by H. Y. Hanna
“Is everything all right?" asked Henry, giving her a quizzical look.
“Oh! Um… yes,” said Poppy, hastily jerking her gaze back to him. “Sorry… I… er… haven’t been to many fancy places like this,” she said, gesturing around the restaurant. “It’s all… quite exciting.”
Henry looked surprised, glancing around carelessly. “This isn’t that fancy, really. I mean, it’s not a Michelin-starred restaurant or anything.”
“Well, this is probably one of the poshest places I’ve been to,” said Poppy with a laugh. “My mother was a single mum and we never had very much money. Going out to eat was only for special occasions, like birthdays and things like that—and it was usually to the local pub.”
“Oh, I see. I'm sorry.” Henry gave a rueful smile. “I suppose one forgets that not everyone has a life of privilege. So… did your parents separate then?”
Poppy stiffened slightly. She always dreaded it when the conversation turned to her father. “No. I don’t actually know who my father is. My mother never told me. She… she was a bit of a wild child in her teens and she spent some time in the States, following bands around.”
"You mean, like a groupie?” asked Henry with interest.
Poppy nodded. “She came back home to England when she got pregnant.”
He whistled. “So your father was a musician?”
“I don’t know. Yeah… probably.”
“Haven’t you tried to search for him?”
“Well… Mum never wanted to talk about him when she was alive. And after she died, I did try a bit, but the thing is, I can’t afford to go to America, and even if I could, I wouldn't know where to start looking.”
“What a fascinating story!” said Henry. “I’ll bet you’re the daughter of someone really famous—like a big rock star or something. Why not?” he asked as Poppy shook her head, laughing. “You never know! Hey, how about we make a bet right now?” He shoved a hand into his pocket and pulled out a twenty-pound note. “Twenty quid says your dad’s a mega star.”
Poppy stared at him in confusion. “But… but I might never find out who my father is,” she said, frowning. “It seems a bit stupid—”
“Never mind!” said Henry, waving the money in her face. “The point is: if you ever do find him and he is someone really famous, then I win the bet—right? I can say that I dated his daughter,” he said, grinning. “And you’ll owe me twenty pounds.”
“Er… right…” said Poppy, thinking that by the time she found her father—if she ever found him—she might have no idea of where Henry was and vice versa.
The whole thing seemed like a ludicrous exercise. But Henry seemed to be taking it very seriously—in fact, she didn’t think she’d ever seen him so animated. Gone was his usual indolent manner. Instead, his eyes were bright and his whole face was suffused with excitement. It’s funny how any kind of connection to celebrities could excite people so much, thought Poppy dryly.
“So… um… what about your father?” she asked, trying to turn the focus away from herself. “What did he do?”
“Oh, pretty boring, really. He was the son of a wealthy industrialist. Not that I ever knew my grandfather—my grandparents were both dead by the time I was born. I actually knew my great-uncle—Muriel’s husband—better. I used to come to Duxton House to stay when I was a boy.”
“That must have made it easier when you came here to live last year,” commented Poppy. “By the way, I’m really sorry again about your parents. It must have been very hard, losing both of them so suddenly like that.”
Henry shrugged. “To be honest with you, I was never that close to them. I suppose I’m a bit of a British upper-class cliché: I was sent to boarding school at a young age and spent most of my childhood and teens there. And when I came home, my parents always seemed more interested in their society parties and the charitable causes they were supporting than in me—which suited me just fine,” he added quickly. “I found other ways to amuse myself and I certainly never had to worry about how to afford it.” He flashed her a brilliant smile.
Poppy smiled back, although silently she wondered if Henry really didn’t mind his lonely childhood as much as he insisted. It was strange to think how different their upbringings were. She’d certainly never had the expensive clothes, endless toys, and luxury lifestyle that Henry had had… but she’d probably enjoyed the one thing he could never get: genuine interest and affection from a parent.
“Anyway, enough talk about family,” said Henry suddenly, flipping open the menu. “Let’s order some drinks! I’ll get a bottle of wine, shall I? What d’you prefer? Red or white? And what about food—what do you fancy?”
Poppy opened her own menu and looked down at the list of items, several of which seemed to be French names.
“Gosh, I don't know… I’m not really familiar with half these dishes.” She smiled at him again, fluttering her eyelashes slightly. “Why don't you order for me? I have complete faith in you.”
As an attempt at flirtation, it was pretty lame, but Henry seemed to lap it up. When the waiter came, he showed off his fluent French as he ordered their drinks and food, then—when their wine came—delighted in teaching Poppy all about “bouquet” and “body” as he watched her savour the expensive Château Batailley he had ordered. Poppy listened and oohed and ahhed in all the right places, all whilst looking for a way to bring up the subject of his phone. At last, when there was a lull in the conversation, she saw her chance.
“By the way,” she said casually, “what kind of phone do you have, Henry? I really need to replace mine—it's a terribly old model—and I was wondering what would be the best one to get?”
Henry slipped a hand into his pocket and pulled out a slim rectangular device. “Oh, well… I'm an iPhone man,” he said with a grin. “Never been tempted to switch to Android. I’ve got the latest model. Here—you can have a look if you like.”
He handed the phone to Poppy, who made a great show of turning it over and looking at it from all angles. Her mind raced, trying to think of a way she could get Henry away from the table, even for a few moments. She came up with nothing, though, and when she couldn’t pretend to admire the phone any longer, she handed it reluctantly back. Still, she was relieved to see that instead of slipping it back into his pocket, Henry placed his phone on the table, next to his car keys.
Their first courses arrived, followed by the main dishes. Poppy went through the motions of eating her food and listening to his anecdotes, while her nerves slowly stretched to breaking point as she waited and watched and wished fervently that Henry would feel the call of nature. The man seemed to have a bladder the size of a Zeppelin though, as he guzzled his way through a bottle of wine without showing any sign of needing the bathroom.
Poppy fidgeted in her seat, conscious of the time ticking away. If she didn’t make a move soon, dinner would be over and she’d lose any chance of getting her hands on Henry’s phone. The whole evening would have been for nothing.
At last, she couldn’t bear it any longer. Perhaps if I go to the Ladies and have a quiet moment to think, I’ll come up with a plan, she thought desperately. Excusing herself, she rose from the table and started to make her way across the room—then stopped short as she suddenly noticed an elderly man with a wild mop of grey hair sitting alone at a table a few feet away.
It was Bertie!
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Poppy cast a look over her shoulder to make sure that Henry wasn’t watching. Thankfully, he was sitting with his back to the room, his head down and his attention engrossed as he tapped on his phone. She darted over to Bertie’s table and leaned down next to the old inventor.
“Bertie!” she hissed. “What are you doing here?”
“I followed the signal from my mobile hacking device,” said the old man, looking confused. “It incorporates a tracker, you see, which sends out information about its location—”
“No, no, I mean—what are you doing here? Why did you follow
the tracker?”
“Oh, I wanted to watch my invention in action!” said Bertie, beaming like a proud parent.
“Well, you might be waiting a very long time,” said Poppy with a sigh. “I just can’t seem to find a way to get my hands on Henry’s phone—without him there watching me, that is.”
“Ah… that was the other reason I came,” said Bertie. “I had a feeling that you might require my assistance. Never fear! I have devised a method to distract your young man and ensure his absence for a short period. Now let me see… I know I put it in here somewhere…” He picked up the ancient leather case he always carried with him and rummaged inside for a moment before finally pulling something out. “Aha! Here it is, my dear.”
Poppy took the glass vial he handed her and peered at it curiously. It seemed to contain several small black specks, each about the size of a grain of rice. At first, she thought they might have been tiny fragments of rock or even seeds, but then she realised that each “speck” had features: six tiny legs, a segmented body, two antennae…
“They look like… ants?” she said quizzically, holding the vial up to the light and rotating it slowly. The black specks seemed strangely inanimate. “Are they dead?”
“Oh no, they are simply inactivated. Once they are triggered by oscillatory motion, they will run on a charge generated by the tiny rotating magnet within their bodies.”
“Uh-huh… but Bertie, I still don’t understand. How will this help me—”
“They’re one of my latest inventions: instant ‘Ants In Your Pants’!”
“What?” Poppy wondered if she had heard him right. “Ants in your pants?”
Bertie nodded eagerly. “Guaranteed to distract a subject and set them in motion. You simply sprinkle the ants nearby and they will find their way to their target.”
“Er… target?”
“Oh, they’ve been programmed to be attracted to muscle protein and thus they will congregate on the area of highest density—which happens to be the gluteus maximus, the largest muscle in the body.” He leaned forwards and added in a conspiratorial tone, “Your buttocks.”
Poppy blinked at him. “You’ve… you’ve invented mechanical ants which are attracted to people’s bums?”
Bertie nodded, beaming. “Yes! Isn’t it marvellous?”
“Er…” Marvellous wasn’t the word that she would have chosen. Still… Poppy threw a look over her shoulder again at Henry. She didn’t have any other ideas. What did she have to lose? She took a deep breath and said: “Okay. Tell me how they work.”
“Oh, it’s very easy. You simply give the vial a quick, hard shake—that will activate the ants—and then flip the top off and shake them out, perhaps onto the back of your young man’s chair. They will start making their way towards their target and reach it within a few minutes.”
“And what happens when they get there? They’re not going to bite him, are they?”
“Oh no, I did not design them with mouth parts,” said Bertie. “That was going to be a future model—but I have not been able to find an investor to develop this prototype yet.”
Yeah, I wonder why, thought Poppy.
“In any case, they will only have enough charge to work for a few minutes, after which they will automatically shut off,” Bertie added.
“Oh, right. Okay,” said Poppy, feeling reassured. “Well, in that case…” She gave him a crooked smile. “Wish me luck!”
She walked slowly back to her table. As she drew level with Henry’s chair, she gave the vial a quick, hard shake; then, using her thumb, she flipped the lid off and casually moved her hand to the back of Henry’s chair. Quickly, she tapped the contents onto his seat back, then continued on around the table and slipped into her seat opposite him.
Henry looked up from his phone with an expression of mock concern. “You were gone ages. I was just thinking of sending a search party.”
“Sorry… queue in the Ladies,” Poppy mumbled.
“Would you like some dessert? Or how about a liqueur?” asked Henry. “They do some top-notch brandy and cognac here, as well as—”
He broke off suddenly, a funny look crossing his face.
“Er…” Henry shifted uncomfortably in his seat, then cleared his throat. “As I was saying, they do fantastic—”
He jerked right. Then left. His hand twitched and reached around behind him, before he remembered himself and hastily drew it away. Beads of sweat appeared on his forehead.
“Er…” Henry’s face was getting redder and redder as he tried not to wriggle in his seat. “…the liqueurs…”
Suddenly, he surged to his feet and jiggled on the spot. “I… er… will you excuse me…?”
Turning, he bolted across the room. His usual suave air completely deserted him as he half hobbled, half hopped towards the toilets, while surreptitiously trying to scratch his backside. Poppy felt torn between remorse and laughter. She caught sight of Bertie’s gleeful face across the room. The old inventor gave her a wide grin and a thumbs-up sign, and she couldn’t help laughing. It had been a mean trick to play on Henry—but it wouldn’t really hurt him, and it would give her the time she needed. Besides, if Henry really is Ursula’s murderer, then there’s no need to waste sympathy on him, she thought grimly.
As soon as Henry rounded the corner and disappeared from sight, she dived across the table and pounced on his phone. Somehow, though, she missed and the phone slipped from her fingers. It went over the edge of the table on the other side and fell to the floor.
"Bugger!" cried Poppy.
She dived under the table, furious with herself for her clumsiness. She didn’t know how long Henry would take in the bathroom—she might only have minutes—so the last thing she’d needed was to waste precious time retrieving the phone. She crawled under the heavy white tablecloth and peered at the floor. There was not much light under here and the dark, patterned carpet made it even harder to discern any shapes. In fact, she couldn’t see Henry’s iPhone anywhere.
Poppy cursed as she crawled on her knees, groping frantically with one hand. Then she yelped and jumped, nearly smacking her head on the underside of the table, as a deep male voice suddenly said next to her:
“Having fun?”
She jerked around to see Nick Forrest’s face a few inches from hers. He had bent down and lifted a corner of the tablecloth to peer underneath.
“Don’t scare me like that!” Poppy snapped. “No, I'm not having fun! I've only got a few minutes to look at Henry’s bloody phone and I had to go and drop it. Aaarrghh!”
“Is this it?” asked Nick, reaching forwards to extract something that had slid under the pedestal base of the table.
“Yes!” said Poppy, exhaling in relief and snatching the phone from him.
She crawled back out and stood up, then quickly whipped Bertie's hacking device out of her pocket. She tried to clamp it on to the phone like the old inventor had shown her, but it wasn't as easy as he'd made it look. Poppy fumbled frantically, getting more and more agitated as she couldn’t fit the sensor over the phone in the exact position needed to trigger the automatic decoding system.
“Damn…” she muttered. "Damn… damn… damn!"
A strong male hand closed over hers, steadying her trembling fingers.
“Stop. Relax. Breathe,” Nick commanded. “You’ll never achieve anything in a panic. Just take a moment to calm down and focus.”
Poppy bridled and started to make an indignant reply, then she stopped herself. Nick was right. She closed her eyes and forced herself to take a deep breath, emptying her mind of all thought. Then she opened her eyes again and looked down at the phone once more. She blocked out everything else around her: the buzz of conversation at the other tables, the clink of cutlery, the jazz music issuing from the restaurant speakers, even the tall man next to her… Instead, her world narrowed down to the phone she held in her hands.
Carefully, she clamped Bertie’s hacking device over the phone, and this time it slid immedi
ately into place. There was a beep as the device engaged, then she saw a green bar appear on the phone screen. It started on the left and gradually extended across to the right.
15%... 27%... 35%... 58%...
Poppy flicked her eyes towards the other side of the restaurant, at the corridor that led to the toilets. What was Henry doing? How much longer did she have? She looked down again at the green bar which was creeping imperceptibly across the phone screen.
61%... 73%...
Come on… come on… Poppy pleaded silently.
Nick made a sudden movement next to her and she glanced up again. Her heart jumped into her throat.
Henry had just emerged from the corridor on the other side of the room—he was coming back!
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Oh my God, what do I do? Poppy looked desperately back down at the phone, which was still showing “92%” on the green bar. She was almost there. She just needed a few more minutes!
She glanced up again. Henry had paused to speak to one of the waiters but that would only buy her another minute or two at the most. And even when the device unlocked, she would still have to open the phone app and scroll through Henry’s call register. She looked frantically towards Bertie’s table, hoping for some help from the old inventor, but his seat was empty…
Then she realised that Nick was no longer by her side. Her heart gave a leap as she saw the crime author striding across the room towards Henry. As he approached, Nick did an exaggerated double take and clapped the younger man on the shoulder, crying:
“Stewart! Fancy seeing you here!”
Henry stared at him. “I beg your pardon?”
Nick grinned at him, the picture of amiability. “We met at the last conference, remember?”
