Rutter, Reborn: Rutter Books

By David Waine

Rutter, Reborn  begins where the fifth book, The Secret Angels, left off. Former Detective Chief Inspector, Julie Rutter, and her artist friend, Trudi Hammond, have been honourably discharged from MI6, following their mission to Austria to bring down neo-Nazi serial killer, Julian Radcliffe. They have also teamed up with that rarest of beings, a black Russian. Natalia Nicolayevna Ivanova has been granted British citizenship and taken the name, Anna Torrance. She is the surviving half of the most formidable hacking partnership on the planet, Lebed. The three of them begin a new life in London as the Secret Angels Private Investigation Agency. Before that, however, Rutter must reveal herself as having come back from the dead.

• Language: English
• Publisher: David Waine
• Release date: Aug 25, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393529385

David Waine

David Waine was born in Newcastle upon Tyne, England, in 1949. He is the youngest of three brothers, all of whom went on to become teachers like their father. It was during his teaching career that he developed an interest in writing, initially plays, and his adaptation of Shakespeare's 'Macbeth' was performed at the Cockpit Theatre in London (the forerunner of Shakespeare's Globe) as part of the Globe Theatre restoration in 1991. He took up novel writing after leaving the profession, and his first published work, The Planning Officers appeared in 2011. He lives with his wife in the foothills of the Pennines. www.davidwaineauthor.com

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RUTTER, REBORN

The Sixth Rutter Book

By

DAVID WAINE

Turnspit Dog Publishing

© David Waine 2020

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This is a work of fiction. All characters and events are fictional. Any resemblance to a real person, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. No par of this narrative may be reproduced in any way without the written consent of the copyright holder. David Waine has asserted his moral rights. All Rights Reserved.

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www.davidwaineauthor.com

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First published 2020

This edition published 2022

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Dedication

To my wife, Helen, and our sons, Michael and Paul

CONTENTS

RUTTER, REBORN

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

THE HUNTED ANGEL

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Rutter, Reborn begins where the fifth book, The Secret Angels, left off. Former Detective Chief Inspector, Julie Rutter, and her artist friend, Trudi Hammond, have been honourably discharged from MI6, following their mission to Austria to bring down neo-Nazi serial killer, Julian Radcliffe. They have also teamed up with that rarest of beings, a black Russian. Natalia Nicolayevna Ivanova has been granted British citizenship and taken the name, Anna Torrance. She is the surviving half of the most formidable hacking partnership on the planet, Lebed. The three of them begin a new life in London as the Secret Angels Private Investigation Agency. Before that, however, Rutter must reveal herself as having come back from the dead.

PROLOGUE

"DEAR GOD, I’VE turned respectable, Trudi grumbled, grimacing at her new pixie cut in a mirror while mixing fresh colours on her palette. Despite all my best efforts, expectations and aspirations, I have grown up!"

"You only ever looked like a punk," grinned Rutter with a sidelong glance at the portrait of Marcus Logan on which her friend was working.

They had been back in the country for just two days. Trudi had leapt at the chance to return to her calling and complete the portrait — promised since before Christmas but languishing unfinished while she hunted Nazis in the Alps.

The old Irishman no longer needed to be present because she had already captured his likeness. The completed work would be unveiled to its new owner before the week was out. Like all her work, the painting was so much more than what it depicted. To any that knew Marcus, it would be obvious that she had revealed the glowing, sainted orb of his soul in her brushstrokes.

The response was an arched eyebrow. Contrary to her normal practice, the artist was painting sitting down because her left leg was encased in plaster and pinned internally as she recovered from the shattering effect of an assassin’s Kalashnikov. The sharp ache in her thigh warned her that the pain killers were wearing off again and would need replacing. It was a painful reminder that if said assassin had aimed just a little higher, there would have been no need for pain killers.

Growing up is something that dull women do, she replied tartly, or bossy, analytical ones, like you. Those of us of a bohemian bent need to nurture that remote corner of our souls where the eternal tomboy lurks. How else would we do what we do?

Same way as we do anything, responded Rutter, by working at it. Her expression changed as she thought on. Maybe you’re right, she decided. The likes of you are born, not made.

And I intend to demonstrate it by going shopping tomorrow, replied Trudi, crutches notwithstanding.

Rutter’s eyebrow rose. Her friend did not do shopping like other girls. She shopped, naturally, for food and essentials, and occasionally, for clothes. Unlike many other young women, however, did not regard shopping as an end in itself. The only outlets she ever showed any real interest in were those that were directly connected with Art.

You already have enough paints, pastels and brushes to sink a ship, Rutter remarked.

Trudi chuckled. Nothing like that, she replied, dabbing a tiny catchlight in the Irishman’s left eye. Now that I have a regular income, my bank balance no longer bears an uncomfortable resemblance to a gaping hole. Therefore, I will treat myself to a new motorbike. One like that BMW they let me use in Austria would fit the bill perfectly. I’ll be hobbling, of course, so you and Anna can come and help me choose it if you like.

Neither of them ever addressed Anna by her birth name. Natalia Nicolyaevna Ivanova may have been the offspring of the union between a minor Soviet diplomat and a Cuban woman, which explained why she looked more Afro-Caribbean than Slav, but that appellation represented a past from which she barely escaped intact. A fresh identity had been bestowed on her by a grateful host nation. She held a bogus birth certificate, fictitious academic and medical records, the last of these based on a hurriedly arranged examination. She had also been given a National Insurance Number, fake tax records, CV and so forth ― even a fantasy six-year-old degree in Information Technology from one of the lesser provincial universities. To uninformed eyes, Anna Torrance was a perfectly ordinary Englishwoman who had lived a quiet life, working primarily in the I.T. field. The fact that she spoke English like a native helped hugely.

She had chosen her English name in memory of her lost love, Anatolii Tereschenko, the final victim of a notorious serial killer and a hired gun.

Rutter’s decided to discard her disguise altogether following a discreet phone call from Trudi’s father, her former commanding officer. Lord Hammond informed her that the embargo on reporting the incident was to be lifted. Her former employers, the Metropolitan Police, had been informed of her survival. A meeting had been arranged.

*

Bow Road, London

Friday, April 30th, 1999

9.45 AM

SHE WORE A casual outfit on a blue theme, set off by her woolly hat, pulled down low to her eyebrows, and large sunglasses. Although no longer disguised, she still made herself less instantly recognisable. The hat would cover the dressing on her left ear — torn by a bullet. It would be hot under the late April sun, but she would just have to put up with that.

She still wore her gloves with the padded digit. They would make her hands hot as well, but the missing top two joints of her little finger were too much of a giveaway to discard them just yet. Beneath her clothes, her chest was still covered with livid bruises from where her assault rifle and body armour had saved her from being ripped apart by a burst of the assassin’s Kalashnikov. They caused her to walk more stiffly and slower than usual, but the pain was easing.

She ran her eyes over the elegant façade with its intrusive notice boards and blue Police lamp. It contrasted with a drab and utilitarian interior, filled with eternal bustle, bundles of files and flickering computer screens as the fight against crime went on without her.

Okay, Julie, in for a penny…

The duty sergeant smiled as he saw her arrive and remove her sunglasses and hat. Morning, ma’am.

She smiled back, self-consciously. He was the same sergeant who had called her Lassie on her first appearance there, eleven years before. Eleven years in the same job. He looked happy enough in his work. Not everybody craved high rank and the salary that went with it ― or the responsibility. At least he hadn’t addressed her as if she were a dog this time. It’s just Julie now, she answered with a small smile.

I’ll buzz someone to take you up.

As a mere member of the public, she was no longer allowed access to key-coded doors in police stations.

Someone turned out to be Sergeant Jim Cornish, her former bagman. At least he looked delighted to see her.

I knew in my heart it wasn’t true, he announced as he ignored her outstretched hand and treated her to a bear hug instead.

His delight was mirrored in her old incident room, where her former colleagues, Chalmers, Willoughby and Kirby crowded round to shake her hand and treat her to further hugs.

I owe you all an apology, she confessed, at last, extricating herself gratefully from the latest embrace. She referred to her own faked death the previous Christmas, which had marked the beginning of her involvement in MI6.

None needed, ma’am. Willoughby spoke for all of them. His face was serious and supported by nods right around the room. You did what you had to do. It’s just such a relief to see you… to see you alive. What happened to your ear?

Self-consciously, she pulled her hair back over the dressing. It had moved when she took off her hat. Accident, she lied.

Her eyes slid sideways to the frosted glass door of her old office. Where the name. DCI E. H. Manville had replaced her own. A masculine shadow solidified against the glass just before it opened to reveal a lean man of about forty years, in a smart grey suit. The sight of him gave her a sudden reminder of herself. He, too, had short dark hair and an air of no-nonsense practicality.

Eric Manville, the man introduced himself, grasping her hand firmly, your replacement. You are quite an act to follow, you know.

A job that you will do with distinction, I am sure, she smiled in reply, accepting the handshake.

Commander’s ready for you, he added in an undertone.

Taking a fond farewell of her former colleagues and feeling much better with herself, she followed him up to the top floor.

Her last meeting with Commander Mike Taverner and Superintendent Malcolm Renwick had been an ill-tempered affair, ending with her slapping her resignation on the desk and stalking out with the words, I said I lost the battle. I didn’t say I’d lost the war, but there is no way I can ever win it while fettered to you two, ringing in their ears.

She had expected the usual twenty-second wait, so she was surprised to hear Come, almost immediately. She could picture him in his shirt-sleeves, epaulettes on show, bent over that eternal file and keeping her waiting for half a minute before even acknowledging her presence.

For once, she was wrong. Taverner, clad, unusually for him, in a dark suit, stood by the window. Her former immediate boss, and one-time lover, Superintendent Malcolm Renwick, sat in his usual chair by the desk, wearing yet another expensive suit. Today’s was tan, set off, as ever, by a pristine white shirt, this time matched with a royal blue silk tie.

Come in, come in… er, Ms Rutter, Taverner welcomed her awkwardly with an outstretched hand.

She took the hand but eyed him dubiously. "I don’t think I’m quite ready for Ms yet. Not sure I ever will be. It sounds like a wasp has flown in. You can call me Julie if you like. And there is no way I will call either of you sir ever again." She punctuated the final remark with a small smirk.

The ice was broken. Smiles occurred naturally and handshakes were exchanged.

Well, said Taverner, seating himself behind his desk. I must admit that we had our suspicions when we were gagged by MI6, no less, but let me express our relief and delight at finding you alive and well after all.

Rutter smirked again. This was as embarrassing as it was welcome. Thank you. I apologise for the deception.

He shook his head good-naturedly. "No need. You were right. You have, indeed, won the war. A terrible chapter is closing. There is a future to address, though. How will you make the most of your undoubted talents now that you are no longer a police officer?"

She took a slow, deep breath. She had always known that this would be necessary. The regular police tended to view private eyes as interfering amateurs on a good day and interfering liabilities the rest of the time. She had done so, herself.

By doing what I am good at, she replied, frankly. I have had more than my share of serial killers, terrorists and rapists, so I am happy to leave them to you two and DCI Manville. Instead, I’m going private.

You have applied for a private investigator’s licence? asked Renwick, unnecessarily.

She nodded. I expect this means that I will spend my time tailing philandering husbands and their paramours. It will be tedious, tasteless snooping, but there is justice to be had there as well, not to mention a markedly lower risk of ending up in pieces. Besides, it leaves you all free to concentrate on the more exciting stuff.

"Won’t you miss the more exciting stuff?" Renwick’s eye betrayed a twinkle.

She shrugged. After the last year? She shook her head decisively. No, I won’t miss it that much.

Taverner leant back, relieved that she had at least found a new career for herself. Well, if you ever need our help… within reason.

She smiled again. Thank you. I’ll bear it in mind.

Renwick turned again in his seat. So, is this a solo effort or do you have a partner?

Two, actually, she replied, brightening. You remember Trudi Hammond, the artist?

Renwick recognised the name immediately. Oh yes, Lord Hammond’s daughter, Lady Clarissa. She saved your life that night at the warehouse.

Rutter’s face turned solemn. Aside from her artistic talent, which is prodigious, she has all the qualities required of a good detective, not to mention the fact that she is also a Karate expert. She once considered joining the Force, you know.

So, I heard, agreed Taverner. And the other?

Rutter stilled herself deliberately. She knew these men would be searching her face and body for any clues to what she was really thinking. It wasn’t that they suspected her of anything, so much as it was so ingrained in them that they did it unconsciously.

She screwed herself up to lie. You won't know her. Her name is Anna Torrance. We knew each other, years back, but her family moved north before I joined the Force and we lost touch. We ran into each other a few days ago when she returned to live in London, and we hit it off straight away. She is an I.T. specialist, which makes her the perfect complement to Trudi and me. Therefore, she will do the organising and research while Trudi and I are out playing Sherlock.

She surprised herself at how easily and convincingly the lie came out. Another benefit of her MI6 training. She crossed her fingers mentally in the hope that Renwick would not run a detailed background check on her.

You won’t involve Dr Lawson?

She shook her head. He has his calling, and he devotes his spare time to keeping my questionable sanity in check as well. He is helping us to set up, of course, and I can use him as a sounding board now without suffering a guilty conscience.

Both men permitted themselves a wry smile.

So, without meaning to sound sexist, an all-girl agency would deal primarily with female clients, I suppose? asked Renwick.

I expect so, nodded Rutter, "a bit like women driving instructors, but we’ll consider whatever work comes along, naturally. Marie Burnett christened us The Secret Angels, so that is how we will be known when we are up and running."

Which will be when?

She wrinkled her nose. A month, perhaps. Maybe six weeks. Still, a bit to sort out.

Well, we wish you every success, smiled Taverner ingratiatingly.

As Rutter rose to leave, he stopped her. Before you go.

She turned again to see all vestiges of a smile fade from his face. Her curiosity piqued, she sat again. He had an announcement to make.

Opening a drawer in his desk, he extracted a folder and set it before her. At no time did his eyes leave hers.

We thought you should know that the millions that Kevin Mallory and Julian Radcliffe stole have been recovered and are being returned to their rightful owners. It seems that their Swiss bank accounts were raided by an exceptional hacker with a social conscience if you can believe that such a person even exists. Rutter could, she knew exactly who it was, but Anna’s secret was safe with her. They promptly handed the money over to us. Every penny, believe it or not. Our experts were flabbergasted. It had taken them months to claw back a tiny fraction.

She was aware of the piercing look but met it with equanimity. Don’t look at me. You know how useless I am with computers.

No, agreed Renwick with a forced smile, whoever did it knows exactly how to avoid us.

Did Dr Lawson tell you that Mallory died of his injuries?

Rutter nodded solemnly. He did. I won’t be sending flowers.

Taverner shook his head grimly. No. Quite. Nodding at the file on his desk, he went on, And have you heard the news from Austria?

There was something on the radio this morning about a load of Nazis being rounded up. Is that what you mean? she answered guardedly.

He nodded. That was the preliminary press release. It occurred over a week ago. The full statement will be given at a press conference at 6.15 this evening. He indicated the file. This came in last night from Military Intelligence. We haven’t told anybody yet, not even downstairs, but I think it only fair that you should know. You can tell Dr Lawson provided the pair of you keep it under your hats until after the press conference.

Intrigued, Rutter sat forward, aware of every nerve in her body and keeping all of them in check with rigid discipline. Okay, she said guardedly.

Taverner’s face was grim. From what we can gather, it seems that Radcliffe organised an event, but he escaped in the confusion. She fought down the churning in her stomach without moving a muscle. Well, he continued with a relieved sigh, It is my not at all painful duty to inform you that he is dead. Her eyes widened as he extracted several large, coloured photographs from the folder and set them before her. He tried to escape into Slovenia on foot two nights ago. This woman caught up with him right on the border. A place called the Loibl Pass.

Rutter stared at the two photographs. She remained outwardly dispassionate, but her insides were turning somersaults. Both were night shots illuminated by a powerful electronic flash. Radcliffe lay on his back, spread-eagled across bare rock, running with his blood, a bleeding nametag in his cheek. His eyes stared blankly at the sky. Across his body lay the shattered remains of a young woman. Her entire left side had been severely burned and the back of her head was missing. The second picture, however, had been taken from a different angle and showed her face. Rutter recognised it at once: Ilse Metzger, his former right-hand woman. With a huge effort, she internalised the searing emotion. Slowly, and very deliberately, she turned her eyes back on the commander.

"Was it John Donne who wrote, Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned?" he asked.

No, it was William Congreve, she corrected quietly, with a slow shake of her head, and that’s a misquote. ‘A’ Level in English Literature, she explained to Renwick’s raised eyebrow.

Taverner shrugged. "Well, it seems apt enough here. She did it, and she pulled no punches. Radcliffe died horribly. He had just climbed an Alpine pass on foot, and she incapacitated him by shooting him in both knees when he reached the top. Then she made sure he couldn’t even sit up to cry for help by shooting him in both elbows. She could have finished him there and then, but she shot him in the stomach instead.

‘The only fatal wound was the last one, and that would have been far from quick. Penfold reckoned that it would have taken him up to a quarter of an hour to bleed to death from a wound like that and that he would have been conscious for most of it. Finally, she completed the job by ramming the pin from the ID card he had used at the event right through his cheek into his tongue. She knew her stuff, ensured that he would die extremely slowly, and in unspeakable agony, and then she put the gun in her mouth and blew the back of her head off."

Rutter sat back, unable to take her eyes from the pictures. A huge weight had dropped from her shoulders. No chance that these could be faked? she asked earnestly.

None, confirmed Renwick, taking a look himself. The border guards on both sides were alerted by the gunshots. They took the pictures. By the time they reached the scene, the woman was dead and Radcliffe all but. He finally expired about a minute later. They tried to resuscitate him, but there was nothing they could do. We have his body in the morgue and Penfold has run his tests. DNA and fingerprints match, the teeth match dental records, and she left his face almost untouched. It’s definitely him.

Taverner leant back, tapping the tips of his fingers together beneath his chin. So, justice for Alison Leggat, justice for Frank Merriweather, justice for Sally Ferguson and justice for Heaven only knows how many others at last. No idea who the woman was, though. No DNA or fingerprints on the database, here or in Europe. They’re still going through dental records.

 Sorry, can’t help you, remarked Rutter flatly. She sat back in her seat. Bearing in mind what he did, or had done, to a long list of innocent people, one of whom was a close friend, and two others colleagues, I shan’t lose any sleep over him, and the fact that his money has gone means that there will be no hitmen on my tail because there is nothing left to pay them. Therefore, I won’t have to look over my shoulder anymore. She removed her gloves. And I won’t need these either.

Taverner looked up suddenly, preferring not to look at the stump of her mutilated finger. Which brings us to another point. Officially, you are still dead. Have you been going about openly since you returned?

Disguised out of doors until today, she admitted. And, even then, I took precautions.

He nodded. Very wise. I think it might be politic if we included a mention of your return to the land of the living as well.

Tell a lie? She was amused.

He smirked. "We did suspect that there was more to your demise than met the eye," he illustrated demise by wiggling two fingers of each hand, like quotation marks, and it isn’t as if Dr Lawson tried to claim on your life insurance. How long has he known, by the way?

Since January.

It was late morning when she arrived back at her home in St. John’s Wood. Pulling up outside, she extracted her phone and texted Alex at work.

He was on a break, so he rang her straight back.

How did it go?

Fine, she replied.

She could hear the smile in his voice. So, everything is clear to start up the Angels?

More or less, she replied. There is one thing, though.

A brief pause. What’s that?

This won’t be announced until this evening, so I will choose my words carefully, and you do the same. You-Know-Who is no longer relevant.

An astonished pause, then a whispered response. Truly?

She smiled involuntarily. Truly. And absolutely. They confirmed this morning.

She heard him let out a long, slow sigh of relief. Well, I shouldn’t say this, but I hope it really hurt.

You have no idea. Don’t tell Marcus I said that.

Look, he replied after a pause, this is too big to let it pass unmarked. Why don’t we eat out tonight? I’m on a break at the moment and can book a table at Fabio’s. At the very least, it would be an excuse not to wade through any more of Anna’s cooking.

Anna was still their lodger. She was not due to move into Trudi’s new house until the following week. In her eagerness to please her hosts the previous evening, she had made a meal for them. Something from Mother Russia, she had promised, "the Rodina!"

The excursion to Fabio’s was firmly agreed.

CHAPTER 1

THE PRESS HAD a field day when the news of Rutter’s return broke, for not only was she in the public eye again, but she had, at least metaphorically, risen from the grave. Taverner made good on his promise to imply that she had faked her own death with police approval, without actually saying so. Immediately, the tabloids labelled her, Lazarus former cop, Julie Rutter, much to her disgust.

She appeared briefly on news broadcasts, and gave a couple of radio interviews, but refused offers to appear on television or in the newspapers in any other capacity than the one she could do nothing about — as a news item. She reasoned that the anonymity demanded by her calling should be maintained. Discreet surveillance of targets would be impossible were her face instantly recognisable.

She trained her two partners herself. She and Trudi were no longer licensed to carry guns, a situation to which neither objected, but it also meant that they had to look to alternative methods of defending themselves. Pepper spray was used by the police, but illegal for civilians, as it was classed as an offensive weapon.

That left them with the weapons gifted to them by nature — their bodies. The artist drew on her martial arts experience to give Rutter and Anna additional training in unarmed combat. This came naturally to Rutter, but Anna’s heart was not in it. To her, keeping fit was about maintaining her body in good condition, not crippling someone else’s. She was a cyber-warrior, first and last. Seeing the love of her life blasted apart had seen to that. Nevertheless, she was fully aware of the danger of her past life catching up with her, so she made a conscious effort to alter her appearance by growing her hair, adding some additional muscle in the gym, wearing makeup and changing her wardrobe. In any case, all three of them agreed that the best method of surviving a violent attack was to get away as quickly as possible and let the police deal with it afterwards.

Their search for office space had been solved by Rutter’s old friend, the author, Marie Burnett. She had funded the launch of Trudi’s art shop, Painterly, and they ran it, between them, as a partnership. The upper floor contained redundant office space. This, she sublet to the new agency. Anna had originally toyed with an idea to use it for a computing consultancy, but she soon developed a preference for working with her friends instead. Accordingly, she shelved her plans indefinitely and enrolled on a postal degree course with a prestigious university that would eventually upgrade her bogus BSc. to a genuine PhD.

Marie fitted the suite out in a comfortable, airy Scandinavian style. Alex stumped up funds to provide Rutter and Anna with top of the range networked computers, installed and activated by a local store. Rutter dipped into her savings to buy herself a large desk with a deep green leather inlay on which to store her new machine, and she commissioned Anna to give her a crash course in how to work the thing properly. Otherwise, it would just be a large, expensive paperweight.

Anna and Trudi spent hours designing a website, the artist doing the visuals in watercolours, which Anna then scanned, digitised and compiled. Critically, there were no portraits of the three Angels. Instead, she painted impressionistic depictions of the sort of work that they would do, and stylised views of their new offices. The website also contributed to the agency’s early success for it looked far classier than anything that competing agencies could offer. That sort of thing would weigh heavily with their predominantly well-heeled female clients.

There were two telephone lines, one for the office which could be answered by either of them, one directly to Rutter. The first came with something that Anna called ADSL, which meant that it no longer took half a lifetime for a picture to download from the Net.

In addition to digital cameras with remote release systems apiece, she had provided each with a portable voice recorder, rape alarm and a pay-as-you-go burner phone that was to be used only when they needed their calls not to be tracked. Their contract mobile phones substituted for the communicators they had used when in the Military. Clients were interviewed in the privacy of Rutter’s office, but Anna and Trudi listened to the recordings afterwards.

Nevertheless, the official launch of the agency had to be marked with some sort of ceremony — Marie insisted — so a gladsome gathering of friends and family witnessed the cutting of the tape in front of ‘Painterly’. The two businesses shared a common front door; paintings were commissioned and sold on the ground floor but those requiring the services of a detective climbed the stairs to where Rutter and Anna would ply their trade. Trudi would divide her time between the two. A dignified sign hung outside to direct would-be clients accordingly.

Rutter, Trudi and Anna, all done up in their finest, stood by Marie, facing a group of friends, comprising Alex, Joe, Marcus, Cornish and Ron Abberline and his wife, Sarah. Neither Rutter nor Anna had family living, but Trudi did, so she was supported by her mother and older sister. No press. No cameras.

No sign of dear old Dad, she whispered to Rutter with a grin. Thank God.

Rutter smirked and raised a glass of champagne.

So, she announced to the cheery little throng, it has been a long journey, but here we are at last. Who would have thought this time last year that the three of us would be setting out on a new venture, one that would change our lives so fundamentally?

I would, mentioned Alex with a smile. Nothing you do surprises me now.

Well, at least we should be home most nights from now on, countered Rutter with a laugh. So, she added with a smile, handing a large pair of scissors to Marie, Trudi, Anna and I would like to thank you all for turning up to support us today. And now, I would like to invite our dear friend and patron, Marie Burnett, to declare us open.

A beaming Marie took centre stage to cut the ribbon that had been stretched across the shop’s entrance, ‘Painterly’ having closed for half an hour while the inauguration took place.

It is with great pleasure that I announce that the Secret Angels Private Investigation Agency is open for business, smiled Marie, cutting the tape.

The act was greeted with applause and a general move indoors when Trudi announced that more bubbly and a buffet were waiting indoors.

Rutter’s sensational rebirth ensured that the Secret Angels Private Investigation Agency got off to a flying start, timed to coincide with the removal of Trudi’s plaster cast and her return to the world of general mobility. Jilted and abused wives queued up to commission them to pull the rugs from under their straying spouses’ feet so that they could hire expensive divorce lawyers and break out their calculators. They even received commissions from a couple of cuckolded husbands.

Rutter soon discovered that most of their cases were straightforward. A man had grown bored with his marriage, bored with his wife, and found his excitement in younger, more compliant company elsewhere.

Fewer, but still too many, were those occasions when the wife belatedly discovered that the dreamboat she had fallen for was a controlling, self-obsessed brute with a veneer of charm. She took great satisfaction in nailing those cases, and in handing over evidence of violence to the police.

Occasionally, however, she discovered that it was very much a case of the pot calling the kettle black, a sober examination of the evidence revealing her client to be at least as responsible for the breakdown. Not all women were innocent Victims On those occasions, she would remind herself who was paying the bill and recommend a quiet out of court settlement, rather than a painful public exposé that could only result in monumental damage to both parties.

*

St. Malo, Brittany, France

Thursday, May 25th, 2000

1.45 PM

THE RUE DU Marché aux Légumes, or in more prosaic English, Vegetable Market Street, had not hosted a vegetable market for years. It was situated in the centre of St. Malo’s old town, within sight of its medieval walls, built originally to keep the despised Les Anglais out, but which now served as tourist attractions to pull them in. The street had long been paved over to become a small, quiet retreat, lined with open-air cafés, crêperies and the occasional bar/tabac arranged around neat little gardens with trees. It was a miniature haven of peace within the bustling heart of one of the Côte d’Émeraude’s most celebrated tourist haunts.

The sun shone out of a clear sky, ensuring that the beaches, both here and at neighbouring Dinard, were bristling forests of parasols and that the antique shops and tourist traps of the medieval walled city were doing their most hectic trade of the year so far.

Two black S-Class Mercedes rolled silently to a halt on the cobbled Rue de la Fosse at the open end of the little square. Their arrival sent a wave of silent concern around the gathered tourists. Both vehicles were entirely black — even the windows — but gleaming, waxed and polished, like new. As if in response to an unseen signal, the buzz of chatter from the open-air tables ceased.

Six burly men, dressed in dark, formal suits slightly too small for them, emerged from the cars. Their faces were uniformly tanned and rough with permanent stubble, their movements were slow, deliberate, and the more alert onlookers should have been able to discern the giveaway bulges at their left armpits. They stared around slowly through reflective sunglasses. These lunettes de soleil were not worn to protect their wearers from dazzling sunlight, so much as to intimidate and hinder accurate description. They also wore them indoors and even at night.

Dispassionately, they surveyed the throng of worried tourists, some with partly eaten crêpes halfway to their mouths. Only then did their leader open the rear door of the second car for its occupant to emerge.

He was immaculate in an Italian silk suit, no more than average height, and not particularly broad of build. His greying hair, receding at the temples, together with a slightly jowly look to his jaw suggested an age in his mid-fifties. A tightening of his jacket around the waist betrayed a hint of a little more flesh than desirable. Mindful of this, and the heat of the day, he loosened a button and allowed it to hang free. He also wore sunglasses.

Looking towards the man who had opened the door for him, he uttered a single word, Gdzie?

The henchman indicated the corner building to their left, a grill and crêperie, with tables outside to catch the sun.

With a nod to two of the others to remain with the cars, the man set off towards the building, surrounded by the remaining four. They walked at a leisurely pace, the henchmen staring around for even the remotest sign of a threat. They walked straight past the external tables, intimidated tourists moving hurriedly out of their way, and through to the back of the main room. There, a nervous waiter directed them silently up a flight of stairs to another door, which the first man pushed open without knocking.

The room inside was gloomy in its corners but shot through centrally by one brilliant slanting shaft of light from a small, high skylight. It fell in a bright pool on the bare floorboards. Other than for two dining chairs, facing each other on either side of this pool, the room was bare. Around the walls stood several armed men, each as intimidating as the four who accompanied the visitor. The sudden chill in the room was matched by the coldness in their eyes. The air was smoky.

One of the chairs was occupied by an old man