Saffina Desforges' ROSE RED Crime Thriller Boxed Set

by Saffina Desforges

  “Yes, with a full bottle. Not just one pokey glass each. Be serious.”

  Red dropped her clothes and kicked them into the corner. By the time Pippa returned with the Voignier Red was already disappearing beneath the foam.

  “The children are excited about tomorrow. Jack just texted me to say I must take his remote control car. Remind me in the morning.” Pippa bent to retrieve Red’s top, folding it carefully before placing it in the linen basket.

  “Counsellor, they’re going in the washing machine. They don’t need folding.”

  “I find I get cleaner wash when they are folded first.”

  Red snorted beneath the foam. “You get a cleaner wash?”

  Pippa sniffed dismissively. “Deimante, then. I don’t see why you cannot wear sensible clothes that lend themselves to dry cleaning, like normal people. It’s not seemly a detective chief inspector running about in cotton singlets and jeans.”

  “Counsellor, are you getting in, or not? The water will be cold by the time you finish farting about.”

  “Cassandra!”

  Red held a hand out through the foam. “Refill please, waiter.”

  Pippa grudgingly topped up the glasses. She began to slowly undo her blouse. “Now, about tomorrow.”

  Red forced herself upright. “Here we go. Rules of engagement.”

  Pippa carefully laid her clothes on the chair. “Mock all you like, Cassandra. But there will be no playing detective tomorrow. I mean it. You’re off duty for twenty-four hours.”

  “You know me, Pip. There could be an armed robbery taking place and bombs going off left, right and centre and I’ll still be sat on the picnic rug taking care of my family responsibilities.”

  “Can you not be serious for one minute?”

  “Me? Counsellor, I’m not the one stood there reading the riot act wearing just a bra.”

  Chapter 2.

  “It’s not that cold, Ella.” Red flapped a tartan blanket in the air, letting it float to the ground beneath the oak tree. “Autumn chill, that’s all. What are you gonna be like when winter comes?”

  “The forecast said it was going to be sunny,” Ella protested. “I would have brought a coat if I’d have known.”

  "Funny how everyone else thought to bring a coat and not you. What was it your mother said as we were leaving Grandma’s? Has everyone got their coats on?”

  “Yeah, but Mum would say that even if it was the middle of summer and we were going to the beach.”

  “The beach? I can’t imagine your mum ever taking you to the beach, Els.” Red lowered her voice conspiratorially, a glance at Pippa confirming she was still out of earshot. “I mean, seriously, have you ever been to the beach with your mother?”

  Ella thrust her hands into her pockets. “We spent a day on a French beach with Dad and Lucy in the summer hols.”

  “I bet you enjoyed that.”

  “Not really. I mean, the sea was nice and warm. And blue, like you see on the films, But Lucy had her bikini top off the whole time. It was revolting. Jack was like…” Ella did an impression of her younger brother gawping.

  “I can imagine. Poor lad will be traumatised for life.” Red shuddered as thoughts of Lucy’s silicone implants danced across her mind. “But that’s France for you, Els. So you’ve not ever been to a British beach?”

  Grandma took us to Brighton once. Back when Tues was still in nappies.”

  “Good fun?”

  Ella shrugged. “I s’pose. It wasn’t a proper beach, though. It was all pebbles. At least they had sand in France.”

  Red pondered the matter briefly. “What say we have a beach weekend in the spring? A proper sandy English beach somewhere, with jellyfish and crabs and everything?”

  “Mum will never agree.”

  “Well, we’ve got six months to change her mind. Starting right now. Here she comes.”

  Pippa was making her way back from the car with a picnic basket in one hand and Ruby’s three-wheeler in the other.

  “No, I’m fine. Please don’t bother to help,” Pippa said in sarcastic tone. “I know laying out a picnic rug needs two people, at least. Unloading the car is a picnic by comparison. Literally, in this instance.”

  “Give it a rest, Counsellor. Me and Els were just discussing our spring break.”

  “What spring break might this be?”

  “A family spring break. You, me and the kids.”

  Pippa carefully laid down the picnic basket. “What, a day out at the museums, you mean? Or maybe a National heritage day. I hear Leeds Castle is delightful in the spring.”

  “Mum!” Ella glared. “We get enough of that rubbish at school.”

  “Els is right, Pip,” Red agreed. “We were thinking maybe a weekend at the beach.”

  Pippa let Ruby’s trike fall from her hands. “The beach?”

  “Yeah, it’s that bit where the land meets the sea.”

  “Very funny, Cassandra. Ella, I do hope this is not your father’s doing.”

  Ella stared at her mother. “What?”

  “Ruby had been regaling me non-stop with the pleasures of making sandcastles, Ella. I’ve tried to explain to her that British beaches are filthy-dirty places, contaminated with sewage, kiss-me-quick hats, slot machines and teeth-rotting sticks of rock, but your father’s frolicking on the Riviera has quite gone to her head.”

  Red sympathised. “Do you think that might be due to Rubes being four year old, Counsellor?”

  Pippa dismissed the idea. “And then there’s the weather to consider. You just know it will bucket down on whatever day we choose. No, some things are just not worth even considering. Besides, Blackpool is almost as far away as the Lakes. Far too long a journey for a weekend.”

  “Who said anything about Blackpool? I was thinking of somewhere within easy travelling distance.”

  Pippa began carefully laying out the contents of the picnic basket. “We are not going to Southend, Cassandra, and that is final.”

  “And what’s up with Southend? Just nip through the Blackwall Tunnel, pick up the A12 and it’s an easy drive through the Essex countryside.”

  “Precisely, Cass. Essex. I rest my case.”

  “Brighton, then.”

  “Mother took the children there quite recently.”

  “Three years ago, as I understand it.”

  “Recent enough not to be repeated. Besides, I have no wish to go anywhere near Brighton ever again. I was a prisoner there for six years.”

  “You were what?”

  “Boarding school, Cassandra. St. Mallory’s.”

  “I thought that was a good school.”

  “It was adequate, yes. But we were always in the shadow of Rodean. Why on Earth Father could not have sent me there instead of St. Mallory’s I will never know. But I assure you I have no wish to go back to Brighton.”

  “Okay then, Margate.”

  Red prepared herself for a barrage of objections, but Pippa was strangely quiet.

  “Pip? Margate?”

  Pippa held up a champagne flute, scrutinising it carefully. Flecks of mellow sun glinted off the facets like a single-colour kaleidoscope. “Yes, Margate would be rather nice. And I hear the Turner Centre is worth a visit, too.”

  Red and Ella exchanged shocked glances.

  “Counsellor? Are you feeling okay?”

  Pippa managed a wistful smile. “Contrary to popular opinion, Cassandra, I too was a child once.”

  “You’re right, Counsellor. That is hard to believe. I always figured you for one of those people who skipped childhood and went straight from squawking baby to twenty-something yuppie.”

  “Excuse me,” Pippa objected. “I was never a yuppie. Nor was I a squawking baby. And I happened to have whiled away many a summer’s day on the beach at Margate.”

  “You did?”

  “Or in Dreamland. They had this wonderful old wooden scenic railway. I wonder if it’s still there?”

  Red and Ella watched in amazement as Pippa stared i
nto space. Eyes glazing over with nostalgic memories.

  “My grandparents took me there every year, until I started boarding school. I think they thought I was too old for the beach by then. We used to board the train at London Victoria, alight at Margate, and run down to the beach. Well, I ran. Obviously Grandma and Grandpa walked. By the time they got there I would have bucket full of crabs and starfish from the beach pool.”

  Ella stared in disbelief at her mother. “You had grandparents?”

  Pippa straightened the rug. “Everyone has grandparents, Ella. Which would make them your great-grandparents. Though sadly they both passed on before you were born.”

  “You never said.”

  Pippa shrugged. “You’ve never asked.”

  “I’m going to tell Jack and Tues,” Ella said excitedly.

  “What, that you had great-grandparents?”

  “No, that we’re going to Margate!”

  “Well take Ruby’s trike with you, and don’t get her all excited thinking it will be soon, or you’ll have me to answer to.”

  “Yes, Mum.”

  “I think the correct response is no, Mum,” Pippa shouted after her.

  “So it’s not just me, then,” Red said as Ella chased after Jack and Ruby.

  “Not just you what?”

  “That you keep family secrets from.”

  “It’s hardly a secret, Cass. It’s just… Well, given your own family issues I thought it best not to broach the subject.”

  “Don’t worry about me, Counsellor. The kids have a right to know about their own family tree.”

  “That’s as maybe, but even if they were interested, when do I ever get time to sit down and talk with them?”

  “You’ve got to make time, Counsellor.”

  “Easy for you to say, Cass. It’s not you trying to become a partner in one of the country’s leading legal Chambers.”

  “The thing is, Pip, the kids don’t care about your ambitions. They just want to have a mother who’s there for them.”

  Pippa sat up indignantly. “I’m always there for them. Between their father and I they want for nothing.”

  “There’s more to life than material goods, that’s all I’m saying. Look at what happened in the summer holidays. Ella was confiding with the new au pair about boyfriends rather than talk to her mother. Doesn’t that tell you something?”

  Chapter 3.

  “Who should I say is calling, sir?”

  “The tooth fairy.” The visitor pressed his forehead against the cool glass. Eyes closed. Took a deep breath. Holding down the intercom button, he steadied his growing anger. “Look, just tell her the Huntsman is here, okay? We can do the social pleasantries once I’m off the street. Queenie will see me. Trust me.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Huntsman, sir. Queenie isn’t receiving visitors this morning. Maybe you’d like to call back later, when we are open?”

  The Huntsman glanced up and down the busy Soho street. Leant closer to the speaker. “If you don’t open this door, right now, I’ll gut you from balls to ears and use your empty, raggedy-arse carcass as a winter coat. Do we understand each other?”

  The buzzer sounded. The door clicked open. An apologetic concierge invited the Huntsman in. The Huntsman straightened, checking his appearance in the window, then stepped through the doorway.

  “May I take your jacket? Get you something to drink?”

  “Scotch, no ice. And no, you may not take my jacket.” He leant closer. “We’ve already had the conversation about coats, right?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. Now run along and get me that drink. And I don’t need an escort. I know where the office is. “When’s Queenie back in action?”

  Behind the bar the concierge shrugged. “The staff are not privy to her timetable, sir.”

  “Well Queenie’s not the type of person to have gone anywhere. Probably just staying away from you clowns.” The Huntsman watched the ice tinkle into the tumbler. “Make it a double. And tell Her Majesty I’m waiting upstairs.”

  The concierge passed the Scotch across the bar. “Is she expecting you, sir?”

  “She ought to be. I wouldn’t be here now without her. Well, what are you waiting for? A tip?”

  The concierge scurried away.

  The Huntsman casting a furtive glance around the bar before downing the scotch in one. He crossed the empty games floor, past the blackjack tables to a discreet elevator door. Pressed the gold button. Rode to the seventh floor.

  The doors opened onto an empty corridor. The Huntsman confidently turned left, walking the few steps to a heavy-set door.

  He smiled at the camera, a theatrical wave of the hand. “Come on, I know you’re there, Queenie.”

  The door’s bolts slid back. The Huntsman pushed it wide and paused, a customary hesitation before crossing any threshold. Good for life-expectancy. Not that he expected problems this time.

  The scene was familiar. A well-appointed conference room, the long, heavy oak table the centre-piece, drawing the eye to the white screens that comprised the far wall, perfectly reflected in an oval mirror opposite.

  The room hadn’t changed since the last time the Huntsman had been in it. It annoyed him then. This time, he wanted to smash everything in it into a million pieces. Mirrors and all.

  As the main door clicked shut behind him the centre screen lit up. A familiar theatrical mask danced and a familiar androgynous synthesised voice said, “Good to see you again, Nathan. I was wondering how long it would take you.”

  The Huntsman sank into a chair, granite eyes immediately moving to the centre screen. The smiling theatre mask taunted him. It danced and spun to the sound of piped music, fading and re-appearing again like a lighthouse beacon.

  The Huntsman clenched a fist on the table, rage rising in his stomach and crawling up his throat. He sucked in regurgitated, artificial air through flared nostrils.

  “Forget the theatrics, Queenie. We both know who we are. There’s no need for the kiddies’ stuff.”

  The door to the boardroom clicked open, extinguishing his anger temporarily. The mask disappeared. The Huntsman automatically reached for his weapon. The Glock 17 was in his hand and aimed at the door before the barman’s tray appeared.

  The Huntsman held the gun steady.

  The barman seemed unphased. More confident than the concierge. “Her Majesty said you might like another drink, sir.” He placed a cut-crystal tumbler down on the shining mahogany table. Gleaming ice chinked together amid the Scotch. Another double. The barman stepped back briskly.

  “Very thoughtful.” The Huntsman fixed his eyes on the barman. He ran a finger around the rim of the glass. Raised an eyebrow. “So where is Her Maj’, exactly?”

  “I’m just a barman, sir.”

  The Huntsman picked up the glass. Threw the amber liquid down his throat. Put the glass back on the table. Waved the barman away.

  As the door closed he put the gun on the table. The screen lit up again. The mask reappeared.

  “I said no more games, Queenie. I appreciate my freedom, make no mistake. But we both know the score. Let’s talk face to face.” He smiled. “What’s left of it.”

  “You should have made an appointment,” the mask said. “I’m somewhat indisposed right now.”

  “I’m sure whatever you’re doing can be put on hold.”

  “I assure you it can’t,” the mask said. “I’m having my creams applied. I’m going to be indisposed for the rest of the day. Or perhaps you’d like to watch?”

  “Gross.” The Huntsman sniffed. He brushed a tiny speck of something of his trouser leg, then stood. Pulled himself to his full height.

  “Tomorrow, eleven o’clock, Ronnie. You and me.”

  Chapter 4.

  “Philippa Crichton-Ward on the beach at Margate.” Red grinned at Jack “I can’t get over that.”

  “Just plain Philippa Crichton back then,” Pippa said. “The boys used to call me Lady Penelope.”

 
Jack beamed. “What, as in Thunderbirds?”

  “Precisely so. The horrid creatures would come up and ask where Parker was, and if they could ride in my pink Rolls Royce.”

  “That is so cool,” said Jack. “That’s what me and Daz will call you from now on, Mum. Lady Penelope.”

  “You will do no such thing,” Pippa stated firmly. “And that goes for you, Ella, you, Ruby, and you, Cassandra. I get enough of it in Chambers without having to tolerate it at home.”

  “What, they call you Lady Penelope at work?” Ella stared at her mother. “Really? At work?”

  “It’s your father’s fault.”

  Red rolled back on the picnic blanket, hugging her knees as she laughed. “Pip, you cannot blame Richard for something that happens in Chambers. That’s just ridiculous.”

  Pippa managed a thin smile. “Ridiculous, yes, but nevertheless true. The nickname haunted me through my early childhood because I was well-spoken and apparently I held my little finger up when I drank tea.”

  “You still do,” Red noted.

  “I do not.”

  “Actually you do, Mum,” Ella said. She reached for an empty cup from the basket and held it delicately with her little finger up. Jack immediately copied his sister. Then Ruby joined in, blissfully oblivious as to why it was so funny, but rolling about laughing with the others.

  “More tea, Parker,” Ella said.

  “That will do, Ella.” Pippa gave out a warning glare that was not to be ignored.

  “Okay, so that explains the childhood bit,” Red conceded. “But how does that make Richard responsible later on?”

  “Because he married me, of course.”

  Red gave a mystified nod. “Of course. You marry Richard, and the legal beagles start calling you Lady Penelope. Silly me.” She took the cups from the children and put them back in the picnic basket. To Pippa, “Nope, sorry, Counsellor, but your case is fatally flawed. Every woman in Chambers is well-spoken, and I bet they all drink their tea from bone china cups with their little fingers in the air. It’s a wonder they are not all called Lady P. in that case.”