Tinker, Tailor, Schoolmum, Spy

by Faye Brann

  Vicky hastily put the lid back on the box. ‘Not necessary.’

  Mike looked at Jonathan. ‘Is that all, sir?’

  ‘Thanks, Mike.’ Jonathan turned to Vicky again. ‘You’ll be assigned a gun, too, but you need to get your license renewed first. Having seen you in action, I don’t think you’ll have any problems with that, though.’ He passed her a card with a phone number on it. ‘There’s a range out in Egham where you can requalify. Call and make arrangements.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘We still have eyes on the shipment and it will be a few weeks before it docks in China, but there is plenty you can do in the meantime. Get the lay of the land, maybe get inside the house if you can. Send us updates as necessary and if you need to see me, email the address Ops give you and ask to borrow a book from the library.’

  ‘I’ll check my passport’s in date too.’

  Jonathan paused. ‘Maybe I didn’t make myself clear. Your objective is to get intel from the Kozlovskys on the deal – and only that. A risk assessment has been done, we’ve carefully considered—’ Jonathan seemed to struggle a bit, ‘—we’ve taken your … situation into account, Victoria, and especially after such a long time away, we don’t think it’s appropriate for you to go beyond that objective. We will have other operatives to deal with our targets in the Middle East. I’m relying on you to do what you’ve always done and get what we need without drawing attention to yourself. You, as you are now’ – he gestured – ‘you’re perfect for the job. No one is ever going to think you’re any more than … well, than what you are. A housewife, a school mum; a nobody.’ He brightened, apparently pleased with his assessment of her. ‘Just be yourself. Okay?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  She didn’t look at him or Mike as she left. She needed to process what had just happened and get out of the building before she said something she would regret. Had she really just been through all that to say yes to what amounted to a babysitting job? Was it really not appropriate for her to be anywhere near the real action? She noticed she was stalking across the path back to the car and slowed her pace. He wanted her just as she is now. So, basically, they were happy to have her do the grunt work but thought she was too old and too out of touch to dance with the big boys. And maybe they were right. She got in the car, holding back the torrent of emotions until she was clear of the cameras lining the road and then, when she was safely away from prying eyes, parked in a layby and finally let the hot tears trickle down her face. All the excitement of saying yes had dissipated in the face of Jonathan’s comments. He’d managed to make her feel like a fool for believing she could just walk in after fourteen years and pick up where she left off. She wiped her face. A nobody. She was fully aware that she wasn’t the Victoria Anderson of old; she didn’t need him to remind her the current version wasn’t altogether the usual stuff JOPS officers were made of. But that didn’t mean she didn’t still have what it took, or that the years in between hadn’t taught her anything. She sniffed and wiped the tears away again, angrily. Fine, so it was just information gathering, but she would very quickly make Jonathan and Sacha realise just how foolish it was to underestimate her.

  Chapter Six

  That Friday, Vicky arrived at Becky’s house shortly after school drop-off, for her first PTA committee meeting. To buy herself a little more time she rang the bell, even though she knew the door would be unlocked. She was nervous. She was sure some of the mums there would be familiar from the school gates, and sitting drinking coffee with them wasn’t something that would usually have fazed her. However, everything was very different this morning. She couldn’t afford to have a single piece of information pass her by.

  She had sought Matisse out at pick-up yesterday, to check she was coming to the meeting. ‘Maybe us new girls will work together on something,’ she said, hoping to get her onside. The faster they became friends, the easier it would be to infiltrate the Kozlovsky home and figure out what Sacha was up to, quickly, and with the minimum of fuss. But it meant she was going to have to make a supreme effort to befriend the French woman and appear to be fully engaged with PTA activities, if she was to be effective.

  *

  Entering Becky’s living room, she encountered a sea of smart-casually clad women, all clutching reusable water bottles and flashing impeccable teeth. The noise was like seagulls on Margate beach: high-pitched squawking punctuated by shrieks of laughter.

  Vicky stood like a meerkat in the bush and looked around with silent alarm. Who were these women? Were they mums at school? She prided herself on being observant, but she was sure she’d never seen half of them before. Why was everyone dressed up like they were on an Instagram feed? Becky’s house on the Costa del Putney was very nice, but it wasn’t exactly The Berkeley Hotel. The fear spread through her, curling in tendrils along her faded sweatshirt and creeping into the soles of her battered Converse. This really wasn’t her sort of thing – actually it was her nightmare – but she was going to have to dig deep and get over herself. She had an objective and Jonathan had little enough faith in her as it was—

  ‘Victoria.’ Matisse appeared out of the flock and the rest of the women turned in unison, presumably expecting someone else. Only two people in the world called her by her full name: the woman who did her bikini wax and her boss. But Matisse didn’t believe in being familiar, and, as if to prove it, gave her a couple of air kisses, one on each side of her face.

  ‘Hello, Matisse. Hi, everyone.’ She offered a weak wave in the direction of the yummy mummies.

  ‘Hi!’ they said, one by one or all at once, or something in between. She really couldn’t tell. She was busy trying not to break into a sweat. She gave what she hoped passed for a smile and hovered at the door, hoping there might be some sort of emergency exit to an alternate dimension through the polished wooden floor. The floor, in the usual style of floors, remained stubbornly in place.

  ‘Good morning, everyone,’ Becky breezed into the living room carrying a steaming mug. ‘There’s tea and coffee and breakfast in the kitchen for those that want it – we’ll start in just a few minutes, okay? Oh, hi, Vicky.’

  Vicky spun Becky around and they scooted back through the living room door and into the hallway.

  ‘I’d forgotten how much I really don’t like all this,’ Vicky whispered.

  ‘You’ll be fine, Vicky, stop being so miserable. Remember you volunteered to come – you can always leave again. It’s not a job.’

  Vicky could hear the passive aggressiveness coming from Becky loud and clear, but wasn’t about to get into PTA politics with her best friend. If she needed validation for what she did, she would have to get it from someone else. Vicky had a job to do.

  ‘So, what’s on today’s agenda?’

  ‘The Christmas Fair.’

  Vicky groaned, put her fingers under her chin in a gun shape and mimed pulling the trigger. It was at the completely wrong angle to kill yourself, but Becky wouldn’t notice. ‘Sounds fun,’ she said.

  Becky swiped Vicky’s hand away from her throat, holding onto her fingers with her right hand and patting them with her left. ‘It might be if you stop being such an arse about it. Come on, hurry up and get yourself a drink and let’s get started.’

  Becky twirled back into the living room and left Vicky to meander towards the kitchen. She grabbed her mug of coffee, added a spoon of sugar, and debated slipping in a shot of the Baileys she knew Becky kept at the back of the pull-out pantry, before deciding she should probably keep her wits about her. Also, it was only 9 a.m. It didn’t seem like a great idea to celebrate her return to undercover life by getting pissed at her first PTA meeting.

  She headed back into the living room, where the women now nibbled demurely on mini chocolate croissants and listened to Becky plot out the festive fair to end all fairs.

  ‘We’re going to have local business vendors in this year, to boost footfall. I thought the Year Fives might take this on? Then there’s the grotto and the raffle, that
’s Years One and Two.’ Becky paused and consulted her list. ‘That leaves games for Year Six, security Year Three, Reception will do the barbecue – the bacon butties are hugely popular with parents who may have a little Saturday morning post-Christmas party hangover – and, finally, the Grand Christmas Bake-off and charity cake sale will be Year Four. Matisse and Vicky, I know you’re both new to this, but would you be able to coordinate?’

  Everyone looked at them. Vicky had a mouthful of croissant and was finding it difficult to speak.

  ‘Mmm,’ she said, with what she hoped sounded like enthusiasm but was actually her trying not to choke. Catering? What was Becky trying to do to her? More to the point, what was she trying to do to everyone else? She was literally the world’s worst baker, a fact of which Becky was fully aware. Vicky had a licence to kill, sure, but would rather not commit cupcake genocide at the PTA Christmas Fair.

  Matisse came to her rescue. ‘Oui. Yes of course,’ she said.

  Was that a smile on her face? Vicky couldn’t quite make out Matisse’s expression through the layers of cosmetic filler, but it looked like it might be.

  ‘Fantastic, thank you.’ Becky picked up a bulging binder from beside her coffee and held it in the air. ‘I think that’s it, for now. Any questions? I’ll be setting up a WhatsApp group and sending emails out to each year group with details of what you need to do, but if anyone wants to come and take a look at this Christmas Fair bible while they’re here, it’s got all the information in it from previous years.’

  The noise started up almost instantly as a rabble gathered around Becky and her bible. Not feeling quite so enthusiastic, Vicky took another bite of her croissant and chewed on it carefully, before swallowing and turning to Matisse.

  ‘I can’t believe Becky’s put us in charge of cakes. I have to warn you, Matisse, I’m not exactly good at baking.’

  ‘No matter, I am,’ Matisse replied. ‘It is the perfect job for me.’

  Vicky stopped for a second. Jonathan had said not to go too far, too fast, but it was right here for the taking …

  ‘Well, we are supposed to be doing it as a team, Matisse. Maybe you could teach me how to bake a cake?’

  Matisse blinked slowly. ‘I suppose so. Where do you live?’

  Vicky spoke casually, trying to keep her voice light and airy. ‘Well I thought I could come to yours, seeing as you probably have all the stuff we need, like cake tins and so on. Otherwise you’re going to have to bring it all with you. Plus, my oven is crap.’

  Matisse looked at her with a blank expression. Vicky tried to read her eyes: this woman really was an enigma. Maybe she’d pushed her luck and gone too far, too fast. Maybe Matisse didn’t want her to come to the house. Maybe she was hiding something.

  She waited for Matisse to answer.

  ‘I am sure that will be fine.’ Matisse gave a tight smile. Come to my house next week. I have a big kitchen, there is plenty of room for us to make our cakes.’

  ‘Great.’ Vicky agreed a date with her for the following Wednesday and gave herself a mental high-five. She had a foot in the door. She’d send a message to Jonathan later that night, when she’d worked out how to fire up the laptop.

  Which was easier said than done. Vicky sat in her onesie in the kitchen, hunched over at the table trying not to swear, simultaneously listening for any signs of Chris or the kids coming down and finding her in flagrante with her new laptop. The secret compartment in the bathroom cabinet was really only useful for paperwork so she’d hidden all the IT kit in the utility room – the laptop fitted neatly in the gap between the washing machine and the worktop above it and was perfectly camouflaged – not that it mattered, given no one except her ever went near it anyway. The charger and the rest of the paraphernalia that accompanied the main device was, for similar reasons, crammed at the back of the drawer containing clean tea towels. She’d stashed all the other stuff – the stunner, knife and cell jammer – at the top of her wardrobe, behind a mass of old skiing paraphernalia where she knew no one would ever go. The laptop bag was in the boot of the car for easy access, but the remote control that operated its more lethal functions remained in the box, inside a sewing kit that was gathering dust in the cupboard under the stairs. All safely out of reach of the kids and in places no one in her house would ever think to go looking for anything.

  She’d waited patiently in front of the TV for Chris to go to bed before she’d snuck into the kitchen and started the computer up. All she wanted to do was get online and send an untraceable, encrypted email, but you’d think she’d asked the damn thing to solve the meaning of life. Vicky cursed under her breath. There was a dog barking from down the road somewhere, and, as the night cooled off, every creak the house gave out made her jump with so much guilt she couldn’t think straight. She admitted that when Mike had issued her laptop, she may have glossed over her general levels of IT incompetence. Any sign of this VPN that was supposed to let her know she had a secure connection remained elusive and, in the end, after a few more minutes of frustrated finger jabbing, she slammed the lid shut and shoved the laptop back under the counter, taking care that any flashy lights weren’t pointing out for eager little eyes to see. On top of all the other catching up she needed to do, she’d have to admit her stupidity and go in for some IT training.

  Was she really up to this job? She couldn’t even work a laptop, for God’s sake. She was woefully out of practice when it came to surveillance – she’d dismissed that woman in the supermarket, a rookie error – and she wasn’t sure if she had the memory these days to retain important information long enough to share it. As for protecting herself … shooting a paintball gun was one thing, but running a suspect down or even throwing a decent punch was beyond her right now. Jonathan said to ‘be herself’ and she’d been annoyed and upset at the implications of that, but the truth was, she was quite possibly past her sell-by date. Mike was half her age – well, okay, maybe a bit more than that – but still, she felt so old. Old and stupid and useless and a bit ridiculous. What was she chasing? An objective, a crook, or her youth? She needed to get focused before she failed at all three.

  Vicky headed for the fridge to get a glass of wine. Old photos adorned the door, held on by alphabet magnets and willpower. Chris kissing her bump on their wedding day, her standing outside hospital a few months later with Ollie in her arms … it all seemed so long ago, and her life before that even more so. There was no point in getting upset over growing older, but she couldn’t help herself. She was hot, too, from faffing about with that computer … was it the computer or a hot flush? Please God don’t let this be the menopause on top of everything else.

  She drank her wine and waited a few minutes, thinking about what to do. She had to sort herself out. She couldn’t keep on running back to Gilbert House whenever she felt overwhelmed, but she at least needed to start from a good place. Vicky grabbed one of the new burner phones out of the bottom of the peg basket and messaged Mike. ‘Visit to target residence confirmed. Be in on Monday for IT lesson,’ she wrote, and pressed Send. At least she knew how to do that.

  The weekend passed in a heady mix of chaos and alcohol. Vicky had booked a babysitter for the Saturday night weeks before, thinking they’d find something to do with someone, and then she’d forgotten to arrange anything, so she and Chris ended up in the Italian down the road, splitting a bottle of red and stuffing their faces with pasta.

  It was nice, spending the evening together. The restaurant was decent – stone floors and dark wood and a welcoming bar at the front. Not too posh, but a step up from the Pizza Express next door. It wasn’t so busy tonight that the service suffered either, their waitress buzzing between their table and the foursome who had sat down next to them at the same time. Carrying trays piled with pasta to and fro, she was like an ant marching its prize across the floor, the ease and speed with which she moved at odds with the weight and size of the tray. Vicky watched her sailing towards the couple sitting behind Chris, carrying a steaming plat
e full of fried calamari and a rather less-exciting salad. The woman took the salad and began to pick at it, eyeing up the calamari her date was shovelling into his mouth. Her lip curled as he sniffed and wiped and crunched his way through his food. Watching your partner eat was certainly a make-or-break business. She turned her attention back to Chris, who was ladling a gargantuan forkful of spag bol into his mouth and splashing red sauce down his front in the process. She shook her head in amusement. It was like having dinner with James.

  ‘So, how was work this week?’ she said, snapping out of her thoughts. ‘Did you find a new account manager?’

  Chris swallowed his mouthful. ‘No, not yet. There are plenty of qualified people who could do the job, but I can’t seem to find anyone who fits.’

  ‘Well it’s a small office, I suppose.’

  Chris was the Managing Director of a marketing agency based down the road in Richmond. When Vicky met him, he was working as a graphic designer at the V&A and still living with his mum and dad. A friend who worked in the curatorial department introduced them at the opening of one of the galleries there, and, despite her misgivings, Vicky found she liked Chris immediately. He was so different from Anatoli: an open book, with a pithy sense of humour and a way of saying the right thing. It turned out he liked her, too; the night ended with both of them pissed on too much free prosecco and frantically getting off with each other in a side alley opposite the Natural History Museum. The rest, as they say, was history. Or natural history, as Chris had joked to anyone who’d listen.

  ‘What about you?’ Chris said. ‘Anything exciting happening with the PTA?’

  ‘Not much.’ This was one of those times when Vicky wished she could talk about work. The conversation would be far less one-sided. She wondered if Chris ever found her boring.

  ‘I’m baking cakes with Matisse on Wednesday.’ Well if he didn’t before, he would now.

  ‘Baking cakes?’