still long and enviably slim in smart navy trousers. She walked over to a polished walnut writing desk in an alcove under the stairs of the cottage, fished around in a small china dish to retrieve a key, and unlocked the desk. Folding the slanted front of it down to reveal a series of small drawers, she brought out an A4 brown envelope from the largest of them.
‘Honestly, Kate, I really don’t know anything. I don’t have any of Leonard’s research papers or documents apart from what’s in here. It was just a few loose sheets that I found under our bed after he died. He must have been looking over them one night before he went to sleep. I don’t know why I kept them, it’s all classified material so I should have sent them back to the lab. They’re mostly just numbers and formulas, as far as I can tell. Some sort of case studies perhaps? I kept them because I saw your name on one of the sheets. You have them – but I don’t know if they will be of any use.’
‘Thank you,’ said Kate, mystified, opening the envelope. Inside were five or six sheets of printed reports. ‘It’s probably just my medical records from when I was a volunteer there.’
‘Kate, dear, while you look at those, would you excuse me for a moment? I have a rather important telephone call to make upstairs.’
‘Of course,’ said Kate, engrossed in studying the sheets, trying to find her name.
Jean vanished upstairs, and it occurred to Kate that it was odd that she couldn’t wait until Kate had left to make the call. What could be so urgent, and private? She heard a door close, and stood up to investigate. There was a phone downstairs, but she felt it would be too sneaky to attempt to listen in on another extension. Besides, Jean might hear the click as Kate picked up.
Kate put the envelope back in her shoulder bag, and moved silently towards the stairs. She couldn’t hear Jean’s voice, so she started climbing the staircase. She could pretend to be in search of the bathroom – and did, in fact, need it.
When she reached the landing, she saw the bathroom ahead. To her right was a closed door. Feeling awful, and horrified at her lack of respect for Jean’s privacy, she gently pressed her ear against the door. She could easily hear Jean’s voice now – she obviously had only just been connected.
‘Hello. It’s Jean Bainbridge again . . . No, I must speak to him . . . When? Well, you must get a message to him . . . It was a misunderstanding. There is nothing to worry about, he was a friend of a friend, I just panicked when he . . . What? Oh my word. No, I’m sure that’s not right, they aren’t – no, please don’t.’ She was becoming more agitated. ‘Leonard wouldn’t want this. You must get hold of him and stop him! Hello? Hello?’
Kate shot into the bathroom, although her need for a pee had been forgotten. She flushed the toilet, pretended to wash her hands, and waited till she heard the bedroom door slowly open again. Kate timed it so she emerged at the same moment as Jean.
‘Sorry, hope you don’t mind, but I was dying for the – Jean? What’s the matter?’
Jean’s face was ashen, and her eyes full of tears. She reached out and clutched Kate’s sleeve, an expression of abject panic on her face. ‘You must leave, now. You and your friend. Immediately!’
‘Why? What’s happened? What’s going on?’
‘Oh Kate,’ Jean said, her voice trembling. ‘I’ve done something very silly . . .’
Kate jogged across the road to the tennis club car park where Paul was standing beside the car, fiddling with his mobile phone. His face lit up with delight when he saw Kate, but when he saw her expression his smile vanished.
‘What is it?’
‘We’ve got to get out of here. Now.’
‘Why? What’s going on?’
Kate felt like the old woman who’d swallowed a fly . . . and a spider and the rest of the menagerie: panic wriggled inside her. Why did Paul insist on knowing what was going on before he would do as she asked? It was such a typical male trait. She just wanted them out of here, this second.
‘Get in the car and I’ll tell you later.’
Still, he hesitated.
‘Come on.’
‘All right. But I wish you’d tell me.’ He got into the driver’s seat and Kate jumped in beside him. She dropped the envelope Mrs Bainbridge had given her on the back seat.
‘It’s Mrs B,’ she said. ‘When you scared her earlier, she called someone, and they’re on their way now.’
His eyes widened. ‘What, the police?’
‘No – I wish it was. Listen, Mrs B was given a number to call if anyone ever turned up and started asking questions about Leonard. That’s what she did earlier, after you went into her garden.’
‘What? Who did she call?’
‘I don’t know exactly. But she almost shoved me out the door and told me I had to make myself scarce. She said I was in danger if I didn’t get away.’
Paul had inserted the key into the ignition, ready to start the engine, but now he removed his hand from it. ‘But these people might be able to give us the answers we’re looking for. We should stay and wait for them.’
He pushed open the door and got out.
‘No! Paul, don’t.’
She muttered a curse, then chased Paul as he marched across the main road towards Mrs Bainbridge’s house. She could see why he was reluctant to run away, but he hadn’t witnessed how palpable and contagious Mrs Bainbridge’s fear had been. There was so much Kate and Paul didn’t know, and whoever was on their way, they didn’t sound like people willing to sit down and provide them with answers over a nice cup of tea.
Paul had almost reached the house, Kate a few steps behind, when a black Audi pulled up. At the same time, Mrs Bainbridge came out of her front door and made ‘go away’ gestures to Paul, her face pale with fright.
The Audi stopped a few metres from Mrs Bainbridge’s house and a man got out.
Kate felt her knees buckle and she almost fell. He was older and was wearing sunglasses, and she hadn’t thought about him for sixteen years. She flashed on an image of him in the garden at the CRU, turning to watch her as she walked past.
Sampson. That was his name. Stephen had warned her to stay away from him, that there was something predatory about him. She didn’t need to be persuaded: he gave her the creeps. His chiselled good looks were cold and evil.
‘Kate,’ he said, unsmiling but intense. ‘Good to see you again.’
‘Sampson.’
Paul looked at both of them and took a step forward, saying, ‘Listen, Mr Sampson, or is that your first name? I wonder if . . .’
Sampson pulled out a gun and pointed it at Paul’s chest.
Paul immediately put his hands up at shoulder height, the blood draining from his face.
