UNDONE

As Parlabane pulled out of Orly and hit the hire car’s accelerator, he tried not to think how long it had been since he lay down in a bed and slept properly. He had managed to doze briefly on the two flights it took him to reach Paris from Edinburgh, but cumulatively he must only have had his eyes closed for forty minutes. Sleep wasn’t an option right now, but nor was it a necessity. He was running on caffeine and adrenaline; nothing kept him buzzing quite like the scent of an exclusive.

The sat-nav guided him towards his destination through gathering darkness and swirling rain. It took a couple of hours, following the GPS coordinates Buzzkill had supplied. They were a precise fix on the IP address from where Peter Elphinstone had been logging into his Sacred Reign account, most recently that same afternoon while Parlabane was booking flights and doing some last-minute shopping.

It was after eleven when he got there, having to place great faith in Buzzkill’s numbers as the route led him down ever narrowing roads beyond the last village. The rain had let up at least, though there was a cold wind whipping past as he opened the car door and travelled the last forty or fifty yards on foot so as to keep the car out of sight.

It was an isolated cottage, set back from the single-track road. Parlabane approached cautiously, using the glow of his phone for light, though not engaging the full torch app. The grounds were unkempt and the exterior somewhat ramshackle: not quite where he pictured a tech geek holing up, though an icon on his phone reported that the house was rocking a strong Wi-Fi signal. This was definitely the place. Parlabane guessed it was either a fixer-upper or merely a temporary bolthole. Either way, Peter’s accommodation budget was intended to jack up dramatically in the near future.

Parlabane could see a glow from behind closed curtains through a window on the left towards the rear. He could hear music: the only time he was ever grateful to be listening to James Blunt, as it would cover the sound of his approach.

He proceeded on soft feet, walking over grass to avoid the gravel path. There was a Citroën C3 parked on a narrow driveway to the right of the house: uneven flagstones overgrown with grass and weeds. He crouched next to it and attached a GPS tracker out of sight inside the wheel arch. Stuff that was once the preserve of the security services, you could now pick up in Halfords.

It would be easy enough to get photographic proof in the morning, stay out of sight and take the shot from distance with a telephoto lens, but ideally Parlabane wanted face-to-face confirmation. He wanted to look the guy in the eye and witness the moment he realised his plan had crashed and burned. One of the potential consequences was that he might go on the run and try to disappear: hence the tracker.

Another potential consequence was that Peter might turn violent, as Lucy had specifically warned could happen when he felt cornered. That was why Parlabane hadn’t yet ruled out the telephoto option. For now he was simply getting the lie of the land, and would decide on his play once he knew what he was dealing with.

As he got closer to the house he observed that there was a sheet of paper taped to the front door. He held up his phone and read it by the glow from its screen. His French wasn’t great, but clearly they were expecting a delivery the next morning and didn’t want woken up to answer the door. It stated that the back door was unlocked and to leave the parcel in the kitchen. Couriers needed a signature before they were allowed to follow such instructions, and the note was signed off: ‘Merci, Courtney Jean Lang.’

Merci indeed, thought Parlabane.

He ventured around to the rear of the building, circling right to stay away from the window where the light and music were coming from. The back door was a sturdy old thing, heavy and weathered and easily a hundred years old. Parlabane reckoned the lock ­mechanism would have taken him no time to pick, but either way the biggest challenge was opening it quietly and hoping it didn’t squeak or shudder. He put a firm shoulder to it and twisted the handle, nudging it forward in a smooth and controlled movement.

He stepped inside, leaving it slightly ajar. The kitchen was in semi-darkness, light spilling through the partially open doorway to the hall. It was a large and airy room, dominated by a heavy wooden table in the centre. Parlabane noticed a couple of unopened letters lying on it, the envelopes bearing the automated print of utility bills. He held his phone close and read the addressee: Courtney Jean Lang.

The music still played from somewhere along the hall, but he could hear human sounds becoming louder beneath it: rhythmic male grunting and the moans and shrieks of a woman in the growing throes of orgasm. It ceased shortly thereafter, and was replaced by the quieter, muffled sounds of the afterglow: billing and cooing, giggling.

Then a male voice spoke up, loud and distinct, the accent ‘middle-class Scottish’, as Diana had described it.

‘Yeah, stick a couple of slices on for me as well. I’ll be through in a sec.’

He heard a door open down the hall, followed by footsteps. She was heading for the kitchen.

If he moved now, he could maybe get out before he was seen, though he wouldn’t be able to close the door without it being heard. They had just had sex, though: they would never be more vulnerable or unsuspecting as this.

He held his ground. When she walked in here in about five seconds, he would get hard proof of Cecily Greysham-Ellis’s secret alias, while down the hall lay incontrovertible evidence that Diana Jager was innocent.

Parlabane’s phone was already recording everything, but for back-up he set his camera to video mode and placed it down on the table next to the letters.

That was when it struck him that he was in France, where Courtney and Jean were both men’s names.

Parlabane felt a sudden lurching, like the floor was shifting beneath him.

Courtney Jean Lang wasn’t his lover’s alias: it was Peter’s new identity, acquired no doubt with the help of Sam Finnegan. This meant Peter didn’t need to trust the other beneficiary named on the insurance policy: he was the other beneficiary.

Parlabane’s mind raced, trying to calculate the consequences. He couldn’t see how this changed anything substantial, so why did he have the gut-wrenching sensation that he had missed something crucial, something that had been right in front of him the entire time?

Why did he have the horrible fear that he was about to be blindsided?

His heart began thumping and he involuntarily took a step back.

The door pushed open and she walked in wearing just a T-shirt, oblivious as she reached for the switch. The lights came on and she was revealed to him at last.

Peter’s conspirator. Peter’s lover. Peter’s sister.