“There were nineteen sticks of dynamite, Tim,” I said, reading from the paper. “Charon really wanted Kusenov dead.”
“Right,” Tim said.
“It’s a shame we never found out who he was.”
Tim poured the milk. “He was a Russian diplomat, Nick.”
“Not Kusenov. Charon. The police never found him.”
“He was probably the last person you’d have expected, Nick.” Tim raised his glass. “Mind you, I’d have worked it out in the end. I’ve got a sixth sense.”
“Well,” I muttered, “you missed out on the other five…”
There was a knock at the door. The last time we’d had a knock on the door, it had cost us a week of our lives. We’d been chased, kidnapped, gassed, blown up, pushed off a train, shot at and generally manhandled and we hadn’t actually earned a penny out of it. This time neither of us moved.
But a moment later the door opened and a motorbike messenger came in. He was dressed in black leather from head to foot, his face hidden by his visor. Almost subconsciously I found myself counting his fingers. They were all there. Five of them were holding a long, narrow cardboard box.
“Tim Diamond?” he asked.
“That’s me,” Tim said.
“Special delivery…”
The messenger put down the package. I signed for it and showed him out. By the time I had shut the door, Tim had opened the box and pulled out a single, red rose.
“Don’t tell me,” I said. “It’s from Mr Waverly.”
“No.” Tim blushed. “It’s from Charlotte.”
“Charlotte?” The last time we had seen her had been at the station in Amsterdam. I had almost forgotten her. “What does she want?”
“She wants to see me.” There was a white card enclosed with the box. “This evening.”
“Where?”
Tim crumpled the card in his hand. “She wants to see me alone.”
“How do you know?”
“She’s written it. And she’s underlined it. In red ink.”
“You can still tell me where she wants to meet you.”
Tim blushed and I realized he was still as much in love with Charlotte as he had ever been. It was incredible. I’d never once imagined Tim going out with a girl, mainly because it was impossible to imagine a girl who would want to go out with Tim. I mean, he wasn’t bad-looking or anything like that. But if you were an attractive, sophisticated woman, would you want to spend your time with someone who still cried when he saw The Railway Children? Tim had no sex-appeal. He wore Dennis the Menace boxer shorts in bed.
And yet Charlotte Van Dam was after him. She had said so herself. And she’d underlined it. In red ink…
“It doesn’t matter where we’re meeting,” Tim said. He had gone as red as the rose by now. What had she written on the card? “It’s just me and her…” He went into the kitchen for a shower. I heard the rattle of the water hitting the curtain. Then there was the slapping of wet feet on floorboards as he went into his bedroom. He sneezed. The water must have been cold. There was the slam of a door. Then silence.
Twenty minutes later he reappeared in a crumpled linen suit with a pale blue handkerchief in his top pocket. He had washed and combed his hair. He had shaving foam in one ear and a little talcum powder in the other.
“I’ll be back later” he said.
“Have fun,” I muttered.
“Don’t wait up.”
I finished the milk and threw the carton in the direction of the bin. It hit the edge and bounced onto the floor. What would I do if Tim moved in with a girlfriend? What if she was crazy enough to marry him? Maybe the two of them would go and live together in Holland — and where would that leave me?
I had nothing to do, so I started to clean up. I plumped up the cushions and rearranged the dust on the mantelpiece. There was a shirt lying on the carpet so I put it in the filing cabinet — under “S”. That was when I found the gloves. They were on the floor, under the shirt. They belonged to Charlotte. She had left them behind when she’d run from Amsterdam station.
I picked them up, meaning to put them in the top drawer of the desk. But as I held them, they dangled down and I found myself staring at them. There was something wrong about them, something that didn’t quite add up. I spread them out on the palm of my hand. It was obvious, but I couldn’t see it. And thirty seconds must have passed before I finally did.
The left-hand glove had only four fingers.
It was as if someone had grabbed hold of my throat with a hand made of ice. I felt all my breath being sucked up into my chest. A little sound came out of my nose. Automatically, I scrunched the glove up in my hand as if I was trying to wring water out of it.
Charlotte’s glove. Charon’s glove.
And of course it had been obvious from the start. Only Charlotte had known that we were going to meet 86. We had given her the name of the ice-rink on the train. The moment she had arrived in Amsterdam, she had sent her two agents, Scarface and Ugly, to take care of the secret agent, to stop him from leading us to her. They must have arrived just after we did.
Her very names should have told me. Both of them began with the same four letters — Charon and Charlotte. So why hadn’t I seen it? Maybe I was more of a sexist than I thought, but I’d never imagined an international killer being a woman. Everyone — McGuffin, Mr Waverly, Rushmore — had spoken of Charon as a man. Maybe that had been her most effective weapon. She had played on other people’s preconceptions, hidden behind them. She had known. Nobody would ever suspect a woman.
But I should have guessed that, too. When I had searched Charon’s desk at the Winter House, I’d discovered a small mirror covered in some sort of powder. If I’d thought about it, I’d have known what it was: the mirror from a powder compact. With a sprinkling of face powder. It should have told me. It was a woman’s desk, not a man’s. And if I’d only seen that, everything else would have fallen into place.
I made a mental note to read more feminist literature — but not right now. Tim had gone to an appointment with a killer. If Charlotte blamed him for saving Kusenov… I had to find him before he reached her.
I ran into his bedroom. There were clothes everywhere — except in the wardrobe. He must have tried on everything before he’d chosen the linen suit. I started heaping up the trousers and shirts. I had to find the little white card that had come with the rose.
There was no sign of it. When I’d thrown out all the clothes, I started on his Beano collection, his bills, and six years’ subscription to True Detective. There must have been nine layers between me and the carpet. If you wanted to hoover this room it would probably take you a week to find the Hoover. And I was looking for one small card. What if he had taken it with him?
What if…?
I forced myself to think. Tim hadn’t gone straight into his bedroom. He’d taken a shower first. The shower…
The flat was so small, we didn’t have room for a bathroom. The shower was at the back of the kitchen in a sort of alcove. I dashed in there, skidding on the floor which was covered in water. Tim’s shower-cap was perched on the kettle. There were three bars of soap in the fridge.
But the card was nowhere to be seen.
I emptied every drawer in the place. Knives and forks clattered to the ground. Tea towels and tablecloths flew into the corners. I searched in the dustbins, the ovens, the cupboards… and finally I found it, pinned to the wall behind the door. It read:
Hampstead Heath funfair
7.00 p.m. today
The Tunnel of Love
Charlotte
The Tunnel of Love! No wonder Tim had blushed so much when he read it. I looked at my watch. It was half past six. Hampstead was only a couple of kilometres up the road. I could still get there in time.
I was out of the office and running before I’d even started to think. Tim had an appointment with a killer. He was in love. I was going to save him. But I was unarmed.