It was all small talk as he pottered about making coffee, but she had the feeling he was paying close attention to her answers.
‘When can I come back to work?’
‘Champing at the bit, eh?’ His pomposity was breathtaking.
I was ducking bullets in war zones while you were still round the back of the bike shed playing with dirty magazines, Abby told him silently.
‘HR are worried about your “well-being”.’ He held up his fingers in quotation marks. ‘They’re insisting on a full assessment – medical, psychiatric, the works – before they’ll bring you off the bench.’
She put on her best sane face. ‘Psychiatric assessment?’
‘You’ve suffered severe physical trauma, stress, and bereavement. Your file says there was also some memory loss.’
‘Short-term. Haven’t they ever heard of getting back on the bike?’
‘We’re just watching out for you.’ He took off his glasses and gave her a nothing-shall-come-between us look. It made her want to punch him.
‘So why did you want to see me?’
‘I didn’t.’ A self-deprecating grin. ‘I’m just the go-between, really. Chai-wallah. Hello.’
A man had appeared at the door. He came in and locked it behind him. He had iron-grey hair chopped short and awkward, a hard face and an economical precision in his movements that reminded Abby of soldiers she’d known.
‘Mrs Cormac, my name is Jessop.’
‘Jessop’s from Vauxhall,’ Mark explained.
He means SIS, Abby thought. Often known as MI6, as their incongruous job adverts put it.
Jessop seated himself across the table from her and unzipped his bag. Out came a small, pen-shaped piece of plastic.
‘Does that squirt poison ink or something?’ Nerves made her flippant.
‘Voice recorder.’ Jessop pushed a button on the end of the device. A red light went on.
‘This interview is taking place under the terms of the Official Secrets Act. Please state your name and confirm you’re aware this conversation is being recorded.’
Interview? ‘What’s this got to do with the Official Secrets Act?’
‘Just bureaucracy,’ Mark assured her. ‘Dotting the i’s and t’s. It’s as much for your protection as anything.’
It’s good to know I’m protected. ‘What do you want?’
‘We don’t believe that Michael Lascaris’s death was an accident.’
Abby almost threw her coffee over him. ‘Of course it wasn’t an accident. They broke in and murdered him.’
‘People can still be murdered accidentally,’ Mark said. Trying to smooth the waters. ‘The wrong place at the wrong time, that sort of thing. What Mr Jessop’s saying is that he doesn’t think this was one of those scenarios.’
‘We think Michael Lascaris was targeted,’ Jessop confirmed.
Abby tried to control her breathing. ‘And?’
‘In an earlier statement, you said you believed the villa in Montenegro belonged to an Italian judge.’
‘That’s what Michael told me.’
‘In fact, it’s registered to a charter yacht outfit in Venice, which is a wholly owned subsidiary of a shipping company based in Zagreb. The ultimate beneficial owner is believed to be Zoltán Dragović.’
‘Should I know him?’
‘You worked in the Balkans and you never heard of Zoltán Dragović?’ said Jessop.
Mark looked up from his pad. ‘She suffered some memory loss,’ he offered. Always happy to help.
But the memories were coming back. Abby put her hands on the table and looked at Jessop.
‘He’s a gangster.’
Jessop gave a dry laugh. ‘That’s one way of putting it.’
‘You can see it doesn’t look good,’ Mark put in. ‘A senior EU customs official staying in a house that belongs to one of the most wanted men in Europe.’
‘Michael didn’t know,’ Abby insisted.
‘Did you ever hear him mention Dragović?’
‘Never.’
‘Have you been in touch with any of Michael’s associates since you returned to England?’
‘Associates?’ She stared at him in disbelief. ‘You’re making him sound like some kind of criminal.’
‘Colleagues? Friends? Family?’
‘I visited his sister in York. I wanted to offer my condolences.’
‘How did you get her address?’
‘Someone sent it to me.’ She glanced desperately at Mark, but he was writing something and didn’t look up. ‘Wasn’t it you?’
‘Don’t know what you’re talking about.’
Come on, she told herself. You’ve been through worse than this. Sitting in a shack in some godforsaken corner of the earth, the only unarmed person in the room. The awful smell of sweat, blood and rifle grease. Men – some of them just boys – jabbing guns at her, their nostrils flaring from the cocaine that gave them their courage. Her only protection then had been a piece of paper from a court five thousand miles away.
But that was there – the outer darkness, as some of the old Foreign Office hands still called it. This was home. All those years, all those hellholes, what kept her alive hadn’t been her pieces of paper or her diplomatic accreditation. It had been faith – unwavering belief that whatever fatuous, bureaucratic mistakes her government might make, it was a force for good in the world. And now that same government had her locked in a room, twisting her words with unspoken allegations and lies.
‘What made you decide to go to Paris?’ Jessop asked.
‘I fancied a break.’
‘Less than two months ago, you suffered a horrendous attack. You’re barely back in the country a fortnight and you’re already racing off on overseas adventures.’
‘Mark says I’m supposed to be acting erratically. He thinks I’m cracking up.’
Jessop raised his eyebrows and gave her a sceptical look. She supposed that was a compliment, of sorts. Mark picked up a file and leafed through it.
‘According to our man in Podgorica, they found a gold necklace at the crime scene. You said it was yours?’
‘That’s right.’
‘A present from Michael?’
‘Yes.’
‘Can I see it?’ Mark saw that she was about to say something and cut her off. ‘I’ll save you some embarrassment. The security people who searched your bag when you came in, they said they’d seen it in there. Couldn’t help noticing it, actually.’ He held out his hand. ‘Please?’
She wanted to wipe the patronising sincerity off his face once and for all, but didn’t know how. She wanted to run, but the red light next to the door didn’t blink. She wanted to scream, but she wouldn’t give them the satisfaction.
She fumbled in her bag and brought out the necklace. Mark gave her a smile that made her want to knock his teeth out.
‘I think we’ll just keep this for a little while.’
Of course, she thought dully. She could see them waiting for a reaction and refused to give it to them. It was the one thing she could withhold.
She picked up her bag and stood. ‘I’d like to go now.’
Mark was still eyeing the gold necklace. Jessop escorted her to the door.
‘Be careful,’ he warned her.
‘In case my government locks me up and robs me again?’
‘Someone targeted Michael. It’s entirely possible they’ll come back for you.’
He swiped his card and the light went green. Abby pushed past without a word. No one tried to stop her.
She didn’t know where to go. She felt as if she were dangling on the end of a rope, strung up to the sky for all to see and jeer at. Every face that glanced at her, every footstep behind her, every arm that jostled her in the crowds around Trafalgar Square seemed to accuse her of something terrible, unsayable. This is what we were supposed to stop, she thought. Guilt without evidence, accusations without charge. And walking out of a room without the things you brought in.