EPILOGUE

A mellow sunset was resting on the horizon, sending a pale orange light across the Mediterranean. Matt sat back on his chair, a bottle of San Miguel on the table. But it was the atmosphere and the view he was enjoying, not the beer. Somewhere in the distance, he could hear the sound of the early-evening crowd piling into the Last Trumpet. The usual mixture of villains, retired car dealers and stray tourists, the noise of their conversation swept across the verandah like the waves sweeping across the rocks in the bay below.

They were an odd bunch of people, with hardly a single redeeming feature between the whole pack of them. Still, they were Matt’s customers.

I better get used to them.

He took a swig of beer, letting the alcohol relax him. It was six months since he’d bought Kazanov out of his share of the restaurant and become its sole owner. Gill was living with him here now, and the marriage was set for the new year. They were going to go back to London to do it at St Giles in Camberwell Church Street – bridesmaids, morning suits, Damien as the best man, the full works. Those were the only terms on which Gill had agreed to forgive him. That woman is a sad loss to the banking industry, he reflected. She knows how to make a man pay out on his debts. With interest.

‘Look at this,’ cried Gill.

She walked out of the back of the restaurant towards the private patio where they often had a drink together. Fifty yards towards the bay he could see the villa that was being built for them. It was taking a fair chunk out of the money he had made from the mission, but his debts were all paid, it had been a good summer for the restaurant, and property overlooking the sea was always a good investment.

We need somewhere to start our married life together, and it might as well be somewhere nice. It isn’t as if I haven’t got the scars to prove that I earned it.

‘In the paper,’ Gill said, leaning across the table and pointing.

Matt could smell the mixture of perfume and soap on her skin: a familiar scent that always reminded him of how much he loved her. He glanced down at the copy of the Daily Telegraph, two days old, and judging from the smell of beer and tobacco clinging to its pages, picked up from the bar. The story was on page four, below the fold. ‘Mystery over buried millions,’ ran the two-deck headline.

‘The body of a woman together with several million pounds in used bank notes was discovered yesterday morning in woodlands near Ashford in Kent.

‘The remains were found by a man walking his dog. The woman, who has not yet been identified by local police, had been killed by an explosion believed to have taken place some months ago.

‘The bodies of two other men, also unidentified, were found buried within a few yards of the original discovery.

‘Two bags were discovered buried with the woman. Each one contained in excess of one million pounds in used bank notes. Local police have not yet disclosed exactly how much money was found at the scene.

‘Jack Turner, the local resident who discovered the body, said, “It was an amazing amount of cash. Dollars, pounds, and euros, and some others. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

‘The bodies are believed to have been buried for six to eight months.

‘Police said they suspected the killings were the result of a gangland operation or money-laundering scheme that had gone wrong. A spokesman for the Kent police admitted it was highly unusual for money to be buried alongside the body of a murder victim. “We’re a bit puzzled by that aspect of it,” he said. “We are actively trying to trace the source of the money to see if it will give us any clues as to who these people were, and how the money got there.”’

Matt laughed, looking up towards Gill. ‘I tell you what, I don’t think they’ll be trying very hard to solve that case,’ he said. ‘Someone from Thames House has probably given them a call to tell them they have more important things to do with their time.’

‘You don’t think they’ll come after you?’

‘If they were going to do that they would have done it by now,’ Matt answered. ‘It was a black operation from start to finish. All off the books. If they brought me in it would create too many problems.’

‘And Ivan never went after the money?’ Gill asked.

Matt shook his head. ‘Damien went to see him a few weeks ago. He’s with his family, relaxing and recuperating. The wound to his head was a bad one, apparently. It took out a few slivers of brain, so the doctors said, but he had plenty to start with, so I don’t suppose he’ll miss it that much. Damien gave him his two million, and told him we’d buried the rest of it in the ground.’

Gill wrapped her arms around his shoulders, her lips playing with the back of his ear. ‘We don’t have to worry about that any more, and I’m grateful for that,’ she said. ‘We have a restaurant that’s thriving, a new house that is nearly finished, and we’re getting married in a few months’ time. We have no worries in the world. I’ve never been happier.’

Matt paused. His eyes were dwelling on the City pages of the papers, some calculations running through his head. ‘I don’t know,’ he said, his finger jabbing at a pair of different prices. ‘I haven’t checked for a few days – I didn’t realise quite how terribly my portfolio was doing.’

He looked back towards Gill. ‘Still, don’t worry. I’m never going on another mission, no matter what happens. I’m staying right here with you.’