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  ‘He’d make a damn sight more money in defence,’ Andy said. ‘Especially with a law degree.’

  Sara ignored this observation. ‘This morning,’ she said, ‘Jamie mentioned meeting one of Vos’s associates. Who is that?’

  Andy frowned. ‘An associate? That’s the first I’ve heard of it,’ he replied. ‘Then again, I don’t ask my consultants to report in moment-by-moment. I’m due to meet Gerrit on Monday, so I’m sure I’ll find out then.’ He sipped his tea and half-shrugged reassuringly. ‘But don’t worry. Whoever this person is will have been vetted very carefully. They’ll be as trustworthy as Gerrit himself.’

  That’s what I’m worried about, Sara thought. ‘Mr Vos certainly has a long history with Thorndike,’ she went on. ‘He’s been there at least since Rhoddo became CEO.’

  ‘Longer.’

  ‘I know he came to Rhoddo’s attention when he sorted out that South African union dispute …’

  Sara hoped that Andy would assume she’d heard what she was about to say from Rhodri himself. ‘There was a whiff of scandal about that, wasn’t there?’ she asked casually.

  Sara waited expectantly. Andy furrowed his brow. ‘I don’t think so,’ he said. ‘Rhoddo never mentioned anything to me, at least. As I understand it, Gerrit managed to convince one of the community leaders to form a breakaway union. That saved countless jobs and resolved a touchy issue for the company. Gerrit came back a hero.’

  ‘Right,’ Sara said.

  She wondered whether Andy was lying to her intentionally, or if instead Rhodri had lied to Andy. Or maybe even whether Rhodri genuinely had not known about the terrible crime that Vos had committed in South Africa. ‘What I heard,’ Sara said, ‘was that, just before the new union was announced, some leaders of the established unions went missing.’

  Andy raised his eyebrows. ‘It wouldn’t surprise me,’ he said blandly. ‘At that time, in that place, people disappeared all the time.’ He peered over his mug of Lady Grey. ‘Surely, you’re not accusing Thorndike of anything?’

  Sara smiled. ‘Of course not.’

  They sat in silence for a moment. When Andy spoke next, he had lost the glibness with which he often spoke. ‘Rhoddo was a good man,’ he said.

  ‘He cared about you very much,’ Sara replied.

  Andy set down his mug. ‘I should get back to work,’ he said, and stood with a stretch. ‘If this union thing bothers you, I could try to find out more from Gerrit.’

  ‘There’s no need,’ Sara said, rising to her feet. ‘I just knew that Mr Vos was involved, and wondered about it, that’s all.’

  Andy led her back to the front door. They said goodbye, and Sara kissed Andy on the cheek. Just before she ventured back out into the sunlight, Andy put a hand on her arm. ‘I would never let anything happen to Jamie,’ he assured her. ‘You know that, don’t you?’

  Ego had made a beeline towards his empty bowl before Jamie had even got through the front door. He now stood sentinel over it, peering at Jamie with imperious patience. Every home has a pecking order, and a home owner with a cat knows who’s at the top – whether he likes cats or not. Dutifully, Jamie raised the bowl to the counter and opened a pouch of smelly, gelatinous meat product. Ego was already trying to eat it before Jamie had set it on the floor.

  All the while, Jamie replayed in his mind the conversation he’d had with Levi Rootenberg. He no longer had any doubts about who the man really was. Stephen Ash may have cleared him legally, but Rootenberg had nailed his colours to the mast when it came to the morality of what he did.

  The man had what might charitably have been called a nuanced understanding of international relations. It led him to take legal niceties like trade embargoes with a pinch of salt. So much of Jamie’s more-conventional sense of morality reacted against this – but both Rootenberg and Vos had hinted that this exact provincial morality was what caused people to be blinkered. Jamie knew he simply did not have enough expertise within this niche to be certain of his own judgement. He wished there were someone he could go to for advice.

  Jamie would have to wait and see what happened. But, he had to admit, Rootenberg’s focus on the future – on an African continent whose countries were free from sanctions and open to British trade – was intriguing. Getting in on the ground floor could be the making of a fledgling prime contractor like Thorndike Aerospace.

  Jamie wandered into the bedroom and placed his phone, wallet and keys on the dresser. If he could make this consultancy work, Jamie thought, he had the chance to earn rather a decent sum of money. He sat on the edge of the bed to remove his shoes. He had not previously acknowledged to himself how troubled, how down, his dependence on Sara had made him feel. He would face life so differently once he could pay his own way …

  As Jamie bent to unlace a shoe, his thoughts were waylaid by the sheen of a small object lying on the floor. It sat next to Sara’s bedside chest of drawers, almost obscured by the duvet brushing against the floorboards. Jamie shoved his brogues out of the way and picked it up. It was a piece of jewellery on a leather thong. He peered at it. It had the handcrafted look of a trinket on offer at a car boot sale. It was made of papier mâché and varnished to a gloss. and Jamie caught his breath. Painted on its surface in delicate brush strokes was –

  Jamie felt himself blanche. On the homemade disk was a drawing of the occult Eye-in-the-Pyramid symbol, with two scales of justice hanging at its base. The emblem used in Aberystwyth by the serial killer Eldon Carson.

  For a moment, his mind grew numb, stunned by the appearance of something that was so out of place. It didn’t make sense, appearing here, in his flat. As a sluggish jumble of thoughts started to awaken in his mind, Jamie found himself grasping at tendrils of thought, trying to figure out who might have dropped such a pendant there. Even as he did, he knew that such a line of inquiry was stupid. This macabre piece of jewellery was right next to Sara’s side of the bed, and the only two people in London linked to the image were himself and her.

  This is Sara’s. It has to be.

  But how could she have obtained it? Eldon Carson had drawn this symbol on the bodies of his victims. Jamie recalled that, once, he had also inscribed it at the bottom of a letter to the police. But as far as Jamie knew, he had never fashioned his grisly symbol into a pendant. If Carson had done that, Jamie would have heard about it. And even if he had done so, Jamie thought, Sara would never have had a chance to touch such a thing. As soon as it was found, it would have been locked up as evidence. Wherever this macabre object had come from, there was one overriding question:

  Why would Sara have kept it?

  Jamie’s mind was churning now. It was true that Sara had a tendency to collect things she felt a connection to. There were all the African masks and Aboriginal art for a start. But she also owned a small assortment of occult relics, left over from her days of researching such ephemera: tools for magical rituals, voodoo dolls, devices for divination … Sara had always claimed to dislike these curios, but Jamie suspected she had a morbid fascination with them, and secretly took delight in possessing such artefacts. If she had come across a pendant once owned by the Aberystwyth killer, maybe acquiring it had been too much of a temptation.

  But that didn’t make sense. First of all, Sara did not keep her occult paraphernalia by her bedside. As far as Jamie knew, all that stuff was in a box at Ceri’s house in Wales. And none was connected to an upsetting personal event, as this one was. Surely Sara couldn’t have wanted to own it.

  Jamie rose from the bed. He slipped the pendant into this pocket and wondered exactly when – and how – he could raise the issue with Sara.

  TEN

  The next morning, both Jamie and Sara woke up subdued. When Sara had arrived home the previous evening, Jamie had not been able to find the right way to raise the issue of the pendant he had discovered next to her side of the bed. He’d told himself they’d speak about it in the morning. But now it was morning, and he had no energy to handle whatever emotions would follow
after he had raised the issue. Besides, starting a serious discussion now would be tactless – Sara looked like hell.

  ‘Are you OK?’ Jamie asked, thinking back to the way she had vomited the previous morning.

  ‘I’m just tired,’ she said.

  ‘Would you like some toast?’

  Sara sighed lethargically. ‘A crumpet maybe.’

  As Jamie boiled the kettle and slid a crumpet into each of the toaster’s four slots, he wondered what he would say about the terrible artefact he had found whenever he had the courage to bring it up. After all, it was the symbol that the monster in Aberystwyth had killed people by, what he’d drawn on their dead bodies. Jamie thought of that fourteen-year-old kid – the one in the yellow T-shirt who had his throat cut, whose body was battered after death. That symbol was what Eldon Carson scribbled on his corpse. Why would Sara want to preserve something like that?

  By the time he had buttered the crumpets and fixed the tea, Jamie had worked himself into enough of a state to believe he really could ask Sara that question. He set their breakfast on a tray, and strode into the next room. Before he could say anything, Sara rose and took the tray.

  ‘I’ll be going out today,’ she said lifelessly.

  All Jamie’s righteous determination evaporated. Her voice sounded so hollow. ‘Where?’

  Sara placed the tray on the coffee table and shook her head aimlessly. ‘I just need to get out.’

  Jamie nodded understandingly. ‘Would you like me to come?’

  ‘Thanks,’ she said, ‘but I really want to …’

  Her voice trailed away. She wanted to be alone. ‘Sure,’ he said. ‘I understand.’

  Jamie didn’t know what was eating away at Sara, but he understood that he’d have to wait it out. It seemed laughable that he needed to treat Sara in the same manner as he’d decided to approach Levi Rootenberg – to keep his eyes open, alter his opinions as necessary, and then act accordingly. But, it seemed, that was exactly what Sara needed.

  Later, Sara emerged from the tube onto Tottenham Court Road, and walked north towards a certain church basement. There she knew she would find a twenty-eight-year-old named Ken Salter. Salter was the one special client Sara had taken pains to stay in touch with – maybe because he was her first, or maybe because he was an almost-perfect success story. And, now more than ever before, Sara needed to speak to a success story. Ken had been an alcoholic since his teens, and had spent more than two years of his life homeless. Because he tended to be a violent drunk, most of that time had been spent quite literally on the streets; Ken had alienated himself from everyone who could have offered him shelter or helped him to recover.

  Everyone except for Sara Jones. With Sara’s support, Ken had worked to tame his demons, moderate his drinking, and re-establish contact with the charities that could do him some good. Sara had managed to get Ken on a list for sheltered accommodation and, some months ago, he had moved into a small flat in a complex overseen by a live-in warden. Ken now attended AA meetings, and had stayed sober for five months. He was on benefits and volunteered at a soup kitchen in the basement of the church he had once relied on for meals.

  Sara needed to see Ken today. He would lift her spirits, and provide her with a confidence boost before she ventured to Hackney and found out whether she could trust her visions.

  By the time Sara arrived at the church, the kitchen was closed. Homeless women and men milled around the pavement outside as Sara descended the stone steps and rapped on the locked basement door. Ken, dishcloth in hand, answered and let her in. Grinning, he handed her a bottle of disinfectant. ‘You spray, I’ll wipe,’ he said.

  ‘Which table?’ she asked.

  ‘They’re all filthy – pick one.’

  Sara hadn’t seen her former client for a couple of months. They cleaned tables and made small talk, listening to the rattling of pots in the kitchen behind them, until Ken peered at Sara with narrowed eyes. ‘You’re flustered,’ he said.

  ‘Sorry?’ Sara replied.

  ‘Uneasy. I can tell. You’re not yourself.’

  She smiled. ‘You can read minds now?’

  Ken set down his cloth. ‘In a way,’ he said. ‘One thing being homeless does for you, is it teaches you to size up someone fast. Your life may depend on it.’ He gestured to a black plastic chair. ‘Sit down,’ he said. ‘Tell me what’s wrong.’

  Sara thought back to her first meeting with Ken on Oxford Street. She remembered the way he’d looked, talked and smelled. It was quite a contrast to the pleasant-looking man with thinning ginger hair and a slight paunch who stood before her now. The fact that Ken wanted to hear her troubles made her happy. Sara didn’t actually think he could be of any help to her, but his concern felt like a further step in his amazing progress.

  She sat. Obviously, she could not tell Ken the literal truth. However, she did manage to construct a vague story that didn’t stray far from reality: a violent client whose future she worried about, a listless boyfriend grasping at a job she didn’t think was right for him, and the low-level buzz of tension in those quieter moments between them.

  Ken nodded understandingly. ‘So you came here.’

  ‘I was going to visit you anyway,’ Sara said. ‘We haven’t seen each other for ages.’

  ‘But it just so happens that you feel down,’ Ken observed. ‘I’m guessing you knew you’d find me well and reasonably happy. You know that has everything to do with what you've done for me, and you wanted to reassure yourself that you haven’t been wasting your life.’

  Sara raised her eyebrows. ‘You should do this professionally.’

  Ken offered her a grin. ‘You’ve told me before that there were other charity cases after me,’ he went on.

  ‘A couple.’

  ‘Do you visit them too?’

  ‘No,’ Sara said.

  ‘Why not?’

  Sara thought. The truth was, she hadn't liked the other two in the same way she liked Ken. When Sara had befriended this tragic person, and then managed to turn his life around, she’d felt a sense of gleeful triumph. Maybe it had been naive to expect the same miraculous results from subsequent patients.

  There had been nothing wrong with the results she had obtained. Despite her more recent doubts, at the time Sara had been certain of the terrible crimes those patients would have committed, and equally sure that she had prevented them. But that was where things had ended. She had felt no particular warmth for Clients Two or Three – Ellie Giddings and Conor Lowe.

  ‘I suppose,’ Sara replied finally, ‘you’re just the special one, Ken.’

  She expected another smile, but Ken pursed his lips. ‘And what about this violent patient – is he a charity case too?’

  Sara blinked. Ken was a surprising man; even when she remembered how perceptive he was, he could still say something that blindsided her. ‘As a matter of fact, he is,’ she said with a nod. ‘But I haven’t managed to bribe him the way I bribed you,’ she said.

  ‘He doesn’t need money?’

  ‘Everyone needs money. He hasn’t let me offer it to him.’

  Ken raised an eyebrow. ‘Maybe you’ve been too honest with the guy.’

  Sara looked at him sharply. ‘What do you mean?’

  Ken offered a friendly, mocking smile. ‘Maybe you haven’t lied to him as carefully as you lied to me.’

  Sara recoiled. ‘Ken!’ she said. ‘I never lied to you.’

  He laughed good-naturedly. ‘You’re lying now … or else you’ve forgotten. When we first met, you told me you worked at this canteen.’

  Sara remembered – she had said that.

  ‘I came here for tea that very afternoon. Asked about you. Obviously, nobody had ever heard of you.’

  ‘So you knew from the start that I told you something that wasn’t true?’

  ‘Sure.’ Ken shrugged. ‘But I didn’t care. You gave me money and promised more. You could’ve said you were the Queen of Sheba and I’d have stuck around.’

 
; He fiddled with one of the damp cloths. ‘But it did make me curious. Once I started getting better, I visited the library.’ He chuckled. ‘You’re easy to Google.’

  ‘You researched me?’

  Now Ken looked positively smug. ‘Every time we met, I’d know a little more about you. That psychology book you wrote about magical thinking? I reviewed it on Amazon.’

  ‘You didn’t!’

  ‘I never read it, of course, but I gave it five stars. And that investigation you were part of in Wales – that must’ve really been something.’

  Sara tried to smile. ‘It was,’ she said.

  ‘I want you to promise me one thing,’ Ken told her. ‘Some day – only when you feel like it – you’ll take me out for coffee and tell me the whole story.’

  Sara made a gesture of agreement. Maybe not the whole story, she thought.

  ‘Only when you’re ready,’ Ken repeated and shook his head. ‘You know Sara,’ he added, ‘I think I’ve made a hash of things.’

  ‘How’s that?’

  ‘I asked you to sit down because you looked out of sorts, and I think I’ve made you worse.’

  ‘I’m just surprised,’ she admitted. ‘I spent our time together trying to learn about you. I had no idea you were learning about me.’

  ‘Only because I knew how much you were doing for me,’ he said. ‘Maybe I didn’t catch on to that at first … but I came to understand. I owe you everything.’

  For the first time ever, Ken Salter reached out and took Sara’s hand. ‘I’m glad you didn’t give up on me,’ he said. ‘But I’ll tell you something else – if I’d ever been violent towards you, you would have had every right to walk away. Not only that, but you should have.’

  Ken locked his eyes onto hers. ‘If there’s any chance, however small, this guy’s going to hurt you,’ he said, ‘give up on him. Whatever his problem is, it’s not worth putting yourself in danger to fix.’