SIX

Blake arrived in a Mercedes sports coupé. He wrapped her in his arms and held her close. He said, ‘Hon.’

‘She scared the crap out of me.’ She began to shake at the memory. ‘She left me a bunch of photographs. One guy had his eyes sewn shut . . .’

He led her to the car. Made sure she was buckled up. Switched on the engine, and turned up the heating.

She continued to gabble. ‘Two men who said they were from the DCRI took me and knocked me out with some kind of drug. I woke in a stable. I was tied to the wall . . . Her name’s Nahid. She wondered if I was a spook, or something more dangerous. She said she wanted . . .’

She couldn’t say the words.

I wonder which she’ll fear more: losing her sight or her speech?

He said, ‘It’s OK.’

She took a breath. Calmed herself. She was safe now.

Blake switched on the satnav screen. ‘Describe them,’ he said.

Detailing Nahid wasn’t a problem, but Tivon was more difficult. All she could recall was his thick black hair and the way his eyes had rolled back in his head when he’d lost consciousness. ‘Swarthy,’ she said. ‘Mediterranean. Middle Eastern. Hard to say, I was so busy bashing his head against the floor.’

‘Way to go,’ he said approvingly. Then, ‘Which farm?’

She peered around the village. ‘I came in from over there –’ she pointed south – ‘and since we drove about two miles to get here . . .’

Jay calmed as Blake talked her through her escape – the direction she’d initially taken, the fields she’d crossed – until they’d pinpointed the correct property.

‘Shall we call the police?’ she asked.

‘Not yet.’

She looked at the side of his face. ‘Why not?’

‘It’s complicated.’ He put the car into drive and pulled out.

‘Like how?’

‘Sol.’ He said the name quietly.

‘Max, I’m sorry . . . .’ She put Nahid and Tivon aside as she tried to work out how to break the news that she’d messed up. That she’d let him – and Sol – down.

‘Sol’s dead,’ Blake said before she could speak. It wasn’t a question.

‘Yes.’ She swallowed. ‘How did you know?’

‘I was part of the crowd opposite the alley.’

‘I didn’t see you.’

‘You weren’t supposed to.’

Blake paused briefly at the next crossroads before accelerating across. They were, she saw, north-west of Chantilly and barely an hour’s drive from the centre of Paris.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said. Her voice was small.

‘You saw the assassin?’

Jay remembered what Nahid had said in the stable. Was she a friend of Neill’s? Or is she something more dangerous . . . . She tried to stop me leaving the alley.

‘I’m pretty sure the assassin and Nahid are the same woman.’

Blake mulled this over for a second before asking, ‘Is your phone on?’

‘No. The battery’s dead. You think they might try to track me?’

‘Yup.’

‘Is that why you didn’t ring me, but turned up at Tom’s? So you couldn’t be tracked?’

He glanced at her. ‘I could have used a phone box to ring you.’

‘So why—’

‘I had to give you the tickets, the cash. Brief you.’

She suddenly realized her not going to Paris had never been an option.

It didn’t take long before they reached the outskirts of Paris, and Jay thought the city had never looked more beautiful. There was nothing like having a near-death experience to heighten one’s appreciation of a place. Thanks to the car’s efficient climate control system – as well as its heated seats – her jeans were finally drying out. She’d have to give them a good wash later. They smelled of pigs.

She glanced at the clock on the dashboard. Seven thirty p.m. Six thirty p.m. in England. Had it only been twelve hours since she’d left London? It felt as though she’d been away – on the run – for a week. Then she remembered what she was supposed to be doing this evening. Where she was supposed to be right now.

Shit.

‘I have to call Tom,’ she said.

‘How urgent?’

‘Very.’

He passed her his phone. ‘Be quick.’

She tried to remember Tom’s mobile number. She never dialled it. Just used speed dial, or picked him out from her list of ‘most recently used’ numbers.

Feeling stupid, she said, ‘I have to look it up.’

‘Try this charger.’

He flipped open the central console and withdrew a lead, along with an assortment of connectors. To Jay’s relief, one fitted her phone. She watched the screen come alive. Hastily, she scrolled to Contacts. Pressed T, for Tom. He wasn’t there. She looked again. Did a double take. She didn’t recognize any of the numbers.

‘Max . . .’ She passed him the phone. ‘They’re not mine.’

At the next lights he had a quick look. ‘They’re Sol’s,’ he said.

She stared.

‘You left him with your phone,’ Blake said. ‘He must have switched SIM cards.’

Jay remembered going to chivvy the recalcitrant waiting staff at the café. She’d taken her handbag with her, but not her phone, which had been on the café table. With Sol.

‘Yes,’ she said.

It had been Sol who’d told her to try and rustle up some service. Had he planned the swap earlier? How would he have known he could gain access to her phone? Or had the swap merely been opportunistic?

‘Did he swap memory cards?’ Blake asked.

Jay had a quick look at the media gallery, the assortment of pictures stored. Once again, she didn’t recognize anything. ‘Yes.’

Just south of the Gare du Nord, they hit a traffic jam. Jay leaned back and watched a policewoman pulling cars over for trying to venture up a road that was marked for taxis only.

Blake said, ‘Tell me what happened.’ His voice was quiet.

She gave him every detail she could remember, from Sol’s arrival at the café, to the lackadaisical waiting staff, the amount of money she’d left at the café – even which bills – and the gendarme’s questions. It was as though by listing each particular point she could atone for messing up. Would he ever forgive her?

‘I’m sorry,’ she said again. ‘I didn’t follow him immediately. If I had, then maybe I could have alerted him, stopped the woman—’

Blake switched his head round. ‘Stop there.’

She looked away. Her throat thickened. Tears began to rise.

‘You know there are no “maybes” in our game,’ he said.

Jay knew this wasn’t the case. She played the “maybe” game regularly – not just over operational errors, but in her personal life as well, with Tom and Sofie. And Blake too, but she’d rather nail her foot to the floor than let him know that.

‘You weren’t to know a professional assassin was on Sol’s tail.’

True, but it didn’t stop the waves of guilt washing through her.

Gradually, the traffic began to move. They inched their way into town before sweeping west.

‘Where did you get the car?’ she asked.

Blake gave her one of his looks that she knew meant don’t ask.

‘Where are we going?’

‘Somewhere safe.’

Somewhere safe was a beautifully appointed apartment in the heart of the 16^th Arrondissement, one of the richest parts of Paris. Spacious, lofty and elegant, it had wallpaper in blues and greens, of lakes and feathery willows and long-tailed fish. The furniture was French antique, lacquered gold. There was a Louis XIV chest of drawers that could have been a copy, but Jay doubted it. The whole place reeked of old money.

Framed photographs were everywhere and featured a beautiful woman with angular features and long dark hair. One picture showed the woman and Blake at the helm of a yacht. They were tanned, and their eyes were creased with laughter. They looked happy. Out of nowhere the knife of jealousy stabbed Jay, leaving her feeling breathless. She’d never seen Blake on holiday, or seen him looking so carefree.

‘Who lives here?’ she asked casually.

Blake shrugged.

‘Come on, Max.’ The knife of jealousy made her uncharacteristically pushy. ‘Tell me.’

‘A friend.’

‘What sort of friend?’

Blake opened a cabinet in the corner which hid a television. Using the remote, he switched on the news and wound up the volume.

Jay forgot about Blake’s ‘friend’ when she saw the reporter was on Rue du Temple, a stone’s throw from the alley where Sol had been murdered. He said the police were looking for a man to question, and at the same moment a picture of Blake filled the screen. It was an old photograph, slightly grainy. Blake’s hair was shorn so close to his scalp that it was hard to tell his hair colour. He was squinting slightly, his expression closed. He looked dangerous and mean.

The reporter came back on the screen. He said the murder weapon had been found – an assassin’s stiletto that had been rammed into the back of the victim’s head – and that Blake’s fingerprints were all over this stiletto. Blake was considered highly dangerous, and the public were warned against approaching him.

‘They think you’re the murderer?’ Her voice came out high-pitched and filled with horror.

Blake held up a hand. She fell quiet until the section ended.

‘But I saw her!’ Jay protested. ‘I told the police it was a woman!’

Blake sank on to the sofa. He was white.

‘What’s going on?’ Jay swept to his side. Took his hand in hers. It was icy cold. She threaded her fingers through his. ‘Max, talk to me.’

The gaze he sent her was blank.

‘Max . . .’

In one swift movement he was on his feet. He picked up her mobile phone with Sol’s SIM and memory cards still inside. ‘I’ll be back in an hour.’

‘Max,’ she protested.

‘Stay here. Don’t go outside.’ He was looking at her, but he wasn’t seeing her. ‘Promise?’

She crossed her heart. ‘Promise.’

And then he was gone.

Shakily, Jay rose and walked to the kitchen. Opened the fridge. Without looking at the label, she withdrew a bottle of wine. Searched the drawers until she found a corkscrew. She didn’t think she’d ever needed a drink so much. Or a cigarette. Despite the fact she’d given up smoking two years ago, the urge for a hit of nicotine was almost overwhelming. Good job she didn’t have any ciggies with her, or she’d have smoked the entire pack. After a couple of slugs of wine, she felt stronger. She took her wine on to the balcony. Looked at the street below, the cars scurrying like beetles around a statue of a man on a horse. Napoleon, probably.

When she finished her wine, she didn’t pour another glass. She didn’t want her senses to be blurred with alcohol in case Blake returned and she needed to be fully aware. Instead, she watched TV to see Blake was the hottest story in France. She wondered why a local Paris murder had been reported so extensively. Was someone pulling strings?

Using the apartment’s landline, Jay called overseas directories. She couldn’t access Tom’s mobile or his home numbers – both were ex-directory – but his parents were listed. She spoke to Tom’s mother – an active sixty-year-old addicted to golf – who rattled it off by heart.

‘Jessica, when are you and Tom coming to see us again?’ Tom’s mother, along with her own, were the only people who could use her given name and get away with it.

‘Soon,’ Jay said. ‘Sorry, Diana, I’m in a bit of a rush . . .’

‘Of course. See you soon, OK?’

They hung up. Jay redialled.

‘Sutton,’ he barked.

‘It’s me.’

‘Is this the me racing to Bristol laden with shopping bags bulging with French produce for a late, if fantastic, supper, or the me who’s ringing to say something’s up?’

Jay closed her eyes. Some days, she wished he didn’t know her quite so well. ‘The latter,’ she admitted.

Silence.

‘It’s complicated,’ she added. ‘I’ll be back as soon as I can.’

‘But not tonight.’

‘No. Sorry.’

Another silence while she imagined him rolling his eyes to the ceiling. Or tearing out his hair. Probably both.

‘It’s OK,’ he said on a sigh. ‘We had baked beans on toast.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Why can’t I be engaged to a normal woman?’ Tom mused. ‘Someone reliable would be nice.’

‘I am reliable! Well, most of the time,’ she added hastily.

‘Sofie was really looking forward to meeting you.’

Jay cringed. ‘Sorry. I’ll make it up to her, I promise.’

‘Do you think you’ll be here tomorrow?’

She dithered briefly before realizing any further uncertainty on her part would only reignite his irritation. She said, ‘Yes.’

‘We’ll have a rerun. I’ll let Sofie know.’

‘Great.’ Her shoulders slumped in relief.

‘Is everything OK?’ His tone changed slightly as his cop voice inched in. ‘You make your Paris meeting OK?’

‘Yes.’ Which was true. It was only after the meeting that everything had turned pear-shaped.

‘Anything I need to know about?’

‘I’ll tell you about it when I’m back.’

Jay hung up. She hated not telling Tom everything, but caution made her circumspect, especially regarding the fact she was with Blake. She spent the next half an hour alternately prowling through the apartment and flicking through the TV channels. She wanted to wash and dry her jeans, but didn’t dare in case Blake suddenly returned and they had to go. In the kitchen she was disconcerted to see several jars of honey from around the globe: Uruguay, Mexico, Italy. Where some people collected postcards or stamps from their travels, Blake collected honey. These were gifts for the apartment’s owner.

She closed the cupboard, fighting the blade of envy. Blake had asked her out on several occasions, and she’d always said no. If Tom hadn’t been around she wouldn’t have hesitated though. Or would she? Blake wasn’t exactly great boyfriend material, whizzing off on dangerous missions around the globe at a moment’s notice, and his taciturn nature would probably drive her insane. But she couldn’t deny the chemistry between them. Little wonder Tom didn’t trust her with Blake. Some days she had trouble trusting herself.