We travelled in her car. My idea. I wanted her attention fixed on something other than me. I gave her directions and she nodded solemnly, as though taking it all in, and chattered about nothing in particular – unusual for her, a sign of nerves, perhaps. Me, I was silent. I had ten minutes, tops, to plan how to play it. Surprise and superior knowledge had always been my strongest cards, but I was right out of Kings and Queens. The Joker in the pack had never figured in my vocabulary. You get in. You do the job. And off you fuck.
My difficulty was self-restraint. In the old days, I wouldn’t have hesitated to remove a problem. True, I had neutralised the Russian in brutal self-defence as recently as a couple of weeks ago. Didn’t make it right, but it was an easier position to defend. There was a difference, to my mind, between murdering to survive and murdering for gain. Would I really do it all again? Was I going to undo over a year of living a decent life? Indecision dogged me and indecision was a killer. I had no more than fifteen minutes in which to make up my mind. Whatever I decided would dictate the rest of my life.
I yawned, stretched, leant back into the soft leather.
‘You are tired?’
‘Bushed.’
I said nothing more. To her credit, she paused at a crossroads, made a pantomime of not knowing which route to take.
‘Straight on,’ I said. ‘Over there.’ I pointed at the gated drive. Transferred from Billy Franke, benefactor and philanthropist, to Simon Faber, charity, all above board, I didn’t doubt.
‘Looks like electronic gates,’ she said. ‘How do we get in?’
I looked across at her, my grin wolfish. ‘We push them. They’re open, trust me.’
She hiked an eyebrow and we both climbed out of the car. I took one gate, she the other. She could have taken me then. But I didn’t think she would. There was something of the showman in the way she operated. Highly strung, she adored the thrill, the drama and theatre. And she didn’t have her special bag.
We climbed back in and Simone drove on. I paid no attention to the familiar rural landmarks, the lake or the dovecot or the green expanse of fields that flanked the long and winding drive. I had other preoccupations. This was no longer about Simone and me. This was about the sort of man I was. Was I still a taker? And if I wasn’t, what was the alternative? Where did my future lie? Did I have one?
She pulled up outside the black and white farmhouse, Billy’s old lair. We both climbed out. The afternoon weather had taken a turn for the worst – the leaden sky was raw and joyless. I looked out across overgrown lawns to the stable block, the site of so much carnage more than a year ago.
‘You have been here before?’ She looked playful, with mischief in her eyes.
‘I have, many times.’
Simone looked up at the house. ‘It looks a little rundown, don’t you think?’
She was right. An empty house deteriorates quickly, particularly in northern climates. The paintwork needed attention. Plaster around the front door flaked. Several windows on the upper storey looked rotten and unstable. ‘Be good as new with TLC.’
She skipped up the steps across a patio and towards a porch, her long coat wrapped around her.
‘Go inside,’ I said, close behind. ‘It’s open.’
‘But what about –’
‘Justine?’ I interjected. ‘I already told you. Nothing to worry about.’
‘And her heavies?’
‘The people who roughed up your room?’
‘Exactly. They might be lying in wait.’ As soon as the words left her mouth, she realised her mistake. She covered it well enough, but the rare flash of colour that fled across her high cheekbones gave her away. How could she know that her room had been roughed up? She’d only collected her car, or so she’d said.
The heavy oak door emitted a gasp of pain as she pushed it open. I followed on her heels and into a collection of hollow rooms with chequerboard walls of pale and dark colour denoting where dressers and bookcases and other large pieces of furniture had once stood. The air smelt damp and musty and old. I fancied that it was overlaid with gunpowder, smoke and lubricant, the same odour that had emanated from Simone’s glove.
‘What a fantastic staircase,’ she said, eyes alive. Linking her arm tightly through mine, she drew me close. It was a classic move. I imagined the next. Simone taking a gun from her coat, pressing the muzzle next to my ribs, pulling the trigger. Shatter and burn.
‘Let’s explore.’ She propelled me forward and onto a wide run of six stairs, five flights in all, with elaborately carved newel posts and finials, the entire staircase created from a forest of seasoned oak. At one step per second, I calculated that I had thirty seconds to act.
We reached the top and crossed an immense landing, our footsteps loud and ringing in the empty space. Simone let go and darted from one room to another, me trailing along behind. Her mood had changed from one of reserve to exuberance. Eager to give the impression of a woman planning how to restore the house to its former splendour, how she’d arrange the furnishings, choose the colour scheme, she gave it maximum effort. I actually believed she was enjoying herself. Not me – I wanted to get it over with.
‘Come and see,’ she called. I crossed the floor, staking her every move, her hands clasped together, the way she looked out across the grounds with its walled gardens and pergolas, how her eyes narrowed at the vista of trees and fields visible in the distance. ‘It’s so terribly English.’ She turned to me, her face a picture of little girl excitement.
A flash of hesitation, a moment of doubt, and it came at a price.