Little Pink Taxi

by Marie Laval

  The garçon brought their order over. Cédric drank his red hot coffee in one gulp, put his empty cup down, closed his eyes and started in a low voice. ‘I’ll start with Geoff McBride,’ he said. It was as if he was reading a file in front of him – except that his eyes were closed and there was nothing on the table to read.

  Marc smiled, amused to see that his friend hadn’t lost his photographic memory. As children growing up at the boarding school, Luc and Marc has often relied on his visual memory to get them through batches of tricky history or Latin tests. Cédric also had the uncanny ability to pick up languages or replicate any piece of music on the sax or the piano after hearing it only once. ‘There’s not much to it, all I do is listen and mimic,’ he would often say with a dismissive shrug when people praised him. His friend never boasted about his talents or abilities, and was as modest as ever, even now he had become an award-winning investigative journalist.

  ‘Sixty-two years old, bachelor, no children,’ Cédric started. ‘Geoff inherited from his uncle Malcolm McBride just over thirty years ago. Collector of vintage cars – although he appears to have sold all but one in the past few months. Published a dozen or so papers on the history of Norse settlements in Scotland, seems well-regarded in certain academic circles – enough at least to be invited to deliver lectures at a conference organised by the Centre for Nordic Studies in Orkney several times. Seems to have become a bit of a recluse and hasn’t published anything for the past five years.’

  Marc frowned. Could it be because his assistant – Rosalie’s mother – had died and his research had taken a more erratic, and eccentric, turn as he focused on Isobel and Harald?

  ‘At the same time, his estate and financial affairs have been in steady decline,’ Cédric carried on. ‘The estate was mortgaged and re-mortgaged, there were also a couple of very large bank loans … But, of course, you would know all about that, wouldn’t you?’

  Marc nodded. ‘The estate is indeed riddled with debts and McBride won’t have much left once he’s settled them all. Anything else?’

  So far Cédric hadn’t told him anything he didn’t already know.

  As if he had sensed his disappointment, his friend smiled and leant across the table. ‘Actually, there are a few interesting characters linked to Geoff McBride. I’ll start with Rosalie Heart – or rather, her mother, Sophie, who used to work for the man as some kind of secretary cum librarian.’

  Anxiety made Marc’s pulse race faster. ‘Sophie Heart? What about her? She died four years ago. A stroke when she was out walking, from what I’ve been told.’

  ‘My London contact did an advanced search of the criminal records database, and it so happens that Sophie had a rather interesting career as a glamour model and a criminal record dating from the late eighties.’

  Marc almost jumped out of his seat. ‘What?’

  ‘And so does the sister of McBride’s housekeeper.’

  ‘Lorna’s sister? Really?’

  Cédric nodded. ‘Yup. Both Lorna’s sister – Margaret Dunford, or Chichi, as she was known as in her modelling days – and Sophie Heart were arrested for a series of petty thefts dating back from the late eighties – 1988 – to be exact. Both worked for the same sleazy London photographer, and, interestingly, Sophie also spent time in a women’s refuge in Birmingham.’

  Sophie Heart, a glamour model, a convicted thief, and most probably the victim of violence and abuse? Marc could hardly comprehend what his friend was telling him.

  ‘Lorna’s sister lives in Norwich now,’ Marc said. ‘That’s where Lorna is right now, on holiday … Did your contact find out anything else about Sophie, her family, Rosalie’s father?’

  Cédric nodded. ‘She did. Sophie grew up in Bermondsey, the only child of Mike and Angela Heart. She graduated from East London Poly with a degree in Art and Design in 1987, but didn’t seem to have had much success as an artist. She got a job as a waitress in a pub, did a bit of modelling for catalogues and worked as a hostess for conferences and conventions. That’s when she started moving into the shady world of glamour modelling and having problems with the police. My contact found records of her sharing a flat with a certain Jake Tyler. She gave up modelling after having a baby girl in January 1989. Rosalie.’

  ‘So this Jake Tyler is Rosalie’s father?’

  Cédric shrugged. ‘Who knows? There’s no name listed for the father on her birth certificate. Sophie moved back to her parents with her daughter in the spring of 1992.’ He paused, poured some mineral water into a glass and drank.

  ‘What happened after that?’

  ‘Mike and Angela Heart died in a house fire a couple of months later. The police suspected arson but no one was ever convicted for it. Sophie was staying at a friend’s with three-year-old Rosalie that night or both would probably have died too. Jake Tyler was arrested but released without charge. Soon after her parents’ funeral, Sophie took her daughter to live at the Birmingham refuge. They stayed there a few months. After that, they seem to have vanished. They must have moved around until Sophie took up a position at Raventhorn where Lorna, her friend’s sister, worked.’

  ‘And Jake Tyler?’

  ‘He has been in and out of jail ever since. His latest conviction was for aggravated burglary and grievous bodily harm in 2010.’

  ‘Did your contact find anything on Rupert McBride?’

  Cédric smiled. ‘Now, there’s an interesting fellow. He has debts coming out of his ears after several failed ventures – the latest with a very dodgy London vintage cars auctioneer who happens to be Jake Tyler’s brother, and who’s just been sent down for fraud.’

  ‘Thanks, Cédric. I’m really grateful for all this.’

  Cédric leant over the table. ‘You must take care, Marc. The people Rupert McBride is mixed up with aren’t enfants de coeur. They are thugs, criminals. There are also rumours about Jake Tyler being involved with Russian criminals, in particular one Anatoly Bazanov who has been on Europol’s radar for years, and believe me these men don’t mess about. They kill first, and ask questions later.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll be careful. It’s Rosalie I’m worried about. I can’t let anything happen to her.’

  Cédric’s lips stretched into a smile. ‘Is there anything you want to tell me?’

  ‘No, it’s not what you think. I mean, I’m only trying to help her out and …’

  He took a deep breath, raked his fingers in his hair before leaning back against the padded banquette seat. Who was he trying to fool? He hadn’t been able to get Rosalie out of his mind. All he longed for was to return to Raventhorn, make sure she was all right, but most of all, he wanted to see her, touch her, make love to her in that great big bed in the Crimson Room. And just about everywhere else in the castle.

  ‘Only trying to help her out, of course.’ Cédric smiled again. ‘Go on, mate, tell me about this lady who has thawed your frozen heart.’

  Frowning, Marc turned his spoon in the cup of coffee. ‘You make me sound like a bloody snowman,’ he grumbled.

  ‘An iceman would be more accurate. For as long as I’ve known you, you never let anyone get close. It was like you had vowed never to feel any emotions and you stuck to your pledge, no matter what. For some reason, you tolerated Luc and myself, but you kept anyone else at arm’s length, your parents especially. I always felt a bit sorry for them. Every time they came to visit at Grange’s, which I grant you wasn’t often, you looked so bored, so blasé – it was as if you couldn’t wait for them to leave.’

  Guilt tightened Marc’s throat. He swallowed. Had he really been so hard, so unapproachable, so damned stubborn? Cédric made it sound like he had sought to punish his parents for leaving him at boarding school.

  ‘So, come on,’ Cédric said, breaking his dark mood, ‘what is Rosalie like?’

  Marc drew in breath. ‘She lives in an old castle full of ghosts. She runs, very badly, a cab firm she called Love Taxis. She loves pink. She can’t sing. She smiles a lot, and talks even more.
’

  He realised he was smiling as an image of Rosalie floated in his mind.

  Cédric whistled between his teeth. ‘That’s a hell of a woman. No wonder you’re hooked.’

  ‘Hooked? I just told you. It’s just—’

  This time Cédric laughed. ‘What’s the point in denying it, mate? I always knew you were a romantic under that cold fish exterior of yours.’

  The meeting with Carl Fitzpatrick took place at nine o’clock sharp the following morning in Marc’s office. Fitzpatrick had agreed to all his terms. More than agreed, in fact. The man literally leapt out of his seat to shake his hand and sign the new contract Marc had prepared, which wasn’t surprising, given the fact that Marc was saving his skin and giving him a very generous deal in the process.

  Nothing would ever erase the guilt of Van Bernd’s death, but at least he would do his very best not to let another similar tragedy happen if it was in his power to do so.

  The rest of the day had been spent in business meetings and phone calls. Eager to despatch all urgent issues so that he could return to Scotland the following day, Marc ate his lunch at his desk and worked non-stop until after seven. He tried to phone Rosalie at Raventhorn a couple of times during the day, but she was out so he left messages and decided to phone Love Taxis for news. Fergus reassured him that everything was fine. Rosalie was busy, but there had been no further incident to report. He promised to tell Rosalie that Marc had called and even volunteered his home telephone number, should Marc need to reach him outside office hours, and Marc had to be content with that, for now at least.

  He could have taken the metro home but he fancied the long walk back to his apartment near the Champ de Mars. He loved walking in Paris, especially at night. Tonight the Champs-Elysées, crowded as usual, looked magical as their two thousand trees glittered with Christmas lights. Aromas of steak-frites, draft beer, crêpes or roasted chestnuts wafted in his path from kiosks and brasseries, making his mouth water.

  It was well after eight when he finally keyed in the security code to release the heavy wooden front door of his building. He didn’t want to wait for the lift so he started climbing up to his loft apartment on the top floor. Tucking the takeaway bag of Tunisian chicken couscous he’d purchased from the small restaurant at the end of his street, he dug into his coat pocket for his keys.

  ‘You’ve been working late.’ Kirsty’s voice at the top of the stairs startled him.

  She was sitting on the last step, her back leaning against the wall and a small leather case at her feet.

  Frowning, he offered his free hand to help her up.

  ‘This is a surprise. What are you doing here?’

  Kirsty pouted. ‘I decided to pay you an impromptu visit. We have things to discuss, and with you being so preoccupied with a certain Scottish castle I thought I’d better take my chance and meet you here before you disappeared again.’

  Her fingers stroked the back of his hand. Her nails were long and painted a dark purple to complement her purple cashmere coat and trouser suit, no doubt. The colour was striking against her straight blond hair and flawless skin, and made her blue eyes bluer, sharper, harder.

  ‘It’s been ages since we spent time together. Saturday didn’t count with the funeral and that awful reception at Maguire’s afterwards. I had no idea you wanted to stay until the end. I couldn’t wait to leave, it really was too dreary.’

  Marc freed his hand from her grasp. ‘The man just lost his wife, Kirsty. She was a daughter, a sister, a cousin. Can you blame him or his family for grieving?’

  ‘No, of course not.’ She gestured towards his keys. ‘Aren’t you going to open the door? I brought some paperwork for you to look at.’

  Although there was nothing he wanted to do less than to let Kirsty into his flat, it would be the height of boorishness to send her away when she had travelled from London to see him.

  ‘All right, I suppose you’d better come in.’ He unlocked his door, flicked the light switch on.

  ‘Make yourself at home. I hope you like Tunisian chicken,’ he said as he shrugged his coat off and made his way to the kitchen. He poured the contents of the bag into a serving dish and rattled inside a drawer for some cutlery.

  ‘I’ll pass, thanks. I had a salad on the Eurostar.’ She took her coat off and draped it on the back of his leather sofa.

  ‘In that case, you don’t mind if I tuck in, do you? I’m famished.’

  ‘No, go ahead. I wouldn’t mind a glass of wine, though.’

  He poured out two glasses of Château Peyrac and handed her one, then brought the dish of food to the dining table.

  ‘You must have the best view in the whole of Paris,’ she said as she stood at one of the tall windows overlooking the Eiffel Tower, all lit up against the winter night sky. Whilst he ate, she poured herself another glass of wine and talked about great locations for Paris properties, and how she’d always wanted to have a base there.

  ‘You’re so lucky,’ she remarked, looking at him above the rim of her wine glass. ‘You have amazing flats in Paris and London. With your background – your French and Danish parents, and your private education in an exclusive boarding school in England – you can blend in anywhere and be at home wherever you choose.’

  ‘It would be more accurate to say that I’m never really at home anywhere.’A fact that had never truly bothered him until recently.

  He got up and took his empty plate into the kitchen. ‘I’ll make us some coffee.’

  ‘I’d rather have another glass of this excellent wine.’ She pointed to her empty glass.

  He frowned. ‘Didn’t you say you had paperwork for us to go over?’

  She let out a low chuckle. ‘Don’t worry, we’ll get down to business soon enough.’

  When he came back with the coffee and another bottle of wine, he noticed that she had taken her blazer off, and that her high heeled shoes lay discarded on the rug. Curled up on the sofa, she looked at him, smiled and patted the cushion at her side.

  ‘Why don’t you sit down and relax? You look dreadfully tired. Let me give you a massage.’

  He put the tray down and chose to sit in the armchair opposite.

  ‘I’m all right, thanks.’

  Kirsty’s disappointed pout didn’t escape him. Her thin white blouse gaped open as she leaned forward to take hold of her glass of wine and he couldn’t help but wonder if she’d undone a button or two when he was in the kitchen.

  ‘So where are these papers you are so eager for me to go over?’

  She tightened her lips, gestured towards her small case. ‘In there. I’ll get them in a minute.’

  She sipped her wine in silence. ‘By the way, I took a look at that proposal of yours to run a subsidised bus service in … Irlwick.’ She pulled a face. ‘Well, let me tell you it’s a total waste of time and money. I thought Raventhorn was earmarked for redevelopment as a hotel, and as usual any asset should be sold off to maximise profits. If that taxi firm isn’t making any money, we should close it down straight away.’

  Marc forced down a few deep breaths to quell his mounting impatience. ‘You don’t have to understand, or approve, what I’m trying to do.’

  ‘It’s my responsibility to be aware of potential problems or investments that could have a negative impact on the company,’ she retorted.

  ‘Surely we can afford to invest a little capital in a scheme which would benefit Raventhorn and the local community.’

  He rose to his feet and walked to the window.

  ‘Who do you think you are all of a sudden?’ she snapped. ‘Sir Galahad crusading to save poor peasants? Since when do you care about people and local communities?’

  ‘Since Van Bernd,’ he replied in a low voice. He looked at the moonless night against which the sparkling Eiffel Tower cut a striking, elegant and magical silhouette.

  Kirsty’s hand slid down his back. Surprised, he tensed and turned round. He hadn’t heard her stand up and walk up to him, no doubt because she
was barefoot.

  ‘I know the business with Van Bernd affected you,’ she said. ‘It affected us all.’

  He wanted to say she was lying. She didn’t care. She’d even gone as far as misquoting him to the press and to pretend he believed the whole thing had been some kind of mistake on his part. He had been livid when he had read the article in Newsweek.

  ‘What happened to Van Bernd and his family wasn’t your fault.’ Her fingers brushed his shirtsleeve in an unwelcome caress.

  He took a step back. ‘It was my fault, and I vowed to do everything I could to never have it happen again.’

  He looked down. Kirsty was a very clever, very beautiful woman. Yet she had a fundamental flaw. She lacked kindness, compassion, and warmth.

  In a swift move, she closed the gap between them again, and before he could react, pressed her body against him and hooked her arms around his neck. ‘Why don’t you let me help you forget the whole thing?’ she murmured as her lips trailed against the side of his throat.

  He stiffened, lifted his hands up and unlocked her fingers. Holding her wrists, he brought her arms down by her sides. ‘Please don’t do that.’

  Confusion and hurt flickered in her blue eyes, quickly replaced by anger. ‘Why not? We are bound to end up together sooner or later and you know it. We’re alike, you and I. We’re both high achievers. We both want the same things from life – success, money. So why waste time?’

  ‘You are wrong. On all counts.’

  She glared at him, then shrugged. ‘So what is she like, this Rosalie Heart? She must be quite wonderful for you to leave behind all your business sense.’

  Marc looked at the Eiffel Tower’s sparkling arrow of light and smiled. ‘She is.’ He paused. ‘I’m sorry, Kirsty. Sorry if I misled you in thinking I wanted us to become … you know … lovers. It was never my intention.’

  Her cheeks flushed, her eyes hard, she snorted. ‘And what about our plans? The merger with Turner? Our move to New York? How does that fit in with your bus company and country bumpkin Rosalie?’

  The phone ringing came as a relief in what had become a very awkward conversation, but he was so distracted by Kirsty standing close behind him that he didn’t understand straight away what the voice at the other end was telling him.