With Pete Whitacombe tied up in the law courts, waiting his turn to give evidence in a case involving a team of scammers who had been working several galleries, and the other two DCs still in the Midlands, Jennifer and Sofie were alone in the office. Jennifer had more or less finished her notes on the files she would be handing over to Pete and she looked up at her new colleague. So far, she had kept their conversation on a professional level, but now she wanted to learn a little more about DC Lukina.
“How’s the hotel, Sofie? I forgot to ask with Pete getting a fit of nerves about his court appearance. Presumably you’re at the Ibis down the road we’ve all been in at one time or another?”
Sofie closed the file she’d been reading and sat back in her chair. “No, I didn’t use the hotel; there didn’t seem much point. My parents live in Chelsea and it’s an easy commute. They are delighted to have me back home, but I think I’ll be looking for a place of my own pretty soon.”
“Don’t you get on with them?”
“We get on fine. They’re lovely, but always busy with their work. And I’ve been used to my own independence for a long time now, so I don’t want to return to the nest. I think it would soon cramp my style.”
“Chelsea must be nice, though. What’s the work that keeps them so busy?”
“They’re both academics. My dad is an economics and politics professor and my mum has a chair in applied linguistics.”
“Hence the languages I’ve been told you speak?”
“Partly, yes, but my dad is Russian and always insisted I speak it as much as possible at home, while my mum is French, and was also insistent that she got her time too. No sooner was I back than we were having these ridiculous three- or four-language conversations, none of the languages being English.”
“Surprised your English is so good then,” said Jennifer, laughing.
“What about you?” asked Sofie. “You’re fluent in Italian, aren’t you? How did that happen?”
Jennifer smiled. “Long story, but basically I was brought up in Milan by my mother and stepfather. Then, well, since you are now part of the squad, you’ll probably hear bits and pieces of this from the others even though it’s confidential. So please, what I’m about to say doesn’t go beyond these walls. OK?”
Sofie nodded. “Of course. It sounds intriguing.”
Jennifer pursed her lips. “Not so much intriguing as an attempt to keep the press at bay and also to help me retain my usefulness should I go undercover again. I’ll keep it short. A few years ago, soon after I started with the SCF in Nottingham, I arrested a famous actor for murder who turned out not only to be innocent but also to be my real father. Of course, I didn’t know the second part when I arrested him. In fact, I didn’t believe a word of it until a DNA test proved it.”
“Wow! Who is he, this actor? Will I have heard of him?”
“Probably; he’s become pretty popular in the last few years. It’s Henry Silk.”
“Heavens, that certainly has been kept quiet. I’d no inkling of any connection.”
“We try to keep it that way.”
“I remember him being arrested and then exonerated. Do you get on with your newly discovered father?”
“Yes, brilliantly. He’s amazing, not at all like the TV persona he once had, or the tough-guy type that Hollywood tends to make him. I’m lucky since I also get on with my stepdad in Italy. And Henry has this great house in Hampstead he seldom uses, where I’ve been living.”
She paused to tidy the pile of already tidy files on her desk.
“In fact, are you doing anything this evening? Trish McVie is coming round, no doubt to cry on my shoulder about the state of her love life, but also probably to fling theories around about her latest case. I’d like you to meet her; I know the two of you would get on. If you’d like to join us, Hampstead isn’t too far from Chelsea, and if you want to stay, there’s plenty of space. Trish often stays over rather than being found drunk in charge of a pair of high heels.”
“That would be brilliant, thanks, I’d love to. Can I bring something?”
“Don’t even think about it. We’re slowly working our way through Henry’s wine cellar, which is difficult since he keeps replenishing it. I thought that since it’s the weekend, you might be off seeing a boyfriend or something.”
Amused by the unsubtle fishing, Sofie laughed. “No. I’m between relationships at the moment, as they say. Actually, it’s difficult. As soon as men find out I’m a police officer and that I speak Russian, they get the wind up. Think I’m a secret agent.”
“Whereas we, of course, know you are.”
“Bugger it, rumbled by Cotton of the Yard,” muttered Sofie in fast Russian.
“I was on to you from the outset, comrade,” replied Jennifer, her Russian almost as fast. “Jenniva Godunova is nobody’s fool.”
“Molto impressionante, signorina,” countered Sofie.
Jennifer raised her eyebrows. “Italian too, DC Lukina?”
Sofie’s eyes flashed in amusement. “I went out with a junior diplomat from the Italian embassy for a while who insisted on trying to teach me his-a beautiful-a langer-widge.”
Chapter Six
At nine o’clock that evening, Jennifer was opening a second bottle of a vintage French red she had fetched from the climate-controlled basement beneath the kitchen in Henry Silk’s house. Sofie had arrived an hour earlier with a selection of cheeses, salami and rice crackers, ignoring Jennifer’s insistence that she bring nothing. Trisha had bustled in half an hour later muttering darkly about an unscheduled briefing her DCS had demanded regarding a gruesome double murder for which she was the senior investigating officer.
“The pwess won’t stop pestewing me, Twisha,” she mimicked in a gross exaggeration of her boss’s speech defect. “That wetched senior weporter fwom the Guardian seems to think that one favouwable article about the Yard and we’re beholden to her.”
“I can sympathise with him,” said Jennifer, laughing, “Paul is forever fobbing off reporters with long explanations that say nothing. He’s very good at it, but it must be wearing.”
“Wery wearing, dahling,” sniggered Trisha. “Sorry, Sofie, we’re not here to talk shop, at least not for the first five minutes. How are you settling in?”
“Er, fine, thank you … Trish. Sorry, it seems odd addressing senior officers by their first name. It didn’t really happen where I was in Manchester.”
“It’s simple, Sofie. Here, I’m not a senior officer; I’m just a friend, and I can assure you, I value evenings like these immensely. If your career takes you up through the ranks, believe me, the kudos is all very well, but friends can become thin on the ground. You’ll find many of those from years ago change when they get married, have kids, pets, go through messy divorces and so on, and as soon as they meet you, they just moan on about speeding tickets like they expect you to have them all cancelled. In avoiding them, it can be all too easy to get stuck with a group of mainly male senior officers, the joy of whose company socially is right up there with haemorrhoids.
“Finding Jennifer and I had a common love of art was brilliant and then finding out we were in many ways kindred spirits and got along like the proverbial blazing house was icing on the cake. Of course, her old man having one of the best wine cellars in Hampstead adds a little value too.”
She raised her glass to them both. “Here’s to art and to Hollywood.”
“Mind you,” she added, the corners of her mouth dropping, “every silver lining has a cloud trying its best to shred it. Jennifer has been dragging herself back to Nottingham almost every weekend for months to see her gorgeous hunk of muscle-bound boyfriend, and now she’s moving there permanently. I can’t think what he sees in her.”
She stopped and eyeballed Sofie, her face serious. “I suppose there’s a Mr Right lurking in your life, too, Sofie. You’re too much like Jennifer here for there not to be. God, this is so depressing.” She took a theatrically large slurp of her wine.
&n
bsp; “Actually,” laughed Sofie, almost spilling her own wine, “there’s no one in my life. Not at the moment, and there hasn’t been for a few months. I don’t seem to have the time.”
“You mean half the Manchester force wasn’t queuing at your desk wanting to have their evil way with you?”
“Is that what they were after? And there was I thinking they wanted to practise their French. No, I’m sorry to say that they were a nice enough bunch, salt of the earth and all that, but I didn’t fancy any of them. In fact, with all due respect,” she added, glancing at Jennifer, “I don’t think I want a relationship with another cop. We’d talk about nothing but work.”
“Not true!” objected Jennifer. “We talk about lots of things apart from work. Like working out, marathons, iron man. Even art, on rare occasions.”
“It’s not the talking that interests me,” growled Trisha, “and all that other stuff sounds far too knackering. But here’s to you, Sofie, you seem pretty grounded.” She raised her glass again.
Jennifer reached for the bottle to top everyone up. “Talking of relationships, how are things going with, er, what was his name, Trish? Steven?”
Trish took another large swig. “Lurching along. Usual mixture of sex and slanging matches. He’s sweetness and light until he’s had a few, then the inner demons get the better of him. I think it’s only because he knows I excel in unarmed combat that he keeps his fists to himself.”
“So hardly the man of your dreams.”
“No, but he’s got plenty of money so we get to some pretty fancy restaurants, and he’s talking about a cruise on his boat in the Greek islands. Maybe I’ll kick him overboard and sail away into the azure-blue yonder.”
“Self-made man?” asked Sofie.
“Now, now, DC Lukina, your CID antennae are showing,” said Trish, waving an index finger at her.
Sofie laughed. “Can’t be too careful. One of the DCs in my squad in Manchester almost found herself the equivalent of a gangster’s moll. Fortunately for her, when he was busted, her particular gangster did the honourable thing and kept quiet about their relationship.”
“You’re right, of course, Sofie,” said Trish, “but in Steven’s case, it’s old family money.” She paused and gave them a mischievous grin. “Although I have to confess I ran a surreptitious check on him just to make sure there was nothing dodgy going on.”
Sofie stood up from the bar stool where she was sitting. “Where’s the nearest loo, Jennifer?”
Jennifer pointed through the door. “Down the hall and on the left, just before the front door.”
Trish watched her go. “Seems like a nice kid,” she said to Jennifer once Sofie was out of earshot. “Do you reckon she’ll fit in well in your squad?”
“My soon-to-be ex-squad, you mean,” replied Jennifer, pulling a face. “Yes, I do. She’s enthusiastic, clever and from our discussions over the last couple of days, she knows her stuff. You seemed to have clicked with her, too. Funny how quickly you can tell, don’t you think?”
“Yes, I think she might be a good carousing partner when you’re stuck up in the darkest Midlands. I—”
She was interrupted by a loud yell from Sofie in the hall. “Jennifer!”
This was followed immediately by an equally loud shout, but this time it was a man’s voice. “For Christ’s sake!”
Jennifer and Trish’s heads shot round.
“Henry?” they both said, and ran for the door.
About halfway along the hall, they skidded to a halt, roaring with laughter at the scene in front of them.
Ahead, by the front door, Sofie had Henry Silk pinned against the wall in an armlock.
“Jennifer,” she panted, “I came out of the loo and walked straight into this burglar strolling in like he owns the place. Do you have any handcuffs?”
“It’s all right, Sofie,” called Jennifer as she wiped her eyes with the back of a hand, “you can let him go. He does own the place.”
“What!” squealed Sofie as she released Henry’s arm and jumped backwards. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry. You took me by surprise and I just reacted automatically.”
“I’m glad the British police don’t carry guns,” said Henry ruefully as he rubbed his arm. “In the US they’d be calling the coroner’s meat wagon by now to cart me away. I take it you’re a plod like these two?”
“Yes, I … oh, gosh, I’m so sorry. Have I hurt you?” She reached out to take his arm, but Henry waved her away.
“It’s fine, don’t worry. I’m pleased to find my house is in safe hands.” He held out his right hand. “Henry Silk, I don’t think we’ve met.”
“Sofie, Sofie Lukina. Are you sure you’re all right?”
“Nothing a glass of wine won’t cure, assuming those two giggling soaks haven’t drunk me out of house and home.”
“Henry!” cried Jennifer, finally getting herself under control. She rushed along the hall and threw her arms around him. “What a lovely surprise. What are you doing here?”
Henry gave her a squeeze and held her out at arm’s length.
“I’ve got a break in filming and Connie’s tied up over some business thing with her team of accountants. Reckoned it would take all weekend, so I borrowed the Fairbright bus to pop over and surprise you.”
“How did you know I’d be here and not in Nottingham?”
“A certain DC Thyme spilled the beans. We’re in cahoots, you know; we have your every move charted.”
“I must have words,” said Jennifer. “Can’t have my junior officers giving out confidential information.” She took him by the hand. “Come on, we’re just about to eat. Are you hungry or did you have Connie’s cordon bleu chef on board?”
“No, it’s his weekend off. There were only sandwiches, so I’m starving.”
“Hello, Trish,” he added as Jennifer marched him past her. “How are you? It’s been ages.” He stopped to give her a hug.
“All the better for seeing you, Henry, my dear heart-throb. Didn’t bring any of your young supporting actors with you, I suppose?”
“’Fraid not, Trish, you’ll just have to keep drinking.”
Twenty minutes later, they were all seated around Henry’s dining table enjoying Sofie’s cheese and biscuits along with some salami, prosciutto and tomatoes Jennifer had extracted from the fridge. Henry had insisted they eat at the table rather than the large island unit in the kitchen, claiming that after a long flight, he felt the need to stretch and be civilised.
Henry’s current favourite soprano, Pretty Yende, was entertaining them in the background, but most of her exquisite high notes were lost as the conversation danced around the table. Jennifer had brought her father up to date with her new posting and was now explaining Sofie’s transfer to the Art Fraud Squad. When Sofie mentioned her parents, it turned out Henry had met them at a gala reception in LA the previous autumn.
“I remember them so well,” he said. “Your father and I were both crying on each other’s shoulders about the loss of our beloved daughters to the grimy world of crime investigation. He must be delighted that you’re moving into something more cerebral.”
“There’s nothing cerebral about forgers in backstreet workshops churning out fakes, Henry,” chided Jennifer. “They are still criminals.”
“I thought you were quite taken by that young man at the gallery in Florence,” said Henry.
She smiled. “Tonino Varinello. Yes, he was great eye-candy and a brilliant artist. His forgeries were superb.”
“Where is he now, this Adonis with a paintbrush?” asked Trish, her eyes flashing interest.
“Still serving time, I’m afraid,” replied Jennifer. “He got a reduced sentence, thanks to Massimo Felice pulling some strings, but I think he’s still inside. Anyway, Trish, he wasn’t your type.”
“You don’t know everything about me, Jennifer Cotton. There might have been a hidden spark too subtle for you to see.”
“I’ll get word to his boyfriend and ask him what he thi
nks, if you like. He’s a lovely lad who’s waiting patiently for Tonino to get out.”
“Bugger,” said Trish.
“Exactly,” giggled Jennifer.
Trisha sighed with exaggerated despondency and turned to Henry. “How’s the lovely Connie?” she asked.
“She’s in great form, thanks. Sends her love,” said Henry, a slight hesitancy in his voice. He flashed a glance of concern at Jennifer.
Jennifer smiled as she tilted her head towards Sofie. “It’s OK, father dear,” she said. “Sofie has been inducted into the inner circle. She knows about you and me and is sworn to secrecy. She might as well know about Connie, too.”
Sofie held up both hands. “There’s no need to tell me anything if it’s sensitive,” she protested.
“No problem, Sofie,” replied Henry. “As part of the Art Fraud Squad, I’m sure it will be included in your briefing. Connie and I are, I suppose you’d use the phrase ‘an item’.”
“An item!” chortled Jennifer. “I prefer Connie’s description.”
“OK,” said Henry, reddening slightly. “Connie prefers the word ‘lovers’.”
Sofie clapped her hands. “How delightful!” she cried. “That’s so romantic.”
“Hmm,” grumbled Henry, feeling outwitted by the three women. “Anyway, we keep it quiet. Connie’s obsessive about her privacy and being linked to someone like me can rather swing the spotlight on you, if you know what I mean. The press can be relentless.”
“I’m sure they can,” agreed Sofie. “But surely a girl would enjoy the kudos? I know I would.”
“Hey, DC Lukina. Back off!” barked Trisha, but her eyes betrayed her amusement. “There’s a pecking order for those making a play for the attentions of this here film star, and I’m at the front of the queue. And anyway, you’ll need to be more subtle than that.”
It was Sofie’s turn to blush. “That’s not what I meant,” she mumbled.
Jennifer laughed and reached out to touch her arm. “It’s just that Connie’s loaded, lucky lady, but wealth can bring its own problems, especially if you’re not the socialite sort, which she certainly isn’t. She’s far too sincere.”
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