‘Out of the way, fatso,’ Lance murmurs.
The man’s there for a full five seconds, then he turns towards the camera to look behind him, and as he does so the cowboy hat appears to slip back on the second woman’s head, momentarily exposing her face.
‘The Russian girlfriend?’ Lance asks.
‘Could be, if the timing fits with when they visited the shop. Which I’m guessing is why Trevisan sent this. Let’s see it frame by frame, and see if we can get a look at her.’
The moment replays, infinitely slowly. ‘Best I can do,’ says Billy finally, moving backwards and forwards between frames. ‘You’ve either got the full profile blurred, or the part-profile with her hand in the way.’
‘Print both,’ Eve tells him. ‘And the frames bracketing them.’
‘OK . . . Hang on, there’s another email from Venice.’
‘Read it out.’
‘Dear Ms Polastri, I hope this CCTV footage from Calle Vallaresso is of use. It corresponds to the time of the two women’s visit to the Van Diest shop as described by yourself and confirmed to me by the manager Giovanna Bianchi. In this connection two Russian-speaking females, registered as Yulia and Alyona Pinchuk, stayed at the Hotel Excelsior on the Lido for one night, two days after the date on the CCTV footage. Hotel staff have confirmed that the Pinchuks, described as sisters, might have been those shown in the footage. With compliments – Armando Trevisan.’
‘Run a check on those names, Billy. Yulia and whatever the other one was Pinchuk.’ She grabs the first of the printouts, as the printer wheezily disgorges it. ‘That’s got to be Villanelle in the dress. Look how she angles the hat so that it completely hides her face from the CCTV camera.’
‘Might be just coincidence.’
‘I don’t think so. She’s totally surveillance aware. And I’ll bet that’s the girlfriend, too. Remember what Giovanna at the jewellery shop said. The same age but a little taller. Short blonde hair. The physique of a swimmer or a tennis player.’
Lance nods. ‘She does fit that description. Broad shoulders, definitely. Can’t tell if she’s blonde, but the hair’s definitely very short. Just wish the face wasn’t so blurred.’
Eve stares at the printout of the two women. The features of the woman with the cropped blonde hair are pixilated and indistinct, but the essence of her is there. ‘I’ll know you when I see you, Cowgirl,’ she murmurs savagely. ‘You can count on that.’
‘OK. Yulia and Alyona Pinchuk,’ says Billy. ‘Seems they’re the co-proprietors of an online dating and escort agency called MySugarBaby.com, based in Kiev, Ukraine. The contact address is a post office box in the Oblonskiy district of the city.’
‘Can you dig a bit deeper? See if you can find pictures or any biographical stuff? I’m sure they’re just cover identities, but let’s make sure.’
Billy nods. He looks dazed with exhaustion, and Eve feels a stab of guilt. ‘Do it tomorrow,’ she tells him. ‘Go home now.’
‘Sure?’ he asks.
‘Absolutely sure. You’ve done more than enough for one day. Lance, what’s your plan for the evening?’
‘I’m meeting someone. The bloke from the Hampshire Road Policing Unit whose bike was nicked by your, um . . .’
‘She’s not my anything, Lance. Call her Villanelle.’
‘OK. By Villanelle.’
‘He’s coming to London, this bloke?’
‘No, I’m taking a train from Waterloo out to Whitchurch, which is where his unit is based. Apparently they serve a nice pint at the Bell.’
‘Will you be able to get back OK?’
‘Yeah, no problem. Last train’s around eleven.’
Eve frowns. ‘Thank you both. Seriously.’
An hour before the dinner shift, Villanelle knocks at Johanna’s door. Unlike the other temporary staff members, Johanna has a room to herself. She is also, alone of the twelve of them, not required to serve at dinner. Kissing Birgit’s ass has its rewards.
The door opens slowly. Johanna is wearing tracksuit pants and a crumpled sweater. She looks half-awake. ‘Ja. What do you want?’
‘I want you to take my place at dinner tonight.’
Johanna blinks and rubs her eyes. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t work the evening shift, except for turndown service on the upper corridor. Ask Birgit.’
Villanelle holds up a clear plastic bag containing the grubby thong retrieved from Roger Baggot’s bed. ‘Listen, schatz. If you don’t take that dinner shift for me I’m going to have to tell Birgit where I found this. I don’t think she’ll be pleased to find out you’ve been fucking the guests.’
‘I’ll deny it. You can’t prove that’s mine.’
‘OK, let’s go and speak to Birgit right now. We’ll see who she believes.’
For a moment Villanelle thinks her bluff is going to be called. Then, slowly, Johanna nods.
‘OK. I’ll do it,’ she says. ‘Why’s it so important to you, anyway?’
Villanelle shrugs. ‘I’ve had enough of Linder’s guests. I can’t stand another evening of their stupid conversation.’
‘So what do I say to Birgit? She’s going to think it’s strange that I’m doing a shift I don’t have to.’
‘Tell her what you like. Say I’m in my room, throwing up. Say I’ve got the shits. Whatever.’
She nods sulkily. ‘So can I have my tanga back?’
‘Later.’
‘Scheisse, Violette. I thought you were a nice person. But you’re a bitch. A real fucking bitch.’
‘My pleasure. Just be there at dinner, OK?’
When Villanelle gets back to her room, she can hear the weak splash of the shower. When Maria steps back into the room, shivering in an undersized towel, Villanelle tells her that she’s feeling ill, and that Johanna will be covering her at dinner. If Maria is surprised at this turn of events, she says nothing.
After locking herself in the bathroom, Villanelle applies a thin layer of pale cake make-up, and dusts it with cornstarch. A faint smudge of shadow beneath each eye, and she’s the picture of unhealth. Retching into her hand as she passes Maria, she goes in search of Birgit.
She finds her in the kitchen, bullying one of the sous-chefs. Haltingly, Villanelle tells Birgit about her stomach upset and her arrangement with Johanna. Birgit is furious to hear that Villanelle is not
