Killing Eve: Resurrection (20)

The twentieth instalment of a new Killing Eve story, published exclusively on Substack

 

           Ron Tiberius is dead in a couple of minutes, and while I'm not one to boast, this is an excellent result. Delivering a fatal wound to the femoral artery isn't difficult, but if you're under time pressure, and need your victim to bleed out fast, it takes skill. When I was sixteen, my father taught me how to do it the Spetznaz way. Don't stab straight through the artery, he told me. Cut arteries spasm and whip back into their protective sheaths, and this can slow and even halt the bleeding. Make a shallow flick with the point of your knife or bayonet, and slash a hole in the arterial wall. That way you get the full punctured hose effect, and your victim gets a quick death.

            I still miss my papochka. He wasn't perfect - when he was drunk he'd bring women home and fuck them in front of me - but he did teach me some valuable life skills, and I'm sure he loved me in his way. But I'm getting sentimental.

            Leaving Tiberius face down on the floor, Villanelle leaves the spa by the second door, closes it behind her, and waits. After a couple of minutes Myrtha appears, sandals clacking. Up close, she's a handsome, well-preserved woman. She appears more annoyed than surprised to encounter a total stranger. 'Who the hell are you?'

            'Myrtha Willis?' Villanelle asks.

            'Yes?'

            'My name is Malgorzata Spurrell. I'm an Interpol officer.'

            Myrtha's gaze remains cool. 'How can I help you?'

            'We need to talk. I have a colleague waiting outside to drive you to our bureau in Nice.'

            'I'm busy.' She glances at a gold watch. 'You need to talk to me about... what sort of thing, exactly?'

            'The procuring of underage girls for sex.' Villanelle smiles. 'That sort of thing.'

            Myrtha is very still. Her face turns the colour of ash. 'I... I need to speak to-'

            'Mr Tiberius won't be joining us.'

            She attempts to push past Villanelle into the spa, but Villanelle grabs her by the upper arms. 'Please. Let's do this the nice way.'

            Myrtha looks at the wall. Her hands shake. 'I need to call my lawyer.'

            'Later.'

            'I want to call him now. Please.'

            'You can't. Who else is here in the house?'

            'Just Mr Tiberius. And a young guest of ours.'

            'If you mean la petite Sylvie,' Villanelle says. 'She's a guest of ours, now.'

            Myrtha stares despondently at her sandals. 'Can I at least speak to Ron?'

            'Ron's not seeing anyone right now.'

            'He'll see me.'

            'Trust me, he won't. The massage didn't have the happy ending he was hoping for. And my colleague's waiting, so we need to go.'

            She accompanies Myrtha through an enfilade of increasingly grand rooms. 'Is that the kitchen?' Villanelle enquires.

            'Yes, why?'

            'I could use a little something.'

            Myrtha stares at her. 'Are you serious? You want a meal?'

            'I haven’t eaten for hours.'

            Shaking her head, Myrtha walks to the refrigerator. 'There's cold lobster, salade verte, and a half-bottle of Montrachet. Will that do?'

            'I suppose it'll have to.'

            Silently, Myrtha lays a place at a table, arranges the food on an eighteenth century Sèvres plate, uncorks and pours the wine, and stands motionless as Villanelle eats. 'Satisfactory?'

            'Some dessert would be nice.'

            'There's a roasted pineapple. Could you choke that down?'

            'I could try.'

            As Villanelle eats, Myrtha starts sidling towards the door. Reaching for the paring knife used to cut the pineapple, Villanelle picks it up by the blade, and with a flick of her wrist, sends it whirling through the air. There's a woody thonk, and Myrtha stops dead.

            Villanelle chews unhurriedly. 'Are these fresh vanilla beans?'

            'Yes.' Myrtha stares at the knife, now embedded in the door. 'Organic. From, um... Madagascar, I believe.'

            'They're good.'

            'I'm glad. Listen, Miss...'

            'Spurrell.'

            'Miss Spurrell. Can we speak frankly? As... adults?'

            'If you want.'

            'That girl. The others.' Myrtha pulls the knife from the door and turns it over in her hands. 'They really weren’t people of any consequence.'

            'I see. Wash and dry my lunch things please.'

            'You're worried about fingerprints? I knew you weren't from Interpol’. She glances pleadingly at Villanelle. ‘You want money? This Cartier watch? Let me speak to Ron, and I promise, you'll leave here a rich woman.'

            'Do the fucking washing up, Myrtha. Don't make me hit you.'

            When they finally reach the villa's entrance, Johnny Fernandes is standing outside. Taking Myrtha by the arm, he marches her politely but firmly to a waiting Mercedes.

            'Where are the others?' Villanelle asks him.

            'Waiting for you in the car park. Everything tickety-boo?'

            'Everything. I'll see you tomorrow.'

            He nods. 'And tonight...'

            'Yes?'

            'However much you're tempted to, don't.'

            'I wasn't going to.'

            'You were thinking about it.'

            'Only vaguely.'

            'Just don't. OK?'

           He's right. I was thinking about it. Killing makes me hungry in more than one way, and after spending time with Myrtha, I'm inclined to see Balice in an almost favourable light. Walking back through the gardens to join the others, it occurs to me that the day's most interesting revelation is that Balice was involved in some way with Tiberius, and that he knew she was MI6. This confirms something that I've long suspected. Should I confide in Johnny? Perhaps not yet.

The story continues…