‘Over there, sir. And for the record, sir, until the establishment of the Fourth Reich, we’re in fucking Austria.’
Baggot retreats, grinning bemusedly, and at that moment, to loud whoops and applause, Max Linder enters the dining hall. It’s Villanelle’s first sight of the man she has come to kill, and she takes a long hard look. Elegant in a high-buttoning Bavarian trachten jacket, his platinum-blond quiff shining in the spotlight, Linder looks less like a politician than a member of a fascistically inclined boy band. His smile reveals orthodontically perfect teeth, but there’s something avid about it too. A twist to the lips that suggests a hunger for the extreme.
They sit down to dinner, Linder taking the head of the table. As the courses come and go – lobster thermidor, roasted boar with juniper, crêpes Suzette flambés, Dachsteiner and Bergkäse cheese – Villanelle and the other serving women pour the accompanying wines and spirits. As she does so, Villanelle catches fragments of the diners’ conversations. Max Linder is sitting next to Inka Järvi, but spends much of the meal talking across her to Todd Stanton.
‘Can you guarantee the result?’ Linder asks Stanton.
The American, his face flushed, drains his etched crystal glass of Schloss Gobelsburg Riesling, and indicates to Villanelle that he wants it refilled. ‘Look, Max, the population of Austria is eight and three-quarter million. Four and three-quarters of those use the same social media platform. Mine that data, and you’ll know more about those dumb motherfuckers than they know about themselves.’
‘And the cost?’ Inka Järvi interjects, as Villanelle pours Stanton’s wine.
‘Well now . . .’ Stanton begins, but at that moment Villanelle sees Birgit beckoning to her from the other end of the room.
Birgit tells Villanelle that she is to take part in a ceremony in front of the hotel at the meal’s conclusion.
‘So what does it involve?’
‘Whom are you addressing, Violette?’
‘I’m sorry. What does it involve, Birgit?’
‘You’ll see. Wait in the entrance hall after the meal.’
‘No problem, Birgit. Where’s the staff toilet, by the way? I need to—’
‘You should have gone earlier. Right now, you need to return to the guests.’
‘Birgit, I’ve been standing up for an hour and a half.’
‘I’m not interested. Exercise some self-control.’
Villanelle stares at her, then slowly turns and walks back to her place. Stanton, his face by now flushed a livid mauve, is still talking across Inka Järvi to Linder. ‘I said, dude, think about it. The Protocols of the Elders of Zion as a musical. Give me one motherfucking reason why not.’
On the bus going home, squashed into her seat by an obese man who smells of damp hair and beer, Eve attempts to organise her thoughts. Beyond the rain-streaked windows, Warren Street tube station and the Euston Road intersection pass in an illuminated blur, so familiar that she only half sees them. She’s left Billy with instructions to find out all he can about Rinat Yevtukh, and to search the darkest reaches of cyberspace for any mention of Villanelle. She feels a rush of exhilaration. It’s good to be back. Venice is already a dream, and now she’s going home to Niko. And the goats.
It comes as a shock to see him on crutches, with one foot in an orthopaedic boot. She’d forgotten that he’s broken his ankle. Forgotten about the boy stepping into the road, the accident, the entire phone conversation. The realisation freezes her to the spot, and when she lunges forward to give Niko a hug she almost pushes him off balance. ‘I’m sorry,’ she says, wrapping her arms around his chest. ‘I’m so, so sorry.’
‘For what?’
‘I don’t know. Being a shit wife. Not being here. Everything.’
‘You’re here now. Hungry?’
He’s made a stew. Ham hock, Polish sausage, porcini mushrooms and juniper berries. Two cold bottles of Baltika beer stand next to the casserole dish. It’s a lot better than anything she had in Venice. ‘I spent half a day in the main police station, and it only occurred to me afterwards that that’s where I should have asked where to go to eat. Cops always know.’
‘How was it with Lance?’
‘How was it? You mean working with him?’
‘Working with him, hanging out with him . . .’
‘Better than I expected. Street-smart but socially dysfunctional, like a lot of older field agents.’ She tells him the Noel Edmonds story.
‘Smooth.’
‘Yeah, I just wanted to . . .’ She shakes her head. ‘Tell me about your foot.’
‘Ankle.’
‘I mean ankle. What did they say at the hospital?’
He shrugs. ‘That it’s fractured.’
‘That’s all?’
He smiles faintly. ‘They did suggest some exercises I could do to make the bone mend faster.’
‘So have you been doing them?’
‘No, they involve you.’
‘Ah, those exercises.’ She touches his face. ‘Perhaps we could pencil something in for tomorrow night?’
‘We could make a start now.’
‘I’m pretty wiped out. And you look tired too. Why don’t we watch TV in bed? You choose something. I’ll clear up.’
‘I suppose I could settle for that. Will you put the girls to bed?’
Thelma and Louise bleat and snicker as Eve orders them off the sofa and dispatches them to their quarters. Hearing the clump of Niko’s orthopaedic boot in the bedroom, she remembers Claudio’s neat, tanned feet in the velvet loafers embroidered with the Forlani crest. Claudio, she reflects, would not see the point of the goats at all.
Taking her phone from her bag, she runs a search for ‘Villanelle, scent’ and is directed to the website of Maison Joliot, in the rue du Faubourg St Honoré in Paris. The perfumery has been owned by the same family for many generations, and its most expensive range is named Poésies. It comprises four fragrances: Kyrielle, Rondine, Triolet and Villanelle. All come in identical vials, the first three with a white ribbon at the neck. The fourth, Villanelle, has a scarlet ribbon.
Gazing at the screen, Eve is possessed with a sudden and unexpected longing. She’s always thought of herself as a fundamentally cerebral person, contemptuous of extravagance. But gazing at the tiny image on the screen, she feels her certainties shifting. Recent events have
