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The Black Swan on Hackney Road looked like any East End boozer, save for the strings of coloured lights flashing around the bar and the eccentric collection of knick-knacks behind it. Back there amid the bottles, superhero dolls consorted with religious figurines, while above them, glass shelves displayed cookie jars, taxidermy, gargoyles, snow globes, feathers, oversized plastic rosary beads and Mexican Day of the Dead skulls. When Sara arrived, she chose a table in the corner, and claimed it with her jacket and a copy of the Guardian. She was relieved to find the place empty enough to keep an eye on most tables, but full enough for her not to be conspicuous. If needs be, she could hide behind the newspaper, like a spy in a Cold War film.

  Sara’s caution was, in itself, an act of optimism; she had no idea whether Tim Wilson would show up or not. If he didn’t come, it would serve as evidence that she may have been deluding herself about the extent of her psychic abilities. Indeed, it would be powerful evidence, because she had never felt anything as strongly as her certainty that Tim and his new boyfriend would have their first date here, this evening … and soon.

  Sara ordered a glass of Chardonnay at the bar and took up her position. The small crowd spread before her was mostly young, but otherwise mixed. There were both men and women, and few seemed especially aligned to any particular tribe. Many sported the smart-casual anonymity favoured by Gap advertisements. Sara had assumed that everyone here would look like Tim, but The Black Swan was no hipster hangout. It seemed more like a bolt-hole for those who wanted to avoid both the super-clubs of Vauxhall and the sterility of Soho nightlife. In fact, Sara decided, this pub was the perfect no-man’s-land for a young urbanite on a first date with his newbie boyfriend – that is, when the boyfriend in question was a mature estate agent from Essex.

  Sara was halfway through her wine when Tim Wilson entered the pub alone. She heard herself gasp out loud, and a tingle of elation pulsed through her: he’s here! She remembered to raise her newspaper in front of her face, and took stock of what Wilson’s arrival actually meant. It meant that she had been right when she had seen that he would come here this evening. Sara peered over the top of the paper and watched Wilson order a pint. He stood at the bar, a foot on the rail, with his gaze focused on his phone. What happened next, she knew, would be the real decider.

  Her visions had been quite specific. She had seen Philip Berger in detail and, although they had never met, she knew every line on his pleasantly bland face, and every short, tidy hair of his receding hairline. After her vision, it had not been difficult to track down his business – and Berger himself, member of the National Association of Estate Agents – on Google. That had been Sara’s first proof that Berger was more than just a phantasm created by brain chemicals and faith. He existed out there, in the real world.

  The question was, would he show up here, in this pub? Several minutes later, Philip Berger stepped haltingly into the room. He wore a chain store blue suit, crisp white shirt, red tie, and brown brogues. Once again, a strong emotion pulsed through Sara – but this time it was not excitement or vindication, but fear. She knew that Berger’s presence here meant that, even in the face of her doubts, she would have to proceed as though all her visions about the couple had been accurate - including the final, bloody one …

  She watched Berger scan the small crowd and single out his date. He moved forwards, and gave Tim Wilson a small touch on the shoulder. The younger man spun around, pocketing his phone, and embraced Berger – a man he had only met online – in a hearty bear hug. Sara noticed that the older man looked uncomfortable with Wilson’s effusive display of affection. As much as she was able to discern his emotions, she suspected that Berger was feeling bemused, being here in an unfamiliar bar, trying out a new, unpractised ritual. Sara decided his bemusement was appropriate. She did not really understand this suburbanite’s attraction to a London hipster fifteen years his junior. Maybe, she thought, there was a wild side to Philip Berger he kept deep under wraps. Or maybe he thought he might enjoy mentoring a young man with a daddy fixation.

  Either way, Sara understood her job: to make sure that this attachment didn’t overheat into a violent act of symbolic parenticide.

  Already, Wilson and Berger were deep in conversation at the bar. Sara felt confident enough to lay the newspaper flat on her table. She reached into her handbag and pulled out her favourite Mont Blanc fountain pen; on a corner of the newspaper, she inscribed her mobile number and waited. Before Berger arrived, Sara had watched Wilson down two pints. Now, he was working on his third, as his date nursed a shot of Scotch. Soon, Wilson would need to head to the loo. To the extent that Sara had any kind of plan, Tim Wilson’s distended bladder formed part of it.

  Finally, Wilson drained his glass, ordered another round and gave Berger a friendly pat before disappearing through a door that led downstairs. Sara knew she could count on maybe two minutes alone with Mr Right, but no more. She grabbed her bag, tore off the corner of her Guardian, and hustled towards Berger.

  She sidled up to him and he shifted politely to his right. The bartender set down a fresh whiskey and a pint, and Berger paid for the round. The bartender looked towards Sara, and she sent him away with a quick shake of her head. She stared directly at her quarry.

  ‘Mr Berger,’ she said in her most professional voice, ‘can I have a minute?’

  Although he had barely acknowledged her arrival, Berger now looked sharply at Sara. ‘Do we know each other?’ he asked.

  ‘I know you,’ she said, ‘because I know Tim.’

  He looked her over dubiously. ‘You’re friends?’

  ‘I’m affiliated with his social worker. You do know he has a social worker?’

  Berger angled his head, perplexed. ‘I’m sorry – you say affiliated …’

  ‘This is important, Mr Berger. Tim has a violent temper, and it’s got him into trouble before. That’s why he has a social worker. He seems sweet, I know – and he is, until he gets angry. You look like a nice man, and I wouldn’t want to see you hurt.’

  ‘Who are you?’ Berger demanded. ‘Did you follow me here?’

  ‘I’ll answer all your questions,’ Sara promised, ‘but not now. It wouldn’t be wise to let Tim see us talking.’ She slipped the torn corner of newspaper towards him. ‘You need to ring me. I’ll meet you wherever you like … but please do me one favour. Until you’ve heard what I have to say, don’t tell Tim about our meeting.’

  Before walking quickly from the pub, Sara laid a hand on Philip Berger’s shoulder, and fought the urge to say, Take care of yourself.

  She didn’t need to. She knew for a fact that Philip Berger was perfectly safe.

  At least, until next winter.

  ELEVEN

  All the way home, Sara had braced herself for a phone call from Berger. She’d realised her hyper-alertness was silly; she had only just given the man her number, and he was out on a date. Almost certainly, he would not ring her so early. Still, she had entertained the hope that the man would find an excuse to slip away from Tim Wilson, perhaps troubled enough by her warnings to want to hear more. Sara knew she had a lot resting on this optimistic outcome. Getting Philip Berger to reject Tim Wilson now, when the two men were still relative strangers, was her simplest way to avoid the bloodshed that was to come.

  When Sara arrived home, Jamie was already in bed. He had been reading, and had fallen asleep with a hardcover history book propped open on his chest. Sara tucked his bookmark between the pages, placed the book on the table, and switched off the bedside lamp. Jamie mumbled something to her as he rolled over, but quickly began to breathe in a deep, regular pattern. Sara released a breath she hadn’t realised she’d been holding, relieved that Jamie hadn’t woken up. The last couple of days had felt heavy with tension between them that was even greater than usual. It was her fault, Sara knew. Jamie’s dalliance with Thorndike Aerospace would have been enough to push her into a sullen funk, even if she hadn’t also known the unpleasant history of Gerrit Vos. Add to that her pressing concern over
Tim Wilson, and she must have appeared to Jamie like a thundercloud hovering darkly in his line of sight, blotting out the light.

  Worse still, Sara wasn’t sure whether she would be able to behave any better tomorrow, or the next day, or even next week. Ken Salter had suggested she abandon her violent client – but then again, Salter had no way of knowing the consequences of such an abnegation of responsibility. Sara could not abandon Philip Berger without feeling responsible for his murder. And she now accepted that Berger’s death at Tim Wilson’s hands was otherwise inevitable. Had neither Wilson nor Berger walked through the door of that pub this evening, she almost certainly would have tried to forget them. She’d have disregarded that vision as a random glimpse of an unlikely possibility. That was what Eldon Carson’s visions of Edmund Haney had turned out to be.

  The difference was, Carson had been over-confident. He had not tested his visions as Sara had done. This meant that the responsibility to prevent Philip Berger’s murder still rested on her shoulders. And yet, the temptation was still to give up. If Wilson was unwilling to be helped, and Berger was as good as collaborating in his own murder, then what was the point? Sara wondered why she shouldn’t simply let destiny take its course. But she knew the sin of omission was sin, nonetheless. It wasn’t Philip Berger’s fault that he was attracted to an unstable young man. And, Sara had to admit, it wasn’t Wilson’s fault that he suffered from surges of rage either. The lad needed therapy, not punishment. But, damn it, what could she do if he refused it?

  These concerns over future death and present duty swirled through her mind as she lay next to Jamie. Despite the still-cool weather, Sara felt too warm; she shoved the duvet aside, scrunched up the feather pillow, and fought the buoying drift of wakefulness.

  When the weight of disturbed thought finally pulled her down, Sara sank into a recurring, terrible dream.

  Philip Berger has done wonders with the flat since he moved in. First of all, he has managed to get the broken window in the living room sorted. He’s done this by informing the maintenance staff that one of two things was about to happen. Either they would replace the window pronto, or Tim and Philip would hire the most expensive glaziers they could find, and then sue the council for the cost. Of course, that would require a notarized statement from the head of maintenance, Philip had told them. It’ll be read in court, so it should explain why the broken glass hadn’t been repaired in a timely fashion. Philip admits to Tim that everyone realised he was bluffing, but that it didn’t matter. The fact that this crazy couple was willing to bluff so intently meant they’d be easier to appease than ignore.

  ‘People like that maintenance guy just want a quiet life,’ Philip tells Tim after the job’s been done. ‘Really, who doesn’t?’

  Once the staff has hopped to it and solved the window problem, it’s easier to get them to fix the dodgy thermostat and replace several squares of curling linoleum. This is one of the things Tim loves about Philip – he knows how to get stuff done.

  Of course, there are things that annoy Tim about Philip, too. For one, he’s really messy. He leaves his tie on the bedroom chair. Sometimes his shirt as well, which really pisses Tim off. And Philip sheds worse than Tim’s dog. Tim’s always finding strands of hair from Philip’s head, his pubes, and God knows where else. Tim notices them strewn across the shower tray in the morning, all slimy with soap scum. Philip never rinses the fucking shower. Tim has asked, again and again. It’s just gross, he says. Please, he begs. But Philip – the thicko – forgets. Tim has taken to scrubbing the moulded plastic every day, once Philip has gone to work. Then he dumps caustic soda down the plug hole. By lunchtime, things are clean.

  But there’s only so much a guy can take.

  The final straw has to do with Stratford. Philip’s estate agency is located there, and Philip thinks they should move. He’s been keeping an eye out, seeing all the best properties before they’re even listed, and he’s found something he likes. It’s a two-bedroom terraced house, a five-minute walk from Westfield Shopping Centre. The place is a steal at just over £400,000, he says. Negotiate, and they’d get it for under four. It’s basic, no question about that, and a lot of its original features have been stripped – but location is everything and the house’s potential is huge. They could put a third bedroom in the loft. Or maybe a massive bathroom. Open shower, hot tub …

  Tim says he can’t afford to buy a place, but Philip promises to take on the burden himself. Philip and his wife are selling their house in Chingford, he says, which means a certain amount of cash will be coming his way. Not half, by any means – a judge has determined a sixty-five/thirty-five split in the wife’s favour, but still – he’ll see some profit. And with Philip’s salary and commissions, things really aren’t all that bad. Finances will still be tight, he admits, because there will be child support to pay for years, but when an opportunity arises –

  Tim hates these sales pitches. They make Philip sound like such an estate agent. The thing is – and this really is the bottom line, the honest-to-God deal-breaker – Tim likes Central London. Who wants to live in Stratford? It’s practically Essex.

  ‘On the other hand,’ Philip counters, ‘it’s practically Hackney as well. And Hackney is cool. We could never afford to live in Central London.’

  ‘We’re already in Central London!’ Tim says every time they discuss it, his voice growing edgier with each conversation. ‘We’ll just stay here.’

  ‘In this council flat?’ Philip gasps. ‘I would rather die.’

  Of course, there’s no irony in the phrase when he says it. But when Sara views these scenes that have yet to play out, Philip Berger’s words are deeply ironic and grimly funny. That is, until Sara gets to that winter night in the bedroom, with the two men side-by-side on Tim’s futon, Stanley the Rottweiler curled at its edge. On that night, Tim’s trying to sleep, but Philip wants to talk. It’s the same old conversation.

  ‘Interest rates are low right now,’ Philip says. ‘But I’m guessing they’ll rise. If I can lock myself into a five-year mortgage soon, this is do-able. If we wait, maybe not.’

  This is the most vivid part of Sara’s vision. She’s so close she can smell the lingering aroma of the day’s aftershave, still clinging to Philip’s neck. It blends with the dry-grass whiff of Tim’s tatami mat. Sara can hear Tim’s breathing, too. It’s growing more laboured.

  ‘I don’t want to move,’ Tim huffs, his voice muffled by the pillow over his head.

  ‘Well, we can’t stay here,’ Philip says.

  ‘We can.’

  ‘You can. I will not.’

  Tim’s pillow rolls away and smacks against the wall. ‘What are you saying?’ he demands. ‘That you’d leave me for a fucking terrace in Essex?’

  ‘Stratford is not in –’

  ‘I don’t care where it fucking is,’ Tim shouts, ‘it’s not where I fucking want to be!’

  Stanley raises his massive head at this, and, when Tim’s muscled arm shoots out and lands a blow against Philip’s chest, he barks.

  ‘Shut up!’ Tim screams at the dog.

  Philip gasps from the impact of Tim’s forearm. ‘Give him some salami,’ he wheezes. The word salami comes out as a sneer, some sort of ill-defined put-down against Stanley. That is a huge error in judgement, but Philip’s biggest mistake is to accompany those words with a shove to Tim’s shoulder.

  It’s a mild push, but Tim twitches as though he’s been smacked in the head. ‘Fuck you,’ he bellows.

  Tim’s next blow lands, full force, in Philip’s face. Philip’s head rears back, and impacts with the wall, just below Tim’s favourite poster – the duo Daft Punk looking like cyborgs from a film, surrounded by a pristine metal frame. The frame matches their gleaming helmets.

  Now Tim is rolling over, straddling Philip’s torso, assailing him with blow after blow. Philip’s punching too, but his are weak shots to Tim’s chest. Really, they’re no more than shoves, but they make Tim pummel harder. Stanley’s barking wild
ly, leaping forwards and back, and Tim’s screaming ‘Shut up, Stanley, shut up’ as he punches and punches.

  Blood sprays over Tim. It dots the futon, the pillows, the duvet – and spatters over the Daft Punk poster when Philip’s head lolls at a funny angle. Tim keeps striking until he’s exhausted. Then he slides prostrate over Philip’s body, covering it. Tim’s sticky and crying.

  There are already sirens wailing in the distance. Fucking neighbours must have called the cops. Tim can hear them because Stanley has stopped barking now.

  Then Tim feels Stanley nuzzling the small of his back with the judgement-free compassion of a true soul mate. Tim loves Stanley, and soon they will be separated, and this makes him cry all the harder.

  TWELVE

  On Monday morning, Gerrit Vos was back in the Green Street pied-a-terre, brewing tea – fucking Lady Grey tea – for Andy Turner. Vos had had to buy that shit specially once, during their first meeting here. Now he kept it on hand for those rare occasions when they met in this flat, rather than in Surrey, Hampshire or St James’s. Vos wondered what kind of guy could both regret not having been in the SAS, and also drink something as effete as Lady Grey tea? Bergamot was an interesting fruit and it made a pleasant oil – Nicole sometimes dribbled it into her bathwater – but it did not belong in fucking tea. And anyway, what kind of guy could know so much about third world despots and also wear those particular socks? Hell, half the psychopaths Andy Turner had dined with would flog their own peasants for wearing socks like that. Andy was a man of contradictions, that was for damn sure.

  ‘Sugar?’ he asked.

  ‘As it comes,’ Andy said.

  Vos hoped that Andy Turner would not bring up the subject of Jamie Harding. Vos had not told him exactly what tasks he’d assigned to the ex-inspector. The less Andy knew about cockamamie schemes to sell munitions to proscribed countries, the better. Of course, it was possible that Harding had briefed his nattily dressed paymaster directly, but Vos tended to doubt it. Harding’s comings and goings probably didn’t even register on Andrew Turner & Associates’ radar. Andy was showing Harding a kindness, throwing him a financial bone, and probably wasn’t all that bothered about what he did for the money. One of Andy’s great talents was not knowing things – or else forgetting them if he’d been unlucky enough to learn something unhelpful. Selective amnesia was a lobbyist’s skill. Whenever people engaged in acts of propaganda – which included all lobbying, marketing, or persuasion of any sort – the first targets they had to brainwash were themselves. It was likely that Andy Turner wanted to believe his protégé was doing no more than checking out factories for security flaws. Knowing anything contradictory would play holy hell with the vérité of his narrative.