River gazed at the ruined house. If he closed his eyes, he could see it happening: the flames massively orange against the black sky, and sirens ripping the night apart. It must have been visible for miles; a beacon thrilling the countryside. He didn’t know what colour French fire engines were: were they red? They might be yellow. It didn’t matter. They had arrived too late, but had doused what was left of the house to prevent the fire spreading. That much had worked. A pair of outhouses two hundred metres or so from the ruins were still standing, and something like a dovecote too, further away, but visible through the trees. And the trees themselves had survived, of course, though looked thin and bony in the grey afternoon, like a memorial to a holocaust.
And anything that might have been a clue had been reduced to ashes, blown about the fields, and smeared on damp surfaces.
The grey was giving way to something bleaker, something darker. Overhead, the clouds grew heavy, preparing to release more rain, and River’s feet had grown no drier, plodding around in mud and filth. He would take shelter back in Angevin, he decided. There would be a local paper, or a local centre of gossip—a church, a bar—where he might discover a name; a piece of thread to tug on. Bertrand Something. That was the name Adam Lockhead had gone under. Or perhaps Adam Lockhead was the name Bertrand Something went under: either way, this ruin shed no light. Another noise emerged from the wood, the cracking of a branch, but again he saw nothing.
A drive led down to the main road. There was another gate there, set between a handsome pair of stone posts, and looking at it was like gazing down a tunnel, the way the trees composed an arch, and he thought that during the summer it must make an impressive sight, the trees in leaf, the drive washed clean of mud. But it wouldn’t any longer look like much from the opposite end: the big gates, the trees, the drive, and all of it ending in wrack and ruin. He wondered how long the house had been here, and whether its loss would cut a hole in the village’s life the way the bomb in Westacres had in London. And then he turned to make his way back through the wood, and a man stepped out of the trees holding a long single-barrelled gun which he brought to his shoulder in one smooth movement, and then fired, and River’s heart stopped.
Emma Flyte said, “There’s nothing to worry about. It’s a routine precaution.”
“But I haven’t done anything—”
“No one’s suggesting that you have.”
They were in what appeared to be an ordinary sitting room: a sofa, chairs, shelving, a TV. But any room you’re taken to, rather than enter of your own free will, carries the whiff of the cell. They were not far from Brixton market, a fifteen-minute journey, but that quarter of an hour had rattled Giti Rahman’s world.
“In that case, what am I doing here?”
“Awaiting instructions,” Emma said flatly. “If you need anything, there’s an intercom. I’d advise you not to overuse it. Mr. Dempsey’s patience is not infinite.”
Anyone who knew Mr. Dempsey, the Dog assigned to this particular chore, would have agreed that patience was not his forte.
“And the windows are reinforced. I wouldn’t recommend you attempt an exit.”
“I’m hardly James Bond.”
“No. If you were, we’d shoot you.” Her reaction made Emma regret that a little. “A joke, Ms. Rahman.”
“It probably sounded funnier in your head.”
Couldn’t argue with that.
She locked the door behind her. In the kitchen Dempsey was going through cupboards; had found teabags and a vintage packet of biscuits.
“Call me if she gives trouble.”
Dempsey said, “Trouble? I’m more worried she’ll wet herself.”
Out in the car, Emma sat thinking. Diana Taverner was a slippery lady, and anything with her fingerprints on was likely to be wiped clean before official examination. That the warrant for Giti Rahman’s collection had been signed by Claude Whelan could be discounted. Acquiring other people’s signatures was no doubt among Lady Di’s talents.
Then again, these people were safeguarding national security, and her role was to ease their passage. So Giti Rahman—innocent, guilty, or just in the way—was no longer her concern. David Cartwright, on the other hand, was a task in hand.
She called Devon Welles, whom she’d left in charge at the Cartwright house.
“Anything?”
“. . . Not really.”
“Tell.”
“It was nothing. A car went past, slowed down, as if someone was trying to get a look through the window.”
“Nosy neighbour?”
“Could be. And there’s a woodentop on the door, which is always exciting.”
“But you got a plate anyway,” she said.
She liked Welles. He was another ex-copper, with all the right reactions.
“A partial.”
“Run it. Any ID on the body yet?”
“No. Except who it’s not.”
“Except—?”
“The blood’s not a match for Cartwright’s grandson.”
“Ah.” She thought a bit. “Well, that narrows it down by one, I suppose. And means we have two missing persons. Better start with the grandson’s associates.”
“He’s really called River?”
