Jack Grimwood - Moskva

‘Of course not… Sir, this is an open line.’

‘I know it’s an open line. There’s a car on its way and I want you here now. Apparently you’re the last known person to talk to her. I want to know what she said. I want to know if she told you where she was going.’

‘She’s vanished?’

‘Obviously she’s vanished.’

Alert now, and shivering in the chill hallway, Tom said, ‘Did she leave a note?’

‘What makes you ask that?’

‘Isn’t that what teenagers do? Leave notes.’

‘Here, Fox. Now.’

The line went dead, followed a moment later by a second click and then silence. Tom put down his receiver, picked it up again and listened to the lazy tone. Whichever KGB clerk had the job of transcribing his calls would pass that up the line the moment he realized the significance of what had just been said. Tom imagined that the Soviet Committee for State Security operated like every other intelligence agency he’d ever come across. Rule One was cover your back.

The ambassador’s response shocked him, though. Either Sir Edward believed the Soviets already knew, or he was too angry to worry.

When Tom’s phone rang again, it was to say a car was waiting. Leaving Sad Sam, he stepped over the stray cat that spent its days guarding the gate, passed the bored KGB man in his little box and opened the rear door of a blue embassy Jaguar. In the back, on the shiny leather seat, sat Sir Edward’s head of security. First glance would have told you he was an ex-serviceman. Second glance might have suggested he needed to exercise his body less and his mind more. A flint-like sharpness suggested that second glance would be wrong.

‘Morning,’ Tom said.

The ex-serviceman stared at him.

‘Here to make sure I don’t abscond?’

‘Something like that.’

The man nodded at the driver’s mirror and the V12 purred into life. As the Jaguar turned south, a sleek Volga fell into place behind it.

‘Subtle,’ Tom said.

‘There’s a hierarchy. Sir Edward merits a Volga. I merit a new Moskvitch. You merit an old one. That’s also how you tell the services apart. The KGB drive Volgas, the police Moskvitches.’

‘I had a Volga the other night.’

‘You must have got that wrong.’

Tom shook his head. ‘I don’t get things like that wrong.’

The man looked at him. A long considered stare until Tom glanced away. He had no wish to get into a pissing contest with an ex-paratrooper. Unless he wanted to go home, of course. Because that’s where the Second Secretary could send him. ‘Do you know where she is?’ the man asked finally.

‘Why the hell would I –’

‘Do you know where she is?’

‘No,’ Tom said. ‘I have no idea where she is.’

The man sat back and considered his next question carefully. When he spoke, his voice was less clipped and there was a trace of an accent. Something northern, Yorkshire maybe. ‘Any idea why Sir Edward thinks you might?’

‘Because he’s clutching at straws?’

‘There has to be more to it than that.’

Tom shrugged. ‘What happens now?’

‘You see Sir Edward.’

‘Have we told the Soviets?’

‘Sir Edward’s rather hoping she’ll come back on her own.’

‘Does London know?’

‘Fox. You don’t seem particularly concerned.’

‘For the kid? Of course I’m concerned.’

‘For yourself. When I left, Sir Edward was raging. Apparently you gave his stepdaughter a lesson in how to commit suicide.’

Tom inhaled sharply. ‘Oh, bloody hell.’

The car trailing them stopped outside, as if the embassy’s high gates and wrought-iron railings were enough to make its engine fail. In a way they were. Inside was Great Britain. Outside, Soviet Russia.

‘He’s in his office,’ a woman at the reception desk told the head of security, who nodded and headed for the stairs. Across the hallway, two guards were watching, but casually. They knew something was going on. They didn’t know what. Ex-soldiers, possibly still serving. One caught Tom’s eye and shrugged.

Sir Edward’s office was as big as Tom remembered.

The desk was impressively huge and largely empty. There was the obligatory Annigoni portrait of the Queen as a young woman on the wall behind it. On a side table sat a photograph of Sir Edward with the PM. Before the door had even shut, the woman at Sir Edward’s side strode over and slapped Tom so hard his head jerked sideways.

‘ Anna! ’ Sir Edward protested.

‘How could you?’ she shouted. ‘How could you be so stupid? What kind of monster says Wrist to elbow if you’re serious ?’

‘Did you know?’ Tom asked. ‘Did you know what your daughter was doing?’

For a moment Anna Masterton’s face was hollow as a mask and, as the anger went out of her, Tom knew that she had.

‘What’s this about?’ Sir Edward demanded.

‘Your stepdaughter had dragged something sharp across her wrists. Not for the first time from the look of it. I told her to roll her sleeves up or roll them down. Have the fight or…’

‘Not?’ Sir Edward asked.

‘Was there a fight to have, sir?’

‘With Alex there’s always a fight to have.’

‘What did her note say?’ Tom asked.

‘There wasn’t one,’ Sir Edward said crossly. ‘We went up to her room when we got back from Borodino to see if she was still sulking and half her things were gone. She’ll be back,’ he added. ‘We’ve barely been out here six months. She’s spent most of those at school. Not to mention half this holiday moping upstairs. Where’s the wretched child going to go? Anna just needs to ring round Alex’s friends…’ Running his hand through silvering hair, Sir Edward looked at the pen on his desk and then at files piled in his in tray.

Lady Masterton caught the glance and her face tightened. Now was when Tom should leave. If he was wise, he’d simply ask permission to go, but a question needed answering. ‘Where was the party?’

Husband and wife turned, as if they’d forgotten he was there.

‘The one she wasn’t allowed to go to.’

‘Who told you about that?’ Sir Edward demanded.

Catching Lady Masterton’s eye, Tom lied. ‘Your stepdaughter, when we were talking on New Year’s Eve. She seemed upset about it. Actually, she seemed upset about everything.’

‘So you taught her how to cut her wrists?’

‘I wanted to shock her into thinking about what she was doing, sir.’ Tom hesitated. ‘Before she did something really stupid and it was too late.’

‘I don’t see what it had to do with you.’

‘Nothing, sir. It had nothing to do with me.’

‘Quite so.’ Sir Edward sat back as if he’d won a debating point.

‘I’ll ring round,’ Lady Masterton said. ‘Although I doubt she’s with anyone we know. One of the mothers would have called me by now. Whether Alex wanted her to or not. And yes,’ she added, before her husband had done more than draw breath, ‘I’ll sound everyone out as discreetly as possible.’

Tom watched her go.

‘Fox, I have reports to check.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Wait outside. I’ll call for you if I need you.’

Lady Masterton looked surprised when Tom joined her.

‘Important papers,’ Tom said.

Taking a Country Life from a side table, he buried himself in the ads at the back. He could buy a two-bedroom mews house in Cheyne Walk, Chelsea for £98,000. The same sum would secure a small island in a Scottish loch with a shooting lodge ripe for conversion. If he didn’t like that, there was a cottage in Hampshire with a hundred yards of its own bank and fishing rights. He’d be fifteen miles from Caro’s parents if he bought that.