The foreman had counted his men once and now was counting them again.
One short.
He’d had a shouting match with one of them earlier, some barrack-room lawyer from Dubrovnik or some other Godforsaken place, there was always one of them, mouthing off about rest periods and meal breaks.
‘You,’ he said, poking the nearest with a gloved finger. ‘That mate of yours, where is he?’
The man shook his head and looked away. The others stared hard at the ground.
‘Where the fuck is he, that fucking Croat cunt?’
Nobody answered, nobody knew.
‘Okay,’ the foreman said finally, the driver with his engine already idling. ‘Get ’em out of here. And tomorrow, be on fuckin’ time, right?’
It was later that evening, after a warming dinner of lamb shanks with aubergine and cinnamon and the best part of a bottle of Cotes du Ventoux, the moon plump in the sky, that Audrey Herbert left her husband to load the dishwasher, donned her Wellingtons and waterproof jacket and took the Labrador for its final walk. Halfway along the track that ran beside the second field, the dog started barking loudly at something in the drainage ditch and Audrey thought at first he had unearthed a rat. It was only when she shone the torch and saw the body, half-submerged, that she realised it was something more.
Kate stood Kiley up that evening to have dinner with Jonathan Sayer. Sayer, until a rather public falling-out and resignation, had been press officer to the Prime Minister and still had close connections with the inner sanctum of government.
‘Seems the PM went ape shit,’ Sayer confided. They were in an Indian restaurant in Kentish Town, a table well away from the door. ‘Tore a strip off the Home Secretary right outside the Cabinet room. Told him if he couldn’t keep his underlings and their bloody wives in order, he’d replace him with someone who could.’
‘Bit of an overreaction?’
Sayer shrugged. ‘You know how he is, scared about weevils coming out of the woodwork. Or wherever it is they come from.’
Kate thought it was flour.
‘His ratings, this past six months, last thing he needs now is a juicy bit of scandal.’
‘Is that what this is?’
‘I shouldn’t think so.’ Sayer smiled winsomely. ‘How’s the tarka dhal, by the way?’
‘A little too runny, actually.’
‘Shame.’
‘So. When’s it going to hit the fan?’
Sayer looked at her appraisingly. ‘First editions tomorrow, most likely.’
‘Are you going to make me wait till then?’
‘You could always phone your editor.’
‘I’m having dinner with you.’
Sayer sighed. ‘It seems Helen Forester has not been averse, shall we say, to seeking a little solace on the side. When her husband’s work has made him less than attentive.’
‘She screws around.’
‘Not compulsively.’
‘Anyone notable?’
Sayer named a junior MP and a writer whose dissections of political life under the Tories had come close to earning him a CBE. ‘That’s over a period of ten or twelve years, of course. Restrained by some standards.’
‘And Forester knows?’
Sayer nodded. ‘There was some talk of divorce, I believe, but all the usual factors came into play. Children. Careers. Forgive and forget.’
‘So the tabs are going to dish the dirt, encourage their readers to join the dotted lines. What else was she doing in the wee small hours if she wasn’t on her way home from some love nest or other?’
‘Something like that.’
‘Any names being bandied about?’
‘Ah…’ Sayer leaned back in his chair. ‘I was rather hoping you might help me there.’
‘Me?’
‘You interviewed her recently, got on famously by all accounts.’
‘And you think she might have been a little indiscreet?’
‘Two women chatting together, relaxed. It’s not impossible she’d have mentioned a name or two, purely in passing. Besides, it’s what you’re good at. Getting people to say things they’d rather keep to themselves.’
Kate smiled and let a piece of well-spiced lady’s finger slide down her throat. ‘It’s you, actually, Jonathan. Fancies the balls off you, she really does. Maybe I’ll give my editor a call as you suggest.’
There were times and recently a goodly number of them, when Kate despaired of her profession. The following morning, when the press spewed up a mess of private folly and unsubstantiated rumour, was one of them. In the cause of public interest, the tabloids took their usual lead, while the broadsheets, keen to maintain their superiority, merely reported their assertions in words of more than two syllables.
After a decent interval, Kate phoned the number she had for Helen Forester but there was no answer. By the time she tried again later, mid-morning, the line had been disengaged. Jonathan Sayer’s mobile was permanently switched off. Kiley, she remembered, had promised to do a little background checking on the client of a solicitor friend. She wondered if a visit to the Olafur Eliasson sun installation at Tate Modern might lift her into a better frame of mind.
It was late afternoon before Kiley reported to the offices of Hamblin, Laker and Clarke, a summary of his findings inside a DL manilla envelope, along with a bill for his services. Margaret Hamblin, quietly resplendent in something from Donna Karan, came out into the reception area to thank him.
‘I would suggest a glass of wine, Jack. There’s a quite nice white from Alsace I’m giving a try. Only there’s someone here who wants to see you. Special Branch. You can use my office.’
Someone was plural. One brusque and unsmiling, slight hints of a Scottish accent still lingering, the other, bespectacled, mostly silent and inscrutable.
‘Masters,’ the first man said, showing identification. ‘Detective Superintendent.’ He didn’t introduce his companion.
‘Jack Kiley.’
‘You’re a private investigator.’
‘That’s right.’
‘And you can make a living doing that?’
‘Some days, yes.’
In the parlance of Kiley’s recent profession, Masters was a skilful midfielder, not especially tall, wiry, difficult to shake off the ball. He nodded and reached into his pocket. The by-play was over. Inside a small plastic envelope was one of Kiley’s business cards, dog-eared and far from pristine.
‘Yours?’
‘Cheaper by the thousand.’
‘There’s a phone number, just above your name.’ He held it up for Kiley to see. It was Margaret Hamblin’s number. ‘Is that your writing?’
‘Seems to be.’
A Polaroid photograph next, head and shoulders, a deep gash to one side of the temple, lifeless eyes.
‘Anyone you know?’
‘No.’
‘He was found dead in a field last night. Village outside Ely.’
Kiley shook his head.
‘Here,’ Masters said, handing Kiley the envelope containing the card. ‘Turn it round.’
On the back, smudged but still readable was the name ‘Adina’. Just that.
‘Ring any bells?’
It rang a few. Adina was a friend of Irena’s from Costanza on the Black Sea coast of Romania. Smuggled into the country, she had worked as an exotic dancer, paying off the exorbitant fee for transportation. She had got into a little trouble and Kiley had helped her out. That had been a year ago. Somewhere in that time she had sent Irena a postcard from Bucharest.
‘You rode to the rescue,’ Masters said. ‘Knight in shining armour.’
‘Dark armour,’ the second man corrected, as if to prove he’d been listening. “A knight in dark armour rescuing a lady”.’
‘Harry Potter?’ asked Kiley guilelessly.
‘Philip Marlowe. The Big Sleep.’
‘You know where she is now, this Adina?’ Masters asked.
‘Romania?’
‘I don’t think so. And Alen Markovic…’
‘Who’s that?’
‘The man in the photo.’
‘The dead man.’
‘Exactly. You’ve no idea how or why he might end up in a drainage ditch with your card on his person? Complete with the name of an illegal immigrant you befriended and the telephone number of a solicitor with a reputation for handling appeals against deportation. And let’s discount, shall we, pure chance and coincidence.’