TWO

Jay drove back to London on Sunday evening to find her housemates sitting in front of the TV and polishing off plates of lasagne.

‘Help yourself.’ Denise waved a fork at her. ‘There’s loads in the kitchen.’

Angela poured Jay a glass of red wine and, plate on her lap, Jay ate while they watched a rerun of Top Gear.

‘Gorgeously gorgeous rang earlier,’ Denise said. ‘Looking for you.’

‘He turned up at Tom’s,’ Jay said. ‘No phone call. No warning. I was eating breakfast, and there he was.’

Denise’s eyes rounded. ‘Bloody hell. How did Tom take it?’

‘Not well.’

‘I can imagine.’ Angela’s voice was dry.

‘So I invited Sofie to stay tomorrow night.’

Both Angela and Denise paused, forks raised. ‘Bloody hell,’ Denise swore again. ‘Some diversionary tactic. Did it work?’

‘Yup.’

Swearing came naturally to the girl squad, as Tom called them, thanks to their army background. Both women were ex-special reconnaissance soldiers supporting 1 PARA who Jay had met on her tour in Kosovo. They’d all left the army around the same time, and when the girls had set up house in Fulham, they’d invited Jay to join them. Not for the first time, Jay looked around at the high ceilings, the open fireplace and glass doors that led to the patio and barbecue area, and blessed Angela’s ex-husband. Without his generosity during the divorce, they’d probably be living in a squat in the outer reaches of London, rather than in one of the most prestigious suburbs in the heart of the city.

While they cleared the kitchen Jay told her housemates about her trip to France. ‘I won’t be home tomorrow night. I’ll stay over with Tom and Sofie, and then train back the next morning.’

‘You’re not cooking, are you?’ Denise eyed her carefully.

‘I’ll go to M&S first. They have some really good ready meals.’

‘Good girl. You don’t want to put little Sofie off for life.’

Jay wondered if she should do a cooking course of some sort. The domestic gene seemed to have passed her by and, unlike the rest of her family, she had trouble making even the simplest dishes. So far, Tom had been tolerant, almost amused at her amateur efforts, but if they were going to get married – they’d been unofficially engaged since July – perhaps the time had come to get her housewifely skills in order. Tom couldn’t cook either, and the thought of feeding their kids – she’d already decided she’d quite like two – on nothing but takeaways didn’t appeal. Her mind drifted to wonder what their kids would be like. Grossly fat if she didn’t learn to cook. Jay resolved to look up cooking courses when she returned from Paris.

Before she headed for bed she made sure she had all the phone numbers she needed to cancel her appointments the next day. Nick, her boss, wouldn’t be happy at her sudden change in plans, but then she remembered Blake and Nick knew each other from previous lives. Apparently, they’d done an op together near Tripoli years ago, but what sort of op, she’d never found out. All Blake had said when she’d asked him about it was that it had been ‘hot’, and Nick hadn’t been any more forthcoming. He’d simply said, ‘Messy,’ and had changed the subject by asking her when she was going to set a wedding date – a subject guaranteed to distract her.

Blake wasn’t just tight-lipped about his past. He was tight-lipped about everything. What she knew of his family, girlfriends, friends, she could write on a pinhead. Except now she knew he had a sister; Emilie, who was in hospital. Jay climbed into bed, switched out the light. The familiar sounds of London drifted through her open window: cars starting up, buses groaning down Fulham Road, airplanes coming to land at Heathrow. She wondered what Emilie did and if she was, like her brother, employed by the Security Services. Jay drifted into sleep thinking she’d quite like to meet Blake’s sister.

She awoke to the sound of a blackbird singing. Rolling over, she plucked her mobile phone off her bedside table to see her internal alarm clock had kicked in three minutes before the alarm was due to sound. Nice to know some army instincts were still alive.

She showered quickly, pulling on her usual uniform of skinny jeans, stretchy sweater, and a pair of cosy, sheepskin-lined boots. A pair of hooped earrings followed, and a jade heart pendant Tom had given her for Christmas that nestled in the hollow of her throat. A lick of mascara, some lip gloss, and she was good to go.

It didn’t take long to cross London for St Pancras, nor to collect her Eurostar tickets. Come seven a.m. she was leaning back in her business premier seat and watching London slide past. She could get used to this sort of travel, she thought, tucking greedily into breakfast. Smoked salmon, fresh ciabatta, croissant, butter, a little pot of marmalade, and coffee on tap. It certainly beat grabbing a takeaway doughnut and a cappuccino served in Styrofoam.

Jay sent Blake a text to let him know she was en route, then wondered if he still used the same number. They’d had no contact since he’d left for Brazil five months ago. The fact he hadn’t telephoned her, but had turned up at Tom’s house, continued to bother her.

The remainder of the journey was spent making calls and rearranging her week. Frustrating, but the sting was eased by her luxurious surroundings. Clever Blake . . . and even cleverer of him to give her a huge wad of euros, the size of which made her eyes water. She wasn’t going to have to travel by the Métro when she hit Paris, but could take a taxi – which, she supposed, had been Blake’s plan. Thumbing through the euro bills, she reckoned she could live happily in Paris for a week, no expense spared. Shame she had to return that afternoon. She loved Paris.

The Café de la Poste was set in the heart of the Marais, a residential area comprised of medieval, narrow streets and winding alleyways, and was typical of the area, with tables and chairs on the pavement, tucked beneath gas-burning heaters, and a team of languorous waiting staff who served their clientele at a snail’s pace. Jay had been there for ten minutes, and nobody had yet taken her order. She checked her watch again. Sol was five minutes late. She didn’t know if he had her mobile number, but she put her phone on the table next to the ashtray, easy to grab, just in case.

She was thinking about going inside and chivvying a waiter when a man approached the café. He wore jeans and a blue jacket, tan belt, and leather shoes. Despite his casual air, his eyes flicked over the pedestrians, the vehicles driving past, the elderly man and his dog crossing the road. He was alert, constantly aware of everything around him. Immediately, she knew he was Blake’s contact. He looked as fit and lean as a wolf.

His eyes travelled over her, seemingly without recognition, and for a moment she thought he was going to walk straight past, but at the last second he pulled out the chair beside her – facing the street – and sat down.

‘Jay,’ he said.

He didn’t offer a hand for her to shake. Just studied her with a steady grey gaze.

‘Solomon Neill,’ she said.

‘Sol.’

‘Sol,’ she repeated.

He gave a nod. She guessed he was military, or ex-military, not just from his erect bearing, but from his haircut, shorn close to his scalp. While she surveyed him, he did the same, his gaze travelling from her boots and up five feet ten inches to her wavy, conker-coloured hair. She took after her grandmother in looks, tall and athletic, and her father in character, fiercely independent and strong minded.

He said, ‘Max tells me he trusts you with his life.’

‘As I trust him.’

Another nod. ‘Impeccable credentials.’

Since she had no idea what the meeting was about, she didn’t say any more. It was up to Sol to take the lead. A moped buzzed past, its rider shaking out a leg, indicating his muscles were stiff. The sun had warmed a little, and Jay leaned back, but she couldn’t enjoy the heat on her cheeks. She was tense, and would be until she knew what was happening.

‘You ordered yet?’ Sol asked.

She shook her head.

‘Slow service, huh.’

‘Very.’

‘You mind chasing them up? I’d quite like a coffee today, rather than next week.’

Jay cut him a glance. He didn’t seem to be the type to expect a woman to jump to do his bidding, but she wasn’t going to quibble. This wasn’t a normal meeting. ‘Sure,’ she said. Handbag over her shoulder, she stepped inside the café. Not a single waiter looked her way. She had to stand virtually on top of one man before he took any notice. After ordering, she returned to her seat.

‘Do you know Max’s sister, Emilie?’ asked Sol.

‘No.’

‘She’s pretty sick.’

‘So Max said.’

Sol reached into his breast pocket and popped on a pair of sunglasses. ‘I wanted to marry Emilie, but she fell in love with someone else.’

Jay couldn’t think what to say to this, and opted for silence.

‘That’s why I’m here.’ He turned his head, but although he appeared to be looking straight at her, she couldn’t see his eyes behind his glasses. ‘For Emilie.’

Jay gave a nod to show she’d heard.

‘And the others.’

She wanted to ask what he meant, but at that moment Sol’s phone gave a chirp, indicating he had a message.

He passed it across so he could see. Just arrived in Paris. See you in 30. Max.

The muscles in his face were tight. ‘He doesn’t say anything about Emilie.’

‘You could ask him.’

‘No.’ Sol held up a hand. ‘He’ll be here shortly. He can talk me through it.’

Sol withdrew. Jay let him be. Their coffee arrived, but Sol didn’t touch his. He was staring down the road, but she didn’t think he was seeing anything. Talk about a man with much on his mind.

A small boy, no more than eight, came to their table. He didn’t say anything, just passed Sol a note and ran off. Sol frowned as he read it. He pocketed the note. Rose to his feet. He said, ‘Back in a minute.’

Jay watched him walk to the side of the café and disappear around the corner.

Keep an eye on him, Jay. Blake’s words echoed in her mind.

Jay flung some euros on the table. Grabbed her phone and shoved it in her handbag. Set off after him. She rounded the corner, but Sol was nowhere to be seen. Her heartbeat picked up. Blake had entrusted her with his friend. Where was he? She kept walking, turning her head from side to side, studying the pedestrians, occupants of cars. No Sol.

Fifteen yards along, she paused at the entrance to an alley, glanced inside. Saw two figures, just yards away. It took a moment for her brain to process what it was seeing.

Sol was sprawled on cobblestones. He appeared to be unconscious. A lithe blonde woman was bent over him. She had what appeared to be a stiletto in her hand. It looked custom-made, with a bone handle and four inches of needle-sharp steel. Jay took a breath and opened her mouth, a shout forming in her throat, and at the same time the woman rammed the stiletto behind Sol’s ear and into his skull.