Secrets of the Dead

Mark looked up from his pad. ‘She suffered some memory loss,’ he offered. Always happy to help.

But the memories were coming back. Abby put her hands on the table and looked at Jessop.

‘He’s a gangster.’

Jessop gave a dry laugh. ‘That’s one way of putting it.’

‘You can see it doesn’t look good,’ Mark put in. ‘A senior EU customs official staying in a house that belongs to one of the most wanted men in Europe.’

‘Michael didn’t know,’ Abby insisted.

‘Did you ever hear him mention Dragovic?’

‘Never.’

‘Have you been in touch with any of Michael’s associates since you returned to England?’

‘Associates?’ She stared at him in disbelief. ‘You’re making him sound like some kind of criminal.’

‘Colleagues? Friends? Family?’

‘I visited his sister in York. I wanted to offer my condolences.’

‘How did you get her address?’

‘Someone sent it to me.’ She glanced desperately at Mark, but he was writing something and didn’t look up. ‘Wasn’t it you?’

‘Don’t know what you’re talking about.’

Come on, she told herself. You’ve been through worse than this. Sitting in a shack in some godforsaken corner of the earth, the only unarmed person in the room. The awful smell of sweat, blood and rifle grease. Men – some of them just boys – jabbing guns at her, their nostrils flaring from the cocaine that gave them their courage. Her only protection then had been a piece of paper from a court five thousand miles away.

But that was there – the outer darkness, as some of the old Foreign Office hands still called it. This was home. All those years, all those hellholes, what kept her alive hadn’t been her pieces of paper or her diplomatic accreditation. It had been faith – unwavering belief that whatever fatuous, bureaucratic mistakes her government might make, it was a force for good in the world. And now that same government had her locked in a room, twisting her words with unspoken allegations and lies.

‘What made you decide to go to Paris?’ Jessop asked.

‘I fancied a break.’

‘Less than two months ago, you suffered a horrendous attack. You’re barely back in the country a fortnight and you’re already racing off on overseas adventures.’

‘Mark says I’m supposed to be acting erratically. He thinks I’m cracking up.’

Jessop raised his eyebrows and gave her a sceptical look. She supposed that was a compliment, of sorts. Mark picked up a file and leafed through it.

‘According to our man in Podgorica, they found a gold necklace at the crime scene. You said it was yours?’

‘That’s right.’

‘A present from Michael?’

‘Yes.’

‘Can I see it?’ Mark saw that she was about to say something and cut her off. ‘I’ll save you some embarrassment. The security people who searched your bag when you came in, they said they’d seen it in there. Couldn’t help noticing it, actually.’ He held out his hand. ‘Please?’

She wanted to wipe the patronising sincerity off his face once and for all, but didn’t know how. She wanted to run, but the red light next to the door didn’t blink. She wanted to scream, but she wouldn’t give them the satisfaction.

She fumbled in her bag and brought out the necklace. Mark gave her a smile that made her want to knock his teeth out.

‘I think we’ll just keep this for a little while.’

Of course, she thought dully. She could see them waiting for a reaction and refused to give it to them. It was the one thing she could withhold.

She picked up her bag and stood. ‘I’d like to go now.’

Mark was still eyeing the gold necklace. Jessop escorted her to the door.

‘Be careful,’ he warned her.

‘In case my government locks me up and robs me again?’

‘Someone targeted Michael. It’s entirely possible they’ll come back for you.’

He swiped his card and the light went green. Abby pushed past without a word. No one tried to stop her.

She didn’t know where to go. She felt as if she were dangling on the end of a rope, strung up to the sky for all to see and jeer at. Every face that glanced at her, every footstep behind her, every arm that jostled her in the crowds around Trafalgar Square seemed to accuse her of something terrible, unsayable. This is what we were supposed to stop, she thought. Guilt without evidence, accusations without charge. And