On her last job, in a foreign city, she had been the hunter. This felt curiously similar. Exiting the market, she crossed the road in the wake of a woman wearing a grey jacket and matching skirt and followed her into a lingerie shop on the opposite pavement: female territory. They were the only customers. Outside, the leather-jacketed man loitered, pretending to study his phone. She’d bottled herself in but forced him to reveal himself, and once that dawned on him, he’d have little choice but to give up. Which ideally would happen in time for her to catch the shuttle.
So what was to stop her simply tapping on the window and waving at him?
‘… Excuse me?’
The woman was addressing her.
‘Is he following you? Outside? In the leather jacket?’
She thought: okay, let’s see where this leads. There were clues for future behaviour in allowing situations to play themselves out.
‘He is, yes.’
The woman had quick dark eyes. ‘A stalker …?’
‘He’s been following me since I left home.’
‘Shall I call the police?’
She was already reaching for a phone.
‘No, I— No. He’s an ex-boyfriend. Last time I called the police, he came round later and beat me up.’
It was shaky, but didn’t need to stand up in court.
The sales assistant was watching from behind the counter. ‘Is there a problem, ladies?’
The woman in grey said, ‘There’s a troublesome man. Outside.’
The assistant expressed no surprise. This was a lingerie store.
‘So we wondered, is there a back way?’
‘It’s not really for customers.’
‘But we’re not customers, are we? We’re victims of a man hanging round your shop.’
It was sweetly said, but with a menacing undertone.
‘Well …’
But it was a surrender, and a graceful one.
‘Of course. Maybe now, while his back’s turned.’
For the man in black was facing the street, his head cocked phonewards.
She checked her watch. She could still make the shuttle. And this would be more satisfying than simply tagging him, and telling him he was busted … As they were ushered towards the goods entrance, the woman in grey beamed at her, as if this were an adventure. Something to share with the team:
When the door closed behind them and they were alone in an alleyway thronged with wheelie bins, she said, ‘Thanks.’
The woman in grey said, ‘My pleasure,’ and stepped forward to envelop her in a hug.
It might have been imagination. But that would have meant everything else was unreal too; not just the sudden stiletto-shaped pain in her heart, but the intake of breath that the whole world took. The woman in grey lowered her to the ground, then stepped away smartly, leaving her to grasp, in her final moment, that this had not been a test, or, if it were, it was one in which failure cost more than she’d expected. But that was a brief epiphany, long over by the time news of her death had been composed, encrypted and sent hurtling through the ether to arrive in a busy room half the globe away, where it was delivered by an earnest young man to an older woman who wore her authority as she might an ermine gown: it kept her warm, and people noticed it.
She took the tablet he offered, read the message on its screen, and smiled.
‘
‘… Ma’am?’
‘Ian Fleming,’ said Diana Taverner. ‘Means “Death to spies”.’
And then, because he still looked blank, said, ‘Google it.’
LET’S BE HONEST. FRONTAL aspect, first reaction: it’s not the best-looking property on the market.
But consider the potential.
Conveniently located above a Chinese restaurant and a newsagent, which enterprises occupy the ground-floorage, these upper three storeys present a rare opportunity to acquire a toehold in this up-and-coming area. (Nice little mention in the
The front door’s not in use, but never mind. We’ll go round the back.
To this nicely low-maintenance yard, with ample room for wheelie bins and broken furniture. Ignore the smell, that’s a temporary blockage. Through this back door, sticking a bit today – doesn’t usually do that – but a bit of shoulder work and Bob’s your uncle. Then up the stairs, but best not put weight on that banister. It’s more ornamental than load-bearing. Original feature, mind.
