Second Shot

“True,” Sean allowed. “Or he could have an expensive coke habit and need of some extra income. Either way, he’d just been out and spent a fortune on games and DVDs and-when I arrived with a rake of tabloids — I think even Matt figured it out. To be fair to Matt, he did seem to be pretty upset by what happened to Ella.”

“He’s going to be even more upset when he gets the papers today, then,” I said, thinking of the two photographers jammed up against the kitchen window. Madeleine was already taking the breach of privacy up with the Press Complaints Authority, even though I felt it was too late for an apology “But he’s definitely agreed to let them go?”

“Relax, Charlie. If it means they’re out of harm’s way for a while, yes,” Sean said. “I don’t think we’ll have any trouble providing it doesn’t take these private eyes months to find this guy.”

“What happens if it does —?” I began, just as the PA issued another raucous reminder to reduce the number of security alerts by not leaving baggage unattended.

“Bloody hell, Charlie, where are you?” Sean asked. “I thought you were all supposed to be tucked away in the VIP lounge?”

“We are. At least, I’ve left the pair of them up there-security’s pretty tight, so I thought they’d be quite safe,” I said hurriedly, in case he thought I was being unforgivably lax. “I’m just raiding the concourse shops to try and find enough puzzle books to keep Ella occupied across the Atlantic. She may be cute, but she’s also four years old and hyperactive — and it’s a seven-hour flight.”

“Good luck,” Sean said, amused. “You can always get the cabin crew to slip her a Mickey Finn.”

“It might come to that.”

“Look, something’s come up and I’m going to have to go. Call me if you have any problems, but we’re just going to have to play things by ear on the time front,” he said. His voice softened. ‘And you take care of yourself, Charlie, OK?”

“Don’t worry,” I said, with way too much confidence. “We’ll be fine.”

The flight itself was uneventful. One of the things that had most surprised me when I first started working for Sean’s agency was the way the rich travel. The kind of people who need to surround themselves with close protection personnel don’t go anywhere on the cheap. In the six months since I’d got stuck into the job I’d never flown anything less than Business Class when actually accompanying a client, and twice I’d gone by private jet.

Even Simone, after she’d boarded the plane and accepted a glass of champagne from the cabin crew who greeted her like an old friend, had seemed to forget her initial reservations. I’d glanced across from my seat in the center of the aircraft and caught the little smile on her face, like it was suddenly dawning on her that from now on she could afford to always fly this way.

Despite my worries, Ella played with her food, watched some TV, crayoned in a couple of pages of one of the books I’d bought for her, then we folded her seat into a bed and she fell asleep like a seasoned traveler. She looked tiny, snuggled down amid the mussed-up blankets and pillows. The cabin crew stopped by regularly to cluck and coo over her.

Things didn’t go quite so smoothly once we’d landed, though. Nobody from the private investigation firm who’d been tracing Simone’s father met us at Boston’s Logan International, and I didn’t want to hang around long waiting for them.

Madeleine had arranged for a limo service to be available on our arrival. Once we’d cleared U.S. Immigration and reclaimed our luggage, I called to make use of it. Whatever spiel Madeleine had given them, they answered their phone with excessive courtesy that only deepened when I identified myself. They were already aware of the arrival time of our flight and had the driver circling the airport waiting for us as we spoke, they said. They would call the man, who would be with us in minutes. Madeleine was very good at clearing a path, too.

The limo was a new Lincoln Town Car with a mild stretch, in discreet black rather than the gaudy white I’d been fearing. The driver was a big black guy in uniform, whose company badge said his name was Charlie. I resisted the urge to say, “Hey-twin!”

We crossed underneath Boston Harbor using the Ted Williams Tunnel, which seemed to go on forever. As we drove into Boston there were several feet of snow blanketing the city, much to Ella’s obvious pleasure. She pressed herself eagerly against the car’s tinted window, occasionally giving out little squeaks of delight as though someone had laid on this special weather just for her.

“It’s just like Christmas, Mummy,” she said.

“Yes, it is,” Simone said, craning forwards to stare at the outside landscape herself. “But that doesn’t mean you’re getting any presents.”

Ella’s brow wrinkled as she gave this considerable thought. “Well, as it’s so like Christmas,” she said thoughtfully, “perhaps I ought to just have one present. …” She could have charmed gifts out of Scrooge.

“We’ll see,” was all Simone said, but when she sat back she was smiling.