Eve drives away, doubles round the block, and pulls up beneath a street light fifty metres away. In the shadowed passenger seat she’s almost invisible, but she can see pedestrians and traffic coming from both directions. She knows what the Cradles look like. She’s seen Dennis often enough at Thames House, and Penny at a couple of the rather grim drinks parties that the Service feels moved to organise each December. She’s confident that she’ll recognise them.
She’s instructed Lance and Billy to go straight to the study and concentrate on the computers. To download everything on every drive that they can find, and copy any documents that they think might be relevant with handheld laser scanners. Both men seem to be experienced burglars; presumably this was what Richard Edwards meant when he described them as “enterprising.”
Eve sits in the car, her mood switching between acute anxiety and boredom. After what seems like a dangerously lengthy interlude, she sees Billy sauntering along the pavement towards her.
“We’re pretty much done,” he says, subsiding into the passenger seat. “Lance wonders if you’d like to take a quick shufti.”
Confidence, Eve tells herself. Look respectable, press the bell, march in through the front door. Lance lets her in and hands her a pair of surgical gloves. The front hall is narrow, with a tiled floor and white gloss woodwork. There’s a sitting room to the left, and a kitchen beyond the staircase. Eve feels her heart pounding. There’s something profoundly shocking about trespassing in this way. “Fancy some toast and Earl Grey?” Lance asks.
“Don’t joke, I’m starving,” says Eve, steadying her voice. “What’ve we got?”
“This way.”
Dennis Cradle’s office is a neat, rather smug little room, with built-in shelving and bookcases, a desk in the same pale wood, and an ergonomic office chair. On the desktop is a powerful-looking computer with a twenty-four-inch monitor.
“Assuming Billy’s gutted that,” Eve says.
“If it’s on there, we’ve got it. Plus an external drive and various memory sticks we found in the drawers.”
“Is there a safe?”
“Not in here. There might be one somewhere else in the house, but even if we found one, I doubt we’d have time to crack it before they get back.”
Eve shakes her head. “No, if there’s anything we need, it’ll be in here. I very much doubt he’d share the kind of information we’re looking for with his wife.”
“Sensible bloke,” murmurs Lance.
Eve ignores him. “So looking round here, what do you see?”
“Controlling type. And pretty pleased with himself, I’d say.”
The photos, mounted in a group on the wall above the desk, show Cradle with friends in a university dining hall, shaking hands with a U.S. Army general, catching a salmon in a mountainous river, and posing with his family on holiday. The shelves hold a mix of bestselling thrillers, political memoirs, and titles related to security and Intelligence issues.
Lance’s phone buzzes. “It’s Billy. The Cradles are outside. Getting out of a taxi. Time to go.”
“Shit. Shit.”
Lance moves fast and silently. Eve follows, her heart pounding so hard she thinks she’s going to vomit. In the kitchen Lance slips the garden door latch, hurries Eve out, and quietly closes the door behind them. They’re on soft ground now, some kind of lawn. Shit. Why are the Cradles back so early?
“Into the lane,” Lance orders. Overhung by bushes, this leads to the road. Eve swings a leg awkwardly over the low fence, thorns tearing at her clothes. Desperately, she wrenches herself free, and Lance follows her.
“OK, lie down.” He presses a hand between her shoulder blades. The ground is hard, uneven and wet.
“The lights,” she hisses, struggling to control her breathing. “We left the fucking lights on.”
“They were on when we went in. Chill.”
Angry noises issue from the Cradles’ kitchen. A banging of cupboard doors. Utensils slammed onto hard surfaces.
“When I say the word, make for the road,” whispers Lance.
“What are we waiting for?”
“Dennis. He’s still in front, paying the taxi driver.”
Eve wills Penny to stay in the kitchen. She doesn’t. Eve hears the garden door pushed open, and a thumb flicking at a cigarette lighter. Moments later, she smells smoke. Penny can’t be more than a couple of metres away. Rigid with the fear of discovery, Eve barely dares to breathe.
There’s the faint sound of the closing front door, and of a male voice. Eve presses herself even harder into the ground. Her face is inches from Lance’s shoe.
“Look, I’m sorry, OK.” The man’s voice, much closer now. “But I honestly don’t see…”
“You don’t see? Well for a start, you condescending shit, you don’t ever tell me to calm down in front of our friends.”
“Penny, please. Don’t shout.”
“I’ll shout as loud as I fucking well like.”
“Fine, but not in the garden, OK? We’ve got neighbours.”
“Fuck the neighbours.” Her voice drops. “And fuck you, too.”
A brief silence, then something flips over the fence, and lands in Eve’s hair with a tiny scorching hiss. The kitchen door clicks shut, and Eve claws at the half-smoked cigarette, melting the latex glove and burning her fingers before she finally tears it loose.
“Go,” whispers Lance.
Wincing with pain, Eve follows him down the lane to the road. No one seems to be watching as they climb into the car, but she’s glad they’ve got false number plates.
“What’s that smell?” asks Billy, letting out the clutch.
“My hair,” says Eve, pulling off the half-melted glove.
“Crikey, I won’t ask. I’m assuming we’re all going back to Goodge Street?”
“Billy, we don’t have to go through all this stuff tonight,” Eve says.
“Maybe, but let’s do it anyway. There’s bugger-all on TV.”
“Lance?”
“Yeah, whatever.”
“Everyone good with pizza?” Billy asks. “We passed a place on the Archway Road.”
It’s nearly midnight when Eve rings Niko. He’s at home, and the two other teachers who have come to dinner are still there.
“Niko, look, I’m really sorry about tonight, and
