Hayden Barnaby dialled Kate’s mobile from the private aviation terminal at Zurich airport. Through the double-glazed windows, he could see the swept taxiways, black ribbons against the startling white of the morning’s snowfall. Zhu was still aboard the little executive jet out on the apron. The pilot had already filed a flight plan for the final leg to London. As soon as refuelling was complete, they’d be off.
At last Kate answered the phone. She sounded irritable, as if she wasn’t pleased to hear from him, but when Barnaby asked her why she dismissed it. Time of the month, she said briskly. Plus one or two other little niggles.
Barnaby glanced at his watch. They’d be touching down at Heathrow around five. He could be back in Central London by early evening. He’d booked a hotel. He’d meet her there.
‘Where?’
‘The Orchid. Same as last time.’
‘I’m tied up,’ she said at once. ‘Until late.’
‘In town?’
‘Yes.’
‘How late?’ Barnaby’s impatience showed in his voice. He’d hardly slept at all on the hopscotch flight back from Singapore, bemused by the number of airports en route where Zhu needed to touch down to attend brief meetings.
Kate was talking about some party contacts from Blair’s private office. She knew a couple of staffers there, people she’d run into at conference. They were getting together for a drink and a meal. It could be important for her.
‘Obviously.’
‘I mean it. The parliamentary selection meeting’s in a couple of days. Every contact counts. Believe me.’
Barnaby was watching the fuel bowser beside the tiny jet. The driver was disconnecting the hose and wiping the drips of fuel from the crescent of fuselage beneath the filler pipe. In a couple of minutes they’d be ready to leave.
‘Maybe you should go straight home,’ Kate was saying. ‘Perhaps that would be best.’
‘Home?’
‘Portsmouth. I could see you tomorrow. There might be time for lunch.’
Barnaby frowned, trying to clear the fog of indecision in his brain. A night at the Orchid had been part of their plans since he’d learned of the trip to Singapore. They’d have the evening in town. The’d have a meal, the chance to catch up with each other, the chance to talk. Going home was inconceivable.
‘I’ll see you at the hotel,’ he said briefly. ‘Whenever you can make it.’
*
Owens was trying to manhandle the dog out of the back of his estate car when he heard the knocking at the upstairs window. He stood upright in the icy drive, the golden retriever sagging in his arms, seeing the shadowy outline of his wife behind the net curtains. She had one hand raised to her ear, their private semaphore for an urgent phone call. Owens stepped back, breathless, trying to close the tailgate with his foot. The sudden adjustment as he nearly lost his balance made the dog stir. Still sleepy after the anaesthetic, it raised its head and looked round, bemused.
Owens struggled indoors. He could hear his wife coming downstairs. She was wearing his plaid dressing gown, tightly belted, and he was glad to see a bit of colour back in her face. She passed him the cordless phone. ‘The office,’ she said, bending to inspect the dog.
Owens lifted the phone. For once in his life he’d formally booked a day off, and he’d made a point of asking his oppo to be sensible about calls. Only real emergencies, he’d said. And only if there’s no other bugger around.
‘DS Owens,’ he grunted.
He heard an unfamiliar voice at the other end. He thought he caught the word ‘Commander’ but he wasn’t sure. Finally it dawned on him that he was talking to someone from the Met.
‘Who are you on about?’
‘Schreck. Haagen Schreck. Your guv’nor said he was down to you.’
‘He is. Sort of. Why?’
‘Long story. Your guv’nor’s got the details. Give him a ring, will you?’
The line went dead and Owens looked at the phone. His wife and the dog were locked in a sloppy embrace across the kitchen table. In the absence of kids, the dog had always been the target for some heavy rapport.
Owens took the phone next door. The lounge was dominated by trophies from his fishing expeditions. As well as photographs and the odd cup, there was a big scrapbook full of press cuttings. Owens sank into the armchair beneath the 15-pound mounted pike, not bothering to undo the buttons on his raincoat. He’d been through leave days like this before. He knew the pattern only too well.
The superintendent answered his call on the second ring. Bairstow wasn’t a man to soften a conversation with anything remotely domestic. As far as he was concerned, Owens could have been in an office downstairs.
‘The Met were on,’ he said.
‘I know. Bloke just phoned.’
‘About that German kid? Our Nazi friend?’
‘Yeah.’
‘OK. Got a pencil handy?’
Owens found a biro on the mantelpiece. In the absence of paper, he used the palm of his hand. Schreck had been under surveillance for a couple of days. The guys involved had been from London, not local. They’d staked out his flat and this afternoon they’d followed him to the nearby shopping precinct. There, he’d collected £2,800 in foreign currency, plus a rail ticket.
Owens frowned. His hand wasn’t that big and he was fast running out of space.
‘Where to?’ he said.
‘Amsterdam, via Brussels. Eurostar for the first bit.’ Owens could hear the shuffle of papers on the superintendent’s desk. ‘The currency is part guilders, part US dollars. I’ve got the breakdown here. It’s mostly dollars.’
‘So where is he now?’
‘Back in his flat. According to the travel agency, the Eurostar ticket’s booked for tomorrow. Ten thirty-five out of Waterloo.’
‘And what do the Met boys say?’
‘Which Met boys?’
‘The guys who’ve been doing the leg work? The ones you mentioned just now.’
‘Ah, now there’s a thing.’ The superintendent’s voice hardened. ‘Turns out they weren’t Met boys at all. They were MI5. The Yard’s been trying to sort it out all afternoon. Latest I hear, we’re taking precedence. Not only that but the Met wants us to handle it this end. Must be desperate, trusting us. I’m looking at the currency now.’
‘What currency?’
‘Yours, son. He’ll take the train to Waterloo. Bound to. You’re with him on the Eurostar as well. Same carriage.’ He erupted, a bark of derisive laughter. ‘First bloody class.’
When Barnaby awoke in the hotel room, Kate was standing at the foot of the big double bed. ‘The door was open,’ she said. ‘I just gave it a push.’
Barnaby got up on one elbow, rubbing his face. His jacket hung over the back of a nearby chair and his shoes were on the floor somewhere but he was still fully dressed.
‘Must have dropped off.’ He swung his legs off the bed. ‘How are you?’
‘Fine. How about you?’
‘Knackered. Come here.’
Kate didn’t move. Her trench-coat was unbuttoned, and underneath he could see the black skirt and low-cut scarlet top she favoured for special occasions.
‘What’s the time?’ Barnaby asked.
‘Gone nine.’
‘Good evening? Meet your chums OK?’
Kate studied him a moment, then stepped back towards the door and shut it. Crossing the room, she pulled the curtains over the dormer windows before running her fingertips over the back of the armchair in the corner, feeling the heavy brocade.
‘Nice,’ she said.
Barnaby was still watching her. The boots looked brand new, black leather, knee-length. He began to wonder who she’d dressed up for.
‘Where did you go?’
‘Belgravia. Little French place.’
‘Good?’
‘Excellent. Very tasteful. Very understated. Kind of restaurant that makes you feel… I don’t know … metropolitan, I suppose.’
‘And what was the foo
d like?’
‘I’m not sure. It looked lovely.’
‘Didn’t you eat?’
‘No, there was no point.’ She raised a thin smile. ‘He didn’t turn up.’
‘Why not?’
‘God knows. You tell me.’
She turned away, slipped off the coat and hung it carefully in the wardrobe. Only then did she join him, sitting on the edge of the bed, her back towards him, her hands clenched tightly in her lap. Barnaby kissed the nape of her neck. He could feel how cold she was, and how remote.
‘Bastard.’ She bit her lip. ‘Bastard, bastard.’
‘Who was he?’
‘Doesn’t matter, just a friend. Not even that. An associate, a colleague, someone I met at conference. He’s highly placed, no question, a real flier and I thought… you know…’ She gestured helplessly at the boots. ‘Pathetic, isn’t it?’
Barnaby lay back against the pillows, disturbed now, his suspicion confirmed that the ensemble hadn’t been for his benefit.
‘When did you fix it up? This meal?’
‘Days ago. I should have expected it, I know I should, the lives these people lead. Why should I get special treatment?’
‘So what happened? Where did he get to?’
‘God knows. Some television station or other? New York? Washington? Brussels? Who cares?’
‘Did he phone?’
‘No.’
‘Did you?’
‘Yes, in the end I did. There’s only so much you can do with a bread roll.’ She sniffed, more anger than grief, her back still turned to Barnaby. ‘I got through to some girl in his office. She thought he’d gone to a briefing. It’s probably the standard line. When I gave her my name she’d obviously never heard of it. Bitch.’
Barnaby eyed her. When she bent over to loosen the boots, he stood up and reached for his jacket. Kate glanced round. Her face was white and pinched and her lipstick was smudged at the corner of her mouth. She looked, for once, extraordinarily vulnerable.
She got to her feet, uncertain, watching him lacing up his shoes. He walked across to the dressing table and checked his tie in the mirror, then he joined her by the bed. He could smell the perfume he’d left under her pillow on Christmas Eve. To his knowledge it was the first time she’d worn it.
‘Hungry?’ he murmured.
She looked up at him. Then she grinned the old grin. ‘Starving.’
They ate at a Moroccan restaurant round the corner in Knightsbridge, Kate’s choice. They had a tagine of chicken and prunes with a steaming mountain of couscous and were half-way through the second bottle of red wine by the time Barnaby finished enthusing about Singapore.
His visit, he admitted, had been conducted at breakneck speed and all he could offer was a series of snapshots, but first impressions were important and it was hard to do justice to the impact the place had made on him. OK, their democracy was a thin excuse for one-party rule, and the government came up with comic-book ideas like Courtesy Month and the National Ideals and Identity Programme, but this was a small price to pay for a society that so manifestly worked. A pulse beat through Singapore. You could feel it on the streets and in the shopping malls. These people had a pride in the lives they led, the society they’d built, the ends to which they put their working hours. He’d visited hospitals, schools and public housing projects that put Britain’s equivalents to shame. On the streets he’d seen no graffiti, no litter, no beggars. Everywhere he’d been, he’d met nothing but courtesy and a determination to make things better. To someone from the UK, with its tired culture and weary sense of personal defeat, this brimming optimism had felt, at first, like a piss-take. Could these people possibly mean it? Had they really built this gleaming city? They undoubtedly had – and, to his astonishment, by the week’s end he’d buried his cynicism and concluded that this little glimpse of the future was absolutely for real.
Kate looked at him over the tiny vase of wild mint. She was tackling the last of the chicken leg with her hands, shredding the meat from the bone.
‘I get the feeling you liked it,’ she said drily.
‘I loved it.’
‘No reservations? None at all?’
Barnaby thought of his visit to the prison. Corporal punishment, in the flesh, was abhorrent. No question. But a bare ten minutes’ conversation with the rehab unit’s director had prompted him to look at the issue anew. There was a tariff for caning. Any inmate who physically attacked another got three strokes. Someone drug-testing positive could expect six. It was brutal justice but all the surveys suggested that, once again, it worked. The only benchmark that mattered in Singapore was success, and given the enormous challenge of trying to wrestle someone away from drug addiction, who could say that caning should be banned?
Barnaby wiped his mouth with his napkin and recharged his glass. His visit to Changi had touched another nerve, altogether more personal.
‘Jessie’s apparently bailed out of the rehab place,’ he said. ‘I tried to phone her last night.’
‘Does that worry you?’
‘Of course it does.’ He grimaced. ‘Liz says she’s in Guildford with some friend or other.’
‘You’ve talked to Liz, then?’
‘Yes.’ He smiled. ‘She’s my wife.’
‘And she knows you’re here, in London?’
‘No, she thinks I’m still in Zurich. With Zhu.’
Kate reached for her glass. The second bottle of wine was nearly empty.
‘Maybe we should go public,’ she said softly. ‘Would you drink to that?’
Barnaby returned her smile. Exhaustion was catching up with him again. The last thing he needed was another lap or two around this particular track. ‘I’d drink to anything,’ he said lightly. ‘As long as it was just you and me.’
‘But it isn’t, is it? It’s you and me and Liz and poor Jessie and your home and that wonderful view you keep telling me about and…’ She frowned, six fingers raised. ‘Shall I go on?’
‘I’d prefer you didn’t.’
‘I bet you would.’ She leaned forward, the candlelight spilling shadows over her cleavage. ‘I’ve missed you, Hayden, and this is just another way of saying it. I’m a quarrelsome old bat. Take no notice.’
‘I won’t.’
‘No?’
She was waiting for an answer, and he captured her fingers, giving them a little squeeze, a private signal that it might be time for bed. Kate withdrew her hand. The dessert menu was beside the wine and she opened it. Barnaby watched her eyes go filmy as she tried to concentrate.
‘Tell me about Zhu,’ she said absently. ‘Get to know him, did you? Pals now?’
‘Not really, he’s not that kind of guy. We spent time together, of course, but the whole thing was tightly organized. Lots to see, lots to find out. No.’ He shook his head. ‘I wouldn’t call him a friend.’
‘What then? A patron? A benefactor? The tooth fairy?’
‘No, he’s a client, that’s all.’
‘Pretty mega client.’
‘Of course, but a client nevertheless.’ Barnaby began to fold his napkin. ‘He’s been talking about more buys in Portsmouth. I don’t think capital’s a problem and he seems fond of the place. The Imperial’s been a doddle, a real delight. If there are any more in the pipeline like that…’ He left the sentence unfinished. Kate’s foot had found his leg under the table. He could feel the soft leather of her boot running up and down the inside of his calf.
‘You really think there’ll be more?’
‘God knows. We all have our fantasies and Zhu just might be mine.’
‘I think he is.’
‘Why?’
‘You should have heard your voice on the phone from Singapore. You were like a kid in a toy shop. It’s been a while since I heard you like that.’
‘Yeah,’ Barnaby conceded, wryly. ‘It’s been a while since anyone made that kind of fuss of me.’
He held up both hands at once, stemming the flood of mock sympathy. Sober o
r drunk, Kate knew him inside out and what made it worse was the knowledge that he loved it that way. It spoke of the deepest intimacy, a delicious violation that occasionally overwhelmed him. Kate could be rough, abrasive, demanding, illogical, and selfish, but none of that had ever altered the fact that he loved her in ways he’d never thought remotely possible.
‘Tell me about your meeting,’ he said.
‘Meeting?’
‘The constituency thing. Your big chance.’
‘Ah …’ She leaned back in the chair, nursing her glass of wine, rehearsing the line she’d take before the constituency membership. The nomination was there for the taking, she said. Frank Perry, her main rival, had been at it far too long for his own good and she knew there was a real appetite amongst the membership for change. Everyone in the local party would have a vote and a simple majority would see her adopted as constituency parliamentary candidate. Given the rightward shift in Labour’s leadership, and the residue of doubts about what had been left behind, she’d decided to pitch it dead centre. The market should deliver but the people should profit. Health and education should be top priorities, but taxation shouldn’t strangle enterprise. People should have obligations as well as rights. Looking out for your neighbour was as important as looking out for yourself.
‘Sounds like Singapore,’ Barnaby said softly, listening to her ticking off the phrases one by one, aware of her eagerness and her hunger, wondering how much of this pretty speech she’d been rehearsing for her earlier date.
She was talking about Europe now. She was pro the Social Chapter but against a big Brussels bureaucracy. One of the things she’d wanted to check with her New Labour friend was the leadership’s line on QMV.
‘QMV?’
‘Qualified Majority Voting.’
‘Ah.’ Barnaby had reached for the dessert menu. The waiter was hovering again. Barnaby looked up, wondering aloud about the warm figs in Madeira, but Kate was already fumbling under the table for her bag. She produced a credit card from her wallet and gave it to the waiter. When Barnaby protested, she got up, shaking the creases out of her coat.
‘I thought you were still hungry?’
‘I am. I thought we might go to bed.’ She grinned down at him, waiting for the Visa slip. ‘I don’t want to sound political,’ she said, ‘but here’s a promise.’
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