We left the Ryder's house. Fitzgerald received a call on his mobile. He looked grim when he ended the call.
"The newspapers have the story. The break-in, the murders, the foot-and-mouth outbreak. We didn't expect that last thing. They're hysterical. Screaming banner headlines in every national newspaper." He pointed to the newspapers in the back seat of his car. "Want to see them?"
"And waste more time. I can guess. No mention of the Russians?"
"Nothing."
"That's odd."
"They sent encrypted emails to the editors of the major newspapers at 9 a.m. this morning."
"Will the papers print it?"
"They'll print it. First, they — the editors — got together and contacted the Special Branch. The Assistant Commissioner got in touch with the Home Secretary, and I gather there was an emergency meeting. A Cabinet ordered not to print. The media refused. The Government remains to serve the nation. People have a right to know. They reminded the Government that if they put one little foot wrong in this matter, they'd be out on their ears. One message to Facebook, Instagram or Twitter will change everything."
"Fuck me, sideways."
"You asked me to look into Clarissa Briggs?"
"And?"
"Not a thing."
"So, why did the Russians think she killed the bird-watchers?"
Fitzgerald shrugged his shoulders.
"She saw something. They were trying to silence her."
"Why?"
"We need to ask her?"
"We have moved her to a private medical location, after what happened at the hospital."
"Where is Mia Malkova?"
"Disappeared."
"You need to find her."
"Why do you think she didn't kill you?"
"It's a mystery. Especially after they killed Dr Fawx. I thought I might be next. Letting me live makes no sense."
"What does make sense?"
"Mr Jones?"
"We can hold him for another twelve hours. We'll have to let him go.
"We need a reaction."
"What reaction?"
"As a starter," I began, "investigate every financial transaction and money transfer of everyone working at the complex. A squad of policemen will be sent to every house in Cape Ore. Search each house from top to bottom. Have the searchers list everything they find. It will worry the man we're chasing."
"We might as well throw the lot of them in Norwich prison. It's one way of taking our mole out of circulation."
"Hopeless, Sergeant. We are dealing with a whole organisation here. The SVR. They carry out operations for Russia abroad."
"We'll try stirring things up. Where will I find the men?"
"Pull them off the house-to-house questioning. It's a waste of time."
He nodded in agreement.
"Is this to do with Ukrainian wheat?"
"No. This started with the funeral of Justin Hoyte."
"I don't understand."
"His trawler sank by accident. The nets got snared by the submarine. Then two members of the submarine crew, posing as bird-watchers, end up dead. That's where it starts."
"Do we need to talk to Gavin Hoyte?"
"Not yet, I want you to release Jones."
"Why?"
"So, I can question him again."
"I'll do this, but don't hit him this time."
"I'll try not to, but I can't promise."
"Then I'll better come with you."
"No, because if it goes tits up, your career will be finished."
"Where shall I drop you?"
"Near our friendly estate agent's house."
No one responded when I pushed the button on the front door. I knocked. Still no answer.
I looked over my shoulder. Out to the street. Searching for windows that might overlook the front door. It was only the property opposite, might cause me concern. The house was without cars or lights. I eyed the homes on either side of me too. Someone was in next door. I could hear a TV. The window didn't show the door.
I took out my lock picks.
Checking over my shoulder again, I leaned into the door and started working on the lock. It was a simple cylinder design. It always amazed me how often the main doors on these types of houses were this basic.
I didn't know if it was just negligence, naivety or psychological thing. But two doors weren't twice as good as one. I popped the lock on the main door within a minute.
I checked the road one last time. And then I slipped inside the house. I pushed the door close after checking the street. Checking Jones did not return.
It was just after nine. The darkness was absolute.
I hoped it didn't mask someone's approach.
Starting with the main bedroom. I worked fast.
I wasn't sure what I wanted. Still wasn't sure I was wrong.
I went through the wardrobes and drawers. Found nothing. The doubts kicked in again. I searched the bathroom, then the living room, and then checked the street again. Nothing.
I returned to the living room. On the wall closest to me, a series of photo frames. A collage of shots of Jones. The woman I presumed was his wife.
I stepped up to it, studying the faces.
A powerful sense overwhelmed me.
I'd seen his wife somewhere.
But from where? An earlier assignment? The only possibility.
I searched the house again, trying to figure out why I couldn't shift the idea we'd crossed paths. I went around for the third time.
And then I stopped.
Something caught my attention in the spare room.
I didn't notice. It wasn't visible earlier. I backed away from the room.
Able to see further under the spare bed. There was something weird under there. In the corner by the rear legs.
A square of differently coloured carpet.
I went to the corner. Shifted the bed away from the wall. Got in behind it.
Two separate imprints on the carpet.
The legs marked the floor.
Someone moved the bed.
Not returning it to its right position.
I knelt.
The carpet in the rest of the house was a deep claret. This square was lighter. The same colour, but not entirely.
I picked up the square.
Underneath same underlay.
Under that were floorboards. Two of which were loose. I pulled one up and set it against the wall, and then the one next to it. It was difficult to figure out what was hidden. I saw the edges of a metal lockbox.
I lifted it out.
Easy to get into with the picks. I felt the latch turn and raised the lid.
It wasn't what I'd been expecting.
There must have been ten different passports in the box. The photograph of the same woman. But in different guises.
Mia Malkova.
Mr Jones' wife was Mia Malkova.
A Russian assassin. Beneath the passports, the PSS handgun. Used by Special Operations Forces and designed for attack and self-defence at short ranges when noiseless and flameless fire is vital. The 7.62x42mm SP-4 round, which conceals exhaust gases in the casings. Shooting is noiseless. Absence of a silencer makes the pistol compact, convenient for covert jobs and always keeps it ready for use.
I shivered at the thought.
I took the passports. Pocketed them both. Just as I'd put everything back and descended the stairs, I heard a vehicle pulling up.
Jones was outside.
And he was already locking his car.