‘So when would all this happen?’
‘We don’t know the date of the meeting, but we do know that Yilmaz has ordered theMedusato be made ready to leave Piraeus, the port of Athens, in ten days’ time.’
Oxana considers. ‘This nanny thing. Am I going to need some sort of training, or do I just improvise?’
‘If you agree to the job, you’ll do a week-long intensive course at Ruffley Hall, outside Pangbourne, which is the training school for Ruffley Royal Nannies. I’m not an expert in these things, but I believe they’re the best. They’re certainly the most expensive. The regular course lasts months, possibly even years, and the school insists that if they are to issue you with their certificate – and it’s costing us a substantial amount to get them to agree to that – you’ll have to attend classes in all the different aspects of a nanny’s duties, including baby care.’
‘I can’t stand babies. They’re so selfish.’
‘I rather agree,’ Johnny says. ‘Nevertheless, you will simulate affection for them.’ He raises an eyebrow. ‘Do you think you can manage that?’
She gives him the faintest of nods.
‘You need that certificate, Oxana. With it, you’re a Ruffley Royal nanny, even though you’re obviously not English. Without it, you’re?—’
‘Just some random Russian?’
‘Basically, yes. And your employers will undoubtedly ask to see it, even though you will be concentrating on the care and guardianship of older girls.’
‘Nowthatsounds like my dream job.’
Johnny regards her expressionlessly.
‘Joking,’ Oxana murmurs.
‘Good, because you’re leaving for Pangbourne this afternoon.’
4
Eve gazes from the window, wide-eyed and unseeing, as urban sprawl gives way to suburbs, farms and fields. She’s barely aware of where she’s going, or why. As the train dawdles between a succession of stations – Surbiton, Esher, Woking – she works her way through the shortbread fingers, chewing mechanically and folding the cellophane wrappers into neat rectangles which she pushes into her takeaway coffee cup.
As the train leaves Salisbury, the countryside softens. Rolling chalk hills, ancient woodlands, and breezy expanses of grass. Taking out her phone, Eve removes the SIM card and deletes all her personal data. Then she puts the phone in the coffee cup with the biscuit wrappers and buries the whole thing in a litter bin. It’ll be found, but not before the train reaches Exeter.
The next stop is Cranborne. Eve is one of three people to step off the train. She’s still wearing sunglasses, but she’s exchanged the raincoat for a grey hoodie. With the hood up, and her shoulders hunched like a disconsolate student, she shuffles past the single CCTV camera and out of the station into the car park. She’s still got the cabin case, but it’s zipped inside a large plastic laundry bag now. She doesn’t expect these counter-surveillancemeasures to keep the world off her back forever. They’re more reflex actions than anything else. Standard intelligence officer ‘dry-cleaning’ measures. But if anyone were to come looking, it would take them a little time to find her.
Cranborne station looks much like any small regional station that has escaped modernisation. Two short platforms, an ironwork bridge, and a red-brick building housing the ticket office. Eve looks around her for a moment, takes her case from the laundry bag, and pulls it out into the car park, where a taxi driver is leaning against a dusty Toyota Prius, smoking. Seeing her, he raises an eyebrow, but she shakes her head.
It’s a ten-minute walk into town. At least that’s how Eve remembers it, but it actually takes half that time. The high street’s not much changed. The same red brick and yellowish stone houses. The same shops selling outdoor clothing, children’s books and curios. The half-timbered White Hart pub, and the dingier Four and Twenty Blackbirds. The war memorial with its sun-faded rosette of plastic poppies. Some things are new, though. The vape shops. The tattooist. The vegan café, which seems as good a place as any to stop.
She takes a seat inside. There’s a young man behind the counter, a guy of about sixteen in aTantric Sex DiscoT-shirt, crouched over a phone, having what looks like an urgent conversation. Finally he ambles over. ‘Help you?’
She’s about to order a cheese and tomato toastie when she sees his fingernails, which are grubby, and have been gnawed to the quick. The sight kills her appetite stone dead, and she orders a cup of tea. When the guy has retreated behind the counter, she walks to the pinboard on the wall. There are printed fliers for local bands, advertisements for pottery courses and bouncy castle-hire, and hand-written Post-it notes offering bed and breakfast. ‘Would you recommend any of these?’ she asks him when he shuffles back with her tea.
‘Lookin’ for somewhere to stay?’ He eyes the Post-it notes as if he’s never seen them before.
‘Yeah.’
‘How long’re you here?’
‘Not sure.’
He worries at his thumbnail with his teeth. ‘My mum’s got a room.’
‘Is it free?’
‘Nah, you’d have to pay.’
‘I mean, is it available?’