‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
The plane staff are moving up and down the row, telling people off. One of them, a young man in a waistcoat and tie, arrives beside us and tells me three times to put my tray table away before I understand his drift, and I get so flustered he has to lean over and help me.
‘Oh my God,’ Em says after he leaves. ‘You’veneverbeen on a plane. In yourlife.’
‘Of course I have.’
‘Yeah? When do they bring around the ice cream, then?’
‘Just after we take off.’
‘There is no ice cream, idiot. Oh my God. This is why you’ve been jiggling your leg since the Uber.Thisis why you didn’t want to come.’
‘I didn’t want to come because this was a stupid way to waste two days. And going through an airport when you’re wanted in connection with a murder is the dumbest idea imaginable. And I didn’t have a passport.’
‘Because you’ve never been on a plane.’
She’s worn me down. ‘Fine. All right. I’ve never been on a plane. Is that a crime?’
‘No, it’s just … it doesn’t fit with your Raffles the Gentleman Thief vibe, does it? I bet Raffles had a passport. And the Pink Panther.’
‘Yeah, OK.’
‘James Bond never had to nick his brother’s ID.’
‘Shut up, will you?’
I’m relieved by a gravelly announcement, then a security briefing, which I pay close attention to, unlike everyone elsearound me. I look either ahead or to my left, out of the window, and then examine the back cover of my travel Grisham.
A few minutes pass, crossly.
Eventually a small voice comes from my right. ‘I’m sorry, Al. That was mean of me.’
I’m a wall of ice.
‘I think you’ve done great. It took me ages to notice. Most people would have blabbed it was their first flight, looking for some attention. Not you, though.’
The wall of ice is cracking a bit.
‘And I think it’s amazing you’ve been doing this interloping for eight years by yourself. Even with three of us and all Jonny’s skills, it’s still hard sometimes. I haven’t told you how impressive I think it is.’
‘Oh, all right, you’re laying it on a bit thick now.’ But I can’t help smiling. And five minutes later, when I’m clutching the armrest as the plane rolls down the runway, Em places her hand on mine and squeezes, and it’s impossible, physically impossible, not to turn my hand over and squeeze back.
32
Nevis is a pizza oven. I walk smack into the heat at the plane doors, and my pasty London skin is starting to sizzle almost before we reach the terminal.
Indoors is a long queue; slow-moving, which gives me time to slather myself in Nivea. Em and I shuffle and yawn along. You would probably think we were any young couple, clearly doing well for themselves despite my scruffiness – maybe she’s a high-powered lawyer with a boyfriend she hasn’t shaken off since uni. Or maybe we’re just taking a long-term loan from the bank of Mum and Dad. All sorts of nice alternative lives offer themselves up.
But actually we’re here chasing a dead man and his money, trying to untangle what the hell he was doing before we getcaught ourselves. I suspect a lot of people might find that glamorous. From my current desk in the Information Suite of one of south London’s premier prisons, I can tell you: this stuff often feels more glamorous at a distance.
I don’t know much about Nevis. It’s one of those places that isn’t even a dot on most maps. It grew sugar cane for most of the last 300 years, but – as Jonny explained before we went – one of its biggest sources of income today is privacy. Bring your money here, bury it in one of the island’s anonymous buildings, and you don’t even need to mark the spot with an X – for a modest ongoing annual fee, all your treasure will fit beneath a small brass plate. And from here you can slide it round the world, as smooth and quiet as a curling stone.
For any musical theatre fans reading, Alexander Hamilton was born here too. Another man who knew a bit about dodgy dealing in high society.
As we near the front of the queue, the nerves hit me again. I clasp Em’s hand. ‘I think we’re going to get caught.’
‘Don’t be daft, Al. Everyone feels like that when they’re approaching security.’
