‘Stupid.’
‘I don’t understand.’ She wished he hadn’t called it that, although she supposed that was how it would have seemed.
Without taking his eyes from her, Miller reached sideways into a drawer. He lifted out the half-used bottle of Chanel and placed it on the desk between them. ‘Yours.’ It was an announcement, not a question.
Patricia, who believed she’d prepared herself for whatever he might say but now wasn’t sure, about anything, half lifted and then dropped her hands, in a gesture of helplessness, and said: ‘Yes, but … I don’t … where …?’
‘On Ann’s dressing-table.’
‘That’s not possible! I tidied everywhere!’
‘Right in the very middle of Ann’s things. As if it had been placed there.’
‘That’s not right … I mean I’m not saying it wasn’t there … what I’m saying is I couldn’t have left it … I’m sure I couldn’t …’
‘Didn’t you miss it?’
Her hands rose and fell again. ‘No. It’s not the only bottle I have … another at Chiswick … it just never arose …’
Miller looked steadily, blankly, over the desk.
Say something! she thought. Say something, please, something I want so much to hear: shout even, if you’re angry, although you never shout, no matter how enraged you get, do you? When he still didn’t speak, she said: ‘Was it bad when she found it?’
‘She didn’t find it,’ announced the man, calmly. ‘I did.’
No! The failure wailed so despairingly through Patricia’s mind it was as if she could hear her own voice moaning it. The smile was practically impossible, like what she had to say. ‘Thank God!’
‘I always check, after we’ve been there. Before Ann comes.’
‘Always?’ It was right that she should show some affront.
‘Always,’ he echoed.
‘What does that mean?’ she demanded, disappointment fuelling the annoyance. ‘That you don’t trust me?’
‘It means I’m extremely careful. Fortunately.’
‘Would it have been so bad if Ann had found it?’ Wrong! The word, a warning this time, reverberated through her mind like the earlier despair. She knew it could harden any suspicion he might have, but at the same time she wasn’t sorry she’d said it, either.
‘Did you intentionally leave it, Patricia?’ There was no anger in his voice: no emotion in the way he was speaking at all, which she found more unsettling than if he’d raged at her.
‘NO!’ She knew she was reddening but that didn’t matter because it could have been in anger at the accusation. ‘How can you ask me a question like that?’
‘It seems perfectly valid, to me.’
‘I don’t think so! I thought there was trust between us. Love, too. Maybe I was wrong.’ Patricia realized she was coming dangerously close to the edge, confronting him more forcefully than ever before. And he’d avoided her question, as he always avoided her question.
‘This isn’t the way Ann is going to be told.’
‘How is it going to be?’ she demanded, not able to hold her anger. Why? Why did he have to be so bloody careful! Why couldn’t the precious, cosseted, protected Lady Ann have been the one to find it?
‘Properly. Calmly. With my telling her.’ The voice droned, the man utterly in control of himself and his feelings.
‘After the boys finish at university! Or has some other schedule arisen I don’t know about yet?’
‘You’re putting a strain on things, Patricia.’
‘Is that a threat?’ Of course it was! Back off: she had to back off! She couldn’t risk losing him!
He shook his head. ‘A statement of the obvious.’
Oh no! He wasn’t ending it: surely he wasn’t doing that! The fear surged through her, far worse than the despair and disappointment and anger, so that she felt physically sick. Don’t let him end it! She didn’t have anyone else: any chance or hope of anyone else. She’d trusted him, relied upon him: given up other friendships that might have led to something. What little she had of Peter Miller was all she had, of anyone. ‘It was a mistake, the perfume. I honestly didn’t realize I’d left it. I’m sorry. And glad it hasn’t caused the upset it could have done.’
Miller pushed the bottle further towards her, across the table. At last he smiled. ‘You’d better take it, hadn’t you?’
Patricia did so, slipping it into her pocket to conceal it as she went between their two offices. It bulged, too noticeably, so she took it out again, covering it in her hand.
‘Let’s do it my way,’ he said.
‘All right.’ Which was how they’d always done everything. His way. To his convenience. And always would, she supposed, miserably.
Thirty-nine
They reconvened within twenty-four hours. Natalia guessed the delay would have been much longer but for Vadim Lestov’s previous role as Interior Minister, to whom the Federal Prosecutor had been responsible and with whom a known friendship had gone beyond officialdom, so that favours could be demanded and met.
Natalia entered the inquiry room on the second day feeling none of the uncertainty of the first occasion. She got there early but Tudin, the lawyer and her son were already ahead of her.
Petr Korolov came in with the three-man committee, a permitted gesture to make clear his equal stature. Korolov, whom she had met on only two other occasions, lowered himself on the front row but not immediately beside her. He looked at her, though, briefly smiling. He was a plump, shiny-faced, balding man corseted in an ill-fitting, waistcoated suit, the sleeves and trousers too long, so that they bagged at wrist and ankle.
‘This examination will be concluded today,’ declared Lestov.
So there had been some ante-room discussion, Natalia realized. She hoped it hadn’t been too much, robbing her of her intended grand finale. She didn’t want to be denied her moment: the vindication she had groped towards – fought blindly for and desperately for – until just a few hours earlier, never properly knowing what was being done to undermine her: to destroy her. Her and Sasha.
Natalia rose, regretting the dip of uncertainty because now there could be nothing to feel uncertain about. She attacked hard and at once. She reminded the inquiry of her original examination of Fyodor Tudin, to establish the responsibility she had given him to organize a service in the republics that he’d so miserably failed to fulfil. She denounced him as an internal, corrosive schemer, doing nothing to protect the newly constituted agency but everything to damage it. She called him a liar, turning to hurl the word at him. And insisted he’d twisted those lies to deceive the tribunal he himself had caused to be convened.
Korolov rose dutifully when asked, faintly smiling at the affectation of the proceedings. For the records, she went through the routine of establishing Korolov’s name and authority. From her briefcase she extracted the first of her limited documentation.
She walked the few paces separating them and said: ‘Do you recognize this?’
Korolov examined it before nodding. ‘It is a memorandum I received from you.’
‘It is dated? Timed?’
‘It is dated the eighteenth. Timed at six-fifteen that evening.’
‘What is the subject of the memorandum?’
‘The arrest of your son, by the Organized Crime Bureau of the Militia.’
‘I identified him as my son. Fully disclosed to you my relationship, at that time?’
‘Yes.’
‘Does that memorandum make any request for special or favoured treatment from your department towards my son?’
‘On the contrary.’
‘Would you explain that?’
Korolov went to the paper he still held. Quoting, he read:‘“I expect the full authority and punishment of the law to be exercised.”’