Solo

street adjacent to Wellington Square. There was a covered passageway off the street that led to a small mews where the former stables and coach houses had been converted into workshops and tiny flats. It was possible to ascend a flight of stairs and shin over the wall and drop into the garden that belonged to Bond’s basement neighbour. It was an easy matter to gain access to his rear window – there was a stout trellis and a convenient drainpipe. It was a route that Bond had occasion to use from time to time when he wanted to leave his flat clandestinely. His neighbour – a flautist in a symphony orchestra who was often away on tour – was both incurious and happy with the arrangement. He left his spare set of keys with Bond for safe keeping.
    Bond stood on the trellis and pushed up the big sash window then, stepping on to a horizontal length of drainpipe, he climbed easily into his drawing room.
    The flat still smelled of paint and builder’s putty. He needed to smoke a few cigarettes in the place, he thought, make it his own. He went into his study and lifted the false radiator off the wall by the desk. There was an airbrick behind it that pulled out to reveal a small cavity that contained a spare Walther PPK automatic, extra clips of ammunition, some cash, a set of keys to a bedsit in Maida Vale that he rented as a safe house, and a list of crucial telephone numbers and addresses.
    Bond was after some essential contacts and he jotted the telephone numbers down that he might need. He slipped the gun and a clip into his pocket and debated about the Maida Vale bedsit. He decided that the King’s Cross bed and breakfast was more anonymous – he didn’t want to encounter any other occupants in the house and have to start making up stories about his long absence.
    He replaced the brick and rehung the radiator and went to look at his new bathroom. Doig and his team had done a good job. The marble tiling was laid faultlessly, the grouting and the mastic professionally smooth, and the new shower’s chrome fittings gleamed invitingly behind its plate-glass door. Bond slid it open and turned on the shower: he heard the pump kick in quietly in its concealed housing beneath the bath. Ordered from America, the pump boosted London’s water pressure fourfold. He turned the tap off. There would be plenty of time for domestic pleasures later. Still, he thought, maybe he would make himself a cup of coffee and smoke a cigarette in his new streamlined kitchen. He switched off the lights and padded along the recarpeted corridor and pushed the kitchen door open.
    Donalda lay face down on the floor, the hair on the back of her head matted with fresh blood. Bond crouched down beside her and for a ghastly second thought she was dead – then she gave a little moan. Bond gently rolled her on to her side and she opened her eyes – and winced.
    ‘Don’t move,’ Bond whispered. ‘Just lie there.’
    He took the Walther from his pocket and quickly searched the flat again, finding no one and no trace of intrusion. But someone must have already been inside when Donalda arrived to unlatch the window. Someone looking to see if James Bond had returned from abroad . . . ?
    He returned to the kitchen and carefully sat Donalda up. He found a dishcloth, soaked it in warm water, wrung it out, and dabbed the blood off the back of her head where he could see she had a nasty two-inch cut. She still seemed very dazed.
    ‘I think I’m going to be sick,’ she said.
    Bond managed to grab a saucepan out of a cupboard before Donalda vomited.
    ‘That’s good,’ Bond said. ‘You’re always sick after you’ve been knocked out. It’s a good sign.’
    He put the pan in the sink and helped Donalda to her feet, sitting her on a kitchen chair. Then he made her a cup of tea.
    ‘What happened?’ he asked. ‘Did you see or hear anyone?’
    ‘No. I came in – everything was just as I’d left it. I put the post on the hall table, unlatched the window, came in here and everything went black.’
    ‘Must have been in here behind the door, hoping you wouldn’t walk in. Then left.’ Bond was thinking: they know where I live. They entered with a key. This was no burglar casually thieving in a Chelsea flat. At least they didn’t kill Donalda.
    He looked at her as she sat there shivering, both hands cupping her mug of tea, drawing off the warmth. Then she wiped away a tear. The gesture reminded him – Kobus Breed? Could it have been Kobus