‘I’ve no interest in Harry Peterson and his pretty woman.’

Bloom watched Seraphine. She was undeniably stunning, with long blonde hair and blue eyes. If you passed her on the street, you’d assume she was a model or the trophy wife of some billionaire, rather than a snake-eyed psychopath.

‘This is all about Marcus, isn’t it?’ said Bloom. ‘Do you have any insights at all?’ Was this a ruse? Nothing more than a way to mess with her and Jameson’s lives all over again?

Seraphine waited, watching.

The one thing Bloom knew was that Seraphine Walker never did anything without good reason. The trick was to uncover what that reason was. ‘What do you know about Harry’s memory loss and Julian’s murder? Is this you and your meddlers?’

‘No, I’m just an interested audience member.’

‘But you planted the postcard?’

‘I know you love a mystery and I couldn’t help giving you a little clue.’

‘One of yours tortured and killed Julian to give us a clue?’

‘Oh, that would be far too primitive for us.’

‘You expect me to believe you placed the postcard after his death?’

‘Indeed.’

‘And the picture of Isobel?’

Seraphine shrugged.

‘OK then. How did you know he was dead?’

‘Because I pay attention, Augusta. Now if you want me to answer your questions, you’ll need to do something for me.’

52

Seraphine watched Bloom walk away as she finished her coffee. The woman was more than a match for her in terms of intelligence, but she lacked the imagination to really take advantage of what the world had to offer for people like them. It was a tragedy in Seraphine’s eyes. What an asset a mind like Bloom’s could be to her little club. Just a few months earlier Bloom had put a stop to Seraphine’s elegant recruitment drive: the game she had invented to test the purity and talent of the psychopaths who hide within society. Bloom had not halted it permanently, of course, but her skilful game playing had to be admired.

The cafe was busy today. She liked it that way. Summer had been good and Londoners had taken outdoor living to their hearts. Hardly anyone sat indoors for their morning coffee, brunch or early lunch. They filled the tables or found spots on the grass to sit cross-legged.

Seraphine strolled along the perimeter path where it was quieter and the shade from the trees limited eavesdroppers.

Her call connected within three rings. ‘Good afternoon, Abdul,’ she said.

‘Ma’am.’ Abdul’s voice was deep and soft with a richness that suggested a man of calm intelligence.

‘How is our little warlord today?’

‘Still fixated on your British sailor. I’ve suggested that instead of sending more soldiers to apprehend Captain Peterson it would be wiser to encourage the Captain to come to him.’

‘I bet he liked that idea.’

‘He did. Very much.’