‘Johanna, come with me. And you must be Violette. Quickly now, both of you.’
The speaker is a severely dressed woman in her forties. Without introducing herself she leads them at a fast clip through a side door and into a service corridor leading to the staff quarters at the back of the hotel. She deals with Villanelle first, briskly pushing open a numbered door into a small, low-ceilinged room containing twin beds. A pale young woman in a tracksuit and woollen beanie is lying on one of these, asleep.
‘Get up, Maria.’
Blinking, the young woman jumps nervously to her feet, pulling off the beanie.
‘Violette, you’re in here with Maria. You’re both on duty for dinner tonight; Maria will tell you the house rules, and where to find your uniform. She’ll also explain your room-service duties for tomorrow. Understood, Maria?’
‘Yes, Birgit.’
‘Violette?’
‘Yes.’
‘Yes, Birgit.’ She regards Villanelle intently. ‘You’re not going to be trouble, are you? Because I swear, try anything on with me – anything – and you’ll regret it. Won’t she, Maria?’
‘Yes, Birgit,’ Maria says. ‘She will.’
‘Good. I’ll see you both in an hour.’ She starts to leave and then switches back. ‘Violette, show me your fingernails.’
Villanelle holds out her hands. Birgit examines them frowningly.
‘Teeth.’
Villanelle complies.
‘How did you get that scar?’
‘A dog bit me. Birgit.’
Birgit stares at her suspiciously. ‘Wash your face before you appear in the restaurant.’ She leans towards Villanelle, her nose wrinkling. ‘And your hair. It smells.’
‘Yes, Birgit.’ Villanelle and Maria watch as the manageress leaves the room, followed by the still-smirking Johanna.
‘Welcome to the insane asylum.’ Maria smiles wearily.
‘Is she always like that?’
‘Sometimes worse. I’m not kidding.’
‘Fuck.’
‘Tak. And you’re stuck here now. That’s your bed. And the bottom two drawers are yours.’
Maria is Polish, she tells Villanelle. There are men and women from at least a dozen countries employed at the Felsnagel, and although spoken German is a requirement, the staff usually speak English among themselves.
‘Watch out for Johanna. She pretends to be really friendly, and on your side, but anything you tell her goes straight back to Birgit. She’s a spy.’
‘OK, I’ll remember. So what are these house rules?’
Maria recites a litany of fetishistically precise regulations. ‘Hair always to be worn braided, with plain steel pins,’ she says in conclusion. ‘No make-up, ever. Max Linder hates make-up on women, so no foundation, lipstick, anything. And no perfume. The only thing you’re allowed to smell of is disinfectant soap, and you have to use that regularly. Birgit checks.’
‘She’s employed by the hotel?’
‘God, no. She’s employed by Linder, to make sure that everything runs the way he likes it. She’s a fucking Nazi, basically, like him.’
‘So what happens if you break the rules?’
‘First time, she cuts your pay. After that, I don’t know, and I don’t want to find out. There are stories that she whipped a girl once for wearing mascara.’
‘Wow. That’s quite sexy.’
Maria stares at her. ‘Are you serious?’
‘I’m joking. Where’s the bathroom?’
‘End of the corridor. There’s usually not much hot water, especially by this time. Your soap’s in the top drawer. I’ll fill you in about tonight when you get back. And Violette . . .’
‘What?’
‘Don’t make trouble. Please.’
It’s just after 6 p.m., London time, when Eve and Lance walk into the Goodge Street office, carrying their overnight bags. They’ve taken the Underground from Heathrow, which was slow, but not as slow as battling through the rush-hour traffic in a taxi.
Billy swivels his chair to face them. On the floor beside him is a small tower of foil takeaway cartons. He stretches lethargically and yawns, like an inadequately exercised cat. ‘Good flight?’
‘Had worse.’ Lance drops his bags and noses the air. ‘Did something die in here while we were away?’
‘How are you, Billy?’ Eve asks.
‘Not bad. Tea?’
‘God, yes please.’
‘Lance?’
‘Yeah, go on.’
Eve resists the urge to open the streaming window and let a little air into the curried fug of the office. She’s anxious for Billy to do two things. To find out everything possible about Rinat Yevtukh, the Ukrainian who went missing in Venice, and to launch a worldwide search of recent internet traffic for the name, or codename, Villanelle. Both undertakings are likely to be complex, and experience has taught Eve that to get the best out of Billy, you don’t rush him.
‘How’s it been?’ she asks him.
‘Same,’ Billy says, moving unhurriedly towards the sink and flipping a tea bag into each of the mugs on the draining board.
‘What the lady means is, did you miss us?’ says Lance.
‘Didn’t really notice you weren’t here, to be honest.’
Lance unzips his overnight bag and pulls out a package, which he throws to Billy.
‘What’s this?’
‘Souvenir of Venice, mate. Just to show we were thinking about you slaving away while we were living the dream.’
‘Nice one.’
It’s a gondolier’s red and white striped T-shirt. Eve darts a grateful look at Lance; never once did it occur to her to pick up anything for Billy.
‘So where are we?’ she asks Billy, when the tea has been circulated.
‘I’ve been chasing Tony Kent.’
‘Anything new?’
‘Bits and pieces.’
‘Spill.’
Billy swivels back towards his screens. ‘OK, background. Kent is an associate, friend, whatever, of Dennis Cradle, now dead. The money that the Twelve used to pay Cradle was routed via Kent, and the original source for this information is a document provided to Eve in Shanghai by Jin Qiang of the MSS, the Chinese Ministry of State Security. Agree so far?’
Eve nods.
‘Open source intelligence on Kent is hard to find. Basically, his online presence has been scrubbed. Not a whisper on social media, and highly selective bio-data. Enough detail not to look deliberately redacted, but nothing that leads anywhere.’
In her pocket, Eve’s phone vibrates. Without looking she knows it’s Niko. Billy glances at her, wondering if she’s going to take the call, but she ignores it.
‘Even so, I’ve been able to join up one or
