5: Sunday: A Day of Rest
CALLAGHAN went down to his office at one-thirty.
Effie Thompson, in a fur coat, a smart hat over one eye, and with a preoccupied expression, was sitting at his desk reading newspapers.
'What are you doin' here?' he asked. 'I didn't phone you.'
'I saw the papers this morning,' she replied. 'I thought there might be something to do.'
Callaghan slumped down into the big chair by the side of the fireplace. He was wearing a grey pinhead lounge suit, a blue silk shirt and collar, a navy blue silk tie. Effie looked at him sideways, hungrily.
He sat looking into the fire, drawing on a cigarette. At last he said:
'What do they say?'
'There's not much,' she answered, 'but apparently last night, in response to an anonymous telephone call from a call-box somewhere near
