‘I’ll keep digging for you,’ says Connie.
‘And I shall do the same for you,’ says Ibrahim.
‘What did you make of Pauline?’ asks Elizabeth.
‘I like her,’ says Joyce.
‘Well, I like her too,’ says Elizabeth. ‘But what did you
‘I asked her about the comments from the other day,’ says Joyce. ‘About Bethany’s clothes. But she batted them away. And she said she had no memory of the notes.’
‘It’s almost as if she were trying to lead us to something,’ says Elizabeth. ‘Or away from something.’
‘She agreed we should talk to Fiona Clemence though,’ says Joyce. ‘She thought that was a tremendous idea.’
Elizabeth raises a doubtful eyebrow to her friend.
The black cab pulls in, and Elizabeth and Joyce step out. Elizabeth takes a good look around. Who is watching? There are guards at the door of the American Embassy up ahead, and there’s a group of young women going through the revolving doors of a publisher’s building on her left. Looking up, she can see plenty of windows, plenty of places in which to hide and watch. A sniper’s paradise. Joyce is also looking around, but with an entirely different focus.
‘There’s a swimming pool!’ says Joyce.
‘I know,’ confirms Elizabeth.
‘In the sky,’ says Joyce, looking up and shielding her eyes from the bright winter sun.
‘I told you you’d like it,’ says Elizabeth.
The swimming pool runs between the tops of two tall, residential buildings. Its glass floor makes it seem suspended in mid-air. Elizabeth is unimpressed. It’s just engineering plus money. Perhaps some imagination too, but she bets they copied it from somewhere. Perhaps if someone had built it for the public to use, she would marvel at it. But you can only swim in the sky if you have money, and if you have money you can do pretty much anything, so forgive her for not getting excited.
‘And this is where he lives?’ asks Joyce. ‘Viktor?’
‘That’s the information I have.’
‘Do you think he’ll let us have a go in the pool?
‘Do you have your costume, Joyce?’
‘I didn’t think to. Do you think we’ll be coming back any time?’
Elizabeth feels the weight of the gun in her handbag again. ‘Not for a while, no.’
They walk in through the huge double doors of one of the residential buildings, and make their way across the marble lobby, to the burnished walnut-and-copper concierge desk. The whole place feels very expensive yet deeply inoffensive, like a business hotel a divorcee might choose to kill himself in.
The concierge is very beautiful, East African, perhaps? Elizabeth gives her friendliest smile. She’s no Joyce, but she does her best.
‘We’re here to see Mr Illyich.’
The concierge looks at Elizabeth very pleasantly, but very certainly. ‘I’m afraid we have no Mr Illyich in the building.’
That would actually make sense, thinks Elizabeth. Viktor Illyich had a hundred names. Why use the real one here?
‘You’re very beautiful,’ says Joyce to the concierge.
‘Thank you,’ says the concierge. ‘As are you. Is there anything else I can do to help you today?’
Elizabeth’s phone buzzes. The Viking again. She looks at the message.
I hear you are in his building. Killing him at home is a nice touch. I look forward to hearing from you shortly.
How to get upstairs?
‘Have you ever used the pool?’ Joyce asks the concierge.
‘Many times,’ says the concierge. ‘Just to let you know, a member of our staff is on his way to escort you to the exit at your earliest convenience.’
‘I think I’m more impressed with it than Elizabeth,’ says Joyce.
‘Elizabeth?’ says the concierge. ‘Elizabeth Best?’
‘Yes, dear,’ says Elizabeth. Things are looking up.
‘Mr Illyich told me if an Elizabeth Best were to visit, to show her up straight away. He said she might also be called’ – the concierge looks down at a list – ‘Dorothy D’Angelo, Marion Schulz, Konstantina Plishkova or the Reverend Helen Smith. He also told me to watch and learn, because Elizabeth Best is the cleverest woman he has ever known.’
Elizabeth sees Joyce roll her eyes.
‘You didn’t think, when we walked in, asking for Viktor Illyich, that
‘I’m terribly sorry, no. The way Mr Illyich spoke about you, I thought Elizabeth Best must be a much younger woman.’
‘Well,’ says Elizabeth. ‘I used to be much younger, so you’re excused.’
‘Mr Illyich is in the penthouse. I will show you up myself.’ The concierge turns to Joyce. ‘And I will show you the swimming pool when you leave. There are spare costumes for guests.’
Elizabeth sees the delight on her friend’s face. There will be no swimming today. But they might need towels.
After the trip up in a lift the size of a suburban sitting room, Viktor Illyich answers the door himself, thanks the concierge, and lets Elizabeth and Joyce into his penthouse. He couldn’t look more thrilled to see them.
‘There she is! How did I get so lucky? How long has it been, Elizabeth?’
‘Twenty years?’ says Elizabeth.
‘Twenty years, twenty years,’ nods Viktor, and kisses her on both cheeks. ‘I look so terribly old. Don’t you think?’
