“Or well informed. And if it wasn’t the Cartwrights, it can only be one man.”
“Lamb,” said Catherine.
“Uh-huh. Mr. Lamb. When was he here?”
“First thing.”
“And what did he tell you?”
“Exact words?”
“Please.”
“He said he’d spent the early hours winding up the dyke who’s currently boss of the kennel. And that if she turned up here, I was to waste as much of her time as possible.”
Emma stared.
Catherine said, “I may have skipped the odd f-word. He thinks swearing’s big and clever.”
“What’s he up to, Ms. Standish?”
“He has a joe in the wind, Ms. Flyte. He’ll be up to whatever he thinks necessary.”
“Having one of your team kill someone isn’t the same as having an agent in peril.”
“Well, you’ve met Lamb. He deals in broad strokes.”
Emma kept staring, and Catherine unflinchingly returned her gaze. On the mantelpiece, a carriage clock struck the hour with a tinkly series of notes.
At length, Emma said, “When I find the Cartwrights—and I will—I hope it doesn’t turn out you knew where they were all along.”
Catherine nodded thoughtfully.
In the hallway, by the open front door, Emma Flyte paused. “What’s that noise?”
“I didn’t hear anything,” Catherine said.
“It came from through there. I assume that’s your bedroom.”
“I left my radio on.”
“It didn’t sound like a radio.”
“I promise you it is.”
“So you left the radio on in your bedroom, behind a closed door.”
“It seems that way, doesn’t it?”
“Do you mind if I take a look?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I’ve had more than enough of your company.”
“That’s too bad. Because we already covered the ground rules.”
Closing the front door, Emma stepped across the hallway and into Catherine’s bedroom.
It was dark inside—the curtains still drawn—and a muffled noise was emerging from the shape under the duvet. Emma looked back at Catherine.
Catherine shrugged.
Emma reached out and grasped the hem of the duvet; whipcracked it like a magician removing a tablecloth and let it fall to the floor.
On the bed, Catherine’s radio muttered to itself on its throne of pillows.
“You wouldn’t think so, but it gets great reception that way,” she said.
Two minutes later, she was watching by the window again as Emma Flyte left the building, climbed into her car and drove away.
A minute after that, she was knocking on her neighbour’s door.
“Thanks so much, Deirdre,” she said. “Such short notice, too.”
“Oh, he was no trouble,” Deirdre assured her. “Your colleague gone, has she?”
“Just me again,” said Catherine. “Come on, David. Time to go.”
“I used to live here, didn’t I?” said the O.B.
He was limping badly by the time he arrived, his soaking sock chafing his left foot: he was starting to imagine gangrene. The downpour had once more receded to a steady drizzle. Few cars had passed him, and none had stopped to offer a lift. The tea at Victor’s was a distant memory, and hunger had become a dull ache.
The scrap of paper on which Victor had scribbled an address was his most treasured possession. He barely dared fish it out to check directions, for fear it would dissolve in the wet air.
But River had a memory for figures, for facts, for details, and didn’t need them verified. Eighty minutes after leaving the poacher’s cottage he was in the next village, which had arranged itself along the banks of the same river as Angevin, and boasted similar amenities: a narrow bridge, a sombre church, a ruin perched on a mound. The narrow streets probably allowed for little sunlight even when there was any to speak of, and there were alleyways, harbouring flights of stone steps, every dozen yards or so. Seen from above it no doubt made sense; at ground level it was a confusion of ups and downs, of different ways of getting lost. He navigated through it, though. Ignoring the side streets, he followed the main road over the bridge, took the left fork when it divided, and passed a garage on his right. Beyond its forecourt was a row of cottages whose stone faÇades, darkened by rainfall, were a stern grimace only partly belied by their prettily painted doors: red, white, blue. The blue was Natasha’s. River pounded its heavy brass knocker.
He didn’t know what he was expecting. A nice lady. A prostitute, yes, a whore, but a nice lady. So what he was doing now, he supposed, was visiting a prostitute, a phrase with a definite subtext. The nice lady opened the door a long fifteen seconds after he’d knocked. Whatever she’d been about to say short-circuited at the sight of him: instead, she said “Bertrand? Mais non . . . ”
“Non,” River agreed. “Excusez, vous etes Natasha?”
He did not, he realised, have a surname for her.
After a moment, she said, “You are not French.”
“Non,” he agreed again.
“English?”
To admit this in French would be absurd. “Yes,” he said.
“What can I do for you?”
