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BETWEEN TWO PLATFORMS dangling ladders, seven ropes hung from the ceiling. Each ended thirty feet above floor-level. Beneath them stretched a safety net.
The gym smelt of Marcie’s sweat. She wore a black leotard and plimsolls. Miss Demure’s long dress and lace blouse were perfectly suited to her detachment from today’s lesson. She obviously had no intention of teaching by example. The two women faced each other. When they spoke their voices echoed slightly.
“To begin with,” Miss Demure said, “I simply want to see how long it takes you to get from the floor at this end to the floor at the other. Once you’ve succeeded, we’ll repeat the exercise, but with one of the ropes – you won’t be able to predict which, of course - detaching on contact. Then two. You may start whenever you’re ready.”
Marcie ascended the ladder as she’d been taught, right foot and left hand, left foot and right hand, ignoring the rungs and using her arms to pull her up. She scrambled onto the platform, paused to size up what remained and launched herself at the first rope. Her momentum carried her to the second without difficulty but she’d lost ten inches of height. She tried to regain it on the third but overstretched herself and dropped on to the safety net. She crawled to the edge and let herself down to the floor.
Miss Demure smiled. “What do you think you did wrong?”
“Too fast. More haste, less speed.”
“How long do you think it ought to take?”
Marcie shrugged. “Four minutes?”
“The world record is one thirty-six. Four would be acceptable for now.”
“I lost height on the second rope and I guess I panicked.”
“As soon as you came in here, you should have been thinking about what I was going to ask you to do and how you’d achieve it. Think now. Assume you’ve got longer this time. How do you think you’re going to address the loss of height?”
“Transfer the oscillations from one rope to another before I switch?”
“Very good.”
“And use one arm at a time.”
“Try it.”
“Do you think my biceps are big enough?”
Miss Demure laughed. “Your muscles are more than adequate for your weight. Don’t go bodybuilding or taking steroids.”
“I wasn’t going to.”
“Are you sure you want another attempt so quickly?”
“Try and stop me.”
Nine minutes later – after two more falls - she succeeded in completing all seven ropes. Miss Demure laughed.
Marcie grinned and wiped her forehead with a towel. “What’s so funny?”
“It normally takes people two or three days.”
“You think it was a fluke, eh? Maybe it was. I’d better try again, just to be sure.”
“Aren’t you tired?”
“I can’t let that hold me back.”
Miss Demure sat down on a bench. “Take five. I hope this doesn’t sound as if I’m prying, but you seem to be possessed of a new resolve since your brother died. I sense you’ve discovered some sort of vocation.”
“I’m going to join the army.”
“The army?”
“At first I thought it was just a negative reaction, like an escape from certain things. My mother’s taken Jonathan’s death badly and I’m not sure she’ll ever relate to me in the same way again. And there’s my criminal record. It’s difficult to get a normal job with one of those.”
“Have you been to the army careers office?”
“I’ve looked at their website. They say they won’t necessarily turn you down. They believe in giving young offenders a second chance.”
“And that’s why you’ve been working so hard for me?”
“I thought you might give me a reference. Plus the self-defence skills.”
“But what if they send you to Afghanistan or Iraq?”
“I’m hoping they will.”
“What if you’re killed or badly wounded?”
Marcie sighed. “Someone’s got to do it.”
“You must realise not everyone would agree with that sentiment.”
“I don’t know whether we should ever have gone to war or not. I’m not talking about that. But I do know that now we have, we can’t just walk away.”
Miss Demure paused and looked at the ground. “I think we should call it a day for today. Start again tomorrow.”
“You’re – you’re not angry with me, are you?”
Miss Demure turned to her with an expression that was impossible to read. “On the contrary,” she said. “I’m very, very pleased with you.”
Marcie showered and went home to change. She put on a red dress, a string of pearls and her court shoes and tied her hair in a bun. Fleming arrived at eight in a brown suit, and she made him sit in the lounge while she finished her make up. Half an hour later, they set off on foot for the restaurant.
“I’ve never eaten Lebanese before,” she said.
“Neither have I. Not knowingly. I suppose I might accidentally have consumed some Lebanese food at some time in my life.”
“What on earth do you mean?”
“I may have eaten something Lebanese without knowing its country of origin.”
She hooted. “Vintage Fleming.”
They went into the restaurant and stood behind a sign that said, ‘Please wait for an attendant to guide you to a table’. Four chandeliers with dark red shades – the same colour as the carpet -hung low enough to peer down on. The wallpaper was blue arabesque on a cream background. In the background Nawal al Zoghbi sang Ma Loom.
The attendant – a bald, middle aged man in a white evening jacket – came over and bowed from the neck slightly.
“We have a reservation,” Fleming said. “Table for two, name of Nicholas Fleming.”
“Yessss,” the waiter said, as if their arrival was a great relief but also the cause of considerable resentment.
They sat down. Fleming ordered a bottle of wine. They pored over the menu, ordered Saiyadit al-Samak and Hareeseh and crossed their fingers.
“I like the fact that you’ve brought me here,” she said.
“It’s supposed to be a very nice place.”
“You’ve never been here before? I like that doubly.”
“I’m not sure what you’re getting at.”
“Nicholas Fleming will always be Nicholas Fleming, he’ll always try to reduce the element of uncertainty to nil, but at least he’s trying.”
He smiled. She reached her hands across the table to him and he took them.
“I think you’ll find I’ve grown up a bit since we last met,” she said.
“In what way? You were fine as you were.”
“I don’t see spontaneity as so much of a virtue now. I mean, I still value it. But next to reliability and loyalty, I can see it’s rather a paltry thing.”
He sighed. “I still care for you, Marcie. I don’t want to scare you off, but when I form an affection for someone, I tend to stick with it, even when that someone throws a blancmange at me.”
“Yes, I’m really sorry about that.”
“I deserved it. You’re right, I was Hamlet.”
“Neither of us has anything to be proud of. I was the proverbial bull in a china shop that day. Yet they say opposites attract.”
“Do you think there’s any possibility of us ever getting back together again?”
“I’m going to join the army.”
“Pardon me?”
“If you can put up with that and wait for me, then I’m not ruling anything out.”
“I don’t believe it. The army? But you might get killed.”
“Back up, Nick. You’re going to have to accept me on my terms or not at all.”
He withdrew his hands and used them to hold his head up. He looked at the candle in the middle of the table as if it was something he’d just lit for a memorial service. “And there’s absolutely nothing I can do to dissuade you?”
“I’m not sure you’d have a leg to stand on, having been in the army yourself.”
“But that was different.”
“Oh, really.”
“Yes, because the Coldstream’s a family tradition.”
“I’m not getting into your bloody snobby family again, Nick. We’re in Lebanon now. There isn’t a blancmange to hand.”
“Sorry.”
“Anyway, my mind’s made up.”
He pursed his lips then offered her a handshake. “Okay, yes, I accept.”
She grinned and shook his hand. “I’m only saying I’m not ruling anything out, mind. I’m not saying yes. You might turn out to be just too much of a fastidious, nitpicking fusspot for comfort. And it’s not as if I’m not a complete screwball.”
“I’ll start seeing a psychotherapist right away.”
“You’d better not.”
“For your part, you need to promise me you won’t run off with some barrel-chested sergeant major.”
“It’s you or no one, I’ve known that for a long time. But I’m not frightened of spinsterhood, so be warned.”
He kissed her hand. The waiter brought them their food and a loaf of sliced bread and Marcie unfolded her napkin and laid it on her lap. Suddenly it was time for the main business of the evening.
“Did you find anything out about Jonathan?” she said.
“I ransacked all the filing cabinets and searched all the hard drives but there wasn’t much to discover. I do now know for a fact that he was in the secret service. He resigned from the Met just after I left for New York.”
“I knew that too. Daddy gave me the impression he’d begged for his job back. I’m glad he didn’t.”
“Do you think your father knew Jonathan was working for the secret service?”
“If Daddy ever knew the truth, he’d have told Mummy. Right now, he thinks Jonathan committed a crime passionnel and topped himself.”
“Damn shame.”
“What else have you found?”
“I’ve ‘found’ nothing,” he said, “as you might expect. But I have been doing a little thinking. I may have come up with a plan.”
She beamed. “I knew you would.”
“I happen to know that before Jonathan resigned he was particularly interested in the paparazzi who were being gunned down by that unknown marksman, you remember?”
“Vaguely.”
“Jonathan contacted Interpol. Sir Colin went ballistic, but it turned out Jonathan was right. There had been similar murders elsewhere. Four in the USA, five in Russia. So Sir Colin put Jonathan in charge of the operation.”
“I suppose he can’t have been all bad then, although Daddy did call him a farty-arsed squirt.”
“Think about it. England, the USA, Russia. Jonathan, Bronstein, Orlov.”
“You think they were part of a special unit?”
“It would make sense. Created by the Met for MI5. Orlov was an intelligence officer, not a policeman.”
“No, sorry, Nicholas, that doesn’t work. Orlov was an ex-intelligence officer. He was expecting to be shipped back to Russia and executed when I met him. And Jonathan wouldn’t have had to resign if his unit had been custom-built for MI5.”
“Okay, so what must have happened was the Met created the unit then disbanded it, and MI5 snapped it up in the fire sale.”
“That would explain all the men outside our house that day. But it still doesn’t work. Why would the Met create a unit like that only to disband it?”
“Maybe they were ordered to.”
“But why didn’t MI5 just say, ‘Thanks, guys, you’ve done a great job, we’ll take charge now’? Why all the unpleasantness? Because I know for a fact Jonathan thought he’d resigned. He was almost crying at one point. Anya told me.”
Fleming finished his Saiyadit al-Samak and put his knife and fork together. “So we’ve established there’s something we still don’t know. And it’s pointless speculating, because we don’t need to know for what I’ve got in mind. Would you like a dessert?”
“Only if you can afford it.”
The waiter arrived to take their plates. “Enjoy your meal, sir, madam?”
“Very nice indeed,” Marcie and Fleming said together.
“Could we have the desserts menu?” Fleming asked.
“So what’s your plan?” Marcie said, when they were alone again.
“I know Jonathan was in the secret service because I saw the DA Notice covering his death and Jilly Bestwick and Zane Cruse’s. It’s likely they were all killed by the same person.”
“What’s a DA Notice?”
“A government request to news editors asking them not to publish details of something for reasons of national security. It’s not binding but it’s usually respected. Remember, the press went with the notion that Jilly Bestwick and Zane Cruse were the victims of some sort of suicide pact, probably because MI5 thought anything else might create a trail that led to Jonathan.”
“Maybe.”
“But what they failed to notice – or maybe they did, but they were asked to steer clear of it – was that Jilly Bestwick and Zane Cruse were both celebrities who had paparazzi shot before their eyes.”
“And Jonathan thought Jilly was being manipulated by the Russian mafia.”
“And of course, where did he meet Jilly Bestwick in the first place? You don’t just bump into a global superstar. He must have still been investigating the paparazzi shootings. And that’s why he was killed.”
“Of course ... That makes perfect sense ... It’s the only thing so far that does.”
“And it’s also why she was killed.”
Marcie bowed her head slightly and ran her thumbnail along the underside of her lower eyelid. “I – I’m sorry ... I’ll be okay in a minute.”
“We don’t have to have a dessert. We can talk about this at my place. Or yours. I promise not to make a move on you.”
“I’m not a child, Nick. If I don’t want you to make a move on me, I’ll tell you.”
The waiter arrived with the dessert menu. They ordered peremptorily as if they’d been eating Lebanese all their life.
“What’s your plan?” she said afterwards.
“There are other celebrities who had paparazzi shot in front of them, and it’s likely they’re working for these Russian Mafioso too. What we’ve got to do is contact one of them and pretend to be from the organisation. Ask for a meeting.”
“Any name in particular?”
“Have you ever heard of Nichole Moore?” he asked.
“The? We’d need her address and phone number.”
“I’m a policeman, I can get all that. First of all, I need to perfect my Russian accent.”
“Wait a minute. You? What about me?”
He drummed his fingers on the tablecloth. “I expected you’d say that.”
“She’ll open up to a woman. She won’t open up to a man, especially not one in a brown suit.”
He smiled thinly. “Us, then. But we need to be very careful. We’ve no idea what we’re dealing with yet.”
