Berlin, then Dortmund. I was with John Flynn.’
The name rang a bell but the chime was distant. ‘Remind me …’
‘Sentinel Security.’
An arms-dealing firm. With that, a face returned to the name. ‘He had to leave the country, didn’t he?’
‘That’s right. Lives in Switzerland now. But Sentinel’s still going. Doing well, too. Anyway, we were in Berlin. It was before I started Frontier News. John was putting a deal together with some Russians. Mostovoi was the broker. We met a couple of times. Nothing came of it in the end.’
‘What was he like?’
‘Mostovoi? Nice bloke. Good company, especially after a drink. Mind you, even I’m good company after a drink.’
‘Is that what you’ve been told?’
‘Oh, very funny.’
‘What else?’
‘Nothing much, really. To be honest, I was too busy eyeing his girlfriend. Russian, I think she was. An absolute cracker. Hard as nails, mind, but a real eyeful. Can’t remember her name. Still, no matter. I can remember all her important bits.’
‘Have you ever considered joining the twenty-first century, Gavin?’
He slid the cigarette back between his lips. ‘Now why would I want to do that?’
Maclise Road, four in the afternoon. Stephanie let herself in, dumped two bags of shopping on the kitchen table and checked the answer-machine for messages. Nothing.
‘Hey …’
Rosie Chaudhuri was standing in the living room. Magenta House’s rising star and the only female kindred spirit Stephanie had encountered in Petra’s world.
‘Christ! Don’t do that!’
‘Sorry.’
‘You’ll give me a heart attack.’
She smiled apologetically. ‘Yes, that would be inconvenient.’
‘What are you doing here?’
‘I didn’t want to give you the opportunity to put the phone down on me.’
‘Why would I?’
‘We need to talk.’
‘About?’
‘Marrakech. Mostovoi.’
‘How did you get in here?’
Rosie went into the living room, reached into her bag and produced a key, which she offered to Stephanie. It looked familiar. She checked the kitchen drawer where she kept the only spare. Which was still there.
Rosie said, ‘When you first started seeing Mark, Alexander had this copy made. He used to have the place swept once a week.’
‘What?’
‘Until I found out about it and insisted that he put a stop to it.’
Stephanie’s own security had only been in place six months. At the time she’d wondered whether she was being paranoid.
‘I don’t believe it.’
Rosie smiled. ‘Come on. What don’t you believe?’
A fair point.
‘What was he looking for?’
‘Anything, I guess.’ Stephanie gave Rosie a look. ‘I promise you, I don’t know.’ She handed over the key. ‘Anyway, here it is.’
The peace offering. Offered in advance of whatever was coming. Stephanie made green tea as Rosie leaned against the sink, her arms folded. She was in a sleeveless chocolate linen dress that she would never have worn when they’d first met. She wouldn’t have had the confidence. The change in shape was pronounced: the curves a little sleeker, breasts merely large rather than huge, legs and arms toned, stomach flat, one chin. not several. Her skin was clear and her hair, now short, framed her face rather than concealing it.
When the tea was ready they went into the living room. Stephanie sat cross-legged on the carpet, in a gentle draught between the door and window. ‘So, what’s on your mind?’
‘Mostovoi. Alexander asked me to come over and run through a couple of things. For clarification.’
‘Go on.’
‘You were in the room with him. You had a gun. He survived.’
‘I thought I’d made it clear at the debriefing. The gun jammed.’
‘At that point the two bodyguards were incapacitated?’
‘Pretty much.’
‘And Mostovoi was doing what?’
‘Nothing. He was sitting there, scared stiff.’
‘What about the spike?’
‘I used it on the trader.’
‘Couldn’t you have used it on Mostovoi?’
‘What’s going on, Rosie?’
Alexander needed to be sure. That’s what she said. Except Stephanie could see that wasn’t it. There was a subtext. With each question, Stephanie grew more evasive, the truth no longer a comfort.
When Rosie had finished, Stephanie said, ‘What now?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Nothing?’
‘Take some time off. Go on holiday.’
‘Am I okay?’
‘You’re fine.’
But Stephanie’s antennae were still twitching. ‘Rosie, if there was something serious you’d tell me, wouldn’t you?’
‘Don’t worry about it.’
‘Wouldn’t you?’
‘It’s nothing like that, Steph.’
‘You know as well as I do, you’re the only one I trust.’
Rosie smiled. ‘I know.’
Summer drifted by, long, hot, empty. And, eventually, lovely. Once I’d learnt to relax. It wasn’t easy. The doubt persisted. Was I under review? That was the word they generally used instead of ‘suspicion’. If I found myself on the outside, what would that mean? There’d be no pension or gratitude, that was for sure. I told myself I was being paranoid. But that didn’t mean I was wrong.
However, as the weeks passed, that anxiety receded and I fell into a lazy routine. Late starts, a visit to the gym to maintain fitness, afternoons free, evenings and nights with Mark. For two months I was happy. It was carefree and uncomplicated. The days merged, the weeks lost their shape. I raced through half a dozen paperbacks a week. I went to the cinema in the afternoons. Or slept. Or lay on the grass in Kensington Gardens, listening to Garbage on my Walkman, the volume turned up. When Mark got back from his practice in Cadogan Gardens we’d have a drink on the roof terrace, or make love, or take a bath together. We went out, we had people over. We were a couple.
In late August we went to Malta for ten days. We stayed in a cheap hotel and did nothing, apart from a trip to Gozo and Comino. We sat in the sun and swam in the sea, we read, ate out, drank cheap red wine, went to bed early and got up late.
The day after our return to London I realized I’d missed my period. I didn’t tell Mark. I didn’t take the test, either. Not straight away. I wanted to sort out my head first. If it