Famous Last Words

Chapter 41

41

Niall

Camilla is waiting for Niall the next evening at the entrance to the Inner Temple.

She is indeed as pretty as she was then, but Niall hadn’t imagined the fragility last time he saw her. It’s there in her plainer clothes, her lack of jewellery – no wedding ring – and the lines around her mouth.

She says nothing as he approaches her, just watches him. She’s wearing a plain white T-shirt, jeans, and an apprehensive expression.

‘Sorry it’s so late in the day, and such a strange place,’ he says. ‘I will explain.’

‘We’re going in here?’ she asks, and she looks nervous. And Niall thinks, Shoot, he didn’t mean to cause her worry, or force her into a situation that made her uncomfortable.

‘Weird spot, I know, but it’s very private,’ he says. ‘A good place to discuss …’ He lets his sentence trail off, unfinished.

The Inner Temple is a gated precinct where lawyers and judges work and sometimes live, and it hardly ever admits members of the public. It’s as safe as could be: neither of them can be followed in, on the off chance the Met are still tailing her. You need a pass, which Niall got via a friend of a friend.

It’s the perfect place to betray the police, and to tell Camilla what he knows. Niall lets them in. She glances at him as the wrought-iron gate closes behind them, but says nothing further.

The buildings are a Christmastime model village – even now in the height of summer it looks like there ought to be snow surrounding the hundreds of tiny orange windows. It’s quiet here, and populated, Niall hopes, by good people. A golden Pegasus sits on the top of a weathervane, and Niall stares up at it, thinking about freedom and taking risks and doing the right thing.

They head through an archway and into a courtyard. He lets a breath out when he sees that it’s empty. On to a narrow cobbled street lit softly from below, columns of golden light beaming upwards.

‘Look. Thanks for coming,’ Niall says. ‘And for bearing with me. Cryptic as this is.’

‘I just want to know what you know,’ Camilla says, perhaps rather shortly.

They continue to walk through the courtyard. The night is quiet and calm around them, scented with wild garlic and that wind-burnt smell people get when they come in from the outside.

‘It’s delicate,’ Niall says. ‘But first: will you tell me what you know about Madison?’ He doesn’t add anything further. He bluffed to Camilla last night when she asked him if this was about Madison. If she thinks he knows everything already, she will talk. That’s how negotiating works.

And they’ve both been looking for Deschamps for so long that, surely, their information may be able to help the other?

Camilla visibly winces. Her skinny shoulders go up. Niall feels a lurch of sympathy for her. That she’s come out here, met a virtual stranger, late, all on the promise of information. That most precious commodity.

‘Once a negotiator …’ she says.

‘Tit for tat.’

Camilla sighs. ‘Madison Smith found me at the school gate – she was wanting to meet to talk properly. I guess she saw an article a paper wrote about me,’ she says. ‘You see it?’

‘The Mail . Yes.’

‘They overheard me oversharing at a work thing.’ She waves a slim hand. ‘Obviously I didn’t sell my story to them.’

‘No. What did Madison say to you?’

‘She said that she was married to one of the hostages my husband murdered. We arranged to meet, but she didn’t show. She didn’t tell me her name. So I didn’t know anything, until I recognized her in an article and saw that she’d been murdered. I didn’t tell anyone.’ She drops her voice to such a low register that Niall can barely hear her at all. ‘I didn’t tell the police. No one. I … I feel so wrapped up in something that I don’t even know what it is. The – the shadow he has cast over me,’ she says, clearly meaning Deschamps. ‘I know I should have told someone – but I was terrified.’

Niall shivers with the shock of it. Knowledge. Fuck. Madison’s husband was one of the hostages. So much for the Met doing its paltry research. Look: the answer was waiting for him here, all along. ‘Who? Who was the hostage?’ he asks, ignoring her anxiety. She has nothing to be anxious about with him, anyway.

‘I don’t know. She said – “ they told us not to tell anyone they were missing or dead.” I tried to find her husband but couldn’t …’

‘I’ll look.’ He pauses, then says: ‘And now she’s dead.’

‘I know,’ she says softly.

Niall cocks his head, then says: ‘What do you mean by they ? “They told us not to tell anyone?”’

‘I don’t know. Am I going to be—’

‘The Met is investigating her murder,’ he says softly. ‘But I’m not. And I’m not really here in my capacity as the Met.’

‘No?’

‘No,’ Niall says. His mind is reeling. Who the hostages were might be within reach, finally …

Nobody in the world except these two, here, in a private courtyard in London, knows the connection between the two cases. And it’s here, and only here, maybe, that Niall can admit to himself where this is heading. He is off record. He is off the books. And that almost always ends badly.

‘Well,’ Camilla says, landing at the exact same place as him. ‘Is that why you wanted to meet here? To discuss something – without other officers?’ She glances up at him.

He gestures to a bench. In the late hour, it’s become dotted with dew, little pearlescent spheres sitting on black metal. Camilla sits and crosses her legs. ‘Will you tell the Met I withheld information from them?’

He almost laughs. ‘Not if you don’t,’ he says, thinking of the secrets he’s keeping from the Met. And from Camilla, too. He ought to tell her about the surveillance on her, but wants to omit the sighting several months ago. She would only go looking for him. And it could have been nobody at all.

He takes a breath. He has decided precisely what to tell her: he will tell her what he knows about her husband. But he isn’t going to tell her about the stranger outside her house. He doesn’t want to worry her and, anyway, if they are both trying to find Deschamps, he can protect her that way, instead. Keep in touch with her. Make sure she’s OK. Nor does he want to tell her he intercepted her coordinates. He wants her trust. And he is trustworthy. He just needs her to know that.

Camilla stares up at him, somewhat surprised-looking. ‘OK. Deal,’ she says, holding his gaze.

Niall raises his eyebrows. They’re under the golden glow of a streetlight. It’s warm, the crickets are out, the air humming and shivering with the sound. He pauses, wondering how best to word it. ‘The Met don’t know I’m here. At all.’

‘OK?’ she says, eyes still scared.

‘I’ve been digging into your husband’s case.’

Camilla blinks. ‘And …?’

‘The two hostages were sent to murder your husband. They were contract killers.’

‘What?’ Camilla says. Her hands are in a mess of knots in her lap. ‘Sorry – what … I don’t understand what you mean?’

‘Your husband wrote on the dark web that he thought he was about to be murdered.’

‘Luke did?’ Camilla seems to fold in on herself. A small, reflexive clutch of her hand to her chest. Her body goes completely still.

Luke . Not Deschamps. Something about the name, the way she speaks about him, that movement her hand made … empathy surges in Niall’s chest. Camilla loves him, knows him, that much is clear. And Niall knows how that feels.

‘He …’ she says softly. ‘He thought that he was going to be murdered?’

‘He said that two men were being sent to kill him. He asked somebody to protect him, he wanted to buy a gun, but he couldn’t get one in time. If you look at the CCTV, he reaches for something – and I think it’s the hostages’ pistol, not your husband’s. They were there before him, put their gun on the side. Deschamps observed them for a while, outside, then took it.’

‘He …’ Camilla seems speechless. She still isn’t moving at all. It begins to rain, another summer storm that seems to come from nowhere, the rain sliding white rods, a Van Gogh painting. Camilla doesn’t seem to notice at all.

‘We never saw the point of their entry. It was off CCTV. We just heard Deschamps enter, then yell,’ Niall says, holding her elbow and steering her to her feet. Rain runs down the back of his neck, making him shiver. ‘But I think they were there waiting for him. He knew they wanted him dead, so he tied them up. They already had the sacks over their heads – to disguise themselves. Just makeshift T-shirts with slits for eyes. They were about to commit a crime. They were trying to kill a man. Your husband.’

And there’s the moment, right as they’re standing there. Camilla closes her eyes. When she opens them again, they’re wet, and not with rainwater. Instinctively, it seems to Niall, the first movement she makes is to lean into him, but she quickly pulls away again. ‘They came for him.’

‘Yes. I’m pretty sure.’

‘Contract killers. Hitmen.’

‘Yes.’

‘He thought he was going to be killed. That’s why he – the gun …’ she says, working through it all. ‘Do you think that’s why he eventually shot them? He had no choice?’

‘Yes. Maybe.’ Water splashes up around her ankles as they walk, but she doesn’t seem to notice. ‘I don’t think he had many choices available to him.’

‘He was good,’ she says, tilting her face upwards. The rain lands on it, illuminating her in silver. Niall doesn’t answer. She says it again, almost to herself. ‘He was good.’

Niall lets her have this moment before revealing anything more.

Camilla turns away from him, Niall assumes so she can have her moment in private. Her husband was good.

In the distance, two other figures stand at a rooftop bar: pinpricks on the horizon. They must be half a mile away. Niall squints at them through the rain. The people will be soaking. He smiles as he looks at them and thinks that they won’t care. Not at all.