faded, but very small — and very badly handwritten, in ancient fountain pen.
He wasn’t remotely convinced of this detective work, but he didn’t want to argue with Nina. Returning Bede to his slot on the high shelf, Adam tried again, with Runciman’s History of the Crusades. And as he flicked and scanned the aromatic, scholarly pages, he asked, in a low, careful, wary voice, ‘Tell me where they met.’
‘Some academic conference, five years ago.’
‘Where?’
‘London. She teaches law there, that’s why she’s away so much. Like now. But she’s back tomorrow for the funeral.’
Adam nodded, absorbing the information, as he scanned the books, reading the little margin notes — see pp 235–237 Geertz; Tyndale/KJV? A thought unsettled him. ‘How do you know she won’t come back tonight? Late tonight?’
Nina shrugged, examining another paperback. The Trial of the Templars.
‘Nina. You don’t actually know, for sure, do you?’
She shrugged again.
Adam spat the words, ‘Christ’s sake. She could be here any minute!’
Nina didn’t reply. But her eyes were locked on Adam, and widened by fear. Because a muffled crash of glass had just sounded from the study.
Adam lifted a finger to his lips. She turned, half-crouched, by the bookcase, and her green eyes stared at the wall as if she could see through it. The uncertain silence returned. Then a doorhandle squealed distinctively.
Her words were quiet and fierce. ‘Jesus. Who is that?’
Adam pressed his ear to the wall: he could hear the mouselike squeak of metal: a metal doorknob in a glass and metal door.
‘Someone’s on the fire escape, back of the study…’
She shook her head. ‘No, Adam. They’re already in. ’
She was surely right: he could sense the human presence, another heartbeat in the apartment. And now he strained to hear a footfall. And yes, there it was: the almost inaudible creak of floorboards, of someone stealthily moving around.
Adam grabbed Nina’s hand, which was damp with sweat, and hissed, ‘We have to get out! This could be, this could be anyone — the murderer, anyone!’
In an agony of fear they stepped to the door. As quietly as they could.
The presence — the intruder, the murderer — was moving around the study. Searching for what? The fear mixed with fierce anger somewhere in Adam’s soul: it was the old eagerness for action, maybe even violence, to resolve things. He could hear his father’s drunken boasts: never let a man frighten you, never show your fear. Take him on and beat him.
Maybe Adam could tackle the intruder: he lingered over the thought for a moment. But sanity quickly chased him back to reality. The man could easily have a knife. Even a gun. Any resistance might be suicidal.
No: they needed to flee. Adam pulled Nina to the open door, which gave into the darkened landing; he indicated with an urgent nod what he planned — they should run down the hallway to the front door and escape — before he opened the study door to the hallway and trapped them inside by standing between them and the only exit.
The floorboards creaked again. The intruder was moving across the study, coming their way.
Adam got ready to run, but even as he tensed for action he felt Nina disappear — she wrenched herself free and ran to the door at the other end of the landing. What was down there? A bathroom? A kitchen? What the hell was she doing?
He stared at her, quite desperate. Then he stared at where she had been, at the half-open door through which she had disappeared. What should he do now? Run away and leave her? But of course he couldn’t leave her — what if the man found her and…
She was back, hefting her rucksack: she had something inside it. He turned and pointed at the door and whispered the word now!
Together they ran. Uncaring of the noise, they raced down the hallway, flung open the front door, which creaked on its hinges, and slammed it behind them. The stairwell was dark again, but their indifference was pure and driven. Just get out fast. Just get the fuck out.
Panicking and hectic, they raced down the steps. Adam heard a noise above them, surely the intruder, alerted, sprinting onto the landing.
Just keep running and don’t look back. They had made the last flight. They were at the main door, and now they were outside, in the cold air, still running.
At the end of Springvalley Terrace Adam halted for a second, and turned. He could sense they were being watched and the feeling was so intense he had to turn and see.
Someone was standing at the window of the McLintocks’ flat. It was a very distinct figure, momentarily framed by the light: a thin tall man, wearing dark clothes, with close-shaven hair.
Was it him? The man he had seen, passing by an hour ago, with the tattoos? The figure suddenly shrank from the window, apparently aware he had been spotted.
Nina grabbed his hand.
‘Run!’
13
Interview Room D, New Scotland Yard, London
The girl really was exquisitely beautiful. Detective Sergeant Larkham had told him so on the phone, almost warned him — she’s a real looker, sir — but nothing had quite prepared him for the reality. She was like an artist’s idea of an English beauty. Golden waterfalls of hair, misted blue eyes, a pure and rose-dawn complexion. And she had been crying for about seven minutes.
The girl stared at him. Ibsen snapped himself out of his reverie, and went over his notes. Her name was Amelia Hawthorne. She was twenty-three, an aspiring actress, privately educated, a graduate of RADA. And she had been Kerensky’s girlfriend for the last two years.
He repeated the question. Were you in love with him?
Amelia Hawthorne sniffled, tearfully, in the quietness. ‘I’m sorry. I am. I know. It’s just the way Nik died — I… I still… I still…’
Larkham leaned in. ‘We understand, Amelia. It’s a total shocker. Horrible.’
‘But that’s exactly why we need to know,’ Ibsen repeated the point. ‘Your boyfriend cut off his own feet, and his hand. It’s an appalling suicide. So we need to know all the facts. All of them.’
‘Yes. Yes, I know. I get it.’ Slowly, the girl seemed to source some resolve, she sat a little taller, visibly preparing herself. ‘OK. Go on, then. Ask me.’
‘You say you met him two years ago?’
‘Yes.’
‘At a nightclub.’
‘Yes. Anushka’s.’
Ibsen flicked a glance at his notes. ‘And that is…’
‘A club in Mayfair. It’s down near Nobu. Everyone went there… back then… I mean, you know, two years ago…’
Ibsen had never heard of the place. He had also never heard of several other places the girl had already mentioned. In truth, he felt a little at sea in this world of beautiful young actresses and billionaire Russian playboys.
Larkham interrupted.
‘It’s a nightclub just off Berkeley Square, sir. Well pricey. Two hundred quid for a bottle of bubbly.’
‘Really? Prefer something more upmarket myself.’
The DS smiled; Ibsen turned to the girl. ‘So you met him at this high-class night club — and you started
