‘Good luck,’ says Anton, holding out his hand. ‘And good hunting.’
‘Thank you. I’ll see you when it’s done.’
As always, now that she is in play, Villanelle is serene. There’s a sense of things falling into place, as if impelled by gravity. All leading up to the kill, that moment of absolute power. The dark rapture flowing into every vestige of her being, filling and possessing her utterly.
In his office, her requisition list on the desk in front of him, Anton watches as Villanelle waits on the platform deck, a slight figure against the bruise-grey sky. The helicopter materialises, touches down for a moment, and is gone, swinging away on the wind. He stares after it. He can still feel the imprint of her hand in his, and from a desk drawer he takes a small bottle of sanitising gel. God knows where her fingers have been.
It’s raining as Eve and Lance cross the Piazza San Marco in Venice. Eve is carrying a plastic Sainsbury’s bag with the Van Diest bracelet and packaging inside it. The paving stones shine in the watery light. Pigeons rise and fall in desultory flocks.
‘Looks like we’ve brought the weather with us,’ says Lance. ‘How was your breakfast?’
‘Good. Lots of strong coffee with bread and apricot jam. Yours?’
‘Same.’
Eve has never been to Venice before and left the hotel at 7 a.m. to explore. She found it beautiful but melancholy. The vast, rain-washed square, the wind-roughened expanse of the lagoon, the waves slapping at the stone quays.
Flanked by Balenciaga and Missoni, the Van Diest boutique is on the ground floor of a former ducal residence. It’s an elegantly appointed space, with dove-grey carpets, walls faced in ivory silk, and glass-topped jewellery cases picked out by discreet spotlights. Eve has made an effort with her clothes and hair, but feels herself wilting before the expressionless gaze of the assistants. Lance’s presence doesn’t help. Dressed in a horrible simulacrum of casual wear, and looking more rodent-like than ever, he’s staring about him open-mouthed, as if awed by the gold and the gemstones. Never again, Eve tells herself. The man is a total liability. Approaching one of the assistants, she asks to speak to the direttrice, and an elegant woman of indeterminate age materialises.
‘Buongiorno, signora, how can I help?’
‘This bracelet,’ says Eve, taking it from the bag. ‘Is it possible to tell if it was bought at this store?’
‘Not without a receipt, signora.’ She examines the bracelet with a critical eye. ‘Did you want to return it?’
‘No, I just need to know when it was bought, and whether anyone can remember making the sale.’
The woman smiles. ‘Is this a police matter?’
Lance steps forward, and wordlessly shows her an Interpol identity card.
‘Prego. One minute.’ The manageress examines the bracelet, and touches the screen of the terminal on the desk. A further dance of her fingers and she looks up.
‘Yes, signora, a bracelet of this design was bought here last month. I cannot guarantee it is the same one.’
‘Do you remember anything about the person who bought it?’
The woman frowns. Peripherally, Eve can see Lance examining a sapphire necklace and drop earrings. The assistants watch him uncertainly, and he winks at one of them. Jesus wept, Eve thinks.
‘I do remember her,’ the manageress says. ‘Perhaps twenty-seven, twenty-eight. Dark hair, very attractive. She paid cash, which is not unusual for Russians.’
‘How much did it cost?’
‘Six thousand, two hundred and fifty euros, signora.’ She frowns. ‘And there was something strange. She was very . . . come si dice, insistente—’
‘Insistent?’
‘Yes, she wouldn’t touch the bracelet. And when I wrapped it up and put it in a carrier bag, she wanted that bag to be put in a second bag.’
‘She was definitely Russian?’
‘She was speaking Russian with her companion.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘Yes, signora. I hear it spoken every day.’
‘Can you describe the companion?’
‘Same age. A little taller. Short blonde hair. Strong physique. She looked like a swimmer or a tennis player.’
‘Do you have security-camera footage of these women?’
‘I can certainly look for you, and if you give me an email address, I can send you anything we have. But it’s a month since the sale, and I’m not sure we keep the footage that long.’
‘I see. Well, let’s hope.’ Eve questions the manageress for a further five minutes, gives her one of the Goodge Street email addresses, and thanks her.
‘That bracelet, signora. It could have been chosen for you.’
Eve smiles. ‘Goodbye for now.’
‘Arrivederci, signora.’
As they step outside into a squall of rain, Eve turns to Lance. ‘What the fuck were you playing at in there? Jesus. There’s me, trying to get some answers out of that woman, and you’re acting like Benny Hill, gawping at those women and . . . Fuck’s sake, Lance, did you honestly think you were helping?’
He turns up his collar. ‘Here’s Zucchetti. Let’s go in and grab a coffee and some of those pastries.’
The pasticceria is an intoxicating place, the air warm with the scent of baking, the counter an array of sugar-dusted pastries, golden rolls and brioches, meringues, macaroons and millefeuilles.
‘So,’ says Eve, five minutes later, her mood softened by a plate of galani and the best cappuccino she’s ever drunk.
Lance leans forward over the tiny table. ‘When V bought the bracelet, the woman with her was almost certainly her girlfriend. Or at least a girlfriend.’
Eve stares at him. ‘How do you know?’
‘Because once I’d convinced those shop assistants that I was a gormless idiot who didn’t speak a word of Italian, they started to chat to each other. And they all remembered V and her friend. One of them, Bianca, speaks Russian, and usually deals with the Russian customers, but she didn’t on this occasion because
