The gallery in Chiswick is difficult to find, identified only by a small silver plaque on the door. Occupying the ground floor of a Georgian house, it has a sunlit brick frontage and a wide bow window overlooking the Thames. As soon as she steps inside Eve feels out of place. Richard’s friends have that casually privileged look that quietly but unmistakably fends off outsiders. For quite a few minutes, no one talks to her, so she affects a frowningly intense interest in the art on display. The watercolours and drawings are accomplished and inoffensive. Landscape views of the Cotswolds, boats at anchor in Aldeburgh, a girl in a straw hat on holiday in France. There’s a portrait drawing, quite a good one, of Richard. Eve is admiring this when a fine-boned woman with eyes as pale as sea-glass appears at her side.
‘So what do you think?’ she asks.
‘It’s very like him,’ says Eve. ‘Benign, but hard to read. You must be Amanda?’
‘Yes. And I’m guessing you’re Eve. Concerning whom there can be no discussion.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Richard often mentions you. I don’t think he’s aware quite how often. And obviously, official secrets and so on, I don’t ask him about you. But I’ve always rather wondered.’
‘Trust me, I’m not the mysterious type.’
Amanda gives her a pale smile. ‘Let me get you something to drink.’ She beckons to Richard, who’s circulating with a bottle of prosecco wrapped in a napkin. Disconcertingly, given his church-mouse work look, he’s wearing a jauntily unbuttoned pink linen shirt and chinos.
‘Ah,’ he says. ‘You two have met. Excellent. I’ll just get Eve a glass.’
Richard walks away, and Amanda makes as if to straighten a picture frame. She barely touches it, but the movement draws Eve’s attention to the platinum wedding band and glittering baguette diamond ring.
‘I’m not sleeping with your husband,’ Eve says. ‘In case you’re wondering.’
Amanda raises an eyebrow. ‘I’m glad to hear it. You’re not remotely his type, but you know how lazy men are. Whatever’s to hand.’
Eve smiles. ‘The paintings seem to be selling well,’ she says. ‘Lots of red stickers.’
‘That’s mostly the drawings, which are cheaper. I’m counting on Richard to keep pouring wine down people’s throats. See if that helps shift some of the paintings.’
‘Won’t you miss them? All those memories.’
‘Paintings are like children. It’s nice to have them around the house, but not necessarily for ever.’
Richard returns with a newly washed glass, which he fills and hands to Eve. ‘Can I have a brief word? In five minutes?’
Eve nods. She half turns, but Amanda’s already drifting away.
‘Let me introduce you to our daughter,’ Richard says.
Chloe Edwards has long-lashed eyes and her mother’s bones. ‘You work with Dad, don’t you?’ she says, when Richard has moved on. ‘That’s so cool. Mum and I never get to meet his fellow spies so you’ll have to forgive me if I get a bit fan-girly. Bet you’ve got a gun in your bag.’
‘Of course.’ Eve smiles.
‘Actually, come to think, I did meet one once. Another spook, I mean.’
‘Anyone I know?’
‘Lucky you if you do. We were at our house in Saint-Rémy-de-Provence, Mum was out sketching or shopping or something, and he came over for lunch. Older guy, Russian, devastatingly ravaged-looking. God, I fancied him.’
‘How old were you?’
‘Oh, fifteen, probably. I don’t remember his name. Which was probably fake anyway, right?’
‘Not necessarily. Is that you in the painting? In the straw hat?’
‘’Fraid so. I wish someone would buy it and take it away.’
‘Truly?’
‘It’s so, you know, white girl on holiday.’
‘But it must be lovely having a house in Provence.’
‘I suppose. The heat and the smell of the lavender fields. All that. But I’m not so much for the rich Parisian boys in their Vilebrequin swim-shorts.’
‘Prefer a ravaged Russian?’
‘God yes, every time.’
‘You should follow your dad into the Service. You’ll meet plenty.’
‘He says I’m too glam to be a spy. That you’ve got to be, like, really ordinary-looking. The sort of person you’d walk straight past in the street.’
Eve smiles. ‘Like me?’
‘No, no, no. No. I don’t mean—’
‘Don’t worry, I’m just teasing you. But your dad’s right. You’re amazing-looking, and you should enjoy it.’
Chloe grins. ‘You’re nice. Can we stay in touch? Dad’s always going on about meeting the right people.’ She hands Eve a card. It has her name on it, a phone number and an embossed skull and crossbones.
‘Well, I’m not so sure I’m one of the right people, but thanks. Are you at university?’
‘I want to go to drama school. I’ve got auditions in the New Year.’
‘Well, good luck.’
Richard winds through the guests towards them, and pats his daughter on the bottom. ‘Vamoose, darling, I need to borrow Eve for a few minutes.’
Chloe rolls her eyes, and Eve follows him outside.
Whitlock and Jones, purveyors of pharmaceutical and medical supplies, is one of the longer established businesses in Welbeck Street, in central London. Its sales staff wear white coats, and are known for the tact with which they cater to their customers’ often intimate requirements. For sales assistant Colin Dye it’s been a slow day. The store caters to many of the private specialists whose well-appointed clinics line nearby Harley Street and Wimpole Street, and in the two years that he’s been working here, Dye has come to recognise many of the nurses who drop in when their employers’ surgical supplies need replenishing. With half a dozen of these he’s on solid bantering terms. His own surname is always a good ice-breaker.
So if he doesn’t know the young woman who’s approaching the counter, her gaze lingering on
