked.
“Much better. Driving the staff mad.”
He laughed. “And the shop?”
“Quiet.” I took a sip of my wine and balanced the glass on the wide wooden arm of the bench. “Ivor said the walk-in trade won’t pick up until the end of May, when tourist season kicks in. But even then, tourists are mainly browsers. My main work is to follow the online sales. When something sells, I pack it up for shipment and make sure the paperwork’s right. A percentage of what Ivor sells is shipped abroad. That means bills of lading, cargo manifests, export declarations—stuff like that.”
“Sounds complicated.” Tom took a bite of the flatbread.
“It’s not life or death, which is what you’re dealing with.”
Taking my first bite, I almost moaned with pleasure. The chicken was warm and tender, perfectly complimented by a hint of peanut sauce, cilantro, and a bit of heat. Fabulous.
“Sometimes we get lucky,” Tom said. “Last week we intercepted a shipment of synthetic carfentanil from China—enough to kill tens of thousands, Kate.”
“I’m glad you’re on the job.”
“And I’m glad you’re here.” He pulled me close. “What do you hear from Christine?”
My daughter, Christine, was studying history at Magdalen College, Oxford. She and Tom had met the previous Christmas at Finchley Hall.
“She has a new boyfriend—Italian.”
“Decent chap?”
“Christine thinks he’s wonderful. But then she always does.”
“Maybe this time she’s right.” He said it lightly, but we both understood the subtext. Christine’s taste in men tended toward the flashy and unreliable. Her last boyfriend, a real charmer, had involved her in covering up a serious crime. “And your mother?” He was changing the subject. I was grateful.
“Mother has a boyfriend too—if you can call it that at her age. Dr. James Lund, a retired physician. He lives at Oak Hills Senior Community, just a few units down from Mom. They’ve been spending a lot of time together recently.”
“Serious?”
I turned to look at him. “You mean will they get married?”
“People do.”
“I know they do.” I made a face. “I just find it hard to imagine being the matron of honor at my own mother’s wedding.”
“Where you’re concerned, Kate”—he gave me that heart-melting half smile that always turns me into a teenager—“I can imagine all sorts of things.”
My stomach swooped. Since my brain didn’t seem to be working, I just smiled and took another sip of wine.
“Want the last piece of flatbread?” he asked.
“You take it.”
He polished it off in a single bite and wiped his fingers on the paper napkin. “What about Eric—still in Italy?”
“For now. He’ll complete his research at the nuclear waste facility by the end of the month. I’d hoped he might stop through England on his way to Ohio, but he doesn’t have time.”
“I want to meet all your family—especially your mother. I know how important she is in your life.”
“She’s the wisest person I know.”
We watched a couple pushing a pram across the green. Their toddler, a little boy, clutched a dripping ice cream bar with both chubby fists. They smiled knowingly at each other. Their main purpose at the moment was keeping him safe, happy, and relatively clean. In time they would realize their hardest job would be preparing him to leave home and begin his own life.
My mother had done that for me. Now I had a chance to repay that gift by letting her follow her heart. Easier said than done. I was used to having her all to myself.
Tom had never said much about his relationship with his mother. I flushed, remembering again the day I’d lost my temper and stalked out of the tearoom, leaving Liz Mallory in possession of the field. A Pyrrhic victory if there ever was one.
“What is it, Kate?” Tom was getting way too good at reading my thoughts.
“I was thinking about mothers—well, your mother, specifically. I’m not proud of our last meeting.”
“Let it go. It was her fault.”
“I’ll have to face her.”
“And you will, but not tonight. Come on. Let’s have some fun.”
“May I ask you something first? What do you know about the death of Wallace Villiers?”
“Villiers?” Tom frowned. “The name’s familiar.”
“He died eighteen years ago in Little Gosling.”
“That’s right—Villiers. I remember now. I’d just entered the force. Sarah was pregnant with Olivia at the time—about to deliver, if I remember.”
Tom’s wife, Sarah, had died of cancer four years earlier. Their only child, a daughter, was currently finishing up her gap year in East Africa, at an orphanage for babies with AIDS.
“I knew about the Villiers case, but