Imogen looked down at the menu and began to reread it.
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ she said quietly, refraining from meeting his eye. ‘Do they think he’ll recover?’
Imogen felt the heat of his stare upon her.
‘Poor chap obviously walked right in on the scene and collapsed there and then,’ Mitch said. ‘Those heartless bastards must’ve walked right over his body to make their escape. I mean, the man could’ve been dead, for God’s sake.’
Imogen couldn’t help but look up at him.
‘How can you be so sure that they were there when he collapsed? They might not have even known what had happened to the poor man until after the event.’
‘So, is that how it really happened, then?’
Imogen stared at him, unblinking.
‘I … I have no idea,’ she said, mock incredulous. Her mouth felt bone dry and she took a sip of water. ‘I’m just looking at all possible scenarios, that’s all.’
Mitch wrestled with his inner conscience. If he could just get her to talk then maybe, just maybe, he could try and help her out of this mess, but he could see that she was frightened, too scared to open up to him because of who he was. His heart wanted to scream at her to run, get the hell out of the country, take her daughter with her and never look back, while his head wanted to stop her, reprimand her for what he knew, deep down, she had done.
Not for the first time in his life, Mitch found himself faced with having to make a difficult choice, and this time, he was determined to make the right one.
As if on cue his phone rang, breaking the tense moment, and he smiled apologetically at her.
‘McLaren,’ he said, wiping his mouth with his napkin as he answered it.
It was his colleague, Jack Warren.
‘There’s been a breakthrough, boss,’ Warren said, sounding as happy as a tick on a fat dog. ‘One I predicted all along. Rothschild’s alibi, it’s bogus.’
Mitch felt his sphincter muscle contract. ‘Go on.’
‘Uniform questioned some nosy old nocturnal neighbour of Calvary Rothschild’s and it turns out she swears she saw her leaving her house that evening at around 8:00 p.m. and return just after 10:00 p.m. with two other people in tow, one of which she swears was that Imogen Forbes. That means there’s a two hour window that’s unaccountable for.’ Warren paused, waiting for a response. When one didn’t come he continued, ‘I knew that Rothschild woman was lying. Had it written all over her horsey face, the stuck up bi …’
‘Yes, yes, alright, Jack,’ Mitch interrupted him.
‘Mullins wants you to bring Forbes in, but he wants it done quietly. Only trouble is I’ve already been to the house and no one knows where she is.’
‘I see,’ he said solemnly, glancing up at Imogen. She smiled at him and it felt like a knife through his ribs.
‘You might sound a bit happier about it, gov,’ Warren said, aggrieved that his boss wasn’t showering him with praise for a job well done.
‘I’ll need to speak with this neighbour,’ Mitch said with quiet resignation.
Jack Warren felt his frustration peak. There was just no pleasing some people.
‘I’ll be bringing Rothschild in,’ Warren said, enthusiastically. ‘Though apparently Lady Belmont-Jones is off on a jolly in France.’ There was a pause on the line. ‘So I’ll tell Mullins you’ll be bringing Forbes in then, when you find her that is?’ he said, filling it.
‘Yes, you tell him that,’ he replied sharply before snapping his phone shut.
Placing it down on the table, Mitch’s eyes glazed over as he desperately tried to think. He could lie to his boss; say he’d never seen her, that when he tried to find her she’d been one step ahead and had already made her escape. Only deep down, he knew that he couldn’t. Too many people had seen them together.
‘Everything alright?’ Imogen enquired, watching his expression cloud over with some concern. Before he could answer her however, the waiter brought their starters to the table, placed the steaming, fragrant plates of delights in front of them.
‘Mmm, looks lovely,’ she smiled, licking her full, fleshy mouth in anticipation, her appetite returning. ‘Well, bon appétit,’ she smiled, lighting up her face from within.
‘Bon appétit,’ Mitch replied weakly, though he knew, as he tentatively picked up his knife and fork, that he would not be able to eat a thing.
CHAPTER 59
Sebastian Forbes, for once in his life, was reticent as he sat on the powder blue crushed velvet chaise longue inside The Royal Suite at The Lanesborough hotel, watching as Prince Saud paced the magnificent room, his face as dark as thunder.
‘Moved? But how? How?’ The prince shook his fist in frustration, and even his robes, billowing out behind him, looked angry. ‘The most secure bank in the world, isn’t that what you said? Impenetrable to man and beast!’
Sebastian nodded, his mood sombre.
‘Yes, I did, your grace, I did. Somehow, someone discovered a way of breaking into it.’ He looked up at the Arab prince with imploring eyes. ‘They tricked the bloody system. The man – or rather, men – who did this, were clever and meticulous.’
‘Tricked the system? The system you assured me was foolproof? This one-of-a-kind system that could guarantee the Bluebird’s safety for, now what was it you said, “a thousand years and then some”?’
‘I can assure you that the diamond is safe … again,’ Sebastian attempted to reassure him, but even he had to admit it sounded a little pathetic. ‘I’ve had it under round the clock security ever since, and I have the best policemen in the United Kingdom, if not the world, working on this,’ Sebastian interjected. ‘They have promised me that they will get to the bottom of it – whoever did this, they will not get away with it, I can promise you that much.’
The prince grunted.
‘Your promises mean nothing to me, Forbes,’ he boomed, causing Sebastian to cower a little in his seat. ‘You have already proved yourself to be a liar!’
Sebastian made to stand but thought better of it as he watched the prince’s two burly bodyguards move in closer, a look of menace in their otherwise dead expressions.
‘And they took only the diamond?’ the Prince clarified.
Sebastian sighed as he nodded.
‘They took it from the vault and moved it up to the nineteenth floor, to my desk.’
Prince Saud glared at Sebastian.
‘But why?’ he pressed. ‘Why would someone want to do this? Is this some kind of message? A warning?’ He scratched his long, dark beard in question.
‘We should never have announced our coalition, let people know of its whereabouts,’ he said, angry at himself almost as much as the sad little man sitting opposite him. He turned sharply towards Sebastian. ‘I should never have let you talk me into this! You wanted to publicise our agreement, I knew this would make her a target for thieves the world over.’
‘I appreciate that you’re upset …’ Sebastian said tremulously.
‘Upset!’ the prince shot back, his eyes wide and maniacal, as he paced the exquisite suite. ‘You have no idea what this means, Forbes! The Bluebird, she is not simply the most valuable diamond in the world,’ he threw his hands up in the air and shook them, ‘she is the spirit of my mother, of the Queen of Arabia! She is a living, breathing entity! It is like having my own mother violated.’
Sebastian swallowed dryly. He knew that he had lost the prince’s confidence and that any reassurances he gave him now would fall on deaf ears.
‘First and foremost, Forbes, I am a prince,’ Prince Saud said. ‘And second to this I am a businessman. One who has always taken great pride in his sharp instincts and intuition. I had my reservations about you,’ he said, pointing a perfectly manicured finger in Sebastian’s direction, ‘right from the beginning; a feeling here,’ he said, thumping his chest with his fist. ‘Only I chose to ignore it,’ he berated himself. ‘I chose to listen to my head and not my heart – and now my heart has been prove
d right. You have allowed her safety to be compromised, and for that you must pay.’ Prince Saud turned to him then, his eyes as dark as onyx.
‘But I couldn’t possibly have known that this was going to happen,’ Sebastian objected. ‘Believe me when I say I am as upset as you are about this. After all, it is my reputation that is in tatters, my good business name all but destroyed.’
The prince laughed again, a booming, incredulous sound that seemed to intoxicate the air all around them.
‘You expect me to sympathise with you?’ he snorted, mirth thick in his voice.
Disgruntled though he was at having to take insults from a man wearing a dress, Sebastian bit his lip. The pair of human Rottweilers snarling either side of the prince looked as if they hadn’t been fed for a few days.
‘The police are following up leads as we speak,’ Sebastian said with a little less apology than before. He had allowed the Arab fool to castigate him as much as he would ever allow anyone to. ‘I will find out who did this, Prince Saud. And rest assured I will make sure they pay for your inconvenience.’
Sebastian watched as the prince stood, looking out at the magnificent view of Buckingham Palace, which probably seemed like a quaint little cottage in comparison to the vulgar and gargantuan palace that was his own dwelling.
‘It is the love of, how do you say, the limelight, that has brought about this most unfortunate of circumstances,’ he said, mostly to himself, an idea forming in his mind, ‘and so it will be this that will help us turn this catastrophe into a success. Yes … that’s it!’
‘I’m sorry,’ Sebastian said, confused, ‘I don’t think I follow.’
The prince turned from the enormous bay window.
‘We will call a press conference,’ he announced.
Sebastian felt his heart sink into his hand-stitched Italian leather loafers.
‘A press conference? Really, Prince Saud, do you think that’s a good idea? We’ve already had the press sniffing around and they …’
‘I’m not asking you, Forbes,’ he interrupted him. ‘I’m telling you. We appeal to the public for information. I will offer a reward – ten million dollars.’
‘Ten million dollars!’ Sebastian repeated the words out loud. ‘Are you mad?’
The prince silenced him with a steely glare.
‘Mad? Yes. I am mad. I am, how do you say, hopping mad,’ Prince Saud said, the veins in his temple protruding as if on cue.
‘But that kind of money will have all sorts of cranks crawling out of the woodwork,’ Sebastian protested. ‘It’ll hamper the police investigation.’
The prince ignored him.
‘I will make a direct plea for anyone with information to come forward. If it leads to a conviction, I will reward them handsomely.’
‘Now hang on a minute!’ Sebastian stood now. Stuff the bloody bodyguards, he thought defiantly, he’d rather they broke every bone in his body than allow the perpetrators to profit from this catastrophe.
‘I’m afraid, your grace,’ Sebastian simpered again, ‘I simply cannot allow myself to do that.’
‘You can, Forbes,’ the prince shot back menacingly, ‘and you will. In fact, you will get on the phone to your people right now and have them organise the conference for as soon as possible. You can consider our little agreement null and void as from this moment on …’
The sound of Sebastian’s phone ringing cut the prince off mid-sentence and Sebastian scrabbled around in his suit pocket to retrieve it.
‘It’s the police,’ Sebastian said, relief audible in his voice as he recognised the number flash up on his BlackBerry. ‘I should take it,’ he said, grateful for the distraction. ‘They might have some news.’
Prince Saud turned his back on him and listened to the conversation as he once more drank in the magnificent view that his £15,000 a night suite afforded him.
‘She’s what?’ Sebastian shrieked, horror evident in his voice, his eyes widening with shock. ‘When? I see. Yes … yes, I will be there right away.’
Terminating the call, Sebastian stood up and Prince Saud turned to face him.
‘Good news?’ he enquired, though he knew by the fact that all the colour had drained from Sebastian’s face that it had been the opposite.
‘No, not good news at all,’ he responded bluntly, with a look of stunned confusion. ‘It’s my wife.’
‘Your wife?’ The prince remembered that Forbes was married to a remarkably beautiful and charming woman – far too attractive and personable for the likes of him.
‘Yes,’ Sebastian looked up, incredulous, his beady eyes slowly darkening to match his soul, ‘she’s been arrested.’
CHAPTER 60
Imogen sat on the orange plastic chair inside the small, windowless and oppressive room and called upon herself to find the strength she needed to keep calm. She kept telling herself over again that the police knew nothing, that whatever they had on her must be circumstantial. She could not go to prison. She would not. Seb would take Bryony away from her, make sure she never saw her beloved daughter again. Imogen knew that should the truth come out he would rather see her languish in prison than ever forgive her.
Imogen glanced at the rudimentary white clock on the wall and panicked. Seb would know where she was by now. He would start putting two and two together, would start asking questions. She had to hold it together, lie like a consummate actress. Remember what Calvary had said: stick to the story. Good God, Calvary! It was fair to assume that if they had Imogen in custody, they would have got to her, and maybe even Yasmin too!
Imogen burned with guilt at the thought of her friends being placed in such a precarious situation. She buried her head in her hands, her legs swinging violently back and forth on the chair as adrenalin pulsed frantically through every muscle in her body.
Mickey had betrayed her. He had tricked her into having lunch with him, then grilled her for information before escorting her to the police station.
‘Well, come on then, Detective Inspector’, she had mocked him through her fear as he had helped her into the car, ‘I’m assuming you’re going to drive. Do I get sirens and everything, the full works?’
Mitch tried to laugh but the sound that came out sounded forced and hollow.
‘Imogen,’ he’d seized hold of her shoulders, causing her to look up at him in alarm, ‘I want to help you, please, let me help you.’ Imogen had stared into his teal green eyes, she wanted to hate him for doing the right thing. For always playing by the rules. Only she couldn’t. It was who he was; who he’d always been.
‘How can you help me?’ she had asked him through glassy tears. ‘When I can’t even help myself?’
*
The door opened and Mitch walked in.
‘The time is 3:47 p.m. on Thursday 19th August …’ he spoke into the tape recorder, his voice low and resigned. ‘This is Inspector Mitch McLaren interviewing Mrs Imogen Forbes in the presence of Mr Archibald Parkinson of– ’
‘It’s Theobald, actually,’ Parkinson corrected him.
Mitch corrected himself. ‘Forgive me, Theobald Parkinson, of Parkinson and Reynolds Legal Representation.’ He paused for a moment. ‘For the benefit of the tape, Mrs Forbes, may I remind you that you are under caution and that you do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention, when questioned, something which you may later rely on in court, is that understood?’
Imogen looked up at him with her dark almond eyes and nodded.
‘For the tape, please, Mrs Forbes,’ he said, his chest tight with emotion.
‘Sorry, er, yes,’ Imogen said, leaning forward closer to the machine.
‘Right, well then, let’s start, shall we?’ he said gently. He didn’t care what his boss had said about ‘wringing the truth out of her’, he would go easy. This was going to be as painful for him as it was for her.
‘Mrs Forbes, where were you the night of Friday 31st July from 8:00 p.m. onwards?’ He sat back into the grey plastic cha
ir and Imogen wondered if there was any significance behind the fact that his chair was grey and hers was orange. She hoped, like the evidence they had against her, it was purely circumstantial.
She glanced at her solicitor who gave her a reassuring smile.
‘I was at my friend Calvary’s house,’ she replied evenly.
‘That being a Mrs Calvary Rothschild of number 11 Cheyne Walk, Chelsea?’
‘That’s right,’ Imogen said.
‘You said in your original statement that you were with Mrs Rothschild and another friend.’
Imogen nodded.
‘For the tape, please,’ Mitch gently reminded her again.
‘Yes. Lady Yasmin Belmont-Jones. We’d gone to Calvary’s for a cocktail party, you know, a few cosmopolitans and cucumber mojitos, some canapés, that kind of thing.’
Mitch stared at her intently. She was just so beautiful, even when she was lying.
‘And at what time did you leave Mrs Rothschild’s residence?’
‘Oh, I suppose it must’ve been rather late,’ she said, trying hard to sound as casual as possible. ‘These evenings can sometimes go on when us ladies get together.’
‘Answer the question, please, Mrs Forbes,’ Mitch said, aware that his bosses were looking on from behind the two-way screen.
‘About 3:00 a.m.,’ she shrugged. ‘It was early dawn, the birds had started to sing.’
‘But you didn’t check your watch?’
‘No.’
‘And did anyone see you arrive home? A member of your staff perhaps?’
‘I don’t think so,’ Imogen shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Have you asked them?’
‘I am asking you, Mrs Forbes,’ he pressed her gently. ‘Did a member of your staff see what time you might have arrived home?’
Theobald Parkinson cleared his throat and Mitch wondered if this was a deliberate gesture to ensure he kept himself in check.
‘Not that I’m aware of,’ Imogen replied. Keep it going, she told herself, you’re doing great.
Bryony’s face flashed up in Imogen’s mind, young and smooth and full of laughter. She could not go to prison.
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