Chapter 4

ACROSS THE VALLEY FROM the manor, the thin young man with the lurcher, whom Charlotte had glimpsed earlier, continued his walk. He turned off the river road onto a track, and headed uphill to the beech trees. He walked at a leisurely pace, scenting the evening air: he could smell damp grass, woodsmoke, the residue of exhaust fumes, and—nearing the wood—the stink of fox.

He paused to look back across the alley to the curve of the river, and the village beyond. He noted the church tower, the graceful façade of the manor, the lights in the cottage windows. It was a famous view, one that had changed little in four hundred years, and—the epitome of a certain Englishness—one much featured in Cotswolds guidebooks. The young man looked at it with loathing: safe, smug, complacent, rich. Star hated the English countryside; he preferred the textures, smells, and dangers of city streets.

Star—it was not his real name, but it was now the only tag he answered to—rolled saliva in his mouth, then spat. His dog cowered at his heels. Star jerked the length of string that served as a leash, and walked on. He entered a clearing on the edge of the beech wood. There, parked discreetly behind a wall, its lights cut, was a brand-new 5 series silver BMW.

“Yours?” said Star to the plump, smartly dressed young man who was standing next to it, blowing on his fingers and stamping his feet.

“Christ. You made me jump.” The young man swung around. “Why do you have to creep up on people like that? This place gives me the willies. You’re late.”

“Your car?” Star repeated. The young man recovered himself. He gave a tight grin, and made a seesawing gesture of the hand.

“In a manner of speaking. Classy, isn’t it?”

Star gave him a look of bilious contempt. He did not like the man, whose name was Mitchell, and who worked in the City money markets; he did not like his car. He shrugged.

“German shit. If you’re going to buy German, get a Mercedes, they’re best.”

“Who said anything about buying?” Mitchell grinned again. He edged away from Star, who had not washed recently, and who smelled richly of sweat.

“All fixed for tonight?” he went on, again stamping his feet. “Christ, it’s cold. I’ve driven all the way from London. I’ve got the usual friends joining me, so I damn well hope it’s fixed.”

Star was wearing a huge, torn, tweed overcoat. From one of its pockets he produced a small and very expensive mobile telephone. Mitchell regarded this object without surprise, though it was greatly at odds with Star’s gypsyish dress. Star punched in a number.

“One more call,” he said. “And, yes, it’s fixed.”

“Sweet?” Mitchell said on an interrogative note. Mitchell’s taste was for speed and teenage girls, if possible in combination. Star’s task was to provide both, so he understood the question at once. He pushed back his long black hair, let the number ring, and smiled. Star was blessed—or cursed—with startling good looks, and the smile, practiced before many mirrors, was intended to disarm. Mitchell, who knew Star of old, was not disarmed. He noticed now, as he had noticed on occasions before, that Star’s blue-black eyes had a nasty glint in them, a not-quite-sane might-do-anything worship-me-Charles-Manson sort of glint. In the fading light Star’s eyes and teeth gleamed. Mitchell took one step farther back.