Ellis tried to take Button’s hand, but she jerked it back as if she’d been stung. ‘Don’t touch me. I don’t want you to touch me.’
‘I’m going,’ said Ellis, standing up.
‘Good.’
‘I’ll put this down to the drink,’ said Ellis, ‘and the stress.’
‘Screw you,’ said Button. ‘Screw you and screw MI5. Screw the lot of you.’
Ellis opened her mouth to say something, but when she saw how intensely Button was glaring at her she shut it and left.
Graham Pickering opened the kitchen door and whistled for his dog. The Labrador barked from the bottom of the garden but made no move to come back to the house. ‘Poppy, get in here or you can sleep outside tonight!’ shouted Pickering. The dog’s nose was buried in the hedgerow, her tail swishing from side to side. ‘Damn you,’ muttered Pickering. ‘Come on, Poppy, let’s call it a night!’ he shouted.
It made no sense to him that his daughter was at boarding-school hundreds of miles away, yet every day he was at the beck and call of a four-year-old animal whose only thoughts seemed to be of food and hedges. His wife had agreed to the dog only after their daughter had gone to boarding-school, and Pickering had always felt he was being offered a consolation prize.
Charlie was right, of course, and he hadn’t argued when she had suggested sending Zoë away. They both had demanding careers and it wouldn’t have been fair to turn Zoë into a latch-key kid, with or without an au pair. She was blossoming now, and so were their careers, so it had worked out for the best, though there were times when Pickering missed watching her grow. He’d read her bedtime stories when she was four, taught her to swim when she was five and how to ride a bike when she was six, but now it seemed that all she needed from him were the school fees and pocket money.
It was the way of the world, Pickering knew. You give birth to children and you spend a few years teaching them the skills to survive on their own, then they leave to start families of their own. Pickering wished he’d had a few more years with Zoë before she’d been packed off to school. Throwing sticks in the park for Poppy came a poor second to watching movies and eating popcorn with a giggling thirteen-year-old.
The doorbell rang and Pickering frowned. He wasn’t expecting anyone other than Charlie, and she had her key. ‘Poppy, get the hell in here now!’ he shouted. The dog ignored him.
Pickering closed the kitchen door and hurried to the hallway. The bell rang again. He opened the door to find an Arab man in his thirties on the step smiling amiably.
‘Mr Pickering, it’s Mr Hassan, from your office. I hope I’m not imposing.’
‘Of course I remember you, Mr Hassan,’ he said. ‘I just didn’t expect to see you here, that’s all.’
Salih smiled. ‘You made Virginia Water sound so attractive that I thought I’d take a drive round the area and see for myself,’he said. ‘You weren’t exaggerating. It’s quite lovely. And your house is spectacular.’
‘Thank you,’ said Pickering, ‘but as I said, it’s not for sale.’
Salih flashed a broad smile and held up the fistful of brochures Pickering had given him. ‘I understand that. I just thought you might have time to go over a few of these with me. I’m a cash buyer and I do want to move quickly.’
Pickering looked at his watch.
‘I’m sorry. You’re busy with your family. How thoughtless of me,’ said Salih.
‘No, my wife’s not back yet,’ said Pickering. A two-million-pound sale generated a lot of commission. ‘Come on in, we can chat until my wife returns. Who knows? Maybe you can make her an offer she can’t refuse.’
‘You are a kind man, Mr Pickering,’ said Salih, walking into the hall. ‘This is quite beautiful, your wife has wonderful taste.’
‘Thank you,’ said Pickering, closing the door. ‘Mr Hassan, I don’t remember giving you my home address.’
Salih smiled. ‘You didn’t.’ He dropped the brochures. The knife slid down his sleeve and the handle into the palm of his hand. He stepped forward and drove the blade between the third and fourth rib on Pickering’s left side, forcing it into his heart. He clamped his left hand over Pickering’s open mouth and pushed him back against the wall. He kept the knife pressed hard into Pickering’s heart. A trickle of blood ran down the handle. Pickering grunted. Most of the blood from his pierced heart was pooling inside his body, and as long as Salih kept the knife in place there would be none on the floor.
Pickering’s legs gave out and Salih moved down with him, keeping the knife in the man’s heart and his hand over his mouth. He eased Pickering on to his back so that there would be no spillage. Pickering’s eyelids fluttered, his body went into spasm and his heels drummed against the floor. The reflex lasted three or four seconds, then Pickering was still.
Salih took his hand off the man’s mouth and slid out the knife. He wiped the blade on Pickering’s shirt and stood up. ‘
Allahu Akbar
,’ he whispered. ‘God is great.’
Charlotte Button poured more wine into her glass. As she lifted it to her lips, she saw Shepherd smiling down at her. ‘What are you doing here?’ she asked.
‘Fancied a drink,’ said Shepherd. ‘Can I?’
‘You may,’ she said. She lifted the bottle and showed him the label. ‘I’m on red, but I suppose we could order some of the Irish whiskey you love.’
Shepherd took it from her and poured some into an empty water glass. ‘Wine is fine,’ he said.
‘So now you’re a poet,’ she said. ‘How did you know where I was?’
‘I followed you from the hotel,’ said Shepherd. ‘You didn’t do much in the way of counter-surveillance. I guess you had other things on your mind.’
She pushed her packet of cigarettes across the table towards him. Shepherd shook his head. ‘Strong will?’ she said.
‘Just never liked them,’ said Shepherd. ‘Never saw the point. Now that the Carter case is over, I’m not touching them.’
Button blew smoke at him and laughed when he coughed. ‘The point is that smokers smoke,’ she said, ‘and I’m a smoker.’
‘I’m a drinker,’ said Shepherd, raising his glass to her.
‘At least you’ve got one vice.’ Button took another lungful, held it, then exhaled slowly, this time keeping the smoke away from him.
‘You know you can’t smoke here?’
‘I had a word with the manager,’ she said.
‘Are you okay?’ Shepherd asked.
‘Define your terms,’ she said.
‘Who was she, that woman?’
‘That woman was Patsy Ellis, Kinsella’s handler in Belfast and my old boss at MI5. And I thought she was my friend.’
‘But now you’re not sure?’
‘Oh, no, I’m sure.’ She rubbed the bridge of her nose. ‘I’ve got a headache,’ she said.
‘From the look of you, it’s not all sweetness and light with Miss Ellis.’
‘You think you know someone, and then you find out you never knew them at all.’
‘Story of my life,’ said Shepherd.
‘You’re an undercover agent, lying goes with the job,’ she said. ‘I’ve been lied to by people I thought were on my side.’ She gulped more wine.
‘Elaine Carter called me,’ said Shepherd.
‘And?’
‘What’s going to happen to her?’
Button pulled a face, as if she had a bad taste in her mouth. ‘John Maplethorpe was the killer and he’s dead.’
Shepherd nodded slowly. ‘So that’s the end of it?’
‘Sleeping dogs,’ said Button. ‘Even if she was involved, even if she was helping Maplethorpe, what’s to be gained by proving it?’
‘Nothing,’ said Shepherd.
‘Exactly . . . Tell me something, Spider. I know she didn’t actually pull the trigger, but do you think she was helping Maplethorpe?’
Shepherd thought about the ticking watch in the trunk. Did it mean she’d helped Maplethorpe, that she’d given him the rounds for her husband’s gun? Or did it just mean she’d been through the trunk, handling her husband’s things? And even if she’d helped Maplethorpe, what would be gained by punishing her? He looked into Button’s eyes and prepared to lie to her. ‘No,’ he said.
‘There you go, then,’ she said. ‘Sleeping dogs.’ She refilled her glass, but her hand was unsteady and wine sloshed over the table.
‘Come on. My car’s outside,’ said Shepherd.
Button giggled. ‘You’re not trying to pick me up, are you, Spider?’
‘I’m driving you home,’ he said. ‘Your husband will be waiting for you.’ He opened his wallet, dropped a handful of banknotes on the table, then helped Button to her feet. She stumbled and bumped against him, and he put an arm round her waist to steady her.
‘You’re my knight in shining armour, aren’t you, Spider?’ she said, slurring her words. ‘My guardian angel.’
‘Charlie,’ he said, guiding her towards the door, ‘you’ll never know the half of it.’
Salih stood at the window. The sky was streaked with red as the sun prepared to dip below the horizon. It was time to pray. He took a small compass from his pocket and noted the direction in which Mecca lay. Salih would have preferred to cleanse himself before praying but there was a chance that he’d not hear Button return if he was in the bathroom. The bedroom he was in belonged to the daughter. There were cuddly toys on the bed and posters of pop stars on the walls. Also on the bed, beside a toy cocker spaniel, lay a carving knife he’d taken from the kitchen.
From the bedroom he could see the driveway and, through the trees, most of the road, left and right. He moved into the centre of the room, turned towards Mecca, lowered his head and closed his eyes. ‘Thanks be to Allah,’ he said. ‘We thank him, turn to him, ask his forgiveness, and seek refuge in him from our wicked souls and evil deeds. Whomever Allah enlightens will not be misguided, and the deceiver will never be guided. I declare that there is no God but Allah alone. He has no partners. I also declare that Muhammad is his servant and prophet.’
Salih knelt down and placed his hands on the carpet in front of him. He leant forward and continued to pray. Outside, the sky darkened.
They drove past the entrance to Wentworth golf club and Charlotte Button pointed at a turning ahead. ‘Left there,’ she said. Shepherd flicked on his indicator.
‘Nice area,’ he said, as he made the turn, the Audi’s headlights cutting across the trees that blanketed either side of the road. To the right were the forests of the Crown Estate but much of the land to the left was taken up with the multimillion-pound residences of the Wentworth Estate, gated communities with their own security force.
‘We like it,’ said Button. ‘To be honest, with the way the job is, I’m hardly ever here to enjoy it.’ She pointed at a large detached house set back from the road, with decorative white shutters on all the windows. ‘That’s it.’ The lights were off inside the house but twin coach lamps illuminated the front door.
‘Nice,’ said Shepherd.
‘Now you’re being sarcastic,’ she said.
‘It
is
a nice house.’
‘You’re using “nice” in a not very nice way,’ slurred Button.
‘Charlie, it’s a nice house in a nice area.’ Shepherd turned the Audi into the driveway and stopped next to a large Mercedes parked in front of the double garage. ‘Is that your husband’s?’ he asked.
Button nodded. ‘Come in and say hello.’
‘Some other time,’ said Shepherd. ‘I want to get back to Hereford.’
‘At least have a coffee.’
‘Really, Charlie, I’d rather get off.’
‘Raincheck?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘I do need to talk to you about what happened.’
‘A debriefing?’
‘More to get my thoughts straight than anything else,’ she said. ‘I’m pretty confused about a lot of things just now.’
‘It’s a confusing trade we’re in,’ said Shepherd. ‘Now’s probably not the best time to talk about it. Certainly not over coffee with your husband.’
‘You’re right, of course. You’re always right. You’re my rock, Spider, you know that?’
Shepherd smiled. ‘I know you’ve had a lot to drink,’ he said.
‘Thank you,’ she said.
‘You’re welcome. Go on with you.’
Button sighed. ‘Don’t suppose you’ve got a cigarette, have you?’ she asked. ‘Graham won’t have them in the house.’
Shepherd opened the glove box and gave her a packet of Marlboro. ‘On me,’ he said.
She took out a cigarette and Shepherd lit it for her. She inhaled deeply, held the smoke in her lungs, then exhaled with a sigh of pleasure. She climbed out of the car and went to the lawn. Shepherd laughed as she bent down, stubbed out the cigarette and covered the butt with soil, like a cat covering its traces. Then she went unsteadily to the front door, gave him a final wave and put the key into the lock. As she entered the house, Shepherd put the Audi in gear and reversed down the driveway.
Button pushed open the door. ‘It’s me!’ she called, then smiled as she realised how stupid that was. Who else would be letting themselves in with a key at that time of night? ‘Sorry I’m late. No rest for the wicked.’ She took off her coat and opened the hall cupboard. ‘Graham, where are you?’ There was no reply. She hung up her coat and closed the door.
She heard a scratching noise from the kitchen. Poppy was outside, scrabbling to get in. Button opened the door and the Labrador bowled in, tail wagging frantically. Button knelt down and made a fuss of her. ‘What are you doing outside?’ she asked. The dog tried to lick her face and she pushed it away. Poppy scampered across the tiled floor to her dish and pushed it with her nose, then made a soft grunting sound. She looked up expectantly, her tail swishing from side to side. ‘Has he not fed you?’ asked Button. ‘What’s he playing at? Did he forget you, Poppy?’ Poppy woofed and pushed her bowl again. ‘I guess he did,’ said Button. ‘Shame on him.’
She went to the cupboard where they kept the dog’s tinned food, opened a can of Pal and spooned the contents into Poppy’s bowl. The dog started to bolt the food, and by the time Button had taken a box of dog biscuits from the cupboard, half the meat had gone. She pushed Poppy away, scattered some biscuits into the bowl, then stood up and smiled as Poppy started to wolf her food again. ‘Where are your manners, girl?’ She switched on the kettle. ‘And where’s your lord and master?’