Simon Kernick - A Good day to die

And what they told me was as unnerving as it was accurate.

That a fall was definitely coming.

I was woken by the alarm at seven the next morning after a good night's sleep, which would have benefited from being an hour or two longer. But who was I to complain? Emma's bed was a lot more comfortable than the one in my hotel room, and there was the added bonus of having her in it. I lay where I was, eyes half closed, while she had a shower, but when she came back I could see that she wanted me gone.

'I've got to be in the office for nine,' she said, chucking me my clothes, 'but I'll be on the mobile. I'm not trying to hurry you or anything, but you understand…'

I told her I did, and heaved myself out of bed. 'I'll leave you in peace, and I'll check in later when I've got something. OK?'

She smiled but it looked forced. I felt like telling her not to worry; that it wasn't her fault. I don't suppose it was easy for someone like Emma — a nice, well-brought-up girl with a decent job — to come to terms with the fact that she'd slept with a killer. Especially one who was on the run, and currently in her house. She gave me the number of Ann's psychotherapist, Dr Cheney, and I wrote it down, trying not to stare as she pulled on her skirt.

At the front door, there was one of those pauses where neither party's quite sure what to do or what to say. I leant forward and kissed her gently on the cheek, and she turned her face and planted one on mine. It felt good enough.

'See you later,' I said, and hurried out the door without looking back, feeling like a kid who'd stayed out late without telling his parents. Dr Madeline Cheney was not the easiest woman to get hold of. I called her just after nine o'clock from the Italian cafe near my hotel and got her secretary. Dr Cheney was busy, I was told in very professional, patient-friendly tones. If I wanted to make an appointment, I could go through her, the secretary.

I decided to come clean (or as clean as I was going to get in this investigation) and told her that I was a private detective, and that my enquiry related to one of Dr Cheney's former patients, Ann Taylor, now deceased. It was urgent, I explained, that I speak with Dr Cheney as soon as possible. The secretary sounded suitably excited and said she'd pass the message on. I thanked her, left my mobile number and rang off.

As I'd hoped, the secretary had taken my request seriously, and her boss returned the call half an hour later, while I was back in the hotel room.

'Good morning, this is Dr Madeline Cheney,' she said guardedly. Her accent was middle class, well-educated, and at a guess belonged to a woman in her early to mid forties. 'You called me earlier. My secretary said it was urgent.'

I introduced myself as Mick Kane and confirmed that it was urgent. 'It concerns Ann Taylor.'

There was a pause before she spoke again. 'Ann? It seems she's far more popular in death than she ever was in life. I've already had the coroner's office on to me this week. What's your connection with the case, Mr Kane?'

I told her the same story I'd originally told Emma: that I was representing Asif Malik's uncle, and that Ann's name had come up during the course of my investigation. She didn't seem surprised by the mention of Malik, so I assumed she already knew about his part in the proceedings.

'I'm very busy today,' she said.

'Is there no way you can fit me in? I wouldn't ask if it wasn't important.'

'Why is it so important? Has something happened?'

'I'm not sure,' I answered, hoping that by being enigmatic I could secure her interest. 'I can't really talk about it over the phone.'

She thought about it for a moment, then announced that she could see me for half an hour that afternoon at three o'clock. 'But I'd like to be sure that you are who you say you are.'

I'd been half expecting suspicion, so I told her that I'd been working with Emma Neilson, the journalist who'd alerted people to the fact that Ann's death might not have been accidental.

'I tend to agree with her theory,' I added, and gave her Emma's number. 'You could also phone Mohammed Mela, my client, although he can be difficult to get hold of.' I gave her a number off the top of my head, and hoped she'd try Emma rather than him.

Dr Cheney fired off a rapid set of directions to her practice in the village of Aldermaston, a ninety-minute drive away in Berkshire, and told me she'd see me at three. We both hung up.

Now I needed transport. A quick look at the road map in a nearby bookshop showed me that Aldermaston was a fair way off the beaten track. I was going to have to hire a car.

When you live under a false identity, you have to be fully equipped. You don't just need a passport in your new name, you need a driving licence, a birth certificate and even genuine credit cards. It's a hassle, but it pays to be thorough, and I was. Much of my documentation had originated in the UK before I left (I think I always knew that at some point my double life would unravel), but the gaps had been filled using expert forgers in the Philippines. So when I went into the Hertz rental office in Marble Arch later that morning, I knew there'd be no problem.

And there wasn't. Fifteen minutes later, I was crawling through traffic in a silver Ford Orion in the direction of the M25, and hoping that this wasn't going to turn out to be a wild goose chase.

Aldermaston was one of those quintessential English villages that you see in all the guidebooks. Situated on the edge of the Berkshire downs, and surrounded by green fields and pretty copses of oak and beech trees, it was little more than a collection of houses and converted barns, with the odd thatched roof thrown in, nestling on either side of a road that somehow seemed more suited to a horse and cart than the steady procession of cars that passed up and down it. There was a top-secret establishment that allegedly contained many of the country's nuclear weapons somewhere round here but I didn't see any evidence of it on the way in, and even on a grey, sullen day like this one, the village stood out like a tranquil oasis after the intensity of London.

I drove down what passed for the high street: a narrow road with terraced red-brick buildings on either side, some of which clearly dated back hundreds of years, that contained a handful of antiques shops and estate agents. There was an Elizabethan-style pub on the corner, where the road forked at a near right-angle as it came to a mini-roundabout. A notice board outside advertised high-quality food. I was early so I stopped there for a pint and a steak and kidney pie, which was indeed high-quality but also high-priced. While I was there, I asked the barman — who had a very pink face and a drinker's nose — for directions to the Cheney practice. He obviously knew her business, because he gave me them but conspicuously avoided me after that. I don't think he liked the thought of having the mentally ill dining on his high-quality food. Dr Cheney's practice was in a large, modern house that I assumed was a combination of home and office, situated a few hundred yards down the right-hand fork in the road. It wasn't quite an eyesore, but you could argue it came close, with a brand new tarmac driveway out the front that would have amply parked a dozen cars. Today, however, there were only two: a Range Rover and a Fiat Punto. I pulled up alongside the Range Rover and got out. It was ten to three.

There were two doors at the front of the house. A sign on the main one asked all callers to the practice to use the other, so I rang on the buzzer and was let in without preamble. I found myself in a small wood-panelled foyer that bore more than a passing resemblance to the inside of a Scandinavian sauna. An attractive young receptionist sat at a desk in front of me, wearing a white coat and a welcoming smile that showed a lot of teeth.