My dog is on the doorstep when I get home. He gives a single bark of greeting, but not his usual ecstatic welcome. Shadow has had divided allegiances since Nina moved into my house. The wolfdog became her loyal follower the minute she unpacked her suitcase, unwilling to leave her side.
‘Are you going to let me indoors?’ I ask.
His pale eyes assess me before he finally retreats. I can locate Nina from the sound of a hammer beating on metal, which is an everyday occurrence. I’m still surprised that she finally agreed to give up her independence and move in with me, after endless discussions, but her pregnancy clinched the deal. It’s working fine, on a practical level. I like the way we share the chores without argument, and how she’s made herself at home. The only things that bug me are her obsessive tidiness and her need to keep busy, even when she should be resting. I get the sense that she’s withholding judgement on cohabiting until our baby’s here, because she never raises the subject.
I can’t complain about the DIY miracles she’s been performing every day. She seems to get a thrill from renovating the place. The single-storey house my grandfather built has never looked more prosperous, the kitchen’s quarry tiles gleaming with fresh varnish. Nina is in the bathroom, humming to herself while she sorts through tools. She’s removed the sink from the wall. I can see a U-bend, screws and pieces of copper pipe lying in neat piles.
‘What are you dismantling now?’ I ask.
‘I’m replacing the tap. I can clear the blockage at the same time.’
‘Why not take a siesta? The nurse said your blood pressure was up.’
‘It was just a blip. When she came back today, it was fine.’
‘That’s good news. What kind of reward do you want for all this hard labour?’
She glances up at me. ‘You could say you love me now and then.’
‘Isn’t that meant to be spontaneous?’
‘You emotionless brute.’ I know she’s teasing me, but it’s a fair a point. I can’t explain why the words stick in my throat when I’ve spent the past year trying to convince her to marry me.
‘How did it go at the building site?’ she asks.
‘It’s pretty impressive. They’ve driven these huge metal rods into the cliff face.’
‘Why do men always love big machines?’
‘Too much Lego as kids. Don’t overdo it, okay?’
She pretends not to hear, too immersed in her work to care about health advice. Her chocolate-brown hair is tucked behind her ears as she studies notes printed from the internet. I still fancy her so much, even though she’s eight and a half months pregnant. Her tall silhouette hasn’t changed, apart from her abdomen, which curves in a neat bump. It’s her expression that undoes me. She’s trained as a counsellor, yet she’s giving her plumbing task one hundred per cent focus, like a new apprentice, biting her lip in concentration. Nina applies single-mindedness to everything she does, from arranging my hundreds of novels in alphabetical order to binning half my clothes, claiming they were shabby. I’m certain she’s been trying to fix my personal flaws ever since we got together, using the same stringent approach.
It still bothers me that she got hurt four months ago, thanks to a case I was leading, almost losing the sight in her left eye. There’s no visible sign of it now, except a scar on her temple that’s already faded. It’s a piece of history she chooses to ignore, but my guilt surfaces whenever I see it. I’d like to wrap her in cotton wool until the baby arrives, and Shadow appears to feel the same, yet she’s having none of it.
‘Don’t stand there gawping at me, Ben. I’m dying of thirst.’
‘I’ll put the kettle on.’
‘By the way, someone called Sarah Goldman rang earlier; she wants you to Skype her urgently. Is it about work?’
‘She’s my old boss from London. It’s probably nothing; I’ll make us a drink first.’
I know immediately that something’s wrong. Commander Goldman is a typical senior officer, overseeing four hundred front-line police, including London’s biggest undercover network, from a suite of offices at the Met. She doesn’t have time for social calls to former employees. My old job fills my mind while the kettle boils and I gaze out of the kitchen window. The sea beyond looks unnaturally calm. When I return to the bathroom, Nina is flat on her back, with screwdriver in hand, too busy to notice the mug of tea I place on the lino.
It takes me several minutes to get a Skype connection, which is a feature of island life. The signal in Scilly is unpredictable, and often non-existent in winter, casting us back to a time before the internet ruled the world. Commander Goldman looks older when her face finally appears on my computer screen. She’s on a task force trying to root out institutional racism and sexism in the Met, which could be a tall order. Her hair is white, as if London’s crimes rest on her conscience alone.
‘I’m hearing good things, Kitto. DCI Madron says you’re a fine deputy.’
‘That’s a surprise, ma’am. He’s not big on praise.’
‘Strike while the iron’s hot.’ Her deadpan face cracks into a smile. ‘Ask for a pay grade review.’
‘How are things at headquarters?’
‘Hectic, but that’s not why I called. I’ve got some information. Do you remember the Travis case?’
‘It’s hard to forget.’
Craig Travis ran a massive gang network that I helped to break six years ago, in my last undercover job for the murder squad. I worked alongside two colleagues, Annie Hardwick and Steve Pullen, to enter his inner circle, and the man took a shine to me. I was his minder for a year, before becoming his driver. He treated me gently at first, keeping me away from the sickening violence that kept him in power for so long. Some of his gang members pretended to be hard men to impress their boss, but Travis was the genuine article. He had no conscience at all, killing anyone who crossed him, with no sign of regret. When I finally caught him in action, he had hundreds of employees, from professional hit men and racketeers to hackers and drug traffickers, his complex empire extending to every London postcode.
‘I wanted to keep you informed of developments, given the scale of his network. Travis is dying of cancer in Crowthorne, but we believe he’s still a threat.’
‘How do you mean, ma’am?’
‘A nurse heard him rambling about getting even with police who put him away, and it sounded credible. He’s still got contacts. Old loyalties run deep in gangland, as you know.’
‘I’m a three-hour ferry ride from the mainland. No one can reach me here, ma’am.’
‘Don’t underestimate him.’
‘Most of his cronies are dead or locked away. How would he find us?’
‘Maybe he’s bought the information from someone at Crowthorne.’
‘If it’s taken him this long, it’s out of date.’
‘I want you to treat it seriously. He might just be an ailing psychopath who got what he deserved, but we still need to be cautious. Steve Pullen knows the situation, but I need to inform Annie Hardwick. Are you still in contact?’
‘I called her a few times, but she’d changed her number. She had this plan to move down to the West Country and live off grid on a smallholding after she left the force.’
‘She’s vanished completely, which is a concern. I can’t offer her protection if things escalate.’
‘Annie can look after herself; she’s as tough as they come.’
‘Not if she’s unprepared.’
‘Thanks for letting me know, ma’am.’
‘Stay alert, Kitto, until we speak again.’ Commander Goldman’s face dissolves into a blur of pixels.
I remember Craig Travis’s casual delight in hurting anyone who questioned his authority, but it’s his daughter I pity most. I got to know Ruby during my time working for her father; the kid was only twelve or thirteen when his empire crumbled. She was his princess, the only person he showed any tenderness. The girl must have been totally unprepared for life outside her ivory tower. Travis seemed like a typical devoted dad when he fussed over her, yet his lack of empathy for the rest of humanity was terrifying.
Suddenly the house is so quiet you could hear a pin drop. I developed hypervigilance when I worked on the case, but it only returns when I’m under pressure; it’s like a sixth sense, warning me of potential danger. Nina has stopped hammering, and the only thing I can see in the window opposite is my own reflection. I’m hunched over my computer like a giant trapped inside a doll’s house, with messy black hair, my expression mystified.