The Society by Karen Guyler (feel good fiction books .txt) 📗

forced the words out. “I might have been the target.”

8

Gordon didn’t miss a beat, apparently shelving his summons elsewhere. “A blow by blow account of your meeting with Eric then.”

Eva closed her eyes, shredding the unfamiliarity that had wrapped itself around what had been an integral part of her time in MI6. Pulling it together in her mind, she described a re-enactment of what happened through the enhanced memory of her senses.

“Eric asked if I had half an hour to meet, said he had something he needed my advice on. I suggested Coffee Espresso, it’s where I always go.”

Gordon nodded at the significance.

She could see the table by the window. “When I arrived, he already had his coffee, and he got me one from the barista at the counter. He told me he’d been Head of the Russian desk for five years, that he was investigating something he wanted my opinion on to see if I would reach the same conclusion as him. Because what he thought didn’t make any sense.”

Eva could hear the vanilla chill-out music being played over speakers in the corners at ceiling height. See the brown walls displaying paintings for sale, striped paper on the back wall.

 “It was busy, noisy, so we weren’t in danger of being overheard, but we kept the conversation cryptic, obviously. After about ten minutes a barista, probably at uni, a tall thin girl with a long blonde plait and a blue starburst tattoo on the top of her right wrist came over with a slice of chocolate fudge cake. She said the man at the counter sent it over for me, but she couldn’t see him when I asked about him. A mother and daughter probably were waiting to be served, a young Indian guy, head down, scrolling his phone, behind them. Not him, the barista said, he was white, average everything. I thanked her, left the cake where she’d put it on the table.”

“You still don’t like it, or you were being cautious?”

“Still don’t like it.”

The crucial part. Eva let the remembered sounds wash around her, holding that moment in her memory as vividly as she could. The dampness escaping from winter coats and soggy woollen scarves into the coffee tinged-warmth, the smell of hot chocolate, strongly sweet. “Eric joked it was probably from the barista, that we should meet more often, picked up the fork and demolished it. If it was poisoned, it wasn’t fast acting. We were in there probably another twenty minutes while we finished our drinks and he tried to persuade me to say yes.”

She should have. Things might have played out differently if she’d been there to help him when he felt ill.

“He said nothing about strange feelings in his stomach or throat. He didn’t complain about pain, feeling sick. Didn’t mention anything off about the taste.” She let the memory dissipate as the warmth from the coffee shop had when they stepped out into the cold early evening and opened her eyes. “We said goodbye outside, a quick hug,” she pushed through the memory, the sadness of his death catching at her throat. “I went back to the office. He didn’t say where he was going.”

“People around you?”

Eva focussed. “No one close, a couple behind me, Eric kept an eye but didn’t show any concern about them. Lone student working at the nearest table to us. Headphones on, head down, studying a laptop the whole time.”

She waited, Gordon’s silence reminding her how he worked.

“You need to keep a low profile.” he finally said.

She nodded. “I do, mostly.”

“Can you work from home?”

“I’m safe at Every Drop, we have building security.”

Gordon’s frown deepened, but he agreed. “Home and work only until we’re sure.”

“After tonight, absolutely.” She filled in her excuse at his questioning look. “I have a charity ball to host.”

“You can’t go.”

“I can’t not.” Eva took a beat, Gordon didn’t respond to histrionics. “It’s the biggest event in Every Drop’s history, it’s the donations to fund our next programme. Our new installation depends on the ball being a success.”

“Look at the evidence, Eva.” He leant forward across his desk. “Someone gave you poisoned cake, that wasn’t an accident.”

“It hasn’t been substantiated that the cake was the culprit, and anyone who knows the first thing about me, knows I wouldn’t eat it.”

“Poisoning though, whose weapon of choice is that?”

“Exactly and Eric was Head of the Russian desk, they knew I’d give him the murder weapon.”

Gordon steepled his fingers, tapped them against his lips. “That presupposes a level of finesse that probably isn’t there, our friends the Russians have always been a blunt instrument. Eric kept an experimental antidote at home, something we’ve issued to everyone attached to that part of the world. We need to check, of course, but if he took it, it not working suggests they used something exotic.”

“Or that the police are wrong.”

“We both know that’s unlikely, they wouldn’t have mentioned it to you unless they were sure. You wouldn’t be here unless you thought it mattered.”

The nauseating unease that had been grating her insides stepped up. Eva took a deep breath. She was fine.

“Any idea who might want to harm you now?” Gordon voiced the question she’d been asking herself since DI Smith first mentioned poison.

She shook her head.

In her time at MI6, she rode a desk, anonymous to anyone outside the Russian unit. And all of that was eight years ago, distant past in the intelligence world. And now? She was a mum and ran a charity, why would anyone target her? There was nothing to gain, no message to send, no leverage to achieve by killing her. She clung to the logic.

“It makes little sense for me to have been the target, it must have been Eric.”

Gordon laughed, a short sharp bark at humour. “Since when does anything we deal with make sense? You shouldn’t put your head above the parapet, for now.”

“I have to go tonight.” She tried another tack, but wasn’t sure who she was reassuring. “I