‘Oh, that was blown out of all proportion.’
‘Like Wolf’s girlfriend, after the boob-job he claimed as a legitimate parliamentary expense,’ says Leila, and Niko laughs.
‘He’s done amazing things for trade with Saudi Arabia,’ Fiona says, dropping her handbag onto the sofa, and pouring herself another glass of wine.
‘I bet you’re good at your job.’ Eve smiles at her.
‘I am,’ says Fiona. ‘Very.’
Eve scans the room. Why do we put ourselves through this torture? she wonders. Dinner parties bring out the worst in everyone. Niko, usually the gentlest of men, is looking positively vengeful, although obviously this has got a lot to do with her going to Venice for half-term week, rather than spending it on the windy Suffolk coast with him. Mark, meanwhile, is explaining at extraordinary length to Leila, whose jaw is set rigid with boredom, exactly what it is that a regulatory compliance manager does.
‘You had that break-in, didn’t you?’ Fiona asks. ‘Did they take anything?’
‘Nothing, as far as we can find.’
‘Did they catch them?’
‘It was a her. And no, not yet.’
‘Was this woman Caucasian?’ asks Mark.
From the corner of her eye, Eve sees Zbig lay a hand on Leila’s arm. ‘According to Mrs Khan . . . have you met the Khans?’
‘The Asian family? No.’
‘Well, according to her, it was an athletic young woman with dark blonde hair.’
Mark grins. ‘In that case, I’ll leave my windows open.’
Feeling a vestige of sympathy for Fiona, Eve is just about to speak to her when she sees Leila pointing urgently. Pushing through the guests and into the kitchen, she grabs the smoking pan containing the duck breasts, and to a crescendo of sizzling, balances it on the sink.
‘Is everything OK?’ asks Leila.
‘The duck’s burned to buggery,’ says Eve, levering up one of the blackened breasts with a spatula.
‘Edible?’
‘Barely.’
‘Well, don’t worry. Zbig and Niko and I already know you can’t cook to save your life, and you’re never going to see that dreadful couple again. At least I hope you aren’t.’
‘No, and I honestly have no idea why I asked them tonight. I saw them leaving their house one morning, just after they’d moved in, and felt I should say something friendly. But then my mind went blank, and I panicked, and before I knew it, I heard myself asking them to dinner.’
‘Eve, honestly.’
‘I know. But right now I need you to help me make this duck look presentable. Charred side down, I guess, and surrounded with vegetables.’
‘Is there some gravy?’
‘There’s this sort of creosote stuff in the pan.’
‘No good. Have you got any jam? Marmalade?’
‘I’m sure we have.’
‘Right. Heat it up and pour it on. The duck’ll still be like shoe leather but at least it’ll taste of something.’
Moving from the kitchen to the dining table, a loaded plate in each hand, Eve and Leila discover the others arranged as if in a classic film-still. Beyond them, framed by the open patio door, stands the diminutive figure of Thelma. On the sofa, very much aware that the eyes of all present are upon her, Louise is nervously evacuating her bladder into Fiona’s handbag.
‘Well, that went well,’ says Niko a couple of hours later, pouring the last of the Romanian red wine into his glass and downing it in a single swallow.
‘I’m sorry,’ Eve tells him. ‘I’m a terrible wife. And a worse cook.’
‘Both true,’ says Niko, putting down his glass, placing an arm round her shoulder, and drawing her to him. ‘Your hair smells of frazzled duck.’
‘Don’t remind me.’
‘I quite like it.’ He holds her for a moment. ‘Go to Venice next week, if you really have to.’
‘I really have to, Niko. I have no choice.’
‘I know. And Lance, I’m sure, will prove the ideal travelling companion.’
‘Niko, please. Surely you don’t think—’
‘I don’t think anything. But when you get back, it ends.’
‘What ends?’
‘All of it. The conspiracy theories, the chasing after imaginary assassins, the whole fantasy.’
‘It’s not a fantasy, Niko, it’s real. People are being killed.’
He lets his arm drop. ‘If that’s true, all the more reason to leave it to those who are trained to deal with that kind of stuff. Which, by your own admission, you’re not.’
‘They need me. The person we’re after, Niko. This woman. The only person who’s begun to figure her out is me. It’ll take time, but I’ll get her.’
‘What do you mean, “get her”?’
‘Stop her. Take her out.’
‘Kill her?’
‘If necessary.’
‘Eve, do you have any idea what you’re saying? You sound completely deranged.’
‘I’m sorry, but that’s the reality of the situation.’
‘The reality of the situation is that there’s a loaded handgun in your bag and people from the security forces watching this house. And that’s not the life I want for us. I want a life where we do things together, like a normal married couple. Where we talk to each other, and I mean really talk. Where we trust each other. I can’t carry on like this.’
‘What are you saying?’
‘That you go to Venice, and then draw a line under the whole thing. Resign, leave, whatever. And we make a whole new start.’
She looks round the room. At the detritus of the dinner party, the half-empty wine glasses, the remains of the tiramisu. From the sofa, Louise gives an encouraging bleat.
‘OK,’ she says, and allows her head to fall forward onto Niko’s chest. He puts both arms around her and holds her tight.
‘You know I love you,’ he says.
‘Yes,’ she says. ‘I do.’
Chapter 4
Villanelle has been studying Linder, and deciding how to kill him, for twenty-four hours now. She’s beginning to understand her target, despite the thicket of disinformation with which he has surrounded himself. All the interviews he has given propagate the same fictions. The humble beginnings, the fervent identification with the classical ideals of valour and duty, the self-taught political philosophy, the passionate identification with the ‘true’ Europe. This mythology has been skilfully fleshed out with invented detail and anecdote. Linder’s childhood obsession with Leonidas, the Spartan king who died facing overwhelming odds at Thermopylae. His overcoming of school bullies with
