Here Comes Charlie M

THIRTY-THREE

Although the last snows of winter had thawed and it was officially spring, few other people had opened their dachas yet, preferring still the central heating of Moscow. Berenkov had lit a fire and stood, with the warmth on his back, in his favourite position overlooking the capital.

He heard the sound of glasses and turned as Valentina came towards him.

‘It was kind of Comrade Kalenin to give you this French wine,’ said the woman.

‘He knows how much I like it,’ said Berenkov. He sipped, appreciatively.

‘Excellent,’ he judged.

His wife smiled at his enjoyment, joining him at the window.

‘So she died, as well?’ said Valentina, suddenly.

Berenkov nodded. The woman’s interest in the Charlie Muffin affair had equalled his, he realised.

‘We’ve positive confirmation that it was her,’ he said.

‘But not about him?’

‘Enough,’ said Berenkov. ‘There’s really little doubt’

Neither spoke for several moments and then Valentina said: ‘That’s good.’

‘Good?’

‘Now there won’t be the sort of suffering that you and I would understand,’ explained the woman.

‘No,’ agreed Berenkov. ‘There won’t be any suffering.’

One thousand five hundred miles away, in a cemetery on the outskirts of Guildford, Charlie Muffin scrubbed methodically back and forth, pausing occasionally to pick the red and yellow laburnum pods from among the green stone chips.