a strip of surgical tape across Mike Graham’s knuckles.
‘Have you been punching something harder than yourself?’
Mike flexed the hand. ‘I took a corner too fast and had to correct in a hurry. My hand brushed a projecting stone.’
‘You really shouldn’t go tearing about on motorbikes the way you do.’
It was something appropriate to say, and it was said with little enough emphasis to be easily ignored, if Mike chose.
‘I don’t tear about, sir. You know that.’
‘Do I? I must have forgotten.’
‘Even when I’m in a race I strive for the spiritual dimension,’ Mike said, deadpan.
‘Ah…’
‘My goal is oneness with the machine, so that I can be part of the transcendental fact of its speed.’
‘I see.’
‘It’s art. What’s a little lost skin in pursuit of art? I mean, let’s face it, when I’m on my bike I’m expressing my deepest urges and polishing my karma at the same time.’
‘Michael. It was foolish of me not to realize all that.’
They laughed. Philpott handed Mike his coffee. For just a moment an edge of stiffness intruded. At sociable moments silences between them were awkward, because matters which stayed unmentioned were nevertheless always there.
‘Still enjoying the serenity of Vermont on the weekends?’
‘More and more,’ Mike said.
‘And you still like being on your own?’
‘Yep. Just me, my TV for company, my pickup for transport, and my bike for death-defying art.’
Some years before, Mike’s wife and son had been murdered by terrorists. He had been devastated, and the grief of his loss damaged him brutally. For a long time he was beyond consolation. Finally, when grief had run its course, he moved from New York to Vermont, and there he took up the solitary domestic life. With time he had gained a measure of tranquillity, though some women liked to think they still saw pain in those dark blue eyes.
The agony of Mike’s loss was now a thing entirely of the past, but he was changed, and serious risk-taking was a feature of that change. Philpott privately believed that it was therapy: any ex-policeman knew that jeopardy wiped out restlessness.
‘What’s your instinct on this case?’ Mike pointed at the screens. ‘Do you get think we could see some action?’
‘Paperwork action, maybe. A ground-covering investigation, with plenty of interviews, then a long, detailed report to tidy the whole thing up.’
Mike stared at him. ‘You certainly know how to lift a guy’s spirits.’
‘On the other hand it could be a thrill-a-minute caper.’ Philpott sipped his coffee. ‘Let’s see what Sabrina turns up. I just have a gut feeling this might be much bigger than we realize.’
The receptionist had the kind of relentless smile that would weather any opposition. ‘I assure you, Madame Reverdy, there is not a problem.’ She pushed a registration card and a pen across the mahogany desktop. ‘If you would care to fill this in, I’ll get a porter to take your bag.’
Where the card asked for the guest’s name Sabrina wrote Louise Reverdy, the maiden name of her maternal grandmother. She put her address as 28 Rue de la Grand Armée, Paris 75017, France.
The receptionist came back with a small, thin, green-uniformed man who took up a protective stance beside Sabrina’s suitcase. He smiled and bowed.
Sabrina pushed back the registration card and took the key from the receptionist.
‘Thank you so much,’ she said, revelling in the way she could impersonate her mother’s accent, ‘and let me say again, although you insist it is no trouble, I am deeply grateful for the way you have accommodated me at such short notice.’
‘Not at all, Madame. I hope everything is to your satisfaction.’
The porter took Sabrina up in the lift to the third floor. He led the way along a passage carpeted in deep green Wilton. Outside her room he made a flourish with the key, turned it smoothly in the lock and pushed the door open.
‘Après vous, Madame,’ he said.
Sabrina looked surprised. ‘Vous-êtes Français, m’sieur?’
‘No,’ he said, following her into the room, “fraid not. But I was good at French at school, and now and again I can’t help trying it out. Sounded authentic, did it?’
‘Absolument! Top marks.’
He beamed with pleasure. Sabrina handed him a five-pound note and watched one small pleasure overlap another. Priming him had been easier than she imagined.
‘Tell me,’ she said as he turned to go, ‘yesterday a friend passed this way in a taxi, and she tells me she saw police officers. Has there been trouble?’
The little man’s features seemed to clench as he came back, head tilted confidentially. ‘One of the guests,’ he said, pointing upward. ‘An American lady. She was the victim of a shooting. Nasty business.’
‘She was shot here?’ Sabrina managed a note of alarm without having to screech. ‘In this hotel?’
‘Oh no, no, ma’am, it happened over in Mayfair. But she was a guest here at the time.’
‘Oh, how terrible. There will not be police marching about the place all night, I hope? I am such a light sleeper…’
‘Not to worry,’ the porter said, ‘they’ve sealed the room and for the time being everything’s quiet.’ He made his little bow again. ‘Have a peaceful night.’
‘Thank you so much.’
When he had gone she kicked off her shoes and sat on the edge of the bed. She checked her watch: 10.28.
The minibar looked tempting, but she decided to wait until work was over.
Getting here had been a struggle. Nobody had warned her the last operational day at Hounslow could run into the evening. She had come out of a hostage-taking scenario at eight o’clock and got back to her room at the hostel a few minutes before nine. Since then it had been breakneck all the way. First she had transformed herself from tousled squalor to the simulation of a chic Frenchwoman visiting London. In the circumstances a disguise had not been strictly necessary, but she enjoyed changes of personality, and tried always to conduct herself according to Philpott’s Rule One of Subterfuge, which he confided to her one tipsy evening at a UN reception: ‘Be somebody else whenever you can, my dear, and always tell a lie even if the truth would sound
