Ian Rankin - Westwind

Hepton could feel Jilly bristling at this.

‘The beautiful Harriet, in other words,’ Sanders continued, unaware of Jilly’s glowering face. ‘She was the assassin.’

‘So what happened?’

‘Oh, Parfit tracked her down, or at least his team did. She did a runner and was never heard from again. Until now.’

‘What about Villiers?’ Hepton asked, his voice as neutral as an idling engine. Not that the Cavalier’s engine was idling. Sanders pulled past some evening traffic and cut into the stream again just ahead of a purring Jaguar.

‘I’ve worked with Mr Villiers for two years. When I started with him, I was told he was a bit... well, that he might be prone to... outbursts.’

‘What did his job entail?’

‘Nothing very much. He just waited. When advice was needed on one of his specialities, he’d be called for.’

‘That must have been tedious.’

Sanders nodded. ‘He hated it. Desk-bound after years of combat training. God knows, I’d hate it too in his position. They say he was a great soldier.’

‘You mean good at killing people?’ Jilly asked. Sanders reddened, but didn’t answer.

‘Did you ever suspect he might be involved in something?’ Hepton asked him. ‘Something you weren’t allowed to know about?’

Sanders shook his head. ‘Mr Parfit asked me a similar question on the telephone back there. I’ll tell you what I told him: I didn’t suspect anything. I’m still not sure that I do... I mean, it could all be some ghastly mistake, couldn’t it?’

‘No,’ said Hepton flatly. ‘No mistake.’

The car had reached the top of the Mall. Buckingham Palace lay directly in front of them. Hepton watched intently as a slow-moving line of army trucks approached from the other direction and drove past, heading in the direction of Trafalgar Square.

‘There’s a lot of troop movement at the moment,’ said Sanders, attempting a change of subject. ‘To do with the pull-out, I suppose. I’m against it myself. The pull-out, I mean. I think most people are.’

‘Not me,’ said Jilly. ‘I’m glad they’re going.’

Sanders stared at her in his rear-view mirror but kept his thoughts on her politics to himself.

‘What about Harry?’ asked Jilly. ‘What else do you know about her?’

‘We don’t know much,’ Sanders admitted. ‘But there was plenty of speculation at the time. Fifteen years ago, a brigadier general’s unruly daughter went missing in Germany. She left a note saying she was running away. She was fifteen, rebellious. A lot of anarchist literature was found in her bedroom.’

‘And her name was Harriet?’ Jilly suggested.

‘No,’ said Sanders. ‘Her name wasn’t Harriet. But her mother’s name had been. Her mother was dead. The story went that the general used to get roaring drunk and hit his wife, made her life hell. She committed suicide when the daughter was eight or nine.’

‘Well, well,’ said Hepton, very quietly, filing this information away.

Hyde Park Corner came next, and then they were sweeping into Park Lane itself. Sanders entered the right-hand-turning lane and cut across the oncoming traffic, bringing the car to a stop outside a flat-fronted hotel of marble and smoked glass, which seemed very similar to the other hotels clustered around it. Three steps led to a line of six glass doors, behind which lay tantalising glances of a marble reception hall lit by sparkling chandeliers. In front of the steps stood a liveried doorman, and above him was a large canopy proclaiming the single word Achilles .

Sanders got out of the car and locked his door. When Hepton closed his own door, he watched the button on the inside of the window slide neatly into place of its own accord.

‘A wonderful thing, central locking,’ he mused.

Jilly was staring at the hotel’s frontage. ‘The things I’d do for a long, hot bath,’ she said.

The doorman was coming towards them. ‘You can’t leave it there, sir,’ he called, gesturing towards the Cavalier.

Sanders reached into his inside pocket and brought out a wallet, which he flipped open.

‘A security matter,’ he said. ‘We shouldn’t be too long.’

The doorman studied the ID carefully. ‘Well,’ he said at last, ‘I suppose that’ll be all right then. Want the manager, do you?’

‘That’s quite all right.’ Sanders beamed back at him. ‘We’ll manage.’ He moved past the doorman and up the steps.

‘I thought he was supposed to be our bodyguard?’ Jilly whispered as they followed, leaving the bemused doorman staring at their backs.

‘He is.’

‘Well he’s not doing a very good job then, is he?’

‘He’s a bit too keen on playing the spy,’ Hepton agreed. ‘We can’t afford to relax, Jilly. I think we’re going to have to cover our own backs, rather than depending on Mr Sanders to do it for us.’

‘Well, as long as we’ve got the kitchen knife, we should be safe,’ said Jilly.

They entered the hotel lobby. The doorman was looking at the car now, checking colour, make and registration. Then he walked briskly up the steps and pushed open the doors. The car’s occupants were at the reception desk, their backs turned to him. He went to a bank of public telephones along the wall nearest the door, picked up a receiver, inserted a ten-pence piece and dialled seven digits. He had to wait seconds only for a response.

‘Achilles,’ he said, identifying himself. ‘I need to speak to Mr Vitalis.’

‘Mr Devereux, please,’ Sanders said to the woman behind the reception desk. She was wearing an identity badge and a well-worn smile.

‘Room two-two-seven,’ she said. ‘Can I call him for you?’

‘No thanks. That’s floor two, room twenty-seven?’ Sanders checked. The woman nodded, not about to waste a spoken answer. ‘Thank you,’ he said, turning from her. He stood for a moment, seeming to be deciding between the lift and the stairs. ‘Stairs,’ he said finally.

‘You take the stairs,’ Jilly objected. ‘I’ll take the lift. It’s been a long day.’

Sanders stared at her. ‘A lift is a trap, remember that. Once you’re inside, there’s no way out.’ He started walking towards the pink-carpeted staircase. ‘I’ll see you up there,’ he called.

Jilly looked to Hepton for a decision. Hepton shrugged his shoulders. Wearily they began to follow Sanders. He was right, though, that was the annoying part. He had obviously had some training in this sort of thing, while they were amateurs.

They climbed, counting the seventy-two steps to the second floor. The corridor was vacant, little noise coming from the rooms themselves. This was a hotel for the wealthy — businessmen as well as holidaymakers. And the wealthy had gone out to play in the London evening. Two things struck Hepton at the same time. The first was that Devereux might not be in; the second was that someone of his standing shouldn’t be able to afford the Achilles. Hepton had seen the three-figure room charges displayed beside the desk.

They passed an ice machine, a drinks dispenser and an electrically operated shoeshine, then stopped outside a door.

Room 227. Sanders paused, listened, then knocked. There was silence. He knocked again. Nothing. He rested his hand on the door handle and checked that the corridor was still empty. As he was about to turn the handle, the door was opened from within. A man in shirt and trousers stood there, hair unkempt, the shirt rumpled, socks but no shoes on his feet. He had obviously been awakened from a nap, and was trying to stifle a yawn. When he saw that the three figures outside his door were not members of the hotel staff, he widened his eyes a little, trying to rouse himself.

‘Yeah?’ he said.