‘No,’ he said softly.

‘I should think not,’ Mendel sighed. ‘Tell you what, Graham – for a clever bloke, you do say some stupid things.’

They ordered a pizza and watched the rest of the movie. Afterwards, Mendel agreed to one more cup of tea before he left, but insisted on making it himself.

‘You need to give it a chance to infuse properly,’ he explained, mashing the tea bag against the side of the mug with a spoon. ‘Otherwise there’s no flavour.’

Leaning against the kitchen counter, Harland watched him doubtfully.

‘I’ll stick to coffee,’ he said. ‘Anything that strong would probably keep me awake.’

‘Your loss,’ Mendel shrugged.

Opening the back door, Harland moved outside and stood on the step while he lit a final cigarette.

‘So what about the Severn Beach thing?’ he asked. ‘I guess by the fact you haven’t mentioned it that there’s not been much progress.’

Mendel came over to stand beside him, his large silhouette framed in the light of the doorway.

‘No,’ he said. ‘Shame about that one.’

‘Shame?’

‘Well . . .’ Mendel lifted his mug, inhaling the steam. ‘It’s all over, isn’t it?’

Harland looked at him, then nodded slowly.

‘I suppose so,’ he said. There was nothing more they could do unless they got a hit on that mobile phone. ‘At least until he kills another one.’

45

Saturday, 8 September

Painting the little soldiers was difficult. He dipped the thin brush – just a few fine hairs in a tight point – into the small pot of black gloss, then carefully applied the glistening paint to the infantryman’s tiny rifle. He held his breath as he worked, not blinking, not moving, except for his brush hand. When it was done, he exhaled, and held up the soldier to survey the finished figure.

Perfect.

He set the soldier down on the window sill, beside the others, then crouched in close to see them at eye level. A whole box of them, twenty-four German infantrymen, all painted. He wished they didn’t take quite so long to dry, but his father said it was good for him – that it would teach him patience.

Reaching down, he retrieved a jam jar filled with paint thinner and placed it on the old newspaper that protected the top of his bedside cabinet. Carefully, he lowered the tip of the brush into it, watching as little swirls of black bloomed out like upside-down smoke in the clear liquid. Then, checking his hands to make sure they were free from paint, he lay back on his bed and stared up at the patterned plaster ceiling, inhaling the delicious smell of the gloss and the thinners.

It was his room now. There were still two beds, but he didn’t have to share any more. He could do whatever he wanted, wherever he wanted, which was brilliant. Nobody moaned about the fumes from his paints, nobody told him to move his things back to his own side of the floor. In fact, he could even use Gary’s things, as long as he was careful with them and put them back before his mother noticed.

He sat up and glanced across at the empty bed opposite him, frowning for a moment. Sometimes, when he was pretending to be asleep, she would come in and sit there, just running her hand across the cold bedspread or gently stroking the unused pillow in the dark. He reached out, his fingertips brushing across his own pillow. She wouldn’t pack away any of his brother’s stuff, even after all this time. He wished she wasn’t so sad. If only he could tell her . . .

But it really wasn’t so bad. And he had discovered another, even greater advantage. He didn’t have to share her any more either. She held him for longer now; she loved him more than she had before. He smiled and got to his feet. Things were better now, he was sure of it.

Naysmith woke with a start. Glancing around the bedroom, it took him a few seconds to get his bearings before he sank back into the soft pillows and exhaled slowly. He stretched out his arm, caressing the bulging duvet, but it crumpled under his hand. Kim must be downstairs. Fumbling on the bedside table for his watch, he focused on the time – 9.37 a.m. He frowned for a moment then remembered it was Saturday.

Yawning, he stretched and kicked off the duvet, letting his feet drop to the floor and sitting for a weary moment. The light coming from between the curtains was dull and without warmth. He shook his head – another overcast Saturday. Rubbing his eyes, he got slowly to his feet and padded through to the bathroom.

The kitchen smelled of coffee and toast when he came down. Kim was sitting at the large wooden table reading a book.

‘Morning, sleepyhead.’ She smiled up at him as he wandered over to the fridge. ‘I did make you some toast . . . but then I ate it.’

‘It’s the thought that counts,’ Naysmith murmured, pouring himself an orange juice. ‘Why didn’t you wake me?’

‘You looked so peaceful, it seemed a shame to disturb you,’ Kim said. ‘Plus, when I tried shaking you, you didn’t respond.’

‘I’m still asleep now.’

‘Sit down and I’ll make you some coffee.’

‘Thanks.’

She got up and tousled his hair as she went over to the counter.

‘Do you remember Javier? From Sam and Dave’s barbecue?’

Naysmith lifted his head and shot her a bleary frown.

‘Wasn’t he a photographer or something?’

‘That’s right.’ Kim glanced over her shoulder. ‘He’s got an exhibition in Bristol. Sam asked me if we wanted to go with them.’

‘Sure.’ Naysmith rested his head on his hands. ‘When is it?’

‘Next Sunday evening.’

Her voice continued but Naysmith barely heard her, his mind suddenly racing.

‘I thought you were going out next Sunday?’ he asked casually.

Not next weekend – any time but then. He’d spent too much time planning the climax of the current game, checking things, arranging things, all for a weekend when she was supposed to be busy . . .

‘No. Jane had to cancel. And this might be more interesting anyway.’

Shit. He sleepily rubbed his eyes to avoid looking at her.

‘Not sure if I can do Sunday night,’ he said carefully. ‘I’ve got a breakfast meeting on Monday and I told Ken I’d go up to town for a few drinks, then stay over.’

Kim said nothing. He glanced across at her but her face was unreadable.

‘You said you were out that night,’ he shrugged.

‘It doesn’t matter.’

Naysmith watched her as she took her book from the table and left the room. Changing his plans now would certainly be tiresome and might introduce unnecessary complications. He really didn’t want to risk it. Kim might be a little sulky for an hour or so, but she’d be okay. And he’d make it up to her, maybe take her somewhere nice for dinner . . .

He downed the last of his orange juice and sat for a moment before pushing back the chair and standing up.

‘I’m going to go and get the papers,’ he called as he moved through to the hallway. ‘Do you want anything?’

No answer. She must still be cross with him. He shook his head and reached for his jacket.

Outside, the village was dull and shadowless beneath an ugly grey sky. Pulling the front door shut behind him, Naysmith jammed his hands into his jacket pockets and walked briskly down the lane.

He stopped off at the bakery on the way back to buy a crusty loaf, then made his way home, tearing off little pieces of warm bread and eating them as he walked. The clouds were darker now, and he was glad to get back before it started to rain.

Entering the kitchen, he placed the loaf in the bread bin and dropped the papers on the table. Kim was probably still annoyed about her weekend plans and he thought it might be better to give her some space. He knew he had some emails to check so he went upstairs to the study and settled into his chair. Most of the mail was unimportant – follow-ups to meetings and a couple of conference calls to add to his calendar – but there was also a draft contract that he’d been waiting for and he decided to go through it now while he had the time. There were a couple of minor errors, but those were quickly fixed and, once satisfied, he hit the print button.