Chapter 2

I was up early the next day and braved the tail end of the storm to walk the dogs along the beach. The waves were high enough to deter Magic from swimming so he ran around in circles and tried to interest Trotsky in some rough-and-tumble. Huskies are the strangest beasts. That morning Trotsky was very much on his dignity and Retriever Games were not on his agenda. He stalked along the tide line, sniffing at the flotsam thrown up by the storm. I threw sticks for Magic to fetch but, in truth, he has never really got the hang of retrieving. He'd run off and grab the stick, bring it back to me and then plonk himself down on the shingly sand to chew it to death.

The wind was still quite strong but at least the rain had stopped. It was bitterly cold. We walked for about an hour before heading back to the warmth of the cottage. I packed up my things so as to be ready for the drive back to London after lunch. I dislike driving in the dark and hoped to be away by mid afternoon. Hopefully this would get me back into Town before the light failed entirely.

I had arranged to meet Angela in a pub called the Lord Nelson, named for Norfolk's most famous son. I was early and slipped into the warmth of the snug Saloon Bar, which was already starting to fill with lunchtime drinkers. Listening to the accents, it was obvious that few locals patronised the place at weekends. Most of the people were 'second homers', up from London, as I was. I ordered a pint of Adnam's Best Bitter and found myself a table where I could watch the door and be easily seen when she came in.

She didn't show. By One O'clock I decided I'd been stood up. It wasn't a great surprise after all; we'd only just met. I'd invited myself to her studio, which must have looked pretty intrusive. Normally it's one of those things you just put down to experience but for some reason, this time, I couldn't let it go. It nagged at me. I finished my pint and headed off over to the studio. Shock stopped me in my tracks as I reached the front door.

The place was wide open. Even from the doorway, I could see at a glance it had been trashed. I rushed in, thinking the worst. There was no sign of Angela but the studio had been totally wrecked. The casts she had shown me that waited burnishing had been smashed. The floor was littered with shards of plaster; even the furnace had been toppled onto its side. My relief at not finding Angela in the middle of all this mess was replaced by a sense of panic. I called the police on my mobile and waited outside for them to arrive.

Had this been the middle of London, I don't think they would have managed to raise any interest but this was rural Norfolk. Things like this don't happen there. They were with me in less than ten minutes. There were two uniformed Bobbies and a plain-clothes man who quickly took charge. I explained about Angela's no show at the Pub and what I'd done since. He looked narrowly suspicious but warmed a little when he took my details. There really wasn't much I could tell them so I told them everything. Meeting her on the beach, my visit the previous afternoon, her anxiety when she realised how late it had got.

So much for driving home while it was light. It was around Six by the time I finished giving my statement at the Police Station in Cromer. The traffic was really heavy when I finally hit the outskirts of London so it was almost Ten O'clock when I got back home. Angela's disappearance, they were now calling it that, made the main News. I got mentioned as the visitor who'd raised the alarm, not by name, thank God! There wasn't anything else I could do so I had an early night. Not that it did me much good. Between the intrusions of Steph and Angela Sable, I hardly slept.

I staggered into Chambers on the Monday morning, bleary eyed and panting from the cold. My Chambers are in the Middle Temple and not that easy to find so I was quite surprised when Bernie, the clerk, told me that I had a visitor. Bernie was clearly put out. A clerk to Chambers controls access to his barristers, hands out the briefs and keeps the appointments diary. I shrugged when he started pumping me. "All very 'secret squirrel', Mr Booth." I certainly hadn't made any appointments and found myself hoping, for one brief and glorious moment, it was Steph. This lasted only as long as it took Bernie to say "I put the gentleman in the juniors' office." Bernie wanted to say more but I nodded my acknowledgement and went in to meet my mystery man.

He had the sort of face to which it is easy to take an instant dislike. He was about my age with smooth features and slightly over-long hair. The tailoring was definitely Saville Row and the hand he offered me as he rose to greet me had been expensively manicured. The Jermyn Street shirt and Hermes tie only confirmed my suspicions. He was either a property developer or a senior civil servant. He turned out to be the latter. He introduced himself as Edgar Smythe and I had the strange certainty that this was not his real name. When he claimed to be from the Foreign Office, I knew exactly what he was: a spook.

"Mr Booth, I understand that you reported the disappearance of Ms Angela Sable to the Norfolk Constabulary?"

I agreed that I had and started to explain but he cut across me.

"Let me tell you a story about Angela Sable, Mr Booth. It's not her real name, of course."

"I knew that. She told me that she took it from the French word for sand. Apparently her Estonian name means 'sand'. She found the English word lacked something, so she used French. I'm not aware using an alias is yet a crime unless one sets out to deliberately deceive by so doing," I said pointedly.

"Quite so, quite so. My story concerns Ms Sable's father. It appears he was a Colonel in the Soviet armed forces; in the Spetsnaz to be precise, whom, as you may know..."

"... Are the Russian, or should I say used to be the Soviet, Special Forces."

"You are well informed, Mr Booth," he said, with just the trace of sarcasm in his voice. I gave him my most urbane smile and refused to rise. He continued.