Chapter 48

‘That was all so very . . . American,' Margaret said. ‘Dramatic and unnecessary. Now, if you don't mind, that kettle has boiled and my throat is parched. I'm making a pot of tea.' She pulled a hairpin from her bun, refastened it, then got to her feet. Before anyone could stop her, she was reaching for mugs and getting milk out of the refrigerator. It was in a glass bottle. Foil top. Old school.

As she fussed around the kitchen area, Koenig, Draper and Carlyle sat around the small dining table.

‘We'll wait for Margaret,' Carlyle said. ‘She can explain parts better than I can. She'll be exactly four minutes. That's how long her tea takes to steep.'

Draper exhaled. ‘Jesus,' she muttered.

‘I won't be rushed, dear,' Margaret called over.

‘Ignore her, Margaret,' Koenig said. ‘Four minutes is fine. Jen's in a bad mood because she hasn't waterboarded anyone today. She'll be fine once we get some warm milk and cookies into her.'

‘Oh, put a pin in it, Koenig,' Draper said. ‘I'm not an assassin. I was never going to shoot her.'

‘I know you weren't.'

‘You need to do some FOG training then. You clearly don't understand the difference between fact, opinion and guess.'

‘I understand the difference fine,' Koenig said. ‘It was my opinion you wouldn't squeeze the trigger, but it was a fact you wouldn't shoot her.'

‘You see what I'm dealing with, Elizabeth?' Draper said.

‘Please, call me Bess,' Carlyle said. She frowned. ‘And you were remarkably calm during that whole thing, Mr Koenig.'

‘Maybe it's a good cop/bad cop thing,' Margaret called from the kitchen.

Koenig reached into his pocket and pulled out a small metal object. It was thin, precision-milled and had a rounded point. Like a pen nib. Or the end of a dental probe. He put it on the table. ‘Do you know what that is, Bess?'

Carlyle picked it up. She held it to the light. ‘It's a firing pin.'

‘That's exactly what it is,' Koenig said. ‘To be precise, it's the firing pin from a SIG Sauer P229. Do you happen to know anyone who's currently using a SIG, Bess? Do you , Jen?'

Draper ignored him. Instead, she picked up the SIG, pointed it at the ceiling, and squeezed the trigger. In the enclosed room the bang was deafening. Plaster floated down like icing sugar. The air smelled of cordite. Smoke twirled and rose from the SIG's muzzle.

‘That's your firing pin, not mine,' she said.