Will gripped his seat while trying to smile. “Great to hear.”
“At least it means we stand less chance of being detected. Visibility’s bad; plus no one would expect a plane to be flying low level in this shit.”
“There’s always a silver lining.” Will stared at the sea and imagined what would happen if they crashed. Would they drown or freeze to death? Either way, it would be agonizing. Yes, a bullet into the brain would be preferable.
Superintendent Barclay, Constable Evans, and Dickie reached the first floor and stood outside the apartment. Dickie knocked and called out, “Phoebe. It’s the major. I’m here with company. Male company.”
After a five-second delay, Phoebe replied, “Just give me a minute.” There was rapid movement inside the home. “Fuck… damn …”
Phoebe never liked to answer the door to men unless she was looking her best.
“Shit.”
The three men stood patiently.
“Bollocks.”
Six minutes later, the door opened. Phoebe stood before them, her hand on her hip, wearing a little black dress and heels. It was her sultry look, and all the more remarkable for the fact that a few minutes ago she’d had no makeup on and had been wearing a dressing gown.
Though they had absolutely nothing in common, not for the first time Dickie thought that his Guardsmen could have learned a thing or two from Phoebe. Most of them needed at least an hour to get themselves into their number-one uniforms. Phoebe could do so in a fraction of the time.
Dickie pointed at the men by his side. “Coppers, looking for our boy Cochrane. Bloke in uniform needs motherin’; probably can’t tie his own shoelaces.”
Phoebe eyed the constable, a slight smile on her face, her eyes wide and penetrating. “Do you need mothering?”
Dickie interjected, “They want to do some snooping. Need a key to Cochrane’s place.” He glanced at the officers. “Lost the use of their legs.”
Phoebe frowned. “What has Will done wrong?”
Dickie clasped his hands behind his back. “Seems Mr. Cochrane’s been living a lie, and Plod here wants to punish him for that.”
Will opened the flask, poured himself a drink, and was surprised to see that his cup wasn’t filled with bad tea; instead it contained soup. He took a sip of the liquid. It was homemade and he could taste beef, vegetables, fennel, paprika, cream, and a hint of lemon. Ulana was right; during his service in MI6, he’d done a lot of first-class travel and had availed himself of food that was as refined as it could be at thirty-seven thousand feet. The soup tasted just as good as anything else he’d consumed in a plane; actually, better. He wondered if Ulana had prepared it especially for him. Most likely, yes.
Holding the mug in two hands, he eased back into his seat while trying to stop the soup from spilling out as the plane was buffeted. Alongside a British passport and credit card in the blown name of Robert Tombs, a dodgy American passport, eight thousand dollars, and a handgun and spare clip, the soup was all he had. It was important. Something good that was here to help him.
He thought about his home in West Square. It was now just as he wanted it: a place that was homey, safe, and contained his treasured art, antiques, and musical instruments. A year before, he’d taken his possessions out of storage so that they could be prominently displayed, partly to cheer up his new place, but more important, to barrage his senses with beautiful and interesting things. They were healthy distractions from the wholly unhealthy sense of feeling utterly alone and unwanted. He dearly hoped he’d be back home sometime soon.
As Phoebe, Dickie, and the police officers reached the top of the next flight of stairs, David opened his door and asked, “Everything okay?” He was wearing a chef’s apron and holding a large knife; Kid Ory’s “Society Blues” was in full swing within his apartment.
Barclay eyed the knife. “Best you put that thing away.”
David glanced down, looking embarrassed. “Oops. Sorry.” The flabby mortician smiled. “Don’t worry — I only use knives on dead things. What’s going on?”
Phoebe told him.
“A spy? On the run? That can’t be right.”
Dickie said, “Read the papers, Sunny Jim.”
“They’re always full of shit.”
“Not this time.” Dickie nodded toward the officers. “They want us to let them into his flat so they can search the place. We’re here to exercise our civic duty to ensure they’re not bent coppers who’re going to nick stuff. Care to join us?”
Barclay pointed at the blade. “By all means join us, but you’re coming without that thing.”
“Sure.” David placed the knife on a shelf and rubbed his hands over his food-stained apron. “How exciting. Cochrane a spy. Who’d’ve thought?” He winked at Phoebe. “I always thought he looked like one of them boxers you fancied. Makes sense though. All those trips away. Who does he work for? Communists? Terrorists? Please tell me, not the Chinese.”
Barclay ignored the questions and strode up the final flight of stairs.
Despite her heels, Phoebe kept pace and unlocked the door. After it swung open, she held her hand to her mouth and exclaimed, “Oh no!”
They all moved into Will’s apartment. The beds in the bedrooms had been overturned; drawers had been pulled out and upended, their contents spilled on the floor; and the clothes in the closets had been slashed with razors or knives. The living room was in an even worse state. It had been comprehensively torn apart to the extent that all around them was carnage. Will’s German lute had been smashed; his paintings had been ripped from their frames; foam had spewed out of his chairs and sofa where they’d been cut; everything had been damaged beyond repair.
Dickie was visibly shocked and disgusted. “Vandals? Burglars?”
Superintendent Barclay calmly moved around the room, examined the barred windows, went back to the front door and got on one knee to scrutinize the lock, reentered the living room, and methodically examined everything within the room. A few minutes later, he asked, “Does anyone else have a key to his front door?”
Phoebe shrugged. “Apart from Will, don’t think so. He told me never to lose my key copy, because he didn’t have or want any more spares.”
David pointed at the lute. “Bloody idiots. Reckon they could have sold that for a few thousand quid.”
Dickie huffed. “We’re dealing with scum here. Might be able to pick a lock but, sure as eggs are eggs, whoever turned this place over didn’t have two brain cells to rub together. Wouldn’t have any idea about the real value of things. No discipline. Utter scum.”
Barclay stood in the center of the room. “That’s one possibility.”
“Possibility?” Dickie’s face was flushed with anger. “Think you’ve spent too long in an office. Forgotten what it’s like to live among”—he swept his arm—“parasitic vermin.”
Barclay’s eyes flickered as he rotated around, staring at the damage. “I’ve been to thousands of burglaries and places of mindless vandalism. They’re either one or the other, but never a combination.” He looked at Major Dickie Mountjoy and smiled. “You know what coppers think of most military men?”
The old soldier held his gaze with stubborn resolve. “That we put our lives on the line to keep civvies like you safe in their warm beds?”
“I’m sure most of us think that way. I’m also sure we think that you’re hindered by a hierarchical need for order and discipline that requires you to be linear thinkers who can’t visualize anything outside of a tiny box.” Barclay looked around one last time, while deciding that he needed to get back to the Yard to make an international call. “A professional entered this property, and that person, most likely with the help of other professionals, did all the damage you can see.” He crouched down and picked up a battered French viola by its broken neck. “This isn’t vandalism or burglary. It’s a systematic search. And I think I know who authorized them to do so.”