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questions dancing in her eyes that he’d seen in Kirsten Keller’s a few moments earlier. She smoothed down the collar of his jacket, the way she used to. And then she kissed him tenderly.
    ‘I miss you, too.’
    He could still feel her warmth on his lips as Kirsten Keller returned from the bathroom, pink-skinned and radiant in the white Shangri-La robe. Foster watched as Elaina brushed past her, evaporating into the steam from the shower.
    ‘Do me a favour and stay for a drink,’ Keller said, alive and reinvigorated by the water. ‘Maria won’t let me have one. Watching someone else is about as good as it gets.’
    She poured Foster a Scotch over ice, without asking what he’d like, and he drank it. Keller told him she’d have to report him to the police if he made any attempt to drive home. Then she poured him another.
    She slipped off his jacket and led him to a chair. Keller handed him the second Scotch and walked around behind him, so that she could rub his shoulders as if they’d been married a hundred years. Foster could not think of a good reason to stop her.
    ‘Are you allowed any vices?’ he asked, tasting the Scotch. Both of them smiled as the question hung in the air. She answered by slipping a hand inside his shirt and across his strong chest. Her fingers smoothed over his shoulder until they reached the ridge of scar tissue that ran across the top of his arm.
    ‘I cut myself shaving,’ Foster said, before she could ask the question that would ruin the moment. Her hand continued to glide under his shirt and, before they knew it, they were in bed. It turned out that Keller was a quiet lover, clenched and breathless, with no sign of the earthy grunts and ecstatic screams she displayed on the tennis court.
    By the time they were spent, the first smudge of diesel-brown light was breaking on the jagged horizon. They watched it kindle and bloom into the new morning. Foster ran the tips of his fingers idly across her skin, exploring her hollows and curves. She purred and sighed, more relaxed than she’d felt for weeks. She re-traced the scar on his arm that she had found earlier.
    ‘When was it?’ she whispered. He could feel her breath in his ear.
    ‘Three years ago,’ he said. ‘Here in London.’
    ‘Were you working?’
    ‘Yes and no,’ he sighed. ‘A high-profile client invited us over for dinner one evening.’
    ‘Who’s “us”?’
    Keller was young, and Foster could hear a note of jealousy in her voice.
    ‘Me and my wife,’ Foster said.
    ‘Where were you?’ she asked, regrouping.
    ‘It was just a quiet night at his palace.’
    ‘Oh, right,’ Keller said. ‘That kind of high-profile client.’
    ‘Yeah,’ Foster said. ‘We took a stroll after the meal, just in time for some guy to get a home-made explosive over the gates.’
    ‘Jesus!’ Keller sighed. ‘What did you do?’
    ‘I did what I would have done if I was on duty,’ Foster said. ‘I reacted by smothering the client. I took the brunt of the explosion on my arm.’
    ‘That’s so brave,’ Keller said. ‘How was the client?’
    ‘Not a scratch.’
    Keller turned on her side and twisted around him like a question mark.
    ‘You should be so proud of what you did,’ she told him.
    ‘Well, I’m not.’
    Keller scanned Foster’s face in the half light, trying to make sense of him.
    ‘Why not?’
    Foster took a breath and watched the planes travelling across the sky into Heathrow, but before he could explain, Kirsten Keller’s mobile phone began to ring. The phone never rings at 4 a.m. with anything but bad news, and twenty seconds later Keller gasped and dropped the phone.
    ‘Jesus Christ!’ she breathed, wide-eyed and gulping for air. ‘Maria’s dead.’

CHAPTER 11
    LONDON WAS STILL waking up as Foster drove the Range Rover back towards Wimbledon, with Kirsten silent and ashen-faced in the passenger seat. The low sun glinted off the sides of the glass buildings flanking the Thames, and every second car was