Lost

“That must have been before he went in the acid bath.”

We laugh wryly, each aware of how apocryphal stories have just enough truth to keep them alive.

Ali has something else but she pauses, holding me in suspense. “I did some checking on Kirsten Fitzroy. Remember she told us she ran an employment agency in the West End? It operated from a building in Mayfair, leased by a company registered in Bermuda. The lease expired eight months ago and all the bills were paid. Since then any correspondence has been directed to a serviced office in Soho and then redirected to a Swiss law firm, which represents the beneficial owners, a Nevada-based company.”

Corporate structures like this stand out like a dog's bollocks to everyone except DTI (Department of Trade and Industry) watchdogs. The only reason for them is to hide something or avoid paying taxes or escape liability.

“According to the neighbors the agency sometimes hosted private functions but mostly they hired staff out to short-term positions. The time sheets refer to cocktail waitresses, hostesses and waiters but there are no security numbers or tax records. Most were women and most had foreign-sounding names. Could be illegals.”

It smells like something else to me—cleft cheeks, dewy thighs and hollows between elastic and skin. Sex and money! No wonder Kirsten could afford the antique armor and medieval swords.

Ali retrieves her notes and sits on the sofa, massaging her feet as she reads. “I did a property search on Kirsten's flat. She bought that place for only £500,000—half the market value—from a private company called Dalmatian Investments. The major shareholder of Dalmatian Investments is Sir Douglas Carlyle.”

A frisson runs through me. “How do Kirsten and Sir Douglas know each other? And why was he so generous to her?”

“Maybe he was using her services,” suggests Ali.

“Or she did him some other favor.”

I might have misjudged Kirsten. It always struck me as odd her friendship with Rachel. They had very little in common. Rachel seemed determined to escape from her family's money and her privileged childhood, while Kirsten was equally devoted to moving up in the world and mixing in the right circles. She moved into Dolphin Mansions only weeks after Rachel did and the two became friends. They lived in each other's pockets, shopping, socializing and sharing meals.

Sir Douglas knew about Rachel collapsing drunk on the bathroom floor and Mickey spending the night lying next to her. He had a spy, a rat in the ranks, Kirsten. Half a million pounds is a lot of money for simply keeping watch on a neighbor. It's enough to make kidnapping a possibility and could also explain why someone wants to find Kirsten.

Ali collects my coffee cup. “I know you don't agree, Sir, but I still think it's a hoax.”

“Motive?”

“Greed, revenge, getting Howard out of prison—could be any of them.”

“Where does Kirsten come into it?”

“You said yourself she had the opportunity. She knew enough about the case and was close enough to Rachel to set up a hoax.”

“But would she do it to her friend?”

“You mean the one she was spying on?”

We could argue all night and still not find an answer that fits the known facts.

“There's one more thing,” says Ali, handing me a bundle of papers. “I managed to get hold of the incident logs for the night you were shot. It can be your bedtime reading.”

The photocopied pages cover four square miles of north London between the hours of 10:00 p.m. and 3:00 a.m.

“I can tell you now there were five drug overdoses, three stolen cars, six burglaries, a carjacking, five hoax calls, a brawl at a bachelor party, a house fire, eleven complaints about ringing burglar alarms, a burst water main, minor flooding, a nurse attacked on her way home from work and an unexploded teargas shell found in a trash can.”

“How many burglar alarms?”

“Eleven.”

“In the one street?”

“Yes. Priory Road.”

“Where was the burst water main?”

She consults the map and narrows her eyes. “On Priory Road. A row of shops got flooded.”

“Can you find me the crew who repaired the water main?”

“You want to tell me why?”

“A man's allowed to have his secrets. What if I'm wrong? I don't want to destroy your delusions of my grandeur.”

She doesn't even bother rolling her eyes. Instead she reaches past me and takes the phone.

“Who are you calling?”

“My boyfriend.”

18

I dream of drowning—sucking watery mud into my lungs. There's a bright light and a chaos of voices against the darkness. My chest heaves vomit and brown water that runs from my nose, mouth and ears.

A woman appears, hovering over me. Her hips rest on mine and her hands press against my chest. She bends again and her lips touch mine. A pale birthmark leaks across her throat, spilling into the hollow between her breasts.