And now it was over.
Hannah stayed a finely judged hour, neither too long nor too perfunctorily short, gave Purkiss a peck on the cheek, and took her leave.
As if on cue, Vale walked in.
The two men sat in silence, lulled by the two-note hiss of the ventilator.
At last, Purkiss said: ‘It feels like we’ve been here before, after Tallinn, but… what’s going to happen to her?’
‘Kasabian?’ Vale gave a mirthless half laugh. ‘Remember we were talking about Rossiter, and Kasabian mentioned he very nearly got tried for high treason, the first person in nearly seventy years to do so? Well, that’s what Sir Guy wants to do to Kasabian.’
Purkiss thought about it. ‘The grounds don’t exist,’ he said. ‘She’s a murderer, a psychopath in many ways. But technically not a traitor.’
‘Precisely.’ Vale coughed. He smelled of cigarette smoke once more. ‘She’ll get life, probably in solitary. Every charge they can throw at her. And this one they won’t be able to keep out of the public eye. Rossiter was an unknown. Kasabian’s a prominent public figure, rather a romantic one in some quarters, with her no-nonsense feminism, her so-called ideals. The scandal’s going to be enormous.’
‘Just keep my name out of it, will you, Quentin.’
‘Always.’ Vale fell silent for a moment. Then: ‘Tullivant’s wife was having an affair with Strang’s head of security, it turns out. Who was using her in turn to put feelers out on Tullivant, whom he was suspicious about. One James Cromer. Tullivant killed him last night.’
Purkiss thought: God. More killing. No end.
Vale rose. ‘You look dog-tired. Rest.’
There was just Purkiss, then, and the hissing rise and fall, and the semi-person that was Kendrick.
After half an hour a male nurse came in and murmured that Purkiss should be going, that he could come back in the morning.
Purkiss stood. He had no idea what state his Hampstead house was in, and was disinclined to find out just then. It would have to be a hotel for the night.
On the bed, Kendrick’s hand clawed upward, first batting at the apparatus protruding from his mouth, then finding purchase and hauling so that elastic stretched and plastic creaked. A harsh, drain-like gurgling issued from his throat.
Purkiss grabbed at the cotside of the bed, pulled it up to provide a barrier, as Kendrick began to thrash about, the tube gone from his throat, the air sucking in and out of his swollen throat. His eyelids fluttered, opened gummily.
He stared at Purkiss, one eye almost hidden beneath the swathes of bandages around his head.
His lips were bone dry, and moving.
Purkiss leaned in close.
He heard the words, faint but distinct.
‘Who was the bird?’