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THIRTY-ONE
Last Updated:
2021-09-27 14:00:0231
Oh my God, what the fuck do I do now?
I naively looked around me to locate her missing limbs and put them back where they belonged. Only then did I see the other casualties. Those who had not only lost limbs but their lives. Like Pierre Duvall, whose head had separated from the rest of his body. Customers, tourists, and people passing by had all been caught up in Katrin Cajthamlova's collateral damage.
A fireman says something in my ear in French, and when I tell him that I am English and my French is limited, he immediately talks to me in embarrassingly good English.
He holds my shoulders as he guides me away from Blanche. "Come on, Monsieur. Let's get you out of here.
Are you in any pain?"
My tongue felt huge in my mouth, choking me. "No," I rasped before pointing at Blanche. "My friend." I am unable to say anything further.
"Don't worry, Monsieur," he said to me, "we'll do our best to look after her."
He helped me to my f
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NO ONE ASKED THIRTY-TWO
32By the time I returned to London, my unquenchable thirst for revenge knew no limits. The first few weeks were nothing but funerals. I even managed to attend the funeral of Pierre Clavell; Madame Charlotte Julien's absence did not go unnoticed, but what the congregation didn't know was that the day after the explosion, she passed away peacefully in her sleep.Another link in the chain, broken.Blanche's funeral was a sad affair, with her twins, the mirror image of their mother, stood solemnly in the front row, heads bowed, while the heavy rain battered the roof of the church. The burial took place in Highgate Cemetery, with the priest barely making himself heard above the shower.Everybody remained silent as the coffin was lowered into the ground by the pallbearers, and the twin daughters took it in turns to throw their handful of dirt onto the wooden lid. Usually, that moment echoed around the graveyard, but the rain drowned out even this poignant gest
Last Updated : 2021-09-27NO ONE ASKED THIRTY-THREE
33A1 Shooting-Range was just off the Barnet By-Pass. I lay at the five hundred metre firing point at the range. The white peg in the grass beside said 4.4, and the same number was recurrent high up on the distance but above the single six-foot square target that looked no larger than a postage stamp to the human eye and in the May dusk. But my lens, an infrared scope fixed above my rifle, covered the whole canvas. So, I could easily differentiate the pale-blue and beige colours into which the target separated. The six-inch semi-circular bull looked as big as the half-moon that started to show low down in the blackening sky above the A1.My last shot, an inner left – had been shit. I took another glance at the yellow-and-blue wind flags. They were coursing across the range from the east rather more firmly than I had begun my shoot half an hour before. I set two clicks to the right of the wind gauge and navigated the cross wires on the telescopic sight back to the
Last Updated : 2021-09-28NO ONE ASKED THIRTY-FOUR
34The Gala glittered with titles, diamonds, champagne, and talent.Later it might curl around the edges into spilt drinks, glassy eyes, raddled make-up, and slurring voices, but the gloss wouldn't entirely disappear.I handed over my invitation and walked along the wide passage where the lights were dimmed low, the music loud, and the air thick with scent.Around the dancing area, there were large circular tables with chairs for ten or twelve around each, most of them already occupied. According to the seating chart in the hall, at table thirty-two, I would find the place reserved for Ian Ure. My false name for the night. Nobody should recognise me with a false beard and glasses, but that didn't prevent a battery of curious eyes swivel my way. Many people raised hello, but none could work out who I was or hide their shock surprise that they didn't know me.A voice behind me said incredulously, "Ian!"I knew the voice and turned around with
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35 I had a perfect firing position, with the rifle positioned on a wood and metal stand erected against the broad windowsill. All the equipment had been painted a dull black and laid out on the bed like sinister evening clothes, with the black velvet hood stitched to a shirt, made from the same material. The hood had wide slits for the eyes and mouth, reminding me of pictures I had seen of the executioner of Anne Boleyn. Switching off the attic lights, I took off my coat, put a stick of chewing gum into my mouth and donned the hood. I lay along the bed and got my eye to the rubberised eyepiece of the telescopic sight, and gently lifted the curtain over my shoulders. The grounds of the house were like a well-worn photograph. I scanned it all slowly, moving the 'scope with the rifle, adjusting the precision screws on the base. It was all the same except the headlights of an approaching car in the far distance probed the darkness like two pointing index fingers.
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2Orange fluorescent evidence markers are spaced intermittently on the stairs, distinguishing footprints. A camera flashes on the third floor, sending a pulse of light through the metal railings of the staircase.The flat was immaculate, with pristine white walls and cream carpet. Entrancing into the bedroom, I went over to the sash window from which the victim had fallen. A constable stood on guard beside it.He stood to one side as I approached. Pulling it up, I found it only opened about fifty centimetres, about the same as the distance from his elbow to his fingertips. A can of Diet Coke, a packet of cigarettes, and a cigarette lighter were lined up neatly in a row on the narrow window ledge.I looked down, where a team of four were trying to manoeuvre the body from the railings."Your officers closed the window before it was photographed, rather than leaving it open to document the narrow gap through which the victim meant to have jumped?" I a
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3The living and the dead stainless steel: basins, scalpels, and scales disinfected and polished to a dull gleam under the halogen lights.The mortuary is located in the new coroner's court basement and smells like a hospital, and looks like an office block. A ramp leads down the road to an underground parking area where Home Office' meat wagons' are parked in bays.Pushing through swing doors, Brooks walks like a sailor in search of a fight. A white leads the way along brightly lit corridors. The place seems deserted until a cleaning lady appears wearing elbow-length rubber gloves. I don't want to contemplate what she's been cleaning.Another door opens. Blanche Bradbury had her hands deep inside a butterflies ribcage. Half a dozen students are gathered around him, dressed in matching surgical scrubs and cloth caps."You see that?" Blanche questions, adjusting a lamp on a retraceable metal arm above her head.Nobody answers. They're staring
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4It's almost six by the time we reach Amber Chase's house. Blanche came with me as support and as my driver. I don't drive, never have done and never will do.Three cars parked in the driveway. Visitors. That makes it more difficult. Finally, the front door opened by a woman in her early twenties, red-eyed from crying. A young man, bearded and shaggy-haired, joins her, putting his arms around her waist. "I'm looking for Mrs Amber Chase," I say. "That's my mum," says the young woman. "I'm Louisa, and this is Jamie." "We phone ahead earlier," Blanche says, "I am the Home Office pathologist, and this is Quintus Noone." The young couple stares at me, n
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NO ONE ASKED THIRTY-FIVE
35 I had a perfect firing position, with the rifle positioned on a wood and metal stand erected against the broad windowsill. All the equipment had been painted a dull black and laid out on the bed like sinister evening clothes, with the black velvet hood stitched to a shirt, made from the same material. The hood had wide slits for the eyes and mouth, reminding me of pictures I had seen of the executioner of Anne Boleyn. Switching off the attic lights, I took off my coat, put a stick of chewing gum into my mouth and donned the hood. I lay along the bed and got my eye to the rubberised eyepiece of the telescopic sight, and gently lifted the curtain over my shoulders. The grounds of the house were like a well-worn photograph. I scanned it all slowly, moving the 'scope with the rifle, adjusting the precision screws on the base. It was all the same except the headlights of an approaching car in the far distance probed the darkness like two pointing index fingers.
NO ONE ASKED THIRTY-FOUR
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NO ONE ASKED THIRTY-THREE
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NO ONE ASKED THIRTY-TWO
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NO ONE ASKED THIRTY-ONE
31Oh my God, what the fuck do I do now?I naively looked around me to locate her missing limbs and put them back where they belonged. Only then did I see the other casualties. Those who had not only lost limbs but their lives. Like Pierre Duvall, whose head had separated from the rest of his body. Customers, tourists, and people passing by had all been caught up in Katrin Cajthamlova's collateral damage.A fireman says something in my ear in French, and when I tell him that I am English and my French is limited, he immediately talks to me in embarrassingly good English.He holds my shoulders as he guides me away from Blanche. "Come on, Monsieur. Let's get you out of here.Are you in any pain?"My tongue felt huge in my mouth, choking me. "No," I rasped before pointing at Blanche. "My friend." I am unable to say anything further."Don't worry, Monsieur," he said to me, "we'll do our best to look after her."He helped me to my f
NO ONE ASKED THIRTY
30I am on my second beer when Blanche gets to the restaurant. I am watching the pizza chef spin a disc of dough in the air and draping it over his knuckles before relaunching it.The waiters are young.Two of them are watching Blanche, commenting to each other. They're trying to fathom our relationship. What is a beautiful, slender, blonde woman doing with me who is a great deal younger?She is either my mail order bride or my mistress, they are guessing.The café is nearly empty.Nobody eats this early in Paris. An older man with a dog sits near the front door.He slips his hand beneath the table with morsels of food."She could be anywhere by now," I say with reluctance. "She played us like a violin, and I didn't see it. I am getting too old for this cloak and dagger shit. I should retire."Blanche becomes angry. "She has fuelled a lot more people than just you. She is very good at her job, but you are better."
NO ONE ASKED TWENTY-NINE
29Blanche has scarcely said a word since our flight left Heathrow. Her silences can be so eloquent.I told her that she didn't have to come. "I'm sure you've got enough on work-wise.""I have," she replied, "but how am I going to keep you out of trouble if I don't go with you." The faintest of smiles wrinkles the corners of her eyes.It's incredible how little I know about her. She has children – twins – but doesn't talk about them. Her mother is in a retirement home. Her stepfather is dead. I don't know about her birth father as she's never mentioned it before.Blanche is the most self-sufficient woman I have ever met. She doesn't appear for human contact or needs anyone. You can those survival shows on TV where people are separated into competing tribes and try to win immunity. Blanche would be a tribe of one, all on her own, and would come out on top every time.Paris. It makes me think of finance, diplomacy, commerce, fashio
NO ONE ASKED TWENTY-EIGHT
28I try not to react."Can you explain?" Patterson asks."No.""Not even a vague notion."My mind was racing through the possibilities, but I couldn't think of any."Do you know this woman?""I met her in Moscow when I went there with Amber Chase. Her name is Elmira. She was General Ozdoyev's, the Russian Deputy Prosecutor's escort for the night. She tried to take Mrs Chase's handbag, but Mrs Chase slapped her around the face to stop her."Numbness rather than shock seeps through me. I felt like someone had walked up and hit me in the back of the head with a piece of wood, with the noise still ringing in my ears."Why weren't they found sooner?""The five MI6 operatives went off the grid five days ago. General Ozdoyev's girlfriend went missing the day after. Felixstowe has nearly four thousand lorries passing through every day.If Customs searched everyone, there'd be ships queued back to Rotterdam."
NO ONE ASKED TWENTY-SEVEN
27The traffic meanders at an agonisingly slow pace, shuffling and pausing. I can only see the back of the driver's head. He has a soldier's haircut and wrap-around sunglasses, looking ridiculous as he is wearing them at night."Where are you taking me?""To see someone important.""Who?""You'll find out when we get there.""And where is there, by the way?""There is where we are going.""There must be some mistake.""You are Quintus Andrew Noone. You are sixty-three years of age. You worked for MI5 for nearly forty years. You are the youngest of five children, with one brother and three sisters.Your brother passed away suddenly seven years ago. You went to Littlegrove School in East Barnet and then Challoner School for Boys in Woodside Park. You lived in East Barnet, to begin with, followed by Whetstone for fourteen years and then moved to Suffolk. You graduated from Homerton College, Cambridge, with a degree i
