He wasnt remotely convinced of this detective work, but he didnt want to argue with Nina. Returning Bede to his slot on the high shelf, Adam tried again, with Runcimans History of the Crusades. And as he flicked and scanned the aromatic, scholarly pages, he asked, in a low, careful, wary voice, Tell me where they met.
Some academic conference, five years ago.
Where?
London. She teaches law there, thats why shes away so much. Like now. But shes back tomorrow for the funeral.
Adam nodded, absorbing the information, as he scanned the books, reading the little margin notes see pp 235237 Geertz; Tyndale/KJV? A thought unsettled him. How do you know she wont come back tonight? Late tonight?
Nina shrugged, examining another paperback. The Trial of the Templars.
Nina. You dont actually know, for sure, do you?
She shrugged again.
Adam spat the words, Christs sake. She could be here any minute!
Nina didnt reply. But her eyes were locked on Adam, and widened by fear. Because a muffled crash of glass had just sounded from the study.
Adam lifted a finger to his lips. She turned, half-crouched, by the bookcase, and her green eyes stared at the wall as if she could see through it. The uncertain silence returned. Then a doorhandle squealed distinctively.
Her words were quiet and fierce. Jesus. Who is that?
Adam pressed his ear to the wall: he could hear the mouselike squeak of metal: a metal doorknob in a glass and metal door.
Someones on the fire escape, back of the study
She shook her head. No, Adam. Theyre already in.
She was surely right: he could sense the human presence, another heartbeat in the apartment. And now he strained to hear a footfall. And yes, there it was: the almost inaudible creak of floorboards, of someone stealthily moving around.
Adam grabbed Ninas hand, which was damp with sweat, and hissed, We have to get out! This could be, this could be anyone the murderer, anyone!
In an agony of fear they stepped to the door. As quietly as they could.
The presence the intruder, the murderer was moving around the study. Searching for what? The fear mixed with fierce anger somewhere in Adams soul: it was the old eagerness for action, maybe even violence, to resolve things. He could hear his fathers drunken boasts: never let a man frighten you, never show your fear. Take him on and beat him.
Maybe Adam could tackle the intruder: he lingered over the thought for a moment. But sanity quickly chased him back to reality. The man could easily have a knife. Even a gun. Any resistance might be suicidal.
No: they needed to flee. Adam pulled Nina to the open door, which gave into the darkened landing; he indicated with an urgent nod what he planned they should run down the hallway to the front door and escape before he opened the study door to the hallway and trapped them inside by standing between them and the only exit.
The floorboards creaked again. The intruder was moving across the study, coming their way.
Adam got ready to run, but even as he tensed for action he felt Nina disappear she wrenched herself free and ran to the door at the other end of the landing. What was down there? A bathroom? A kitchen? What the hell was she doing?
He stared at her, quite desperate. Then he stared at where she had been, at the half-open door through which she had disappeared. What should he do now? Run away and leave her? But of course he couldnt leave her what if the man found her and
She was back, hefting her rucksack: she had something inside it. He turned and pointed at the door and whispered the word now!
Together they ran. Uncaring of the noise, they raced down the hallway, flung open the front door, which creaked on its hinges, and slammed it behind them. The stairwell was dark again, but their indifference was pure and driven. Just get out fast. Just get the fuck out.
Panicking and hectic, they raced down the steps. Adam heard a noise above them, surely the intruder, alerted, sprinting onto the landing.
Just keep running and dont look back. They had made the last flight. They were at the main door, and now they were outside, in the cold air, still running.
At the end of Springvalley Terrace Adam halted for a second, and turned. He could sense they were being watched and the feeling was so intense he had to turn and see.
Someone was standing at the window of the McLintocks flat. It was a very distinct figure, momentarily framed by the light: a thin tall man, wearing dark clothes, with close-shaven hair.
Was it him? The man he had seen, passing by an hour ago, with the tattoos? The figure suddenly shrank from the window, apparently aware he had been spotted.
Was it him? The man he had seen, passing by an hour ago, with the tattoos? The figure suddenly shrank from the window, apparently aware he had been spotted.
Nina grabbed his hand.
Run!
13
Interview Room D, New Scotland Yard, London
The girl really was exquisitely beautiful. Detective Sergeant Larkham had told him so on the phone, almost warned him shes a real looker, sir but nothing had quite prepared him for the reality. She was like an artists idea of an English beauty. Golden waterfalls of hair, misted blue eyes, a pure and rose-dawn complexion. And she had been crying for about seven minutes.
The girl stared at him. Ibsen snapped himself out of his reverie, and went over his notes. Her name was Amelia Hawthorne. She was twenty-three, an aspiring actress, privately educated, a graduate of RADA. And she had been Kerenskys girlfriend for the last two years.
He repeated the question. Were you in love with him?
Amelia Hawthorne sniffled, tearfully, in the quietness. Im sorry. I am. I know. Its just the way Nik died I I still I still
Larkham leaned in. We understand, Amelia. Its a total shocker. Horrible.
But thats exactly why we need to know, Ibsen repeated the point. Your boyfriend cut off his own feet, and his hand. Its an appalling suicide. So we need to know all the facts. All of them.
Yes. Yes, I know. I get it. Slowly, the girl seemed to source some resolve, she sat a little taller, visibly preparing herself. OK. Go on, then. Ask me.
You say you met him two years ago?
Yes.
At a nightclub.
Yes. Anushkas.
Ibsen flicked a glance at his notes. And that is
A club in Mayfair. Its down near Nobu. Everyone went there back then I mean, you know, two years ago
Ibsen had never heard of the place. He had also never heard of several other places the girl had already mentioned. In truth, he felt a little at sea in this world of beautiful young actresses and billionaire Russian playboys.
Larkham interrupted.
Its a nightclub just off Berkeley Square, sir. Well pricey. Two hundred quid for a bottle of bubbly.
Really? Prefer something more upmarket myself.
The DS smiled; Ibsen turned to the girl. So you met him at this high-class night club and you started dating?
She scoffed. Dating?
I mean, you started a relationship. You were stepping out?
Please. We started fucking.
Ibsen leaned nearer. OK, then. You began a sexual relationship.
That first night. Yes. She stared at her exquisitely manicured nails. Because I liked him. I liked Nik from the start, liked him a lot Yknow, everyone said he was probably just another Eurotrash wanker, like all the Russians, with their hookers in furs, all that awful crap. But he wasnt.
No?
He was witty and smart. As well as fit.
And extremely rich?
Yeah, sure. He was rich. But, you know, everyone was rich.
She gazed at Ibsen with those slightly contemptuous blue eyes and he wished, for a second, he had worn his better suit. The one from Hugo Boss.
Why else was he different? Explain.
He was clever and really She sighed. Adventurous, really interesting. Not, like, totally desiccated like some of them, all those boring Chelsea boys banging on about their stupid fucking Ferraris. He used to go places, Asia, Africa He read books, he would read to me, talk to me and he went to the theatre, he loved London, art, everything, but he also liked fun, partying.
Drugs?
She halted.
Ibsen pressed the point. Did you do drugs?
No reply.
DCI Ibsen briskly reached pulled some folders out of his briefcase and laid them on the table. The folders contained the serology and toxicology reports on Kerensky, N, white male, 27. Instinct had told him the latter report would come up trumps, but it hadnt. The hair tests showed just a trace of cocaine usage, probably from days before the death. Serology showed a small amount of alcohol in Kerenskys blood, but he hadnt been blind drunk when he killed himself. How then had he summoned the courage to do his self-mutilations? How had he managed the pain? Gastric examination showed he had eaten nothing more than bar snacks that night: nuts and crisps.
We have a hair test, Miss Hawthorne. We know he used cocaine. Did you do drugs with him?
Total silence.
Larkham was leaning against the window. Youre not under arrest, Amelia. Were not going to arrest you if you confess to doing a little gak? Some charlie?
The girl looked at her fingernails again. Then gazed up and said, All right. All right, yes. He liked drugs sometimes. He liked sex too. And vodka. Taittinger. Everything. Caviar. Fucking sevruga. I told you, he was a party animal, and yet it wasnt, like, frivolous, it wasnt just for the sake of it
What-
He knew he was going to take over his fathers business and I reckon he just wanted to get it all out of his system see the world and do it all, do the lot, have his fun, and then he would sober up.
Tell me more about the drugs.
It wasnt heavy. Really. No smack. Maybe a little toot. Before dinner. Thats all. You know? Maybe he dropped some E or mcat with his friends. But nothing heroiny, not with me. He was into new shit, new experiences, but not necessarily drugs She looked straight at Ibsen.
He sensed the direction of her thoughts. Did you know he was bisexual?
The actress pushed her ringlets from her eyes. Yes.
But you didnt mind?
He was basically, like, straight. But but that was another of his things. Try everything twice, that was Niks motto. So. Yeah. I knew. We had a few threesomes. It was funny just fun. We are young.
Ibsen waited. Her frown darkened.
But then it kinda changed. Towards the end. The last few weeks. He got out of control.
The moment intensified. Larkham stared at the girl. Ibsen said, How?
He wanted things. Yknow, in bed.