‘You haven’t heard what I have to say yet.’
‘I’m not interested.’ Silva dipped the oars and began to turn the boat. She could feel a rising panic, emotion about to overcome her. She swallowed and gave a half smile. ‘I’m sorry you’ve made a wasted journey, sorry you’ll have to disappoint my dad. I guess he put you up to this. He can’t help interfering. If I thought it was love, I’d be touched. Sadly, it’s pride.’
‘I think you misunderstand what’s going on here. Your father came to me because we’re old friends and he knew I’d be able to help. Well, I was only too happy to. The next logical step was to try and get you on board. He figured I’d be better at that than he would.’
‘So this is about a job? Well, I’m grateful for the offer, but I’m going to pass.’ Silva began to row. ‘At least you caught some fish.’
‘Perhaps I should elaborate.’
‘Elaborate all you want,’ Silva shrugged. ‘But the answer will still be no.’
Fairchild ignored her. ‘My work involves security. After I left the army I set up as a consultant of sorts. That’s a loose description, anyway. I tend to work abroad, the Middle and Far East. Occasionally South America and Africa.’
‘Let me guess, you run mercenaries, right?’
‘I knew you were clever.’
‘Not clever enough, apparently. And I doubt I’d be clever enough to work for you. I’m a risk. It wouldn’t look so good for your company if I killed a swath of innocents on one of your protection jobs.’
‘You shouldn’t blame yourself for what happened in Afghanistan. Most people would have made the same call. The probability was the boy was a threat and you acted decisively to remove the threat and protect the patrol. To do any differently would have been negligent. In my mind you should have been given a commendation.’
‘Funny, I don’t remember the commendation. I do remember being court-martialled and thrown to the wolves.’
‘Politics. It was important for the system to be seen to be working. You were a pawn in a game. Pawns are sacrificed so the queen can triumph. Ask yourself was it right for you to face sanction when a prime minister can give the order to kill tens of thousands and escape scot free?’
‘I’ve done that many times. The only conclusion I’ve come to is the common people get stepped on while the big beasts get away.’ Silva shipped the oars. They were a little way out from the jetty and the boat coasted in. ‘Could you?’
Fairchild reached for the jetty as they slowed. ‘They haven’t caught the terrorists who killed your mother, have they?’
‘No.’ Silva pulled the painter from the front of the boat and tied it off. ‘But I’m sure they will. It’s just a matter of time.’
‘You sound quite sanguine about it.’
‘Look, if I was on a tour and I got the chance to slot the bastards, I would.’ Silva lifted the oars from the rowlocks and stowed them in the boat. She stepped out onto the jetty. ‘The problem is, I’m not, and if there’s one thing my father taught me, it’s don’t sweat the stuff that isn’t in your orders because there’s nothing you can do about it. I’ve got to live with the way the world is.’
‘Very noble.’
‘Not at all, it’s simply a matter of survival.’ Silva bent and held the boat as Fairchild stepped out. When he had, she straightened. Tried to conceal her anger and appear gracious. ‘Nice to meet you, Mr Fairchild. Give my regards to my father.’
Silva turned and walked down the jetty. She headed across the lawn and round the side of the house. As she walked she heard her father call her name. She ignored him. At the front of the house she took her helmet from the bike and pulled on her leather jacket. As she was putting her gloves on, Fairchild came out of the front door. He’d taken a shortcut through the house. Silva sat astride the motorbike and fired it up. Blipped the throttle.
‘Rebecca!’ Fairchild stood alongside. He shouted above the grunt of the engine. ‘We need to talk!’
‘We just did. Goodbye.’
‘Your mother wasn’t simply a journalist caught in the crossfire.’ Fairchild placed a hand on Silva’s shoulder. ‘The news you’ve been fed isn’t the whole truth.’
‘What?’ Silva shouted too, not able to fully understand Fairchild through the padding of her helmet.
‘Your mother was killed deliberately. The fact the head of the women’s charity was hit was a blind to throw the authorities. Your mother was the intended target and she was murdered because of a story she was working on. There are dark forces at work, Rebecca, but I know who was behind the attack and their motive. That’s what I was, in a roundabout way, trying to tell you.’
‘Who?’
‘Turn the engine off.’ Fairchild gestured at the key. Silva hesitated for a moment and then hit the kill switch and the engine died. ‘That’s better.’
‘Who?’
‘Sorry about earlier. I should have come clean instead of trying to approach the subject from a tangent. Let’s go inside.’ Fairchild turned to the house. ‘I’ll explain everything.’
‘No!’ Silva undid the chinstrap and removed her helmet. ‘Don’t play games. Who was behind the attack?’
Fairchild shrugged and nodded. He went across to the black Range Rover, opened the passenger door and retrieved a manila folder from the glovebox. He turned and walked back towards Silva, stopping a few paces away.
‘This person, Rebecca.’ Fairchild reached into the folder and pulled out a glossy photograph. He held it up. ‘She was directly responsible for the death of your mother.’
Silva looked at the picture. It showed a woman standing at a podium. Long brown hair and catwalk-model features. Eyes like blue neon. Behind her dozens
