At that the third man’s head snapped up. His gaze swivelled between Allardice and O’Neill as if trying to work out which of them had sold him out fastest.

“Look,” he began, trying in vain to catch the eye of any Spanish officer who might possess half a dozen words of English. “I don’t know what’s going on here, but I’ve just retired from a very high-ranking job with the British police, and I’m merely visiting two old friends . . .”

But then the lead Spanish officer finally understood what Dempsey had been trying explain, mostly via the medium of mime.

“Ah, si!” the man cried, a huge grin appearing from beneath his generous moustache. He pointed at Vince O’Neill and said, “Clandestino, eh?” and then rattled off orders to his men.

They broke into wide answering smiles. The one standing nearest to O’Neill quickly undid the cuffs, offered him an apologetic shrug.

Kelly watched the realisation grow in the third man’s eyes, that this was no random event but more of a carefully orchestrated operation. That his reputation, his pension and his marriage were about to go to hell and all his dirty little secrets were going to be spread across the tabloids like intestines across a butcher’s slab.

After a few moments she turned away without speaking. There was nothing she wished to say to the man who had engineered her ruin and now would be the instrument of her redemption.

O’Neill nodded his thanks to the Spanish cop, then jerked his head to Dempsey. “Nice work, Ian,” he said. “Your collar, I think.”

Kelly thought Dempsey flushed with pride, but it could have been the sunburn. He stepped forward.

“Ex-Chief Superintendent John Quinlan,” he said in a calm and steady voice. “I am arresting you for conspiracy to pervert the course of justice . . .”

161

Thank God it’s nearly over.

Sitting in the front pew of the ancient church, the words ran through Matthew Lytton’s head.

The vicar was into his Benediction. Vee had been an occasional churchgoer—more for its social implications than out of any true belief—so at least the man was able to speak from slight personal acquaintance.

Then there was only one more hymn to go before Lytton could get out of this suffocating place and this suffocating suit. And, above all, away from these utterly suffocating people.

The vicar was meandering his way towards a solemn close. Lytton shifted on the old wooden pew and was suddenly aware of the feeling he was being watched.

As casually as he could he glanced back over his shoulder—straight into the eyes of Kelly Jacks.

He felt the jolt of her unexpected presence like a physical blow to his gut. He tensed in visceral response and forced himself not to turn and stare.

Even so, there was no mistake.

In that brief glimpse he registered her bare head among the sober hats, her shoulders draped with an overlarge black topcoat that drowned her small frame.

His mind began to race. What the hell was she doing here? There had been no official announcements and he’d been following the whole travesty with a close eye. Christ . . . had she escaped?

He realised the vicar had stopped speaking, the organist was flexing his fingers and the rest of the congregation was rising around him with a chorus of coughs and shuffles. His mother-in-law glared at him from across the aisle, as if not being first up was a sign of disrespect.

He had put his foot down about the final piece of music. Vee had always loved the intricacies of Bach, and in particular the chorale movement Jesu Joy of Man’s Desiring.

His mother-in-law had been vaguely horrified at the suggestion. “But, it’s so . . . unsuitable, Matthew. You had that played at your wedding.”

“All the more reason to play it again at her memorial service then, don’t you think?”

In the end the woman had given in with some attempt at grace, although he noted from the Order of Service that she had disguised his choice by using its lesser-known German title—Herz und Mund und Tat und Leben, Bach-Werke-Verzeichnis 147.

He stood silent while the vastness of the Bach cantata washed over him, but felt only impatience for it all to be over.

Kelly . . . here . . .

Even then he couldn’t make an immediate escape. He was expected to stand in a receiving line with Vee’s parents, accepting clammy handshakes and the awkwardly mumbled conventional expressions of regret.

And all the time he was searching for another sign of Kelly. But she didn’t present herself to him or his in-laws and when the church had emptied out he could not see her hiding in the shadows.

He thanked the vicar and handed over the promised donation cheque for a job well done. Outside on the bowed stone steps he shook his father-in-law’s reluctantly offered hand and air-kissed his mother-in-law’s powdered cheek. He was amazed the caked layer of makeup hadn’t cracked from the sheer effort of holding her disdain in check.

“You’ll ride with us back to the house?” his father-in-law suggested stiffly when they reached the lane where people were climbing into their cars. Lytton had approved the hire of the Bentley they’d wanted, even though the distance from house to church barely allowed it to warm up.

“I have my car here,” Lytton said, gesturing to the Aston Martin.

They sniffed at that, said they’d see him at the catered lunch in half an hour, and left.

Lytton headed off into the surrounding graveyard, pulling his wool overcoat a little tighter around him to ward off the sharp and sneaky wind. He found her by the wall right in the far corner, still with the ridiculous topcoat wrapped around her and a small rucksack tucked at her feet.

“Kelly!” He hurried the last few strides finding he was suddenly breathless. “What are you doing here?”

“I came to see you,” she said. “I asked at the house and the caterers assumed I was a late guest of some sort. They gave me directions.” She fingered the lapel of the coat. Beneath it he could see a bright shirt and khaki cargo pants. “I didn’t know, until I got here . . . I borrowed this from one of the chauffeurs so I wouldn’t look so obviously out of place inside. I didn’t realise . . . I’m sorry.”

“I’m not—sorry you’re here, that is,” he said, feeling a genuine smile start to form. “But what I actually meant was . . . The last I heard you were in Holloway. How did you . . .?” He groaned. “Oh please, tell me you didn’t scale the bloody walls?”

She laughed and he realised he’d never heard her laugh and he liked the sound of it, husky with just an edge of badness to it.