by Zoe Sharp
I turned to eye him coldly. “Because there’s no way my mother would be making tarts a week before they were needed. She’s a perfectionist, and they’d be stale.”
Bill’s grunt became a snort. He rammed his chair back and got to his feet as if he could no longer bring himself to sit through such crap. I let him take half a dozen paces.
“Quite apart from the fact that my father has never sent me his love in twenty-seven years, she called me Charlie,” I said quietly. “She never does—absolutely hates it. They both do. I was always Charlotte at home, right up until I joined the army. She told me once that nothing reminds her of me as a soldier quite like hearing that name.”
“So you think she might be trying to make some reference to your military career? Then the comment about not seeing enough of you,” Parker said. He never took notes and his recall was practically recording quality. “You think it might indicate she needs that kind of help?”
“Maybe.” I shrugged. “But the real clincher was the fact she mentioned the Hetheringtons,” I said. Bill had stopped and turned back almost in spite of himself. “No way are the Hetheringtons going for dinner at my mother’s tomorrow night.”
“Right,” Bill said. “Another cryptic clue?”
“Well, they certainly wouldn’t be able to eat much,” I said coldly. “Seeing as they’ve both been dead for five years.” I looked from Bill to Parker to Sean. “They lived not far from my parents for years. Nice people. They were shot and killed by intruders who broke into the villa where they were staying on holiday in Turkey.”
“So that wasn’t the radio in the background,” Parker said grimly.
I shook my head. “She never has the radio on when she’s cooking—too distracting,” I said. “There are people in the house with her, right now. And I can only imagine what they’ve threatened to do to her, but it’s made my father prepared to ruin himself to prevent it.”
CHAPTER 7
“On behalf of your Delta crew we’d like to be the first to welcome you to Manchester and hope you have a safe and pleasant journey to your final destination today. Local time is eight-thirty.”
The flight across the Atlantic had been uneventful. We’d left JFK at 8:30 in the evening, New York time, and landed apparently twelve hours later, after a seven-hour flight. I still had trouble sometimes getting my head round the mechanics of international time zones.
We’d had enough of a tailwind to arrive early and been forced to stack, the pilot spending twenty minutes or so giving us hard-banked alternate views of Cheshire countryside and the sprawling conurbation that makes up the Greater Manchester area. The fields below were muddy, and the houses seemed very small and very close together. None of them had a swimming pool in the back garden. I missed America already.
Bill Rendelson had taken care of our travel arrangements. He claimed he’d only been able to get us into Economy at such short notice, but when we boarded half the seats in Business Elite seemed to be empty and they wouldn’t let us move forwards, despite our frequent-flyer status. As we trudged along the jet bridge into the terminal building, I felt gritty of eye and knotted of neck.
We trailed blearily through Immigration, collected our bags off the carousel and wheeled them out down the “Nothing to Declare” channel at Customs. It was a short walk across the Arrivals hall and then we were assaulted by the smell of diesel and cigarette smoke and the thin damp chill of a rapidly approaching British winter.
Sean had relinquished all day-to-day control of his own close-protection agency, based just outside London, in order to join Parker Armstrong’s outfit, but he’d called in favors. Madeleine Rimmington had first become a partner and was now the boss, so I was surprised to find she was the one waiting for us at the curbside, looking as polished and poised as ever. The contrast with my own rumpled appearance was as stark and irritating as ever, too.
“I didn’t expect the executive treatment,” I said once we’d thrown our bags into the rear of one of the company Mitsubishi Shogun 4 × 4s and climbed in.
“You think I’d pass up the opportunity to see you both?” she said, smiling over her shoulder as she pulled out into traffic. She was wearing her long dark hair in a chic French pleat and had a thrown-together casual elegance that I reckoned probably took her several hours every morning to achieve. But it could just have been me acting bitchy. For some reason, I’d never quite liked Madeleine as much as she’d seemed to like me. “You’re looking well, anyway—nights spent in police custody notwithstanding.”
“Bad news travels fast,” Sean said. He was in the front seat, so I couldn’t see his face, but his voice was dry.
Madeleine grinned at him as she shot out onto a roundabout, cutting up a Skoda minicab with cheerful disregard. She had clearly taken advantage of her new position to book herself on all the latest defensive and offensive driving courses.
“Well, come on, Sean,” she said as she sliced through the thickening morning traffic. “You get caught, with a principal, in a police raid on a house of negotiable affection, and you don’t expect word to get round? It’s the most exciting piece of industry gossip I’ve heard in ages.”
“Some people need to get out more,” Sean muttered. “And it wasn’t a client.” He glanced back at me. “It was Charlie’s father.”
“Oh my goodness,” Madeleine said faintly, and laughed. “Oh, I’m sorry, Charlie, but I would never have thought he was the type to—”
“He isn’t,” I said shortly. “Where are we going, by the way?”
“I came up last night and stayed at the Radisson,” she said, controlling her amusement to become brisk and businesslike again. “I got a room upgrade, so I don’t have to check out until three. I thought you’d probably like to head back there and grab a shower and change before you get started.”
“Ah, Madeleine, you are an absolute wonder,” Sean said, with enough lazy affection to send my hackles rising unnoticed in the backseat.
She flushed, pleased. “The restaurant’s not bad, either.”
Considering Madeleine’s long-term boyfriend was now a top chef in London, that was high praise.
“We don’t have time to eat,” I said, abrupt. The shower I could do with. Going into a situation tired was always bad practice, so anything we could do to freshen up was an operational necessity. I knew we should refuel, too, but the way my stomach was clenched tight, I didn’t think I’d keep anything down. Eating could be done later, once the job was done.
We walked confidently through the hotel lobby without our presence being questioned, and took the lift to the ninth floor. Sean was enough of a gentleman to offer me first use of the shower and I stayed under it for as long as I dared, hands braced against the tiles, letting the stinging spray pound my neck and shoulders.
There had been a time, not so long ago, when I hadn’t been able to stand having hot water played directly on the bullet wound in my back. Not having to think about being careful when I showered was still enough of a treat to be savored.
When I eventually emerged, scrubbed pink and dressed in a clean polo-neck sweater and jeans, it was to find Sean and Madeleine sitting at the low table by the window, heads bent close together as they pored over a pile of paperwork that no doubt related to the agency. Both glanced up at my reappearance and I could have sworn a flicker of annoyance passed across Madeleine’s face at the interruption, but I recognized my bias against her.
“My turn, I think,” Sean said, rising.
As the bathroom door closed behind him I hovered uncomfortably near the bed. My Vicodin was in my travel bag and my leg was complaining hard enough after the cramped flight to warrant taking a dose, but I didn’t want to do so in front of anyone—least of all Madeleine.
“I realize you said no to a meal but can I at least make you some coffee?” she asked, gathering up her papers and sliding them into an attaché-case with neat, economical movements. “Or would you like me to order something from room service?”
I shook my head, shoved my h
ands into my pockets. “No—thank you. I just want to get this done,” I said.
She nodded, sympathetic. “It must be hard—getting back out there, I mean—after …”
I bristled. “I’m fine,” I said, with more snap than I’d been intending.
She regarded me for a moment and I painted pity into her eyes.
“I’m not trying to have a go at you, Charlie,” she said, her voice mild. “Don’t forget, I’ve seen firsthand what you can do. You don’t have to prove anything to me.”
I forced my shoulders down, tried to let my guard go with them.
“I’m sorry,” I said with a small smile. “I’ve been feeling a bit under pressure since … well, since we moved.”
“Not from Sean, surely? You two look good together. Easy in one another’s company.” She smiled more fully than I had done, turning a pretty face beautiful. “It’s nice to see him looking so happy.”
“Happy?” I said blankly. There were many words I could have used to describe Sean, but that particular one hadn’t been high on the list. “You think he looks happy?”
“There’s a … lightness about him that wasn’t there before,” she said. “Oh, I can see he’s worried about all this, but it’s only surface worry, you know? Deep down, he knows he can face it. He can face anything, now that he’s got you.”
I shifted restlessly, uncomfortable with her frankness and her intrusive insights. And, if I’m honest, scared by the weight of the responsibility she’d just dumped on me.
“And Sean told you all this in the time I took to have a shower, did he?” I said, trying to hide behind a cynical edge. “Fast worker.”
Madeleine smiled again, not fooled for a moment. “He didn’t have to. He lights up when he’s with you. It’s awfully sweet, really.”
“Oh God,” I muttered. Is that why Parker doesn’t trust either of us to still have a clear mind? “I’ll have to get him fitted with a bloody dimmer switch.”
The bathroom door opened and Sean came out with just a towel draped around his hips, totally unself-conscious. Most people do not look good without their clothes on. Sean was not most people. I found myself mesmerized by the way the muscles moved under his skin as he reached for his shaving kit and clean gear. The action accentuated the slightly reddened starburst of the old bullet wound high in his left shoulder. On him it was not so much a blemish as a badge of honor, although I knew he would never have seen it that way.
He sensed the atmosphere between us instantly, like we were putting it out as some kind of scent, and his eyes skimmed over us. And there was, I realized, a distinct twinkle lurking in those moody depths.
“Play nice, girls,” he murmured, and disappeared again.
Madeleine grinned as though that proved her case. Her own overnight bag was lying open on the bed. She zipped it closed and set it down near the door.
A few moments later, we heard the water running in the bathroom.
“I really ought to take exception to that but somehow, from him, I don’t,” she commented with a small grimace. “Since I took over I’ve been constantly mistaken for the secretary. Old clients walk in and look round nervously for Sean, and new ones think I can’t possibly know anything other than typing and filing. Drives me mad. It must be even worse for you—at the sharp end.”
You don’t know the half of it.
“I cope,” I said.
“I’m sure you do,” she agreed equably. “I seem to remember that run-in you had last year with one of our guys—Kelso, wasn’t it? You broke his arm in two places, I believe.”
“Three, actually,” I said, my voice bland. “Whatever happened to him?”
“He left.” She pulled a face. “As you found out, he had a problem working with—or in this case, for—a woman.”
She smiled again, more ruefully this time. “I’m not wired the same way you are, Charlie. I can’t offer to take on the guys in a fight and have a hope of winning. I don’t have any combat experience. So I have to use a certain amount of psychological warfare to get my way instead.”
“What—feminine wiles?” I suggested, a little stung by the inference—entirely conjured by my own insecurities—that she was too clever to need to beat anyone up. Whereas I …
She offered a censorious little sideways glance at the acidic flippancy, but was still showing a gentle amusement.
“Not quite,” she said. The grin faded and a shadow of gravity crossed her features, revealing a steely core that belied her earlier good humor. Madeleine, I realized, would be a tough negotiator and no easy pushover as a boss.
“They know that if they keep me informed at every step, I’ll back their actions if I have to.” She shrugged, diffident. “I can’t afford to be caught on the hop because, ultimately, if I don’t give the guys the right information and they make a mistake, it’s my neck on the block. Meantime, I have their trust and, I think, their respect.” She glanced up, locked my gaze. “And that’s what it’s all about, isn’t it, Charlie? Gaining respect?”
Respect. I seemed to have been reaching for that rainbow’s end for half my life and never quite attained it. So, where did it all dawn? My childhood? My parents? Never delicate and feminine enough to satisfy my mother. Never the son my father so badly wanted, and had almost had … .
Just for a second I saw myself as a teenager again and imagined a different Tao line unfurling into the future like a high-speed link.
If I hadn’t wanted to prove that I was as good as—better than—the boys, I would probably never have gone on the activities weekend that had revealed my latent ability to shoot. Would never have joined the army. Would never have applied for Special Forces, got through the selection process, or tried so hard on the training course that I came to such particular, unwelcome attention.
The line divided, split into a hundred different possibilities from that single strand. I’d been bright. Could have gone to university, a degree, a job in the City. Neat little skirted suits and high heels, like half the women we’d seen rushing through the airport. Tired and stressed and headachy from banging against the glass ceiling of the corporate world.
I’d been into my horse riding as a kid, too, almost obsessed with junior three-day eventing. I’d had a pony with heart and spring, and the nerve to ride him fast at big fixed timber. Could have pursued that as a career—people did—and moved up to horses. Might have been at international level by now. Could have had a dusty Land Rover with straw on the seats, a couple of black Labradors milling round my heels, and a flat-capped young farmer with wind-raw cheeks and gentle callused hands waiting by the Aga.
Instead, I had a fractured career dogged by scandal; an ability to kill without hesitation that even I shied away from exploring; no relationship with my parents to speak of; and a lover who’d been at least as damaged by this life as I had.
I gave myself a mental shake, hard enough to snap me out of it, and found Madeleine watching me carefully. She took a breath to speak, but at that moment the bathroom door opened, and I was saved from whatever homily she was about to deliver.
Sean emerged, damp-haired and dressed in jeans and a shirt, still buttoning the cuffs. He looked at my face and paused, frowning. I didn’t give him chance to start an interrogation, either.
There was a hair dryer on the wall near the mirror and I grabbed it. I’d had my hair restyled into a kind of choppy bob since we’d moved out to New York. It was casual enough to survive being under a bike helmet, but the quality of the cut meant it fell back into some kind of order when I gave it a quick blast of hot air. I took my time over it now, while Sean gathered up our bags. By the time I was done, we were ready to go.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t provide you with any artillery at such short notice,” Madeleine said as the lift doors slid shut behind the three of us. “I’m sure you could pick up something easily enough in one of the dodgier areas of Manchester. Have you time for a detour into Moss Side before you head down to Charlie’s parents’?”
Se
an glanced at me. The police had not discovered the guns he’d jettisoned at the brothel, and before we left New York he’d made a trip back there to retrieve and dispose of them. Even so, the arrest meant our names would have been flagged and we couldn’t afford to get caught with anything that wasn’t strictly aboveboard, even on this side of the Atlantic.
“We’ll improvise,” Sean said now, as the lift doors opened and we stepped out into the lobby.
Outside, Madeleine handed him the keys to the Shogun. “I’ll take care of checkout here and the hotel will drop me off for my shuttle flight back down to Heathrow.” She checked her slim-line Cartier wristwatch. “I have a couple of hours before I need to check in.”
“Thank you, Madeleine,” Sean said. He set down his bag and put his hands on her shoulders, turning her slightly to face him and giving her one of those simmering smiles that tend to make women sigh a great deal and want to strip and lie down. She resisted the urge, confirming my earlier suspicion that she was made of stronger stuff than she appeared to be.
“In the words of your adopted homeland, you’re welcome,” she said, hitting him with a pretty knockout smile of her own. “Leave the Shogun in the car park here when you’re all done and mail the keys from the airport,” she added. “There’s a stamped addressed Jiffy bag in the glove box. I’ll have one of the guys come up and collect it, but just be sure to let me know if it needs any special … cleaning of any description.”
Sean grinned at her. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” he said, the picture of injured innocence.
“Well, call me if you need backup,” she said, keeping it brisk. “I can have some of my people up with you in about three hours, depending on the traffic, with thermal-imaging gear, night-vision equipment, the works. We’ve gone very high-tech these days. Just say the word.”
I saw Sean’s minuscule flinch as she said “my people,” where once they had been his, but he smiled.
“Thanks, but no thanks,” he said. “We thought we’d give this a whirl the old-fashioned way before we go for a full-scale assault from the roof.”
