In the base of the wardrobe there’s an aluminium-bodied briefcase fitted with a lock. Villanelle’s keyring holds several conventional door keys – enough to give a normal profile on an airport scanner – but also locksmith’s jigglers and a bump key. A delicate twist of one of the smaller jigglers, and the lock springs open. Inside are an Apple laptop computer, several unmarked DVDs in plain boxes, a plaited leather bullwhip, an Audemars Piguet Royal Oak watch, a boxed pair of cougar-head cufflinks by Carrera y Carrera, a Waffen SS ceremonial dagger, a death’s-head ring, a display case holding a heavy steel dildo (‘The Obergruppenführer’), and several thousand euros in unused banknotes.
Leaving the case open, Villanelle conducts a quick tour of the rest of the room. On the bedside table is a miniature projector, an iPad tablet, a hardback copy of Julius Evola’s Ride the Tiger, and a Mont Blanc fountain pen. Beneath these, on the floor, is a cabin-size valise secured by a five-digit combination lock. Glancing at her watch, Villanelle decides not to attempt to open the valise; instead, she tentatively lifts and shakes it. Whatever’s inside is light; a faint swish suggests clothes. She replaces the valise, then unzips the large tan leather suitcase that has been placed against the wall. It’s empty.
Sitting on the bed, Villanelle closes her eyes. A half-dozen heartbeats, and she smiles. She knows exactly how she is going to kill Max Linder.
Turning round in his chair, Billy takes off his headphones. ‘Video file coming in from Armando Trevisan. Subject: attention Noel Edmonds. Is someone taking the piss?’
Eve looks up from the Sverdlovsk-Futura Group’s website. ‘No, get it up. Best quality you can.’
‘Give us a sec.’
A clip of a crowded pavement, shot from about a metre above head-height. A dozen or so pedestrians enter and exit the frame, a couple of them lingering in front of a clothes shop window. The footage is low-resolution grey on grey. It runs for seven and a half seconds and cuts out.
‘Is there a message?’ Lance asks.
Billy shakes his head. ‘Just the vid.’
‘That’s the Van Diest boutique in Venice,’ Eve says. ‘Run it again at half-speed. Keep going until I say.’
Billy runs the clip twice before Eve stops him. ‘OK, slow it down even more. Watch the women in the hats.’
As they enter the frame the women seem to be together. The nearer of the two is wearing an elegant print dress, and her face is concealed by a broad-brimmed hat. The further figure is taller and broader; she’s wearing jeans, a T-shirt and what looks like a straw cowboy hat. A large man steps between them and the camera.
‘Out of the way, fatso,’ Lance murmurs.
The man’s there for a full five seconds, then he turns towards the camera to look behind him, and as he does so the cowboy hat appears to slip back on the second woman’s head, momentarily exposing her face.
‘The Russian girlfriend?’ Lance asks.
‘Could be, if the timing fits with when they visited the shop. Which I’m guessing is why Trevisan sent this. Let’s see it frame by frame, and see if we can get a look at her.’
The moment replays, infinitely slowly. ‘Best I can do,’ says Billy finally, moving backwards and forwards between frames. ‘You’ve either got the full profile blurred, or the part-profile with her hand in the way.’
‘Print both,’ Eve tells him. ‘And the frames bracketing them.’
‘OK . . . Hang on, there’s another email from Venice.’
‘Read it out.’
‘Dear Ms Polastri, I hope this CCTV footage from Calle Vallaresso is of use. It corresponds to the time of the two women’s visit to the Van Diest shop as described by yourself and confirmed to me by the manager Giovanna Bianchi. In this connection two Russian-speaking females, registered as Yulia and Alyona Pinchuk, stayed at the Hotel Excelsior on the Lido for one night, two days after the date on the CCTV footage. Hotel staff have confirmed that the Pinchuks, described as sisters, might have been those shown in the footage. With compliments – Armando Trevisan.’
‘Run a check on those names, Billy. Yulia and whatever the other one was Pinchuk.’ She grabs the first of the printouts, as the printer wheezily disgorges it. ‘That’s got to be Villanelle in the dress. Look how she angles the hat so that it completely hides her face from the CCTV camera.’
‘Might be just coincidence.’
‘I don’t think so. She’s totally surveillance aware. And I’ll bet that’s the girlfriend, too. Remember what Giovanna at the jewellery shop said. The same age but a little taller. Short blonde hair. The physique of a swimmer or a tennis player.’
Lance nods. ‘She does fit that description. Broad shoulders, definitely. Can’t tell if she’s blonde, but the hair’s definitely very short. Just wish the face wasn’t so blurred.’
Eve stares at the printout of the two women. The features of the woman with the cropped blonde hair are pixilated and indistinct, but the essence of her is there. ‘I’ll know you when I see you, Cowgirl,’ she murmurs savagely. ‘You can count on that.’
‘OK. Yulia and Alyona Pinchuk,’ says Billy. ‘Seems they’re the co-proprietors of an online dating and escort agency called MySugarBaby.com, based in Kiev, Ukraine. The contact address is a post office box in the Oblonskiy district of the city.’
‘Can you dig a bit deeper? See if you can find pictures or any biographical stuff? I’m sure they’re just cover identities, but let’s make sure.’
Billy nods. He looks dazed with exhaustion, and Eve feels a stab of guilt. ‘Do it tomorrow,’ she tells him. ‘Go home now.’
‘Sure?’ he asks.
‘Absolutely sure. You’ve done more than enough for one day. Lance, what’s your plan for the evening?’
‘I’m meeting someone. The bloke from the Hampshire Road Policing Unit whose bike was nicked by your, um . . .’
‘She’s not my anything, Lance. Call her Villanelle.’
‘OK. By Villanelle.’
‘He’s coming to London, this bloke?’
‘No, I’m taking a train from Waterloo out to Whitchurch, which is where his unit is based. Apparently they serve a nice pint at the Bell.’
‘Will you be able to get back OK?’
‘Yeah, no problem. Last train’s around eleven.’
Eve frowns. ‘Thank you both. Seriously.’
An hour before the dinner shift, Villanelle knocks at Johanna’s door. Unlike the other temporary staff members, Johanna has a room to herself. She is also, alone of the twelve of them, not required to serve at dinner. Kissing Birgit’s ass has its rewards.
The door opens slowly. Johanna is wearing tracksuit pants and a crumpled sweater. She looks half-awake. ‘Ja. What do you want?’
‘I want you to take my place at dinner tonight.’
Johanna blinks and rubs her eyes. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t work the evening shift, except for turndown service on the upper corridor. Ask Birgit.’
Villanelle holds up a clear plastic bag containing the grubby thong retrieved from Roger Baggot’s bed. ‘Listen, schatz. If you don’t take that dinner shift for me I’m going to have to tell Birgit where I found this. I don’t think she’ll be pleased to find out you’ve been fucking the guests.’
‘I’ll deny it. You can’t prove that’s mine.’
‘OK, let’s go and speak to Birgit right now. We’ll see who she believes.’
For a moment Villanelle thinks her bluff is going to be called. Then, slowly, Johanna nods.
‘OK. I’ll do it,’ she says. ‘Why’s it so important to you, anyway?’
Villanelle shrugs. ‘I’ve had enough of Linder’s guests. I can’t stand another evening of their stupid conversation.’
‘So what do I say to Birgit? She’s going to think it’s strange that I’m doing a shift I don’t have to.’
‘Tell her what you like. Say I’m in my room, throwing up. Say I’ve got the shits. Whatever.’
She nods sulkily. ‘So can I have my tanga back?’
‘Later.’
‘Scheisse, Violette. I thought you were a nice person. But you’re a bitch. A real fucking bitch.’
‘My pleasure. Just be there at dinner, OK?’
When Villanelle gets back to her room, she can hear the weak splash of the shower. When Maria steps back into the room, shivering in an undersized towel, Villanelle tells her that she’s feeling ill, and that Johanna will be covering her at dinner. If Maria is surprised at this turn of events, she says nothing.
After locking herself in the bathroom, Villanelle applies a thin layer of pale cake make-up, and dusts it with cornstarch. A faint smudge of shadow beneath each eye, and she’s the picture of unhealth. Retching into her hand as she passes Maria, she goes in search of Birgit.
She finds her in the kitchen, bullying one of the sous-chefs. Haltingly, Villanelle tells Birgit about her stomach upset and her arrangement with Johanna. Birgit is furious to hear that Villanelle is not going to be serving in the restaurant, and tells her that she’s thoroughly unreliable and disrespectful and that she will be docking her pay.
By the time she gets back to the room, Maria is in her serving uniform, and on the point of setting off for the restaurant. ‘You really don’t look well,’ she tells Villanelle. ‘Make sure you wrap up warmly. Take the blanket from my bed if you want.’
After she’s gone, Villanelle waits for a further ten minutes. By now, everyone should be congregating in the main building for pre-dinner drinks. Opening the door onto the staff corridor she peers cautiously out, but can hear nothing. She’s alone.
She retreats back inside, takes her phone and a steel-bodied ballpoint pen from the bedroom chest of drawers, and locks herself in the bathroom. Kneeling on the tiled floor, she removes the back from the phone and, lifting out the battery, extracts a tiny foil envelope containing a copper-bodied micro detonator. Then, taking a small violet-scented oval of soap from her washbag, she strikes it with controlled force against the porcelain base of the sink, so that the outer shell of the soap cracks open. Inside it is a 25g plastic-wrapped disc of Fox-7 explosive, which Villanelle returns to the washbag. It’s joined there by the micro detonator, the ballpoint pen, and the clippers, cuticle-pushers and scissors from her manicure set.
She dislikes Anton but she has to admit he’s provided everything she’s asked for. The detonator and the Fox-7 explosive are state-of-the-art, the manicure items are engineered steel, capable of doubling as professional DIY tools, and the pen, with very little adjustment, turns into a miniature 110V soldering iron.
Now, there’s just one more thing she needs.
Goodge Street tube station is crowded. It’s always this way during the after-work rush hour, which is one of the reasons that Eve likes to take the bus. She’s not claustrophobic precisely, but there’s something about being hemmed in by bodies while hurtling through an underground tunnel, with the possibility that the lights may flicker and go out at any second, or the train unaccountably stop, as if its functions have suddenly and catastrophically failed, that makes her profoundly anxious. There are just too many parallels with death.
The first train that arrives, a Northern Line train via Edgware, is already full to capacity, and as the ranks of commuters on the platform press forward, trying to force their way aboard, Eve retreats to a bench.
‘Crazy, no?’ says an expressionless voice next to her.
He’s in his late thirties, forty at a push. Skin that hasn’t seen the sun in months. She looks frostily ahead.
‘I have something for you.’ He passes her a brown office envelope. ‘Read please.’
It’s a handwritten note.
You win. This is Oleg. Do everything he says. R.
Frowning hard to disguise her elation, Eve puts the envelope and note in her bag. ‘OK, Oleg. Tell me.’
‘OK. Tomorrow morning, very important, you meet me here on station platform, eight o’clock, and give me passport. Tomorrow evening six o’clock meet me here again, and I give back. Wednesday you flying Heathrow to Moscow Sheremetyevo, and staying at Cosmos Hotel. You speak Russian, I think? Little bit?’
‘Not much. I learned it at school. A-levels.’
‘A-levels Russian. Eto khorosho. Have you been before?’
‘Once. About ten years ago.’
‘OK, no problem.’ He opens a briefcase, and takes out two flimsy sheets printed with the tiny, smudgy script common to visa application forms the world over. ‘Sign, please. Don’t worry, I fill in the rest.’
She hands the forms back to him.
‘Also, Moscow very cold now. Raining ice. Take strong coat and hat. Boots.’
‘Am I going alone?’
‘No, also your kollega, Lens.’
It takes her a moment to realise that he means Lance.
‘Thanks, Oleg, do zavtra.’
‘Do zavtra.’
It’s only at this point that she starts to wonder what the hell she’s going to tell Niko.
It takes Villanelle fifty-five minutes, working calmly and steadily, to prepare the explosive device with which she intends to kill Linder. When it’s ready she changes into her Bund Deutscher Mädel uniform, pockets the device and her pass-key, and leaves the room. Arriving at the guest wing she pauses. The corridor is silent; the guests are still at dinner. Walking unhurriedly to Roger Baggot’s room, she knocks quietly on the door, gets no response, and lets herself in. Having pulled on her rubber cleaning gloves, Villanelle takes an envelope from her pocket. In it is a pair of nail scissors and the plastic film in which the Fox-7 explosive was wrapped. In the bathroom she finds Baggot’s washbag, makes a small cut in the lining with the nail scissors, and pushes the plastic film inside. The envelope goes in the small pedal waste-bin beside the sink. The scissors go in the bathroom cabinet.
She leaves Baggot’s room and ascends to the first floor, and Linder’s room. Once again she knocks quietly on the door, but there’s no sound from within. She lets herself in, her breathing steady, and carefully plants the device that she’s prepared. For a moment she stands in the middle of the room, calculating blast and shockwave vectors. Then her body registers alarm, and she realises that she can hear a faint, muffled tread climbing the stairs. It might not be Linder, but it might.
Villanelle considers calmly walking out of the room as if she’s just finished turning down the bed linen. But the linen isn’t turned down, and there’s no time now to do so. Besides, others might see her leaving, and remember. So, exactly as she’s rehearsed in her mind, she moves at speed to the tan suitcase, and pulls open the twin zips. Stepping inside, she kneels, contracts, angles her shoulders, and tucks in her head. Then reaching upwards, she draws the zips together, leaving a four-inch space to breathe and look through. It’s a brutally tight fit, impossible for anyone who didn’t exercise and stretch regularly, but Villanelle ignores the straining tendons in her back and legs and concentrates on regularising her breathing. The case smells of musty pigskin. She can feel the steady beat of her heart.
The door to the room opens, and Max Linder walks in. He hangs the Do Not Disturb sign over the outside handle, and bolts the door from the inside. Rounding the bed, he stoops to pick up the valise, which he places on the bed and unlocks, using a combination code. From inside this, he takes a ginger-coloured garment of some kind, and drapes it from the bed.
He crosses the room. Villanelle can’t see the wardrobe because the bed is in the way, but she hears the creak of its double doors, and then the springing click of the lock as Linder opens the briefcase. Pressing one eye to the narrow aperture between the zips, she feels cold sweat crawling from her armpits to her ribs. A moment later Linder walks back into view carrying the laptop computer and a CD, which he places next to the miniature projector on the bedside table. There’s a pause as he connects them, and then a dim, projected image appears on the wall of the room, runs for a couple of seconds, and stops. Villanelle can only see the image at an acute angle, but it appears to be the countdown timer of an old black and white film.
Touch
ing a wall-switch Linder turns off the overhead light, so that the only remaining illumination is provided by the lamp on the bedside table, and the beam of the projector. Then, unhurriedly, he strips naked, and taking the garment from the bed steps into it. It’s a dirndl, a traditional Alpine dress with a laced-up bodice, a white blouse with puff sleeves, and a frilled apron. White knee socks complete the costume. Villanelle can’t see Linder clearly, but she can see enough to know that the look doesn’t suit him. Bending down, he takes a female wig from the valise, and teases it into place on his head. The wig is neatly coiffed and waved, in a stern, mid-twentieth-century style.
Her back and calf muscles screaming now, Villanelle stares through her tiny viewing slit, and remembers what Petra Voss told her.
He’s turning himself into Eva fucking Braun.
Returning to the briefcase in the wardrobe, Linder takes out the rectangular box that houses the Obergruppenführer dildo. Given that less than an hour ago Villanelle has fitted the Obergruppenführer with a military-grade detonator and a lethal payload of Fox-7 explosive, this is not good news. Briefly she considers bursting out of the suitcase, killing Linder with her bare hands, and then pitching him out of the window into the snowy darkness outside, but quickly dismisses the idea. Discovery would not be immediate, but it would be inevitable. And weirdly, illogically, she feels safe folded into the suitcase. She likes it in there.
Linder switches on the projector, and as black and white images begin to flicker on the wall, he inserts a pair of in-ear headphones and lies down on the bed. Despite the distorted angle, Villanelle can see that the film is of Hitler, delivering a ranting, histrionic speech to a vast crowd, perhaps at Nuremberg. All she can hear of the speech is a faint whisper from the headphones, but the lace apron of the dirndl is soon twitching like a tent in a high wind. ‘Oh mein sexy Wolf,’ Linder mutters, clutching himself. ‘Oh mein Führer. Fuck me with that big wolf’s schwanz. I need anschluss.’
No Tomorrow: The basis for Killing Eve, now a major BBC TV series (Killing Eve series Book 2) Page 15