Alfie nods. He gives me a look of particular venom, and the girls one of subsidiary grumpiness, then stalks off to examine the house.
‘I must say, you all look a bit surprised to see me. Were you looking forward to making a speech about why it was whoever you thought?’ Charli plucks a vape from her tiny bag and puffs on it.
Nobody else is saying anything, so I suppose it’s my turn. ‘You killed Davy?’
‘Hope so. And you were here, on the other side of the door. Nice to have these little reunions, isn’t it? How’s your friend?’
‘He’s doing much better.’
‘Oh, that’s marvellous. Should never have happened, of course. Botch job. You want something done in this country, donotask a professional. They’re all unionised time-servers.’ My head is swimming.
Alfie is back from the exterior. ‘They haven’t been in.’
‘Oh, good.’ She plucks a key from her micro-bag, unlocks the front door, steps around the shattered glass still lying in the hall – treading on the outline of her husband’s neck– and leads us through to the back. Alfie follows us.
Once we’re in the study, Charli takes a seat behind the desk, and the three of us are plonked once again onto the sofa. Last time we were here, Davy was pointing a gun at us: this time, Alfie’s gun is still in its holster. So actually we’re doing much better, thank you.
Charli thinks of something. ‘Alfie, can you do a sweep of these three and the room? Don’t want to be recorded, do we? I mean, we’ll be in a non-extradition country this time tomorrow, but there’s no harm in maintaining operational security.’ OPSEC again. She and Jonny would get along.
Alfie gives us a pat-down and I get a glimpse of his gun under the suit. Perhaps I could grab it? Upside down? And then, what, blow these two away? Don’t be daft, Al. Remember the rules and you’ll be all right.
I can’t remember a single one of the rules.
Calm down, Al. God. You’ve been in worse trouble than this before.
Don’t check the truth of that statement, it’ll only upset you.
After some heavy petting, Alfie seems satisfied that we’re unarmed, and gives the room itself a good search for any cameras or microphones. This takes about ten minutes, which we spend sitting in awkward silence, but eventually he pronounces himself happy and stands behind Charli, looking like a shaved Dobermann.
‘I thought it was Conor Vane who killed your husband,’ I say.
She exhales a cloud of strawberry. ‘I mean, he’s involved, but he’s notcommitted. Why him?’
‘The phone records. Davy was so hopeless that Mrs P at his firm did his phone contract for him. So she got all his bills, itemised. I rang her, and she sent them over. Conor claimed he hadn’t spoken to your husband in the weeks leading up to his death, but in the fortnight before Davy died, they spoke eight times. I assume Davy was asking about dark police stations, and Qumar, and what he should do.’
‘They did speak, yes. And Con had a good reason to lie about it, even to a friend and donor. Doesn’t mean he killed Dave. You think a sitting MP would murder someone? Con isn’t clever enough to do it without being caught, but he’s also not stupid enough to try.’ She sighs. ‘Yes, Con has been helpful. And Davewasasking his advice about Qumar, because he knows all about Con’s interests in the area and wanted to know what was best, who could be trusted, whether he should blow the whistle, whether he’d be safe. Con sensibly advised him to book an appointment with the police, then phoned me and told me. All I had to do was track Dave down before the meeting.’
‘So … you were his accomplice, all these years?’
‘I think “accomplice” is a rather hierarchical word, don’t you? If anything, he was mine. I was the one who came up with the thing in the first place.’
‘Your Instagram,’ says Elle. ‘Nice cover.’
Charli shrugs. ‘You’ve got to travel all over the world to meet these people. Lots of them can’t legally come to London. You may as well stay somewhere nice. Nobody pays attention to some clueless rich-bitch divorcee enjoying herself at luxury resorts in various, ah …’
‘Dictatorships?’
‘States with cultures of muscular governance. Potayto, potahto.’
‘Which let you meet everyone there who wanted to launder money.’
‘Yeah. I reassured them, discovered how much they needed to clean, and Davy found the places they needed.’
‘But all his money goes to Lulu,’ says Em. ‘You had an interest in him staying alive.’
‘If I’d wanted his main estate, yes,’ says Charli, waving her hand through the vape mist. ‘Which consists of one ratty Cotswolds vicarage, a few hundred grand in ISAs, and the London flat you sniffed out. She’s welcome to it. But with him dead, all I need is access to our account, and I stand to make a much larger sum.’
‘You told us you and he were reconciling. Was that true?’
