Broken Oaths

Book 0: Inspector Reis

by Patricia Marques

Genres: Occult & Supernatural; Supernatural suspense

Synopsis

The brilliant third novel from the acclaimed author of THE COLOURS OF DEATH.

During a remote meeting, an official watches from Lisbon as his colleague, Inácio Machado, a Portuguese diplomat based in London's Portuguese embassy, dies of what looks to be a heart attack. When no one comes into the room to Inácio's aid, he tries frantically to contact the embassy to get immediate help. He tries and tries again, but no one picks up the phone and he's forced to call the British emergency services.

When local police arrive, they walk into a disturbing scene. Everyone inside the building is dead, all seemingly from the same cause.

Inspector Isabel Reis, a Gifted Inspector with Portugal's PolÍcia Judiciária has developed a reputation for closing sensitive cases involving powerful people. When the gravity of what has happened in Belgravia is revealed, she's called up to London to assist London Met's CID in the investigation.

The mystery takes another alarming turn when they realise that the embassy was harbouring an American-Portuguese military scientist who is unaccounted for.

One thing becomes clear very quickly: the deaths are murders, and Isabel faces capturing a killer more ruthless than she has ever seen before.

(P) 2023 Hodder & Stoughton Limited

Release date: July 20, 2023

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton

Print pages: 384

Sample

Chapter 1

‘Merda,’ Inspector Isabel Reis mutters, hand cupped protectively over her mouth as she strides up the stairs ahead of her partner, Inspector Alexander Voronov.

The perp they’d arrested and brought back to the Anjos precinct is still yelling the place down as uniformed officers drag him away to get booked. He’s calling her every name under the sun, spittle collecting in the corners of his mouth, veins popping in his neck. His anger is a gnarled thing, rusted red and filling the room. There’s no coherency to it, no thoughts clinging to it.

She’d known in the moment they’d answered the call – pulling into a gated community, the neighbours gathered outside trying to intervene – the rage spilling from him had an amplified sharpness to it that had left Isabel dazed for a moment. It had made sense when they’d managed to get their hands on his ID. The man was a level-five Gifted.

It had thrown Isabel for a second. Just a second. That had been enough for him to clock her in the face with his elbow.

Isabel pokes gingerly at the inside of her lip and winces. At least she can’t taste blood anymore. The cut is there though, a split that feels a little wide to the tip of her tongue and the swell of her lip is still growing. Her cheekbone is a bright spark of pain. She’s going to have a black eye tomorrow.

This one had been an accidental blow. Nothing compared to his girlfriend who had tentatively opened the bathroom door to them, neck a rainbow of colours and eyes nearly swollen shut. Isabel makes a mental note to check in on her later.

She hopes the girlfriend presses charges. But she’s not hoping too hard. She knows how these things go.

The late summer heat is still going strong with forecasts predicting that it may last long enough to tip over into October. Isabel’s hair is up in a haphazard ponytail, but tiny curls have already escaped from its hold. She can hear the velvety whirrs of multiple fans doing nothing but circulating warm air around the open space of their floor. Despite that, if it weren’t for the building lights, the inside of the building would be in shadows. Clouds had settled early in the morning, blanketing the whole sky.

It feels oppressive.

Isabel stops at the top of the stairs. She hears Voronov calling her name from behind her.

She takes a deep breath and with that sinks inward.

A couple of months ago, she would have had to start from the beginning, finding the quiet in the space of her mind and slowly, painstakingly, build a wall to protect it from other people’s unwanted thoughts. Now the wall is there, tall, heavy, a circle of protection around her mind. Not perfect. She sees where the cracks are, little lines that glow white in her mind’s eye.

It feels like minutes, rather than seconds, as she seals each and every one of those cracks until there’s nothing but a seamless barrier.

Getting knocked by another Gifted person’s power had unbalanced her for a moment, just enough to leave a few chinks in her armour. Nothing she can’t overcome with more time and practice.

There’s a presence at her back.

Isabel stiffens. Eyes straight ahead and still unseeing.

The presence stretches, unfurling and yawning open behind her.

‘– bel—’

Isabel yanks away from the soft touch to her arm and whirls, jaw set.

Voronov stills, hand still outstretched.

The presence she’d felt lingers for a moment longer then dissipates.

‘Sorry,’ she says, ‘I was just in my head.’ Her heart is still racing, like the quick pitter-patter of a frightened rabbit’s.

‘It’s fine,’ he says.

‘I’ll be there in a sec,’ she says, jerking her chin in the direction of their section. ‘I need to take care of this.’ She gestures at her mouth and cheek.

Before Isabel can follow through, she hears the sound of fast-clipped steps and spots Carla Muniz coming straight towards them.

‘I thought I saw you both arrive,’ Carla says, as she stops next to them.

Carla is a petite woman with short, straight, dark hair and a strong nose. She’s always dressed professionally, even in weather like this. Case in point, her buttoned navy shirt and grey trousers topped off with a classy thin gold watch on her wrist. Not a hair out of place.

‘Are you okay?’ She frowns, eyes widening as she takes in the sight of Isabel’s face properly. A junior inspector at the precinct, Carla’s partnered with Inspector Daniel Verde, a long-time colleague and friend. Recently, along with Senior Crime Scene Specialist Jacinta Cacho, they’d all grown closer as a team, having worked two significant cases that caught the attention of the media and, unfortunately for their chief and Isabel in particular, politicians.

‘Fine,’ Isabel replies, straightening.

Voronov steps back from Isabel.

‘How are you not sweating in that?’ Isabel asks.

Carla waves hello to Voronov. ‘I’m used to it,’ she says, ‘I wasn’t just stalking you guys by the way; Chief Bautista is looking for you.’

‘Did she say what it’s about?’ Voronov asks.

‘No,’ Carla says, ‘but she has someone with her. Not police.’ She gives them both a look. ‘I think she’s government.’

When they reach their section, Carla hangs back. Isabel catches sight of Daniel’s close-shaved head peering over the divider at them, lifting a hand in greeting as he watches them head down the hallway towards Chief Bautista’s office.

‘Someone from government?’ Voronov says, voice low.

Isabel pulls an ice pack away from her face. There’s a bloom of rusted red spotting the paper. She prods at the inside her lip. The metallic taste lingers. ‘I hope not,’ she mutters.

When they reach the chief’s office, Voronov knocks quickly before opening the door.

Chief Bautista looks up at them, doing a double take when she catches a glimpse of Isabel’s face. The woman sitting across from her is dressed in a sharp, pale-blue suit, black hair pulled into a neat bun at the nape and a visitor’s lanyard hanging from her neck.

‘Inspector Reis, does that need to be seen to?’ As always, the chief’s voice sounds as if she’s knocked back a drink of something that could strip paint and followed it up with twenty-four hours of straight chain-smoking.

‘No, Chief, I’m fine. You called for us?’ she asks as Voronov closes the door behind them.

‘Good. Reis, Voronov, this is Milena Amorim,’ she says, ‘she’s a representative from the government’s Consular Affairs Department.’

Isabel nods a quick greeting at the woman. Next to her, Voronov greets her more politely with a handshake.

Milena Amorim is sitting very upright, but her fingers are locked tight around the strap of the bag resting on her lap.

‘Senhora Amorim has come to us with an unusual situation and their department has requested our assistance.’

‘Our assistance with what, exactly?’ Isabel asks.

Chief Bautista gives a heavy sigh, and then right there, in front of the representative, she pulls out a packet of cigarettes from her pocket. She slides one out and lights it up. Amorim wrinkles her mouth in distaste.

The chief strokes a thumb over the arch of her eyebrow and blows out a curling stream. The smell of smoke taints the room. She rests her hands on the desk.

‘I’m sending you both to London.’

Chapter 10

The radio show warns commuters of heavy traffic due to a police incident earlier on in the day followed by a summary of the public transport status. Listening to it makes Isabel wonder if everyone in London should just be walking from A to B right now.

‘We got off on the wrong foot.’

That catches Isabel off guard.

The words aren’t said with any inflection, more like an observation. Rampaul has her attention on the road. She slows to a stop at a red light and turns Isabel’s way.

‘You didn’t exactly help your case,’ Rampaul points out. ‘Giving me attitude right off the bat.’

Isabel snorts, incredulous. ‘You get what you give, no? Isn’t that the rule?’

Rampaul shrugs and goes back to focusing on the road. ‘Sometimes. With certain people, I suppose.’

‘It’s fine. If I were in your shoes, I wouldn’t be very happy either. But as you said, it is what it is. We can make the best of the situation.’

Rampaul nods in agreement. The light switches to green and they’re on the move again. ‘This isn’t my usual type of case.’

‘No?’ Isabel looks out the window. ‘I really hope I’ll be able to say the same.’

Rampaul checks the navigation map on her phone. ‘Yeah. I read about you two.’

‘Oh, you had time for that with all of this work on your hands?’ Isabel asks. If she’s being blatantly sarcastic, well, Voronov isn’t here to tell her off for it.

‘I made time. If I’m being forced to work with people I don’t know, I should know who I’m dealing with, don’t you think?’

She turns deftly into a narrow street, short squat buildings with shabby shops on one side and open blocks of flats on the other, their stairwells exposed and the spaces beneath them shadowed. The area has a brutal feel to it, the architecture blunt, the colours bleak.

A few youths linger on the far end corner of the street, hoodies up, heads turning as one when Rampaul leans out of the window to peer at the parking sign on the side of the road, before cruising further down to slide her car into a spot that’s tight enough that Isabel is side-eyeing her the entire time.

Rampaul rolls her eyes and cuts the engine. ‘No faith.’

They get out and walk to the closest set of stairs.

‘Those two cases of yours are all over the internet,’ Rampaul starts up the stairs and Isabel follows. She seems to know where she’s going.

‘We’ve had the bad luck of a couple of our cases catching more attention than we’d like, it’s probably what contributed to them harassing my chief to have us sent over here to be a pain in your side,’ Isabel says, tone dry.

‘And your thoughts about what happened in the ambassador’s office?’

‘You’ve seen the video?’ Isabel asks.

‘Yes. Is there a version of it with sound?’

‘I don’t know,’ Isabel says. ‘We received the same version as you it seems.’

‘Reis.’ Rampaul stops and looks at her. ‘Did they send you here because they think there’s some kind of Gifted angle to all of this? Though how that would work . . . I’m not sure.’

‘I don’t think so,’ Isabel says. ‘I’d be more concerned about bureaucracy getting in the way of figuring this out. If that’s something that you’re considering we’d need more evidence to pursue a Gifted angle.’

Rampaul nods. ‘I’m not ruling anything out, however unlikely.’

Isabel is a step behind her as they make their way up. ‘There was an incident back in Portugal. A young woman caused a major incident in the city, affected a whole building with her telekinesis. And I’ve personally seen some things.’ She thinks of the precision of Gifted just using their ability for fun in safe spaces. That kind of control isn’t something to underestimate.

‘That’s . . . something.’

‘That’s one way to put it. But I think right now all we have for sure is a missing person.’

The building is mostly quiet as they walk out into the corridor for the third floor.

Despite the heat, most of the windows are open, curtains open too, people inviting this crippling heat in. The doors are all closed though and there’s not much by way of people going about their lives behind closed doors.

The corridor faces a neat community garden. She can see the tidily grouped tools and crops which have been planted and are being cared for. How carefully everything has been set out to protect it from the elements. It makes her think briefly of the one at home that her dad used to tend.

Isabel can remember his days off being spent there as far as she can remember. Before he passed that was. The tree he’d planted when she was small is still there. The allotment itself belongs to someone else now. Her mother hadn’t ever set foot there after he’d died and at the time, her brother hadn’t been able to afford it. They’d had no choice but to let it go.

Clothes hang off the washing line, blowing gently in the breeze. The air has become increasingly humid as the day has gone on and some pieces have been out too long. The sky remains overcast.

The flat they’re going to is the last one on this floor: Flat 33. There are iron bars on the window and the front door is painted a mustard yellow. When Isabel glances down at the doormat, she quirks the corner of her mouth at the words ‘feline inside’ and a picture of a black cat curled around the words.

Rampaul raps her knuckles on the door. ‘Mrs Cheever? Are you in?’ She raps again before standing back.

At first there’s no sound, but then after a moment Isabel hears steps and the sound of a metal chain sliding free before the door cracks open.

A dishevelled woman around their age peers blearily at them from the slim gap.

‘Yes?’ She squints at them, one hand firmly gripping the side of the door. She’s in a loose khaki tracksuit, the lower side of the top creased all down one side, like she’s fallen asleep in it. Her hair is barely contained by the clip pinning it to the top of her head, chunks of it falling haphazardly around her face. She slides a pair of glasses she’s holding in her hand on to her nose and the wrinkles in her forehead smooth out. There’s a noticeable accent in her speech.

‘Mrs Cheever?’

Rampaul tugs her police ID from inside her jacket and shows it to her. ‘I’m Detective Inspector Rampaul with the Major Crime Investigative Unit and this is Inspector Reis of the Judiciary Police in Lisbon. We’d like to come in and speak to you about the incident that took place at the embassy.’

 

Isabel stares, bemused, at the cat making itself comfortable in her lap.

Mrs Cíntia Cheever walks over to the sitting area and sets a tray down on the large wide coffee table. The table makes the small living-room space feel even smaller. Three mismatched mugs filled to the brim sit next to a plastic tub of sugar and a clean spoon.

The milk, Isabel notices with a sense of resignation, has already been poured into all three mugs of tea.

On the mounted TV, four women sit along a table in a well-lit studio which has erupted into applause. Mrs Cheever quickly grabs the remote and turns the sound down.

Isabel strokes her fingers into the cat’s lush black fur, and it stretches appreciatively on her thighs. The little bells on its collar jingle. ‘Thank you,’ Isabel says, as Mrs Cheever sets a mug on a coaster in front of her and hands the other to Rampaul.

‘No problem, no problem.’ Mrs Cheever settles down on the carpeted floor on her knees as she adds sugar to her own tea. ‘I didn’t realise they’d sent someone Portuguese over to deal with this.’

‘My colleague and I are only here to assist with the incident,’ Isabel says and gestures at Rampaul. ‘DI Rampaul is leading the inquiry.’

‘I see.’ She adjusts the hem of her top, tugging it down in a way that stretches the collar. She takes her mug in hand. ‘How can I help? I wasn’t there yesterday. I don’t usually work Tuesdays, it’s the day I visit my mother at her care home.’ Her eyes take on the faraway look of someone going deep into thought. She rubs her thumbs back and forth around the rim of her mug.

The cat on Isabel’s lap twists and jumps down, slinking its way to Mrs Cheever. It climbs delicately on to her knees and butts its head against her stomach.

Mrs Cheever blinks down at the small animal. She sets her mug down and scoops the cat up, gathering it to her chest. She strokes her hand over its head and back. ‘I wasn’t there,’ she says again.

‘We’re aware,’ Rampaul says. She pulls out a pocket-sized notebook and a blue ballpoint and rests them on her lap. ‘But there are still some blanks you can help fill for us. You know we’ve spoken to Mr Grosz?’

‘Andrzej?’ The cat wriggles out of her hands and climbs up on to her shoulder. She continues to stroke it absently. ‘Yes. I know he spoke to you and helped identify the – the people found in the building.’

‘Mr Grosz has been very helpful regarding the security arrangements of the embassy. We’ll be speaking to remaining members of staff who are employed by the embassy,’ Rampaul says. ‘We’ll need your assistance with gathering their contact information, phone numbers, addresses, etc. I’m assuming you have access to the records of all those on the staff?’

Mrs Cheever flinches at the word ‘remaining’. She twists her face down to rub her cheek against the cat. ‘Yes. We moved to a cloud system last year. We’re not supposed to access work information and files from devices outside the embassy, but yes, I have access.’

‘As the office manager and the one in charge of overseeing the facilities, you worked closely with Mr Grosz regarding security arrangements. Did anyone at the embassy also contribute to decisions on the security arrangements?’

‘Judite. Judite Ramos. She’s Mr Francisco’s—I mean, the ambassador’s, secretary,’ she says.

Isabel remembers Grosz briefly mentioned Ramos during their first interview with him at the station yesterday.

‘Has Miss Ramos been with the embassy for a long time?’ Rampaul asks.

Mrs Cheever frowns, cups her mug in both her hands and brings it to her mouth for a careful sip. ‘She’s been there longer than I have,’ she says, ‘I started at the embassy about five years ago. But I think she’s been there ever since Mr Francisco was appointed as ambassador.’

‘How long ago was that?’

‘I’m not sure.’

‘Is that something that you can check?’

‘Yes. We have records for all of our current staff members.’

‘What about those who have left the embassy?’

‘It depends how far back.’

‘That’s fine.’

‘And do you know why Miss Ramos wasn’t at the embassy yesterday morning? Did she have a meeting elsewhere, perhaps?’

Mrs Cheever shakes her head. ‘I don’t know, maybe. There are last minute changes to hers and Mr Francisco’s calendars all the time.’

Rampaul asks a few more questions about the timetables for supply deliveries and other companies or suppliers with access to the building. Mrs Cheever’s responses are in line with what they have been told by Grosz.

‘What about in-house staff schedules and rotas?’

The cat has started trying to climb up on to Mrs Cheever’s head and she jerks when one of its paws catches on her hair. That startles it and it jumps down and crawls under the table.

‘Yes, I have those too. For senior officials, like Mr Francisco, I won’t as much due to confidentiality, but I can see where things have been marked as busy or out of office, on his calendar. When you speak to Judite she can give you a more accurate schedule for Mr Francisco.’

‘Right.’ Rampaul makes a note of that. ‘Is there anything else you think we should be aware of?’

Mrs Cheever tucks back a whisp of hair. ‘Like what?’

There’s a sudden pulse of emotion there, and Isabel tips her head, chasing after it like a spoken word she hadn’t heard quite well enough.

Rampaul catches the shift in Isabel’s body language. She glances at her, askance.

Isabel scoots to the edge of the sofa cushion and leans forward. She rests her elbows on her knees and meets Mrs Cheever’s gaze.

Mrs Cheevers eyes widen and her face pales. She’s been caught in something. She doesn’t know in what, but she realises that much.

‘Anything at all. Is it okay if I call you Cíntia?’ Isabel asks, giving her a reassuring smile.

‘Of course.’

‘Cíntia, as DI Rampaul here explained I’m an inspector with the Judiciary Police in Lisbon. I’m also Gifted, I have a telepathic affinity.’ She keeps her voice as soothing as she can. This is uncertain ground for her. She has no experience of how the general public here react when faced with someone who can potentially listen in on their thoughts, given what DC Duncan had told them.

If Isabel thought Mrs Cheever had gone pale before, the way the skin around her lips whitens is alarming. ‘You—’ She leans away from them. ‘I thought – here, we don’t—’

‘There’s nothing for you to be concerned about. I promise. I don’t do anything without someone’s consent. In fact,’ Isabel allows herself a wry smile, hoping it’ll help put the other woman at ease, ‘if I did do anything without your explicit consent, not only would it be inadmissible at court, but I’d lose my job.’

‘Sorry . . .’ She looks at Isabel, or more accurately, in Isabel’s direction. She can’t quite bring herself to make actual eye contact.

‘It’s fine,’ Isabel says. ‘I understand it can be disconcerting.’ She wonders how much worse her reaction would have been if she knew that nowadays it takes Isabel more effort to keep other people’s thoughts out of her head than it does for her to slide into someone’s mind and leaf through it like she just walked into a library and picked up a book.

‘Sorry,’ Mrs Cheever says again and this time her gaze falls to her hands where she’s now gripping them tightly together on her lap.

‘Like I said, I’m not allowed to do anything without your permission. However, one thing that Gifted people like me are able to do is pick up on emotional cues. You see, people feel quite loudly,’ Isabel says, touching a hand to her own chest, ‘and when DI Rampaul asked you if there was anything else you might want to tell us, I felt a change. Something a little like panic.’ Isabel pauses there and lets that sink in. ‘I want you to tell us about that.’

At Isabel’s side, Rampaul waits patiently, her expression neutral.

Isabel hopes Mrs Cheever correctly interprets what she’s trying to say.

Don’t lie to us because I’ll know.

Mrs Cheever runs both her hands over her hair, shifting to sit on her knees again. Clearly agitated. ‘I don’t like to gossip,’ she mutters.

On TV, the chat hosts are continuing to talk in the background as Isabel and Rampaul wait her out.

When she speaks the words come out rushed. ‘I saw Mr Francisco leave the doctor’s room.’

‘You mean Dr Pereira’s room?’ Isabel asks.

Mrs Cheever nods.

‘Is that normal?’

She shakes her head no.

‘Then I’m assuming it wasn’t appropriate for him to be there?’

‘Yes.’ Mrs Cheever turns her hands palm up on her lap, examining them, then runs her thumb along the lifeline of the opposite hand. ‘That was the place she was allocated when they agreed to house her at the embassy until the ambassador could resolve her situation.’

Isabel narrows her eyes. ‘Were you there the day she arrived?’

‘Yes. I hadn’t been notified and neither had Andrzej. That was unusual. For a situation of this severity, Andrzej and I are always informed.’

‘Did she show up by herself? Was she escorted there?’

‘She arrived with Judite.’

Ramos, the ambassador’s secretary. That means there must have been communication beforehand with Ambassador Francisco. Why else would his secretary have known to meet Dr Pereira and bring her there?

‘When were you and Mr Grosz informed that she would be staying at the embassy?’ Isabel asks.

‘When Judite arrived with her. That was the first time we were told.’

So, they’d already granted Dr Pereira refuge.

Isabel can hear the scritch of Rampaul’s pen on paper.

‘Okay. So, she’s given the room at the very top, correct?’

‘Yes. It was the only room that could be used for housing someone.’

‘Did you ever see anyone else coming out of her room?’

‘No. Her meals would be ready downstairs in the staff kitchen. She liked the garden. She went out there a lot too.’

That matched with what Grosz had told them.

‘Go on,’ Isabel says.

‘Well – usually meetings between the ambassador and the doctor took place in his office. I know because I’d have to order refreshments, so I had to be informed and Judite was always present for them. I don’t know the particulars of what they were all discussing, but I know that Mr Francisco was speaking to our government – that is, the Portuguese government – on the doctors behalf. They met often.’

‘The times you saw Mr Francisco coming out of her room, was it daytime? Nighttime?’

‘Daytime. The admin team and I work from nine to five. Sometimes the secretaries will do a bit of overtime because of meetings running over or meetings with people in different time zones.’

‘How many times did you witness this?’

‘Two – no – three times.’

‘Can you give us a more specific time frame?’

Mrs Cheever does. Twice in the morning. One time after lunch. ‘He followed her after lunch. They were walking up the stairs together. I had a worker in that day trying to fix the sink in the upstairs bathroom; we were both inside when I saw them walking towards her room.’

‘Aside from them heading to her room, did anything else seem odd to you? Did either of them seem different or agitated or anything of the sort?’

‘I couldn’t really see their faces,’ she says.

‘I see.’

‘Was there anything else?’

The cat edges out from under the table towards Mrs Cheever, its nose sniffing delicately at the air.

She reaches out to pet its head, hand cupping over the cat’s ears, and as if from deep inside a dream, she asks: ‘What happened in there? The embassy?’

They can’t answer her.

 

‘It’s suspicious,’ Voronov says, ‘but it’s not incriminating.’

Isabel switches the phone from one ear to the other as she brings Voronov up to speed on the new information they’d learned from Cíntia Cheever, namely Ambassador Francisco’s unusual visits to Dr Pereira’s room. She glances behind her to see if Rampaul is done.

She’s waiting outside what Rampaul had called a chicken and chips shop, leaning on a small slice of wall next to a Turkish food market. The smell of fried potatoes and grease spills out from the open door. Inside, a few students in their school uniform and bulky backpacks are squeezed around one of the small dark-blue plastic tables, boxes of chicken and cans of Coke crammed on to the surface.

Rampaul is at the counter, also on her phone, waiting for their order.

‘If it’s unusual enough for her to report it, it’s possible something else was going on. We can’t reach Francisco’s secretary though,’ Isabel says. ‘She would have tried to get in touch with Francisco or the embassy by now, don’t you think? So, we should have heard from her.’

A burst of loud laughter and shouts draws her attention to the pub on the corner of the street. Baskets overflowing with petunias in blues, whites and pinks hang above the pub windows, adding a touch of old-world charm to the building. People are crowded on to the benches outside, others standing but tightly grouped around. Isabel can see through the windows into the well-lit, packed interior.

The pub is one big ball of voices, physical and internal, swelling outward and coloured in many different emotions. They batter at the barriers shielding her mind.

‘Judite Ramos?’ Voronov says.

Isabel drops her head into her hand and digs her thumb into the space between her eyebrows. ‘Yes, that’s her,’ Isabel says, ‘Cíntia sent the staff records through?’

‘She’s sent over the information you requested, and we have remote access to the CCTV files for the embassy. We’re logging everything right now. One more thing, I got through to the manager at Moreno Security. They confirmed Grosz’s account of the rota. They have the other six who were on rotation at the embassy. They’ve said they’ll hold them for you until three; their boss wants them spoken to as soon as possible so he can let them off on leave.’

‘Okay, I’ll tell Rampaul. Food should be almost ready; we can go straight there.’

‘We’ll check at the staff records and get Ramos’s address. We can pause things here for now and go see if she’s home.’

‘All right. Keep us posted.’ Isabel hangs up.

A plastic bag being shaken right next to her face and the strong smell of fried chicken has her turning around to find Rampaul standing beside her.

‘Let’s go, Reis. I want my food before it gets cold.’

Chapter 11

Moreno Security is situated in a large commercial building in an industrial park in Chingford. The plaque on the wall next to the heavy blue double doors leading into the building tells them they’re based on the third floor and when Rampaul rings the buzzer for that floor, a soft accented female voice tells them they’ll be right down.

Behind them, the sun is struggling to penetrate through the clouds. The humidity in the air has worsened and Isabel wonders if a storm is coming.

She presses a hand to her stomach, feeling uncomfortably full since they’d eaten earlier.

‘You all right?’ Rampaul asks, noticing the motion.

Isabel drops her hand and nods. ‘Yeah. I’m fine, food just didn’t settle great.’

One of the doors swings inward with a loud echoing sound that makes it seem as if a large mechanism has been unlocked and from behind the door a small woman who is possibly in her sixties steps out. She peers up at them.

‘Good afternoon,’ she says. It’s the same woman who had spoken to them via the intercom. She’s dressed in an old-fashioned grey pencil skirt that stops above the ankles, a white shirt with pearl buttons and neatly done-up collar. Her grey-brown hair is combed back into a