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  ‘So, Mr Vos -’ Sara began.

  ‘Gerrit,’ he countered.

  ‘Gerrit,’ she repeated. ‘Why are we here?’

  Of course Sara had realised Andy might inadvertently say something to this man. Maybe you actually wanted a confrontation, she told herself. She brushed against Vos’s mind, and sensed he no longer felt afraid. He was resolute, confident. But why the change?

  Vos ignored her question. ‘I like your boyfriend,’ he said.

  Sara forced herself to smile. ‘He’s alright.’

  ‘Human rights law,’ Vos went on.

  ‘That’s where’s he’s heading.’

  Vos nodded. ‘It’s an important field. Especially in today’s world.’ He ran his fingers over the top of Rhodri’s gravestone, gently brushing against the Welsh dragon. ‘Can I be blunt?’

  Sara shrugged in a way that said, you always are.

  ‘Jamie said yes to Andy’s offer – and agreed to work with me – because he wants to save his pennies for university.’

  That much was true. Sara waited for more.

  ‘I imagine you already had financial resources before your brother died … but you sure as hell have more of them now.’

  Sara raised an eyebrow. ‘You know the details of Rhodri’s will?’

  Vos shrugged. ‘Would you respect me if I didn’t? What I’m saying is, paying Jamie’s university fees isn’t exactly a stretch for you. Jamie knows that – so why is he so keen to make his own money?’

  Vos paused, but it was clear that he didn’t expect Sara to answer. He was savouring the drama of a prepared speech. ‘I’m guessing Jamie has felt rather emasculated, the way he’s been living off you. It’s quite a come-down after all – from police inspector to household pet.’

  Sara must have reacted unconsciously, because Vos smiled. ‘That’s not a good self-image,’ he went on. ‘Jamie would rather pay his fees himself, so he can show he isn’t reliant on you.’

  ‘Jamie contributes to our lives in other ways,’ Sara said. ‘He owns the flat, for one thing.’

  ‘A spit in the ocean,’ Vos said. ‘Anyway, we’re talking about his feelings.’

  In truth, Sara knew Vos’s analysis was fairly accurate. She had been aware of Jamie’s feelings of inadequacy, perhaps even of being trapped, for some time. But she wasn’t about to admit that to Vos. ‘I can’t read Jamie’s mind,’ she said, and took pleasure in the irony of the statement.

  Vos grunted. ‘Let’s assume I’m right. That would mean Thorndike Aerospace is more important to Jamie’s emotional well-being than to his financial security.’

  ‘OK,’ Sara said neutrally, ‘let’s assume that.’

  ‘You want him to feel good about himself, right?’

  ‘He already does.’

  ‘I don’t think that’s true,’ Vos countered, ‘and I suspect you don’t either. Your partner is a mass of insecurities – about his father, about you, and about what he sees as his failure to get anywhere in life.’

  ‘That’s a bit harsh.’

  ‘Again, I’m not talking about what’s true. I’m saying it’s what Jamie feels. And his doubt is so unnecessary.’ Vos gestured to the ground under which Rhodri lay. ‘Whatever you think about your brother’s approach to life, or the business he left behind, let me assure you that Thorndike Aerospace is committed to being a good corporate citizen.’

  He put on his Panama hat and slipped his Ray-Bans into his pocket. Fixing Sara with an unwavering stare, he said, ‘I’m going to speak to our CEO about funding Jamie’s master’s degree next year. All the fees, as well as some sort of retainer, so he can afford to live. That way, he won’t have to scrimp and save. He won’t have to rely on you, either. As for what Thorndike gets out of it, we’ll be giving Jamie a sense that he’s important to the company.’

  Sara was already shaking her head. ‘Thank you Mr Vos, but I really don’t think –’

  ‘When he graduates,’ Vos interrupted, ‘Jamie will have an area of expertise that will become increasingly important to Thorndike. Combine human rights law with his background in the Met, and I think our CEO would jump at the chance to offer him a full-time position. Well-remunerated of course. Jamie will have his own money, a good career, and he’ll have the dignity that, frankly, being your dependent doesn’t offer him.’

  Sara wondered whether this was the reason Vos had shifted from fear over the phone to a kind of cocky confidence now. Did he really think an offer to buy Jamie would silence Sara’s doubts?

  ‘Mr Vos,’ Sara began, ‘you’re fond of what you call bluntness, so let me be blunt right now. I really don’t want Jamie to get too deeply involved with Thorndike Aerospace. He may have some issues with his self-esteem, but they’re temporary. Situational. Once he’s got his master’s degree, he’ll be fine.’

  Vos shook his head. ‘I’m offering him a better career than he could get anywhere else,’ he said. ‘Why are you so against it?’

  ‘The aerospace industry deals in death,’ Sara stated. ‘It’s all about weapons, after all – and weaponry’s only function is to kill.’ She shrugged. ‘Forgive me if I don’t like that.’

  Vos smirked at her naiveté. ‘The defence industry,’ he countered, ‘is about the prosperity of this country. It’s about the development of knowledge and skills – which are essential to the economy, not to mention Britain’s self-reliance. Exports mean jobs. 150,000 of them rely on the aerospace industries, many of them high-tech. A strong defence capability is also a signal of our political commitment to our allies. Then there’s our freedom to act independently in an unstable world. What exactly are you against, Sara?’

  Vos paused, smug in his mastery of the argument. Sara steadied herself. She had already decided that, if it came to it, she was willing to play what followed as an end-game.

  ‘OK then, let’s bring it closer to home,’ she said. ‘I am against what you did in South Africa.’

  Vos’s expression betrayed his shock. He had not expected Sara to come out and say what had been lingering in the cemetery air. He squinted at her, then reached into his pocket and covered his eyes with his sunglasses.

  ‘You shouldn’t be surprised that I’d bring it up,’ Sara went on. ‘You know I asked Andy Turner about it.’

  Vos inclined his head in acknowledgement. ‘And he had nothing to tell you,’ he said. ‘That’s because there’s nothing to tell.’

  Sara could feel Vos radiating wariness. His senses were heightened. There was a sudden, queasy steeling of his muscles. She pressed on. ‘I know exactly what happened,’ she said.

  Vos stared at her without expression. Still, Sara knew what he was thinking. Gerrit Vos had finally concluded that Rhodri Jones had known about his actions at Thorndike Platinum – and imagined that Rhodri had told Sara everything. What was he feeling about that?

  She concentrated. Vos no longer felt fear. Not quite anger, either. His emotions added up to something more like unhappy conviction. The sensations a person gets when a certain marker has been passed.

  Slowly, Vos licked his lips. ‘Whatever you think happened – and indeed, whatever your brother may have suspected – it isn’t true,’ he said steadily. ‘But I’ll tell you what is true: Jamie needs Thorndike Aerospace. In fact, he needs it more than he needs you. So, regarding any unfounded suspicions you have about me, my advice would be to keep them to yourself.’

  Vos gestured to Rhodri’s grave. ‘It is precisely because of this man, and the fact that he loved you, that I took a gamble with Jamie. It paid off – I like him. He’s got a future. For Jamie’s sake, I had hoped your rarefied little world could find a way to exist alongside mine, as once it did with his.’

  ‘Jamie doesn’t work with murderers,’ Sara said.

  Vos straightened his jacket and looked in the direction of the East Cemetery’s exit.

  ‘What did I do to make you think so badly of me?’ he asked.

  He began to stride away. A moment later, he stopped, turned and called, ‘If it co
mes down to a choice between your world and mine, your boyfriend is going to choose mine.’

  Sara snorted and shook her head. ‘He won’t,’ she said.

  Vos grinned sardonically. ‘Trust me,’ he said. ‘I’ll make sure he does.’

  Sara wandered the grounds of the cemetery, her heart thudding. A spike of self-recrimination made her cheek muscles spasm.

  How could I have been so stupid?

  Although Sara had watched Vos’s back until he’d disappeared from sight, she still suffered waves of trepidation in this public space. She felt too exposed on these well-tended paths. She diverted herself onto a verge of grass. From there, she waded deep into a patch of tall trees. In this solitary spot of shadows and dappled sunlight, overgrowths of ivy sprawled across the woodland floor, and crept up the clustered Victorian gravestones. The stones’ weathered shapes jutted at odd angles from this tangle of greenery. Beyond them, an old brick wall separated the East Cemetery from the steep, narrow lane on its other side.

  Sara felt better-protected here, more able to think. She settled onto a sloping altar tomb, silently asking its long-dead inhabitant to forgive the disturbance. The stone felt damp, even through the wool of her business suit. Sara inhaled the wet must of foliage, and tried to imagine the rich oxygen stilling her quivering muscles. Even though she might calm her body through an act of will, she could not quite manage to soothe her teeming mind. Part of it still screamed that she’d made a rash move in revealing her hand to Gerrit Vos.

  I’ve shown him the extent of his problems, she thought. And I’ve seen for myself how that man solves problems.

  Sara pressed her hand against the rough stone of the tomb, concentrating on nothing but its solidity. Its coldness numbed her fingers. She forced herself to picture Vos in her mind’s eye. A mental haze enveloped her as she tried to form a connection with him, to get a solid impression of what he was thinking and feeling. What she received was no more than that which she herself was experiencing – the sense of something coiled, twitchy, and tinged with regret. We’re both feeling the same thing, she thought. Sara knew that in her case, the regret was over showing Vos too much, too soon.

  In Vos’s case it was regret for – what?

  What he’d done in South Africa?

  Or maybe what he might do next.

  That was the crux, Sara knew, the one difference between the emotions that she and Vos shared. Although she could not read exactly what his plan entailed, she had the firm impression that Vos had options.

  Sara, on the other hand, had no idea what to do next.

  As Gerrit Vos drove towards the M4, he could feel the muscles of his arms and chest quivering. It was not the result of anger, or even fear of exposure – it was the fight-or-flight impulse that told him he would now have to act. That understanding caused numb despair to run from the tensed muscles of his face straight down to his gut. Vos had gone to Highgate unsure of how much Sara Jones understood about his past, and hoping the woman might see reason. Now, he knew she was unable to entertain any thoughts beyond her own prissy presumptions.

  Fucking hell, he thought, wouldn’t it be nice if things ran smoothly once in a while?

  He would need help now, Vos knew. He had tried to bribe Sara Jones on his own, but had failed. Any further steps would require more than he could accomplish by himself. Certainly, he could rule out Levi Rootenberg. That bastard was already a millstone around his neck, and Vos didn’t need to be any deeper in his debt. Besides, when it came to dealing with Sara Jones, Vos would never use the kind of service he knew Rootenberg could arrange. He would not be able to solve this problem in the way he’d dealt with those union men in South Africa. Putting a contract out on an ex-copper’s partner would be a rookie mistake, opening him up to more potential blackmail.

  Even allowing the idea of murder to cross his mind made Vos’s stomach lurch and caused those hated memories from South Africa to press forward, trying to reveal themselves once again. Seeing those ghosts always made Vos think of the relief that might come with a single swallow of thallium sulphate. It waited for him in the floorboards of his barn…

  Vos grimaced away the thought. He needed a subtle approach to Sara Jones, and someone he could rely on completely. And there was only one person who fitted that description. But in order to recruit Nicole into this, he would have to tell her something about his past. Not all of it, maybe, but something more than the official Gerrit Vos-as-Thorndike-hero version. Just enough honesty to help her understand the potential shit he was in.

  The worst part of his encounter with Sara Jones had not been finding out she knew his secret, or even having to tell Nicole some sanitised version of the events in South Africa. Rather, it was those unpleasant memories their confrontation had shaken loose. As he wondered how much to tell Nicole, Vos pictured meeting Rootenberg’s paramilitary chum for the first time, in that hotel lounge outside Rustenburg. He recalled seeing the guy sitting there, looking all weathered and rustic. Vos could picture him again now, plainer than he could see the North Circular Road stretching before him. Old-school Afrikaans, he had been – the man’s paramilitary khakis looking entirely out of place in the midst of the bar’s international swank. Vos could remember adjusting his suit jacket before sitting down – an odd little detail to recall. He’d ordered wine, then had that uncommon conversation that would change his life …

  Vos glanced down to his phone on the dashboard mount. He scrolled through the screen until he found Nicole’s number. When she answered, he said, ‘Where are you right now?’

  ‘I’m at home today,’ she replied. ‘Why?’

  ‘I’ll be there in an hour.’

  ‘You’re coming home?’ she asked, as though he’d said aliens had landed on Parliament Square. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘Just don’t go out, OK?’

  Vos hadn’t seen that old Afrikaner again until Rootenberg gave him the call. Directions to somewhere remote – the breezeblock shell of an abandoned shanty. Vos had driven there himself. Even today, he could call to mind the sharp crunch of gravel under the jeep’s wheels. He had taken a moment to put on his game-face before sauntering into that Spartan space, which was crumbling from years of skirmishes and neglect. In his mind’s eye, Vos could see the weathered Afrikaner standing in the derelict hovel. Once again, he’d worn fatigues, and he mingled with a cluster of similarly clad colleagues. All were white. Each was armed.

  Those men, Vos thought. They’re the reason I’m now taking blowback from Sara Jones. The reason I have to have that fucking difficult conversation with Nicole.

  How grim those men had looked, how solemn. But also pumped with self-righteous anticipation. In front of them, strapped to chairs, sat Bakone and his lieutenants, already bloody and gagged. Puffy eyes, broken cheekbones. Vos remembered looking over the captives, and gesturing to Bakone.

  Someone lowered his gag.

  Vos had spoken softly. ‘Sorry we didn’t get to meet a fortnight ago,’ he’d said, ‘when you and the lads did your little dance. I remember you smiled at me. Seemed eager to say something. What did you have to tell me?’

  Bakone had responded with curses, and launched a gob of bloody spit through his split lips. Vos recalled leaping to the side so Bakone wouldn’t stain his trousers. A couple of the paramilitaries had laughed at his clumsy pirouette, but the chief Afrikaner silenced them with a frown. Then the man had knocked Bakone to the floor with the butt of a Kalashnikov. The chair went with him.

  As Vos sped up the ramp that led to the M4, he surged with a residual sense of the power he’d felt at that moment, watching Bakone fall. The feeling shamed him now, in a way it hadn’t then. He remembered staring down at Bakone for a long time, until the old Boer said, ‘Well, boss, it’s your call.’

  Vos recalled how, even then, he’d swallowed sour phlegm as he sauntered to the crumbling door of the shanty. About to take his exit, still wanting to look casual … but unwilling to witness what was about to happen.
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  ‘When you’re finished,’ he had said, ‘mop up and then contact Rootenberg.’

  That was part of the story he could never tell Nicole, even though the scene was so vivid in his mind. Vos could picture himself so clearly, walking into the blinding glare of the gravel forecourt. Hearing his heart pounding wildly in his chest, and grateful that nobody else could.

  He hadn’t even made it to his car before the shooting started.

  Vos arrived at his thatched cottage to find Nicole on the landline; around her lay packages destined for the Post Office. She looked up and raised her eyebrows.

  He gestured to the phone. They’d talk when Nicole had finished. Vos went into the kitchen and put on the kettle. He could smell the lingering aroma of a cooked lunch; when Nicole wasn’t forced to eat dinner for social reasons, she preferred to have her main meal in the middle of the day. He checked the fridge and found a plate containing a slab of ham, some mashed potatoes and peas. All still lukewarm – Nicole hadn’t eaten very long ago. He stuck the food into the microwave.

  Nicole appeared in the doorway. ‘Why are you home?’ she asked. ‘Was there an attack on the Thorndike campus? I can’t think of much else that would convince you to leave.’

  ‘Actually, I was in London,’ he replied. ‘Just didn’t make sense to head back to the office.’

  Nicole offered an impressed whistle. ‘Maybe you’re developing some perspective in your old age.’

  ‘Don’t count on it,’ he said, removing his food from the microwave. He remembered that he’d boiled the kettle. ‘Want tea?’ he asked.

  ‘Sit down and eat,’ Nicole said. ‘I’ll make it.’