The Bride's Trail Page 8

  “Are you all right?” Cole asked, her voice sympathetic.

  “Not really,” Amy said, tears beginning to well. “This is all tied in with Kat’s disappearance, isn’t it? She’s stolen my identity to marry this man, Ahmed Khan. Why would she do that?”

  Burnett rubbed a thumb and forefinger together. “Money,” he said. “The Ahmeds of this world believe they’ll have the right to remain in the UK if they marry a British citizen. They’ll pay handsomely for that.”

  “We can’t really comment until we’ve checked our records on your flatmate,” Cole said, soothingly. “Listen, you gave us the reference number, so Jamie and I will read the incident report back at the station. We’ll be in touch to arrange for you to see us there to make your statement.” She turned to her colleague. “I don’t think we need to ask her to do that straight away.”

  “Are you sure?” Burnett was more sceptical.

  “I’m thinking about the descriptions we were given,” Cole said cryptically.

  “Fine,” he shrugged. “We’ll be leaving in a moment, then. Before we go, do you have a forwarding address for Bronwen Jones, by any chance?”

  “No.” Amy struggled to recall whether she even knew where Bronwen worked, or why she’d moved. Kat hadn’t said a great deal about her.

  “Please tell us if you find one,” Burnett said. “Thanks for the coffee, by the way. Absolutely perfect.”

  Cole winked at Amy. “I’ve given you our telephone numbers. Just ring if you have any questions, all right? Or if you come across any information about Bronwen.”

  Once they’d left, Amy hit the speed dial on her phone. Her call to Kat went straight to voicemail, as had all the others she’d made in the past forty eight hours. She sent a text, with little hope of a reply, and began to get ready for work.

  Chapter 14 Ross

  Ross clutched his head. A hangover throbbed at his temples, a reminder of a wild night at Diamonds with his friends. After he cleaned up at blackjack, it had been champagne all round.

  The coffee machine was broken again. Ross shook it – the percussive approach to maintenance occasionally worked – and tutted. He was tempted to buy another for the office out of his own pocket, but then he would have to email a helpdesk in India to ask for it to be PAT tested. Simone, the secretary who was supposed to handle the team’s admin, had simply said she couldn’t touch that sort of thing; such support services were outsourced now, and it was far too complicated. He suspected she was cross because he’d shouted at her last week. She was in the wrong job. Anyone who didn’t understand the importance of his work, or the contribution made by strong coffee, shouldn’t be a PA in the City.

  It was on his fourth trip to the machine at the other end of the office that the dreary girl caught his eye. He remembered then that she was Kat’s flatmate. What was she called? He couldn’t think of it for the life of him, but fortunately, each workstation had a nameplate placed prominently above it. ‘Amy Satterthwaite’, he read.

  Ross strolled over to her. “Oy, Satterthwaite,” he said in a Mockney accent.

  She looked him up and down with evident dislike. “Stop taking the mickey, Ross,” she said.

  “What have I done wrong?” he asked, pretending innocence.

  The slim Asian girl next to Amy, whose workstation announced her as Parveen Patel, said, “I hope you’ve got a good reason to bother a member of my team. We’re up against a tight deadline this afternoon.”

  “I was going to ask after Amy’s flatmate,” he protested.

  “There’s a time and a place for that,” Parveen said, “and it isn’t at work.” Her steely gaze told him not to argue.

  Armed with Amy’s full name, he could send a message to her from his PC, and he did so as soon as he returned to his desk.

  ‘Sorry I made a poor joke,’ he wrote. He wasn’t sorry at all, but she obviously had no sense of humour. A brief apology might persuade her to help him. ‘Can you ask Kat to call me, please?’

  Her reply was swift. ‘You’ll be lucky.’

  ‘Please,’ he responded. ‘I didn’t see her at Diamonds last night. They said she should have been there but wasn’t. I’m worried about her.’

  He was even more concerned when he saw what she wrote next. ‘Me too. She’s vanished. She hasn’t answered my calls or emails either.’

  ‘Can I see you after work?’ he wrote.

  ‘Didn’t you listen to Parveen? We’re working till the witching hour.’

  ‘Lunch tomorrow?’

  She wrote: ‘Rustica. 1pm. You’re paying.’

  Chapter 15 Amy

  It wasn’t quite midnight when Amy arrived home. It had been another late night at the office though, fuelled with pizzas and black coffee. This time, Parveen had paid for a taxi.

  She had to walk through the underground car park to reach her flat. Usually, it was bright with fluorescent strip lights. Just for once, they weren’t lit. She switched on her smartphone’s rather underpowered flashlight. It gave enough illumination to find her keys and start unlocking the front door.

  If she hadn’t been so fatigued, so relieved to be home at last, she might have noticed the man lurking in the shadows by the gym. As it was, her first indication of his presence was his hand on her shoulder and cold metal at her throat.

  “Hello, Kat,” he whispered conversationally, “Don’t scream or I’ll spoil that pretty face of yours.”

  Amy froze, unable even to speak, to say she wasn’t Kat. She didn’t know what was going to happen next, but could guess it wasn’t pleasant.

  “Open the door.” He pronounced it dough-ah, as Jeb might have done, but she knew instinctively it wasn’t Jeb. Nor was it the mysterious, well-spoken stranger who’d searched Kat’s bedroom and walked out with two sorry shrubs. He had keys anyway; he’d have no need to ambush her in the car park.

  She turned first one key, then the other. Her attacker pushed her against the door, so it opened and she stumbled inside. All the while, he was careful to keep the knife pressed against her throat. She assumed, at any rate, that it was a knife.

  “Put the light on,” he said, as soon as they were both inside. She fumbled for the switch. It was hard to find; she was trembling so much. Meanwhile, he removed the hand from her shoulder, using it to close the door behind them. She heard a gentle thud and felt a slight gust of air as he did so.

  Light flooded the flat’s mean corridor. She heard him gasp and curse.

  “Who are you?” he breathed.

  “I should ask you that.” Amy’s voice shook.

  “No.” His tone was menacing. “I ask the questions, okay? And I want to know your name.” He took the blade away from her neck and she saw it flash, towards the right hand edge of her field of vision, as he flicked it closed. He spun her around to face him, a tall dark-haired man in his forties. Older women, her mother for instance, might even have found him good-looking when his blue eyes were laughing. Now, they were angry, wary. “Not a sister, obviously. Flatmate?”

  “Yes. I’m Amy.”

  “Are there any more of you? Expecting anyone else back here tonight?”

  She seized her chance. “Yes, my boyfriend – any minute now.” To her dismay, she sounded dreadfully unconvincing.

  “Boyfriend?” He took a long look at her. “No, I don’t think so,” he said slowly. “But just in case, you’re going to bolt that door. And if he rings, you’ll tell him to go away.” He drew a finger across his neck. “Or else. Now, we’re going to sit down and get to know each other. In here, I think.” He opened the door to Kat’s room and shoved her inside.

  It was obvious that Kat still hadn’t returned. The glow from the corridor showed Amy that nothing had changed since the morning. She flicked the light switch, shrinking from her attacker.

  His eyes flashed, his mouth twitching at the corners. Nothing escaped his sight, she realised. He was as vigilant as the policemen had been, yet clearly not on the side of law and order.

  “Give me answer
s and you won’t get hurt,” the knifeman said, his words hanging heavy in the hot, still air. “No lies, no flirting. Just tell it straight.”

  It was a reprieve of sorts, and she felt a flood of relief despite his contempt. She couldn’t imagine flirting with someone her father’s age. Then, she remembered January’s dalliance with Ali’s uncle, and shivered.

  For the second time that day, she sat in one of Kat’s uncomfortable folding chairs. Whatever he’d just said, she didn’t want to be next to him on the sofa. “What do you want?” she asked.

  “Where’s Kat? I need to see her.”

  “I don’t know.”

  He took the knife from his pocket.

  “No,” Amy said, “I really don’t know. If I did, I’d tell you. She’s been gone for three days and I can’t reach her. I’ve tried, believe me.” This was no time for heroics. Had she the slightest idea of Kat’s whereabouts, she would have divulged them, of that she was sure.

  His eyes darted down to the knife. He flicked it open, stroked its blade, then looked up at her again. “I need answers, Amy,” he said, almost sorrowfully. “If someone had stolen twenty grand from you, you’d want some answers too.”

  “Kat stole twenty thousand pounds?” A week ago she wouldn’t have believed it. Now, she couldn’t be sure. “That’s not all she’s done. She married an illegal immigrant, using my name. The police were round this morning.”

  “Do they know where she is?”

  Amy sighed. “No.”

  “Good. I want to see her before the police do. I don’t suppose they’ve searched this flat for clues to her whereabouts?”

  She was silent.

  “No,” he said. “I thought not. You and me, Amy, we’re going to do that now, before any such clues might do a vanishing act like our mutual friend. Show me Kat’s room.”

  “You’re in it.”

  He looked around, shook his head. “Really? I thought this was the lounge. Okay, I want you to take everything out of those boxes.” He pointed to a stack of wooden wine crates, painted white, in which Kat’s belongings were stowed.

  The top crate was crammed with shopping bags, over a dozen of them, bearing the names of designer boutiques: Prada, Marc Jacobs, Miu Miu and more. Reluctantly, Amy picked up a bag.

  “Open it,” the knifeman said.

  It was from Agent Provocateur, a powder pink paper bag sealed with a black ribbon. Carefully, Amy untied the bow. Inside, there was a pink cardboard box.

  “Now that,” he ordered.

  “Must I?” Amy pleaded. “These are Kat’s personal things.”

  “That’s the whole point.”

  Silently, she opened the box, unfolded the black tissue paper inside and shook out a frilly silk underwear set. A receipt showed it had cost two hundred pounds.

  He whistled, leering. “Very nice. Now the rest.”

  Altogether, Kat had spent over four thousand pounds on unworn purchases. “A shopping addiction,” he said thoughtfully, reflecting Amy’s surprised reaction. “Carry on.”

  The crates below mostly contained clothes, neatly folded, and shoes in bags. There were a few books, overspill from the shelves by the wall, and finally, a box file containing paperwork.

  “Give me that,” the dangerous stranger commanded. He fished out a letter. “Dearest Kat,” he read aloud, “I hope you are well. I am fine, and so is Cedric the Cat, but he is very old now. I have a little job now at Treasures in Harborne. Same old, same old. Do write and tell me your news. With love, Auntie Lizzie.” He paused. “Isn’t that sweet?” he said sarcastically. “Let’s see if there’s more of the same.”

  He rifled through the box, shaking his head. Evidently, nothing further was deemed worthy of comment. He asked her to empty the only other article of storage in the room, a large rosewood chest, but that merely yielded towels and bedding.

  “Interesting, and predictable,” he muttered. “I’ll tell you what we haven’t found. No suitcase, money, passport, women’s things like cosmetics. No certificates for qualifications, birth, marriage even.” He looked pointedly at Amy. “She’s done a runner.”

  Amy bit her tongue. He was unlikely to appreciate being told he was stating the obvious.

  He pocketed the letter. “I’ll be back. And you’ll tell me where she is, okay?” He fingered the knife again. “Not a word to the Old Bill. I’ve never been here, not on your life.”

  “What about the CCTV?” she couldn’t resist challenging him.

  “What about it?” he said dismissively. “None in that car park. I cut the wires.” He stood to leave, putting a finger to his lips. “You’re a lucky, lucky girl, Amy, because I believe you. Thousands wouldn’t. Now don’t forget – not a dicky bird, okay?”

  When he’d gone, Amy bolted the door and searched the kitchenette for alcohol. Finding a bottle of Snow Mountain vodka, less than a quarter full, she drank all that was left of it and went straight to bed.

  The next morning, Amy slept through her alarm. Bleary-eyed, she dry-shampooed her hair and crawled into work at ten. She expected sharp words from Parveen, but none were forthcoming until she switched off her computer and picked up her handbag at five to one.

  “I thought you’d be working through lunch after that late start,” Parveen said.

  “I have a prior engagement,” Amy said grandly.

  Parveen rolled her eyes. “Well, you’d better make up the time later.” There was no point reminding her they’d left after eleven the night before.

  Rustica was right next to the Thames, a new wine bar serving tapas. Amy had looked at the price list outside when it opened, and dismissed it as far above her budget. Sometimes she felt like a Victorian orphan, nose pressed against the windows of London’s pleasure palaces. When she’d complained to her father about it, he’d laughed and said that was why he climbed the greasy pole.

  Ross was clearly far enough up the greasy pole that the prices at Rustica were small change for him. He ordered a series of expensive dishes, but no wine.

  “A large dry white for me,” Amy said. Despite her hangover and the nightmarish quality of her encounter with the knifeman, she retained sharp images of his scorn and the fear he invoked. Wine would blur the edges.

  He raised an eyebrow. “I never drink at lunchtime.”

  “Well, you should,” she said. “It’ll help you get through the afternoon at Boredom Central.” They were bold words, and she regretted them when he looked pointedly at her handbag, as if expecting to see a bottle of vodka in it. She decided to order the costliest dessert on the menu later to punish him.

  “How come Kat shares a flat with you?” Ross asked, with just the slightest edge of contempt.

  In truth, Amy had wondered about that when Kat had first asked. She had a pretty shrewd idea now. Kat could have been attracted by her sparkling personality, but more likely had seen her as someone who could be easily married, in name anyway. “We met at a party,” she said. “I was looking for somewhere central to live and she had a room. And you’re one of the gamblers at Diamonds, aren’t you? I bet that impresses your boss.”

  Ross didn’t rise to the bait. “Actually, there are a few of us who like a night out there,” he said. “We set ourselves a limit; perhaps a hundred pounds or so.”

  Amy gawped at him.

  “I expect to lose it,” Ross said. “I know the odds are against me. I’ve had some big wins on blackjack, though.”

  It was always the same, Amy thought sourly. You had to start with a lot of money in order to make any more.

  Ross continued. “Kat was always friendly, chatty, kind, even though we weren’t high rollers. I think we stopped her getting bored when it was quiet.”

  That was unlikely, Amy thought, but kept the words to herself.

  “I really liked her.”

  Yes, the way that all the guys did, Amy thought. “Why her?” she asked. There were any number of pretty girls working at the casino, some of them rather more flexible in their moral outlook.


  “She’s so different from everyone I know.”

  “No kidding,” Amy said. “Let me guess – you’ve got a maths degree.”

  He nodded.

  “Who did you hang out with at uni?”

  “People on my course. And the Maths Soc.”

  “And now?”

  “Colleagues. Actuaries.”

  “So, you’re hardly exposing yourself to a broad range of people, are you?”

  Ross forced a grin. “No, I suppose not.”

  “What do you actuaries do all day?” she asked him, half curious and half dreading the tedium of the answer that would follow. She wasn’t disappointed.

  “The company depends on us. We price risk,” Ross replied.

  She saw he found her blank expression less than endearing. It wasn’t fair. Kat would have looked like that too, and he would have thought her charming. Then again, he fancied Kat and not Amy. She decided that was just as well; he was so annoying.

  “Come on,” Ross said, “don’t tell me you’ve no idea what a profit and loss account is?”

  “Er, sort of.” There had been an accountancy module in her marketing degree, but she rarely turned up to the lectures. Had she scraped through that one or failed it? She recalled very little.

  University had been one long party. Working for Parveen, on the other hand, was the hangover.

  “We won’t pay you overtime. We don’t expect you to work any,” she’d been told. That was so far removed from reality, it was beyond a joke. Worse, her parents didn’t have a clue. They thought all she had to do was turn up at nine and work hard until five o’clock. They didn’t realise she stayed late into the evening, with a little weekend homework for pudding. Their lives weren’t like this. She remembered dinner on the table for Charles at 6.30pm throughout her childhood. He would have had to leave work promptly for that. Rachel merely dabbled at part-time jobs, occasionally attending office parties with Charles and making sure to tell his bosses they were underpaying him. As for Deirdre, one shake of her tanned limbs and punters flocked to download her videos. If she hadn’t rushed to sink her claws into Charles, he would surely have patched up his marriage with Rachel.