Second Shot

I nodded without further comment and pulled out my mobile phone. It wasn’t until we were in the limo’s voluminous backseat, with Ella lying curled up on the thick leather upholstery next to her, and the giant bear glowering opposite, that Simone spoke to me again.

“I’m sorry,” she said, still sounding as stiff and awkward as she had been in the department store. She stroked Ella’s curls, not looking at me. “You weren’t serious, were you?” Simone asked in a small voice. “About leaving, I mean-about going home?”

“I’ll stay as long as you want me to,” I said. “On the condition that you understand I’m not trying to ruin your personal life, or part you from your money-for my own benefit or anyone else’s — OK?”

She nodded again, letting her hair swing in front of her face. We rode in silence for a little while before she said, diffidently, “Do you think they’ll let me change my mind about those vases?”

“I expect so,” I said, and she sounded so forlorn I felt suddenly sorry for her. “I’ll call them for you, if you like, explain that your interior designer has gone into a fit of hysterics about your terrible taste.”

That won me a tired smile. “I always thought that having a lot of money would make things easier, somehow.”

“It doesn’t,” I said. “It just makes the problems different. And some of them it just seems to make worse.”

She nodded, sober. After a few minutes she said, “And they were pretty awful, weren’t they?”

“The vases?” I said, smiling. “Yes, they were.”

Later, we ate in a small, Italian family diner in the historic North End. The restaurant-serving pizza and pasta, as you would expect- was recommended by Charlie the limo driver, who took us there and collected us again afterwards. It was small and cozy and both Simone and Ella looked a lot more at home there than in the grander surroundings of the hotel.

It was still fairly early when we finished eating, but our stomachs were still working on UK time, running five hours ahead, which made a normal evening meal far too late for any of us to manage, least of all a four-year-old. As it was, Ella had fallen asleep again on the short ride from the restaurant back to the hotel, and Simone had to carry her.

It bugged Simone, I could tell, that I didn’t offer to help cart Ella inside. Even after I’d explained that it would completely hamper my ability to do my job, I’m sure Simone suspected I was merely shirking.

I did a casual sweep of the marble-clad lobby as we went through and noticed a woman hovering by the entrance to the gift shop. She was wearing a dark blue blazer over a polo-necked sweater and jeans, and it only took me a moment to recognize her as Frances Neagley.

My stride faltered and I got as far as opening my mouth to call back Simone, who was hurrying towards the bank of elevators ahead of us, but the private investigator shook her head quickly and pointed just at me, then made the universal gesture for drinking. I raised my eyebrows in question and she nodded. I held my hand up, fingers spread, to indicate I’d be back down to meet her in the bar in five minutes, and kept walking.

In fact, by the time I’d settled mother and daughter in for the night it was more like half an hour before I could get back down to the lobby. Neagley had gone from her loitering position by that time, but I soon found her in the long, narrow bar, nursing a glass of scotch and intently people watching. When she noticed my approach she stood and indicated the empty seat opposite. She still hadn’t quite lost that wary air as she regarded me.

“You wanted to see me?” I said, neutral, returning the favor.

“Yeah,” she said shortly “Sit down, Charlie. Drink?”

“Coffee would be good,” I said carefully. A waiter came, took my order and departed again. Silence fell, lying heavy.

The bar was moderately busy, mainly with hotel guests having drinks before going out for their more conventionally timed dinners. I let my gaze trail over them while I waited for my drink to arrive. There was one big guy in a green sports jacket sitting alone at the bar who caught my eye. He had a watchful air about him, like he might be hotel security. Nobody else rang any alarm bells.

“So,” I said at last, turning back to Neagley, who had yet to speak, “are you going to tell me what the secrecy was all about? Have you found any trace of where your partner went? Who he might have spoken to?”

“What do you know about this missing father of Simone’s?” she asked abruptly instead.

I paused, considering. “Not much,” I admitted. “Simone claims she doesn’t remember him, so she hasn’t said much, and my job is just to … keep her company,” I finished, suddenly not sure how much I wanted to reveal.

Neagley made a small gesture of impatience. “Don’t mess with me, Charlie. You’re a bodyguard, not some kind of nanny.”

The waiter returned at that moment with my cup of coffee. I didn’t speak until he’d gone again.

“You’ve been doing some digging,” I said then.