“So I’ve heard,” he said.
“She’ll be there for another week at least,” I said.
“Thanks for letting me know,” he said. I knew that he popped in to see her fairly often. He lived in my father’s old house, next to the training stables, while our mother now lived in a cottage down the road.
“Toby,” I said, “can I see you sometime this coming week?”
“Sure,” he said. “When?”
“I’m not certain,” I said. “Monday, probably. Maybe Tuesday.”
“Fine,” he said.
“Can I stay the night?” I asked him.
There was a pause before he answered. “Is everything all right?”
“My house burned down,” I said.
“Oh my God, Max,” he said. “I’m so sorry.”
“I don’t think it was an accident,” I said.
There was another pause, longer this time. “Are you asking for my help?” he said.
“Yes I am, but it’s not financial help I need.”
“Good.” He sounded relieved. “Come when you like,” he said. “And stay as long as you want. I’ll fix it with Sally.”
“Thanks,” I said. “Can I bring someone with me?”
“A girl?” he asked. He knew me better than I imagined.
“Yes.”
“One room or two?”
“One,” I said.
“OK,” he said, amused. “Give me a call when you know when you’re coming.”
“Thanks,” I said again, and I meant it. “I will.”
CAROLINE AND I both flew back to London on Sunday night, but, annoyingly, on different airplanes. I couldn’t get a seat on the same flight as the orchestra in spite of being number one on the standby list, so I followed them into the Illinois evening blue sky some fifty minutes later. The airline had shown pity on my injured wrist and had provided me with an empty seat on my right so that I could rest the cast on a pile of aircraft pillows and blankets. Even so, I slept only in fits and starts, and was thankful when we touched down gently at Heathrow on time, at seven o’clock on Monday morning.
Caroline was waiting for me just beyond passport control, sitting on a bench alongside Viola, who was safely stashed away out of sight in her made-to-measure black case. While it was not quite a Stradivarius, Viola was still much too valuable to have traveled across the Atlantic in the aircraft hold.
“Where do we go from here?” she asked as I sat down next to her.
“What do you mean?” I said.
“Do you think it’s safe to go back to my place?” she said.
“When do you have to be back with the orchestra?” I asked her.
“Wednesday, lunchtime,” she said. “We have a couple of days off now before rehearsals for the concerts on Thursday and Friday at Cadogan Hall. But I’ve got to do some personal preparation before then.”
“We are going to stay with my brother for a couple of days,” I said.
“Are we indeed? And where does he live?”
“East Hendred,” I said. “It’s near Didcot, in Oxfordshire.”
I had no intention of using my cell for a while, so I called Toby on an airport pay phone in the baggage area to tell him we were coming today.
“Will it be safe?” Caroline said.
“I don’t know.” It worried me that it might not be totally safe for my brother’s family either. But it was a chance I had to take. “I don’t know if anywhere could be totally safe,” I said to her. “But I can’t hide forever. I need to find out why Komarov is trying to kill me.”
“If you’re sure it’s him,” she said, “don’t you think it’s time you talked to the police?”
“I will,” I said. “After I’ve spoken to my brother and showed him the metal balls. Then I’ll call the police.”
So it wasn’t the Boys in Blue I called next from the pay phone. It was Bernard Sims, my irrepressible lawyer.
WE COLLECTED first our luggage and then the rented Ford Mondeo from the airport hotel parking lot, where I had left it the previous Wednesday. Fortunately, it had an automatic gearbox, and driving mostly one-handed was relatively simple, so we joined the crawl-crawl, non-rush rush-hour traffic along the M4 into London. Caroline insisted on going to her flat to get some fresh clothes even though I wasn’t very keen on the idea, if only because East Hendred was in the opposite direction. I personally didn’t have any fresh clothes. Other than a couple of items I had abandoned at Carl’s house, all the clothes I owned were here in my suitcase.
“I absolutely have to go home,” said Caroline. “I also need some fresh strings for my viola, I have only two left.”
“Can’t we just buy some?” I asked her.
She just looked at me for an answer, her head to its side, her mouth pursed.
“OK, OK,” I said. “I’ll take you home.”
So we went to Fulham, but I insisted on driving up and down Tamworth Street at least three times to see if anyone was sitting in any of the parked cars, watching her flat. Neither of us could spot anyone, so I stopped the car on the corner, and Caroline went into her flat while I sat outside keeping watch with the engine running. No one came, and there were no shouts, but I felt uneasy nevertheless.
I was beginning to think that Caroline had been rather a long time when she reappeared and came sprinting back to the car. She threw a carryall onto the backseat as she jumped in. There was something urgent about her movements.
“Go,” she said, slamming the door. I didn’t need telling twice, and we sped away. “Someone’s been in my flat,” she said.
“How do you know?” I asked.
“I thought it was a bit odd when I went in,” she said, turning her head to see if we were being followed. “There was a dirty footprint on one of my letters on the mat under the letter slot. I told myself that I was being paranoid. That footprint could have been on the letter before it was pushed through the door. But I am also certain someone’s been in my bathroom, in my medicine cabinet.”
“How?” I asked again.
“My bathroom cabinet is so full of stuff that it tends to all fall out when you open the door. It takes a knack to stop it happening, and someone didn’t have it. Everything in there is now in a slightly different place.”
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely,” she said. “Trust me. I know exactly what’s in my bathroom cabinet and where. I went to get some aspirin, and everything had definitely been moved. Only slightly, mind, but I’m sure.” She looked around again. “Max, I’m scared.”
So was I. “It’s fine,” I said, trying to sound calm. “There’s no one in there now, and no one’s following us.” I was repeatedly looking in the rearview mirror to make sure I was right. We pulled down another quiet residential street, and I stopped the car. We both looked back. Nothing moved. We waited, but no one came around the corner after us.
“Why would someone have been in my flat?” she asked. “And how did they get in?”
“Maybe they wanted to find out when you were getting back.”
“How would they do that?” she said.
“I don’t know,” I said. “Perhaps they planted something to tell them.” It all sounded so James Bondish. It was all so unlikely, but why else would anyone go into the flat?
We drove westward out of London and back onto the M4 motorway. I stopped at a service station at Heston, and Caroline called her upstairs neighbor using a pay phone outside while I sat nearby in the car.
“They said they were sent by the landlords,” Caroline said, getting back in the car. “Checking for water leaks, or something. Mrs. Stack-that’s her, upstairs-says she let them in all right, but at least she did wait there while
