She was also sleeping with Peter, and with the diplomat in London. Busy woman. Did you ask about the fake passport?
That a fake USSR passport had been found in de Winter’s office desk drawer had been made a great deal of.
Hewitt says he was never given one. But get this—he wasn’t paid enough to have bought a house, like de Winter did. It was mostly promises of riches to come.
So how did de Winter—?
He was an inventor! Patented stuff he invented and sold the patents!!!! She made a list of the devices and gadgets Hewitt had mentioned, used in home and industry, that de Winter had seen a need for in his day to day life and sat down to create. The power socket with a built-in night light. The wall socket with a built-in extension cord. The magnetic soap holder. The stand for holding a hairdryer. e wall-mounted toothpaste tube squeezer. The pedal to lift the toilet seat. Small things that people wanted and the patents for which he’d sold all over the world.
Seems it wasn’t widely known. Hewitt caught him at it, so Peter confessed to him. He was almost embarrassed by this, dreamed of inventing something more connected to aviation. Wanted to surprise his wife when he had enough money for them to live the good life on.
“Alessa.” Tom abandoned messaging for calling. “Doesn’t it seem odd he’d do both? Try and make money in two such diverse ways? Why not just, I don’t know, spy more? Spy harder?”
“Or devote himself to his inventing and not waste time spying?” Alessa swallowed. She knew Tom was thinking the same as she was—that things didn’t look so cut-and-dried anymore, that things might have been slanted one way…when in reality they leaned another. And the implications of that— “I’m at the house in Blazeby tomorrow. I’ll see what I can find.”
“Right. Check in straight after, like this. And remember, if you can’t be good—”
“—be careful.”
For once, their old motto didn’t seem like a silly joke, but a warning and one Alessa had running through her head the next day, when she let herself into the house, shivering in the early evening chill and racing to follow Hugo’s instructions about deactivating the intruder alarms, almost dropping the dishes, trays, and red wine she carried. She was later than she’d planned to be and had no idea when Hugo would be there, although he’d said he’d call and let her know, if she liked.
Her first task, before even entering the study, was to figure out which food needed cooking and which needed thawing. Not being much of a gourmet, and needing what time she had in the house for snooping, she’d bought the main, sides and the dessert of the day from Home Cooking, a local shop that cooked delicious homemade food on the premises for reheating or defrosting at home. Anthea had even let her take the dinner and dessert in the ceramic dishes it had been cooked in, rather than decanting it into takeaway containers—for a hefty deposit.
There seemed a lot of packages—oh, custard and cream, to go with the fruit pie thing and lots of sides to go with the main course stew. And a traybake of Brownies. Right. She should have paid more attention. And why was the bottle bag from the wine and spirit merchants so clinking? Four bottles? Oh, yes. She’d called in, weighed down with dinner—and supper—and asked what wine went with lamb and they’d informed her they could recommend a Cabernet Sauvignon, Merlot, a Bordeaux blend and a Chianti Classico. To which she’d replied fine, and then had to take a phone call while they bagged up her purchase. She’d handed over her card to pay—for a bottle of each. Oh well. She searched through cupboards for dishes for the vegetables and sauces and made sure the aluminium containers were hidden in a bag she’d take away with her.
She didn’t really know what she was looking for, in the study. It seemed Peter de Winter’s personal effects at the time of his death had been gathered up and examined, by the police or the Ministry of Defence or MI5, she didn’t know, and dumped here, at some point after. Some attempt had been made to arrange and organise the piles, Alessa supposed by Hugo, when he’d come to live here. Squatting to pull open drawers, she caught the hem of her shirt around the handle, ripping a hole in it when she wrenched the drawer free. She freed herself and tucked the damaged item of clothing into her jeans.
What a lot of changes Hugo had been through, she thought, sitting back on her heels and rubbing her eyes that were streaming with the dust. Leaving the armed forces, going into business, his marriage failing, his stepfather dying, his mother presumably selling their home… She wondered about the order of events, and if Amanda had kept the marital home, Hugo deciding to move here a few years ago. He was restoring the house, she saw, when she took a break to explore. The restoration work was beautiful, the pool and gym a good example.
She took photos of the case file numbers, as well as of anything else that looked important. Hmm. There were gaps in things. The pictures of Peter with his Research and Development co-workers and manager looked so innocuous. Alessa turned these over to photograph the names on the backs, wondering if any of these people had been involved too. She was going through bank statements—even the old utilities bills were meticulously preserved—when her phone trilled and she almost dropped it.
“I’m outside,” Hugo announced. “And do I smell burning?”
Chapter Ten
What? No! She heaped the papers and files back onto the table and desk and into the drawers and cupboards, raced to open the front door, then darted to the kitchen, to discover he’d been kidding. “Not funny!” she raged, turning to flick him with a tea towel, her breath catching in her throat at how unnecessarily gorgeous he looked, in his overcoat and scarf, tiny snowflakes dusting his hair and eyelashes.
“Is that huge-eyed look for the wine?” Hugo indicated the bottle in his hand. “But I see you’ve provided that too. And four bottles of the stuff? Excellent. The more the merrier.” He brushed dust from her jeans, raising an eyebrow.
He insisted on helping, when he’d divested himself of his coat, and apologised for setting the table in the kitchen—the dining room was still undergoing redecoration.
“Hmm, interesting priorities.” Alessa placed the dish on the table. “No dining room, but a pool and gym and some sort of game room, complete with bar and snooker tables?” She blushed, realising she’d given away that she’d been nosing around the place.
“Where else could we hold the monthly poker nights? And pool tournaments? Which you are more than welcome to attend. And my house is your house.” Hugo poured wine for them both.
“I didn’t go upstairs,” Alessa assured him, her stupidity immediately making her blush more.
“I won’t reply to that.” Hugo grinned, making Alessa’s heart squeeze. She loved those eye crinkles that spread down his face when he was amused. She loved making him happy. She loved—
“So, this is lamb…?” Hugo lifted the lid, raising an eyebrow.
“Ragù? Hotpot. Casserole? It has a few names.” Alessa grabbed the serving spoon. “Help yourself to veg.”
Hugo praised her cooking so much, including the pie that turned out to be crumble, and how clean the kitchen was after such a Herculean effort that she had to confess to not having prepared the food there. Or all of it herself. She said the last in a mutter, then realised from the gleam in his eyes he’d known, and was piling on the guilt.
“Alessa, I don’t care if you don’t cook,” Hugo began.
“I do! I mean, I can. I would. I will.” She had to knock off the wine, not that she’d had much. “Today’s been so hectic and… Talking of, how’s the theatre project going?”
She was genuinely interested in what he was doing. Not just the new Mill Island development, but his life in general, his former projects, his business… Even when, the meal over, they moved to the living room and the huge sofa to watch the historical drama they were both fans of, she preferred to listen to Hugo talk, and to share details of her life with him. He pulled her close and she tilted her face up to his, breathing in his scent, his essence, and soon they were kissing, long, slow, caresses that were more intimate
than the wild sex they’d indulged in and so revealing that Alessa pulled away.
“I’d better go,” she said, pushing her dishevelled hair back.
“Couldn’t you stay over?” Hugo looked deep into her eyes and stroked her hair from her face. “I’d really like you to.”
“I—” Her damn phone. Tom, wondering why she wasn’t checking in.
“You know I’m busy for the next few days?” Hugo took her hand. “I’m away, in fact, for a couple of days, but what are you doing Christmas Eve?”
“That’s not for—early next week. Right.” Alessa swallowed. “I’m away over the break. Just a day or two.” And would be busy searching archives and filing freedom of information requests. “But I’ll be back right after, and we could…do something?”
“Something.” Hugo smiled, but it didn’t lighten his eyes as usual. “Will you stay in touch when you’re away?”
“Of course!”
And what a strange note to end such a wonderful evening on, she mused, wishing she could stay over, as Hugo had put it. Alessa steeled her resolve. She wouldn’t settle for half a relationship, with someone unable to communicate, to commit, really. No relationship was better than that. But it wouldn’t come to that, she told herself. Not with my help! They spoke on the phone, over the next couple of days. Hugo was researching trams, of all things, testing out the feasibility of having that mode of transport in Montford. Three times the energy efficiency of buses and higher overall speeds, he’d told her.
“You’re just a big kid who wants to be an engine driver,” she’d replied.
She missed him, and hated having to be cagey about what she was doing. Which was, driving to the snooty Lychwood Conservation Area, that residential suburb bristling with large Victorian houses on the edge of the city, where her Mini could thankfully be hidden on the large, bush and tree-lined drive of the beautiful property she’d be helping Tom house sit, and not lower the tone of the neighbourhood. Even the holiday decorations were restrained and tasteful, she noted, peering up and down the wide street, waiting for Tom to let her in.
“Surface-to-air guided weapons or high-speed research aircraft?” came his question, as he indicated two of the piles of research he’d laid out in the living room, where a warm fire blazed. “What’s your strongest area of those two?”
Alessa dropped her bag in the hall. She could see how deeply into the project Tom was—his brown eyes shone with the light of a challenge and his normally soft curly brown hair was wild with static. “And people say I get buried deep in what I’m doing. Oh, and Merry Festivus, Tom.”
“What?” He spared her a glance. “You didn’t have anything better to do, did you?”
“I…suppose not.” Alessa wanted nothing more than to be with Hugo, but not as this week’s blonde. So she’d give this her best shot. “So, Peter de Winter. You’re thinking he was framed, right? So, we have to discover by whom.”
“Amanda? What the hell are you doing here?” Hugo got the shock of his life when his ex-wife opened his own door for him, from inside his house, before he could. “And however you got a key, I’ll take it back, thanks.”
“I’m just dropping off presents.” Amanda flipped an airy hand at a pile of gaily wrapped gifts, wafting her cloying violet scent around. “And I was worried you were on your own, on Christmas Eve.”
“I have plans.” He had, obligations, rather, but not with whom he really wanted to spend time with.
“Oh, your annual Christmas Eve church concert thing. And she’s coming? The girl I met last time?”
Hugo sighed. “Is that any of your business?”
“No, of course not.” Amanda dropped into her wounded but brave mode. “I just wondered how she was getting on.”
“With…”
“Her story. Her long-form piece or review piece, whatever the polite term is. Well, I don’t want to say exposé…sounds so tabloid!” She flickered a glance of her heavily lashed eyes towards the study, or dump room.
A chill rippled over Hugo’s skin. “What are you talking about?” he questioned, taking a long time to shrug out of his coat.
“Alessandra’s true crime piece about Peter de Winter, of course! I caught her rifling through stuff in there and she explained how there hasn’t been a proper look at him, and now, with newspapers so hard-pressed for readers, it’s really only writing about this sort of thing that grabs an audience.”
“No.” His denial was instinctive.
“Oh, yes. I understand the appeal, I suppose. All that titillation of secrets unmasked along with the context and background provided, so you don’t feel too dirty getting stuck into the scandal.” Amanda pursed her lips.
“I don’t believe you.” Alessa wouldn’t do such a thing—
“Oh, sorry. I just assumed you’d given the okay. Didn’t realise she was going behind your back.”
“Just because that’s your fucking speciality—” Hugo collected himself. “Amanda, we’re finished. As in, you have no reason to be here, or to come here again. Please understand that. I’m sorry Javier is through with you—”
“Dumped me, like you did.”
“Not like I did. I imagine it’s for a different set of reasons. I’d say give the key back, but I presume you have a copy. So keep it, and I’ll change the locks.” One day, he’d find out which of his neighbours she’d charmed, who then tipped her off whenever a woman came here. Or maybe his ex had spy cams set up.
He stepped into her space, towered over her. “I’ve told you about not just showing up and not bringing Amelia here. I know things are difficult for her”—Amanda had made them that way—“but that doesn’t help her. Maybe instead you could learn some better life skills?”
“Ha! Like you have, Mr Stiff-bloody-upper lip—”
“I am trying!” Hugo gritted, helping Amanda through the door and handing her coat to her as she went.
“Well, you certainly helped your playmate—to a book deal, or even a TV movie contract!” was yelled at a vicious decibel through the closed door. “Has she turned the tables on you and finished with you, now she’s got what she wanted?”
Amanda. Bitter to the end. And so wrong. Wasn’t she? As much as he tried not to, Hugo visualised Alessa’s dusty, nervy state a few days ago, when she’d been here. Cooking dinner. Except she hadn’t cooked it. So, what has she been doing, that had her so flustered and grimy? And all the probing questions about his childhood… Without meaning to, without wanting to, he entered the study, the room he’d dumped everything of his late father’s into, and stood, seeking what, he didn’t know what.
It was evident within a second that things had been disturbed. But Amanda could have done that, the vindictive hell cat, could have moved things and…caught Alessa’s shirt on a drawer? The same shirt she’d had on that evening, the one with the rip in its hem, whose missing scrap of striped cotton fabric was trapped here?
No. She hadn’t been using him… He snatched out his phone and called her. No answer. Where was she? He wouldn’t like the answer to that either, he knew. Away with another guy. Tom. He couldn’t deceive himself any longer than Alessa was taking things slowly, maybe afraid of getting hurt if she rushed it, was looking at her options, or finishing with a casual boyfriend…
He still held his phone and, seized by something he wouldn’t name, thumbed through his apps, clicking on Find my Friends. He’d enabled it so Alessa could see when he was on his way, last week, and time the meal accordingly. He didn’t think she’d understood, or used it, but he did. She was still in Montford?
What had he been imagining, some glitzy Christmas break in the snow, or far-flung climes? He didn’t really tumble to what he was doing until he was in the car, heading for the address on the map. And when he got there, he didn’t really believe he was doing this, that this was happening, until he glimpsed Alessa’s unmistakeable purple car right where the dot on the map marked, which made him park his car, and ring the doorbell.
“Tom, who else are we
expect—” Alessa opened the door and stared at him. “Hugo? What are you doing here? What—”
“Another Xmas refugee? Come on in!” called a man’s voice, so, glaring at Alessa, Hugo did.
What the hell? Hugo here? How? Why? She hurried after him into the living room, where he stood staring at the piles of documents and photos, then looked from Tom, ensconced in front of the fireplace, to her.
“Oh! It isn’t what you’re thinking!” Alessa felt weak with relief. “We’re not—involved.”
“We were. Once upon a time a long time ago.” Tom stood, despite Alessa shaking her head. “Tom Keaton.”
Hugo didn’t shake Tom’s hand or give his name in return. He picked up a photograph of Peter de Winter in a hand that shook slightly. “So it’s true. You’re writing some muckraking piece on my father and used me to get some primary material.”
“What?” Alessa stumbled back from the winter-cold fury in Hugo’s eyes. “No! Of course not! I didn’t even know who he was, who you were, until I was at your house. That was when I decided to investigate.”
“Sparks, that doesn’t negate what the man—”
“And it’s not any sort of scandalmongering,.” Alessa cut Tom off. “We’re researching a serious piece about a miscarriage of justice. Because we think Peter was framed!” It didn’t get the reaction she’d expected. “And then, when all the truth’s out, you’ll be able to come to come to terms with your past, and move on.”
“How dare you!”
“Alessa, that’s crazy!”
The two exclamations, from Hugo and Tom, shocked her.
“Not move on, more help you open up? Get you in touch with your emotions?” she tried.
“Emotions?” The darkness in Hugo’s tone hit her and at the look in his eyes, she stepped back. “Like the ones that came with my stepfather dying and me having to pack up his house, his life, because my mother couldn’t? No, those are a bit commonplace. How about we backtrack, to the emotions I felt leaving the army to rescue my stepfather from a business he was running into the ground, putting people’s livelihood in jeopardy?
Whispers of Winter: A Limited Edition Collection of Winter Romances Page 86
