Scorpia

killer—or he would be. Unfortunately he has one rather irritating weakness.”
    “You mean his disease?”
    “No. It’s rather more annoying than that.” She hesitated. “You could be better than him, Alex, in time. And although I know you don’t Like me mentioning it, your father was actually an instructor there. A brilliant one.

    We were all devastated when he died.”
    And there it was again. Everything began and ended with John Rider. Alex couldn’t avoid it any longer. He had to know.
    “Tell me about my father,” he said. “That’s the reason I’m here. That’s the only reason I came. How did he end up working for you? And how did he die?” Alex forced himself to go on. “I don’t even know what his voice sounded like. I don’t know anything about him at all.”
    “Are you sure you want to? It may hurt you.”
    Alex was silent.
    Their waiter arrived with the main course. Mrs Rothman had chosen roast lamb; the meat was slightly pink and garlicky. A second waiter refilled her glass.
    “All right,” she said when they had gone. “Let’s finish eating and talk about other things. You can tell me about Brookland. I want to know what music you listen to and what football team you support. Do you have a girlfriend? I’m sure a boy as handsome as you gets plenty of offers. Now I’ve made you blush. Have your dinner. I promise it’s the best lamb you’ll ever eat.
    “And after we’ve finished, I’ll take you upstairs and then I’ll tell you everything you want to know.”

Chapter 9: ALBERT BRIDGE

    She led him to a room at the top of the hotel. There was no bed, just two chairs and a trestle table with a video player and a few files.

    “I had this flown down from Venice as soon as I knew you were here,” Mrs Rothman explained. “I thought it was something you’d want to see.”
    Alex nodded. After the bustle of the restaurant, he felt strange being here—like an actor on stage when the scenery has been removed. The room was large with a high ceiling, and its emptiness made everything echo. He walked over to the table, suddenly nervous. At dinner he had asked certain questions. Now he was going to be given the answers. Would he like what he heard?
    Mrs Rothman came and stood beside him, her high heels rapping on the marble floor. She seemed completely relaxed. “Sit down,” she invited.
    Alex slipped off his jacket and hung it over the back of a chair. He loosened his tie, then sat. Mrs Rothman stood next to the table, studying him. It was a moment before she spoke.
    “Alex,” she began. “It’s not too late to change your mind.”
    “I don’t want to,” he said.
    “It’s just that, if I’m going to talk to you about your father, I may say things that will upset you and I don’t want to do that. Does the past really matter? Does it make any difference?”
    “I think it does.”
    “Very well…”
    She opened a file and took out a black and white photograph. It showed a handsome man in military uniform, wearing a beret. He was looking straight at the camera with his shoulders back and his hands clasped behind him. He was cleanshaven, with watchful, intelligent eyes.
    “This is your father, aged twenty-five. The photograph was taken five years before you were born. Do you really know nothing about him?”
    “My uncle spoke to me about him a bit. I know he was in the army.”

    “Well, maybe I can fill in some gaps for you. I’m sure you know that he was born in London and went to a secondary school in Westminster. From there he went to Oxford and got a first in politics and economics. But his heart had always been set on joining the army. And that’s what he did. He joined the Parachute Regiment at Aldershot. That in itself was quite an achievement. The Paras are one of the toughest regiments in the British Army, second only to the SAS. And you don’t just join them; you have to be invited.
    “Your father spent three years with the Paras. He saw action in Northern Ireland and Gambia, and he was part of the attack on Goose Green in the Falkland Islands in May 1982. He carried a wounded soldier to safety even though he was under fire and, as a result of this, he received a medal from the Queen. He was also promoted to the rank of captain.”
    Alex had once seen the medal: the Military Cross. Ian Rider had always kept it in the top drawer of his desk.
    “He returned to England and got married,” Mrs Rothman went on. “He had met your mother at Oxford. She was