Villanelle remains expressionless. ‘What went wrong?’
‘It doesn’t matter. What matters is that this one goes right.’
Chapter 8
On the tube, going home, Eve looks surreptitiously around her. Which of the other passengers are her watchers? There would probably be two of them, both armed. The Goth couple with the Staffordshire bull terrier? The earnest-looking guys in the Arsenal shirts? The young women endlessly whispering into their phones?
She could ask to go to a safe house, but that would just be postponing the problem. The unspoken truth, as she and Richard both know, is that she must make any would-be killer break cover, and this will most easily be achieved by continuing to live in her own flat. The building and the surrounding streets, meanwhile, will be invisibly cordoned off by the protection team. If Villanelle comes anywhere near, the team will move in for a hard arrest, and if she resists, disable or kill her out of hand. One way and another, Eve knows, she’s probably safer than at any time since she started working for Richard.
Dragging her keys from her bag, she unlocks the front door, and steps into the small communal hallway. Opening the door to the ground-floor flat she stands there for a moment, listening to the silence, and the faint buzz of the prosecco in her ears. Then, taking out the Glock, and ignoring the thumping of her heart, she closes the door behind her and subjects the place to a brisk and professional search.
Nothing. Collapsing onto the sofa, she flicks on the TV, which Niko has left tuned to the History Channel. A documentary about the Cold War is playing, and a commentator is describing the execution of thirteen poets in Moscow in 1952. Eve starts watching, but she can’t keep her eyes open, and the documentary becomes a flickering montage of grainy black and white film and semi-comprehensible Russian. Minutes later, although it could have been an hour, the titles are rolling, accompanied by a scratchy old recording of the Soviet national anthem. Sleepily, Eve hums along:
Soyuz nerushimy respublik svobodnykh:
Splotila naveki velikaya Rus’!
Dreadful lyrics, all that crapola about an unbreakable union of republics, but a stirring tune.
‘Da zdravstvuyet sozdanny voley narodov’
The will of the people. Yeah, right . . . Yawning, Eve reaches for the remote and flicks the TV off.
‘Yediny, moguchy Sovetsky Soyuz!’
She freezes mid-yawn. What the fuck? Is that voice in her head? Or is it right here in the flat?
‘Slav’sya, Otechestvo nashe svobodnoye . . .’
Terror stops Eve’s breath. It’s real. It’s here. It’s her.
The singing continues, clear and untroubled, and Eve tries to stand but discovers that her joints are gluey with fear, and her co-ordination all wrong, and she falls back onto the sofa. Somehow, the Glock is in her hand. The singing stops.
‘Eve, can you come here?’
She’s in the bathroom, with its faint but unmistakable echo, and suddenly Eve is devoured by a curiosity that momentarily mutes her terror. Propelling herself through the living room into the rear of the flat, gun in hand, she pulls open the door and is met by a warm, scented gust of steam. Villanelle is lying in the bath, naked except for a pair of latex gloves. Her eyes are half closed, her hair is a spiky wet tangle, and her skin is pink in the hot, soapy water. Above her feet, lying between the taps, is a Sig Sauer pistol.
‘Will you help me do my hair? I can’t really manage it in these gloves.’
Eve stares at her open-mouthed, her knees shaking. Registers the catlike features and the flat grey eyes, the half-healed facial cuts, the strange little twist to the mouth. ‘Villanelle,’ she whispers.
‘Eve.’
‘What . . . why are you here?’
‘I wanted to see you. It’s been weeks.’
Eve doesn’t move. She just stands there, the Glock heavy in her hands.
‘Please.’ Villanelle reaches for a bottle of Eve’s gardenia shampoo. ‘Calm down. Put your gun down there with mine.’
‘Why are you wearing those gloves?’
‘Forensics.’
‘So you’ve come here to kill me?’
‘Do you want me to?’
‘No, Villanelle. Please . . .’
‘Well, then.’ She looks up at Eve. ‘You haven’t got plans for the evening, have you?’
‘No, I . . . My husband is . . .’ Eve stares around her wildly. At the steamed-up window, the sink, the gun in her hands. She knows that she should take control of the situation but there’s something paralysing about Villanelle’s physical presence. The wet hair, the livid cuts and bruises, the pale body in the steaming water, the flaking toenail varnish. It’s all too intense.
‘I read Niko’s note,’ Villanelle shakes her head. ‘It’s so crazy that you keep goats.’
‘They’re just small ones. I . . . I can’t believe that you’re here. In my flat.’
‘You were asleep in front of the TV when I came in. Snoring, in fact. I didn’t want to wake you.’
‘There’s an eight-bar security lock on that front door.’
‘I noticed. Quite a good one. I love your place, though. It’s so . . . you. Everything’s just how I imagined.’
‘You broke in. You brought a gun. So I’m guessing that you are, in fact, meaning to kill me.’
‘Eve, please, don’t spoil everything.’ Villanelle tilts her head flirtatiously against the edge of the bath. ‘Am I how you imagined me?’
Eve turns away. ‘I didn’t imagine you. I couldn’t begin to imagine anyone who’s done the things you’ve done.’
‘Really?’
‘Do you even know how many people you’ve killed? Oxana?’
She laughs. ‘Hey, Polastri. You really have been doing your research, haven’t you? Top of the class. But let’s not talk about me. Let’s talk about you.’
‘Just answer me this one simple question. Did you come here to kill me?’
‘Sweetie, you keep on about this. And you’re the one holding the gun.’
‘I’d like to know.’
‘OK. If I promise not to shoot you, will you do my hair?’
‘Seriously?’
‘Yes.’
‘You’re insane.’
‘So they say. Do we have a deal?’
Eve frowns. Finally she nods, lays down the Glock, rolls up her sleeves, slips her watch into her pocket, and reaches for the shampoo.
Touching her is strange. And running her
