The Shadow of the Soul by Sarah Pinborough Page B

relatives were standing behind a smaller barrier about fifteen feet from the microphone. More onlookers gathered in crowds further away behind the Road Closed cordons. The Prime Minister had wanted this memorial up quickly, not just to draw a line under the events as much as she could, but also she wanted the public to be here to show the world that London was not afraid of terrorism, that Londoners were made of sterner stuff. Crowds had turned out, but nowhere near the numbers this part of the city should draw. Maybe Londoners weren’t so brave after all.
    The car slowed to a halt. Perhaps if the King had come, as he’d wanted to, the crowds would have been larger, but his health was failing, and McDonnell had persuaded him to allow the Prince of Wales to come in his stead at a separate time. The public would prefer that anyway; most people believed the old king should have passed his crown to his son, just like he’d wanted his own mother to do. The country needed a morale boost, and a young and dynamic king would raise spirits. Some leaders just didn’t know when to step down. Even empty power could be addictive.
    Cameras started flashing as soon as they got out of the limousine. The journalists had been kept behind the inner barrier. Special Branch officers would be moving among them, as well as the relatives and the main crowd of onlookers, further back, dressed in their civvies, monitoring the population for the slightest hint of any suspicious behaviour. Abigail didn’t know their faces, but she could always pick them out by their posture and concentrated expressions as their eyes flicked across the crowd. Body language was the biggest tell of them all.
    It was only ten a.m. but the day was already warm. Foronce her expensive dark glasses – so stereotypical, thanks to Hollywood, and yet vital for masking the target of her gaze – did not look so out of place. Behind her, Barker pulled the large wreath of flowers from the car and followed the Prime Minister over to the steel and black structure. McDonnell took it from him and after placing it carefully on the ground, she turned to the crowd. Abigail moved so that she was slightly to one side of her boss, where she had a clear view of all the people in front of them, and the barriers beside. Her earpiece remained silent, but she scanned the buildings and windows, just in case the great Secret Service machine had missed anything. It hadn’t, of course. Today, there would be no chance of any attack; highly trained individuals had flooded the area to be sure of that.
    As the Prime Minister began to talk, Abigail remained focused. Her heartbeat stayed regular and even. She didn’t think about the strangeness of her job, the ability to leap in front of a bullet without hesitation. They could dress it up with whatever title they wanted, but that was the essence of her position. Her sole responsibility was to ensure that should any attack on the Prime Minister happen, the other woman would have every chance of survival, which meant severely limiting the chance of her own. She’d been trained to move and calculate angles in order to take a bullet with the least likely outcome of death if she had to, but everyone knew that, really, it was just a matter of luck. The training was just something to help you sleep at night.
    Abigail knew her colleagues viewed her strangely. They couldn’t understand why a young, attractive woman would apply for that job, especially when so many world leaders were coming under attack. She didn’t fit the image. She certainly hadn’t throughout the interview process either,but she’d come top in all the tests, both physical and mental, and the psyche evaluation had proven her the most suitable for the position, and so here she was: death’s body double.
    More cameras flashed as McDonnell’s speech continued. Abigail watched the crowd, her gaze moving from left to right through the group of relatives. There was nothing suspicious, as