‘OK, so this woman searches you, takes your phone and the ammunition clip from your Glock, and gets Dennis Cradle to pocket your car keys and deflate your tyres. You and she then have the conversation that you’ve described to me, in the course of which you notice that she’s wearing a bracelet that belonged to you.’
‘The bracelet was my mother’s, and this woman told me she stole it from my hotel room in Shanghai.’
‘And you never mentioned to her that you’d been to China.’
‘Obviously not.’
Richard nods. ‘So then she gives Cradle her spare crash-helmet, and drives him away on the motorcycle.’
‘That’s about the long and the short of it, yes.’
‘You then manage to wave down a car, borrow a phone, and ring Lance, who collects you in his car and drives you home. You get there at about 3 p.m., at which point you learn of the break-in at your house which took place at around 10.30 a.m.’
‘No. I already knew about that. My husband rang to tell me. That’s why I was driving home early from Dever with Dennis Cradle.’
‘Of course, yes. But there was no sign of anything having been disturbed, or taken from your home?’
‘No, nothing disturbed or taken. But this Van Diest bracelet, and the note, had been placed in my wardrobe.’
‘I suppose there’s no way of knowing where the bracelet was bought?’
‘I’ve checked with the company,’ Eve says. ‘There are sixty-eight Van Diest boutiques and concessions worldwide. It could have come from any one of them. It could have been bought over the phone or online. I suppose it’s a line of enquiry, but—’
‘And there’s absolutely no doubt in your mind that the woman who broke into your house, and the woman who stopped you on the A303 and abducted Cradle, were the same person?’
‘None. The whole thing with the bracelets is very much her style. She’d have calculated that if she was seen climbing out of my flat, and the police were rung, there was a good chance that a message would get to me within an hour or so. She’d guess that I’d drive Cradle straight back to London, and that would give her enough time to get up to the A303 to intercept us. It’d be tight, but it could be done, especially on a police motorcycle.’
‘OK, let’s assume that you’re right, and that this woman who signs herself V is the one we’ve been dealing with all along. The one who killed Kedrin, Simon Mortimer and the rest of them. Let’s further assume that she works for the organisation that Cradle talked about, the one he said was called the Twelve. We still haven’t answered either of the two key questions. One, how did she know that we were onto Cradle? And two, what has she done with him?’
‘In answer to the first question, I got the strong impression that Cradle had contacted the Twelve himself. He probably had some kind of emergency number, and believed that if he was compromised he’d be pulled out, like an agent in the field. In answer to the second question, she’s killed him. I’ve no doubt about that whatsoever. It’s what she does.’
‘Which means—’ Richard begins.
‘Yes. We’ve got a senior MI5 officer dead, a serious amount of explaining to do, and no lead of any kind. We’re back where we were post-Kedrin, and it’s entirely my fault.’
‘I don’t accept that.’
‘I do. I rode Cradle far too hard in that phone call to the van. I never thought he’d let his people know we were onto him. What did he think they were going to do? Did he really believe he’d live happily ever after?’
‘I listened to your conversation with Cradle. We all did. And you handled him fine. The truth is, he was in serious trouble with those people from the moment we identified him, however we played it.’
Without warning, the overhead strip light cuts out, plunging them all into dimness. Lance takes a broom from the stationery cupboard behind the printer, then taps the handle sharply against the fluorescent tube, which flickers for a moment and then comes back on again. No one comments.
‘So what about MI5?’ Eve asks Richard.
‘I’ll handle them. Let them know about the south of France property and the boat and the rest of it. Say we’re not sure who was paying Cradle off, but that someone was, big-time. Explain that we questioned him, which they’ll find out sooner or later, and that he did a runner. That way, the whole thing becomes their problem. And when he turns up, which he will – dead or alive but probably dead, as you say – they’ll shut down the story in the usual way.’
‘So we carry on?’ asks Eve.
‘We carry on. I’ll get a forensics person I can trust onto that bracelet and the note. Also, I’m going to have people watching your flat round the clock until further notice, unless you and your husband would prefer to move into a safe house.’
‘Niko would literally go ballistic. Please not that.’
‘OK. For the time being not. What else have we got?’
‘I’m still on the Cradle money-trail,’ says Billy. ‘And that goes to some seriously weird places. I’m also in contact with GCHQ about the Twelve, and hoping that someone, somewhere, has let something slip. If Cradle knew that name, so do others.’
‘Lance?’
The rodent features sharpen. ‘I might go and sniff around the Hampshire Constabulary HQ in Eastleigh. Buy pints for a few coppers. Ask about borrowed bikes and uniforms.’
‘I just want to get something clear,’ Eve says, walking to the window and staring out at the traffic on Tottenham Court Road. ‘Is the purpose of this unit still to identify a professional assassin? Or are we now trying to acquire intelligence on what appears to be an international conspiracy? Because I’m beginning to sense mission-creep.’
‘First and foremost, I want our killer,’ says Richard. ‘Kedrin was killed on our turf and I need a scalp to give Moscow. Also, this woman killed Simon Mortimer, one of our own, and that I won’t have. But it’s becoming increasingly clear that if we want her, we’re going to have to acquire some understanding of the organisation she works for. And the more we see and hear of them, the more formidable a force they appear. But there’s got to be a way in. A tiny corner you can unpick. Like, for example, this woman’s interest in you.’
Lance grins horribly, and stares into space.
Eve looks at him wearily. ‘Please, whatever’s on your mind, don’t share it.’
‘You must admit, the situation’s got honey-trap written all over it.’
‘Lance, I’m sure you’re a great field agent, but you’re a seriously tragic human being.’
‘You know what they say, Eve. Old dogs. New tricks.’
‘Seriously, people,’ says Richard. ‘What’s she saying with this bracelet? What’s the message here?’
‘That she’s in control. That she can drop into my life any time she chooses. She’s saying I’ve got your measure, and compared to me you’re a loser. She’s saying I can give you all the things you want – the intimate, feminine, super-expensive things – but can’t have. It’s a woman-to-woman thing.’
‘Manipulative lady,’ murmurs Billy knowledgeably, hunching into his Megadeth hoodie.
‘That’s an understatement,’ says Eve. ‘But I’ve been watching her, too. She’s been getting more and more reckless, especially in her dealings with me. That motorcycle cop caper, for example. Somewhere along the line she’s going to go too far. And then we’ll have her.’
Lance nods at the carrier bag holding the bracelet. ‘Maybe we don’t really need to go out looking for her. Perhaps, if we just sit tight, she’ll come to us.’
Richard nods. ‘I don’t like it, but I’m afraid you’re right. That said, I think we need to acknowledge that we’ve turned a dangerous corner here. So full counter-surveillance measures, please. Remember your tradecraft. Eve and Billy, listen to Lance and be guided by him. If he tells you that a situation smells bad, you walk away.’
Eve glances at Lance. He looks sharp and alert, like a ferret about to be slipped into a rabbit-hole.
‘Meanwhile, Eve, I’ll hav
e a word with the CO at Dever. Ask him to set up a detail to watch your flat. You probably won’t see much of them, but they’ll be there if you need them. Can we get a photofit of this V woman?’
‘It’s difficult. I got a split-second glance at someone I thought was her in Shanghai, and today she had this Lycra mask on under her helmet so that I could only see her eyes. But I could try.’
‘Excellent. We’re going to watch, and we’re going to wait, and when she comes, we’re going to be ready.’
Chapter 3
The man sits, ankles crossed, in a carved oak armchair upholstered in emerald silk. He is wearing a charcoal suit, and his blood-red Charvet tie strikes a dramatic note in the muted surroundings of the hotel suite. Frowning thoughtfully, he removes his tortoiseshell spectacles, polishes them with a silk handkerchief, and replaces them.
Villanelle glances at him, swallows a mouthful of vintage Moët et Chandon, and turns her attention to the woman. Seated beside her husband, she has dark eyes and hair the colour of summer wheat. She is, at a guess, in her late thirties. Villanelle places her champagne flute on a side table, beside an arrangement of white roses, then takes the woman’s slender wrists and draws her to her feet. For a few moments they dance together, the only sound the murmur of the evening traffic in the Place de la Concorde.
Softly, Villanelle’s lips brush those of the other woman, and her husband shifts appreciatively in his chair. One by one, Villanelle undoes the half-dozen buttons of the woman’s pleated shift dress, which falls soundlessly to the floor. The woman’s hands move towards Villanelle’s face, but Villanelle gently forces them down: she wants total control here.
Soon the woman is naked, and stands there tremulous and expectant. Closing her eyes, Villanelle runs her hand over the woman’s hair, inhales her scent, explores the soft curves of her body. As her fingers move downwards she hears herself breathing a long-unspoken name, murmuring half-remembered endearments in Russian. The years and her surroundings fall away, and once again she is in the flat on Komsomolsky Prospekt, and Anna is there, smiling her sad smile.
‘Tell her she’s a dirty bitch,’ says the man. ‘Une vraie salope.’
Villanelle opens her eyes. Catches sight of herself in the overmantel mirror. The slicked-back hair, the raking cheekbones, the permafrost gaze. She frowns. This isn’t working for her. The woman whose legs she’s parting is a stranger, and her husband’s pleasure is repulsive. Abruptly, Villanelle disengages, and wipes her fingers on the roses, scattering the floor with petals. Then she walks out of the suite.
From the taxi, she watches as the illuminated shopfronts of the rue de Rivoli glide past. It’s as if she’s in a silent film, detached from her surroundings, disconnected from experience and sensation. She’s felt like this for a couple of weeks now, since coming back from England, and it worries her, although the worry itself is something vague, something she can’t quite bring into focus.
Perhaps it’s a delayed reaction to the killing of Konstantin. Villanelle is not given to self-pity, but when you’re ordered to kill your handler, who not only discovered and trained you but is also your friend, insofar as such things are possible, it’s disconcerting. She’s only human, after all. Now that Konstantin is gone, Villanelle misses him. His judgements could be brutal, he castigated her again and again for her recklessness, but at least he cared enough to make them. And he valued her. He appreciated just how rare a creature she was, with her unblinking savagery and her incapacity for guilt.
As an assassin for the Twelve, Villanelle has always accepted that she will never see the organisation’s grand plan, never be told more of the story than she needs to know. But she’s also aware, because Konstantin repeatedly told her so, that her role is vital. That she’s more than just a trained killer, she’s an instrument of destiny.
Anton, Konstantin’s replacement, has so far failed to give Villanelle the impression that he thinks of her as more than an employee. He dispatched the kill orders for Yevtukh and Cradle in the usual way, via innocuous-looking steganographically encrypted emails, but he didn’t thank her afterwards, as Konstantin always did, which Villanelle considers just plain rude. Not even the fun she’s having with Eve makes up for the fact that Anton is shaping up to be a thoroughly unsatisfactory handler.
The taxi draws up to the kerb in the Avenue Victor Hugo. Villanelle’s scooter is parked opposite the club where she met the couple. The club’s still open, and the lamps flanking the entrance still dimly glowing, but she doesn’t give the place a second glance. Rocking the scooter off its stand, she kick-starts the engine and glides unhurriedly into the traffic.
Villanelle doesn’t go straight back to her apartment, but heads for La Muette. For ten minutes she threads the narrow streets, her gaze flickering between her wing mirror and the vehicles ahead of her, all senses alert. She varies her speed, pretends to stall at a green traffic light, and at one point, deliberately drives in the wrong direction down the tiny, one-way Impasse de Labiche. Finally, satisfied that she is not being followed, she turns westwards to the Porte de Passy, and the building where she lives.
After parking the Vespa in the underground car park beside her silver-grey Audi, she takes the lift to the sixth floor, and climbs a short flight of stairs to the entrance of her rooftop apartment. She’s about to disarm the electronic locking system when she hears a faint, distressed mewing from the stairs behind her. It’s a kitten, one of several belonging to the building’s housekeeper, Marta, who lives on the fifth floor. Carefully scooping up the tiny creature, Villanelle strokes and calms it before ringing Marta’s bell.
The housekeeper is effusive in her thanks. She’s always liked the quiet young woman from the sixième étage. She’s clearly extremely busy, judging by how often she’s away, but she always finds a smile for Marta. She’s a caring person, unlike so many of her generation.
When all the niceties have been observed, and the other kittens and their mother admired and cooed over, Villanelle returns to the sixth floor. Locking the door of the apartment behind her, she is finally enfolded in silence. The apartment, with its walls of faded sea-green and French blue, is spacious and restful. The furniture is mid-twentieth century, worn but stylish, with several pieces by the designer Eileen Gray. There’s a scattering of minor post-Impressionist paintings which Villanelle has never examined, but whose presence she tolerates.
No one ever visits her here. Anne-Laure is under the impression that Villanelle lives in Versailles, and works as a currency trader. Her neighbours in the building know her as a courteous but distant figure, often absent. Her service charges and property taxes are paid from a corporate account in Geneva, and in the unlikely event that anyone were to investigate this, they would find themselves drawn into a web of front companies and cut-outs so complex as to be effectively impenetrable. But no one has ever done so.
In the kitchen Villanelle prepares a plate of yellowtail sashimi and buttered toast, then takes a bottle of Grey Goose vodka from the freezer and pours herself a double measure. Seating herself at a table in front of the long, east-facing plate-glass window, she gazes at the glittering city spread out below her, and thinks about the games she’d like to play with Eve. This is precisely the sort of reckless behaviour Konstantin was always warning her about. It leads to mistakes, and mistakes get you killed. But what’s the point of a game if the stakes aren’t high? Villanelle wants to shatter Eve’s protective shell and manipulate the vulnerable being inside. She wants her pursuer to know that she’s been out-thought and outplayed, and to witness her capitulation. She wants to own her.
Equally importantly, Villanelle wants a new assignment. Something more demanding than bread-and-butter kills like Yevtukh and Cradle. She wants a well-protected, high-status target. A really challenging set-up. It’s time to show Anton just how good she is.
Flipping open the laptop on the kitchen counter, she opens the homepage of an innocuous-looking social media account, and posts an image of a cat wearing sunglasses. Anton�
�s tradecraft, she’s discovered, often takes a surprisingly sentimental turn.
Three days after his abduction on the A303, Dennis Cradle is found dead by National Trust volunteers, who are removing a fallen tree from a weir pool on the River Wey. Brief notices appear in the local papers, and the finding of Weybridge Coroner’s Court is death by misadventure. The victim, it is reported, was a Home Office employee who may have been suffering from amnesia. He appeared to have fallen into the river, struck his head on a rock or other hard surface, lost consciousness, and drowned.
‘Obviously our killer didn’t make it look too much like murder,’ says Richard Edwards, when he visits the Goodge Street office on the evening of the inquest. ‘But I’m guessing Thames House had to call in a few favours to get that result.’
‘I knew she’d kill him,’ says Eve.
‘It did always look probable,’ Richard admits.
‘But didn’t Cradle tell you he was authorised to try and recruit you?’ asks Lance. ‘Wouldn’t the Twelve have let that play out?’
‘Whatever they told him, I doubt they believed he could pull it off,’ says Eve. ‘The speed with which they deployed V suggests that they decided to kill him the moment he signalled he’d been compromised.’
‘Poor bugger,’ says Billy, reaching for a half-eaten Cornish pasty.
‘Poor bugger nothing,’ says Eve. ‘I’m sure it was him who blocked me when I requested police protection for Viktor Kedrin. He personally enabled that murder.’
‘So let me just run through where we are now,’ says Richard, laying his coat over Eve’s desk, and pulling up a chair. ‘Stop me if I make any unfounded assumptions, or you want to add anything.’
The others make their own seating arrangements beneath the strip light’s sepulchral glow. Taking a bite from his pasty, Billy coughs crumbs over his knees.
‘Fuck’s sakes,’ murmurs Lance, wrinkling his nose. ‘What’s in that thing? Dogshit?’
Leaning forward, Richard steeples his fingers. ‘While at MI5, Eve identifies a series of murders, apparently by a woman, of prominent figures in politics and organised crime. The motive for the murders is unclear. Viktor Kedrin, a controversial Moscow activist, comes to give a talk in London, and when Eve requests protection for him, she is blocked by a superior, whom we may reasonably assume to have been Dennis Cradle. Kedrin is duly murdered, and as a consequence of his death Eve is dismissed from MI5. It’s probably Cradle, once again, who engineers this.
No Tomorrow: The basis for Killing Eve, now a major BBC TV series (Killing Eve series Book 2) Page 6
