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“We’re going to Baghdad again.”
    “Wonderful,” Harry said. “The troops are coming home, but my nephew and some wild Irishman have to do the exact opposite.”
    “It’s worthwhile.” He went through the details. “The girl is just a kid, thirteen, for Christ’s sake, so if Roper has worked a way we might pull it off, then I’m for it. Frankly, the more I think of that kid and what her future is likely to be, the more I’m inclined to go for it.” He got up. “I’m going to bed now, before I fall down.”

T H E K I L L I N G G R O U N D
    35
    He went out, there was silence, and Harry said, “Very stubborn, my nephew. What would you say, Ruby?”
    “I’d say he needs a good night’s sleep.” She carried the coffee things to the bar. “But I’d also like to say that I think he’s marvelous, and on that, I’m going to bed, too.”
    And she walked out.
    H A M P S T E A D A T S I X O ’ C L O C K in the morning, Greta Novikova was moving through rain-soaked streets that were relatively empty. A Mini Cooper, dark blue, a couple of years old, was what she preferred, the engine lethal. The house was easy enough to find, with its large, old-fashioned Edwardian railings. She called Roper.
    “I’m here.”
    “I’ll give her a nudge,” and after a few moments she heard over a voice box, “Gate opening.”
    It revealed a fine driveway lined by poplars, a gracious Edwardian house standing at the far end, with terraces and French windows.
    Greta had left her phone on. “Fantastic. That’s worth four or five million, easily.”
    “Clever lady, four and a half. But when his great-grandfather bought the place it went for one hundred and seventy-five thousand pounds.
    Gasp away, that’s inflation on the housing market for you.”
    Molly Rashid opened the front door at the top of the terrace steps, her hand outstretched. “Major Novikova. Welcome.”
    “It’s so beautiful.”
    “The house? Oh, we’re very happy here. My husband worships the place and so does my daughter.”
    It was as if everything was normal. Greta looked around, noticing dramatic paintings everywhere, and Yorkshire stone on the floor, which from the warmth was heated underneath.
    “Kitchen’s at the end of the corridor,” Molly said. “I’ll make us a brew unless you would prefer coffee.”

    36

J A C K H I G G I N S
    “I’m Russian, remember, a tea person.”
    “It’s so useful having a husband who is a Bedouin. Rashids are great tea drinkers. Go on, five minutes. Poke your nose anywhere. See if you can see why there’s no bathroom in the main bedroom.”
    Greta moved quite quickly from bedroom to bedroom, several bathrooms and dressing rooms, all beautifully decorated, a cheerful full-size stuffed bear standing on the landing.
    Finally, she reached the master bedroom, which was a work of art, with a superb dressing room next door. She returned to the bedroom and looked thoughtfully at the wardrobe mirrored doors. She opened them one by one, and suddenly a section swung back disclosing a hidden bathroom, a joy in contrasting marbles. She went downstairs, to find Molly sitting at one of the bar stools dispensing tea. “How did you get on?”
    “I found it, after a thorough search. It’s a refuge, I presume?”
    “Well, I’ve never had to use it in that way. The idea of needing it for such a purpose fills me with alarm. Why does it have to be us?”
    “Your husband is a man of some distinction in the world, therefore of great use for the dark side of the Muslim world. Positive publicity would emerge if he went public supporting extremism. Instead, he turns away from his faith, spurns it. That makes him a traitor in their world.
    Fundamentalists, or many of them, do not wish to acknowledge their Britishness, even when born here.” She got up. “I think we better get moving.”
    A few minutes later, they were drawing out of the main gate. “How far did you say it was to Abu’s shop?”
    “Five minutes, that’s all.