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Pitt sat at breakfast. Cereal, a cup of coffee. Daisy was there, although neither of them had spoken. Mrs Cromwell was not present, which could have allowed them to talk, but their lack of contact in the night, when it had been needed, had driven them apart once more. Their time together was short.
Pitt could not shake the uncomfortable feeling, although he tried not to give in to it. He was too pragmatic a man to believe in a sixth sense. The mind was capable of all sorts of things in the night; too many mornings he’d awoken recently feeling uneasy.
He looked at the clock. 8:27. Jenkins would already be out amongst the vines, he was sure. He had to find him, check on whether or not the passport was likely to pass close scrutiny, grab his bag and head down to the police station.
An hour from now, he hoped he would be leaving with Yuan Ju. If not, then he would sit and wait, preparing to do anything that was required to secure her release.
There was the possibility that the passport would be taken away for checking, it depended how seriously the police wanted to take the matter. He had sensed Malcolm’s disinterest, however.
He found Jenkins at the winery, tasting the cuvée. Pitt never tasted before twelve in the morning. Jenkins had been at work for over four hours already. He nodded at Pitt’s approach. Already there was a new assurance about him that Pitt was happy to see. There was nothing in his demeanour to suggest that he might fear Pitt having changed his mind.
‘The passport?’ asked Pitt.
‘It could get her into MI6,’ said Jenkins.
Pitt stared blankly at him. He did not work in metaphor or humour.
‘It’s perfect,’ said Jenkins. ‘It’s a British passport, same as yours or mine. She’s part of the system.’
‘Thanks,’ said Pitt.
He began to turn away, immediately stopped. This was the last time he was going to see Jenkins, and even Pitt was not immune. He hesitated, imagined that he probably ought to say more than he was about to.
The uneasy sense of apprehension would not leave him.
‘Good luck,’ he said.
‘Thanks.’
Another moment. Pitt was walking away from the last person that he might reasonably have called a friend. He lifted his eyes, stared at Jenkins.
‘I should go,’ he said, and with that he turned and began to walk back down to the farmhouse.
‘You too,’ said Jenkins to his back.
Pitt stopped and looked round.
‘What?’ he asked.
‘Good luck,’ said Jenkins.
Pitt nodded, lowered his eyes. Nothing else to say.
He returned to the farmhouse and went to the bedroom. Collected his bag, made sure everything was in order. A last look at the bedroom. A bright room. Windows on two walls so that the sun shone in all day. The window was open, and it was then, standing there in silence, that he realised what was wrong.
The silence. The birds were gone again.
Down the stairs at a run, into the kitchen. Daisy was at the table. Still no sign of Mrs Cromwell. He wondered if she was still in bed, and another moment of realisation; that every time he thought of her, the nagging doubt increased. The birds were gone, and so was Mrs Cromwell.
Daisy was flicking though a magazine, a cup of tea in her hands. She looked over the top of the cup.
He stopped. Did he have anything to say to Daisy, even if he could find the words? Leaving Daisy was not like leaving Jenkins. Leaving Daisy was setting himself free. Leaving Daisy was casting off the burden.
He had nothing. He walked to the back door, stopped once more. Lying beside the phone was Yuan Ju’s book. The only one that any of them had ever seen her read. The one she had held in her lap throughout her short time in the cellar. She must have had to leave it behind in the kitchen the previous day, and now Daisy had placed it out for him. She had kept it for his moment of departure. As if there was any doubt about the choice he was making.
‘That’s it in a nutshell, isn’t it?’ said Daisy from behind. ‘Me or her. What does it say about the way you feel about me if you’re going for her, when all you’ll be getting is a closed book?’
A closed book. He almost smiled. She’d thought that line through. Nevertheless, it meant little to him.
He paused only briefly, then he lifted the book, neither turned nor spoke, opened the door and left the kitchen for the final time.
Outside, the silence seemed even more thunderous.
As he sat in his car, a taxi approached up the driveway and stopped by the back door. He watched Mrs Cromwell lean over and pay the driver, and then get out and walk to the door. As she wrapped her spindly fingers around the handle she turned and looked in Pitt’s direction. Her eyes met his.
She was thirty yards away, yet Pitt could see to the very depths of her malevolent corruption. She opened the door and walked into the kitchen.