“Andy,” said River.
“Just been chatting with Meg Butterfield out there.” He paused to drain his pint. “Another one of these, Kelly dear. And one for our visitor. Meg tells me you’re well on with your book.”
“Nothing for me, thanks. I’m about to leave.”
“Pity. I was hoping to hear about your progress.” Andy Barnett was everybody’s nightmare: a genuine local author, whose self-published memoir had been quite the succès d’estime, don’t you know. Which anyone who’d met Andy Barnett did two minutes later. “Be more than happy to look at anything you’re ready to show.”
“You’ll be first in line.”
A draught at River’s back indicated someone new had just come in, and Barnett said, “Here comes trouble.”
River didn’t have to turn to know who this was.
It was growing dark when Louisa emerged at Marble Arch among crowds of young foreign tourists. She threaded past giant rucksacks and breathed the evening air, tasting traffic exhaust, perfume, tobacco, and a hint of foliage from the park. At the top of the steps she unfolded a pocket map, an excuse for pausing. After inspecting it for two minutes, she put it away. If she was being followed, they were good.
Not that there was reason for anyone to be following. She was just another girl on a night out, and the streets were heavy with them: whole migrating herds of fresh young things, and some less fresh, and some less young. Tonight Louisa was a different woman to the one she’d lately been. She wore a black dress which stopped above the knee and showed off her shoulders, or would do once she removed her jacket, which was four—no, five—years old, and starting to look it, but not so much a man would notice. Sheer black tights; her hair pulled back by a red band. She looked good. It helped that men were easy.
She carried a bag on a strap, just big enough for a few feminine essentials, the definition of which varied from woman to woman. In her own case, alongside mobile phone, purse, lipstick, credit card, it included a can of pepper spray and a pair of plastic handcuffs, bought off the Internet. Like many Internet-related activities, these purchases were amateurish and ill-thought out, and part of her wondered what Min would have said, but that was arse-backward. If Min had been in any position to know, she’d not have been carrying this stuff.
The Ambassador looked different at night. Earlier, it had been another imposing urban monolith, all steel and glass and carefully maintained kerb-flash. Now, it glittered. Seventeen storeys of windows, all catching reflections of the whirlwind traffic. She used her phone as she approached, and he answered on the second ring. “I’ll be straight down,” he said.
She’d hoped he’d ask her up. Stilclass="underline" if not now, later. She’d make sure of that.
In the mirrored lobby, it was impossible not to catch sight of herself. Again: What would Min have thought? He’d have liked the dress, and the way her tights showed off her calves. But the thought that she’d scrubbed up for someone else would have struck ice through his heart.
And here came the lift, and out of it stepped Arkady Pashkin. Alone, she was relieved to note.
Crossing the lobby he was careful not to show teeth, but there was a wolfish gleam in his eyes as he took her hand and—yes—raised it to his lips. “Ms. Guy,” he said. “How charming you look.”
“Thank you.”
He wore a dark suit, with a collarless white shirt, its top button undone. Knotted round his neck was a blood-red scarf.
“I thought we might walk, if that’s all right,” he said. “It’s warm enough, yes?”
“Perfectly warm,” she said.
“And I have so few chances to see the city as it should be seen,” he said, nodding at the young woman on reception as he guided Louisa out onto Park Lane. “All the great cities—Moscow, London, Paris, New York—they’re best enjoyed on foot.”
“I wish more people thought so,” she said, raising her voice to be heard above the traffic. She looked round, but no one was following. “It’s just us, then.”
“It’s just us.”
“You’ve given Piotr and—sorry, I’ve forgotten—”
“Kyril.”
“And Kyril the night off? Very good of you.”
“It’s the modern way,” he said. “Treat your workers well. Or they look for pastures new.”
“Even when they’re goons.”
He had taken her arm as they crossed the road, and she felt no increase in pressure. On the contrary, his voice was amused as he replied: “Even when, as you say, they are goons.”
“I’m teasing.”
“And I like to be teased. Up to a point. No, I gave them the evening off because I took the liberty of assuming that tonight is not business. Though I was surprised to get your call.”
“Really?”
“Really.” He smiled. “I won’t play games with you, I get calls from women. Even from English women, who can be a little … is reticent the word?”
“It’s a word,” Louisa allowed.
“And this afternoon, you seemed so businesslike. I don’t mean that as a criticism. On the contrary. Though in this particular case, it means I have to ask, was my assumption correct?”
“That tonight’s not business?”
They were safely across the road, but he had not released her arm.
She said, “Nobody knows I’m here, Mr. Pashkin. This is entirely personal.”
“Arkady.”
“Louisa.”
They were in the park, on one of its lamplit paths. It was warm, as Louisa had promised, and the traffic’s hum receded. Last winter, she’d walked this path with Min, heading for the Christmas Fair—there’d been a ferris wheel and skating, mulled wine, mince pies. At an air-rifle booth, Min had missed the target five times in a row. Cover, he’d said. Don’t want everyone knowing I’m a trained sharpshooter. Bury that, she thought. Bury that moment. She said, “We seem to be heading somewhere. Do you have a plan, or are we just seeing where the moment takes us?”
“Oh,” he told her, “I always have a plan.”
That makes two of us, Louisa thought, and her grip tightened on the strap of her bag.
Two hundred yards behind them, out of reach of the lamplight, a figure followed silently, hands in pockets.
There was damp in the air, and overhanging clouds; a grey mass, hiding the stars. Griff Yates set off at a lick, but River kept up. They met nobody on the village’s main road, and few houses were lit. Not for the first time, River wondered if the place existed in a time warp.
Perhaps Yates read his mind. “Missing London much?”
“Peace and quiet. Makes a nice change.”
“So’ll being dead.”
“If you don’t like it, why do you stay?”
“Who says I don’t like it?”
They passed the shop and the few remaining cottages. St John of the Cross became a black shape and vanished into bigger darkness. Upshott disappeared quickly at night. The road curved once, and that was it.
“Some of the people, mind. I’d happily be shot of them.”
“Incomers,” River said.
“They’re all incomers. Andy Barnett? Talks like he’s farming stock, but he doesn’t know the business end of a bull.”
Which probably depended on whether you were a cow or a rambler, River thought. “What about the flying crew?”
“What about them?”
“They’re a young crowd. Weren’t any of them born here?”
“Nah. Mummy and daddy moved here when they were small, so the kiddies could grow up in the country. You think real locals have aeroplanes to play with?”
“It’s still their home.”
“No, it’s just where they live.” Yates stopped abruptly, and pointed. River turned, but saw nothing: only the dark lane, hedge-rowed either side. Larger outgrowths were trees, waving at the sky. “See that elm?”