‘What are you doing here?’ she said before shaking her head. ‘I spoke with my father earlier. I guess that’s why you’ve come.’
‘He suggested I have another try.’ Fairchild raised an eyebrow. ‘He said you had a stubborn streak.’
‘I’d need half a brain to do what you’re suggesting. You’re crazy to think I’d kill Karen Hope.’
‘Crazy? Possibly, but the circumstances dictate the response and in this case there is only one option.’ Fairchild watched a white motor boat speed upriver. ‘Let me try to persuade you again.’
‘Mr Fairchild, I told you before I don’t like games. I was up early and it’s been a long day. I want to have a shower and grab something to eat and veg out.’
‘Let’s make a deal, then. I’ll wait in my car while you have your shower, then I’ll take you for an early dinner. We’ll go over everything again and I’ll give you some additional material to examine at your leisure. If, after further reflection, you want to know more, then all well and good. If the answer is still no, I’ll accept it and you won’t hear from me again. Does that sound like a plan?’
‘It sounds crap.’
‘Rebecca. Do this for your father, OK? And if not him then your mother.’
Silva sighed. One of Freddie’s dogs had slipped out through the gate. Fairchild bent to scratch the animal on the head.
‘OK,’ she said.
They drove up late that afternoon, Holm having booked a room at a Travelodge outside Ipswich so they could get an early start the next day. When he’d called Cornish and told her they were coming he’d been surprised when she suggested he and Javed come round for dinner.
‘It would be good to catch up,’ she said. Holm’s heart skipped a beat but any hopes he had were immediately dashed as Cornish added: ‘We’d be delighted to have you over.’
After the call, Holm thought about the we’d be delighted bit. Cornish and her husband. Happy families. For a moment he was insanely jealous.
Having dumped their kit at the hotel they headed for Cornish’s place. The single-storey modern house sat in the middle of nowhere surrounded by the flat Suffolk countryside. Glass and steel and crisp white walls converged on a central tower that rose out of an atrium. To one side there was a paddock with several horses, to the other a large garden with a tennis court.
‘She’s done well,’ Javed said. ‘Or perhaps her husband has.’
Holm grunted. He was beginning to regret having accepted Cornish’s invitation. The idea of sitting across the table from an ex-lover as Cornish made eyes at a man who was presumably younger than Holm, better looking, and with better prospects, was grating.
A ring of the bell at the side of the porch brought a shout from inside and seconds later the door was swinging open. Cornish stood there with an open bottle of red in one hand and a smile on her face.
‘Come in, Stephen, Farakh.’ She made a sweeping gesture. Her mood had changed from the other day as if she’d cast aside a mask. ‘Great you could make it.’
They stepped into a huge open-plan room, to one side a gleaming kitchen, to the other a dining area, beyond that several sofas arranged in a semicircle facing a floor-to-ceiling window that overlooked fields.
‘Pleased to be here,’ Holm said. He took in the tasteful décor, the art prints on the walls, the high-end music system. Compared to his measly flat the place was unbridled luxury. ‘This is nice.’
‘Nice, boss?’ Javed said as Cornish stepped forward to greet them. ‘It’s amazing.’
‘Glad someone likes it.’ Cornish shot Holm a look but smiled as well.
They moved in and Holm glanced across to where a dining table had been set for four. Any notion that Cornish was single vanished. In a moment or two Mr Right would be striding out. Steely handshake. Beach-ready body. Blue eyes. Holm felt completely inadequate. From somewhere behind him a door clicked open. Footsteps on the tiled floor. He gritted his teeth and breathed in, determined to be magnanimous. Turned.
‘This is Emma,’ Cornish said. ‘My wife.’
‘Hi.’ Emma was blonde like Cornish, mid-thirties, good figure. ‘You must be Stephen. I’ve heard a lot about you.’
Holm opened his mouth but then closed it again. He realised he’d probably say something inappropriate. Behind him Javed sniggered.
‘What a turn-up, boss,’ Javed said. ‘You’re outnumbered three to one.’
Cornish looked at Javed and turned to Holm. ‘He’s not, is he?’
‘Yes,’ Holm said. He shook his head. ‘Bloody hell.’
Chapter Fifteen
An hour later Silva and Fairchild were seated at an outside table in a restaurant down in the Barbican. Fairchild pondered the menu briefly and selected a seafood platter. Silva chose bass served with couscous. The waiter brought over a carafe of house white and, after Fairchild had tasted it, poured two glasses.
‘Cheers,’ Fairchild said, raising his glass to Silva. ‘Here’s to success.’
‘In what?’ Silva couldn’t believe the arrogance of the man. ‘I haven’t agreed to anything and it’s unlikely I will.’
‘Right. Here’s to you, then.’
She reluctantly picked up her glass and chinked it against Fairchild’s. He smiled and glanced round.
‘Well?’ Silva said.
‘You see that guy at the cafe next to us?’ Fairchild jerked his head to the right. ‘Gavin. He’s one of mine.’
Silva looked across to where a thickset man sipped from a lager glass, an open paperback in his other hand. The man turned for a second and met Silva’s gaze.
‘And the girl leaning against those railings talking on the phone?’ Fairchild made a small hand gesture towards an attractive woman in a short skirt. She looked like a secretary who’d just popped out of the office to call a friend, but she too rotated her head slightly in their direction. ‘Lona. She’s with me too.’
‘Fantastic.’ Silva said. ‘Are you trying to intimidate me?’
‘I very much doubt that would be possible, Ms da Silva. Anyway, scaring you isn’t the intention. Gavin and
