‘I hardly knew the guy,’ said Kinsella.
‘Concerned about us,’ snapped his wife. ‘Us! You and me! I don’t give a shit about him, it’s you and me I’m worried about.’
‘That’s what we’ve got the Rottweilers for,’ said Kinsella. ‘They’re not going to let anything happen to me. To us. They can’t afford to.’
‘Your friend Lynn had bodyguards, too, remember?’
‘He had a couple of IRA heavies, nothing like the protection we’ve got.’
Elizabeth sighed. ‘You don’t get it, do you? I can’t live like this, Noel. I’m sorry, but I can’t.’
‘Your family has always had bodyguards. And with good reason. Don’t give me grief over this.’
‘Look, it doesn’t matter how many bodyguards you have or how good the security is. If someone wants to kill you . . .’ She trailed off.
Kinsella put his arms around her and kissed her on the top of the head. ‘I’m sorry, baby,’ he said.
‘I didn’t know it would be like this,’ she said.
‘Neither did I,’ said Kinsella.
‘I thought we could settle down, have children, make a life here.’
‘We can, baby. We can.’
‘But not like this.’
‘What do you want me to do?’
‘I just want them to catch whoever it is.’
‘You and me both,’ said Kinsella. He kissed her again. ‘Let me see what I can do.’
‘I want to go home.’
‘This is home,’ said Kinsella.
‘My home,’ she said. ‘I want to go back to the States.’
Hassan Salih parked his hire car in the King Edward Court car park in the centre of Windsor. He locked it and headed for Windsor’s main shopping street. The sun was shining and it seemed that every second person was a tourist holding a street map or guidebook. Peascod Street was pedestrianised, lined with shops and building-society offices. Large black tubs containing well-tended trees were dotted along the pavement and baskets of brightly coloured flowers hung from the street-lamps. A group of Etonians sat on a curved metal bench eating ice-cream, their black tailcoats and pinstriped trousers a throwback to an earlier age when the British had an empire and the school’s alumni ran it. An American woman in stretch trousers pointed a digital camera at them and asked if she could take their photograph. They agreed and posed good-naturedly, and before long half a dozen tourists were clustered in front of them, clicking cameras.
At the top of Peascod Street a black statue of Queen Victoria, holding an orb, gazed severely at the throngs. The sweeping castle,for which Windsor was famous,lowered over her. The royal standard was flying from the solitary flagpole at the top of the main tower, indicating that the sovereign was in residence.
The estate agent’s was between a coffee shop and a bookstore, glossy photographs of properties for sale and rent in the window. Salih was wearing a dark grey suit he’d bought from a tailor in London’s Savile Row, with a white cotton shirt and nondescript tie. He was carrying a leather briefcase he’d found in Harrods. He had paid for all his purchases with cash.
There were six desks in the office. Two were unoccupied and a middle-aged woman sat at the one by the door. Salih assumed she was the secretary. A glossy magazine was propped up on her keyboard and she was talking into a headset. Young women sat at two more desks, a blonde with a ponytail and a dyed blonde with pink streaks. Both wore heavy mascara, blue eye-shadow and garish nail polish. The only man in the office was in his early forties with black hair that was greying at the temples. He was wearing a blue pinstriped suit but had hung the jacket over the back of his chair and rolled up his shirtsleeves. There was a small brass plaque on his desk with his name – Graham Pickering. He was talking animatedly into his phone, his left hand jabbing the air.
Salih waited until Pickering had replaced the receiver, then pushed open the door and went in. The secretary was still talking on her headset and pointed at a chair by the window. Salih ignored her and strode over to Pickering. ‘How do you do?’ he said, and extended his hand. Pickering shook it. ‘I’m looking to buy a house in the area, ideally detached with a garden. I have a twelve-year-old son who likes cricket.’ Salih sat down and put the briefcase on his lap.
‘And what sort of budget do you have?’ asked Pickering.
Salih shrugged, as if money was of no concern to him. ‘Three million. Four, perhaps.’
Pickering grinned. ‘I’m not sure we could run to a cricket pitch, but we could certainly get you a decent-sized garden for that. Close to Windsor?’
‘Please,’ said Salih. ‘Somewhere with character.’
Pickering stood up and went to a filing cabinet, pulled open a drawer and searched through a row of pale green files. ‘I’ve a selection of properties in that price range,’ he said. ‘Why don’t you have a look through them and let me know which ones you want to view?’
‘Excellent,’ said Salih. ‘Windsor’s a lovely town. We thought our son might go to Eton.’
‘It’s a great school,’ said Pickering.
‘Do you have children?’
‘A daughter.’
‘Does she go to Eton?’
Pickering laughed. ‘It’s for boys,’ he said. ‘Our daughter is away at another boarding-school.’
There was a pine-framed photograph on Pickering’s desk. Salih turned it to face him. It was a family group – Pickering with a dark-haired woman in her mid-thirties and a girl with her mother’s dark brown eyes. ‘You have a lovely family,’ he said. The woman was a few years younger here than she had been in the photograph Merkulov had given him.
‘Thank you,’ said Pickering. He went back to his desk and passed Salih a handful of printed brochures. He pointed to one. ‘This is a little above your budget but it’s quite special. There’s a heated pool and an amazing snooker room.’ He opened a drawer and gave Salih a typed form. ‘If you put down your contact details, I’ll send you anything new that comes on to the market. Where are you based?’
‘Dubai,’ said Salih, ‘but I have an office in London.’ He took out his wallet and gave Pickering a newly printed business card. ‘The mobile is the best number to use but you can send any information you have to the address there.’ It was an office in Mayfair that would collect any mail and divert phone calls to his pay-as-you-go mobile.
‘Excellent, Mr Hassan,’ Pickering said. ‘I’ll jot down the details and we’ll get them on to the computer.’ He began to fill in the form.
‘What about you? Where do you live?’ asked Salih, casually.
‘A village called Virginia Water,’ said Pickering. ‘Nice area, but I don’t know that there’s much available at the moment. There’s a lot of competition for houses in this area just now. Russian buyers have been snapping up anything that comes on to the market and they’ve got money to burn. There are two very good American schools locally so we get a lot of Americans too. We’ve an office there so I’ll find out if anything’s come on to the books in the last few days. There might be something on the Wentworth estate. Beautiful homes, and they have access to the golf course. Do you play?’
‘Not well,’ said Salih. ‘What about your house? Could I persuade you to sell?’
Pickering looked up. ‘Without seeing it?’
‘I’m sure you’ve got good taste,’ said Salih. ‘And I’m sure that as you’re in the business you’ll have chosen well.’
Pickering chuckled. ‘I do have a beautiful home, it’s true,’ he said, ‘but if I were ever to think of selling it, my wife would kill me.’ He returned to the form.
Salih nodded at the framed photograph. ‘She doesn’t look dangerous,’ he said.
‘Appearances can be deceptive,’ said Pickering. He laughed. ‘I’m joking, of course,’ he said. ‘At least, I think I am.’
Salih put the brochures into his briefcase, stood up and shook Pickering’s hand. He smiled to himself as he left. He had everything he needed. He knew where Charlotte Button lived, where her husband worked and where her daughter went to school. Now it was just a matter of time.