‘Obviously, Bowling Ball is the prime suspect. But even if it was him, we don’t know why. Or who ordered him to pull the trigger.’
‘Would you open your front door to a man who looked that threatening?’
‘No. But Davy had a gun. Maybe he didn’t realise Bowling Ball was armed too. Or maybe they knew each other. Or maybe it wasn’t him at the door at all. Maybe the person at the door was the business partner he’d fallen out with.’
I remember something. ‘Or his chief solicitor.’
‘Who?’
I describe the solicitor at Davy’s firm, the one who looked so nervous when I was sitting next to his mentee, Sami. Tench, was that his name?
‘It’s to do with the properties in that ledger of his,’ Em says. ‘You’ll have to go back to his office sometime, you know.’
‘I suppose so.’ I kick moodily at a bramble which is getting ideas above its station.
‘You still thinking of leaving us for Zeebrugge or wherever?’ She says it casually, without looking at me.
‘Not imminently.’
‘What changed your mind?’
‘It wasn’t … whatever this is, I’d like to make that clear.’
‘Of course.’ She stops walking, so I do too, and swing round to face her.
This would be a terrible place for anything romantic. There are brambles and roots underfoot and a heavy aroma of vegetable decay in the air. But in that moment I can think of nothing else but her. Ridiculous. It’s not the way she looks, or not just that. It’s everything about her. My main thought is of the look on her face when we were in Davy’s city flat, and Bowling Ball had just caught up with us. She was in total, absolute control of the situation.She still is, says a little voice, and I turn and keep walking. She follows.
‘I’m not leaving because you guys are clearly going to keep investigating this, and the more you’re left to muff it up, the likelier it is I’ll get caught. OK?’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t want to tread on your toes,’ she says. ‘Not the best infiltrator in the business.’
‘Interloper.’
‘Sure.’
And with me more frustrated than before, and Em moreamused, we swing back round to the house and start preparing for a late, expensive lunch.
At ten past two, the four of us are in the same branch of Pret we visited before I went to Davy’s office, and Em and I are about to head to St Francis. I do wonder what amazing, passionate, criminal, life-saving schemes are planned and executed from Prets all over the country each day.
Em has procured a silky dress from somewhere; I’ve just gone for a smart shirt, casual jacket and jeans, plus a pair of discreet dark trainers in case we have to run.
‘Ready?’ asks Elle.
‘Think so,’ I say.
‘Don’t put your arms above your head,’ Jonny tells Em. ‘It’ll pull the wire out of place and I won’t hear anything.’
‘What if someone has me at gunpoint?’
‘Try to surrender verbally. Ideally don’t move anything above your elbows.’
As we approach the restaurant, I see the sign – a stained, worn picture of St Francis himself, his outstretched arms covered in birds. He looks like one of those tourists in St James’s Park who take genuine pleasure in feeding the pigeons and who are clearly either very unwell or soon will be. But now I see why Davy wroteFeathersas his private code for this place.
‘Ready?’
‘Can’t wait,’ Em says. ‘Which table are we heading for again?’
‘Booth three.’
