“Can I help you?” he said in a bored tone.
Jayne held back an irritated sigh and pushed her business card across the desk. “I’m here to see my client, Rupert Fox-Whittingham.”
The sergeant gave it a cursory glance. “Wait over there,” he said, pointing to a row of plastic chairs upon which Jayne had no intention of sitting. He picked up the phone as she paced. Five minutes later, the door to the main body of the station opened, and a detective in his late thirties with a goatee beard, wispy greying hair, and piercing blue eyes walked through.
“Miss Seymour.” He thrust out his hand. “Detective Fisher. Would you like to come with me?”
Jayne followed the detective through a wide metal door. It closed behind them with a clang followed by a loud buzzer, denoting that a person was only getting out with approval. She was led to a small, windowless room that had a steel table in the centre and two chairs, both of which looked as comfortable to sit on as a cactus.
“I’ll go and get Mr Fox-Whittingham from the waiting area. How long do you think you’ll need?” Detective Fisher asked.
Something about the detective’s attitude set Jayne’s teeth on edge. Maybe it was the air of superiority he projected, or maybe it was his cocky smirk.
She fixed him with a hard stare. “Are you new to the position, Detective Fisher?”
Fisher stiffened his spine at her barely veiled insult. “No.”
“Then you’ll know I will take as long as necessary and no longer.”
Fisher muttered something about cold bitches before he spun on his heel and slammed the door. It was an attitude Jayne was used to, and his comments harmlessly bounced off her like jelly beans thrown at a suit of armour. She eyed the chairs with antipathy before perching on the end of the one facing the door. She liked to get an early first look at any new client, and even though this was a criminal case rather than a civil one, her approach would be the same. Body language could provide a lot of clues about an individual.
She glanced at her watch. Almost ten o’clock. Exhaustion swamped her. It was so much more than tiredness, which could be fixed by a good night’s sleep. Her fatigue was bone deep. She pinched the bridge of her nose as her eyes briefly closed. She loved her job, but the twenty-four, seven expectations of her clients on top of her own divorce were beginning to take their toll. Her caseload was already horrendous, and yet there she was, taking on another case, albeit only temporarily.
The door handle rattled, and Jayne straightened and sat back, wincing as the metal chair caused a shooting pain through her coccyx. Would it kill the police to provide a bit of cushioning?
As Rupert Fox-Whittingham was led inside, Jayne cast her gaze over him, assessing, judging, and weighing him to see what type of person he was. Her summation: straight as they came.
“Thank you, Detective,” she said, effectively dismissing Fisher, who scowled at her before turning his back and leaving the room.
“Mr Fox-Whittingham, I’m Jayne Seymour, your lawyer. Please, take a seat.”
Her client lowered himself into the chair opposite, his legs spread wide, hands resting in his lap. And then he slowly grinned—a rather unusual reaction, considering his predicament.
“Well, if you’re my reward, I’ll happily spend every day of the week being questioned by the police.”
4
Rupe could have taken a punch to the gut and it wouldn’t have winded him as much as laying eyes on Jayne Seymour had. She put the double P in Prim and Proper, and she did things to his insides no woman had achieved in thirty-five years. Goddamn. Cash had certainly come through for him on the sexy stakes. If she also happened to be a shit-hot lawyer who could get him out of this place, he’d give Cash his firstborn.
“I beg your pardon?” she said, glaring at him with sharp hazel eyes that carried more than a hint of annoyance. The icy stare she bestowed on him didn’t remotely dull how utterly gorgeous she was.
He winked at her. The movement was quick—the twitch of an eye—but the delectable Miss Seymour was clearly a woman who paid attention to minute details. She’d noticed the wink. And she bristled.
“Do you know where you are, Mr Fox-Whittingham?”
Oh, he knew all right. He should have been shitting himself, hanging onto her every lawyerly word, and following her instructions to the letter. But when he’d walked into that room and seen perfection right there in the tatty, run-down police station where she was as out of place as he was, it had brought to the fore his usual flippant, devil-may-care attitude. Something about the cold, icy exterior of Jayne Please Let Me Seymour had him forgetting his predicament and wanting to have some fun. Hmm, wonder if I can break through that armour plating in the time we have available? Probably not, but I’ll have a good time trying.
“Of course I know where I am, darling. I’m at the cop shop.”
Jayne sat up straighter in her chair, her irritation with his laissez-faire attitude thinly veiled beneath a professional exterior. “Right, Mr Fox-Whittingham. Let’s get started, shall we?”
“Can we cut the Mr Fox-Whittingham malarkey?” The next words were out before Rupe could stop them, his preferred attitude of levity briefly overcoming his predicament. “It’s quite a mouthful, a bit like my c—”
Jayne’s hand shot in the air so fast she almost sliced off an ear. “Mr Fox-Whittingham,” she spat out, almost tripping over her words. “A woman has died. You were the last to see her alive. I suggest you start taking stock of what’s going on here and act accordingly.”
Rupe inwardly grinned. “Oh, I know exactly where I am, darling, but sitting here cursing my bad luck is going to achieve diddly-squat. I like to keep things light, fun.”
“I’m not here to have fun,” Jayne said stiffly. “I’m here to do my job.”
Oh, this is going to be fun. She was wound as tight as a rubber band stretched to its limit. When the band snapped, he wanted to be right there, up close against that rather fine body of hers so he could feel the sharp snap against his skin. Pleasure and pain.
He pushed his chair away from the table and let his legs sprawl. He didn’t miss the brief flick of her eyes to his groin. “Well then, Ms Seymour. Let’s see how quickly you can get me out of here and into my bed.”
The detective in charge of questioning him sat opposite, a look of condemnation and resentment in his eyes. Ah, so that was his beef. Detective Fisher didn’t like rich people. Rupe was willing to guess the detective despised what he saw as easy-to-come-by wealth. Sanctimonious prick. Rupe had worked his bollocks off for his money. It was hardly his fault he’d started a company that developed computer games that the world seemed to hanker after. He hadn’t come from money. Rupe’s dad had been a copper back in the day. That was how Rupe had first met Cash—his dad had been transferred from the Met to Northern Ireland when Rupe was eleven. Rupe knew more about the inner workings of a copper’s mind than he’d let on to this Fisher dick.
Fisher set the tape and introduced everyone in the room.
“Can I get you anything before we start? A glass of water?”
Rupe shook his head.
“Okay, Mr Whittingham. Firstly, thank you for coming in to the police station to help us with our enquiries. I would like to reiterate that you are not under arrest. We just need to ascertain a few facts concerning the death of Mrs Vanessa Reynolds. Let’s start with how you knew Mrs Reynolds.”
Rupe kept his body loose. “No, let’s start with you getting my name right. It’s Mr Fox-Whittingham,” he said, feeling a twinge of annoyance.
Fisher gave a wry smirk with no hint of embarrassment. “Of course. Mr Fox-Whittingham.” He briefly nodded his head. “How did you first meet Mrs Reynolds?”
Rupe repressed a sigh. “Like I told you in the statement I gave yesterday, I come to London every few weeks on business. I met her in a club I like to spend a bit of time at when I’m over here.”
Fisher perused his notes. “The Vault, correct?”
“Yeah.”
“And was it you who first approached Mrs Reynolds, or the other way around?”
“She approached me.”
“And when was this, exactly?”
Despite the fact that Rupe had already given all the information the previous day, he kept his voice even. Jayne had warned him there would be a lot of repetition and that they’d ask him the same questions over and over to try to trip him up. Lies were harder to maintain than the truth.
“I don’t remember the specific date. A year, give or take.”
“And you began a relationship on that day?”
“I wouldn’t say we had a relationship.”
“Well, what would you say, exactly?” Fisher asked.
Rupe crossed his arms and narrowed his eyes. “I guess you could say we had a mutually beneficial arrangement. Or to put it another way, we were fuck buddies.”
Fisher kept up the calm facade, but it was hard to miss the tightening of the skin around his eyes. Rupe glanced sideways at Jayne. She had her head bent, taking detailed notes in neat, precise handwriting. He willed her to look at him. She didn’t.
“Okay,” Fisher said. “Let’s go back to that night. Tell me in your own words what happened.”
Rupe couldn’t repress his sigh this time. The repetition was getting on his one remaining nerve. Still, he had no option but to play their silly games.
“Nessa met me at the club and—”
“Nessa?” Fisher interjected even though he knew full well who Rupe was talking about.
Rupe set his jaw before something inadvisable spilled out. “Yeah, Nessa. Vanessa. Mrs Reynolds to you.”
Fisher smirked and indicated for him to continue.
“I met her at the club. We had a few drinks, then a few more. I vaguely recall her asking me to come back to her hotel room. The next thing I remember is waking up, and Nessa had gone.”
“Gone?”
Oh, this prick is really testing my limits now.
“Dead.” Rupe held back a wince. “She was dead.”
“And what are your theories on how a seemingly healthy young woman passed, Mr Fox-Whittingham?”
Was this dick for real? Rupe slowly grinned. “What can I say? I’m that fucking good in the sack.”
Jayne touched his arm. It was meant as a warning, but a bolt of electricity shot up the limb and damn near stopped his heart.
Fisher leaned back, ignoring Rupe’s interjection. “Let’s go back to the club. Did you buy Mrs Reynolds’s drinks?”
“Yeah.”
“And what was she drinking?”
“Vodka, mainly. And a few shots.”
A knock at the door cut off Fisher’s next question, and a woman police officer entered. Fisher spoke for the tape and then motioned her over. She whispered something in his ear, and he nodded.
“Interview suspended at”—he looked at his watch—“eleven fifteen p.m.”
“What’s going on?” Rupe said. “Are we done?”
Fisher’s mouth twisted in an attempt at a smile. “Not quite yet. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
Fisher left the room, followed by his sidekick, who hadn’t spoken but also hadn’t taken his eyes off Rupe during the entire interview.
Rupe turned to Jayne. “Why would they cut the interview?”
Jayne finished scribbling on her pad before setting it on the table. She twisted in her seat and scowled at him. “What the hell are you playing at? Just answer their questions straight. No more stupid comments about being good in bed.”
Rupe grinned at the disdain in her tone. “He was pissing me off.”
She raised her eyes heavenward. “Did you listen to a thing I said earlier? I told you how he’d try to needle you, to get a rise. Stay calm. Answer the questions fully, and then we can all get to bed.”
“Now you’re talking,” Rupe said with an exaggerated wink.
Jayne blinked and shook her head. God, he already loved it when she reprimanded him, verbally or silently. When he got out of this shithole, he would make bedding Jayne Seymour his number-one priority. She was clearly a woman who liked the finer things in life—from her crisp designer suit to the Louboutins gracing her petite feet and the Mulberry handbag nestled by the table leg. Well, she’d come to the right place for that, and the fact that she was giving off “don’t come anywhere near me, dickhead” vibes had his hunting instincts on high alert.
The door opened, and Fisher entered the interview room. “Sorry about that. Thanks for coming in, Mr Fox-Whittingham. You’re free to go, but if I could ask you to remain in the country until this business is cleared up, just in case we have any more questions.”
Rupe looked at the detective, then at Jayne, then back at Fisher again. “That’s it?”
“For now, yes. We’ll be in touch if we need anything further.”
And with that, the coppers left him alone with Jayne. She gathered her papers together and slotted them into her bag.
“What the hell was all that about?” Rupe said, his normally lighthearted demeanour deserting him. “I missed the fucking rugby for this shit.”
Jayne stood and slung her bag over her left shoulder. “The police are doing their jobs, Mr Fox-Whittingham.” She sighed and then added in a patient tone, as though talking to a child, “As I have already explained, a woman has died. You were the last to see her alive. They want to follow up all leads, ensure no stone is left unturned. It’s just routine.” She tossed a business card onto the table. “If they call again, ring me before you say anything. Do not talk to them alone.”
And with that, she swept out of the room.
5
Jayne’s legs faltered as she staggered through her apartment door. Her eyes were stinging, both from lack of sleep and from the lateness of the hour. Added to her discomfort were the spasms that kept shooting up her spine, no doubt made worse by that awful metal chair in the police interview room.
She dropped her bag by the door and kicked her shoes off, letting them thud against the wall. Then she walked over to the thick rug that separated her living space from the open-plan kitchen. She curled her toes into the soft fibres, her feet aching like an absolute bitch.
The clock in the kitchen caught her eye. One fifteen. She had to be up at six. Life sucked sometimes, and she potentially had yet another case on her plate unless Darren kept to his word and took over. Although, with any luck, the police would drop any suspicions against her client, and she could file him away under “no further action required.”
As her mind turned to her client, her skin prickled with irritation. Arrogant little bastard. She might have put his considerable ego down to his wealth, but over the years, she’d come across cocky sods without two pennies to rub together. In her experience, overconfidence rarely had anything to do with the size of a person’s bank balance.
Rupert Fox-Whittingham. Even his name annoyed her. And when he’d made that almost-comment about the size of his penis… what a cock.
She chuckled at her own joke as she wandered to the fridge. Greeted with virtually bare shelves, she took out a pasta salad that was two days beyond its expiration date. Figuring that eating the salad wouldn’t kill her, she peeled off the cellophane wrapper and tossed the packaging into the bin. In five minutes flat, she’d emptied the plastic container. Still feeling unsatisfied, she took a litre of ice cream from the fridge and began to eat it straight out of the carton. Mmm, peanut butter. Her favourite. Her hips and belly would disagree, but as she’d barely eaten in three days, she figured she’d earned a few high-calorie spoonfuls.
Halfway through the carton, she caught hold of herself and replaced the lid. Eating a whole litre of ice cream wouldn’t make her feel better. Instead, she’d probably be up all night with a stomach ache. She put the dirty spoon and fork in the dishwasher and headed off to bed.
As she burrowed beneath the covers, a soft sigh escaped her. There wasn’t much that could beat clean sheets and a bed she could spread out in. Her untidy sleeping style had be
en a source of consternation between her and Kyle for years. He’d been a very neat sleeper. He went to bed and woke up in the same position, the covers barely moving in the night. Her side of the bed, on the other hand, looked as though a tornado had blown through while they’d been sleeping.
Not that she needed to worry about that any more. Kyle’s sleeping habits were no longer her concern.
A twinge of regret pinched at her insides. She closed her eyes and willed her brain to switch off. One of the negatives of getting home so late was the lack of affordability on the downtime stakes. She’d barely get four and a half hours’ kip, even if she fell straight to sleep—which she wouldn’t.
Jayne was still staring at the green digital display of her alarm clock at two thirty in the morning without having managed one minute of unconsciousness. She shoved the covers to one side and padded into the kitchen to make a cup of warm milk.
She set the pan on the stove and poured in the milk before turning the gas to a low heat. While it was warming up, she wandered into the living room and stared out of the window. The full moon cast a shimmering glow across the Thames, the water as still as a millpond.
As the sound of hissing milk reached her, she crossed the living room and turned off the gas. After pouring the bubbling liquid into a cup, she blew across the top and took a sip. Needs sugar. She added three heaped spoonfuls and took another sip. Better.
She set the steaming drink on a coaster on her bedside table and slipped beneath the covers once more. Perhaps a few minutes of reading combined with the milk would do the trick. She opened her bedside drawer and took out her current book, a novel she’d started weeks ago. She was still only on chapter four. It wasn’t that she didn’t like reading. In fact, immersing herself in a story far from her own life soothed her. It was simply a matter of time—or rather the lack of it.
Mismatch Page 3
