Jasminder laughed. Emma said, ‘Actually, by the end they almost seemed disappointed by how pure you’ve been. I wanted to invent some peccadillos for you, but other than stealing my chips in restaurants, I couldn’t think of any. Aren’t you going to tell me what this is about?’
‘I will soon enough. I didn’t think they’d want to talk to you. I thought they’d decide I was completely unsuitable.’
‘Well, all I can say is that I have my suspicions. I think you’ve applied for that MI6 job I read about in the Guardian. They were advertising for a Director of Communications. I wouldn’t have thought it was your scene, but good on you if that’s what you want. Maybe you’ll be able to make them think a bit more like the rest of us. When will you be allowed to spill the beans?’
‘Soon probably; when they tell me I haven’t got the job. But I just don’t know exactly.’ And a few minutes later, after Jasminder had promised to fill her in at the earliest possible opportunity, Emma rang off.
Jasminder got up and went into the kitchen, feeling unsettled. She’d left the radio on, but for once she didn’t find the sound of classical music soothing and switched it off in irritation. She hadn’t until now faced the possibility that they might actually offer her the job and didn’t know what she would do if they did. She was pondering this when the phone rang again. This time it was Laurenz calling from Paris.
‘Hello, my sweet,’ he said. ‘I tried you earlier but your phone was engaged.’
‘Yes. I was talking to Emma. You know that job I said I might apply for? Well, I filled in a form and sent it in and now they’ve been to see her to ask questions about me.’
‘That’s good. It shows they’re taking your application seriously. I hope she said nice things about you. What did they ask?’
‘All sorts of personal stuff. They wanted to know about boyfriends.’
‘Did she tell them about me?’
‘No. I haven’t told her about you. I’ve hardly seen her since we met.’
‘So they won’t be coming to call on me then?’
‘No chance. I didn’t put your name on the form. You didn’t come into the category of co-habitant.’
‘Oh, good, because I’d rather you didn’t. What with my wife and all this legal stuff, I don’t want to get some sort of record with the authorities.’
‘Well, we’d better not start co-habiting then.’
He laughed. ‘Not officially, anyway.’
16
They expected a lot for £9.27 an hour, Kevin Burgess thought as he looked at his watch. When he’d left school it would have seemed like loads of money, but now that he was twenty-five with his own place to pay for, it didn’t seem much at all. It was time for his break, all of twenty minutes – he barely had time to swallow his tea. It usually took him five minutes to get up to the hut where he and the gardeners gathered, and then there was a wait for the kettle to boil, the tea to brew and the mugs to be filled. By the time he’d taken a few sips he’d be watching the clock, knowing that his boss, Reilly, the head of security, would be out soon, making sure no one was skiving when they should be back at work. Reilly was ex-Army (some said ex-SAS), and though he certainly seemed to know his stuff, the man had clearly never readjusted to civilian life.
Of course it all sounded very glamorous – Kevin’s friends and his girlfriend Linda had oohed and aahed when he’d told them about his new assignment from the agency. There were plenty of mansions in the neighbourhood, occupied by football stars and businessmen, but even by the standards of Altrincham’s Golden Triangle, The Gloamings was something special. The job came with its own uniform – today, as always, he wore a blue jacket with Gloaming Security printed on the back. His was a bit tight and he was thinking of asking for a new one. Kevin was a big lad – over six foot tall and more than fifteen stone, though he knew that at least a stone or two of this was excess padding.
It was galling to think that with the money that was being spent just on the grounds – there were four full-time gardeners working there – Kevin and Linda could have bought a mini-mansion for themselves. And inside, with its eleven bedrooms, each with its own bathroom, and eight reception rooms, The Gloamings was just as lavishly staffed: there was a housekeeper, two maids to assist her, a cook, two cleaners and a full-time chauffeur.
Not to mention the security staff. Kevin Burgess patrolled the grounds, and there were two others in the team so that the gardens were guarded twenty-four hours a day. Inside there was an office full of CCTV monitors that showed the view from over a dozen cameras, both inside and out. Under Reilly’s command, there were three men on duty in the house – one for the front door, the other a roving presence (though not allowed upstairs) and the third to sit and watch the monitors. Add a Russian goon or two – they seemed to change every few weeks – and you’d find Fort Knox less well protected.
Which made it downright weird that the object of all this protection – Sergei Patricov, number fourteen in the Sunday Times Rich List – was so rarely there. People said his private jet did a million miles a year, which didn’t surprise Kevin. The man certainly travelled in style. One of the gardeners swore Patricov had hired an entire carriage of the train on one occasion when fog meant he couldn’t fly to London. And as for cars, the antique-looking barn (built the year before) was full of them – including a Rolls, a Bentley, a Jag, a Mercedes limo, two Range Rovers, and in case anyone felt like slumming it, a four-door Peugeot saloon.
But mostly the cars sat idle, save for the odd expedition by Patricov’s lady – Nina. Was she his wife? They called her Mrs Patricov, but she didn’t look much like a wife. She was nearly always at the house, though to the likes of Kevin virtually invisible. She spent a lot of her time in the solarium, a sort of conservatory that had been converted into an indoor swimming pool and sun lounge, complete with changing rooms. The staff – including security – were strictly forbidden from intruding on her privacy there.
In fact, though he had been here over two months, Kevin had only seen Nina on a couple of occasions, and then he’d just caught a glimpse of dark sunglasses and blonde hair. By contrast Patricov, despite his many absences, was a big presence when he was at home. He could be found in the orchid house sniffing his exotic flowers, or hitting balls against the backboard of his tennis court, or just sitting on the terrace, drinking a gin and tonic, watching the gardeners weeding the beds and cutting the grass. He was always friendly, happy to say hello to everyone – security guard or important guest – though one of the maids who was going out with a gardener was reported to have said that according to the housekeeper he did have a temper on him.
Everybody was saying that he wanted to buy United, and you could see him in the role – backslapping his favourite players, cheering from the directors’ box at Old Trafford, soaking up the attention while showing himself to be a regular bloke. As if! Regular blokes didn’t own their own planes and helicopters, or spend more money every week on staff than most people earned in a lifetime. Still, Kevin thought it would be great if Patricov bought the team. They’d have an owner so rich he could buy all the best talent, and one who not only lived in the same country – unlike the Glazers – but actually nearby.