Killing Eve: Bloodline (4)

The fourth episode of a new Killing Eve adventure, published exclusively on Substack

A Porsche SUV arrives mid-morning to take Eve and Villanelle to the Dominik residence in Kensington Palace Gardens. The driver directs Eve to the front passenger seat and Villanelle to the back, where Johnny is waiting. The car windows are a dark, opaque grey. Inside it's cool and dim. They wait as the driver loads their luggage into the trunk.

            'Enough clothes to be getting on with?' Johnny asks Villanelle.

            'The basics. But we need nightwear. Could you...'

            'I'll see to it. Eve, good morning. Was everything all right?'

            'Very comfortable, thank you. We were followed here, though. There was a van outside all night. It was relieved this morning by that silver Volvo on the corner.'

            'Balice's people?'

            Eve nods. 'They're parked in a resident's bay, and when a warden came round they sent him on his way. So yes, I'm guessing so.'

            'I assumed she'd try and get eyes on you. Homeland security is normally MI5's job, but Balice is obviously not handing you over to them.'

            'She wants us for herself,' Villanelle says.

            Johnny regards her wordlessly for a moment, then signals to the driver. The Porsche moves silently away from the kerb.

            'I know,' Villanelle murmurs. 'I know. It's my fault.'

            'What's done is done. The Security Services would have picked you up sooner or later, because they're certainly keeping an eye on the Dominik house. They might even have someone inside, so trust no one.' He hands them each a phone. 'There's only one contact on either of these. In an emergency, ring it and ask for Mr Green, and you'll be put through to me. Otherwise you liaise with Sergei.'

            'The Sergei I met in St Petersburg?' Villanelle asks.

            'The same. He's one of us, and a trusted associate of Nikolai's. He'll be in and out of the Dominiks' place.'

            'I'm still not sure what we're looking for,' Eve says.

            'I know. I've been vague. Essentially, I need you to observe Valentin. Get his confidence, draw him out. I want your impressions of him. Is he trustworthy? How would he handle himself in a crisis? That sort of thing.'

            Eve watches the greyed landscape move past her window. 'You said you wanted a threat assessment.'

            'I do. And for that, I need to know his strengths and weaknesses. His vulnerabilities.'

            'Is there a time-frame?'

            'For now, just establish yourselves. Make yourself part of the household.'

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          As they drive up Park Lane, the driver turns his head to address Johnny. 'You want me to lose the Volvo, boss?'

            'I think we might, don't you?'

            Without warning, the driver pulls over hard towards the entrance to the underground parking garage on their left, and the Volvo is forced to pass them on the right. Pulling into the garage, the driver finds a vacant bay, and they change vehicles.

            'How many cars do you keep down here?' Eve asks, as they climb into a BMW saloon.

            'Half a dozen, I suppose, at any one time. You never know, Miss.'

            'I suppose you don't.'

            Fifteen minutes later the BMW is nodded through the entry gates of Kensington Palace Gardens by the sentry on duty. Tall plane trees line the avenue, shading and partly concealing a series of grand, stucco-fronted residences. The car comes to a halt outside one of the most imposing, a massive white Italianate palace. A guard steps from the shadows, and peers through the driver's window. Seconds later the gates in front of the house open, and they drive through, gravel popping beneath the BMW’s tyres.

            Johnny steps from the car. As he does so the front door swings open. Two men in dark suits march out, lift the Ferragamo suitcases from the trunk, and carry them inside. Eve watches them go. 'Angel, this is all so you,' she murmurs.

            'No. It's so us.'

            Ten minutes later Johnny and the driver have gone. After being shown to their rooms, Eve and Villanelle descend the broad staircase together to meet their hostess. Anastasia Dominik has volumised honey-blonde hair, cosmetically smoothed skin, and the sulky, indulged features of a Persian cat.

            'I'm sorry my husband can't be here to greet you. Business, you know... But hey!' She splays her pale, jewelled fingers. 'Our men have to work so that we can play, no?'

            Villanelle and Eve nod politely.

            'So let's have lunch.' Anastasia leads them to a sunlit room with a tented ceiling, beneath which a table has been laid for three. A bowl of pale, clear soup, garnished with a sprinkling of chives, waits in each place. 'Remind me of your names,' she continues. 'Eve and...'

            'Oxana.'

            'I knew you were Russian. Please, start.'

            The soup is tepid, and tastes of almost nothing. After her first spoonful Villanelle flicks an alarmed glance at Eve.

            'So you're here to keep an eye on my son,' Anastasia says.

            Neither has the chance to answer because at that moment there's a crashing noise from the next room, followed by loud swearing. The three women freeze, soup-spoons in hand. A tall figure appears in the doorway. A young man, sweating and dishevelled, with last night's dried vomit crusting his dress shirt. He stands there for a moment, swaying, then his eyes cross and he crashes, face-first, into Eve's soup. For several seconds he lies slumped across the table, then slowly subsides onto the carpeted floor, bringing the table-cloth and the rest of the soup with him.

            Anastasia regards him for a moment, her lips trembling. She forces a smile. 'Eve, Oxana. May I present my son Valentin?'

---

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            I don't warm to her initially. Pampered housewife is my first impression. Too much money, too much time on her hands. But in that moment Anastasia is magnificent. She summons someone to clear up the wreckage, someone else to carry Valentin up to bed, then leads Oxana and me to an enormous kitchen and makes us all a plate of cheese and tomato sandwiches with Branston Pickle (very much not something I would have expected to find in a place like this). I want to hug her, but she's not remotely the hugging type, and besides, I'm splattered with consommé. Anastasia deals with that pretty swiftly too, ringing Armani Couture, guessing my size at a glance, and asking them to send round a new jacket immediately. I suggest I might take the old one (well, a day old) to a dry cleaner, and she tells me not to be silly. Oxana hears nothing of this. She's too busy demolishing the sandwiches. She really is very greedy at times.

            Separate bedrooms, of course, so we'll be corridor-creeping, like teenagers. Which is romantic, but this is a frighteningly easy house to get lost in. I've caught glimpses of dining rooms, drawing rooms, a billiards room, at least two libraries, and a half-open door leading to somewhere that looked like a ballroom. And there's an entire third floor that I haven't visited at all. The lives these people lead! I've still no idea how many of them live here.

            Valentin, though. Anastasia's stoic demeanour suggests that this is just the latest in many such incidents. He looks like that saddest of clichés, the rich kid fuck-up. What can his father Nikolai be like? We'll see this evening. We're meeting him at dinner.

            What the fuck are we even doing here? I've still got that crawling sense of dread. I told Oxana and she was sweet and tried to understand, but I know that she doesn't feel like I do. I need to keep my wits about me. There's something truly gothic about this place. Stay close to me, my love.