The Third Shadow

Twenty-one

There was a sigh, one which acted as a kind of punctuation mark: smalltalk over. She stepped off towards one of the windows, hers the elegant, sweeping movements of a former model. A trailing hand beckoned that I should follow.

"See that car down there?" Never having been particularly fond of heights, I peered down from a couple of feet behind her. "The red one in front of that dirty van?" My dirty van, as it happened. "That's them. Nottingham's plainclothed finest. One comes in a red car, another in a white car, and then there's this one in his dark blue car." Yes, I'd noted the figure  in the driver's seat as I'd got out of the van, had strongly suspected what Olivia was now confirming. The car was positioned in such a way that from up on the top floor the officer himself - some poor, put-upon rookie of a DC no doubt - was hidden from view by the roof of the vehicle, but down there on the ground the rear-view and wing mirrors would provide clear vision of the condominium's comings and goings. "They take it in turns," she continued. "At the start there'd be one or other of them there when I woke up, one or other of them still  there when I went to bed. They've become a little lazy though of late. Arrive about half past nine in the morning and leave again around seven in the evening." She smiled at me, glanced at the kitchen clock. "You'll be in his little book, Mr Jacks. 12.15 p.m, unknown Caucasian male, sixty to sixty-five, tall, grey hair." The smile morphed into a giggle, the thought obviously amusing her. "There's a pub just around the corner. I sometimes see them sloping off for a sly pint." I was relieved that she'd stepped back into the interior of the room, was perching herself onto a stool at the breakfast bar, this turned at ninety degrees so as to face me. "I don't need to tell you that the police have other, more sophisticated means of surveillance too. It's futile of me, I know, to change passwords and SIM cards as often as I do." She flashed a childish smirk. "Still, keeps those techie boffins on their toes at least."

I joined her at the breakfast bar, the stool diagonally across from hers.

"This isn't a game Olivia."

The smirk proved stubborn however, refused to dissolve. "The same thing your friend Commander Nuzzo once told me, if I remember rightly."

Yes, and on a similar theme of the wasting of police time and resources, if I myself remembered rightly.

"As if I don't know!" she continued. "As if I'm having the time of my life! Having an absolute ball!" Her blue eyes were ablaze, her face pinkening slightly; a snaking vein was contoured down her forehead. "You think this is easy for me, Mr Jacks? I can't walk down the street without a shadow hovering fifty metres behind. They even follow me around the supermarket, for Christ's sake! They've vetted the cleaning lady. The babysitter. I wouldn't even be surprised if they had someone lurking outside the door of the delivery room!" Barely pausing for breath, she burst straight on. "Then there are the tabloids. They paint me out as some as some kind of latter-day Lady Macbeth. The Wicked Witch of the East. Everybody feeling sorry for her. For Sarah. But what about me?" There was finally a pause, one in which she attempted to collect herself a little. "I'm just as much a victim as she is. What everyone forgets is that Lee's a missing person too. My husband. Imogen's father."

And as she was saying all this I couldn't help but picture her there in the holiday bungalow, framed in the doorway of the corridor which led to the bedrooms. The feigned passport search, her hand reaching to mouth.

Oh-my-God-oh-my-God! I can't find it anywhere.

That she was a good actress she'd already proved. Was she  still acting now, I wondered? Had Lee somehow managed to wriggle through the net?

"Did you know about the guns Olivia?"

At this she rolled her eyes upwards - a gesture I remembered from nine months earlier, one at the same time dismissive and exasperated.