Again there were no signs of any presence.
With his back flat to the wall, Straker peered round and into what was McMahon's bedroom. There didn’t seem to be anyone in there, either.
Straker ventured into the large room; everything, though, was immaculate – not a thing out of place. He moved over to open a door which led into a stylish en suite bathroom. Once again there was no one in there – and, still, everything seemed undisturbed.
Straker was beginning to wonder what this was about. Had the burglar been disturbed? Had the neighbours been alerted by the noise from forcing the front door? He couldn’t work it out.
But as Straker walked back into McMahon's bedroom, he saw – on her bedside table – something unexpected and out of place.
Something that conveyed a very clear message.
Something giving all this a particularly sinister meaning.
FORTY-EIGHT
Two minutes later Straker had dropped back down to the front entrance of the mansion block. McMahon looked up anxiously as he appeared through the large front door. She sensed something was wrong.
‘It doesn’t look like anything's been damaged,’ he said trying to offer some reassurance. ‘Do you, though, ever leave your windows open?’
‘Never.’
Straker nodded. ‘And I take it this wouldn’t be yours,’ he said as he held his hand forward.
On his outstretched palm were the broken turquoise fragments of a four-inch long die-cast model of a Ptarmigan Formula One car.
McMahon's face froze.
McMahon did not take Straker's profferred arm when they emerged onto her landing. Instead, as they made their way down the corridor to her apartment, she put her arm round his waist and pulled herself to him.
Straker felt McMahon stiffen as she saw the signs of the break-in; he sensed she was feeling all this as a personal violation.
Straker led her into her home. McMahon's eyes flashed this way and that. Straker manoeuvred her across to her sofa.
McMahon continued to look lost. Hesitant. Uneasy.
Walking into the kitchen, Straker searched the fridge and a couple of her cupboards before reappearing with a bottle of wine and two glasses. Expecting her to recoil, McMahon surprised him by accepting one of the glasses he’d poured.
‘At least they don’t seem to have damaged anything.’
Straker nodded. ‘When you’re ready, it wouldn’t hurt to check your credit cards and passport.’
McMahon, taking a large gulp of Sauvignon Blanc, managed a smile. ‘Because “this is Russia”, I always carry them on me.’
Straker smiled back.
McMahon looked into his eyes. ‘Who the fuck are these people, Matt?’
‘Their leaving that model car,’ he said, ‘has to mean they’ve got something to do with the case.’
‘So what was this, then? Some kind of warning?’
Straker nodded firmly. ‘I fear so, particularly with the model being deliberately broken. But, Sandy, this takes your role well beyond any legal obligation to Ptarmigan as a client. Quartech would not hold you to this case, if you wanted out.’
‘What about the trial? I can’t quit now – how can I quit? What about Ms Sabatino? Dr Nazar?’
‘They’re our responsibility, not yours.’
McMahon smiled unexpectedly.
‘What?’ Straker asked.
‘You know, before you got here I was quite sure you’d be one of those macho thugs – all brute force and cockiness.’
‘And I’ve disappointed you?’
‘No, no,’ she countered. ‘I’ve been genuinely moved. Numerous times I’ve wondered how you still keep motivated with all the shit that's been thrown at us. You never seem fazed, ever. You just keep going.’
‘What choice is there?’
‘Oh, there are plenty of choices,’ she said. ‘They may not be honourable, but they’re definitely out there. Except you just keep on battling, whatever the circumstances. It's affected me. You’ve prompted something unexpected: you make me want to keep going, too.’
Straker shook his head. ‘You mustn’t do anything you don’t want to. There's no need to decide about this in a hurry, anyway. You need a long relaxing soak – I’m going to run you a bath.’
Half an hour later Straker was sitting on the sofa having pulled the curtains in the sitting room and turned on some of the lamps.
McMahon appeared from her bath, wrapped in two white towels.
Straker looked up. The moment she walked in he realized he had a problem; he was desperately fighting the urge to stare. McMahon's pale red hair was now loose, tousled and falling partly across her face; he found himself fantasizing that this was how she might look having just woken up, first thing in the morning. That allure was intensified with the cuteness of the freckles over her nose and across her cheeks under each eye. Her skin was glowing from the warmth of the water. Her bare arms, shoulders and back declared the slenderness and tautness of her body. And, as she walked gracefully, Straker caught glimpses from her thigh down – through the gap in the towel around her waist – of her slim, long legs.
