by Emma Jameson
“Gun!” Kate cried.
She tried to knock it aside, but Sir Duncan was at point-blank range, with the element of surprise. Something struck her chest with such almighty force, it seemed to at once toss her into the air and hammer her into the floor.
Things went from light to black to light again, like a jump-cut in an old movie. The carpet pattern was right there. An inch away from Kate’s eyes. And Ritchie was right, it looked like woven Legos: rectangles, raised discs, and divots.
Am I shot?
Probably. It hurt less than she’d imagined. But her limbs didn’t work at all.
A loud sizzling sound, like a cartoon electric surge. Something fell heavily onto Kate. It groaned. Only then did she realize that heavy something was Tony.
“Henry,” she croaked. Fighting to lift her head, she got no higher than the cuffs of Sir Duncan’s chinos.
“I’m afraid your lad gave me a bit of trouble.” Sir Duncan sounded disembodied. His voice drifted above her like the whisper of a malevolent spirit. “Buzzed me up like a good little soldier when I said I was Assistant Commander Deaver. But when he saw it wasn’t, the little sod slammed the door in my face. Tried, at any rate. I wedged in my foot and zap! Gave him a dose of current.”
Kate made a horrified sound.
“You’d call that barbaric? I don’t know. 5000 volts is all very well and good for cattle. Since I acquired this Hot Shot model, I’ve discovered human beings don’t bear up very well to the sort of abuse they routinely visit upon helpless animals.”
Not shot. Get up, Kate. Get up.
She got up on her knees somehow. Her arms trembled uncontrollably; it felt like she’d been beaten all over with a bag of oranges. She still couldn’t see around Sir Duncan’s legs, nor could she force out the question, Is Henry alive?
“Makes a pretty picture, doesn’t it? You on your knees.” Sir Duncan sounded jovial, as he almost always did. “And no, I didn’t kill the boy. He’s a part to play in all this. I rather suspect you’ll do as I say so long as I leave him untouched. Same with your brother. I don’t want to hurt him. He’s like an ape, isn’t he? Perfectly lovely. Entranced by my offering.”
As he spoke, Sir Duncan stepped aside, opening the door wide. Kate saw a crumpled Harrods bag, discarded gift wrap, and a box with LEGO on the side. It was the Death Star set Ritchie had asked for, over and over and over again.
The thought of Sir Duncan giving a gift to her brother sent a jolt of galvanizing rage through Kate. Her muscles stopped tremoring. She willed herself to stand, and her legs obeyed.
“Oh, pull the other one,” Sir Duncan said, watching her rise.
Kate tottered in her heels. It was everything she could do to keep from falling. She balled up a fist to swing. Then the cattle prod touched her throat, blotting out the world with one loud bzzzrt.
Chapter Eighteen
Paul had spent the better part of his minicab ride telling himself he was cracked. Per Kate’s request, he’d used the resources of the Met to peer deeply into the No-Hopers, with an emphasis on garnering the legal names of as many members as possible. Cyber Crimes had matched a couple of screen names with legal names, allowing them to decode conversations discovered via the dark web hub Xuanzhang. This had included a first name—Kay—and a BT mobile number he knew. He recognized it because it was stored in his phone, and he used it several times a week.
Maybe CC got it wrong. Or the person sharing the number hit a wrong key. I’m overreacting.
Underreacting, the contrary voice in his head replied.
I’m paranoid after what happened with Tessa. Any coincidence seems like a smoking gun.
The mobile number alone could be a coincidence. But “Kay” could be “K”—as in Kyla, the contrary voice said. How much more smoke do you need?
The contrary voice had a point. Hence the minicab ride to the Dolphin. This morning, Kyla had kissed Paul goodbye and left the flat with her suitcase, ostensibly headed to Heathrow, then Milan. At the time, it hadn’t crossed his mind to doubt her. Yet today, after seeing the name of Aaron Ajax’s girlfriend, “Kay,” attached to his girlfriend’s mobile number, he’d been overwhelmed with feelings of impending doom. Nothing had helped except to do something unethical: to use his position as a detective sergeant to get BT to tell him, based on GPS, where Kyla’s phone was. The answer wasn’t Milan. It was a ritzy Westminster hotel called the Dolphin.
Maybe she’s cheating on me. That would be mortifying, to burst into a suite ready to accuse her of criminal activities and find her in bed with some bastard.
If you find her in bed with Aaron Ajax, the contrary voice said, she’s deep into something sinister. Full stop.
“Sorry this is taking so long, mate,” the cabdriver said. “Too many closed streets and no regard for the working man.”
Paul made a noncommittal sound. The minicab’s slug-like progress suited him. He’d never stalked a girlfriend before, not for any reason. A man with half a brain would ring Kate and ask her to do it.
Kate would jump to the conclusion Kyla’s guilty.
Kate has better instincts than you, mate, the contrary voice said.
“This time of night it ought to be easy-peasy to get you to the Dolphin,” the cabdriver said. “Or the Leadenhall building, 30 St. Mary Axe, the Walkie-Talkie, the bleeding Shard, even, if you got more money than sense. But you’re a native, innit? More sophisticated, aren’t you, than tourists clamoring to pay God knows what to ride the London Eye for God knows why.
“Oh, pardon me. The Coca-Cola London Eye. That’s what they call it now,” the cabdriver continued, apparently encouraged by Paul’s total silence. “Commercialization will take down this city long after we beat back the terrorists and tell Brussels where they can stick it. The Coca-Cola London Eye! I don’t know, mate, maybe you’d be better off. It’s past nine o’clock. Nothing at the Dolphin past nine o’clock but pissers, tarts, and rent boys.” He paused for an amen. When one didn’t come, he added, “Not that there’s anything wrong with that.”
A woman exited the Dolphin’s Moor Street entrance. Long lavender hair, blown straight. Newsboy cap, thigh-high boots, and a carmine duster coat. Under that coat, a white sheath that wrapped her angular body so tightly, it almost invented curves. In any other city in the world, apart from New York or Paris, a woman like that couldn’t walk a hundred yards without attracting attention, and everyone would remember her. But London was accustomed to stylish people: fashionistas, movie stars, and princes. Runway models on the hoof of a Friday night was no stunner. Paul noticed only because she looked exactly like Kyla, apart from the hair.
“Let me out,” he ordered.
“City of London regulations prohibit it, mate. I’ll let you off around the corner. There’s a designated drop off point for—”
“I’m not your mate. Official business. Scotland Yard.” Holding his warrant card up against the Plexiglas barrier, Paul shoved banknotes through the slot. But the minicab was still creeping forward, and when he tried his door, it was locked.
“I said police business. Let me out now!”
The driver hit his brakes hard. The door lock popped. Bursting out of the cab, Paul ran full-tilt after Kyla. He didn’t stop to think how it might look to the casual observer. Kyla’s cry of alarm as she fled caught the attention of the Dolphin’s uniformed doorman.
“Oi! What’s this then?”
Paul, who’d seized Kyla by her upper arm, said, “Mind yours, mate.”
“Grabby sod. I’ll have the Met on you, sharpish.” The doorman reached for his mobile.
“Let me go,” Kyla shrieked.
Paul didn’t. Eyes on the doorman, he tried to pass his warrant card, still gripped in his left hand, over for inspection. But Kyla was surprisingly strong. In her swim and archery days, she’d been a force to be reckoned with. But even whittled down to her haute couture weight, she managed to break Paul’s grip, forcing him to use both hands to subdue her. The warrant card went flying.
The doo
rman, a great brick of a man, retrieved the warrant card and studied it laboriously. Kyla bucked; Paul held on with both hands.
“I don’t know,” he muttered. “Easy to fake documents these days.”
“It is fake,” Kyla cried. “This is my ex. Tell him to let me go! He’s a stalker. I got my rights, don’t I?”
“That warrant card is genuine,” Paul barked at the doorman. “This is a CID matter. I have reason to believe this woman, Kyla Sloane, is a person of interest in a cybercrimes investigation. I’m detaining her for the purpose of a conversation. It’s possible that some of her associates, also persons of interest in a criminal inquiry, are in your hotel. Will you ring your head of security, please?”
The doorman appeared to ponder that, blinking tiny eyes in the middle of a broad, boulder-like face. “Er… cybercrimes? Maybe you’re thinking of Def Con UK. It’s not at the Dolphin. It kicks off next week at the Walkie-Talkie. Why do you need my head of security?”
Emboldened by his waffling, Kyla screamed at a posh couple alighting from a black cab, “Help! He’s stalking me! Help!”
“Get me your head of security or you’re under arrest,” Paul shouted.
That penetrated the guard’s granite skull. “All right, all right, whatever you say. Mr. Cochran is head of security, but he’s on vacation, see? Ms. Darden is his deputy, but it’s her dinner hour. How about I give you the Concierge’s waiting room?” he asked, tucking Paul’s warrant card into his coat pocket as he held on to Kyla. “We keep it open 24/7 for residents, but no one uses it at this hour. There you can have a chat with this young lady while you await Ms. Darden’s return.”
“Cheers.” Forcing Kyla ahead of him, Paul propelled them into the Dolphin’s lobby. Beneath its soaring ceiling and gigantic, many-colored Chihuly chandelier, he murmured in her ear, “You’re not under arrest. Not yet. You are a person of interest, but I can clear that up if you tell me the truth.” That was a lie, and one that didn’t trouble Paul’s conscience in the least. Was she vain enough to believe it?
Apparently, because she relaxed in his grip. Perhaps she’d been banking on that all long: that his weakness for Tessa would translate into a get-out-of-jail free card for her, even if he caught her mixed up with Sir Duncan again.
Mr. Thickie Doorman led them through the lobby, past the concierge stand, through a door marked Platinum Club, and into an impossibly luxe salon done in shades of aqua and ultraviolet. In an antiseptic hearth, a fire burned, yet exuded no heat, only genteel flames.
Gas? Paul wondered.
Digital, Mr. Thickie Detective, the contrary voice said. About as real as your so-called love affair.
As Paul steered Kyla toward a velvet sofa, the doorman lingered in the open doorway. “I have to get back to my post. Should I send in one of the lobby security guards?”
“Ask them to stand just outside, please. By the concierge stand,” Paul said. “If Ms. Sloane does a legger, I’d appreciate help running her down.”
“Right. Shall I call the City of London Police?” asked the doorman.
“No. This is MPS business. When I’m ready, I’ll call it in.”
Paul waited until the big man shambled out, then turned to Kyla. She’d arranged herself amid the sofa’s velvet cushions as if they were on a date.
“Don’t look so comfortable.” Paul remained on his feet. He didn’t trust himself to sit beside her, not with his adrenaline surging. “Your life’s going straight in the karzi. You’ll be tried, convicted, and spend your best modeling years reenacting Orange is the New Black. So you’d better bare your soul right here, right now, and give me something to shield you with.”
“How did you know I was here? Are you using police surveillance on me? Would you really do that?” Kyla displayed extraordinary poise under pressure, just as she had during the French-Parsons case. Part of her success in modeling stemmed from her ability to emote whatever a photographer required: coquettishness, sophistication, or a blank slate. Apparently, she believed this situation called for bewildered innocence.
“Why did you tell me you were in Milan?”
“To get away from you. You’re sick, Paul. I feel sorry for you, but this has to end. I won’t let you stifle me anymore.”
“That purple wig,” he said, swallowing his fury. “Do you always wear it for Ajax?”
She didn’t answer.
“Does he only know you as Kay?”
Her nostrils flared. “You are stalking me. This is abuse of power. Look. It was wrong of me to string you along, but you were so needy and clingy, I didn’t know what else to do. That’s why I didn’t tell you I was seeing Aaron.”
Her tone, as if she occupied the moral high ground, was more than he could take.
“I know about the No-Hopers,” he said. “I know Ajax is their leader. They’re the new cult of Sir Duncan. Are you the one who made the introduction?”
Kyla looked pained. “Paul. Your obsession with Duncan is out of control. You’re sure to get the sack. Especially if….”
“Especially if what?”
“If you arrest me. My agency’s counsel is top-drawer. Do you think they’ll let me spend a minute behind bars? I’ll be released straightaway and you’ll be humiliated. Then I’ll hold a press conference and tell the world your obsession has driven you mad.
“I don’t want to expose you. I really don’t,” she said sweetly as he clenched his fists at his sides. “But you never loved me. You came on to me because I look like Tessa. In bed, you called me by Tessa’s name—”
“Once,” Paul cut across her, voice breaking. “None of that matters now. And I don’t think you bothered pretending to fly out of the country just to give me the slip. Did you come here to meet Ajax? Or is Godington living in the Dolphin’s penthouse?
“None of your business.” Kyla leapt to her feet. “Now let me go. If I so much as look over my shoulder and see your face again, I’ll get an injunction against you for stalking, I swear it.”
Someone coughed. It was the uniformed security guard the Dolphin’s doorman had promised, standing in the open doorway.
“Sorry. I thought this was a CID matter. But it’s getting loud and sounds, er, domestic…?”
“He’s my ex,” Kyla said, dropping back into that groove again. “A stalker.”
“Right,” Paul snapped. “I caught you leaving the Dolphin by a side door. I say you were trespassing. If you have an excuse, let’s hear it. Prove me wrong.”
Kyla looked flummoxed. Had she been too sure of herself to bother dreaming up a cover story? That, or being intercepted by him had shaken it right out of her bewigged head.
“Off you go,” Paul insisted. “Do you live here? If so, tell the man which unit. Do you work here? Which office? Show the man your employee ID.”
“I—I came for drinks.”
“Perfect. This place surely has several bars. Tell us which one so the bartender can corroborate your story.”
She glowered at him. The security guard looked persuaded by her inability to answer.
“I reckon this is CID after all.” He turned to go.
“I was in the North tower. The Pickwick room,” Kyla said, hurrying to the guard’s side. “The private party. Nikoly Pavelishchev is the host.”
“Er. Yeah. Bespoke security brought in for that one. Bespoke catering, too. The night manager wasn’t best pleased.” The guard frowned. “If you were here for the party, show me your invite, please.”
“I don’t have it. But I didn’t crash. Word-of-mouth is how it works for the beautiful and the tragically hip, am I right?” Kyla smiled enticingly at the security guard, who was young and rather handsome.
He didn’t seem to notice. “The Pickwick party weren’t word-of-mouth. Nothing here is. My mate was stood on the 55th floor for two solid hours, scanning barcodes. You got a barcode?” He pointed to her wristlet, a zippered leather bauble only large enough for a mobile and a tube of lipstick. “It would be in there, wouldn’t it? On your phone?”
“So it should be. But. Well. I’m a bit of a brainless bird, sometimes.” To Paul’s chagrin, Kyla started doing that thing she did: deliberately mussing her hair with her long red fingernails, a sexy-awkward move many photographers had memorialized. “I hate to admit this. But I dropped my phone in the bog. Wasn’t about to go in after it. That’s why God gave us accident replacement, hey?”
“So you’re too good to touch a little bog water?” the security guard asked.
Kyla pulled an adorable face. “Please, Mr. Officer. Don’t make me say I did a poo and the phone fell in with it. Just take it on faith. I had my reasons.”
“Right, right. Could happen to anybody.” He seemed to soften. “Tell you what. Give me your full name. I’ll check it against the authorized guests my mate scanned in. Prove you’re legit in a flash.”
“Her name’s Kyla Sloane,” Paul said. “And if you find that on the list of authorized guests, your next pint’s on me.”
“Fair play. I’ll ring the North tower and find the bloke with the database. In the meantime,” the security guard told Kyla, “why not sit your bony arse down and do as the policeman says? Can’t flirt your way out of everything, love.”
“Bloody queer,” Kyla shouted at his back.
“Nice. Now,” Paul said firmly. “If you want out of this, you have to be honest. Tell me why you’re really here.”
“Nicky Pavelishchev’s party.”
“Where’s your mobile?”
“In the bog.”
“Bollocks. You’d pluck that phone out of raw sewage with your teeth before you’d go twenty-four hours without it.”
Kyla sighed. “You know what? I get it. You want an excuse to strip-search me. Spank me for going astray.” A little taller than Paul in her thigh-high boots, she looked down at him speculatively. “Where do you think I have my iPhone stashed, love?”
Paul studied her clinically, like a man contemplating a fat, shiny worm. Her attempt to seduce the security guard into letting her off had failed, so now she was turning her superpower on him. How desperate was she? This last-ditch stab at seduction amounted to a drowning woman flailing for a rope.