inside. Foot soldiers and archers, who complained that their womenfolk had been slaughtered for meat by their commander, were hung from the walls after the siege had been lifted. Because the country needed strong leaders, he had never been prosecuted. That set an example to his descendants.
A cell phone rang inside the earl's tweed jacket. He answered it and spoke briefly, then walked around the tower, the bottoms of his cavalry twill trousers absorbing dew from the grass not yet reached by the sun. By the great studded door, he stopped for a moment before taking out a set of keys and opening the three locks that had been set into the black-painted wood.
Inside, the air was dry. The original ceilings were no longer there, only the firing slits remaining. They had never been closed up. It was good to have fresh air in the refurbished bastion. The second earl had no doubt found that necessary. He had been involved in a Hell-fire Club at Oxford that had been notorious for unbridled licentiousness and depravity. The university authorities had eventually reprimanded the unruly students, though only commoners were sent down-the scions of noble families were given a metaphorical clip on the ear and left to find new ways to corrupt themselves. When he was older, the second earl set up his own version of a Hell-fire Club in this very fortification. It was rumored that defrocked ministers and former monks made merry with willing nuns and local wenches carted in for the ceremonies. It had also been said that few of the latter were ever seen again.
The present earl breathed in the castle's air, then turned on his heel after satisfying himself that the grated window at ground level was immovable. Pulling the door to, he heard the scream of a peacock, one of several he allowed to wander the grounds.
As he walked back along the front terrace, His Lordship caught sight of himself in one of the windows. He stopped and tightened his regimental tie-he had been a captain in the Queen's Own Horse Guards-then smoothed a hand over his well-disciplined and still jet- black hair. Despite his fifty-five years, he was slim and fit. His uneven face was smoothly shaved by the cutthroat razor he stropped every day. It was a matter for regret that he had produced no son and heir. His wife, Priscilla, had died three years ago, of complications following a supposedly routine breast remodelling procedure. She was past child-bearing age, anyway. There was still time for him to marry again and continue the bloodline. If he could find a suitable bride.
The phone rang again. The earl's expression lightened after he answered it. He went back inside through the main entrance.
Soon there would be another rite for him to preside over. Seventeen Pete Satterthwaite and Andy Jackson stood outside the flat in East London that Sara had bought in the name Angela Oliver-Merilee. Although the main road looked like it ran through a war zone, with the shop windows covered in heavy wire even during opening hours, the side street was tree lined and quiet. The cars parked on both sides were the standard minivans and hatchbacks of the urban bourgeoisie.
'It's the upper flat,' Pete said, as they approached number twelve. Across the street, two young Indian boys were playing with water pistols. They stopped to look at the men.
'Smile, Slash,' Pete said, under his breath.
The American obliged, making one of the boys run inside.
'Nice one.'
'Sorry. I'm no good with kids, Boney.' Andy stepped up to the street door and moved his finger to the higher of the two bells, but he didn't press it. With Pete shrouding him from view, he slid two flat steel rods into the keyhole and manipulated them. Andy hadn't needed tuition from Dave in opening locks because he'd learned in the youth gang he'd run with back in New Jersey. There was a click and the door opened.
'We're in,' Andy said, moving forward. He had his right hand on the butt of his silenced Glock.
Pete closed the door quietly behind him. The house had been divided into two flats, with common access. The sound of a television at high volume came from the ground-floor flat-according to the records search that Rog had carried out, it was owned by an eighty-two-year- old man. They moved carefully up the narrow, uncar- peted wooden stairs. There was a smell of damp about the place.
At the first-floor door, which had recently been painted green, Andy stopped, his left hand raised. He put his ear to the door, then looked around at Pete, shaking his head. They both knew that an absence of sound didn't mean the place was unoccupied. According to the local council's database, the owner lived alone and paid full council tax, but Pete and Andy knew there was no such person as Angela Oliver-Merilee. So who was using the flat?
Andy stuck his weapon in his belt and took out the steel rods again. Pete raised his Glock in a two-handed grip, pointing it at the door above the American's blond mass of hair. They were taking a chance. If the occupant was inside and had put on the chain, Andy would have to shoulder-charge the door quickly.
Again, there was a dull click. Andy put the rods away and opened the door enough for him to slide his fingers around the edge, then moved them upward.
'No chain,' he mouthed to Pete. Then he stood up, took his Glock from his belt and nodded. The door opened as he pushed it. Andy stepped in quickly, his weapon raised. He moved his arms up and down, covering the angles that a potential assailant could come from. When Pete entered the flat, Andy passed him and went through the living area to the rear. There were two open doors, one to a bathroom and the other to a bedroom.
'Nobody at home,' the American reported, lowering his pistol.
'What a relief,' Pete said. He put his weapon in his jacket pocket and looked around the place. It had been furnished sparely, but with good taste. A burgundy- colored leather sofa and armchair were facing a medium- size high-definition TV, with a modern standard lamp between them. The walls had been papered in white and there were a couple of framed Cezanne posters. At the back, a breakfast bar separated the living area from a well- equipped kitchen. The windows, front and rear, were covered by Venetian blinds that let in only a small amount of light. In the bedroom, there was an antique wardrobe and a double bed, its pale blue cover neatly in place.
Pete opened the wardrobe. He found three pairs of black jeans, one of which he held against his hip. The flat's occupant was shorter than he was, so around five foot nine, and solidly built-the shirts were size large. There were bundled pairs of socks on the floor of the wardrobe, as well as folded boxer shorts.
'Looks like a bloke lives here,' Pete said.
Andy went into the bathroom. It smelled of pine. He touched the washbasin. It was wet, as was the bath behind the shower curtain.
'Someone was in here earlier today, Boney,' he called. He ran his eye over a toothbrush and tube of toothpaste, a razor and can of foam and a plastic comb. There were no hairs on the latter, nor were there any in the bath. The metal bin was empty, suggesting that the occupant was very fastidious-or very careful. Andy looked at himself in the round mirror, wondering whose face had been in it a few hours before.
Pete was in the kitchen, opening drawers. They were filled with cutlery and other utensils. The pedal bin was empty and there were no plates in the sink or on the drying- stand.
'Someone's taking a lot of care not to leave traces,' he said.
Andy checked the cupboards. There was very little food in the place, only a few tins of tuna and mackerel. The fridge contained a tub of butter and a jar of capers, and the freezer seemed to be filled with ice-cube trays.
'Hang on,' he said, dropping to his knees. He took out the trays and stacked them on the floor. 'What have we here?' He removed a clear freezer bag. Inside it was a padded envelope, with no writing on it. He felt the weight. 'There's something heavy in here,' he said. The envelope wasn't sealed. He slid his hand in and pulled out a switchblade knife.
Pete put down his pistol and took the knife from Andy. He opened the blade and ran his latex-covered finger along it. 'Jeez, this baby is sharp enough to skin a cat. It's clean, though, and it's been oiled.'
Pete looked around. 'Look at this lot,' he said, holding out his hand.
'Nine-millimeter rounds,' Andy said. 'Oh, shit. Where's the gun?'
They searched the flat again, but found nothing. Another striking feature was the complete lack of anything personal-documents, bills, books, music, photographs. 'Whoever hangs out here is armed,' Pete said when they'd finished. 'And it looks like he or she doesn't have any interests except weapons.' 'I'm pretty sure that knife is a spare,' Andy said. 'The other one will be in our friend's pocket. Say, isn't it around here that those gang murders have been happening?' The bald man stared at him and nodded. 'What are you getting at?' 'I don't know…' Andy moved lightly over the bare floorboards. 'Shall we ask the old guy downstairs about his neighbor?' 'And leave a witness that we were here? I don't think so, Slash. Judging by the racket coming through the floor, he's in a world of his own anyway.' 'What are we going to do, then? Wait for Armed and Dangerous to come back?' Pete looked at
