‘We were half right. This guy is government.’
‘Which government? Chinese?’
Elle shakes her head.
‘Somewhere like it? North Korea?’
She grimaces. ‘British.’
The others help me gather my things together, and in about six minutes we’re ready to head. By then I’m feeling much better – physically, anyway.
As we finish piling our things in the hall, we look back at the man on the floor. It’s not like Davy. He genuinely looks all right. If it wasn’t for the angle of his neck, he might be having a nap. If it wasn’t for the huge serrated knife, he might just have been a homeowner who met with a terrible accident. And if it wasn’t for the mountains of DNA evidence tying us to the place, we wouldn’t need to worry at all.
We did discuss burying him in the garden, but it wouldn’t do us much good. With the way things have been heading lately, we’ll be lucky to get through the next week. Elle asked if anyone wanted to say anything, but I don’t know what you can say about someone you’ve known for two minutes who you then killed in self-defence, so we just put a big tablecloth over him for a touch of propriety, and I mutter, ‘Sorry.’
All our things are at the front of the hall. Em and I have been discussing where we go next. Between Bowling Ball and this, Balfour Villas is now officially subprime. I know a place over in Richmond, a nice house belonging to a TV presenter who I happen to know is filming a home renovation show in Puglia for the next three months.
None of us has thought about the fact that the man lyingbehind us is – according to Em and Elle’s sister – a British spook. And Claudia isn’t going to get the chance to track our whereabouts either, because Em turned her sister’s phone off, and confiscated it for good measure. I saw the screen over her shoulder. Claudia was texting every three seconds when Em got to it. The last two messages I saw wereWaitandYou should know. With adamantine self-control, she switched it off even with the three little dots on the screen, and dropped it into her bag.
The Uber is en route to us, two streets away, so we’re going to scurry through the dark garden just as it arrives, hop in, get to the centre of town, split up and reconvene at the new place.
We bundle out, shut the front door behind us, and cart the bags across the garden. As we go back and forth, Jonny dives into the undergrowth to retrieve all the cameras he just installed.
Em, Elle and I are in the street, huddled around our little pile of bags. What a forlorn bunch we make. My teeth still feel loose in my head.
‘Who was he?’ That’s Elle. ‘Who would send a British spy?’
‘I don’t know, love. We’ll work it out at the next place.’ Em is trying, but she doesn’t sound convinced.
Just as the Uber turns the corner, before we can even give it a wave, there’s a shout from behind us, followed by a bang. It’s a noise – I am beginning to recognise, although I wish I wasn’t – that could only be made by a gun going off at close range.
41
I’m sorry to be vague at this point, but about four events happen and I can’t work out the order. Everything just sort of congregates on a single point in time. Here they are. You’re welcome to put them whichever way up you like.
1) Anotherblack-clad figure appears on the road, bursting out of the front garden of 38 Balfour Villas about twenty feet down from us. It’s holding a stubby stick. It sprints in the opposite direction and is almost immediately lost to the night, dodging the pools of street light as it goes.
2) Elle screams and runs back into the front garden, leaving me and Em staring after her.
3) A motorbike engine starts up halfway down the road and screeches away.
4) Our Uber pulls up.
1) and 2) might be the other way round, or 2) and 3), but I’m certain 1) comes before 3). Then again, 4) might come before any of the above. At the end of the sequence, we have a silent UberXL waiting before us with its hazards on, Em has followed her sister back into the garden, and I’m facing the driver, who has popped the boot. I gesture to him to wait, just one minute, and follow Em.
She’s up ahead, crumpled on the ground beside a domed figure in a stupid T-shirt. Oh, shit.
‘OK. Up we come.’ The girls are on either side of Jonny, and I lend a hand to get him to his feet. I can’t see exactly what’s wrong, but his shirt is wet.
‘Hospital?’
‘We’re five minutes from St Catherine’s,’ says Elle. ‘They have an A&E.’
‘Ambulance?’
‘We shouldn’t wait. We have a car here.’
‘OK.’
