‘You reckon he bought it?’ he said. ‘The Wales stuff?’

‘No.’ Silva stared after Weiss as he pushed through the doors to the outside. ‘I don’t think he did.’

They pulled up outside Itchy’s place mid-afternoon. Itchy hefted his panniers from his bike.

‘Thanks,’ Silva said. ‘And I’m sorry for getting you involved in this.’

‘I’m a grown up, Silvi,’ Itchy said. ‘I knew the score before we set out. My only regret is we didn’t get Hope.’ Itchy moved towards the front door. ‘What are you going to do now?’

‘Go home and sleep. After that I have no idea.’

‘I’ll see you though, right? Around?’

‘Of course.’

Silva flipped her visor down and fired up the bike.

When she got back to the boatyard, Fairchild’s black Range Rover was parked up by Freddie’s office. Inside Fairchild was chatting with Freddie and the two Dobermanns lay curled at his feet.

‘Rebecca!’ Fairchild nodded to Freddie and came bounding out. He took her arm and walked down to the pontoons with her. ‘Look happy. I told Freddie I had some good news for you.’

‘You don’t though,’ Silva said.

‘Not really.’ Fairchild patted a newspaper he’d tucked under his arm. He pulled it out. Princess Dies punned the tabloid headline. ‘Lashirah Haddad is dead.’

‘Shit.’ They’d reached the pontoon and Silva had to stop and steady herself. She wondered why Weiss hadn’t told her. Perhaps he reasoned that she already knew and he could trick her, or else she’d be more likely to confess if the crime wasn’t murder. ‘This is a nightmare.’

‘The worst kind.’ Fairchild waited until Silva began to walk again. ‘The general consensus appears to be this was an attempt to take out Haddad. There’s nothing about Karen Hope and no reference to the fact the villa is owned by her brother.’

‘And where are they, the Hopes?’

‘They’ve gone to ground. No sign of them anywhere. I’m sure a few journalists’ palms have been crossed with gold so as to downplay the connections between Haddad and the Hopes. They’ll spin some story about this being a terrorist plot against the Saudis, neatly turning the tables. I wouldn’t be surprised if the regime use Lashirah’s death as an excuse to crack down on opposition groups at home.’

‘This is so wrong.’

‘Yes.’ They’d reached Silva’s little boat and Fairchild gawped at the yacht as if he couldn’t believe anyone could live on such a craft, let alone go to sea in it. ‘Your home?’

‘It suits me.’

‘I can see why it would.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘In a house you’re attached to the earth by concrete and bricks and mortar. Here you’re only tied on with the dock lines. You could flick them free and sail away.’