The Bride's Trail Page 9

  Life was too complicated. Amy wished her parents were together again, united in their support for her, not scurrying into the arms of new lovers when their daughter couldn’t even find a satisfactory boyfriend.

  “Anyway,” Amy said, aware from Ross’ expression that disillusionment was written on her face, “I really need to find Kat and I’m going to start looking for her.” Whatever Kat had done, she deserved to be warned about the men who were hunting her, especially the sinister knifeman. Perhaps, if she saved Kat’s life, Kat would admit the sham marriage to the police. She sighed. “I don’t suppose you can help? Parveen’s told me I can’t have any time off until September, and I guess you’re the same.”

  “Why don’t you take sick leave?” Ross said. “And you’re wrong about my holidays. I’ve got as much time as I need. I’m about to take a six month sabbatical, beginning tonight. We’re allowed to after ten years.”

  Amy stared at him, slightly startled that Ross would suggest sick leave. The fact that he’d endured the dullness of Veritable for a full decade simply proved how stuffy he was.

  “I just thought I’d never done anything really exciting in my life. I wanted to travel. I bought two tickets to Thailand. Kat and I got on so well, I planned to ask her to come with me.”

  Kat might have done, Amy supposed, if only to spend two weeks in a luxury hotel before she succumbed to boredom and flew back.

  As if he had glimpsed her thoughts, he said, “I bought flexible tickets,” adding, “That means I needn’t travel straight away. I’ll find Kat first. Any idea where to start?”

  A waitress asked if they wanted more wine. Framed by his spectacles, Ross’ sky-blue eyes showed his disapproval. The sight called to mind her recent visitor’s chilly, implacable gaze. Amy shuddered and ordered another glass.

  “I thought that was you.” Deirdre’s husky voice sounded behind her. “Chas, look who’s here.”

  Amy turned to see her father and his paramour, bright-eyed and holding hands. It was embarrassing at their age, but they appeared utterly shameless.

  “Aren’t you going to introduce us to your friend?” Charles asked.

  Grudgingly, Amy said, “Ross, meet Charles and Deirdre.”

  Ross looked up fleetingly, then rose to his feet. He’d obviously decided it was worth acknowledging the couple. Amy wasn’t surprised. Charles’ wardrobe, now Deirdre was paying for it, signalled money: Savile Row suits, crisp cotton shirts, Italian silk ties. Deirdre herself was glamorous as ever, wearing a short, tight red dress which displayed her toned figure perfectly. Her crimson lips revealed dazzling white teeth. Ross was visibly impressed. He offered his hand.

  “Call me Dee,” Deirdre said, leaning forward to shake his hand whilst artfully flaunting her generous bosom.

  “I’m Amy’s father,” Charles said. “And this is my partner, Dee. Tell me about yourself, Ross.”

  “Ross and I are colleagues,” Amy interrupted.

  “Oh yes?” Charles said. “What line are you in, Ross?”

  “I’m an actuary.”

  “A shrewd choice of career,” Charles opined. “I imagine your earning potential is above average even for the City of London.”

  “I’m sure it is,” Ross said, clearly enjoying having his ego stroked.

  “You must be very clever,” Deirdre said.

  “A first in maths, and first time passes in the actuarial exams,” Ross boasted.

  “Listen,” Amy said crossly, “Ross and I were trying to have a private conversation.”

  “Well, we mustn’t stop you,” Charles said. He shook Ross’ hand in parting. “Good to meet you.” He shepherded Deirdre to another table. They laughed and chatted together, with the odd sidelong glance at Amy.

  They clearly thought Amy and Ross were on a date. Amy considered whether to admit the truth, or even to mention it to Ross. He would, no doubt, be horrified at the thought. She decided to let sleeping dogs lie.

  That wasn’t all she would withhold from Ross. If she so much as hinted Deirdre was David Saxton’s sister, Ross was likely to be obsequious to the point of servility. Worse, he might tell their colleagues. The embarrassment would be unbearable. Nor, for different reasons, would she mention Kat’s mysterious visitors, or even Jeb, who might or might not be Kat’s boyfriend, might or might not be a gangster. Ross seemed to want to help her find Kat; she didn’t want to deter him by suggesting the search would be perilous or pointless.

  “You asked where to start,” she said.

  “Yes,” he said, and then made a surprisingly sensible comment. “People do disappear in London of course, taking advantage of the anonymity of the city. But if I lived here, I’d go somewhere else. Kat’s Facebook page says she comes from Birmingham.”

  “Well, she won’t be difficult to find then,” Amy said acidly, unwilling to give him credit for the germ of a good idea. “A mere million people live there, so how hard can it be?”

  “Where else do you suggest?”

  “She has a relative in Harborne, wherever that is. Auntie Lizzie. She works in a place called Treasures.”

  “Let me google that.” Ross reached for his smartphone. “Harborne is in Birmingham, you silly girl. I was right all along.”

  “Sorry,” Amy said with bad grace, smarting at being labelled a silly girl. “We’d better go there first, then. As long as you’re paying. I can barely afford to travel on the Tube.”

  Ross agreed without batting an eyelid, then asked for the bill. As they walked away from Rustica, he said with a backward glance at the river, “Do you think we’ll find her? I fear she may be at the bottom of the Thames.”

  “I believe she’s alive. She took her suitcase, after all,” Amy said. Rainclouds were gathering. Despite her reassurances to Ross, she shivered in apprehension of the coming storm. They weren’t the only ones heading for Harborne.

  Chapter 16 Ross

  As soon as Cari summoned Ross, he was glad he hadn’t indulged in a lunchtime drink. It was vital to keep his wits about him when he saw her. She was sharp as a razor, and nowhere near as forgiving. Like him, she had a first in Maths. In her case, if the university had been capable of awarding an even higher class of undergraduate degree, it would surely have done so. All his life, he’d been used to interacting with people far less intelligent than him. Cari made him feel uncomfortable.

  Spending time in her office set him on edge too, for Ross coveted it. Although a small room, it was hers alone, and it had a much-prized view of the Thames. As he entered, he looked across to the Tate Modern on the South Bank, beyond which the Shard cut through low rainclouds like a knife.

  A stray sunray caught Cari’s short red hair, appearing to set it on fire. Coupled with her thin frame and cream linen dress, the effect was of a flaming match, or stick of dynamite about to blow.

  She didn’t waste any time. “We’re going to merge with Bishopstoke.”

  Ross whistled. Rumours of a merger with Bishopstoke had persisted in the City for several months. “That’s great news,” he said.

  She fixed him with a gimlet gaze. “Of course, you know that means you can’t take a sabbatical.”

  “But you signed it off,” he protested. “So did HR. Even Davey Saxton.”

  “That was then. This is now,” Cari snapped. “You can’t expect a long term career here if you’re not serious about it.”

  Why did they ever put women into positions of power? His father had often opined on the subject, at length. He was turning into his father, he mused, and he wasn’t ashamed of it. “It was signed off,” he repeated.

  Cari glared. “I’m not reaching you, am I? You have no emotional intelligence, that’s your trouble. I’m referring this to Davey.”

  He would like to hear her tell David Saxton about it. Despite her stratospheric IQ, she had all the empathy of Attila the Hun.

  In the event, David Saxton passed by his desk later, clapped him on the shoulder, and said he hoped he’d enjoy his break. “No one’s indispensable, n
ot even me,” Saxton guffawed.

  Ross suspected David Saxton meant the former at least, if not the latter. Saxton must believe himself totally necessary to the company’s success; how else could he justify a salary in line with a competent Premier League footballer’s wages? Ross reflected bitterly that a footballer was a great deal more entertaining. He comforted himself with the thought that he would have Saxton’s job one day.

  Chapter 17 Jeb

  Jeb was woken by a phone call. “I’m waiting outside,” Shaun said curtly.

  Cursing, Jeb looked at the time. He’d suggested to Shaun that nine o’clock was far too early, but his boss was having none of it. Pulling on designer jeans, T-shirt and trainers, he finished the ensemble with a leather jacket. Last night’s washing-up lay festering in the sink as he lit a cigarette and left his flat.

  “Shall I drive, boss?” he asked, looking covetously at Shaun’s top-of-the-range Mercedes. Jeb wasn’t insured to take the wheel; in fact no one was, but that had never bothered them. The Merc, with its cloned number plate, slipped gloriously under the DVLA’s radar.

  “Later, if I have a drink,” Shaun snapped. He, too, was evidently grumpy about the early start. At the first petrol station on the A12, he insisted on stopping to buy coffee.

  “I’ll have a little pick-me-up with it,” Jeb said, swallowing a couple of amphetamine tablets. “Want any?”

  “Sure.” Shaun accepted them gratefully.

  “You know where we’re going?” Jeb asked.

  “Some northern slagheap in Birmingham. I’ve programmed the satnav,” Shaun said.

  “The last and only time I went there, it was with West Ham. We lost. I never went back,” Jeb said. He had enjoyed a gratifying fight, however, and smirked at the recollection. His own group of lads had outnumbered the Villa fans they decided to tackle, and made doubly sure of avenging their team’s honour by employing knives.

  “They just don’t play right, those Birmingham clubs,” Shaun observed. “We need more Academy football in the league.”

  “Even West Ham don’t play Academy style any more,” Jeb said, repeating a view he had already stated ad nauseam in the White Horse, and indeed, to Shaun.

  “True,” Shaun conceded. As they hit the M25, his spirits appeared to be rising. Even the traffic management system and roadworks failed to dent his bonhomie. The caffeine and speed were doing their job. The conversation shifted amicably to boxing and darts as they sped up the M1.

  Chapter 18 Amy

  Amy coughed. “I have a terrible sore throat, and a headache. I was up three times in the night with vomiting and diarrhoea.”

  Parveen, on the other end of the line, was silent.

  “And I’ve got dreadful stomach cramps,” Amy continued.

  “You’d better stay at home then,” Parveen said eventually. “Don’t forget to complete a sick form when you’re back. And email me when you feel up to doing some work at home. I’ve got six reports for you to write.”

  “Quite finished?” Ross said icily when she ended the call. “When you throw a sickie, it’s advisable to limit your symptoms to one or two, so you can ring the changes. What are you going to tell her next time – that you’ve broken your arm?”

  “Are you ready to walk to Euston?” Amy asked, changing the subject.

  “I’m ready to walk to the cab rank round the corner,” Ross said, gesturing to their overnight bags.

  They left her flat. He had insisted on meeting her there, and after a few remarks about the size of the flat, had conducted a cursory search of Kat’s room. Amy suspected it was so he could finger the silk and lace underwear folded in one of the wine crates. As she anticipated, he’d found nothing she hadn’t already under the knifeman’s baleful gaze.

  Ross bought first class rail tickets at Euston. Standard class was clearly beneath his dignity. As well as the extra space, there was the welcome and wholly unexpected bonus of a free breakfast on the train. Ross ordered a full English, then began reading the Financial Times. His pink broadsheet divided the table like a wall between them.

  “Do you have to read that?” Amy asked, as she tucked into her croissants and coffee.

  Ross peered over the edge of his newspaper. “You’re right,” he said. “I could be doing this online.” He retrieved an iPad from his bag and started tapping away at it, occasionally stopping to sip coffee. The cooked breakfast arrived and he ate it with relish. “I’ll work this off later,” he explained. “I’ve booked a hotel with a gym.”

  “Separate rooms, I hope?” Amy said.

  Ross spluttered into his coffee. “Certainly. You shouldn’t need to ask. And before I hear your next question, I’ve booked for one night only. It won’t take long to find the aunt, meet Kat, make sure she’s got her passport with her and whisk her away to Thailand.”

  He was so arrogant, Amy longed to slap him. Resisting temptation, she decided instead to give him a dose of his own medicine. Fishing a paperback from her handbag, she inserted earphones and began listening to Beyoncé.

  Ross finished his breakfast quickly and returned to his iPad. The train had just left Birmingham International station when he nudged her.

  “What?” Amy had started to doze off. She had a sleep deficit to make good.

  Ross was looking pleased with himself again. “I’ve just been playing online poker. I won back the cost of our train fares and hotel.”

  “How?”

  “It’s all about maths,” Ross explained, adding cuttingly, “Kat would understand.”

  “Well done,” Amy said grudgingly. “Remind me never to play poker against anyone, especially not an actuary, and most of all, not you.”

  Birmingham New Street was the next stop, a warren of white tunnels, silvery escalators and sliding doors. “For crying out loud,” Ross grumbled as they stood on the escalator.

  “What’s the problem?” Amy was puzzled.

  “Nobody’s moving.” Although in London, there would have been two lines of people, those on the left racing past the stationary passengers on the right, here everyone stood still.

  “It’s not the Tube, Ross,” Amy said, suppressing a grin.

  Still impatient, Ross insisted they took a taxi from the station.

  “Are you sure?” the driver asked when Ross barked the name of their hotel. “It isn’t far.”

  “Just drive there,” Ross said, in his usual imperious manner.

  The driver looked sympathetically at Amy, and shrugged. Three minutes later, he delivered them to the Malmaison hotel, a few hundred metres away from the station.

  “We could have walked,” Amy muttered.

  Ross ignored her. He strode into the polished wood lobby as if he owned the hotel. A discussion followed about the readiness of the rooms, concluding with Ross thanking the reception staff for their upgrade.

  Amy’s mounting irritation was quelled by the luxurious hotel. They were allocated adjacent suites. Amy’s, a vision in caramel and cream, was large enough to swallow her London flat whole, with room for the tiny gym besides. The Malmaison itself boasted both a gym and spa. Ross told her curtly that she could try them later. Once he’d dropped his bags, he was impatient to take a cab to Harborne.

  Used to long commutes between central London and its suburbs, Amy was pleasantly surprised when the taxi drew to a halt after ten minutes. Treasures turned out to be a gift shop sandwiched between a hairdresser and an estate agent.

  “I think you should buy something,” Amy hissed as they entered the shop, concerned that Ross’ rudeness might close the only line of enquiry they had. “To get them on our side.”

  “All right,” he agreed. “Choose some jewellery for Kat. You know what she likes.”

  There was a glittery selection of earrings inside a glass display cabinet. Amy selected long silver spirals and took them to the till. “My friend will pay,” she said.

  The woman at the till, a bleached blonde perhaps ten years older, laughed. “That’s what boyfriends are for, isn’t
it?”

  Amy squeezed Ross’ forearm, hoping he’d play along. “Oh yes,” she said. “By the way, we came here because we thought someone called Lizzie worked here. My flatmate in London wanted us to give regards.”

  “What a coincidence,” the saleswoman said. “Two gentlemen came looking for Liz Clements only an hour ago. They were from London too. You could tell from the accent.”

  Were the plant lover and knifeman working together? Amy sneaked a glance at Ross.

  His face was a picture. “I wonder who...”

  “I’ve no idea,” she deadpanned.

  “I told them she’d be in at five,” the blonde declared. “She’s our cleaner. I suppose they’ll be back then. They said they were going to the pub.”

  It was barely noon. They had several hours to wait and the prospect of an overcrowded meeting after that. “I wish we could see her now,” Amy said. “We’ll have to go back to London soon. It would be such a shame to miss her.”

  It was Ross who clinched it. Rearranging his features into a boyish grin, he appealed, “Do you think we could have her address, please? I thought she’d be here now. Five is too late for us.” He patted Amy’s hand. “Why don’t you find some earrings for yourself, dear?”

  Amy saw the blonde’s face soften. They came away with an address: a tower block, which they were assured was easy to find, in a backstreet a stone’s throw from the shops.

  “Thanks for the earrings,” Amy said, as they left Treasures. “Dear.” She fingered her ears, where his purchase dangled; tribal-inspired turquoise stones hanging from silver chains.

  At last, Ross was happy to walk. The suburban streets were a cheerful mix of red brick villas and grander, detached houses, each different from the last. It was a setting in which the obviously council-owned towers looked wholly out of place. Lizzie’s block was the nearest of four; all soaring white structures, reflecting blue skies in a grid of windows.