Kaz shook her head.
‘Dylan Thomas. Welsh poet, drank a lot. I’ve been thinking lately about the best way to die. Should you rage or simply accept the inevitable with grace?’
‘Depends if you get time to think about it. Having time to be scared, that wouldn’t be good.’
He scratched his beard. ‘And are you wondering if your Helen had time to be scared?’
A spasm of agony erupted inside Kaz. It hit her like a punch in the gut. Her balled fist flew to her mouth, a reflex to hold it all in.
‘I’m sorry.’ Mike’s brow furrowed with concern. ‘I didn’t mean to be quite so direct.’
‘It’s okay.’ Kaz swallowed hard. ‘Fact is, it’s what I think about all the time. Ever since I found out. How? How did it happen exactly? When she hit the water, was she conscious? The fear? Lungs filling up, not being able to breathe . . .’
He reached over and covered her hand with his bony talons.
Her tear-filled eyes met his. ‘She didn’t kill herself, Mike. I know she didn’t. Some bastard did this to her.’
He nodded in sympathy rather than agreement. ‘We need to know the truth, whatever the truth is.’
‘Do you think that’s possible?’
He raised his eyebrows. ‘You never know until you try.’
‘You’ve got enough on your plate. I feel like I’m using you.’
As he hunched his shoulders the angel wings seemed to rise towards his ears. ‘Maybe we’re using each other. I don’t think it’s a bad arrangement. Do you?’
32
He wasn’t a drinker, nor did he care much for socializing with clients. To Simon Blake, business was business, that’s what the office was for. When forced to entertain investors he always tried to make it lunch. He’d made his wife a promise: leaving the Met meant no more long hours and ridiculous shifts, he’d be home at six thirty to sit down to a proper family meal. This was his life now and generally it worked – except when it came to dealing with Duncan Linton.
Linton was the man who’d made it all possible – a City grandee with deep pockets, he’d taken a thirty per cent stake in Simon Blake Associates. Once he came on board the sniffy banks changed their tune, other equity investors took a punt and suddenly Blake wasn’t just another ex-copper scrabbling around for backers, he was a player in the security business.
Tall and patrician, with a shock of white hair, Linton had the manner and vowels of a man born to wealth and privilege; his wife Elspeth had a title and connections to half the landed aristocracy.
After their first meeting Blake found himself disliking Linton’s languid upper-class confidence. Then he did a bit of digging and found it was all just a front.
Far from being born with a silver spoon, Linton had started out a lowly private in the army, working his way up to sergeant. He then anglicized his Polish name, set up a small investment firm, sweet-talked a few well-heeled clients and with the immigrant’s drive to succeed spent the next forty years making himself and his investors seriously rich. A multimillionaire and fixture on The Sunday Times Rich List, he was a man who knew exactly how the world worked. But he’d learnt from the bottom up and that made all the difference to Blake. So what if he felt the need to pretend to be posh? Everyone had their foibles. Blake had decided not to hold it against him.
Linton was almost seventy but he remained a restless spirit; he had to keep moving. He preferred cars and jets and hotels, hated sitting in offices. He held meetings in restaurants, usually over dinner, often with the head chef fawning at his elbow. So when Blake got the summons at five thirty he had to tell Heather he’d be home late. He was dining with Duncan Linton. She knew he had no choice.
The restaurant, tucked away in a side street in Chelsea, was one of Linton’s regular haunts. Blake had been there several times and assumed Linton probably owned a piece of it. Collecting bits and bobs that pleased him – restaurants, racehorses – was something of a hobby with him. It didn’t really matter whether they made a profit; he liked to eat, he liked to go to the races, so he allowed himself these small indulgences. He joked that it was his modest equivalent of an oligarch buying a football club.
The food was traditional British with a twist and even a steak-and-chips man like Blake had to admit it was pretty good. Arriving early, Blake positioned himself at the end of the bar so he could watch Linton make his entrance. It was always worth it.
Linton was a showman; his presence filled a room. He entered like royalty: no fuss, nothing loud or flamboyant, yet with the expectation that everything would immediately revolve around him. And it did. It was a neat trick and one that Blake admired. It created an aura of natural authority, making it easy to believe that your savings, your pension fund, your very last penny, would be safe in his wise and capable hands. Blake had realized early on this was his patron’s special talent.
Linton made a stately progress from the reception area to the bar with the maître d’ bustling ahead, shooing his path clear. The executive chef emerged from the kitchen wreathed in smiles. Linton shook his hand, asked what he’d recommend today. There was a brief exchange about the finer points of pan-frying duck.
Finally Linton’s eye alighted on Blake and he smiled warmly as if he’d just spied a favourite courtier. ‘There you are, dear boy! Glad you could make it.’
Blake offered his hand to shake; he was prepared to play Duncan Linton’s game, but only up to a point. ‘You’re looking very fit, Duncan.’
‘Oh, Elspeth has found me a personal trainer. I think it’s a load of nonsense, but it keeps her happy.’
‘Well, I’m glad she’s keeping you on the straight and narrow.’
There was no sarcasm in Blake’s tone, although there could’ve been. Eddie Lunt’s inquiries had turned up a twenty-five-year-old Bulgarian model who Linton kept in a small mews house in Fitzrovia. It had disappointed but not surprised Blake to discover that the man he’d come to admire was something of a cliché in his private life.
The maître d’ escorted them to a quiet corner table and Blake saw it was laid for three diners. He’d been given no hint that someone else would be joining them. Two waiters pulled out their chairs and they settled at the table. The business of napkins and menus and the appearance of the sommelier precluded any discussion. Linton didn’t offer any information and Blake wasn’t about to ask.
Linton drew a pair of half-moon spectacles from his inside pocket to peruse the wine list. The sommelier hovered. ‘A bottle of Cristal to start, Juan. Then I think something a little spicy . . .’
A discussion ensued on varieties of Spanish Grenache. Blake tuned out, he drank wine only when he had to. His gaze skated across the room and it was then he noticed a horribly familiar face heading towards them.
Blake hoped it was a coincidence. Was he really coming their way? Rumour had it that once the IPCC had finished with former Detective Chief Superintendent Alan Turnbull he’d slunk away to take up a lucrative consulting job in Abu Dhabi. The man approaching their table with an assured smirk on his face certainly had a golden tan.
He thrust out his hand in Blake’s direction. ‘Good to see you again, sir.’
Blake had little option but to accept the handshake.
Linton peered at the two former police officers over his glasses. ‘Of course I’m sure you two know each other. How was your flight, Alan?’
‘Some kind of nonsense with baggage handlers – which is why I’m late. And for which I apologize.’
The waiter drew back the third chair and Alan Turnbull sat down.
Blake knew that Linton was watching him and he wasn’t about to make himself any sort of hostage to fortune. So he smiled politely at Turnbull. ‘How are you, Alan? I hear you’ve been abroad.’
Turnbull leaned back in his chair. ‘Great place, the Emirates. I’ve thoroughly enjoyed my time out there.’
The two men regarded each other warily. They were refugees from the same organization, but as far as Blake was concerned that was where any similarity
ended. Turnbull had been chucked out for gross misconduct. He’d set up his former colleagues, betrayed his bosses’ trust and the general opinion was that he’d gotten off lightly – he should’ve gone to jail. But given his connections with the Mayor’s office and the potential for yet another ugly scandal, it had all been swept under the carpet.
Still Blake couldn’t resist the temptation to rattle his cage just a little. ‘I’m out of touch with the Yard since I left. Didn’t you used to work for Fiona Calder? How is she? She always really impressed me, even before she became Assistant Commissioner.’
The permatan bathed Turnbull’s features in an eerie glow. Aware he was being baited, he gave a wry smile. ‘Sadly the Assistant Commissioner and I didn’t see eye to eye in the end.’
Blake feigned surprise. ‘Really? That’s a pity.’
Linton was watching the joust with interest. He held up his menu. ‘Well, gentlemen, shall we order? Then we can get down to business.’
They made their choices in turn and Linton relayed them formally to the waiter. Apparently in no hurry, he folded his spectacles and returned them to his pocket. Blake found his expression unreadable. It was his party and there was nothing to do but wait.
Linton rearranged the thick damask napkin in his lap and turned to Blake. ‘Of course you know, Simon, that Alan and I have been working closely on developing contacts out in the Gulf.’ Blake knew no such thing and he was pretty sure that Linton was aware of that. ‘The security sector out there has been growing at a phenomenal rate, well, ever since Iraq.’ Linton steepled his fingers. ‘And I’ve been thinking that it’s time we expanded SBA’s international dimension.’
Blake now had a shrewd idea of where this was headed and he was determined to stop it in its tracks. ‘I agree entirely, Duncan. And that’s why I’ve been talking to a couple of ex-Special Forces officers who served with Rory McLaren.’ He glanced at Turnbull. ‘Rory works for me. Former intelligence officer, speaks a reasonable amount of Arabic.’
Linton nodded sagely, but he wasn’t to be deflected. ‘One of the things we’ve discovered – and Alan can back me up on this – is that with all the political unrest in the region, the sheikhs have come to the conclusion that employing civilians, like former police officers, creates a better, more liberal impression. Foreign squaddies tend to alienate the local populace.’
‘Depends on what you’re employing them to do.’ Blake met Turnbull’s sardonic gaze defiantly, but realized the smug bastard had the drop on him. This was all a set-up.
The sommelier approached with a bottle of champagne in an ice bucket. Linton peered at it, gave a nod, then turned his attention back to the conversation, a smile spreading across his face as if a completely new idea had just dawned on him. ‘I think we’re all agreed that SBA has terrific potential both in the UK and abroad. Which is why I think that you could do with some help, Simon, to facilitate our expansion plans. And now that Alan is back in London I think he’d make the perfect number two for you.’
‘It’s an interesting suggestion, Duncan.’ Blake had seen the bullet coming but could find no way to dodge it. ‘But I don’t really know that we’d have enough to keep him occupied at present.’
Turnbull smiled. ‘I can understand your reluctance, Simon. SBA’s your baby. But in the next couple of years a lot of current policing functions will be contracted out. You can’t hope to win that kind of business as a one-man band. You need to start thinking strategically and on a broader canvas. That’s where I can help.’
Blake had held his ire in check so far, but Turnbull’s barefaced cheek was nothing short of an insult. What, was he supposed to sit back and let his firm be shanghaied?
‘I thought we were talking internationally. Your experience in Abu Dhabi, brown-nosing a few rich sheikhs, isn’t going to help you negotiate with our new police and crime commissioners, is it?’
Linton smiled, but his gaze was hard. ‘Actually, Simon, it is. This isn’t the Met any more; we’re in the security business and the bottom line is providing client satisfaction at the right price. Alan understands that. After all we are in business primarily to make a profit.’
‘I gather he understood that even before the Met chucked him out for gross misconduct. You really think, with a reputation like his, anyone is going to listen to him? He’d be a fucking liability.’
Blake regretted this as soon as it was out of his mouth. He saw the smug glances traded between Linton and Turnbull. They knew they had him on the back foot. Cursing his own stupidity, Blake reined himself in.
The sommelier placed three glasses on the table and began to slowly fill them with champagne. All three watched the pale amber liquid cascade from bottle to flute. Once the delicate operation was complete, Linton turned the stem of his glass between thumb and index finger – that initial effervescence always made him smile. It reminded him how far he’d come, who he was.
‘It’s your business, Simon, obviously.’ His tone was steely. ‘But it’s still in its infancy and I need to protect my investment. You do understand that.’
Blake looked glumly at the champagne, over-priced, overrated piss. He hated it. ‘Of course, Duncan, but—’
Linton raised an admonitory finger. ‘All I ask, Simon, is that you take my advice. The past has no relevance here. I think you two’ll make a brilliant team. Now, let’s drink a toast to SBA and its future as one of the UK’s leading security operators.’ Linton’s unremitting gaze met Blake’s and he smiled. ‘Presumably that is what you want?’
33
Nicci Armstrong didn’t do regular office hours, it was one of the few perks of her new lifestyle – or that’s what she told herself. She came in when she felt like it and often she was the last to leave. She preferred working late. After the cleaners were gone she could kick back and watch the city skyline fade to black. It also made it easier to forget she had nothing to go home for. She tended to miss meals. Living on a diet of sandwiches and takeaways didn’t seem to be doing her any harm. Her jeans were looser, a definite benefit. Cooking she’d always regarded as a chore, one of the obligations of family life. Still, she’d always fed her child well and had been proud that Sophie liked her vegetables and was never a fussy eater.
She was mulling over the developments of the day and doodling in the margin of her notebook, the same serpentine pattern over and over; it helped her focus. Two possible murders dressed up as suicide. But were they related? And the second one, the bloke on the tube, was it even murder? Were they reading too much into the coincidence? You could argue yourself round in circles, which was exactly what she’d been doing for the last hour. In front of her were three lists. The first – known facts – was very short. The second consisted of lines of inquiry to be pursued. The third, questions to be answered, took up a full page.
She rubbed her eyes and was considering wrapping things up for the evening when she heard the lift doors open. A moment later Rory McLaren appeared with one of his part-time operatives in tow, a tall, muscular young man with a sullen expression. From the sound of it, Rory wasn’t too happy either.
‘I don’t care if it’s a fucking rug-rat on a leash. She’s the client, if she wants you to walk her fucking dog, you do it.’
‘I’m a bodyguard, not a fucking dog-walker.’
Rory jabbed an index finger in the man’s chest. ‘You work for me, you’re what I fucking say you are.’
As he turned away in disgust, the young man bleated, ‘Why can’t the fucking maid do it?’
‘Oh, and you’re going to do the maid’s job, are you?’ Rory turned to glare at him. ‘You’re going to clean the bog and serve the fucking tea?’
He was striding across the room towards his workstation when he noticed Nicci watching them with some amusement. She gave him a nod. He simply glared back at her, embarrassed that she’d heard him swearing. It was a kneejerk reaction and old-fashioned nowadays, but he’d been brought up never to use bad language in front of women.
Nicci got up fr
om her desk and eased her shoulders into a scuffed leather jacket. She was taking her time and Rory knew why. Fucking ex-cops – he had no problem peppering his thoughts with expletives – they liked to play games, to torment you. He’d been in desert sandstorms, trekked over mountains, survived some of the toughest terrain on the planet and still got the job done. He was in Baghdad the day Saddam fell, in Helmand he’d flushed the Taliban out of rat-holes. But his life back then seemed simple compared to now. These days his job encompassed whatever the client wanted it to. No matter how ludicrous their expectations he was supposed to deliver; no mean feat when his team consisted of a handful of washed-up squaddies and gormless part-timers who ran moaning to him because they’d been asked to walk a dog.
Nicci meandered across the room, around the desks. She knew Rory didn’t like her, and for some reason on this particular evening that left her feeling sad. In the Met she hadn’t got on with all her colleagues; still, there’d been a camaraderie, a sense of common purpose. That wasn’t the case here.
Rory was maybe ten years older than her, hair greying at the temples, superfit and always tense. He eyed her suspiciously as she walked towards him. His boy hovered.
‘Clients, eh?’ Nicci commiserated. ‘They always want more.’
Rory nodded stiffly. ‘Indeed.’
She waited, realizing she wanted more too. When it wasn’t forthcoming, she turned away with a shrug. ‘See you tomorrow then.’
‘Right.’
As Nicci walked away towards the lifts a thought flitted across her mind – she started to imagine having sex with Rory. It was a random notion that seemed to pop up from nowhere. It felt odd. He was nothing special. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had any vaguely erotic feelings. Nor could she remember the last time she’d had sex. After the divorce, her life had revolved around Sophie. And since Sophie’s death grief had simply engulfed her. This was all rather curious.
She boarded the bus in Rosebery Avenue, regarding her fellow passengers with a speculative eye. She watched a lad with a bulky sportsbag take a seat in front of her. He was way too young – and cocksure with it; when he saw her checking him out he gave her a teasing smile. She turned and stared out of the window, but inside she was smiling.
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