“Always a pleasure,” says Steve. “What for?”
“For asking if I was scared,” says Amy. “No one ever asks, but sometimes I am. I don’t want to die.”
Steve gives his daughter-in-law a hug. This beautiful, brave woman scared of dying, and this silly, cowardly man afraid of living.
As Amy closes her eyes, Steve opens his file again. Has he discovered the identity of Joe Blow? He’ll soon find out.
58
“I am very happy with this poached egg,” says Henk van Veen. “Very happy indeed.”
“I’m pleased to hear it,” says the young man, Ashley, who has just served him.
“Poached eggs are hard to get exactly right,” says Henk. “Firstly you have to select the correct egg. Free range is an absolute must. I weep to think about battery chickens, do you?”
“I do,” says Ashley.
“They are unhappy,” says Henk, “they are unfulfilled, and no amount of salt can hide it. I will not put salt on a poached egg unless it is absolutely necessary. Today, I am glad to note, it is not necessary.”
“Terrific,” says Ashley.
“Secondly, the color,” says Henk. “I’m sorry, am I keeping you, Ashley?”
“Not at all,” says Ashley. “I am enjoying talking about eggs with you, Mr. Van Veen.”
“So, the color,” Henk continues. “The British often favor a yolk that is altogether too yellow. A good yolk should be orange, in my view. In fact, not just in my view but in the correct, natural order of things.”
“Yes,” agrees Ashley.
“It can also be too orange, of course,” says Henk. “The perfect color is somewhere between the beauty of an English sunrise and the color of the Dutch national football kit. Again, today’s egg is perfect.”
“Can I get you more coffee, perhaps?” asks Ashley.
Henk holds up a finger to Ashley, indicating that they will get on to coffee, but, for now, he has more to say about eggs. “Consistency? Once the white—firm but yielding—is breached, the yolk must be unstoppable but also determined to take its time. Say the yolk of an egg, Ashley, is the lava from a volcano, and the toast is Pompeii. For me, Pompeii must eventually be destroyed, but the townsfolk should have time to vacate with their belongings before they perish. They can’t dawdle too long, but, if everybody operates in good order, then there should be no casualties.”
“We went to Pompeii on a school trip,” says Ashley.
“The toast is also paramount,” says Henk. “I mean, of course it is. The English have started insisting on sourdough, and this will not do for me. Quite why it will do for anyone is beyond the limit of my powers. Spinoza once said, ‘I have made a ceaseless effort not to bewail human actions, but to understand them.’ I say this, Ashley, Spinoza, faultless in so many other ways, had clearly not come across sourdough toast. Seeded granary, lightly toasted and still warm, is the trick, and today that trick has been pulled off with aplomb. And, thank you, I will now have a coffee.”
“Certainly,” says Ashley. “How do you take it?”
“Oh, just as it comes,” says Henk. “I’m not fussy.”
Ashley leaves to get Henk his coffee.
Henk is aware that what makes today’s egg perfection all the more extraordinary is that this feat has been managed aboard a plane. Napkin tucked into his shirt, final piece of toast mopping up final smear of yolk, he will have to pay his compliments to the chef.
Amy Wheeler’s phone is no longer active, which is to be expected from a professional, so Henk has had to take matters into his own hands. She had been in South Carolina, that he knew for certain. MailOnline has a photograph of Rosie D’Antonio at the airport in St. Lucia, so that must have been their next port of call. It stands to reason, doesn’t it, that they are following the path of the murders? Andrew Fairbanks in South Carolina, Bella Sanchez in St. Lucia, so next stop will be Mark Gooch, a few miles outside Cork in Ireland. So that is exactly where Henk is headed.
All things being equal, Henk might even arrive there before them. Could be there to greet Amy and her merry band. That would be the ideal for him.
Henk dabs at his mouth with the napkin, rises, and stretches. He walks toward the galley to thank the chef, and perhaps discuss technique. Maybe even get a card? Henk’s personal chef is very good, but what if he were to die? Or find another job? You must always have contingencies, and anyone who can cook the perfect poached egg at 25,000 feet is going to be of interest.
The steward, Ashley, perfectly good at his job, gives him a pleasant smile.
“Mr. Van Veen, we’ve already begun our descent into Cork. It might be more comfortable for you to take your seat and fasten your belt.”
Henk shakes his head. “I like to stand in the aisle when the plane is landing. It is a thrill for me. A small thrill but a thrill all the same. You must take thrills where you can get them, Ashley.”
“I certainly try,” says Ashley. “But I am legally obliged to ask you to return to your seat.”
“I know you are,” says Henk. “That’s one of the reasons it’s a thrill. To surf the landing. You will join me, perhaps. There is such a minuscule risk of death.”
Ashley takes a look over his shoulder toward the cockpit. “Okay,” he says.
Henk smiles. Today will be a good day. The perfect egg, a spot of plane-surfing, a gun wrapped in so much sawdust it will clear all cursory airport checks, and, above all, a minuscule risk of death.
For him, at least.
59
The Arrivals Hall at Dublin Airport is quiet.
“You take a taxi into town,” says Amy. “I have to see a man about a gun.”
She doesn’t have to see a man about a gun. She’s actually picking one up from a quiet suburban house to the west of Dublin on Tuesday morning. But her business at the airport is not finished, and she doesn’t want to worry Steve and Rosie.
Amy senses danger, and she learned long ago to trust her senses.
