Page 16 of We Chase Shadows

Amy should be safe, shouldn’t she? In a beautiful villa on an Italian hillside? I mean, sure, one of Vern’s bodyguards has just been assassinated by, at best current guess, either a ruthless business rival or an ex-wife. But Amy’s view is that whoever is threatening Vern has already got his message across in fairly forceful terms, so what good would killing another bodyguard do? You can’t pull off the same trick twice. You sort of have to trust Amy with that type of thing, she’s quite insightful where imminent and brutal danger is concerned.

So here Steve is, at another private airport in another European city. It occurs to him, as he adjusts himself from the flight, that he doesn’t actually know where they are. It’s not England, he knows that, because he can’t see a Costa Coffee.

‘Where are we?’ he asks Rosie, as they step down on to the tarmac.

‘Barcelona,’ says Rosie.

‘Barcelona, Spain?’ Steve asks.

Rosie turns and lowers her sunglasses. ‘No, Barcelona, Norway. It’s lucky you’re cute, Stevie.’

‘How long are we staying for? If it’s more than three days, I’ll need socks.’

‘You only brought three pairs of socks?’ Rosie asks.

‘No, I only brought one pair of socks,’ says Steve.

People change their socks far more often than they need to, that’s Steve’s view. Your socks are inside your shoes half the time, so they’re not even getting dirty? It really makes you think. Steve’s mystery headache starts throbbing away again.

‘We won’t be long,’ says Rosie. ‘My contact is driving here to meet us.’

Steve looks towards the terminal building. A row of cars is parked on the apron of the runway. The sun glints off the tinted windscreens of Range Rovers, Mercedes and Jags. Every colour of the rainbow, so long as that rainbow is entirely black.

‘Who’s your contact?’

‘Ernesto Manuelo Santiago de Sousa de Cuéllar,’ says Rosie. ‘Assistant Detective Inspector, Spanish Interpol.’

‘He has a long name,’ says Steve.

‘Probably the finest lover in Western Europe,’ says Rosie.

‘Okay,’ says Steve.

‘But also a brilliant scholar,’ says Rosie. ‘Did you really not bring sunglasses again?’

‘Screwing your eyes up is much cheaper,’ says Steve. ‘And less showy.’

‘Ernesto also played football for Barcelona in his teens.’

‘Oh, did he?’

‘Before a knee injury forced him to join the Special Forces,’ says Rosie. ‘Then he took three years out to study Criminal Psychology at Oxford. You’ll love him.’

‘I doubt that very much,’ says Steve.

‘You will,’ says Rosie.

‘I won’t,’ says Steve. You can just bet that Ernesto Manuelo Santiago de Sousa de Cuéllar will be wearing sunglasses. Expensive ones too. He will be exactly the sort of man that women love and men hate. There’s a farmer in Clay Hill, a few miles from Axley. Brett, he’s called, floppy blond hair, red trousers, GPS in his tractor, the full works. The women go silly over him. Tony Taylor once stood next to him at the urinal in The Brass Monkey and came back white as a sheet, couldn’t speak for the rest of the evening. When men like this come along, then, as another man, you just have to wait them out. They’ll have a fatal flaw somewhere. As it happened, Brett decided he’d have a crack at The Brass Monkey quiz night one Wednesday and word from his team was he didn’t even know the capital of Malawi.

Oh, Brett, with your Hugh Grant looks and your fifty-grand tractor, who goes to a half-decent pub quiz if they don’t even know the capital of Malawi? Absolutely laughable.

Steve is wondering which of the sleek limousines this no doubt tall, handsome prick will be stepping out of when the noise of a backfiring engine causes him and Rosie to start.

From around the side of the terminal building comes a two-tone blue-and-white SEAT Ibiza, front bumper grazing the tarmac and smoke billowing from the exhaust. It continues, as fast as its little engine will carry it, then skids to a halt in front of them.

A small man jumps from the driver’s seat. Bright eyes, huge smile, dishevelled moustache and off-white T-shirt bearing the legend MAMA O’ROURKE’S SEAFOOD PARTY HOUSE 1968. He doesn’t remind Steve a great deal of Brett from Clay Hill. In fact, if anything, he reminds Steve of Tony Taylor. One thing is for sure: this cannot be Ernesto, soldier, scholar, footballer and lover. Perhaps a driver?

Rosie’s eyes light up. ‘Ernesto!’