a minor public-school product whose lacklustre army career had left him lusting for some kind of heroic validation. In Taylor’s view, the actions of adrenaline junkies like Craig demeaned the lives of men like Andrew Duggdale and James Hunter, co-founders of Frontier News. There were photographs of each dead man on the far wall.
Taylor stepped into a pair of worn docksiders and took her to lunch at an Italian bistro on Charlotte Street. By the time they were inside, sweat had stuck moist patches of his frayed cornflower blue shirt to his shoulders and belly. They settled into a gloomy corner at the rear, beneath a noisy fan. Taylor struggled to light a cigarette, then ordered a bottle of Valpolicella.
‘How’s business?’
He shrugged. ‘The ponces downstairs don’t want us sharing a communal entrance any more. They even offered to pay for one of our own.’
‘That sounds okay.’
‘Bloody pony-tails and polo-necks.’
‘Let me guess. Articulate to the last, you invited them to reconsider.’
He grinned, smoke leaking from his teeth. As far as Stephanie knew, Gavin Taylor was the only person outside Magenta House who knew what she was. Overweight, profane, a heavy drinker it was hard to see what Alexander saw in Taylor. The only thing they had in common was a taste for Rothmans cigarettes. Taylor’s past was in the military and Stephanie had always assumed that Alexander’s was too but she didn’t know that for certain.
‘I’ll put your Uzbekistan stuff out to tender. We might get a nibble. If not, I’ll give it a week or two before I get him to send the cheque. It’ll be the usual amount, I expect, five to seven. It’ll take about a week to rinse it through our books. Is that okay?’
‘That’s fine.’
Stephanie pushed the bulging manila envelope across the table. Inside were the Uzbek photographs and files that she had received from her Magenta House courier at Heathrow.
‘I heard Marrakech wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.’
‘Alexander told you?’
He nodded, then contemplated the tip of his cigarette. ‘I met Mostovoi a couple of times.’
‘Really?’
‘In Berlin, then Dortmund. I was with John Flynn.’
The name rang a bell but the chime was distant. ‘Remind me …’
‘Sentinel Security.’
An arms-dealing firm. With that, a face returned to the name. ‘He had to leave the country, didn’t he?’
‘That’s right. Lives in Switzerland now. But Sentinel’s still going. Doing well, too. Anyway, we were in Berlin. It was before I started Frontier News. John was putting a deal together with some Russians. Mostovoi was the broker. We met a couple of times. Nothing came of it in the end.’
‘What was he like?’
‘Mostovoi? Nice bloke. Good company, especially after a drink. Mind you, even I’m good company after a drink.’
‘Is that what you’ve been told?’
‘Oh, very funny.’
‘What else?’
‘Nothing much, really. To be honest, I was too busy eyeing his girlfriend. Russian, I think she was. An absolute cracker. Hard as nails, mind, but a real eyeful. Can’t remember her name. Still, no matter. I can remember all her important bits.’
‘Have you ever considered joining the twenty-first century, Gavin?’
He slid the cigarette back between his lips. ‘Now why would I want to do that?’
Maclise Road, four in the afternoon. Stephanie let herself in, dumped two bags of shopping on the kitchen table and checked the answer-machine for messages. Nothing.
‘Hey …’
Rosie Chaudhuri was standing in the living room. Magenta House’s rising star and the only female kindred spirit Stephanie had encountered in Petra’s world.
‘Christ! Don’t do that!’
‘Sorry.’
‘You’ll give me a heart attack.’
She smiled apologetically. ‘Yes, that would be inconvenient.’
‘What are you doing here?’
‘I didn’t want to give you the opportunity to put the phone down on me.’
‘Why would I?’
‘We need to talk.’
‘About?’
‘Marrakech. Mostovoi.’
‘How did you get in here?’
Rosie went into the living room, reached into her bag and produced a key, which she offered to Stephanie. It looked familiar. She checked the kitchen drawer where she kept the only spare. Which was still there.
Rosie said, ‘When you first started seeing Mark, Alexander had this copy made. He used to have the place swept once a week.’
‘What?’
‘Until I found out about it and insisted that he put a stop to it.’
Stephanie’s own security had only been in place six months. At the time she’d wondered whether she was being paranoid.
‘I don’t believe it.’
Rosie smiled. ‘Come on. What don’t you believe?’
A fair point.
‘What was he looking for?’
‘Anything, I guess.’ Stephanie gave Rosie a look. ‘I promise you, I don’t know.’ She handed over the key. ‘Anyway, here it is.’
The peace offering. Offered in advance of whatever was coming. Stephanie made green tea as Rosie leaned against the sink, her arms folded. She was in a sleeveless chocolate linen dress that she would never have worn when they’d first met. She wouldn’t have had the confidence. The change in shape was pronounced: the curves a little sleeker, breasts merely large rather than huge, legs and arms toned, stomach flat, one chin. not several. Her skin was clear and her hair, now short, framed her face rather than concealing it.
When the tea was ready they went into the living room. Stephanie sat cross-legged on the carpet, in a gentle draught between the door and window. ‘So, what’s on your mind?’
‘Mostovoi. Alexander asked me to come over and run through a couple of things. For clarification.’
‘Go on.’
‘You were in the room with him. You had a gun. He survived.’
