If either the waiter or the receptionist were surprised at Silva and Itchy’s somewhat dishevelled appearance, they didn’t show it.
‘The other half, hey?’ Itchy dropped into an armchair. ‘Only it isn’t the other half, is it? More like the one per cent.’
‘Your passports, please?’ The receptionist seemed to be doubling as security. ‘Only a formality.’
Silva produced her passport, Itchy the same. The inspection was cursory at best and the receptionist gave them another big smile and wished them an enjoyable onward journey.
Two coffees appeared but they’d barely started them when a steward came in through a door which led airside.
‘Rachel and Steve?’ he said, making a small bowing motion as he approached. ‘We’re ready to depart, but you can finish your coffees if you’d like.’
‘No, we’re keen to be off,’ Silva said. ‘What do you say Itch— er, Steve?’
‘Yeah, let’s go,’ Itchy said.
The steward picked up their bags. ‘If you’d come this way, please.’
They went through the door and out onto the concrete. The steward took them across to the jet. Boarding steps led up to the cabin door and, as they climbed the steps, the pilot appeared from within.
‘Mr Fairchild sends his compliments.’ The pilot ushered them into the cabin, Itchy having to stoop slightly. ‘It you take your seats we’re cleared to take off in a couple of minutes.’
The interior was tiny. Just eight seats in total arranged four either side of a narrow aisle. As Silva buckled herself in, she could see up front to the flight deck. The pilot was flicking some switches while the co-pilot read from a checklist. The steward stepped aboard and pulled the cabin door closed. He settled into a seat at one end as the engines whirred into life. Silva felt a burst of acceleration, and the plane zipped down the runway and soared into the air. The countryside fell away, vineyards and cornfields and the sparkling blue of a huge lake. The aircraft banked to the right and headed north-west. Half an hour or so later they were passing over the Alps and Silva allowed herself a small sigh of relief. The next possible issue would arise when they landed.
She needn’t have worried. The steward explained that flight and passenger details had already being filed and it was unlikely there would be any sort of check. He was right, and when they landed at Biggin Hill two hours later a car was waiting for them as they left the aircraft and they were whisked away, headed for Heathrow and the car park where they’d left their motorbikes. By mid-afternoon they were on their bikes and bound for the West Country.
They stopped for fuel at a motorway service station a little way past Bristol and bought food and drinks. They sat at a table by a window and Silva gazed out, waiting for her coffee to cool. The annual late-summer exodus to Devon and Cornwall was in full swing and the car park was rammed with tourists. Vehicles packed with luggage and jaded children. Surfboards and canoes strapped to roof racks. Everything seemed so mundane and ordinary after the turmoil of the last few days. Everything except an unusual black BMW with smoked windows that was parked alongside their motorbikes.
‘Ms da Silva!’ Simeon Weiss eased himself down into a seat alongside Itchy. He adjusted his glasses. ‘And Mr Richard Smith. This is a nice surprise.’
‘Is it?’ Silva turned. The female lackey who she’d seen before hovered close by. ‘Or is this harassment?’
‘Not at all. We were just passing.’ Weiss turned to the woman and she nodded at him. ‘But you might say this is a fortuitous meeting. You see, things have happened, Rebecca. Events, you might say. I think it would be a good idea if we had a little chat.’
‘About what?’
‘What you’ve been up to.’ Weiss cocked his head towards Itchy. ‘What you’ve both been up to.’
‘Riddles don’t do it for me, Mr Weiss.’ Silva bent to her coffee. Tried to catch Itchy’s attention. ‘Perhaps you could be more specific?’
‘The Italian Job. You know the movie? Turns out real life is similar. The crooks almost get away with the crime, but not quite.’
‘No idea what you’re on about, mate.’ Itchy coughed out the denial. ‘We’ve been on holiday in Wales.’
‘Wales?’ Weiss looked incredulous. ‘What sort of holiday destination is that?’
‘Snowdonia.’ Itchy was continuing with the alibi they’d come up with but the words were coming out as if he was reading from a script. ‘Camping.’
‘Camping?’ Weiss raised an eyebrow. ‘What, you mean tea in plastic mugs, corned beef hash and ten quid a night for one dodgy shower and a stinking toilet block?’
‘No, not on a site. Up high. Wild camping.’ Itchy was warming to the task but Silva wanted him to stop. ‘We did the Carnedds and Tryfan and—’
‘You and Ms da Silva cosying up together in little tent?’ Weiss smiled. ‘Only I thought you were married, Richard. Playing away, were you?’
‘We were practising,’ Silva said, taking over. ‘For a race.’
‘I see.’ Weiss bit his lip as if weighing the truth was a challenge. Finally he nodded. ‘So you wouldn’t happen to know anything about the Amalfi sanction?’
‘The what?’
‘There was a shooting in Italy yesterday. The wife of a businessman who was attending a party in the town of Positano.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
‘I’m sure you are. The businessman was a high-ranking Saudi national. As you can imagine, the Saudis are not best pleased. The diplomatic fuss is considerable.’
Silva shrugged.
Weiss raised his right hand and used his forefinger to scratch the corner of his eye. ‘One interesting fact to emerge is that the bullet used was a .338 lapua magnum. I’m sure you’re familiar with that type
