And, having more-or-less satisfied himself about the near side, he walked slightly sideways with a curious crab-like bias, so that he could also take in the back as well, to make sure that it—Que culo d’angelo!—was also undamaged. ‘Huh!’ And even now Mitchell wasn’t altogether happy: he wanted to take in the other side and the front as well. ‘Well, you’ve led us a pretty dance, David! To this godforsaken place!’ But then he remembered his duty and his manners. ‘Major Richardson, I presume?’ ‘Mr Mitchell?’ Richardson was superficially much more relaxed. And, even though Mitchell wasn’t even a name to him, his unfailing memory of what Audley had said the night before pinpointed the identification beyond doubt. ‘It is a pleasant car to drive. But you should try a Ferrari. Or a Lamborghini, Mr Mitchell.’ ‘Oh yes?’ Mitchell had decided to dislike Richardson on first sight even more than in absentia. ‘It’s “Dr Mitchell” actually, since we’re into meaningless titles, Major.’ ‘Oh yes?’ The wet wind ruffled Richardson’s hair as he looked away, pretending to study the glorious wreck of Tintern Abbey across the road.
