‘Kill him yourself, old chap,’ says Stephen. ‘Look at the size of you.’
‘Much easier for me if somebody else does it,’ says the Viking. ‘And who better than a former spy, a little old lady, a woman who knows how to kill, and who has just pulled off one of the thefts of the century? Who better, Stephen?’
‘It’s cowardly,’ says Stephen. ‘Never taken the Swedes for cowards.’
Elizabeth is mulling. Pretending to mull at least. Just arranging her cards in order before playing the first one. She doesn’t have a great hand, though she does have an ace. She will have to proceed with care.
‘Still not for me, I’m afraid,’ says Elizabeth to the Viking. ‘If I refuse, the worst you can do is kill me, which is a nuisance for you, and, honestly, I’ve had a fairly good run. And this would be a nice room to die in. Very cosy.’
The Viking smiles. ‘I think your husband might not agree with that. Perhaps he might like you to stay alive.’
Stephen shrugs. ‘We all go at some point, my Viking friend. I’d rather she wasn’t killed by a cowardly Swede, but best to bow out doing something decent. I’m sure I’d miss her, but someone else would turn up soon enough. Beautiful spies everywhere you look. Falling out of trees.’
Elizabeth smiles. But what if she really were to die? What then? What then for Stephen? Her heart cracks in two, but her face remains placid. Because she knows something the Viking doesn’t know.
‘I think if it’s all the same to you,’ she says, ‘I’m going to take my husband home and forget this conversation ever happened. Put the bags back over our heads: I don’t need to know where I am, and I don’t have any interest in finding out who you are. I understand your position, and I understand why I’m the perfect woman to kill Viktor Illyich, but I’m not going to do it. Which leaves you with two options. Either you kill me – which would be very messy, an awful lot of admin, probably a lot of heat from MI6 when they realize I’ve vanished – or you simply let us go, no more said about it.’
‘Viktor Illyich will kill you though,’ says the Viking. ‘He will find out where you live. I found out easily enough.’
‘I will take my chances,’ says Elizabeth.
Viktor Illyich will not kill Elizabeth, she knows that. That’s her ace. The Viking has been unlucky here. Elizabeth and Stephen will be home before dawn, and will be quite safe. Depending on where they are, of course. ‘So kill me or let me go. Those are your two options. Which do you choose?’
‘I think I choose option three,’ says the Viking. ‘The option where I send Viktor Illyich the full photos.’
‘The full photos?’
‘Yes, for sure. The photos with your friend Joyce Meadowcroft by your side. Both pictures, both names.’
‘Bit below the belt,’ says Stephen. Elizabeth still feels safe. Viktor won’t go after Joyce either. Not if they’re in the photo together. A friend of Elizabeth is a friend of Viktor.
‘Viktor might not have the heart to kill Joyce, of course,’ says the Viking. ‘She is more of a civilian, I think? So here’s my deal. Just as insurance, if Viktor Illyich isn’t dead within two weeks, I will kill your friend Joyce.’
13
The second date was, if anything, even better than the first. They have just been to Brighton to watch a Polish film. Donna hadn’t realized there were Polish films, though obviously there must be. In a country that size, someone is going to make a film once in a while.
It was an art-house cinema, of course it was, it was in Brighton, and that meant you couldn’t get proper pick ’n’ mix. No chocolate mice, no Kola Cubes, nothing. Just healthy snacks.
But they did let you bring wine into the cinema, so Donna supposed it was OK to put up with a handful of unsalted cashew nuts. Also, everyone stayed quiet during the film, which Donna was not at all used to.
They took the train from Fairhaven. Donna drank a Mojito in a can, and Bogdan drank a large energy drink into which he had mixed a sachet of protein powder.
They walked from the station to the cinema, her arm hooked through Bogdan’s. At one point they walked past a house on Trafalgar Street which Bogdan told her was a crack den, and then past an old forge on London Road where a Lithuanian was buried. Bogdan would make a very good tour guide for a very specific type of tourist.
There were other black people in Brighton, and that was nice to see. Though still few enough for a subtle nod to be exchanged as they passed each other. Donna likes Brighton; she could see herself raiding a few crack dens here before her career was out.
They talked a little about Bethany Waites, and about Heather Garbutt. Donna is putting together a map of all the CCTV cameras in Fairhaven for Chris. It is not an enjoyable job.
Now, not only do people in Poland make films, it turns out they make very good ones. Donna had worried it might be a searing portrayal of love and loss across the generations of a remote farming family, and she would have to keep turning to Bogdan and pretending to nod wisely. But not a bit of it. There was murder, there was fighting, there was a cop in a ripped shirt; it wasn’t bad at all. Every few minutes Bogdan would lean into her and she readied herself for a kiss, but he was just pointing out occasional inconsistencies in the subtitles. She held his hand, her red wine slipped down a treat, the gal got the guy, and someone shot down a helicopter. Eight out of ten, would recommend.
They went back to his, there wasn’t even a question. Where would they have parted? And why?
Bogdan is currently in the bathroom, and Donna is frantically rehydrating, and trying to recall if she has ever been happier.
They had talked a little more about Bethany Waites. Donna had looked into the files on Jack Mason, the businessman. A record as long as a Post Office queue. Charming but dangerous.
Talking of which, Bogdan walks back into the room, and gets into bed. She puts her arm around him, sleepy and safe.
They laugh. God, this feels right. It feels natural, and true, and unforced. It feels like all those things you read about relationships, but assume are lies.
Bogdan’s mobile phone rings on the bedside table. They both look over at it. It is two a.m.
Well, here we go, thinks Donna, her reverie immediately broken. All those things are lies. There’s another woman. Of course. Once again, Donna, nice try. There is always something. She is suddenly not so sleepy, and not so safe.
Bogdan looks at the number, then back at Donna. ‘I have to get this. I’m sorry.’
Donna shrugs. She had been planning to stay until morning, but now she starts scanning for her clothes.
14
Elizabeth and Stephen have been dropped by the side of a small road in a big wood. The moon is high and full, and pale light zigzags through winter’s bare branches above them.
‘You gave quite the start when he mentioned Viktor Illyich,’ says Stephen.
‘I gave a start? I thought I covered it pretty well. Does anything get past you?’
‘That’s a kind thing to pretend. Old friend is he, Viktor?’
‘Old enemy if anything. KGB Head of Station in Leningrad, 1980s,’ says Elizabeth, her breath smoke in the clear air. ‘Then upwards and upwards.’
One of the photos of Viktor in the folder the Viking had given her was of Viktor in his prime. Not prime exactly perhaps: the head was already balding, the thick, pebble-lensed glasses too big for his face. But young at least. The most recent photo brought the shock of age. Old, lined, strands of grey hair clinging to the cliff edges. The glasses still too big, but look behind them and there he was. Viktor. The mischief and intelligence in his eyes. The rival who became her friend. The enemy who became … her lover? Had they? Elizabeth doesn’t recall, but she wouldn’t put it past herself.
Viktor will look at her photograph in the same way, she is sure. Who is this old woman?
Elizabeth’s phone is dead, and Stephen doesn’t have his, so on they walk.
‘Without speaking out of turn,’ says Stephen, ‘you have a look that says you don’t much want to kill him?’