by Mary Birk
“I assume you stayed over sometimes.”
Her eyes studied her coffee. “Sure, sometimes.”
“Only sometimes?”
“There are only so many nights my mum will believe I’m staying over with a girlfriend. So I couldn’t stay with him as much as I wanted. But I did when I could.”
“Was that awkward?”
“No. Bert’s mother’s out of it most the time, and the old man never paid any attention to me.”
“But he knew you were staying over?”
“Sure. I’d have to come downstairs to get out of the house. If he was down there, he’d give me that look like, I know what you’ve been up to, but not like he cared one way or the other.”
“You were at dinner there Saturday night?”
“Yeah.”
“When did you leave?”
“Next morning. My mum thought I was staying at my girlfriend’s.” In response to questions from Harry, Patty explained how she’d spent the night with Bert, and that he’d brought her home after giving her breakfast at a café. She denied knowing anything about Richard Ramsey leaving the house after dinner, and said Bert had been with her all night.
“Ever hear, did Richard have a bird on the side?”
Patty mused. “Don’t know, do I? Why would he tell me?”
“But you work at Ramsey International?”
“Yeah, I’m in the office pool. That’s how I met Bert.”
“So you hear the gossip?”
“Sure, but I never heard anything about the old man getting any. Everyone knows he’s—was—a cold old coot.” She sipped her coffee and made a face, then added two more sugar sachets.
“Bert get on with his father?”
She narrowed her eyes, warily assessing the thrust of Harry’s question. “I guess.”
“I’d bet the old coot was hard to work for—especially for a son. Bert ever say?”
“Bert’s smart, knows where his bread’s buttered.”
“Meaning?”
“His da was the boss there, but everyone knew who made Richard dance, didn’t they?”
“Who?”
“Walter Von Zandt, of course.” Patty rolled her eyes, exasperated by his ignorance.
Harry hoped Allison was getting as annoyed by Patty’s eye rolls as he got at Allison’s. “So Bert got on with Von Zandt as well?”
She nodded, then seemed to notice Allison for the first time. She inclined her head toward the other woman, then asked Harry, “She’s like your assistant?”
Harry saw Allison bristle. Suppressing a grin, he said, “Definitely not.”
“You’re higher up than her, though? Right? She’s a constable and you’re a sergeant.”
“We work as a team. So, did Walter Von Zandt come to RI often?”
Patty shook her head and looked down, playing with her cup. “No, but his son did. Henry has his own office at RI. He’s on the board, you know, him and his father.”
“Do you ever work for Henry while he’s there?”
“No, Henry brings his own girl.” She gave him a knowing look. “If Richard was hot for anyone, I’d say that would be the one.”
“Henry Von Zandt’s secretary?”
“Yeah, Glynnis. Bert’s aunt.”
“What’s her last name?”
Patty screwed up her face. “Taylor, I think.”
So that answered Reid’s question to Harry about whether he could think of where he might have seen Glynnis Taylor before. They’d not paid much attention to who Henry Von Zandt’s secretary was, and she’d had a different last name than Ramsey. Still, they should have caught this. No, he should have caught this. Chagrined at his lapse, Henry made a mental note to check out all of Von Zandt’s staff, no matter their position.
“But you don’t think Ramsey was doing this Glynnis?”
“Not on your f’ing life. Henry wouldn’t stand for that. She’s his girl in more ways than one, if you know what I mean,” Patty said.
Interesting, Harry thought. How hadn’t they known that? “Patty, tell us about your relationship with Walter Von Zandt.”
She pointed to herself. “Me? I don’t have any relationship with him.”
Harry locked eyes with Patty’s. “That’s not quite right, is it?”
Her whole body seemed to tense and she leaned back against the seat. “What do you mean?”
“You used to work for him, Patty.”
Her face blanched. “Not me.” Her voice came out quiet, scared.
Harry didn’t let his gaze waver, knowing if he let her go now, she might never talk to them again. “Not directly for him, maybe, but you worked for him.”
Patty hissed at him, looking around to make sure no one else in the café heard. “Shut up, you. That was a long time ago.” She turned her face away and stood up. “I’m leaving. I don’t have to talk to you.”
Harry let out a breath of exasperation. “Sit down, Patty, or I’ll just go have a chat with your mum.”
“You shite.”
“Sit down.”
She sat down, shaking her head. “You’re going to ruin everything for me, aren’t you? You’re going to tell Bert, and he’ll not have anything to do with me ever again.”
“No matter who tells him, he’s not likely to be happy to find out his girlfriend’s a former prozzy—or that she worked out of a whorehouse owned by Walter Von Zandt.”
Patty put her hand on her forehead, despair deflating her. “Do you have to tell him? He’s the first nice guy who’s ever cared about me.” Tears gathered in her eyes, and Harry felt lower than a worm’s arse.
“We don’t have to tell him. Not if you work with us. Start with telling us how you came to work at Ramsey International.”
She wiped tears from her cheeks with a paper napkin. “Henry got me the job.”
“Henry Von Zandt?”
She nodded.
“Why?”
“He told me if I could get Bert Ramsey to go for me, all they’d expect from me is to tell them if I heard anything that Mr. Von Zandt would want to know.”
“And did you tell them things?”
“Sometimes.”
“Like what?”
“Not really that much, but sometimes there was something, and I’d tell Henry, just to get him off my back.” Patty put her face in her hands. “Don’t tell Bert.”
“Maybe you should tell him yourself. Better than if he finds out from someone else.”
She looked up, her eyes suddenly huge. “No way. I’m already so beneath the kind of girl his family and friends think he should be dating, it’s a miracle he’s stuck it out. If he finds out about what I used to do, he’ll get rid of me for certain.”
“Maybe not.” Harry thought about his boss’s American wife. The guv was good at hiding his feelings, but Harry had studied him long enough to be able to see what others couldn’t. Watching them together on the news films after her lover’s daughter was kidnapped, Harry could tell that his boss was still beyond crazy about his wife. Crazy being the operative word. Harry wouldn’t have put up with that kind of thing for one moment from any bird, much less a wife.
Patty shook her head. “What planet are you from? He’ll drop me so fast my head will spin off.”
Harry shrugged. “Up to you. What kinds of things did you tell Henry that you learned from Bert?”
“Nothing important.”
“Nothing important? Funny they’d want nothing important.”
She twirled two fingers in her brassy hair, frowning. “Financial stuff, mostly. Sometimes Henry would ask me for stuff, and I’d look for it and get it for him.”
“What kind of financial stuff did Henry ask for?” He used her word. After all, stuff covered everything, didn’t it?
“I can’t remember exactly. He’d give me the date of something he wanted me to look for, or names on the papers, and I’d look for it.”
“Did Walter Von Zandt himself ever ask you to get stuff from RI for him?”
> She made a horrified face. “Walter? Fuck, no. I tried to stay away from him.”
“You knew him—from before, didn’t you?”
She flinched, her face a study in abject misery, then jerked her chin in Allison’s direction. “Does she have to stay?”
Harry motioned to Allison, who gave a disgusted look and an unprofessional huff, but got up and left the table.
After Allison was out of earshot, Patty went on, her voice tortured. “He was there, you know, at Rebecca’s. She was the woman who ran the place. She did this training thing, and when she thought you were ready, he came. For different parts of the training.”
Harry nodded. He did know. Rebecca was infamous for the variety of sophisticatedly depraved offerings her girls provided.
“And it was filmed. God, I can’t believe I did that. But the money was so good. We needed that money, my mum and me. She’d been sick . . .” Patty shook her head in despair. “Bert can’t possibly understand. His life is so different.”
“I’m not planning to tell him, Patty. Not unless there’s some reason I need to.”
“I’ll never be free of it. They still have those films.”
“How do you know?”
“One time, Henry called me into the office he uses at RI, and he had one of them playing on the telly. He told me to lock the door and take off my clothes and . . .” She started to cry. “And I did. I did what he told me to, so he wouldn’t tell Bert. And every time he looks at me, he does this . . . this thing with his eyes.” She shuddered. “To remind me.”
“How many films?”
“Four. One at each stage of training.” She gave a mirthless laugh. “I’m well trained—maybe that’s what Bert likes. But he wouldn’t like how it happened. Want me to tell you the stages?”
Harry shook his head. “I can guess. Do you think Henry has all the copies?”
“I don’t know. Rebecca uses the training films for the new girls. There could be dozens. It could be on the internet for all I know.”
“Does Walter’s face show on any of the films?”
Tears were now streaming down the girl’s face, and she shook her head. “He always wore a hood. A black hood that covered the top part of his face.” She blew her nose into her napkin, then crumpled it in her hand.
Harry made a promise he hoped he wouldn’t regret. “If we find the films, we’ll get them to you, okay? Then you can destroy them yourself.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
She nodded. “Then yes. Please.”
“Your mum’s probably wondering where you are. Get on home with you now.” He handed her his card. “You call me if you think of anything or if you think you’re in trouble, okay?”
Patty sniffled and slipped the card into her purse. “Yeah. You’re not going to tell Bert?”
“Not me, pet.”
“He’ll find out, though.”
“Not from us.”
“You think maybe he’ll understand?”
Harry nodded, but both of them knew that wasn’t bloody likely.
Chapter 20
ONCE SHE HAD the garlic and onions sautéing, Anne began to feel better. By the time she’d added browned Italian sausage, ground beef, and pepperoni to the rich tomato sauce simmering on the stove, the air was thick with the comforting good foods smell, and she felt completely calm. Everything would work out. At least that’s what she told herself.
When the flat’s telephone rang, Anne answered automatically. As soon as she lifted the receiver to her ear, though, she wondered whether she should have. After all, it wasn’t her telephone or her flat, and no one would expect her to be answering. Briefly, she wondered about other women, in spite of Terrence’s unequivocal assurance that there had been no one else while they were separated. Of course, she certainly wasn’t in any position to say anything to him if there had been.
All of those thoughts flew out of her mind when she realized it was Terrence on the line. She smiled when his lovely Scottish brogue filled her ear.
“Lass, I’m just calling to see whether you want to go out to dinner, or whether I should bring something home.”
“Terrence.” His voice made her melt inside. “I just love picking up the phone and having it be you.”
He laughed, and she wanted to hold him. “I love it being you, girl. So are you hungry?”
“Actually, I cooked. Nothing fancy, as I was at the house all afternoon with the designer. Just spaghetti with meat sauce, salad, bread.”
“Sounds great, and I happen to know your spaghetti with meat sauce is fancy. I’ll bring wine.”
“If you like. I used the bit you had here in the sauce. Are you coming soon?” She wasn’t drinking, of course, and she’d made dinner more to keep busy and fight down the nervousness about telling him, than because she was feeling particularly domestic. Panicked is what she felt. But she wasn’t going to tell him that. At least not yet.
After dinner, they could talk. She’d explain, and he’d understand, and they’d work things out together. She squeezed her eyes shut. She really, really, wished she could have wine.
“On my way. I’ll just stop at the wine shop, then I’ll be there. I’ve missed you.”
“I’ve missed you, too. Hurry home.”
She put down the phone, mixed up a bleu cheese dressing she knew he liked, and finished setting the table. Terrence’s kitchen things, although unadorned, were well-organized and complete, down to candles for the table. He was an organized man. Anne was the only messy thing in his life, and she’d caused havoc ever since she met him. Inadvertently, perhaps, but havoc nonetheless. And what she had to tell him now was worse than anything else she’d done. But maybe he could handle it. Maybe.
After she’d done all she could do to get ready for Terrence’s homecoming, she settled down on the sofa and pulled out her design sketchbook to try to get some work done while she waited for him. This was the other thing she needed to talk to Terrence about. Her boss from California, Jonas Reveille, had accepted a job close to Glasgow for which the client had specifically requested Jonas to bid on because Jonas—with Anne’s assistance—had done the restoration of another Russell Page garden last year. She had tentatively agreed, pending discussing things with Terrence.
Anne had promised Terrence that they would have a normal married life when she came to live with him; they both now realized that they could not make a long distance marriage work. To be honest, Terrence had never thought it would work, which is probably why it didn’t. But this job was just an hour from Glasgow, and if, after she broke her news, he still wanted her to stay, it would be perfect. She could either commute every day or stay in the hotel where her boss would be staying and Terrence and she could be together on the weekends.
Or if he took the news about the baby badly, she could just stay at the hotel and work on the project. That way she’d be close by in case he changed his mind after he got over the shock. She wanted to be close to him, no matter what. He might need some time to adjust to her news, but if she were nearby, it would be easier for him to come to her after he did.
She spread out the photographs Jonas had taken of the Lynstrade Manor garden, compared them with the original design plans, and considered in what order the major changes needed to be made. Engrossed in her work, she was startled by a knock at the door. Then she realized that Terrence’s arms were probably full and he needed her to get the door. She ran to open it, smiling.
To Anne’s dismay, it wasn’t Terrence, but instead a tall, rangy young woman dressed in black jeans, black shirt, and a black leather jacket. Her rich brown hair swirled to her shoulders in that way that only the most expensive stylists could achieve.
Anne managed a smile, despite her consternation at seeing this unfriendly sister-in-law. Although she and Anne were almost the same age, they seemed to have nothing else in common.
“Hello, Darby. Terrence said you might be coming. It’s nice to see you.” Good thing polite lies were
excusable, otherwise Anne would be in danger of being struck dead by lightning.
Darby’s green eyes were as cold as glass in winter. “I talked to him yesterday and he said you weren’t here.”
“I wasn’t. I just got here late last night.”
Darby moved without hesitation into the room past Anne, and tossed down a black leather duffel bag, the kind of horribly expensive thing rich people think of as casual luggage. Anne’s own suitcase, though five times larger, had probably cost at least five times less than Darby’s Italian designer bag.
“Where’s Terrence?” Darby Reid might have the same last name as her brother, but she had none of his diplomacy or maturity.
Anne tried to hide her discomfort at having to entertain Darby by herself, albeit for a short time. Mentally, she sent Terrence a message to hurry home.
“He’s on his way. He’s picking up wine for dinner. Have you eaten?”
“Not yet. I was going to make Terrence take me out. He never has any food.”
“We’re just having spaghetti. I’ll set another place.” Anne smiled, trying in vain to elicit a return smile from her cold sister-in-law.
Darby didn’t respond, but looked around the flat as if she were trying to find evidence of something. Did she think Anne had been stealing the silver or something?
Nonetheless, Anne continued to try to be hospitable. “Would you like something to drink? The wine’s not here yet, but there’s . . .” Anne didn’t know what it was about Darby that made her feel so uncomfortable. Generally, she was confident of her social skills. She may not have been born with the Reid money and status, but she had never doubted her equality in any situation with anyone. Nevertheless, Darby seemed determined to try to make Anne feel like she was some kind of gold-digging country hick—or whatever the Scottish equivalent of that would be. How was she going to be able to talk to Terrence about the baby tonight with his sister here?
“Don’t worry. I know my way around Terrence’s flat. I’ve probably been here more than you have, come to that.” Darby moved to an antique chest Terrence used as a drinks table. “I’m having a whiskey. I don’t suppose you want one?”
