your calendar and take her out of the more sensitive events.’
May prided himself on his understanding of women, but he felt uncomfortable knowing that if he failed to get to the cause of Sabira Kasavian’s problem, her husband would have good reason to come down hard on the unit. Her behaviour could derail his career and wrecka European-wide initiative. The Americans would be watching, and would step in fast.
He swung into the office he shared with Bryant. ‘Get your hat and scarf on, Arthur,’ May instructed. ‘Kasavian’s granted us clearance. Let’s catch his wife by surprise and find out what she’s up to.’
‘They have a house in Henley, but his London apartment is in Smith Square,’ said May, opening the badly rusted door of Victor, Bryant’s leprous yellow Mini. ‘I’ll drive.’
‘You’ll need this,’ said Bryant, handing him an apostle spoon.
‘What am I supposed to do with it?’
‘Stick it down the side of the gear stick. It seems to hold it in place.’
May gave up trying to move the seat back, and set off into the traffic, heading towards the river. There was something wrong with Victor’s gears. ‘I’m surprised this thing passed its MOT,’ he said as the car leapfrogged across the Euston Road.
‘It passed under certain conditions,’ replied Bryant vaguely. ‘I think one of them was that I must never drive it anywhere.’
‘Then it’s an illegal vehicle.’
‘No – I’m not driving, am I?’
Smith Square, just south of the Palace of Westminster, was dominated by the immense white frontage of St John’s, a baroque church now used as a concert hall. Surrounding it were the offices of the Department for Environment, Food and Rural Affairs, the Local Government Association and the headquarters of the European Parliament. Sandwiched between these grandly appointed workspaces were a number of elegant flats.
‘I wouldn’t want to live here,’ sniffed Bryant, pulling his scarf tighter as he gazed up at the grand buildings.
‘Why not?’ asked May.
‘The noise.’
‘There isn’t any.’
‘Not now, but whenever there’s a government crisis the BBC sends its outside-broadcast vans over here, and they’re so full of electronic equipment that the technicians have to leave their air-conditioning units running all night, and they keep everyone awake.’
‘You’re a mine of useless information, do you know that? Come on.’ May trotted up the stairs and rang the doorbell.
A porter admitted them into a hallway chequered with black and white diamond tiles. ‘Janice texted me to say that she’d cleared the way, but leave the talking to me for once, OK?’ May instructed.
The second-floor front door opened to reveal a slender, delicate-boned young woman with large, expressive eyes, her blonde hair knotted in a graceful chignon. She was wearing a black and silver T-shirt that read ‘Wild Girl’, very tight jeans and high heels. For a moment, Bryant assumed it was the maid. Then he remembered the photograph.
She studied the detectives in puzzlement. ‘I’m sorry, I was expecting you to be more, well, Scotland Yard, you know? At home we used to have an old English television programme with a detective, always doing crossword puzzles and breaking secret codes.’
‘Ah, you were expecting someone in a gabardine mackintosh with a pencil moustache and a pipe,’ said Bryant. ‘Possibly wearing a bowler hat. Actually, I’m very good at breaking codes and I do have a pipe.’
‘No,’ said Sabira, ‘I just meant he was younger.’ Her blue eyes widened and her hand rose to her mouth. To their surprise, she started giggling. ‘Oh God, I’ve done it again,’ she said, horrified and amused in equal measure. ‘Lately I seem to have offended every English person I’vespoken to.’ She ushered them into a narrow painting-filled hall that led to the drawing room.
‘It’s quite all right,’ said Bryant, revealing a crescent of bleached false teeth. ‘I don’t
May prided himself on his understanding of women, but he felt uncomfortable knowing that if he failed to get to the cause of Sabira Kasavian’s problem, her husband would have good reason to come down hard on the unit. Her behaviour could derail his career and wrecka European-wide initiative. The Americans would be watching, and would step in fast.
He swung into the office he shared with Bryant. ‘Get your hat and scarf on, Arthur,’ May instructed. ‘Kasavian’s granted us clearance. Let’s catch his wife by surprise and find out what she’s up to.’
‘They have a house in Henley, but his London apartment is in Smith Square,’ said May, opening the badly rusted door of Victor, Bryant’s leprous yellow Mini. ‘I’ll drive.’
‘You’ll need this,’ said Bryant, handing him an apostle spoon.
‘What am I supposed to do with it?’
‘Stick it down the side of the gear stick. It seems to hold it in place.’
May gave up trying to move the seat back, and set off into the traffic, heading towards the river. There was something wrong with Victor’s gears. ‘I’m surprised this thing passed its MOT,’ he said as the car leapfrogged across the Euston Road.
‘It passed under certain conditions,’ replied Bryant vaguely. ‘I think one of them was that I must never drive it anywhere.’
‘Then it’s an illegal vehicle.’
‘No – I’m not driving, am I?’
Smith Square, just south of the Palace of Westminster, was dominated by the immense white frontage of St John’s, a baroque church now used as a concert hall. Surrounding it were the offices of the Department for Environment, Food and Rural Affairs, the Local Government Association and the headquarters of the European Parliament. Sandwiched between these grandly appointed workspaces were a number of elegant flats.
‘I wouldn’t want to live here,’ sniffed Bryant, pulling his scarf tighter as he gazed up at the grand buildings.
‘Why not?’ asked May.
‘The noise.’
‘There isn’t any.’
‘Not now, but whenever there’s a government crisis the BBC sends its outside-broadcast vans over here, and they’re so full of electronic equipment that the technicians have to leave their air-conditioning units running all night, and they keep everyone awake.’
‘You’re a mine of useless information, do you know that? Come on.’ May trotted up the stairs and rang the doorbell.
A porter admitted them into a hallway chequered with black and white diamond tiles. ‘Janice texted me to say that she’d cleared the way, but leave the talking to me for once, OK?’ May instructed.
The second-floor front door opened to reveal a slender, delicate-boned young woman with large, expressive eyes, her blonde hair knotted in a graceful chignon. She was wearing a black and silver T-shirt that read ‘Wild Girl’, very tight jeans and high heels. For a moment, Bryant assumed it was the maid. Then he remembered the photograph.
She studied the detectives in puzzlement. ‘I’m sorry, I was expecting you to be more, well, Scotland Yard, you know? At home we used to have an old English television programme with a detective, always doing crossword puzzles and breaking secret codes.’
‘Ah, you were expecting someone in a gabardine mackintosh with a pencil moustache and a pipe,’ said Bryant. ‘Possibly wearing a bowler hat. Actually, I’m very good at breaking codes and I do have a pipe.’
‘No,’ said Sabira, ‘I just meant he was younger.’ Her blue eyes widened and her hand rose to her mouth. To their surprise, she started giggling. ‘Oh God, I’ve done it again,’ she said, horrified and amused in equal measure. ‘Lately I seem to have offended every English person I’vespoken to.’ She ushered them into a narrow painting-filled hall that led to the drawing room.
‘It’s quite all right,’ said Bryant, revealing a crescent of bleached false teeth. ‘I don’t
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