The Perfect Soldier (54 page)

McFaul’s address was in the phone book. She got in the taxi and gave it to the driver. It was raining now, the tyres hissing on the road, the streets empty. McFaul lived on the eastern edge of the city. They drove along the seafront, Molly gazing out, wondering how he’d take it. Maybe he had guests. Maybe he had family. Maybe this wasn’t such a great idea.

McFaul’s house lay at the end of a terrace. Molly paid the driver, watching the lights of the taxi disappear. Then she turned to the front door. She could hear music inside, a man’s voice, deep. She listened for a moment longer, wondering where she’d last heard the song, then she knocked softly on the front door. She was about to knock again when the music stopped. She heard a door open, then a tuneless whistle and the sound of McFaul’s footsteps echoing down the hall. The sound of his footsteps was unmistakable. She remembered it from the schoolhouse in Muengo. Tap-tap-tap, went his footfall on the bare boards, tap-tap-tap.

The door opened and McFaul was standing there. He had a small cigar in one hand and a paintbrush in the other. Molly produced the bottle of Armagnac, holding it out.

‘Present,’ she said simply.

For a moment, McFaul said nothing. Then he smiled, stepping aside, inviting her in.