She said, ‘I have moved into a new flat,’ and grinned at the absurdity of claiming this for a life-changing event.
Pearson smiled sympathetically. ‘That’s not nothing. Moving house was the worst part of it for me. I couldn’t believe how much stuff I had accumulated over the years. It took me a month to sort the wheat from the chaff. Even then a lot of chaff came south in the removal van.’
Outside the sky was cloudless and full of stars. Pearson walked Liz to her car, where she turned to say goodbye. They went to exchange a kiss on the cheek but got slightly out of synch and ended up kissing on the lips instead. Pearson drew back. ‘Sorry about that.’
‘That’s all right,’ Liz said with a smile.
‘Is it?’ He was smiling too. ‘Then maybe I should do it on purpose this time.’ And he kissed her again, very tenderly. Putting his hands gently on her shoulders he looked her in the eye. ‘It’s very good to see you again, Liz Carlyle.’
‘Likewise, Chief Constable.’
‘I’ll be coming to London the week after next for a few days. Any chance of a repeat performance?’
‘The dinner or the kiss?’
‘Both, if you’re willing.’
‘We’ll have to see about that,’ she said teasingly. ‘Why don’t you ring me tomorrow with your dates?’
They said goodnight for real this time, and Liz got into her car and drove off, waving to Pearson as he unlocked his saloon. She realised it was going to be quite late by the time she reached Pimlico and that she had an early start the next day.
But it didn’t matter one whit, for she felt happier than she had in a long time. So happy, in fact, that she drove in a mild sort of daze. When she reached the roundabout where her road joined the A11 she had to wait in a short queue to let a line of lorries go through. It was only chance that made her glance in her mirror and notice that two cars behind her there was a blue Mini waiting in the queue.
It was the same model she had seen that morning at Bartholomew Manor, with a man at the wheel. As his car inched forward he was highlighted by a streetlamp. He looked the spitting image of Cicero, Mr Sarnat’s glowering assistant. If the car behind her hadn’t honked impatiently for Liz to join the roundabout, she would have been able to take another look and make sure.
23
Bruno Mackay had firm views about parties, particularly the ones he gave himself. Simple entertaining was usually better than complicated efforts that could easily go wrong, but he also knew better than to cut corners. If you were going to offer food and drink it should be special food and drink – particularly on occasions like this when he was out to make an impact.
It was with this in mind that he ordered the refreshments – this would be a drinks party and then some, he told himself. For the drinkers he would serve pink champagne from France and ice-cold Russian vodka; for the faint of heart (he didn’t expect many), there would be elderflower cordial.
He had booked a caterer who was half French and understood that for an international mix of guests, it made no sense to serve only local food. Instead of caviar, which his well-heeled guests would be accustomed to, he opted for smoked salmon flown in from Scotland, served on squares of black rye bread, and trays of devils on horseback.
Two girls had arrived to help set up and tour the room as it filled up, making sure glasses were kept full and canapes circulated regularly. This was not going to be a cheap party, Bruno realised, but his cover as international investment banker required only the best.
Since the party was ostensibly being held to allow Michelle to introduce her friends to Bruno, the guest list was largely left to her. Bruno added a few acquaintances of his own, partly to repay the hospitality they’d shown him, and partly to provide cover for the one invitation he absolutely needed to have accepted. When he had shown Michelle his own much smaller list, she had barely scanned it, and didn’t seem to notice that Mr and Mrs Boris Bebchuk were on it.
Now Bruno stood impatiently while the two waitresses finished their preparations. Where was Michelle? The party was due to begin at any minute. As if in answer, the front door buzzed, and when he opened it Michelle bustled by him, carrying two large bouquets of flowers, one in each hand. ‘Men,’ she said with mock-annoyance, looking around. ‘They never appreciate the decorative in life. Your flat is très gentil, Alan, but it needs a bit of colour. You there,’ she said sharply to one of the waitresses, with an imperiousness she must have learned from her Russian husband, ‘can you find a vase?’
‘Let me look,’ said Bruno, and by the time he found a couple of jugs that would do, several of Michelle’s friends had arrived and were happily drinking the pink champagne and munching the smoked salmon. The ice was already broken, thought Bruno, and soon the room was filling up as more people arrived.
He made a point of circulating, meeting as many of his guests as possible. The women were all friends of Michelle and most of them had brought a husband or partner. Bruno knew none of them. He introduced himself to two of the men, who were standing by the window. One was Jens, a Norwegian, involved in selling oil-refining equipment to Gazprom, if Bruno understood correctly. The other was a Scot called Henderson who worked for whisky distillers selling Scotch to the Russians – they were less voracious buyers than the Chinese but equally keen on the more expensive products.
‘That’s a wonderful view,’ said Jens, and they spent a few minutes admiring the outlook from Bruno’s apartment before moving on to the standard topics of Moscow expats – the daily encounters with Russian bureaucracy; the best getaway places for the weekend; new restaurants, new coffee houses, and so on. Throughout Bruno was keeping an eye on the door, more hopeful than expectant. He was about to give up his wait and make a host’s tour of the room when the buzzer went.
He decided to wait and let Michelle greet the new arrivals. A woman came into the room, and he recognised Bebchuk’s wife from the photographs supplied by the Americans. Michelle greeted her warmly, and Bruno saw with disappointment that she seemed to be on her own, when suddenly a man came in behind her.
Bingo! It was Bebchuk, dressed smarter than at the school gates, in a grey suit and brown shoes, and looking slightly grumpy – he must be wondering what his wife had got him into, thought Bruno, dragging him to some foreigner’s drinks party. Bebchuk shook hands politely with Michelle, but was clearly ill at ease.
Bruno excused himself and ambled towards his new guests, playing the part of a casual but attentive host. He approached them with his hand out, saying, ‘So pleased you could come. I’m Alan.’
‘I am Boris,’ said the Russian as they shook hands.
Mrs Bebchuk said, ‘And I am Bella.’
A waitress came towards them with a tray of drinks and the Russian couple each took a glass of champagne.
‘Your hair looks wonderful,’ Michelle said to Bella.
Bruno seized his opportunity. ‘Come and meet some people,’ he said to Boris, ‘while the girls talk about hairdos.’ Boris smiled and followed Bruno to the window, where Jens and Henderson were still standing, now talking about salmon fishing on the Kola Peninsula.
Bruno introduced Boris, and for a little while the other two made more general conversation to include him. They explained what they did for a living and why they were in Moscow, and Boris remarked that he was a civil servant who worked on regional transport policy. Then they discussed the view from Bruno’s window again, until Henderson said something to Jens about the size of a fish he caught on the Spey the summer before, and Bruno turned quickly to Bebchuk. ‘Do you fish?’ he asked quietly, as he heard Jens say something to Henderson.