Then came the incident.
The one no one talks about.
Not divorce. Not the death of a partner. Not a clichéd crash into drink and ruin.
Something worse. Far worse.
She tucks a curl of hair back into the hood of her white Tyvek suit. ‘I’m just about to start, Detective. Want to join me?’
Irish’s knees crack as he bends beside her. ‘That’s the best offer I’ve had today.’ He corrects himself, ‘Come to think of it, it’s my best offer this year.’
3
Mitzi hears them coming down the corridor laughing and joking. The way colleagues do when they’re comfortable with each other.
She feels very much the new girl. Undoubtedly they’ll be nice as pie to her. Then someone will call a contact in LA and learn her husband used to beat her. Someone else will discover she stuck a gun to his head, had him jailed and then banned from coming within a mile of her or their kids.
‘Hi there!’ she says as they enter the office. ‘I’m Mitzi Fallon — from the LAPD.’ She sticks out a grin and her hand.
‘Jon Bronty,’ says a man with chestnut-brown hair. ‘People just call me Bronty.’
Mitzi notices he’s of medium build, not much taller than she is. Maybe five ten. Somewhere around thirty, trim but not muscular and, despite old-fashioned brown cords and a scruffy green shirt, has a comfortable way that she imagines some women — or maybe men — might find attractive.
‘This is Eleonora — Eleonora Fracci.’ Bronty pronounces the surname with melodramatic accentuation.
‘Ciao ’itzi.’ The brunette from the Carabinieri photograph is wearing a pale-pink blouse and short brown skirt that shows off ridiculously toned legs.
‘It’s Mitzi with an M.’ She tries not to sound too annoyed. ‘Not itzi as in “itsy bitsy”.’
The Italian looks baffled. ‘M— itzi?’
‘Close enough.’
A young, mousy woman in jeans and a Big Bang Theory T-shirt flashes a set of teeth braces. ‘Victoria Cantrell — Vicky. I do research. Research and coffee.’ Her voice says New York — Brooklyn. ‘Lots of coffee.’ She gives a nervous giggle. ‘They drink it all day. Would you like some?’
Mitzi would. She’d like a long tumbler of vodka to go with it. ‘Sure, that’d be great. Thanks.’
The youngster looks pleased. ‘How d’you take it?’
‘Black, no sugar,’ She pats her hips. ‘Can’t afford the calories.’
‘Exercise,’ suggests Eleonora. ‘It is the only way to kill calories. I take sugar and cream but I do gym and kill the calories. You should come.’
‘Honey, the only gym I could do in a morning is one spelled J-I-M, and he’s going to have to be tall, rich, handsome and not mind taking on two teenage girls.’ She spins round one of the framed pictures. ‘These are my calorie killers.’
The room is silent. Silent enough to tell her that no one else has kids.
She repositions the photo.
Sandra Donovan appears from behind her glass partition. ‘Are you ladies playing nicely?’
Mitzi and Eleonora stare through her.
‘Good. Then how about someone updates me on the Satanists?’
Bronty pumps a green bead of germicidal gel into his palms and rubs his hands clean as he talks. ‘The victim’s closet was full of black magic paraphernalia. Witches’ robes, candles and spell books.’
‘Nothing in the husband’s?’ asks Donovan.
‘Not a thing. He wasn’t into it, or didn’t know.’
‘Bullshit,’ says Mitzi.
‘You don’t know the case,’ snaps Eleonora.
‘I don’t need to. If she was being nailed by Satanists, hubby knew it. She’d be weird in bed. Ask any married guy.’
‘Maybe she should know the case.’ Sandra Donovan can’t help but enjoy the friction between them. ‘Give her the briefing notes, Eleonora.’ She turns to Mitzi. ‘It’s going to be interesting to see what you make of it.’
4
The British Embassy lies less than three miles north-west of the White House, in palatial grounds on the southern side of the US Naval Observatory and east of Dumbarton Oaks, the research centre renowned for Byzantine studies.
The building, the first erected on Embassy Row, boasts seven main bedrooms, all named after past ambassadors. The current occupant, Sir Owain Gwyn, stands patiently in the Howard and Halifax Suite while his valet dresses him.
Every article of clothing has been handmade by trusted tailors and carefully checked by the middle-aged servant before his master is allowed to wear it.
From laundry to skin, it is the valet’s job to know exactly who has washed, ironed and delivered it back into his care. Even then, the rigorous routine is far from over. Most items are X-rayed, others are subjected to toxicity testing. All are dusted top-to-bottom with a hand-scanner to ensure no microscopic trackers have been sewn into their fabrics.
‘Your under-armour, sir.’
‘Thank you, James.’ Forty-two-year-old Owain comes from a long line of tall, broad, dark-haired Welshmen. At almost six foot six, her Majesty’s ambassador in America has to become a contortionist to get into the proffered garment. Although it looks like a combination of vest and long johns, it is a unique piece of clothing, fashioned from state-of-the-art grapheme, a fine mesh of carbon atoms that, according to the manufacturers, is ‘strong enough to support the weight of an elephant balancing upon a spike’. He wears it to protect him, not from gymnastic mammals but from bullets and bombs.
‘Comfortable, sir?’
The roll of Owain’s warm brown eyes gives away the fact that he is not.
A buzzer sounds.
The flat-screen monitor above the door shows the output of eight security cameras around the residence, including the adjoining room where a tall, sandy-haired man in a sharp grey suit is waiting.
The valet knows his time is up. ‘Is there anything else, sir?’
‘I’m afraid I’ll need you early tonight for my farewell charity dinner, say five?’
‘That’s not a problem, sir. Might I be so bold as to say something personal?’
‘Feel free.’
‘I’m sure the government of the United States will miss you greatly. I think you have done amazing things in your work here, sir and it’s been an absolute pleasure to serve you. You’ll leave quite a hole.’
‘For all of a week, James. Then the hole will be filled and I’ll be forgotten. But thank you for your kind comments. You should get off now, make the most of the rest of your day and the short time we have left in Washington.’
The former guardsman gives a courteous nod, takes a neat military stride to the door and pulls it open for the ambassador.
Owain greets Gareth Madoc, a childhood friend and former army colleague, with the Welsh equivalent of good morning, ‘Bore da.’ He waves at a breakfast trolley. ‘Do you have room and time to have a crempog with me?’
The former soldier smiles. ‘I always have time for a crempog.’
The two men go back to a life before knighthoods, international postings and politics. Their history stretches beyond the green valleys where they were born to the intertwined genealogy of two clans who lived and fought together in days long before Romans ruled Britain.
Madoc leans down to the lower tray of the trolley and lifts out a wicker breadbasket covered by a starched white cloth. ‘A little surprise with your breakfast.’ He grasps the square of cotton and jerks it away, like a magician performing a table trick.