Ian Rankin - Westwind

Hepton rested against the edge of the table. ‘Has he now? And you’d like me to talk to him?’

‘Well, you might understand him better than we amateurs could.’

‘Okay, Mr Parfit. Where is he staying?’

‘A hotel on Park Lane, I believe. The Achilles. Our intelligence sources have just come up with it. He booked in yesterday.’

‘I’ll go there this evening.’

‘Good man. Take care, won’t you? If Harry’s supposed to have—’

‘Yes, I know.’

‘Who’s there in the room with you? I mean, besides Miss Watson. I’ve already spoken with her. Or rather, I’ve already had her screaming at me that you were being murdered before her eyes.’

Hepton’s smile returned. Yes, ten minutes ago, Villiers had held a knife to his throat. Yet now he could smile about it, could brush it aside and get on with whatever action was necessary. He felt changed inside, in some profound way. He felt stronger.

‘Sanders is here.’

‘Sanders?’ Parfit recognised the name. ‘He’s a good man. Take him with you when you go to see Devereux. Any sign of Villiers?’

‘I think he’s escaped.’

‘Hmm. Well, he can’t get far. Put Sanders on, would you?’

‘Sure.’ Hepton held the receiver out. ‘Parfit wants a word,’ he said.

Sanders looked at the telephone as though it might be about to bite him. Hepton didn’t know who or what Parfit was, but he knew he was important enough for the mere mention of his name to scare Sanders half to death. He jabbed the receiver towards the young man, who licked his lips and stepped forward to take it from him. Gingerly, the way someone might handle a snake for the very first time.

‘Hello?’ Sanders said.

Hepton went over to Jilly and quietly filled her in on the details of his conversation with both Dreyfuss and Parfit. She listened sporadically, still shocked from the earlier struggle.

‘I should have clouted him,’ she said, replaying the moment over and over again in her head. ‘I should have helped you, Martin. But instead I just stood there, yelling into the bloody telephone. Asking someone in America to help. Isn’t that crazy?’ And she gave a tiny, nervous laugh.

He hugged her, and felt her arms pull him inwards, and the feel of her brought back such memories...

‘Er...?’ The voice was Sanders’. ‘Miss Watson?’ She relaxed her hold on Hepton. ‘Major Dreyfuss would like a word.’

Hepton couldn’t help but feel a twinge of jealousy at Jilly’s reaction. She let go of him, a schoolgirl grin appearing on her face, and almost skipped to the telephone.

‘Mickey? Hello there. How are you? Did you get my flowers? You did! I tried telephoning the hospital but I could never get through.’

Sanders seemed embarrassed as he approached Hepton, his eyes everywhere but on Hepton’s own. His voice when he spoke was muted.

‘Look, about Mr Villiers...’

‘Villiers is a maniac,’ hissed Hepton. ‘You people have known that all along, but he was useful to you so you conveniently ignored the fact. What’s more, he’s working with another bloody maniac called Harry.’

‘But I don’t understand. What has he done?’

Hepton considered this. There was no way of knowing, not without apprehending Villiers himself, or perhaps talking to the American, Devereux. He shrugged.

‘What was Parfit saying?’

‘You’re to be given twenty-four-hour protection. Meantime, we’ll put out a full-scale search for Mr Villiers. Well, not exactly we , since it’ll have to be handled by the other lot.’

‘The other lot?’

‘You’d probably call them MI5.’

‘What about Parfit?’

‘He’s MI6.’ Sanders was perking up now. ‘That’s who I work for.’

‘And presumably who Villiers works for too?’

Sanders stared at him. ‘Yes, well...’

Hepton heard Jilly laugh, and glanced across to where she was sitting, perched on the edge of the desk, looking relaxed and with the telephone cord playfully twisted around one finger. Funny how people could change from moment to moment... She was ending her conversation. She dropped the receiver back into its cradle and hugged herself, looking radiant.

‘He sounds fine,’ she said.

‘Yes,’ Hepton agreed.

‘I just wish...’ But she didn’t finish the sentence. Hepton was looking sad, and right now she felt like cheering up the whole world. She came to him and hugged him to her. Then pulled away to examine his face. ‘We’re going to be all right too, aren’t we, Martin?’

‘Of course we are,’ he said, sounding more confident than he felt. He reached into his pocket and brought out the kitchen knife. ‘As long as we’ve got this,’ he said. Jilly recognised it.

‘That’s from my kitchen!’ she cried. Then she laughed and hugged him again. ‘What were you going to do with it? It’s as blunt as my editor’s sense of humour.’

‘I don’t know,’ Hepton said. He was still studying the knife, trying to answer her question. ‘I think I was going to kill Villiers with it.’

‘Ugh!’ said Jilly, giving a little shiver. ‘What happened to him anyway?’

‘He can’t be found in the building,’ Sanders explained, his voice taking on a tone of apology. ‘We’re still looking.’

‘But how hard?’ asked Hepton. ‘How hard are you looking? Who else is in on this thing besides Villiers and Harry? It seems to stretch halfway around the world as it is!’

Sanders’ voice became a monotone. ‘You can trust me,’ he said. ‘Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be back in a few minutes. Would you like anything? More tea? Something stronger?’

‘I could murder a gin,’ said Jilly.

Hepton realised that his own throat was dry. He nodded.

‘Two G and Ts then,’ said Sanders, opening the door. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

True to his word, two dusty glasses were delivered by a bemused security man a few minutes later. Hepton sank his in two gulps, then sucked on the tiny slice of lemon. Jilly savoured hers, reclining in Villiers’ chair, her feet on the desk.

‘Cheers,’ she said.

‘And don’t we deserve it,’ observed Hepton.

The door opened again and Sanders re-entered, looking pleased with himself.

‘Right,’ he said. ‘It’s about that knife of yours.’

‘The Sabatier?’ Jilly’s face was quizzical.

‘That’s right,’ said Sanders. He was unbuttoning his jacket. ‘Anyway, you won’t be needing it now.’ He tugged the left side of his jacket open. Strapped beneath his shoulder was a brown leather holster, from the top of which peeped the butt of a small, fat handgun. ‘ This ,’ he said, ‘is what we need. Especially when dealing with Harry. Now, shall we go?’

On the way to the Park Lane Achilles Hotel, Sanders told them about Harry.

‘It was four or five years ago. I’d just joined the department...’

What department? Hepton was tempted to ask.

‘I remember meeting Mr Parfit for the first time. He struck the fear of God into me.’

Sanders seemed excited. Hepton decided that the secret agent hadn’t seen much action in his musty set of offices. He didn’t appear to be over-experienced either, driving a little too fast, potentially attracting attention. And now that he had been assigned to protect Hepton and Jilly, he was much less reticent, much more talkative, much more like a human being.

Hepton wondered why it was, then, that he liked him less this way.

‘Mr Parfit had spent months on the case. There was going to be an assassination attempt.’ He turned to them. ‘I won’t say on whom. But the identity of the assassin was what we couldn’t uncover. We were looking for a regular, you see, a Carlos the Jackal or whatever. But it turned out to be a woman, a young and good-looking one at that.’