Secrets of the Dead

‘Have you got a job for me?’

‘We’ll have a chat.’

London

Mark met her and brought her up to the office. Once again, the vast and empty corridors overwhelmed her. Statues of Victorian statesmen dressed as Roman generals lurked in the shadows, one empire to another. Classical Graces peered down from a ceiling frieze. Trust, Fortitude, Justice … Everything she’d once believed in.

Mark led her back to the third-floor meeting room. It overlooked a vast marbled atrium, where a hundred years ago an imperial monarch had taken homage from her far-flung subjects. Now it was mostly used for seminars and cocktail parties.

‘How was the trip? Somewhere nice?’

‘I went to Paris.’

‘Mmm, lovely. Gorgeous this time of year. Did you make it to the Matisse exhibition? How long were you there? Stay somewhere nice? Sugar?’

It was all small talk as he pottered about making coffee, but she had the feeling he was paying close attention to her answers.

‘When can I come back to work?’

‘Champing at the bit, eh?’ His pomposity was breathtaking.

I was ducking bullets in war zones while you were still round the back of the bike shed playing with dirty magazines, Abby told him silently.

‘HR are worried about your “well-being”.’ He held up his fingers in quotation marks. ‘They’re insisting on a full assessment – medical, psychiatric, the works – before they’ll bring you off the bench.’

She put on her best sane face. ‘Psychiatric assessment?’

‘You’ve suffered severe physical trauma, stress, and bereavement. Your file says there was also some memory loss.’

‘Short-term. Haven’t they ever heard of getting back on the bike?’

‘We’re just watching out for you.’ He took off his glasses and gave her a nothing-shall-come-between us look. It made her want to punch him.

‘So why did you want to see me?’

‘I didn’t.’ A self-deprecating grin. ‘I’m just the go-between, really. Chai-wallah. Hello.’

A man had appeared at the door. He came in and locked it behind him. He had iron-grey hair chopped short and awkward, a hard face and an economical precision in his movements that reminded Abby of soldiers she’d known.

‘Mrs Cormac, my name is Jessop.’

‘Jessop’s from Vauxhall,’ Mark explained.

He means SIS, Abby thought. Often known as MI6, as their incongruous job adverts put it.

Jessop seated himself across the table from her and unzipped his bag. Out came a small, pen-shaped piece of plastic.

‘Does that squirt poison ink or something?’ Nerves made her flippant.

‘Voice recorder.’ Jessop pushed a button on the end of the device. A red light went on.

‘This interview is taking place under the terms of the Official Secrets Act. Please state your name and confirm you’re aware this conversation is being recorded.’

Interview? ‘What’s this got to do with the Official Secrets Act?’

‘Just bureaucracy,’ Mark assured her. ‘Dotting the i’s and t’s. It’s as much for your protection as anything.’

It’s good to know I’m protected. ‘What do you want?’

‘We don’t believe that Michael Lascaris’s death was an accident.’

Abby almost threw her coffee over him. ‘Of course it wasn’t an accident. They broke in and murdered him.’

‘People can still be murdered accidentally,’ Mark said. Trying to smooth the waters. ‘The wrong place at the wrong time, that sort of thing. What Mr Jessop’s saying is that he doesn’t think this was one of those scenarios.’

‘We think Michael Lascaris was targeted,’ Jessop confirmed.

Abby tried to control her breathing. ‘And?’

‘In an earlier statement, you said you believed the villa in Montenegro belonged to an Italian judge.’

‘That’s what Michael told me.’

‘In fact, it’s registered to a charter yacht outfit in Venice, which is a wholly owned subsidiary of a shipping company based in Zagreb. The ultimate beneficial owner is believed to be Zoltan Dragovic.’

‘Should I know him?’

‘You worked in the Balkans and you never heard of Zoltan Dragovic?’ said Jessop.