‘And very disrespectful in front of Her Majesty, Humphrey!’ Cleo complained, picking up the remote and freezing the video. ‘I can’t stop thinking about what you told me earlier, your visit to Guy.’
Batchelor’s notebook lay on the table in front of them.
‘It could end Cassian Pewe’s career,’ she said. ‘But what if it backfired?’
He nodded. ‘I know.’
‘They’d be relying on the evidence of a convicted, bent stockbroker and a police officer convicted of manslaughter. How well do you think that would play?’
‘In the right hands, it would be goodbye Cassian Pewe.’
She nodded at the television. ‘When he was King Edward VIII, he made a massive miscalculation, and lived out the rest of his life a sad and lost man, who had given up the trappings of royal life.’
‘And your point is?’
‘Swap Wallis Simpson for Cassian Pewe for a moment. You are risking everything that you have over him? You know the Chinese proverb, don’t you?’
‘Which is?’
‘Before you seek revenge, first dig two graves.’
He smiled. ‘I will. One for Cassian Pewe and one for his ego.’
8
Mr and Mrs Sutherland, account customers of Mark Tuckwell, were a sweet, wealthy couple in their eighties. They divided their year between their house in Naples, Florida, their flat in Marbella and their penthouse on Hove seafront.
Niall had helped them patiently as they made their way at a painfully slow pace from the airport to the taxi and then from the taxi to their flat. He lugged in Mr Sutherland’s Zimmer frame, Mrs Sutherland’s folding wheelchair and an incredible amount of luggage which he had only just been able to fit into the taxi, and then carried each of the almost unbelievably heavy suitcases into the rooms they directed.
‘You are so kind,’ Joan Sutherland had said. ‘There’s really no need.’
‘It’s no problem,’ he said, sweating profusely.
And bless Mr Sutherland. Tipping Niall, he’d pressed a banknote into his palm, thanking him for his help, and told him to go and buy himself a few drinks. Niall, imagining it to be a tenner or maybe a twenty — or perhaps even a fifty — thanked him profusely. But when he checked it as he got into the lift, he saw it was just a solitary five-pound note. Either the sweet man wasn’t quite up to speed with the times or his eyesight was failing. Or maybe he was just a tight-fisted old bastard.
Due to a French air-traffic controllers’ go-slow, which had impacted much of Europe, the flight had been over an hour late. As a result, Niall — cycling the mile back home uphill from the Tuckwell house after returning the taxi — didn’t get home until just after 11.45 p.m. By the time he took off the fuel cost and Mark deducted his cut, he’d be left with about fifty quid for over five hours’ work. Well, fifty-five quid, actually, including the tip.
Throughout the evening he’d repeatedly called Eden, but her mobile remained unavailable. It was the same with the house landline, no reply. Even so, he had little doubt, as he entered the house, that he would find her either in the lounge in front of the telly or upstairs in bed watching some crime series on Netflix or Amazon Prime.
The lounge was in darkness. He could hear no sound upstairs. Maybe she was asleep. If she was cross with him, hopefully she’d sleep it off and be in a better mood in the morning. He climbed the carpeted treads softly, not wanting to wake her, walked the few steps along the landing towards the bedroom door, which was ajar, and pushed it open further. Despite the heavy curtains, thanks to a street light right outside, their bedroom was tinged at night with a faint orange glow.
He saw their bed, neat and tidy, duvet on top, plumped pillows and an array of cushions, just as Eden had left it this morning.
OK, he thought. What game are you playing, babes?
Despite his tiredness, definitely needing a drink now, he went down to their sleek, modern, charcoal-and-white kitchen, took a beer from the fridge and searched around in the drawer for the bottle opener, where it normally lived, cursing when he couldn’t find it. Why couldn’t Eden ever put things away properly? He tried another drawer full of graters and other cookery gubbins, rummaged about, then cried out as he felt a sharp pain.
‘Oww, shit!’ He’d sliced his index finger open on a razor-sharp potato peeler. ‘Shit!’ he said again.
Blood dripped onto the white marble work surface. He sucked his finger, slammed shut the self-close drawer and looked around the worktops. And noticed a large knife missing from the rack. Why the hell couldn’t she ever put anything back where it belonged? Not that he was obsessive, but he enjoyed cooking when he had the time and was always careful to keep everything in order.
More blood dripped onto the floor. He sucked his finger again, then gripped the bottle, placed the cap against the edge of the worktop and banged it hard with his left fist. The cap flew off and froth rose out of the neck of the bottle. He swigged it, then pulled out his cigarettes, lit one with the lighter from his pocket, grabbed a saucer from the drying rack for an ashtray and sat on a high stool at the island breakfast bar unit.
Eden didn’t like him smoking indoors, but to hell with that right now. If she didn’t like it, she could walk into the room and tell him.
He sucked his finger again, tasting the coppery blood and wracking his brain. Stood up and went over to the pine Welsh dresser, the one antique in this room, where their best crockery was stored behind the glass doors, and glanced down at a framed photograph of the two of them on their honeymoon in the Maldives, in better financial times. They’d paid the resort’s photographer to take a series of photos of them and this one had been their favourite. Eden in a pink sundress and himself in a navy-blue T-shirt and shorts, holding hands and running along the sand at the water’s edge. She looked pretty damn gorgeous and he looked bloody handsome. The perfect couple.
Once upon a time.
Next to it sat the leather-bound address book with their initials embossed on the front in gold, a wedding present from someone — he had forgotten who. Despite Eden’s expertise in computer technology, she’d always insisted on keeping the names and addresses of all their friends and relatives — and tradespeople — in this book. Glad about that now, he picked it up, carried it back over to the breakfast bar, sat, took a drag on his cigarette, another swig of his beer, and began thumbing through the book. Thinking.
She had four really close friends. Close as hell. In the last couple of years, since their disagreements had become more and more frequent, he was sure she’d started turning all of them against him — he could tell, he wasn’t an idiot. Always a slight frostiness when he met any of them.
In the morning, if she still hadn’t turned up, he would call them. And her mother. Her sister. And anyone else he could think of. But he was pretty sure she’d be home sometime soon. Totally trolleyed and apologetic, like the last time she’d done this to him.
He finished the drink and the cigarette, then had another of each.
Quarter past midnight.
No Eden.
Where are you?
He went to bed.
9
Niall Paternoster was woken with a start by the clatter of the letter box. The orange glow of the street lighting had been replaced by daylight. From the brightness around the edges of the curtains it looked like a fine day. He glanced at the clock radio by his bed: 7.03 a.m. The morning paper delivery, he realized.
Then he realized something else as he became more awake.